Sworn To Raise: Courtlight #1 (2 page)

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the only male waiter for the inn rush in through the swinging panel doors from the tavern. From the noise that wafted in behind Kelly the place was packed with journeymen.
Must be that caravan that’s on its way out
, she thought as she nibbled on a cracker she’d filched from a side table on her way into the kitchen.

Kelly began to hurry out just as fast carrying a platter filled with hot mutton and a empty kettle which swung erratically from his hand. She ducked to dodge the errant kettle and said irritably, “Watch where you’re going, Kelly, you big lout! You almost brained me.” Ciardis pushed her scarf back off her silky mane as she straightened up, scowling.

“Sorry, lass,” Kelly said, already rushing through the swinging panels and into the tavern. Noise flooded through the open doorway.
Must be a large crowd tonight,
Ciardis mused.

“Hey, lass!” said the rotund cook, “Good to see you.” He leaned close, smelling heavily of savory spices, and said in a low voice, “Mind your way when you head back to your room, hear? Lots of knights about, and not all of ‘em Gardis, if you catch my meaning.”

She caught his meaning, all right. “Thanks for the warning,” she said gravely. Grabbing two pieces of fresh baked bread and a bowl for soup, she had the tavern maid dish out the soup under the watchful eye of the cook. Paying for the meal she grabbed a spoon and left the kitchen.

She decided to take the back stairs with her lentil soup and bread. She navigated the creaky flight with her satchel digging into her back, balancing her plate in both hands. She ate as soon as she’d opened the door, ducked into the stuffy darkness of her room, and then eased down on the lumpy bed.

Ciardis went to sleep not long afterward, still furious about the miller’s son, but a tiny twinge of self-doubt also fluttering in her belly.

At half past midnight, a sound broke through Ciardis’s dreams and sent her lurched out of bed She’d heard the light creak of the stairs outside her door. Frowning, she threw off the heavy covers and grabbed the knife she’d hidden between the mattress and wall.
Must be a drunken soldier.

Her room was barely big enough to stand in, with a sloped ceiling and a mattress that took up most of the floor. If a soldier cornered her in here, there was no way she’d be able to fight back...except for the six inches of steel blade in her hand. Best to avoid the situation altogether.

Ciardis quickly decided that she’d rather have the knife in her hand than in her belt. She went over to the corner and grabbed the rickety stool – pushing the accumulated clothes to the floor. Standing on it with the knife in her right hand, she reached up and pushed at a panel in the ceiling, easing it up and placing it next to the opening. Then she gripped the edge of the ceiling with both hands and swung herself up and over. Quietly she slipped the panel back into place.

Now she stood in the small crawl space between the room and the roof. It was insulated as well as it could be but the ceiling still leaked warmth in deep winter. Even with the leak, at time like this, she was glad she’d never gotten the panel fixed. It made her claustrophobic to think of being stuck in that little closet of a room with no fresh air. Careful to move silently she grabbed the tarp that latched over a hole in the roof that had never been fixed and eased out the nails which held it in place. Leaving the ceiling panel loose and tarp in place had numerous downsides…but in this case the advantage of escaping her room more than outweighed them.

As soon as she wiggled through the small opening, the bitterly cold wind chilled her to the bone, even though she was still dressed in layers. Her fingers began to feel numb and she hastily rearranged the tarp in order to pull them back into her sleeves.
It must be close to the freezing point
, she thought while her teeth chattered. Her little room had a heat spell on it to ward off the worst of the cold, but out here she’d freeze to death if she wasn’t careful. She couldn’t hear anyone in the hallway now, but that meant nothing. Making a quick decision, she headed across the roof toward the stables. It wasn’t the best place to sleep, but it was better than being raped, and Robe would look after her there.

The steep roof had peaks that rose up into the night sky and furrows which dipped sharply to help the accumulated snow slide off more quickly. That also meant there were a lot of snowdrifts at the wall base and, even worse, ice. She cursed under her breath as she struggled to maintain her footing. She saw the irony in escaping a drunken soldier only to bash her brains out on the ice below.

Upon reaching the roof’s far edge, she carefully descended an ice-slick ladder to the walkway that connected the inn’s second floor to the barn’s upper level, where they kept the pegasus stalls. Hurrying now, she soon reached the welcome warmth of the stables. As soon as she stepped inside, the straw dust hit her allergy-sensitive nose and made her sneeze. Those allergies, especially in the Spring with the dust and dandruff where a dangerous combination. Consequentially, at any time of year, but particularly in high pollen season the stables represented her refuge of last resort.

Ignoring her discomfort for the moment, she headed for the opposite end of the row of stalls, where the stable manager’s quarters lay. That was where Robe lived. He was a man twice her age, but with the mind of someone much younger. He loved animals, and they loved him. She shook her head silently, shivering. It was a simple-minded mentality but worked well for Robe and the stableowner. Garth had decided that a man with half the intellect of the others and a childlike enjoyment of the animals would be less likely to run off. He’d given Robe a home at the stables, steady meals and a few coins once a month for his services in training and caring for the pegasi. In Robe’s eyes it was a good trade: his skills in the stable for a home. In Ciardis’s view he’d been robbed of a proper income. But at the same time, she’d hate to think of what might happen to him on the streets.

Easing the door open, she sidled into the office area, which Robe used as his “pretty things” room. It was half-filled with rocks he’d picked up, shirts he refused to wear but loved to look at, and bright scraps of cloth pinned to the walls. Sometimes he kept colicky foals in here, too. Once he’d kept a baby snow leopard for a month—even built a nest for it. How Robe had managed to catch he dangerous creature, even a baby snow leopard had claws that rivaled the knife in her hand, and convinced the pegasi to keep his secret she would never know, but once Garth, the innkeeper, found out about the cub, all hell broke loose. It had taken some convincing, but Robe had handed the cub over to the innkeeper. Garth had told Robe he was sending it to a sanctuary, but really the innkeeper had sold it to a noble idiot who liked to keep dangerous pets.

Ciardis went over to the wall nook where Robe kept a couch. Carefully putting aside a pile of brightly colored shirts, she slid down onto the couch and curled up for an uneventful night’s rest. She woke to find a bowl of cooling porridge on the floor near her dangling arm and pale sunlight shining down on her face from the narrow window. With a wry smile, she reached for the mashed mix of raisins, milk, and oats. She was pretty sure it was the same thing the pegasi ate. Only Robe would give this to a person and consider it a proper meal for a human.

After eating and visiting the bathhouse, she headed out for another day of drudgery at the washer station. Occasionally she would pull her arm over her head and the muscles along her shoulder to stretch her arm as she walked. When she arrived, she saw a lady with stylishly pale hair standing inside Sarag’s office, arguing with the old washerwoman. Ciardis stopped in the hallway and listened to the conversation. The woman was shaking a knight’s surcoat in her hand. It was a beautifully vibrant red color – like the plumage of a dusk hen in Spring. Ciardis also knew it was soft as butter because she’d handled ten jerkins of similar make yesterday afternoon. Listening to the conversation she heard the woman demand, “What will it take? Twenty shillings? Forty?”

What will what take?
Ciardis wondered with wide eyes. Whatever it was, this woman was offering two months’ salary for it.

Sarag shook her head slowly. “No. Ya can’t have my recipe.”

Recipe? What are they talking about?
Realizing what it would look like if they caught her loitering in the hall, she contrived to look busy by shifting around and sorting the piles of clothes stacked against the far wall. Mags appeared out of nowhere with a curious look on her face, but Ciardis quickly waved her away from the pile of clothes she was sorting. She didn’t want to finish before the conversation in Sarag’s office was over. Mags walked away in a huff.

“Really, woman,” came the exasperated lady’s reply from Sarag’s office. “I just need it for the red costumes. Is it really so costly for you?”

Furiously thinking, the pieces to the puzzle clicked together for Ciardis.
Red was a princely dye
, one of the few that took skill to harvest and prepare. Ciardis was known across the Vale for her red dye which she made from a combination of mountain plants and one elusive ingredient that Sarag had been trying to drag out of her for years. Ciardis refused to give up her secret ingredient, Mountain Moon Leaf, and Sarag hadn’t been able to divise a substitute. More than anything Sarag loved her money and she knew that as long as she had access to Ciardis’s dye she could charge a hefty fee to individuals interested in getting their garments cleaned in a way that wouldn’t harm the bright red fabrics, which was why Ciardis had been in charge of all the red jerkins yesterday.

Sarag had warned her not to let the colors run, but quite frankly, she knew Ciardis’s cleaning mixtures were the best. Sarag was just lucky that Ciardis couldn’t venture out into her own laundry business; the Vale customer base wasn’t big enough for more than one.

“That old harpy,” Ciardis muttered after listening to the conversation. Sarag was trying to sell
her
dye for quite a bit of money and Ciardis was quite sure Sarag had no intention of sharing in the profits either.

As the pale-haired lady stalked out, Ciardis hurried out the side door and around to the front of the building to catch up with her. “Ma’am! Ma’am!” called Ciardis. When the lady stopped, she rushed up to her and blurted, “If it’s the mix for the red you want, I can sell it to you.”

“My, what a pretty thing you are,” said the lady as she eyed the girl. She reached forward to touch the loose strands of hair that had escaped from Ciardis’s bun. She looked curiously at the girl’s bronze skin and almond-shaped golden eyes. “How…unique,” she said. “Now, what was it you were saying?”

“The mix,” said Ciardis softly. “The soap mix, ma’am. It’s
my
recipe.” She raised her chin firmly and said, “It’s yours for thirty-five shillings.”

The lady’s dark brown eyes flashed in amusement as they met Ciardis’s golden ones. Ciardis grimaced, but held her ground, the woman probably knew Ciardis couldn’t make more than fifteen shillings in a month, twenty if she were lucky. “Well,” the lady said slowly, “I suppose I could agree to that. Bring the mix to my room this evening. I’m staying at the Green Inn.”

Nodding, Ciardis backed away respectfully. She was already late for her day’s work. Whirling around she ran down the hallway to the back of the building to the washer station to start her tasks. She’d been lucky that Sarag hadn’t come outside while they were talking.

Hours later while fixing the lye for the next morning’s batches, she overheard
a bunch of the other girls talking about the mysterious guest from the South. Ciardis carried the large wooden tub filled with the ingredients for the lye outside. Mixing it there was always preferable, even in the cold. The stench would have been horrible
in the little mixing room.

Lugging it outside she went to the area just behind the steam room filled with charcoal burners. Setting the heavy tub down with a heavy
thud
, she reached for the solution strapped to her in a round gourd. As she stirred it in a clockwise motion the voices drifted over.

Their conversation was just high enough for Ciardis to overhear from the other side of the steam room while the wall between them hid her from view.

“Did you see her?” one said in an excited whisper that Ciardis thought was Marianne, the candle maker’s daughter.

“She has to be a—” said another voice, but Ciardis couldn’t hear the last word.

Has to be a what?
thought Ciardis with frustration, pushing her ear against the wall to catch the conversation.

A third girl, Rosie, squealed, “Oh my lord. It’s not possible. Why would one of
those
people come here? It’s unheard of for them to come so far out—we’re practically in the middle of nowhere, and at the very edge of the Algardis Kingdom.”

“Who knows,” sniffed Marianne with disdain, “But
I
won’t be having anything to do with her. You know what they say: anything goes in Sandrin. I mean, those type of people are abominations. Companions – they’re nothing but women with loose morals
.
”

“Of course; I wouldn’t either,” Rosie stammered. “I just meant that it’s exciting to see one so far from court.”

The second voice chimed in derisively, but Ciardis couldn’t make out the words. Ciardis recognized the voice as belonging to Sarah. After a moment, the girls rounded the corner and saw Ciardis bent over the mixing basin. When Sarah saw Ciardis, she raised an eyebrow and quickly shushed her companions, “Hush, both of you.”

The three town girls gave Ciardis ice-cold smiles, polite but distant while their eyes flitted over her faded dress, which had large spots where the color had faded away.

She returned their greeting and turned away, knowing that they had nothing to share with her. Even though she put on a brave face, she was wishing all the while that she had the courage to ask about the strange woman in their small vale. She wondered who the woman was, where she was from – could it really be Sandrin, and why she was here in Vaneis.

That evening, Ciardis gathered her last pound of precious mix for cleaning red dyed cloth and leathers. Carefully weighing it she put it on a small scale and used a stone weight as a countermeasure. One pound exactly. Satisfied Ciardis headed for the Green Inn. There were three inns in town – the one Ciardis stayed in which doubled as a pegasi waystation, and another which was a rundown shack with two rooms managed by an old crone and her son. The third inn, the Green Inn, was the one that the rich guests, like the caravan leader, always used. Looking around the room Ciardis made a beeline for Sarah after realizing she had no idea where the lady was staying. Sarah was the head waitress and one the few people whom she considered a friend. Tonight was busy. Even though they exchanged only a few quick words, Sarah had to jump up twice to grab the beer and meals ordered by the men cramming the room. After Sarah pointed out the way, Ciardis headed up to Room Three on the second floor. She knocked firmly on the door.