Toads and Diamonds (22 page)

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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Tana

SICKNESS
muffled the estate's usual sounds and smells, silencing voices that would otherwise have been raised in instruction or argument. Within days of Tana's new assignment, most of the resident white-coat servants had taken to their beds. No one drove the bullocks, so the sugarcane presses fell silent. The fires went out under the syrup-boiling kettles. Smoke still rose from the kitchen fires, but the fragrance of fresh-ground coriander, mustard, and ginger was replaced by the odors of charred lentils and sour milk. Tana decided that there must be enough healthy dairy maids to milk the cows--or the bellows of distress would have disturbed the entire compound--but not enough to keep up with the work of turning milk into butter, cheese, and sweetmeats.

Inside the barn, the unnatural quiet wasn't as noticeable. The young groom worked the sweepers and Tana to exhaustion. She assumed he was trying to earn a permanent promotion through the cleanliness of the floors and good condition of the animals. The

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burly-chested overseer hadn't visited since Tana's first day, but Atbeg acted as if he might appear at any moment. Two of the regular grooms had staggered back to work. They spent as much time leaning on the horses as brushing them. Atbeg didn't reproach them.

Tana was kept busy sweeping and shoveling and leading horses to and fro. When a courier arrived, she walked his sweat-streaked mare around the courtyard while the man took his message pouch to the main residence.

Atbeg rushed past Tana, a red-and-white-striped saddlecloth draped over his shoulder. "Don't let her drink too much," he ordered.

Tana dipped her head in acknowledgment. This wasn't the first courier horse she'd walked cool, but outsiders always made Atbeg jumpy. The groom saddled and led out a bay mare just as the courier returned. Without a word to anyone, the man swung onto the fresh mount and galloped off, clearly hoping to outride the putrid fever that had overtaken the estate. Glancing after him, Tana noticed the gate guard snap to attention, then shake his fist as the rider's dust enveloped him. She turned back to a frowning Atbeg.

The groom crossed his arms over his skinny chest. "We're out of clean saddlecloths," he complained. "The washerwomen must be sick, so you'll have to do it, dirt girl. Give yourself a scrub while you're at it. You're probably giving the horses fleas." He sniggered at his own joke.

Tana went in search of the cloths. In a room where saddles, bridles, and other gear were stored, she found a huge pile of dirty linens on the floor. There were far more than she could carry, even in one of the large wicker baskets stacked in the corner. She heaped five of the special courier saddlecloths in a basket and hoisted it onto her head. In the stable's main aisle, she hesitated, looking for

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the groom. Would Atbeg expect a dung sweeper to know where the laundry area was?

She did, as it happened. The past few nights, as soon as the waning moon rose, she had crept out of the barn to prowl around the estate. Once the mists descended, she hadn't worried much about anyone's noticing. Atbeg slept in a different barn. The few resident workers not suffering from putrid fever had to do the tasks of many others. The moment they were dismissed, the estate's servants probably dropped into their beds. And, unlike the white-coats' clothing, Tana's faded, dirty dress wrap blended into the shadows.

She had kept clear of the main house and the servants' rooms behind the big kitchen courtyard, where people might emerge to visit the latrine pits. That had still left a number of buildings to explore. The estate was bigger than most villages, a maze of mud-brick and stone structures, courtyards, gardens, fields, and pathways. Her nose had identified the vinegar smells of the dyeing and weaving rooms, and steered her around a stinking leather tannery. Rats had left their nasty traces outside grain storehouses and dairy buildings, the sugarcane press and fruit-drying racks. Just the previous night, she'd ventured far enough to spot a tank-style well on the opposite side of the estate. And still she hadn't found those she sought.

"Wait, you." Atbeg sounded harassed.

Tana turned, moving slowly under the basket's weight. Five saddlecloths were perhaps too ambitious a load to carry on her head. Would he notice if she put one back?

The groom opened a door and jerked his thumb inside the stall. "Take a clean pushcart, not the dung hauler, and do all the cloths at once. The washers use the tank by the east gate." He pointed. "Keep clear of the main house, and make sure the cloths are dry before

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you bring 'em back, or they'll smell, and you'll have to do the job again."

Tana set down the laundry basket and heaved sacks off the pushcart Atbeg had indicated. Rats had chewed holes in the corner of several bags. Dried peas trickled onto the floor. Tana swept them up and wrestled the pushcart out of the storage room. She loaded it with more baskets full of dirty saddlecloths, but the baskets stood so tall she couldn't see over them. She rearranged the load to leave a gap down the middle. The cart's bamboo frame proved light yet sturdy. Once she got it rolling, she pushed it quickly out of the barn.

The estate displayed a painting's vivid colors: green barley and wheat, mustard blooming yellow. Along the field's margins, orange poppies shook their skirts at purple linseed and shy white wild-flowers. Birds sang and whistled, busy with nest building.

That's when the deserted aspect of the place struck her. There should have been four times as many people in the fields, and more walking between the various buildings. Tana glanced over her shoulder and pushed the cart faster. The sun shone on her head. A crow cawed. Tana's palms sweated on the pushcart handles, raising blisters by the time she reached the tank.

It was constructed like Gurath's stepwell, but smaller, and without the shade pavilions. And, of course, it lacked the two lanterns honoring Naghali-ji. If there had ever been a snake image here, the white-coats had smashed it. At the nearer end of the tank, two nicely dressed Believer girls Tana's age squatted to slosh coats and trousers in the water.

One stood and stretched at Tana's approach. Dark eyes judged her.

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Tana straightened, aware of her dress wrap's filthy hem. The shawl tied over her head wasn't much cleaner, spotted with hay and dried horse slobber.

Before she could unload her baskets, the young woman pointed across the water. "Horse blankets get washed on that side."

Tana leaned into the pushcart, puffing with effort to get it rolling. One basket tipped and knocked over its neighbor. She stopped the cart and fixed them. She preferred not to drop the baskets into the well and give the maids another reason to mock her.

The standing girl spoke to her companion, loud enough for Tana to hear. "My lady may need us to do laundry for a little while, but we can't be expected to associate with field hands."

"Stupid dirt-eaters." The other tossed her head. Her dangling earrings sparkled in the sun.

Tana gritted her teeth and shoved the cart forward. As never before, she could appreciate what Diribani had endured from haughty Gulrang and the other girls. Of course, Tana wanted these two to think her too afraid to talk back. The more people considered her a pair of strong arms and legs, with only enough sense to follow orders, the less they expected her to speak. It was just that she had been playing the part of a nobody so long that her spirit, like her aching hands, chafed from the work. The rude girls might have been more respectful had Tana been wearing her dowry bangles. Unlike those flashy earrings, her bracelets weren't cheap twisted wire and glass.

Then Tana recognized her own folly. Diribani's bangles hadn't stopped the Gurath white-coats from taunting her. Besides, girls so conscious of their appearance might have wondered why anyone possessed of two gold bracelets was sweeping dung, the lowest of

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all possible occupations. Why encourage them to ask questions she had no intention of answering?

The far end of the tank had stone ramps instead of stairs, so Tana was able to push the cart quite close to the water level. Unfortunately, a herd of goats must have been the most recent visitors. Clumps of coarse hair, leaves, and twigs clogged the waste channel. She hiked up her dress wrap, hoisted the first saddlecloth, and waded down the ramp into cleaner water. Cold nipped at her legs. Washing wasn't pleasant in Cow Month.

Despite the shoveling she'd been doing, this work made her arms and shoulders tremble. When wet, the saddlecloths each weighed far more than a shovel of muck, and she had thirty or so to clean. Her legs and feet were quickly chilled. Her fingers wrinkled into raisins, while the blisters stretched and popped as she scrubbed at ground-in stains. The two snippy girls laid wet clothing out on the stone steps to dry, and left. An older woman came and rinsed out a basketful of kitchen towels. She, too, ignored Tana.

Tana arranged the dripping saddlecloths over the slanting upper edge of the ramp. She found rocks to anchor the corners, so the padded cloths hung in crooked lines. The couriers' red and white stripes angled down to meet the plain colors of the regular saddlecloths. From a distance, the ramp would look as if it had been strung with signal flags.

When the meal bell rang, she entertained the thought of visiting the day laborers' courtyard, just to eat something besides plain boiled peas or wheat, but she was too tired to make the effort. Atbeg would make her cook for him later, anyway. As the overseer had ordered, the young groom kept strictly to the stables.

Tana did take advantage of the deserted tank to wash herself and

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her clothes, the dirt-crusted dress wrap and shawl. Her hair had grown; short dark strands stuck out from her head. Shivering, she draped wet fabric around herself and splashed out to stretch full-length at the top of the ramp. She hoped the sun-warmed stone would dry her backside while the breeze dried her front.

Wistfully, she picked at the loose skin of her popped blisters and thought of the field workers' rice and soup. Thin as it was, the broth had started with a curry leaf, some sliced vegetables, or a handful of lentils before they dissolved in discouragement, unequal to the task of flavoring an entire pot.

Her thoughts wandered farther--south and east, to Fanjandibad. What might Diribani be eating today?

Tana considered the question seriously and came up with buttered rice, puffy bread with garlic, eggplant fried in hot mustard oil. Spiced lentils, cucumbers in yogurt, crispy chickpea fritters with tamarind sauce. Hot, sweet tea. She almost moaned with longing, but couldn't stop torturing herself. For dessert? Sliced pinkfruit, or maybe milk fudge topped with crushed pistachios. Her mouth watered. While Diribani made friends at court and ate delicious food, Tana hid among the white-coats and swept filth. To what end?

Lying here, limp as a wilted onion, Tana hadn't much but clean saddlecloths to show for her labors. Shame nagged at her. Some rescuer she was, thinking of food at a time like this. She should concentrate on saving Kalyan and the Piplia villagers, not her stomach.

She gazed at the trees sheltering the main house. Perhaps that was where she needed to go. Did the white-coat estate houses have dungeons, like the fort? Or had the people been taken to one place, and their livestock to another? How could an entire village vanish in the night? Like smoke, Jasmine's rider continued to elude her.

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Odd, that. Kalyan usually popped up at exactly the moment you wished he wouldn't. And then he asked you to marry him.

Tana's lips curved in reluctant amusement. Utsav the crow god must be dogging her steps, turning every situation on its head. The trickster brother of the twelve never slept.

At the thought, Tana noticed a young woman in a dirty blue dress wrap. She carried a jar on her head and another in her arms, with a covered basket balanced on top of that. Though she came from the direction of the kitchens, she wasn't headed to the courtyard where the field hands ate. Her destination seemed to be a fruit orchard. Instead of cutting straight across a patch of close-cropped sugarcane, the way Tana would have if she was loaded down as this girl was, she followed the longer dirt path along the edge of the estate wall. Her gait was the final oddity that made Tana sit up on her elbows and stare. As the girl shuffled along, she raised more dust than two bare feet should account for.

Curiosity beat out fatigue. Tana tied her almost dry shawl over her head. She shook out her damp skirts and hurried to meet the girl, who allowed herself to be relieved of one jar and the basket. Her gaunt, weary face was vaguely familiar, though pocked with insect bites, inflamed and oozing.

Falling in next to her, Tana glanced down and caught her breath. Her heart beat faster. No wonder the girl shuffled: An iron chain stretched between two ankle cuffs.

She showed no sign of recognizing Tana, but staggered on, empty hands dangling at her sides. They walked deep into the orchard. Screened by leafy orange, pinkfruit, and mango trees was a window-less, mud-walled compound. The girl pushed open a latticed door.

The stench inside rocked Tana back on her heels; she almost