[Queen of Orcs 01] - King's Property (26 page)

When Twea stirred the next morning, Dar remained on the ground, wrapped in her cloak. She had slept poorly, haunted by dreams of Zna-yat and drowning. She wondered if he would try to kill her again. Logic said he would. Facing that terrible prospect, Dar embraced the idea that the tree had been Muth la. If the Mother of All had saved her, perhaps she would protect her again. It was an irrational hope, but it gave Dar the courage to face the day.

Dar rose and left with Twea to work for Davot. It was before sunrise and only guards were about within the Embrace of Muth la. Dar was still inside the circle when she heard rapid footsteps behind her. She halted and turned to see Zna-yat running toward her. “Twea, hurry on to the cook tent,” said Dar. “I have some business here.”

“I want to stay with you,” said the girl.

“Go!” barked Dar. “Now!”

Twea looked upset as she hurried off, but that was the last concern on Dar’s mind. She took a deep breath to calm herself and waited for Zna-yat.

The orc slowed his pace and approached solemnly. He stopped a few steps away. Dar saw that he was fully armed. “You have returned,” he said.

“Hai.”

“I watched you die.”

“Tree saved me.”

“I heard this tale and went to river,” said Zna-yat. “There is no tree.”

“Yet I am here.”

Zna-yat stared at Dar for a long while as he pondered her reply. “I do not understand how this can be,” he said at last. Then he drew his sword.

Dar held her ground.
Better to face death and die quickly
.

Zna-yat, however, didn’t strike. Instead, he asked, “Will you wear my blood?”

Dar had no idea what Zna-yat meant, but she didn’t think it was the time to ask him. Instead, she relied on her intuition and agreed.

Zna-yat drew his blade across his forearm. Blood flowed from the wound. He dipped his finger in it and knelt before Dar to paint a red line from her forehead to her chin. “You wear my blood,” he said. “It is done for now.” The orc rose and walked away.

Dar watched him go, feeling relieved but puzzled.
Well, he didn’t kill me
. It was possible that Zna-yat had just challenged her to a fight, but she didn’t think so.
It seemed more like an apology or a truce
. Dar wanted to ask Kovok-mah, but there was no time. Also, she felt uneasy whenever Twea was out of her sight. Reluctantly, she hurried off.

When Dar arrived at the royal compound, the cooking tent was already bustling. Further provisions for the king’s table had arrived, and barrels and crates were stacked everywhere. Davot had all his men hard at work, and he grabbed Dar’s arm as soon as she stepped into the tent. If he noticed the mark on Dar’s face as he ushered her outside, he was too preoccupied to comment. He led her to a cage filled with chickens. “Kill this lot and pluck ’em,” he said. “The little lass can help with the plucking.”

Davot rushed off as Dar opened the cage to seize a bird. She had seldom tasted chicken, but she knew how to wring one’s neck and did it with a quick twist of her hands. The dead bird was still jerking about when Twea came out of the tent. “What’s that painted on your face?” she asked.

“Orc blood.”

“Why’s it there?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“Well, you should wash it off.”

“I don’t think I will until I ask Kovok-mah what it means.”

“What if Sevren comes back?” asked Twea. “You don’t want to look like that! What will he think?”

“I don’t care what he thinks.”

“Why not? Don’t you like him?”

Dar shrugged. “I don’t dislike him, not in particular. It’s just…well…he’s a man.”

“A nice man,” said Twea. “Why scare him off?”

“He’s only nice because he wants something. Something from me, at least.”

“What?” asked Twea.

“You’re too young to understand.”

“Oh,” said Twea with a knowing look. “He wants to tup you. Why didn’t you say so?”

Dar grabbed the dead chicken and thrust it at Twea. “Here, pluck this.”

Twea wasn’t so easily distracted. “So, when did he ask you?”

“He didn’t,” said Dar, beginning to feel cross. “But he’s a man, and I understand men better than you.”

“If you don’t like Sevren, is it because he’s a washavoki?”

Twea’s question surprised Dar and made her wonder how much of the camp’s gossip the girl had heard. More important, she wondered how much of it Twea believed. “I never said I don’t like Sevren,” said Dar. “I just don’t trust him. Maybe I’ll feel different if I get to know him better.”

Dar’s answer seemed to satisfy Twea, even though it evaded her question. Twea dropped the subject, but Dar continued to ponder the girl’s inquiry as she slaughtered and plucked the chickens. It made Dar realize that she was beginning to see the humans about her from a new perspective. They were washavokis, and she was becoming something else.

Thirty-one

Dar and Twea plucked chickens until mid morning. Afterward, they peeled vegetables and washed pots while the tent filled with savory aromas. Dar had eaten little but bland porridge for weeks, and the smells became a form of torment. Fare for the royal feast gradually accumulated throughout the day. Besides bread, roast meat, grilled chickens, and stewed vegetables, there were dishes Dar had never seen, much less tasted; yet everything looked delicious.

Most of the day, Davot was frantic that the meal wouldn’t be ready in time. Then there was a brief period when the preparations were complete and he was calm. Later he began to fret about the king’s arrival. He had a sharp-eyed man watch the road to warn him as soon as the king’s party came into view.

Night fell and torchbearers were called to light the banquet tent. Sauces were kept warm until they scorched. New sauces were made, thrown out, and made again. Flies buzzed over the groaning table. The cooling meats grew black with them. Twea fell asleep in a corner of the cooking tent. Finally, when the night was old, Davot came to Dar. “Wake the little lass and go. The king’s not coming.”

“What about the food?” asked Dar.

“Don’t touch it. It’s still the king’s feast, though only maggots will partake.”

“You mean it’ll go to waste?”

“Aye, that’s his way. Anyone who sups without his leave gets flogged. Tomorrow, we’ll cook his feast anew.”

Dar roused Twea and they returned to Kovok-mah’s shelter, unwashed and exhausted. As before, he had been waiting for them. “Come rest, Little Bird.”

As Twea climbed wearily onto his lap, Kovok-mah spoke to Dar in Orcish. “I smell Zna-yat’s blood.”

“I wear it,” replied Dar in the same tongue.

“So I have heard.”

“What does it mean?” asked Dar.

“You have agreed not to kill him.”

Dar laughed, despite her exhaustion. “Kill
him
?”

“Hai,” said Kovok-mah. “None can kill him for you, either.”

“Did I do unwise thing?” asked Dar.

“To wear blood means there is honor between you. There will be no killing while scent lingers.”

“Then what happens?”

“No one can say, not even Zna-yat. Blood time is thinking time. Zna-yat was unsure where wisdom lay. That is why he offered you blood.”

Knowing Kovok-mah wouldn’t presume to give a mother advice, Dar asked, “If you wore blood, what would you do?”

“I would not wash my face.”

As resplendent as rich clothes, a fine horse, and a company of guardsmen can make a man, King Kregant II rode into the base camp the following afternoon. Dar heard the noise of his arrival, but she was too busy to pay much attention. The activity within the cooking tent was frenetic. Yesterday’s untouched feast had been dumped in the river along with all the bread that had been baked in advance. As a result, there was more to prepare than the previous day, and less time to prepare it. Three other women were recruited to work alongside Twea and Dar, and they were kept busy the entire day.

As evening approached, servants dressed in blue liveries arrived to begin serving. The kitchen gradually emptied of food and the men who had cooked it, leaving the women to clean up. Dar knew none of the women, who were from another regiment, but her reputation ensured they shunned her.

“Heard they caught the one that runned away,” said a woman as she scrubbed a pot.

“Aye, poor thing,” said her companion. “She should’ve killed herself afore they grabbed her. It would’ve been an easier way to go.”

The other woman shuddered. “Aye, easier by far.”

“Who did the floggin’?” asked the third.

“I don’t know his name,” said the first. “They say he be high murdant.”

Dar knew there was only one high murdant in all the regiments. “Who was the woman?” she asked.

None of the women would reply. Dar continued eavesdropping, but the talk turned to gossip about strangers.

After the pots were clean, empty platters began to arrive for washing. Dar and the others were still at work when a smirking man in blue entered the tent. “Come, bitches, you’re to be presented at the banquet.” The women were staring at him, uncertain if he was jesting, when Davot arrived and confirmed the order.

The man led Dar, Twea, and the three women into the banquet tent. Large tables lined three sides of its interior, and all the diners faced the open space where the women stood. The king sat at the central table, surrounded by boisterous men. Dar recognized the Queen’s Man among them, but no one else. Little remained of the feast except the bones and scraps spread over the tables and the food smeared on the diners’ beards. Though the feasting was over, the drinking was not. Blue-clad servants scurried about, refilling drinking bowls and goblets. When Dar gazed at the drunken faces about her, she felt apprehensive.

Her escort shouted, “Hear this proclamation!” The tent grew only slightly quieter, and the man continued in a raised voice. “Our Most Gracious Sovereign has deemed it fit that these lowly wenches should share in his feast.” One man cheered, which caused the others to laugh derisively. “Let it be known that His Majesty gives them leave to partake of whatever morsels strike their persons. Gentlemen, feed the bitches!”

This was the signal for the men to pelt the women with rinds, crusts, bones, and other slops. Their targets cowered under the barrage until the man who had brought them in shouted, “Shame! Shame!” The throwing abated. “These tidbits touched the lips of generals and royalty.” He glared sternly at the women. “Are you too proud to eat them? Such ingratitude warrants flogging.”

At the word “flogging,” the other women grabbed scraps from the dirt and stuffed them in their mouths. Dar imitated them as the men began to laugh and throw more slops. Following Dar’s example, Twea reached for a gnawed chicken back. As she bent over, the king hurled a large beef bone and struck her in the temple. The girl wobbled, then crumpled over, her head bloodied. The men erupted in a prolonged cheer, as if points had been scored in a contest. Dar said to Twea “Stay down!” and quickly stepped over her prostrate form. She remained there to shield Twea from further hits.

All the men were too drunk to note Dar’s defiance, except one. He sat by the king’s side, in the midst of the gathering yet apart from it. His sobriety set him off, as did his black apparel, but it was the man’s eyes that seized Dar’s attention. As soon as she met them, Dar knew she was standing before the king’s mage. Tales that he could read thoughts didn’t seem far-fetched. The dark eyes that stared at her were more disconcerting than tossed bones. They seemed to probe her beneath her skin, seeking secrets, and Dar was relieved when they turned elsewhere.

The men’s sport ceased only when they ran out of things to throw. “Grab your supper, ladies,” shouted the man in blue, “and be quick about it.”

Dar seized some bread crusts and a bone with some meat on it, then helped Twea to her feet. She returned to the cooking tent to be met by Davot. He seemed appalled by what had happened, though he tried to hide his feelings. “Go rest,” he said. “Any last washing can be done tomorrow.”

As Dar grabbed a dishcloth to clean the blood from Twea’s face, the girl began to whimper softly. “Hush,” said Dar gently. “I have white bread for you and meat.”

Twea was still sniveling when Dar led her away. At the edge of the royal compound, a man stepped from the shadows. “I heard there was ‘sport’ at the banquet. Are you all right?”

Dar recognized Sevren’s voice. “I’m fine,” she replied in a weary tone. “But the king struck Twea’s head with a bone.”

Instantly, Sevren was kneeling before Twea, examining the swelling on her temple. Dar could see that he was outraged, and his indignation made her think better of him. “It’s not serious,” she said. “The orcs have magic that can treat her.”

“I thought she’d be safe with Davot,” said Sevren. “I’m sorry.”

“You did your best,” said Dar. “No place is truly safe.”

“Aye,” said Sevren, his voice choked with rage. “Na in a kingdom ruled by a…”

Dar touched his arm to make him stop. “Remember the mage,” she whispered.

Sevren swallowed his anger, then sighed. “I’ll speak with Davot. He’s a good man when they let him be. I’ll see you in the morn.” With those words, he slipped into the shadows.