The Silver Bowl (3 page)

Chapter 5

The Silver Bowl

WHEN FIRST I'D COME
to the castle and started working in the scullery, I was so small I had to rise up on my toes in order to do my work. Now, while I wasn't uncommonly tall for my years, I had to lean over to reach the bottom of the sink.

When I wasn't scrubbing pots and washing dishes, I did whatever was needed. I swept floors, and carried slops to the pigs, and hauled water, and plucked fowl, and scoured the worktables twice a day. It was never pleasant, but I saw it was no worse than what the others had to do. So I made up my mind to be cheerful about it and finally won the acceptance of my workmates in the kitchen. That was a comfort, for I no longer had Tobias to cling to. He'd been promoted to groom in the stable yard, and though I visited him there as often as I could, he wasn't by my side all the time the way he used to be.

I missed him terribly and often thought how well he'd guided me back when I was just a rough child from the streets and he was a donkey boy. He'd taught me to take pride in my work, no matter how lowly it might be. Now when I scrubbed a pot, though it might take me an hour, it was like new when I was finished. Even the cook remarked upon it once.

Thomas, the Gentleman of the King's Silver, took note of it too. He it was who had charge of all the platters, and serving bowls, and wine flagons, and candlesticks, and standing dishes, and other such finery as was used when the king dined in the hall. Thomas saw that it was polished as needed, and until recently he'd had an assistant to do it. But the boy had been overhasty with his work and had scratched a certain handsome cup that belonged to the king in particular. He was dismissed on the spot and was never seen at Dethemere again.

Now Thomas needed someone to replace him. He'd noticed my meticulous work and thought me a likely candidate. And so he approached me one day as I stood at the sink, hands deep in greasy water.

“What are you called, child?” he asked. “What's your name?”

“My name is Marguerite, sir, same as the queen. But everyone calls me Molly.”

“Well then, Molly, leave that pot for someone else to finish and find yourself a clean apron. Then follow me. I wish to see if you can polish silver.”

My heart sank. I didn't want to take on such delicate work for fear that I'd lose my place as the boy before me had done. “Oh sir, I think that would be too hard for me.”

“I shall judge that,” he said. “Come along. Do as I say.”

There was no way I could refuse. I made myself presentable, then followed Thomas to the silver closet.

It was a good-sized room, with storage chests and cabinets along three of the walls and a long table in the center. The door to the room was uncommonly stout and had a double lock. No wonder—it held a fortune in silver.

Thomas showed me how to make a paste of chalk and water—only rainwater was ever used, for it was pure—and how to grind it finer than fine.

“Now watch,” he said.

He wet a strip of good linen, squeezed out the water till it was only damp, and dipped it into the paste.

“Gently,” he said. “In little circles, as I have seen you do with the sand when cleaning the pots. But don't press too hard. This isn't pottage baked onto an iron cauldron. It's a whisper of tarnish on something precious and fine. Do you understand me?”

Yes, I said. I did.

Thomas handed me a candlestick. It was badly dented on one side and nearly black with tarnish. “Let's see what you can do.”

I went at it with all the care in the world and soon lost myself in the work. Thomas sat and watched, his hands folded, saying not a word.

“Now you must wipe it clean and buff it,” he said, showing me how to do it. I followed his lead, using a boar-bristle brush to sweep out whatever paste still lingered in the deep places of the candlestick, then burnishing it bright with a clean strip of felt.

When I was finished, I looked into Thomas's face to see how he liked my work, and indeed he came very close to smiling.

“You will do,” he said. “I think you have the touch for it, and the patience, too.”

At first he only gave me simple things to work on: spoons, and the little salt bowls that were used at the lower tables, and now and then a silver cup. But in time he let me polish almost anything. For though he was meticulous about counting the silver before it went out to the dining hall, then counting it again after it was washed and brought back in, and writing it all down in his little book—indeed, he seemed to enjoy these tasks—he was not overfond of polishing.

But then, it was only natural. He was a gentleman servant. He didn't need to do the work himself; he had only to see that it was done to his satisfaction.

There was just one piece he wouldn't let me touch, and that was the great saltcellar that stood in pride of place at the king's high table. The base was near a foot wide, with carved angels flying all around it and three great lions atop that holding aloft the crystal dish in which the precious salt was kept. It was a wonder, no doubt about it. And I was heartily glad he didn't want me to polish it, for it would be a terrible chore to clean. And oh my soul, they would surely hang me if ever I put a scratch on it!

There was another piece, though, nearly as fine and famous as the saltcellar; and though it wasn't as grand, I liked it better. This was the great basin over which the royal family and their special guests washed their hands in warm, perfumed water when dining in the hall. They did this before meals, between courses, and again after they'd finished eating. The ceremony required three servants—one to hold the bowl, one to pour water from the ewer, and one to carry the fine linen towel with which they dried their hands.

The bowl had come from Austlind and was made by a famous silversmith. “He died long ago,” Thomas said, “but while he lived there was none to equal him. And this is almost certainly his greatest work. I doubt there's another one like it in all the world.”

The underside of the hand basin, as well as its wide, flat rim, was etched all over with delicate scrollwork in the form of intricate knots, and flowers, and twining vines—birds and butterflies, too. But the inside of the bowl was the true marvel. That part was more boldly carved, deeply incised, in strange and mysterious shapes.

“'Tis most ingenious,” Thomas said. “For it is here on the inside that the water is poured. And as it comes streaming in, it runs through the valleys, and jumps over the hills, and sparkles as it goes. Only the mind of a great artist would think of something like that. But it's the very devil to polish.”

As I sat admiring it, the beautiful pattern began to quicken before me, transforming itself into a menagerie of strange, unfamiliar creatures; but I could not hold them long enough in my mind to see exactly what they were. In an instant they'd vanished, becoming once again only a beautiful design.

“It seems almost . . .
alive.
”

“So it does,” Thomas said. Then he set the bowl before me and bid me polish it.

“You cannot mean it,” I said.

“I never say what I do not mean.”

“No, of course not. It's just . . . the bowl is so precious and fine, and I have only been working on the silver a short while, no more than three months. What if I should scratch it or sommat like that?”

“Then you would be beaten and sent away.” Then he smiled. “But I trust that will not happen, for I've watched you, and I see that you are careful and have a gentle touch. It takes wondrous patience to work the paste into every little crevice, and to brush it all out again, and polish well both the high places and the low. I have enough to do already with keeping the records and attending to the saltcellar. From now on this shall be your task.”

I hung my head and trembled all over.

“Pick it up,” he said. “Feel it in your hands.”

I did, then set it down again, as gently as though it were made of eggshells.

“'Tis monstrous heavy,” I said.

“Yes,” he agreed. Then he got up, and went to a shelf, and came back with a blanket of felt. “Always lay it on this, so it won't rub against the table as you work. I generally start with the underside. It's easier. Once that is done, you can turn it over and attend to the inside. That takes the most time.”

I nodded.

“What are you waiting for?”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“Nothing,” I said.

Chapter 6

Listen!

I PINCHED A BIT OF CHALK
paste
between my thumb and forefinger just as Thomas had taught me, feeling for any remaining grit that might scratch the bowl. It was as smooth as butter. And so I took up my damp linen cloth, and dipped it into the paste, and began.

I started on the bottom and found it was not so different from polishing the cups, ewers, and flagons I'd been working on for months—just bigger, and more beautiful.

When I had that part gleaming bright as new, I turned the bowl over and did the rim. Then came the real challenge.

“How do I get into the deep parts?” I asked. The cloth wanted to skim the mountaintops and leave the valleys untouched.

“Fold the cloth and use the corner to force the paste down in there,” Thomas said. “See, watch how I do it. Now you try.”

“Like so?”

“Exactly.”

It was at this point, as I was growing more confident, that I felt an odd warmth in the silver, as if the bowl had been kept near the fire. Only it hadn't—I'd seen Thomas take it from the cabinet, and it had been cold when first I touched it.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Maybe I was rubbing too hard.

“No,” I said, and went on, with a lighter touch this time. But the metal grew warmer still, and now I began to sense a humming beneath my fingers, as though I were touching a hive of angry bees.

“Are you sure?”

“I'll stop if you want,” I offered.

“No, Molly, it's your task. I want you to continue. Only—be careful.”

“I am.”

My heart was pounding in my chest. I could feel the heat radiating off the metal, and I didn't understand why.

And then a voice, an urgent whisper:
“Listen!”

I turned and looked at Thomas. “What?”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Oh. It must have been someone in the kitchen I heard.” It wasn't though. I was sure of it. “I'm just a little nervous.”

“Pay attention!”
the voice said. This time I knew it wasn't Thomas.

I froze for a second, then remembered my mother's advice. And so I sat up straight and composed my face, determined not to show my alarm. I went on polishing in careful circles and waited for more. It didn't take long.

The pattern began to transform itself now, to melt into a kind of picture: it was a room with people in it, only everything was silver; there was no color to it.

I saw a beautiful lady dressed in velvet and ermine sitting in a chair. A young man knelt at her feet, holding her hands in his. He was tall and slender, with fine, broad shoulders.

Then I heard him speak. His voice seemed to come from a distance: deep, and hollow, and strange. “I will do it gladly,” he said, “whatever you ask of me. I have sworn it, and I would gladly swear it again.”

“Good. You know it must not be connected to me in any way.”

“Of course.”

“And you will have to leave me for a time.”

“I know. But not for long, surely.”

“Until it's done. Then
I
shall come to
you
.” She smiled as if she'd said something clever.

He leaned down and kissed her delicate hands.

“So be it.”

“You always were my favorite,” she said. “I sometimes wish . . .”

I smiled without meaning to. It was so sweet.

“Is something amusing?”

“No, Thomas. It's just so beautiful, that's all.”

“Ah.”

I went back to polishing, somewhat less frightened now. If I must have visions, it was a comfort that they be sweet ones like this.

The room was still there, and the same two people. Only the lady had different clothes on. The man did, too. So—this was a different day, another time.

The woman was standing now, a piece of paper in her hand. She bit her lip, and there were tears in her eyes.

“Oh, it's too much!” she said. “Unbelievable. Cruel.”

“What does he say?” the man asked.

“He withdraws the offer—his pathetic, disgusting,
insulting
offer.”

“But why?”

“Why do you think? He's been successful at last. And I always was . . . invisible to him.” She fell to her knees suddenly and bent over as if she had a terrible bellyache. Then she began to wail, tearing the letter into pieces. The man knelt beside her and put his arms around her. She rested her head on his shoulder.

“Too cruel!” she said again. And then the room filled with mist, and the vision was gone.

I turned the bowl a few degrees and began to polish a new section. I had, by then, grown curious. There was a puzzle here; I was eager to make it out.

“Look!”
It was the voice again, speaking rather more gently this time, as you might when pointing out a flower or a sunset.

Once more the pattern began to break up and take new form. Only now I was in a different place, a tradesman's workshop of some kind. There was a man in the room wearing a leather apron. He had a goodly face, square and solid, with a fine crop of hair and little wrinkles around his eyes.

He was holding a child, perhaps a year old; and he lifted her high in the air, as far as his arms would reach, so he could kiss her little toes. The baby squealed with joy and wiggled her feet. He kissed her toes again. She bumped his nose. He laughed.

Oh, that was lovely
, I thought as the vision faded. I shifted the bowl again, dipped my cloth in the paste, and went on with my work. The fear had left me entirely now. I was eager to see more. The bowl did not disappoint me.

“Now,”
said the voice.
“Watch!”

I was back in the workshop again, only at a greater distance this time, so I could take in the whole room. I saw fine silver pieces laid out on the shelves. A silversmith, then—perhaps the one who'd made this bowl. The man was still there, though the baby was not; and he seemed to be looking straight at me or just over my shoulder. I almost turned to see if there was someone behind me, but I knew nobody was.

“You don't think it a marvel?” the silversmith asked.

“That isn't the point,” someone answered. I couldn't see who it was. “It's not what we asked for.”

“You wanted a splendid gift for a royal prince.”

“Don't toy with me. You know the child was meant to die.”

I flinched.

“What?” Thomas asked. He was still watching me.

“Nothing,” I said, still holding my gaze. “Just an itch.” I scratched my neck and went back to my polishing.

“We were most specific. Why could you not get it right? We certainly paid you enough.”

The silversmith didn't answer.

“You will make us another, a cup this time. Do it quick, and do it right.”

“No. I've done enough already.” He pulled a leather bag out from the pocket of his apron and dropped it onto the worktable. “It's all there,” he said. “Every farthing. You get the bowl for free.”

But the bag lay where it was, untouched.

“We made a bargain. You gave your word.”

“That's true. You asked me to put curses in the bowl—or rather you demanded it, upon pain of death. And so I gave them to you, as I said I would. A hundred, to be exact.”

“What—the clumsy nursemaid? You call
that
a curse? So what if the boy's lame? He can still grow up and have sons. That was trifling, insignificant, worthless. And where are the other ninety-nine? The child is blooming like a rose, despite the limp.”

“I never agreed they would be lethal—though you apparently failed to notice that. I was very careful as to what I said, for I am a man of my word. And the nursemaid, by the way—that had nothing to do with me.”

“In that case, I can't see that you've given us anything at all.”

“Oh, but I did. And I counted them carefully, every one: stub a toe, slip and fall, hit your funny bone, bump your nose, lose a toy, skin your knee, cold porridge. Infant curses for an infant child. And I put in a Guardian, too, a sort of kindly schoolmaster to look after the curses and make sure they behave.”

“How terribly clever of you.” The voice was as cold as ice.

“I thought it was, rather. I bought myself some time to get my family to safety. And I only did a very little harm.”

“Was it worth dying for?”

“You think to surprise me, but I knew from the start that my life was forfeited. You'd never let me live with what I knew. I'm surprised it took you this long to come back. By the way, that fellow you hired to watch me—you might not want to use him again. He was terribly obvious. And when my wife went off to the market with the baby in her basket, he followed
me
to the apothecary.”

“We'll find them.”

“No, I think not. I feel quite sure of it.”

He knew he was about to die; I could see it in his face. But he refused to cower or plead for his life. He straightened his shoulders and looked at his enemy, dignified, defiant.

Kick him,
I thought.
Don't give up! Run!
But two strong hands reached out to encircle the silversmith's neck, thumbs pressing on his windpipe.

I couldn't watch it anymore. I let out a groan, and dropped the cloth, and buried my face in my hands.

“What?”
Thomas cried. “What have you done?”

I shook my head.

He leaned over and studied the bowl, searching for any damage.

“I'm sick, that's all. My guts are churning, and my head spins.”

He looked at me hard, then picked up the bowl and set it down at his own station.

“I'll finish it for you this time, but you need to get over your fear. It's childish, and I won't have it.”

“I think I'm going to vomit,” I said.

“Well, for heaven's sake, Molly, go and do it someplace else.”