Untalented (24 page)

“I expect quiet in my library.”

Saroya glanced up to see him casting her a disapproving look. She scrambled upright and bowed low. “My apologies, Lord Dorn.”

“See that it does not happen again.”

“Yes, My Lord.” She gathered up her cleaning gear, preparing to flee the room.

“Wait … You’re the new girl, are you not?”

Saroya bowed again.

“Your bond was quite the bargain.”

Saroya kept her eyes on the carpet. “My Lord?”

“Most of your ilk who aren’t plague-ridden have little experience at housework. Fallen guild types, and the like. Their pride gets in the way.” She heard a rustle as he tossed the letter onto a table. “Oh, rise. I’ve had enough bowing and scraping for one day.”

She looked up at him warily. Was she expected to leave now? An appropriate answer to his last statement evaded her. He sauntered up to her. His slate-colored eyes pierced hers.

“And you, girl … Are you filled with pride? Was it your downfall? Or is the rest of the world to blame for all your problems?”

Whatever she said would just get her into more trouble. She dipped a curtsy and tried to leave, but he put out a hand to stop her. She froze as his fingers reached for the lanyard about her neck.

“What’s this?” he whispered. She glanced down at the twisted ring.

“It’s … a family treasure.” When his fingers tightened, she thought he might rip it from her throat. “Please don’t take it away—it’s all I have of my mother’s.”

“Your mother.” He let go of the lanyard and backed up a pace, appraising her. “It’s an unusual piece of jewelry—it doesn’t look like a real ring.”

So far, Saroya had not found this man likeable at all, nor did she trust him. His stare was too calculating. Yet, she needed an ally if she wanted to get the well water from Abaya House into the hands of the sick. The thought of endless indenture, knowing that Martezha stood in the position that was rightfully hers, galled her. “It’s one piece of a puzzle ring.”

It was subtle, but she thought his smirk now seemed satisfied. “Would it interest you to know that I have seen another, similar ring?”

Saroya held her breath. She stood on dangerous ground, here. Why was he so interested in the ring? He was her uncle, yet Veshwa warned her that currents of ambition ran through this family that she’d do well to navigate with care. Maybe he thought she’d stolen it.

“Is My Lord accusing me of something?”

He laughed, and she relaxed slightly. “No. The design of that ring is distinctive. I have never seen another like it, until now. The place I used to see it was about the neck of Queen Padvai.” He believed her! But why did she feel like a mouse being hunted by a hawk? “You don’t seem surprised.”

“Neither do you.” Her answer spilled out before she remembered she was supposed to be a meek and cowed servant. This time, his laugh rang with true mirth.

“Whatever lack of Talent you suffer from does not apply to reading people, apparently. No—I am not surprised. I’ve known for some time that the woman Urdig calls his daughter is an imposter. Until now, I’ve had no proof pointing to the true heir. I still don’t, really—not until we can compare your ring with Padvai’s.”

He sat down on a cushioned settee and motioned that she do so as well. She lowered herself to the edge of a hard chair.

“It’s no coincidence I’m here,” she observed.

“Not really. I have been following the lives of all the students from Adram Vale. Discreetly. Buying your bond let me … get to know you.” He leaned forward. “You don’t trust me.”

“I—if you’ve been so suspicious, why didn’t you say anything to the king?”

“My dear, Martezha has a solid claim—one does not cast aspersions lightly. I am many things, but I am not a fool.”

“But the king is your brother-in-law.”

“Why have you not come forward before now?”

Her hand moved to the ring at her throat. “I tried, but they called me a liar. I had no proof.”

“You see?”

She nodded.

Loric reached out. “If you give me the ring—”

Saroya shook her head. “I lost my only proof once. You can’t have it.”

Loric’s fingers curled into claws but he drew back. “Very well. I will ask Isolte to find out what happened to Padvai’s ring upon her death. If it is in Urdig’s possession, I will obtain you a royal audience.”

Saroya wanted to fall to her knees in gratitude. She could not fathom how her fortunes had turned around so quickly. With a royal audience she could tell the king himself about the well. Loric stood up.

“Until we can confirm a match, I expect you to tell no one of this. You will act exactly as the servant you are. It would not do to spread premature rumors. Understood?”

She nodded.

“Very well. Return to your duties.”

She backed out of the room, bobbing several grateful bows. Then she fled to the kitchen. She longed for the privacy of her room to let what just happened sink in, but she knew there would be trouble if she was late taking the kitchen leftovers to the pigsty.

The next day, Saroya felt like she was living two lives. Her physical life was the harsh working reality of an indentured servant. The life spread before her in her mind was one of family and friends, where people did not look at her askance in the street. Where they did not look down on any Untalent, and the camps and forced round-ups were a thing of the past. Where the plague was a footnote in history, perhaps with her name next to a notation about the cure. She whacked the carpet in front of her with relish, imagining the look on Martezha’s face when Urdig kicked her out of the castle.

The cloud of carpet dust still hovered about her head when Saroya spotted a tall woman gliding towards her. She recognized Isolte, the lady of the manor. Her aunt. Isolte halted well clear of the motes of grime.

“Come with me.” She whirled in a flurry of brocaded skirts and headed back for the manor. Saroya dropped the stick she held and hurried after her. So much for this particular family reunion. Isolte exuded disdain.

Saroya discreetly brushed clinging bits of dirt from her tunic. She found herself in a part of the house that had been off-limits to her until now: the family quarters. Isolte passed through a polished walnut door and, following, Saroya entered a marble-tiled bathing room. A steaming tub of water occupied the center of the room.

“Clean yourself off and then join me in my chambers.” Isolte gestured to a door in the far wall. “Don’t tarry. And wash your hair.”

Once assured that Isolte had left the room, Saroya shed her clothes and stepped into the bath. Her skin shrank from the hot water. More accustomed to wiping herself down using a pitcher of cold water, she soon found herself luxuriating in the liquid embrace. She sank beneath the surface to moisten her hair then scrubbed herself vigorously. Tempted to soak for as long as the water kept its heat, she nevertheless hauled herself out of the tub as soon as she felt clean. It would not do to anger Isolte. She grabbed a clean robe, belted it about her waist, then, after toweling off her hair, stepped into Isolte’s chambers.

Isolte stood by a window, tapping her foot. A dress and undergarments were laid out on the large four-poster bed. Isolte went to the bed and picked up some leggings. “You will dress. I will help you.”

Saroya shrugged off the robe and reached for an undergarment. Isolte gasped. “What are those?”

Saroya had forgotten about the scabs that still fell away from her body. She shrugged. “I had the plague.” Isolte took a hasty step back. “I’m not sick anymore but it left me with these. I think they’re going away.” Saroya debated telling Isolte about the well at Abaya House but caution stilled her tongue. Everybody she told accused her of lying.

Saroya struggled into the unfamiliar clothes. She usually wore tunics and leggings, or simple dresses of rough wool or linen. The heavy brocades and silks over layers of undergarments nearly defeated her efforts to put them on. The sleeves of the brown underrobe clung to her arms. Isolte jerked the lacings tight on the corselet then did the same for the honey-colored silk gown once Saroya wriggled into it. Saroya glanced down at her chest. The low, boat-shaped neckline exposed her shoulders and the top of the corselet; she wasn’t used to seeing so much of her own skin. Isolte grimaced but Saroya knew nothing could be done about the sun-darkened square at her throat. No amount of scrubbing would fashionably lighten her complexion.

The bell-shaped sleeves of the gown fell away from her forearms, exposing the band of embroidery, golden against the brown, around the wrists of the underrobe. A winding pattern of scarlet leaves and vines trimmed the neckline, sleeves, and hem. The full skirts flared into a train behind her—she reminded herself to hold them up so she wouldn’t trip. Isolte handed her an ornamented belt set with topaz and garnet-colored glass beads, which, once set over her hips, hung below her waist. Saroya fingered the shoes next to the bed before she slipped them on. The kidskin felt like velvet.

Isolte snatched a comb from the bedside table and yanked it through Saroya’s hair. Saroya winced as the teeth caught in several knots. Isolte did not have a gentle touch. By the time Isolte piled Saroya’s hair into an elegant cascade, her scalp burned from the scratches of what felt like hundreds of pins. Her skin stretched tightly around her forehead, pulled back by Isolte’s hair clips. When Isolte held up a mirror, Saroya was surprised to find no blood trickling down her neck from her hairline. She was sure Isolte punctured her at least once.

Catching sight of herself in the mirror, for once Saroya forgot to envy Nalini’s straight hair. The person who stared back from the mirror seemed like a stranger. She looked almost … regal.

Isolte stopped fussing and stepped back to appraise her work.

“You’ll do.” She held out a fur-trimmed cloak. Despite the heat, Saroya tied it around her shoulders. “Come with me.” Isolte led her down to the water arcade, where a polished black barque waited for them at the gate. Red- and gold-striped fabric draped over a frame shaded the cushioned seats.

“Where are we going?”

“To the palace. You will say nothing unless spoken to, and even then, you will keep your talk to a minimum. Loric will speak for you.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s meeting us at the castle. Put the hood on over your head. If things go wrong, there’s no use in the whole house knowing about it.”

Saroya settled herself onto a bench near the bow. This was not the welcome she had hoped from her family. Would her reception at the castle be different? Surely her father would show her some affection. Surely? Saroya tamped down that hope. No one except Veshwa had proven they’d cared. She got the distinct feeling her aunt and uncle viewed her as a playing piece in a game she didn’t understand. Why should her father and uncle, Dhilain, be any different? The politics of nobility were beyond her. But she couldn’t just dive off this barque now. Not in these heavy skirts. Saroya sighed. Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. Which at this point was continued indenture to Loric.

The barquier poled his craft through the city. Isolte pressed her lips together in disapproval at what she saw outside.

“I told Loric we should have left U’Veyle last month. Now it’s too late. Just look at those wretches.”

Saroya stared out from behind the curtains at scenes of chaos. Body reclaimers tossed the dead onto small funeral barges. At each bridge they passed mothers pleading with city guards let them out of the city with their children. Saroya could only watch helplessly as the guards, shouting “Forged!”, tore up one woman’s proffered Talent certificate. They separated her from her two wailing children, and threw her into a cart Saroya knew was destined for a death camp. The barque glided past the mouths of alleys, from which emanated the cries of street hawkers advertising every ineffective cure imaginable. The plague spread without check.

“They can’t help being sick.”

Isolte sniffed. “We shan’t be able to help it either if we stay in this cesspool.”

Saroya wondered if the papers she’d amassed in the Vergal still lay hidden at Balreg’s pub. If everything went well today, she’d retrieve them, and put and end to the horrible pens for Untalents. She repressed a nervous twinge about the ring. Was her proof as ironclad as she hoped? She didn’t trust Loric or Isolte.

The barquier navigated the canals with skill, moving them ever eastward through the maze of channels. Saroya lost herself admiring the hanging gardens and secret courtyards of the manors they floated past. Several times, she thought they might not clear a low bridge. The barquier seemed unperturbed. The great esplanade of the Grand Plaza teemed with pigeons and gulls. Saroya and Isolte disembarked at the castle basin. A waiting guard escorted them up the promenade stairs.

At the castle gate, they submitted to the inspection of a healer, who felt their foreheads for fever before allowing them through. Master Guffin met them in the courtyard. Saroya peered out at the steward from beneath her hood. He didn’t appear to recognize her.

“My Lady Isolte,” Guffin said. “Lord Dorn awaits you and your guest in the reception hall. May I take your cloaks?” Saroya stifled in the late spring heat underneath her hood and would have accepted gratefully but Isolte shook her head.