Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (25 page)

The Storm Lord regarded her calmly, hiding the beginnings of a smile behind his hand.

“Oh, Grandfather, I am sounding spoiled and selfish, am I not?”

“You are.”

“Forgive me. It was but due to the heat of the moment, I hope. Really, I am sorry all this has happened; you know I am. Indirectly it
was
my fault. Now that I comprehend how hard the household staff must work I am doubly sorry. Even with the help of the brownie their labors must have been protracted and arduous. I shall never understand wights! How brownies could actually enjoy all that hard work is completely beyond me.”

“Whether they do enjoy it or not,” remarked the Storm Lord, “no one knows for certain.” He stretched out his arms to rid them of cramps, then clasped his hands behind his head in a relaxed pose. “Do you recall,” he went on, “the tale of Álainna Macnamh, your great-great-great-grandmother?”

“You recounted it to me when I was a child.”

“I learned the tale thoroughly, for ‘twas passed down from my ancestors to me. I heard it many times, because it involved my own forefather, Aglaval Stormbringer. When Álainna Macnamh was but a young maiden she was
stolen away by the sorcerer Janus Jaravhor, who carried her off to the Dome of Strang. Three brothers set out to rescue her: Turlough, Teague, and Tierney A’Connacht. The first two failed but the third was successful—and why, hmm? ”

Asrathiel replied, “Aglaval Stormbringer told them all to cut off the heads of whomsoever they met on their journey of rescue. Turlough and Teague did not heed his words, but Tierney, the youngest, used Fallowblade to lop off the heads of the disguised servants of the sorcerer, and thereafter he won Álainna for his bride.”

“Precisely. And what then is the lesson of this story?”

“That Fallowblade is useful for beheadings?”

Avalloc cocked an amused eye at her.

“That sometimes one must overcome pain and squeamishness to achieve a goal?”

“Precisely. And at the moment our goal is to keep the premises clean until help arrives. This situation with the brownie has evolved from your actions, in a roundabout way. I am glad to see you taking responsibility and learning from it.”

The damsel sighed. “I will bear that in mind next time I find myself on my knees beside the cinder-pail, smothered in ash.”

At the end of a week without the brownie Dristan hired a footman, a bold young man from the plateau. To the household’s butler, a grey-haired man of strict standards, fell the task of showing the new servant his duties.

“This is the pantry,” said the butler, ushering the fresh-faced newcomer through a crowded chamber with its long stone shelves arrayed with covered pantry boxes, its dough bowls and herb grinders, its cupboards and benches, trays and trenchers, sugar boxes and candle boxes. They entered the adjoining room. “After each meal, your place is here in the scullery, young man,” the butler instructed. “Here, perfect order should prevail—a place for everything and everything in its place. See, there is a sink, and plenty of wooden tubs. Have one of the tubs three parts full of clean hot water; in this, wash all plate and plated articles which are greasy, wiping them before cleaning them with the brush.”

The new footman nodded cheerfully. “Right you are, sir!”

“You must be methodical in arranging your time,” the butler said sternly, as if disapproving of such extravagant displays of merriment. “All your
rough work must be done before breakfast is ready, when you must appear before the family clean, and in a presentable state. After breakfast, when everything belonging to the scullery and pantry is cleaned and put in its place, the furniture in the dining- and drawing-rooms will require rubbing. Towards noon, the parlor luncheon is to be prepared. At all times you must keep flesh and fowl separate from the other victuals, otherwise the Lady Asrathiel will not touch her dinner.”

Undaunted by his tutor’s grave manner the footman said confidentially, “Ah, yes, upon that matter, sir. With respect to the Lady Asrathiel, I cannot understand why she refuses meat on principle. After all, animals have to die eventually, so what is wrong with eating them?”

“Keep your voice down, young man! It is not fitting to discuss members of the household at all, let alone to shout about them!”

“Your pardon, sir. I am somewhat deaf,” the new servant said truthfully, “and cannot measure how loud I am speaking.”

Deciding to accept this as an excuse for the time being, the butler sighed and leaned against the edge of one of the stone thrawls to take the weight off his aching hip. After brief deliberation he concluded it would be prudent to explain the philosophies of his employers, in order to prevent possible awkward misunderstandings. In a low but earnest tone he said, “My lady argues that human beings die too, but that does not give us the right to kill them or cause them suffering. This reasoning has won over several members of the household and now I, too, shun the eating of flesh.”

“Methinks the lady is overly zealous in her philosophies,” the new footman said, with the air of one whose common sense abhors radical thinking. “Animals slay other animals to devour them, so why should we not do the same?”

“Most animals who kill for food would be unable to survive if they did not,” the butler patiently replied, displaying the self-possession of the well-informed. “The same is not the case for humankind.”

“If we grew only crops, people would go hungry!”

“Quite the contrary, young man. My father was a farmer. I was raised on the land and I know about agriculture. There would, in fact, be a greater abundance of food for all, because grazing occupies far more arable land than the cultivation of crops.” At the footman’s gratifyingly astonished look the butler added authoritatively, “You have a lot to learn. And keep your voice down!”

The scullery’s mysteries having been fathomed, the older man beckoned for the younger to follow him. They proceeded to step through the door into the buttery, still conversing.

“Well, at least we can eat fishes in good conscience,” the footman whispered very audibly. “Fishes do not feel fear or pain, therefore they do not suffer when they are killed.”

At that very moment, Asrathiel entered the buttery from the opposite doorway. Having caught this comment she stopped in her tracks. Exasperatedly, she threw her hands into the air. “Where do people get these ideas?” she cried, frowning at the shrinking footman. “If fishes felt no fear or pain they would not be motivated to flee from danger, and they would all be extinct! Your name, sir, is Henstridge, is it not?”

His self-assurance somewhat deflated, the new servant mumbled an affirmation and bowed.

Asrathiel continued, “Master Henstridge, I have studied the natural history of fishes. Pray allow me to inform you, their brains and nerves are of a similar pattern to our own. Their mouths, in particular, are sensitive; they use them in the same way we use our hands—to catch or gather food, to build nests, and to hide their babies from danger. Some fishes even tend their own underwater gardens, believe it or not, as you will! Fishes are far more intelligent than people wish to accept. To hurt them is as unvirtuous as it is to hurt any living being.”

Henstridge looked humbly apologetic. He also looked to be quite struck with admiration, and for some time afterwards the butler was not able to get a word out of him, although he proved to be a conscientious worker.

Another three days of helping the servants severely tested Asrathiel’s patience. Every evening she searched for the urisk in his accustomed haunts, calling to him. After sunset on the third day, she sprawled half-asleep on the hearth-rug beside an open book, alone in the library. The fire was smoldering low. She had kindled it not for warmth, but for the pleasure of watching the diaphanous flames as they danced, in shades of lilac, marmalade, and cramoisy. Blue-black clouds had amassed over the Mountain Ring, and heavy rain pelted against the dormer windows. Against its muted background roar, a runnel in the roof gutters was playing a musical melody, counterpointed by the sharp
plink, plink
of droplets falling somewhere nearby. Lulled by the murmur of water and fire, Asrathiel had begun to doze. On impulse she opened her eyes, only to behold the urisk standing near, weltered in shadows.

“By my troth! ’Tis
you,
creature!” she cried, sitting up and instantly coming to her senses. “You have materialized at last!” Contrary to her words, the wight seemed almost insubstantial, as though he hovered between the real world and some unseen realm. The damsel’s words tumbled forth. “Nay, do
not depart I beseech you! I am glad to see you, glad and sorry—nay do not turn away, I meant no offense—prithee stay, for I need your help.”

“If you intend to ask me to grovel in the grates as you do these days,” said the urisk, “think again.”

“Hoy-day, wight, you are too provoking! If not for you, I would not be groveling in the first instance. You have chased away our brownie, and now everyone is forced to rub their noses in dirt and dust.”

“Housework is evidently beneath the dignity of petulant witch-princesses,” the urisk commented with a mocking smile.

Without paying heed to the gibe Asrathiel continued, “Fie upon this execrable deed of yours. If not for your incessant hounding of the obliging fellow we would be living in ease and comfort, as we were wont. What say you to that?”

“
’Obliging fellow’
be hanged. I say you all seem overly concerned about having to exert yourselves a tad more than usual. The wretch was a tiresome prig, and conceivably over-inquisitive, but ‘tis no fault of mine if it took to its heels. I never told it to leave.”

“You frightened it away. Where did it go?”

“How should I know?”

“We are in a sorry plight, urisk. I am deluged with chores from morning till night. In a few short weeks numerous visitors will arrive, having been invited to join us in celebration and enjoy our hospitality. Allow me to acquaint you with the importance of this occasion. It is to be no ordinary coming-of-age, because I have reached it precociously, and because I am the Storm Lord’s granddaughter, and not least because I possess—yes, I am no creepmouse modestly hiding my assets in the wainscot—because I possess innate powers greater than any known in living memory.”

Seizing a pamphlet from a nearby shelf the urisk began fanning his face with it as if afflicted by an unconscionable blast of heat. “The extent of your consequence overwhelms me.”

“And so it should!” In an attempt to thwart his sarcasm Asrathiel deliberately interpreted his words at face value. “The princes of Narngalis and the royal family of Grïmnørsland, amongst others, will expect a cordial and generous reception. We are to entertain no end of aristocrats and attendants for an entire week. Since the
other
domestic wight has departed,” said the damsel, intentionally lingering on the term ‘other’ because she could not resist wanting to nettle the maddening creature, “perhaps you might see your way clear to helping us prepare the house.”

The flesh prickled on the nape of her neck as she wondered how the urisk would respond to the challenge and the oblique chaffing. Sometimes, inexplicably, she feared the ungracious wight, and this was one of those moments.

However he said, “I’faith! Trifles discompose you astonishingly! But your
domestic wight
shall condescend. Lo! Shall the scullery become my palace?”

A freezing gust spiraled down the chimney. The fire on the grate grew dark for an instant, and the lamps guttered. By the time the chamber had brightened, the only souvenir of the urisk was the library door, half-open and swinging on its hinges, and the discarded pamphlet riffling its pages on the floor.

Asrathiel jumped to her feet and ran downstairs, her heart pounding in dread of what the urisk’s words might signify. As she neared the scullery she was partially deafened by the strident dissonance of breaking crockery. She flew into the room, only to behold a washtub filled to the brim with greasy plates, many of them shattered into small fragments. Apparently the urisk had halfheartedly thrown the tableware into the receptacle as if about to begin cleansing it, instead smashing most of it out of carelessness, before thinking better of the task and making off.

The damsel fought an inner battle to contain her exasperation. “Why can you not be cooperative, like normal household wights?” she shouted at the unresponsive walls. Not unexpectedly, there came no reply. After sorting through the crockery and disposing of the broken pieces, Asrathiel trudged upstairs to bed. As she drifted into sleep, she despaired of ever persuading the urisk to help with domestic chores.

Yet next morning the house was clean all right—far
too
clean and uncluttered. Clothing, footwear and hats, jewellery boxes, brushes, combs, books, lamps and candles, tack from the stables, even some musical instruments—portable objects from almost every room had been hurled roughly into a huge pile outside the back door. The interior of the House of Maelstronnar was more than clean—it bordered on bare, empty and austere.

Albiona flew into a rage, bewailing this new calamity at the top of her voice. She exhorted the servants to act with utmost care in extricating objects from the pile of clutter. As she herself retrieved each battered item she bran-dished it high, shrieking her wrath. “Look at this! My ivory jewel-case all slippery with lamp oil, and the feathers in my best hat all stained with cochineal! Every candle snapped into bits! My necklaces broken and the pearls scattered every which way. We shall never find every one!”