as they’d begun, their heads settling down upon their outstretched paws, their plumy tails thumping the ground expectantly.
Sairu pulled a small pot of oil from her supplies and splashed a drop or two over the eggplant pulp. Using a stone, she began grinding and twisting, making a mash that she seasoned with a little salt and other assorted spices. As she ground, her mind worked swiftly, turning over what she knew and what she had yet to find out. None of the dangers the Besur spoke of had given Sairu a moment of concern.
But this cat . . . this cat was a different story.
“Did you really kill the snake?”
Sairu startled, almost failing to recognize the sound of her mistress’s voice. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Did you really kill the snake?”
Lady Hariawan’s gaze fixed on Sairu’s hands as they mashed the eggplant. Sairu did not answer at first, trying to discern what the question might mean. Then she laughed, recalling the story she had told the Besur that morning. “Oh!” she said. “You mean that tale of the snake in my bed? Dear Anwar, no. I’m not so stupid as to get myself bitten, and I have no interest in killing without need.”
Lady Hariawan continued to watch the grinding stone, saying nothing. How did she feel, knowing Sairu had intentionally deceived the High Priest? Was she shocked? Angry? Appalled?
Did she feel anything?
The mash complete, Sairu scooped the eggplant into a wooden bowl, sprinkled it with more herbs, added two pieces of flatbread, and handed it to her mistress. Lady Hariawan accepted it but did not eat. She stared at it. As though she stared at the stone-crushed skull of a serpent.
Sticky Bun, sensing an opportunity, put his flat nose up to the bowl, determining whether or not he dared to help himself. Sairu spoke his name sharply, and he backed down, pink tongue lolling, bright gaze fixed. Sairu served her own meal and was well into it before Lady Hariawan spoke again.
“But you do kill?”
Sairu swallowed her mouthful slowly, considering her words. “I can,” she said at last. “I have.”
“Have you ever killed a man?”
Something in Sairu’s gut churned, and she suddenly hadn’t much appetite. She lowered her bowl, trusting Dumpling and Rice Cake not to take advantage, and studied her mistress across the fire. Lady Hariawan was still staring unseeing into her own bowl.
“I have never killed a man,” Sairu said, a knot forming between her brows. “We make a point not to, generally speaking. We are protectors, not killers.”
“But you could kill.” Lady Hariawan’s face was empty, faraway.
“You needn’t worry about that, my mistress,” Sairu said. “You needn’t worry about anything. I am here, and I will protect you, and no one and nothing will harm you.”
“I do not worry,” said Lady Hariawan. But she put up a hand to her cheek. One long finger lightly traced the shape of the burn.
Suddenly Lady Hariawan put her bowl down before Sticky Bun and said, “Eat, dog.”
Sticky Bun did not wait for a second invitation. He fell to with a will and was soon joined by both Dumpling and Rice Cake, eager to share in such bounty. Sairu stared, surprised. She never spoiled her dogs, never slipped them tidbits, but obliged them to wait until after she had eaten before receiving their own meals. She opened her mouth, wishing to protest but unable to. A lifetime of careful training killed the words on her lips. A Golden Daughter did not contradict her master. Or mistress.
“What a thing it is, this loyalty of theirs. This love,” said Lady Hariawan, watching the dogs as they ate. “They would die for you. In time, perhaps they would die for me. We are like gods to them. We control their lives, their deaths. What a thing it is.”
Sairu’s mouth went dry.
“Would you teach me how to kill?” Lady Hariawan asked suddenly, looking up from the dogs and fixing Sairu with her inscrutable eyes. “I should like to know.”
Sairu did not
Sairu pulled a small pot of oil from her supplies and splashed a drop or two over the eggplant pulp. Using a stone, she began grinding and twisting, making a mash that she seasoned with a little salt and other assorted spices. As she ground, her mind worked swiftly, turning over what she knew and what she had yet to find out. None of the dangers the Besur spoke of had given Sairu a moment of concern.
But this cat . . . this cat was a different story.
“Did you really kill the snake?”
Sairu startled, almost failing to recognize the sound of her mistress’s voice. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Did you really kill the snake?”
Lady Hariawan’s gaze fixed on Sairu’s hands as they mashed the eggplant. Sairu did not answer at first, trying to discern what the question might mean. Then she laughed, recalling the story she had told the Besur that morning. “Oh!” she said. “You mean that tale of the snake in my bed? Dear Anwar, no. I’m not so stupid as to get myself bitten, and I have no interest in killing without need.”
Lady Hariawan continued to watch the grinding stone, saying nothing. How did she feel, knowing Sairu had intentionally deceived the High Priest? Was she shocked? Angry? Appalled?
Did she feel anything?
The mash complete, Sairu scooped the eggplant into a wooden bowl, sprinkled it with more herbs, added two pieces of flatbread, and handed it to her mistress. Lady Hariawan accepted it but did not eat. She stared at it. As though she stared at the stone-crushed skull of a serpent.
Sticky Bun, sensing an opportunity, put his flat nose up to the bowl, determining whether or not he dared to help himself. Sairu spoke his name sharply, and he backed down, pink tongue lolling, bright gaze fixed. Sairu served her own meal and was well into it before Lady Hariawan spoke again.
“But you do kill?”
Sairu swallowed her mouthful slowly, considering her words. “I can,” she said at last. “I have.”
“Have you ever killed a man?”
Something in Sairu’s gut churned, and she suddenly hadn’t much appetite. She lowered her bowl, trusting Dumpling and Rice Cake not to take advantage, and studied her mistress across the fire. Lady Hariawan was still staring unseeing into her own bowl.
“I have never killed a man,” Sairu said, a knot forming between her brows. “We make a point not to, generally speaking. We are protectors, not killers.”
“But you could kill.” Lady Hariawan’s face was empty, faraway.
“You needn’t worry about that, my mistress,” Sairu said. “You needn’t worry about anything. I am here, and I will protect you, and no one and nothing will harm you.”
“I do not worry,” said Lady Hariawan. But she put up a hand to her cheek. One long finger lightly traced the shape of the burn.
Suddenly Lady Hariawan put her bowl down before Sticky Bun and said, “Eat, dog.”
Sticky Bun did not wait for a second invitation. He fell to with a will and was soon joined by both Dumpling and Rice Cake, eager to share in such bounty. Sairu stared, surprised. She never spoiled her dogs, never slipped them tidbits, but obliged them to wait until after she had eaten before receiving their own meals. She opened her mouth, wishing to protest but unable to. A lifetime of careful training killed the words on her lips. A Golden Daughter did not contradict her master. Or mistress.
“What a thing it is, this loyalty of theirs. This love,” said Lady Hariawan, watching the dogs as they ate. “They would die for you. In time, perhaps they would die for me. We are like gods to them. We control their lives, their deaths. What a thing it is.”
Sairu’s mouth went dry.
“Would you teach me how to kill?” Lady Hariawan asked suddenly, looking up from the dogs and fixing Sairu with her inscrutable eyes. “I should like to know.”
Sairu did not
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