to the whole city last fall because of the political machinations of her father’s enemies. She hadn’t thought . . . “You’re right. I’ll be careful, with everyone but you.”
“Good girl. I’ve got to get back to the furniculum now, but come to me if you need . . . more hot water.”
Anything, he meant. He turned and walked out of the yard, and Soraya returned to her scrubbing,with a brush full of soap and a lighter heart. She had made a friend.
S ORAYA NEEDED FRIENDSHIP, in the next few days. Her pots passed Kitchen Master Hennic’s inspection, but her hopes that that would earn her a reprieve were instantly banished. One onerous task succeeded the next. Soraya hadn’t dreamed how much work went on in a great kitchen. She fetched wood, fetched water, hot and cold, fetched vegetables, and flour, and blood-dripping meat from the butcher’s shed. After one glance at the peelings that fell from her clumsy knife, Hennic had proclaimed that Farsalan kitchens were run by wasteful, dirty pigs, and sent her out to scrub off the big tables in the meal tent instead. At least the soldiers who lingered there, playing a noisy, complex game they called battle dice, barely glanced at the grubby girl who scrubbed around them. But it wasn’t Soraya’s fault—she’d never had to peel a turnip in her life! She simply didn’t have the skill that created the long, thin curls of turnip skin that fell from the others’ blades. Not all of them were girls, either—there were boys among the kitchen workers, just as there were women among the soldiers.
Ordinarily, that would have interested Soraya, but now she barely had the strength to wonder at it before falling exhausted onto her pallet to catch a few marks of sodden, dreamless sleep. And then rising before dawn, to work to exhaustion again.
Only two things made that first rigorous week tolerable. One was Suud magic. Soraya had learned to make magic while meditating in the warm peace of Maok’s hutch. Now she learned to apply those lessons in the midst of work, at a moment’s notice. Suud magic kept the water she washed with at the right temperature. Her fires lit swiftly and burned well. And at night, when she unrolled her straw pallet beside one of the kitchen fires, all lice, fleas, and spiders were suddenly seized with the notion that her bedroll and person were bad places to be. Reaching the shilshadu of animals, even insects, was easier than touching the spirit of inanimate things, for animals had minds that could be changed. Of course, shilshadu to shilshadu there could be no lies, but Soraya’s determination to squash any multilegged creature that took up residence near her was a truth so deep it sent them all scrambling.
And magic helped in another way—not so practical, but perhaps more important, for even the smallest bit of magic working kept a core of peaceful memory alive in her heart.
The other thing that allowed her to survive those first weeks was Calfaer’s friendship. He didn’t help her any more than the others, for that would have been noticeable. But whenever she tackled a new task he was there, with hints on how to do it faster or more easily.
He had his own work as well—in fact, he seemed to be the one who filled in whenever anything needed to be done. Soraya had seen him polishing armor, herding livestock, and even helping the cobbler cut leather for an urgently needed pair of boots. So how did he always manage to be working nearby when she needed him?
She’d also seen him helping the clerks inventory new supplies. A casual question had given her the information that the clerks kept records of everything that went into or out of the army camp, including slaves.
After that, Soraya regarded the wood-sided tent where the records were stored with the most covetous desire she’d ever experienced. But thescroll boxes were locked, and because the tent that held them also held pay records and seals, there was a guard posted outside at
“Good girl. I’ve got to get back to the furniculum now, but come to me if you need . . . more hot water.”
Anything, he meant. He turned and walked out of the yard, and Soraya returned to her scrubbing,with a brush full of soap and a lighter heart. She had made a friend.
S ORAYA NEEDED FRIENDSHIP, in the next few days. Her pots passed Kitchen Master Hennic’s inspection, but her hopes that that would earn her a reprieve were instantly banished. One onerous task succeeded the next. Soraya hadn’t dreamed how much work went on in a great kitchen. She fetched wood, fetched water, hot and cold, fetched vegetables, and flour, and blood-dripping meat from the butcher’s shed. After one glance at the peelings that fell from her clumsy knife, Hennic had proclaimed that Farsalan kitchens were run by wasteful, dirty pigs, and sent her out to scrub off the big tables in the meal tent instead. At least the soldiers who lingered there, playing a noisy, complex game they called battle dice, barely glanced at the grubby girl who scrubbed around them. But it wasn’t Soraya’s fault—she’d never had to peel a turnip in her life! She simply didn’t have the skill that created the long, thin curls of turnip skin that fell from the others’ blades. Not all of them were girls, either—there were boys among the kitchen workers, just as there were women among the soldiers.
Ordinarily, that would have interested Soraya, but now she barely had the strength to wonder at it before falling exhausted onto her pallet to catch a few marks of sodden, dreamless sleep. And then rising before dawn, to work to exhaustion again.
Only two things made that first rigorous week tolerable. One was Suud magic. Soraya had learned to make magic while meditating in the warm peace of Maok’s hutch. Now she learned to apply those lessons in the midst of work, at a moment’s notice. Suud magic kept the water she washed with at the right temperature. Her fires lit swiftly and burned well. And at night, when she unrolled her straw pallet beside one of the kitchen fires, all lice, fleas, and spiders were suddenly seized with the notion that her bedroll and person were bad places to be. Reaching the shilshadu of animals, even insects, was easier than touching the spirit of inanimate things, for animals had minds that could be changed. Of course, shilshadu to shilshadu there could be no lies, but Soraya’s determination to squash any multilegged creature that took up residence near her was a truth so deep it sent them all scrambling.
And magic helped in another way—not so practical, but perhaps more important, for even the smallest bit of magic working kept a core of peaceful memory alive in her heart.
The other thing that allowed her to survive those first weeks was Calfaer’s friendship. He didn’t help her any more than the others, for that would have been noticeable. But whenever she tackled a new task he was there, with hints on how to do it faster or more easily.
He had his own work as well—in fact, he seemed to be the one who filled in whenever anything needed to be done. Soraya had seen him polishing armor, herding livestock, and even helping the cobbler cut leather for an urgently needed pair of boots. So how did he always manage to be working nearby when she needed him?
She’d also seen him helping the clerks inventory new supplies. A casual question had given her the information that the clerks kept records of everything that went into or out of the army camp, including slaves.
After that, Soraya regarded the wood-sided tent where the records were stored with the most covetous desire she’d ever experienced. But thescroll boxes were locked, and because the tent that held them also held pay records and seals, there was a guard posted outside at
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