all times. Even that might not have stopped her from doing something foolish, but there was one other problem—the records were written in Hrum.
Patience. She had already begun to learn the language, from both Calfaer’s lessons and Hennic’s curses. She was a deghass; she wouldn’t despair. Besides, despair took energy, and if the kitchen staff hadn’t been required to wash themselves each night before bed, Soraya would have been filthier than the meanest beggar. In fact, begging was beginning to look like a better career choice than kitchen work. At least you wouldn’t have to scrub floors.
But if kitchen work seemed to encompass an incredible number of backbreaking tasks, a surprising number of them took her outside the kitchen. When she had the energy to notice things, Soraya learned a lot about the Hrum camp. For instance, she was stoking the ravenous bake ovens that lay behind the meal tent, when she saw the peddler walking toward the square. Surely he couldn’t be the same young man her father hadhired to bring news and goods to the croft where she’d been hidden? It was too great a coincidence, too . . . But it was him. What in the name of all djinn was he doing in the Hrum camp? Was he a trai—
A hard yank on her hair made her yelp, and the stack of wood she carried scattered as she spun to face her tormentor. But her protest died at the sight of Kitchen Master Hennic, who reached out and calmly slapped her face.
“You’re not paid to gawk at handsome officers,” he snapped. Soraya’s hands itched with the need to strike back, but . . . all the last week’s work for nothing? It would be, if she was fired. She knelt instead, to gather up the wood she’d dropped and hide her expression, ignoring Hennic’s snarling voice. She could take revenge later—there were things she could do. And the hair that fell over her face also let her sneak another look at the peddler.
She hardly noticed when Hennic finished his lecture and stamped away.
Yes, it was the same man. An officer had joined him, and they were chatting casually, ignoring the clumsy kitchen girl being scolded by thecook. The officer didn’t look handsome to Soraya, in his thirties, she guessed, with a narrow, stern face. By the way they talked, the peddler knew him well, and by the amount of bronze decorating his breastplate he held high rank. Soraya cursed herself for not having learned what the swirling insignia meant. Her first thought was that the peddler had come to betray her to the Hrum, but that was absurd, for he couldn’t know she was here. And he hadn’t told anyone about the hidden croft—at least, not while it mattered—or someone would have come for her, and no one had. So if he wasn’t here about her, then what was he doing?
The officer shook his head ruefully and led the peddler toward the other side of the square where the officer’s quarters were located. Soraya’s next thought was that the peddler was selling Farsalan secrets to the Hrum, but what secrets could he know, besides hers? Perhaps he was simply selling his wares. He was a peddler, after all. No Farsalans had approached the camp for work, but Soraya knew that merchants were selling their goods to the Hrum. The young man she remembered would be perfectly willing to sell to the enemy, Borz take him. The djinn of greed owned all merchants anyway.
Just a coincidence, after all—and she’d acted the fool, staring so openly. It was a good thing Hennic had come by when he did, or she might have been recognized. She should probably be grateful to him. Soraya’s mouth twisted; her cheek still stung from his slap. She wasn’t grateful, and Hennic was the spawn of Gorahz, so there!
But her hidden smile died at a sudden memory, and both her cheeks were burning as she picked up the last piece of kindling and began stoking the fire. Had her own maids cursed her for the spawn of Gorahz, when she slapped them?
C HAPTER S IX
K AVI
P ATRIUS MET HIM BEFORE he
Patience. She had already begun to learn the language, from both Calfaer’s lessons and Hennic’s curses. She was a deghass; she wouldn’t despair. Besides, despair took energy, and if the kitchen staff hadn’t been required to wash themselves each night before bed, Soraya would have been filthier than the meanest beggar. In fact, begging was beginning to look like a better career choice than kitchen work. At least you wouldn’t have to scrub floors.
But if kitchen work seemed to encompass an incredible number of backbreaking tasks, a surprising number of them took her outside the kitchen. When she had the energy to notice things, Soraya learned a lot about the Hrum camp. For instance, she was stoking the ravenous bake ovens that lay behind the meal tent, when she saw the peddler walking toward the square. Surely he couldn’t be the same young man her father hadhired to bring news and goods to the croft where she’d been hidden? It was too great a coincidence, too . . . But it was him. What in the name of all djinn was he doing in the Hrum camp? Was he a trai—
A hard yank on her hair made her yelp, and the stack of wood she carried scattered as she spun to face her tormentor. But her protest died at the sight of Kitchen Master Hennic, who reached out and calmly slapped her face.
“You’re not paid to gawk at handsome officers,” he snapped. Soraya’s hands itched with the need to strike back, but . . . all the last week’s work for nothing? It would be, if she was fired. She knelt instead, to gather up the wood she’d dropped and hide her expression, ignoring Hennic’s snarling voice. She could take revenge later—there were things she could do. And the hair that fell over her face also let her sneak another look at the peddler.
She hardly noticed when Hennic finished his lecture and stamped away.
Yes, it was the same man. An officer had joined him, and they were chatting casually, ignoring the clumsy kitchen girl being scolded by thecook. The officer didn’t look handsome to Soraya, in his thirties, she guessed, with a narrow, stern face. By the way they talked, the peddler knew him well, and by the amount of bronze decorating his breastplate he held high rank. Soraya cursed herself for not having learned what the swirling insignia meant. Her first thought was that the peddler had come to betray her to the Hrum, but that was absurd, for he couldn’t know she was here. And he hadn’t told anyone about the hidden croft—at least, not while it mattered—or someone would have come for her, and no one had. So if he wasn’t here about her, then what was he doing?
The officer shook his head ruefully and led the peddler toward the other side of the square where the officer’s quarters were located. Soraya’s next thought was that the peddler was selling Farsalan secrets to the Hrum, but what secrets could he know, besides hers? Perhaps he was simply selling his wares. He was a peddler, after all. No Farsalans had approached the camp for work, but Soraya knew that merchants were selling their goods to the Hrum. The young man she remembered would be perfectly willing to sell to the enemy, Borz take him. The djinn of greed owned all merchants anyway.
Just a coincidence, after all—and she’d acted the fool, staring so openly. It was a good thing Hennic had come by when he did, or she might have been recognized. She should probably be grateful to him. Soraya’s mouth twisted; her cheek still stung from his slap. She wasn’t grateful, and Hennic was the spawn of Gorahz, so there!
But her hidden smile died at a sudden memory, and both her cheeks were burning as she picked up the last piece of kindling and began stoking the fire. Had her own maids cursed her for the spawn of Gorahz, when she slapped them?
C HAPTER S IX
K AVI
P ATRIUS MET HIM BEFORE he
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