then?”
Plazi smiled. “The day you left. A tozẹt . Big enough, and strong, but it will not stop crying. Didn’t you hear it last night?”
I shook my head. We’d been tired enough to sleep through a war, after our four days’ march. I eyed my sister’s pile of legums . “You should add another onion.”
Sazia slumped into a stool by the bar and stirred her bowl of porridge. “Dolssa is danger, Plazi,” she said. “I keep telling Botille, but she won’tlisten. That girl is being hunted by an inquisitor. They killed her mother. You can count upon it, they will find her.”
Plazensa frowned. “Why should they? Did you tell anyone about her?”
“Only Symo knows. He was there when we found her.” The chicken’s stubborn underwing feathers would not yield. What harm, I wondered, were a few tiny feathers in the sọpa ?
The harsh, barking bray of a dying donkey floated down to us from the loft. Jobau, waking up screaming. We were used to this. Provensa’s long years when the crusaders came every summer, killing and burning, had never ended for him. His dreams, some nights, made him a madman.
Plazensa released a rope attached to a pulley, whereon a bucket was tied. It rattled down, and from it she pulled an empty jug. She replaced the jug with a full one, and a hunk of flat fogasa in the bargain, then hoisted on the ropes to raise the bucket up to the loft. The pulley had been my idea, and I was rather proud of it.
Jobau’s liver-stained hand fumbled for the bucket. Before long, a belch informed us that our lord and master was safely disposed of for another morning.
“You’re only wasting the fogasa ,” observed Sazia. She poured honey over her porridge.
“Jobau,” Plazensa called, “Sazia wants to know if you actually eat the fogasa .”
“Plazi!” groaned Sazia. “Must you look for trouble?”
A rude gesture from the lip of the loft was our reply.
“What Mamà ever saw in him . . .” Sazia muttered.
Another rude gesture.
Plazi dropped her legums into the crock over the fire. “He was handsome,” she said, to goad our sister. Sazia grimaced. Jobau’s yellow skin, his haggard flesh, his long wisps of foul, unwashed hair . . . I didn’t despise Jobau like Sazia did, but to see him as handsome took more imagination than I had.
Of course, Sazia’s real problem with Jobau was that he was her father.
“Enough about Jobau,” I said. “We have more pressing problems to think about now.”
“The girl.” Plazensa twisted sprigs of rosemary over the sọpa pot. “Cut up the polẹt for me, will you, Botille? I’ve got to chop parsnips.”
Just then a huge figure emerged from the back hallway. I jumped. It was the fisherman from the tavern the day before our journey. I noted the brief glance he and Plazi shared. So. Another of her clients, slinking away. We pretended we hadn’t seen him. This was the routine. Perhaps he was becoming a regular. But how much of our conversation had he heard?
I pushed the feather bag out of Mimi’s reach, then shoved my fist up the bird’s bottom and grabbed a handful of squishy entrails.
“We will keep her here safely,” Plazi said. “We’ll keep her secret.”
“How?” said Sazia. “By locking her away forever? Some life that would be.”
Plazi waved her knife. “We’ll tell people she’s our cousin, come to stay with us.”
Sazia laughed. “She’s obviously noble, Plazi. No one would believe she’s our cousin.”
Plazi chopped her remaining parsnips as if they represented all our problems. I hacked off my chicken’s thigh in the same spirit.
Sazia shook her head. “She can’t stay forever. You must see that.”
“Marry her off, then,” Plazi fumed.
They both stopped. They turned toward me slowly. Oh, no.
I took a step back. “You’re joking,” I said. “Impossible. And I only work for a fee.”
The tavern door pushed open, and we all froze. Even Sazia pasted an artificial smile upon her face. We were just three
Plazi smiled. “The day you left. A tozẹt . Big enough, and strong, but it will not stop crying. Didn’t you hear it last night?”
I shook my head. We’d been tired enough to sleep through a war, after our four days’ march. I eyed my sister’s pile of legums . “You should add another onion.”
Sazia slumped into a stool by the bar and stirred her bowl of porridge. “Dolssa is danger, Plazi,” she said. “I keep telling Botille, but she won’tlisten. That girl is being hunted by an inquisitor. They killed her mother. You can count upon it, they will find her.”
Plazensa frowned. “Why should they? Did you tell anyone about her?”
“Only Symo knows. He was there when we found her.” The chicken’s stubborn underwing feathers would not yield. What harm, I wondered, were a few tiny feathers in the sọpa ?
The harsh, barking bray of a dying donkey floated down to us from the loft. Jobau, waking up screaming. We were used to this. Provensa’s long years when the crusaders came every summer, killing and burning, had never ended for him. His dreams, some nights, made him a madman.
Plazensa released a rope attached to a pulley, whereon a bucket was tied. It rattled down, and from it she pulled an empty jug. She replaced the jug with a full one, and a hunk of flat fogasa in the bargain, then hoisted on the ropes to raise the bucket up to the loft. The pulley had been my idea, and I was rather proud of it.
Jobau’s liver-stained hand fumbled for the bucket. Before long, a belch informed us that our lord and master was safely disposed of for another morning.
“You’re only wasting the fogasa ,” observed Sazia. She poured honey over her porridge.
“Jobau,” Plazensa called, “Sazia wants to know if you actually eat the fogasa .”
“Plazi!” groaned Sazia. “Must you look for trouble?”
A rude gesture from the lip of the loft was our reply.
“What Mamà ever saw in him . . .” Sazia muttered.
Another rude gesture.
Plazi dropped her legums into the crock over the fire. “He was handsome,” she said, to goad our sister. Sazia grimaced. Jobau’s yellow skin, his haggard flesh, his long wisps of foul, unwashed hair . . . I didn’t despise Jobau like Sazia did, but to see him as handsome took more imagination than I had.
Of course, Sazia’s real problem with Jobau was that he was her father.
“Enough about Jobau,” I said. “We have more pressing problems to think about now.”
“The girl.” Plazensa twisted sprigs of rosemary over the sọpa pot. “Cut up the polẹt for me, will you, Botille? I’ve got to chop parsnips.”
Just then a huge figure emerged from the back hallway. I jumped. It was the fisherman from the tavern the day before our journey. I noted the brief glance he and Plazi shared. So. Another of her clients, slinking away. We pretended we hadn’t seen him. This was the routine. Perhaps he was becoming a regular. But how much of our conversation had he heard?
I pushed the feather bag out of Mimi’s reach, then shoved my fist up the bird’s bottom and grabbed a handful of squishy entrails.
“We will keep her here safely,” Plazi said. “We’ll keep her secret.”
“How?” said Sazia. “By locking her away forever? Some life that would be.”
Plazi waved her knife. “We’ll tell people she’s our cousin, come to stay with us.”
Sazia laughed. “She’s obviously noble, Plazi. No one would believe she’s our cousin.”
Plazi chopped her remaining parsnips as if they represented all our problems. I hacked off my chicken’s thigh in the same spirit.
Sazia shook her head. “She can’t stay forever. You must see that.”
“Marry her off, then,” Plazi fumed.
They both stopped. They turned toward me slowly. Oh, no.
I took a step back. “You’re joking,” I said. “Impossible. And I only work for a fee.”
The tavern door pushed open, and we all froze. Even Sazia pasted an artificial smile upon her face. We were just three
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