The Will of the Empress

“Good, because doubtless they were picked in your own garden,” Ambros said, an arm around the oldest girl’s shoulders. “And chances are, they were picked when someone should have been at her lessons.”

“But Papa, I was finished,” protested the flower-bearer. “I was!”

Ambros had just finished introducing his daughters when a tall woman, her hair more silvery than blond at an early age, came forward, still wiping her hands on a small cloth. “And this is the most beautiful flower in the castle gardens,” said Ambros, his face alight. “Clehame Sandrilene fa Toren, may I present my lady wife, Saghada Ealaga fa Landreg.”

Sandry and Ealaga curtsied to each other gravely. Then the lady smiled at Sandry. “You and your companions must be dying for a hot bath,” Ealaga suggested. “A dreadful day to ride—you couldn’t have waited for better weather?” she asked her husband as hostlers rushed forward to help the riders dismount and to take the horses’ reins.

“I wished our cousin to have time to thoroughly review the state of things here before she must return for Midsummer,” Ambros explained. “The will of our empress is that Clehame Sandry bear her company for most of the season. As you can see, my dear, she sent four of her young courtiers to bear the clehame and her friends company until it was time to return.”

“Wonderful,” said Ealaga with a smile. “Rizu, you’re always welcome, and Ambros, you ought to remember Caidy is my mother’s own great-niece. And Jak and Fin I know quite well.” To Sandry, she explained, “He’s always positive we are spinning wildly out of control, when he is prepared for everything. Really, what can you do with such a man?”

Sandry laughed. “It seems as if you married him.” There was something about Ealaga that reminded her very much of Lark, one of the four’s foster-mothers. To Sandry, it was enough to make her relax.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” a thin, short woman informed Tris as the redhead was putting her book in a saddlebag. “Servants around to the side entrance, my lord should have told you. We need you to tell us which luggage belongs to the Clehame.”

Tris looked down her long nose at the speaker. “I’ve been demoted, seemingly,” she answered, her voice extra dry. “From traveling companion to maid. Do I look like a maid to you?”

The woman brushed her own russet brown dress and embroidered apron with one hand. Tris looked down and realized that a sensible navy riding tunic and breeches so wide they might be skirts could resemble a servant’s clothes.

“Ah. Well, I’m not,” she said. “Sandry doesn’t have a maid.”

The woman’s eyebrows went up; her jaw dropped. “No maid?” she asked, appalled. “But how does she dress?”

Tris bit her lip to stop herself from saying, “One piece of clothing at a time.” Instead, she rethought her answer, then said, “The clehame is accustomed to looking after herself.”

“But that’s indecent!” whispered the woman. “Who presses her gowns? Who stitches up any rents in her clothes?”

“She does it,” Tris replied, unbuckling her saddlebags with a glare for the hostler who had come to do the chore. Slinging the bags over her shoulder, Tris told the woman, “No one mentioned your clehame is a stitch witch? Trust me, if you handled her clothes, you’d only mess them up. They never wrinkle or tear.” Helpfully, enjoying the sheer bafflement on the proper servant’s face, Tris added, “She weaves her own cloth, you see.”

A blunt-fingered hand rested lightly on Tris’s sleeve. “Viymese Tris, I just wanted to thank you for keeping us dry in all the wet today,” Rizu said. Her large, dark eyes danced with amusement. “I’ve never known anyone, Viymese or Viynain, who could hold protection like that and still read.”

“Viymese!” exclaimed the servant woman. Her voice squeaked a little on the last syllable. “Forgive me, Viymese, I didn’t mean to, to intrude… I must assign a maid to the clehame, and to yourself, of course, and—”

“Viymese Daja and I don’t require maids,” Tris said, pointing to Daja, who was grinning at Rizu. “And I think you’ll find Clehame Sandry will only be grumpy if you give her one.” The woman must be a housekeeper. “Surely you have someone who would be happy to attend Saghada Rizuka fa Dalach and Saghada Caidlene fa Sarajane.”

The servant dipped a rushed curtsy and scuttled away. “You looked like you needed rescuing,” Rizu commented, smiling. “Servants get more wedded to the social order than nobles do, I think.”

“Licking the boot that rests on their necks,” grumbled Tris, her eyes still on the fleeing servant.

“Oh, no, we dare not rest it someplace that they might not like,” protested Rizu, mock-serious. “They retaliate so deviously. Before I learned better, I found all my hose tied in one big knot, and the maid who was assigned to me had gone home to care for a sick parent. I went six months with hose that fell down because they were stretched all out of shape. Mother said that truly noble people didn’t hit their maids with a brush, and made me wear the hose until they were worn out. I missed two birthday cakes that year because I was out tying up my hose, again.”

Tris smiled, but her eyes rested on Zhegorz. He started twitching again while we rode through the village, she thought. He’s hearing things still, even behind these walls. Castle gossip, I expect. Tris had gotten so good at ignoring voices on the wind that she had to concentrate to hear them clearly. She did so now, registering a bit of kitchen gossip, almost drowned out by the clang of pans and a shriek of dismay over burned oatcakes. Here someone scolded a dairy maid for dozing off over the churn; here hostlers commented to one another about the new horses they had to care for. It was all commonplace, but Zhegorz flinched as if each sentence were a dart sticking in his flesh.