Rise Of Empire (69 page)

“Particularly when she could choose a young buck like yourself?”

“Exactly.”

“And your desire is true love, of course. You’ve given absolutely no thought about how marrying Modina would make you emperor?”

“For a man who went from third baron’s son to chancellor, I’m surprised you can even ask me that.”

“Archie!” bellowed the voice of Regent Saldur, echoing down the hall outside the office.

“I’m in with Biddings!” Archibald shouted back through the open door. “And don’t call me—” He was interrupted by the sudden rush of the scrub girl running, bucket in hand,
from the office. “Looks like she doesn’t like Saldur any more than I do.”

Arista had spilled scrub water onto her skirt, causing it to plaster the rough material to her legs. Her thin cloth shoes made a disagreeable slapping noise as she ran down the corridor. The sound of Saldur’s voice made her run faster.

That had been close, yet she wondered if even Saldur, who had known her since birth, would recognize her now. There was nothing magical about her transformation, but that did not make it any less impenetrable. She wore dirty rags, she lacked makeup, and her once lustrous hair was now a tangled mess. It had lightened, bleached by the same sun that had tanned her skin. Still, it was more than just her appearance. Arista had changed. At times, when she caught her own reflection, it took a moment to register that she was seeing herself and not some poor peasant woman. The bright-eyed girl was gone, and a dark, brooding spirit possessed her battered body.

More than anything else, the sheer absurdity of the situation provided the greatest protection. No one would believe that a sheltered, self-indulgent princess would willingly scrub floors in the palace of her enemy. She doubted even Saldur’s mind would grant enough latitude to penetrate the illusion. Even if some people thought she looked familiar—and several seemed to—their minds simply could not bend that far. To conceive of the thought that Ella the scrub girl was the Princess of Melengar was as ridiculous as the idea that pigs could talk or that Maribor was not god. To entertain such a notion would require a mind open to new possibilities, and no one at the palace fit that description.

The only one she worried about, besides Saldur, was the
empress’s secretary. She was not like the others—she noticed Arista. Amilia saw through her veneer with suspicious eyes. Saldur clearly surrounded the empress with his best and brightest, and Arista did all she could to avoid her.

On the road north from Ratibor, Arista had fallen in with a band of refugees fleeing to Aquesta, and they had arrived nearly a month earlier. The location spell had led her to the palace itself. Things grew more complicated after that. If she had been more confident in the magic, and her ability to use it, she might have returned to Melengar right away with the news that Gaunt was a prisoner in the imperial palace. As it was, she felt the need to see Degan for herself. She managed to obtain a job as a chambermaid, hoping to repeat the location spell inside the castle walls at various locations, only that was not working out. Closely watched by the headmistress, Edith Mon, she rarely found enough free time and privacy to cast the spell. On the few occasions she succeeded, the smoke indicated a direction, but the maze of corridors blocked any attempt to follow. Magically stymied, Arista sought to determine Gaunt’s whereabouts by eavesdropping while at the same time learning her way around the grounds.

“What have ya done now?” Edith Mon shouted at Arista as she entered the scullery.

Arista had no idea what a hobgoblin looked like, but she guessed it probably resembled Edith Mon. She was stocky and strong. Her huge head sat on her shoulders like a boulder, crushing whatever neck she might have once had. Her face, pockmarked and spotted, provided the perfect foundation for her broad nose with its flaring nostrils, through which she breathed loudly, particularly when angry, as she was now.

Edith yanked the bucket from her hands. “Ya clumsy little wench! Ya best pray you spilled it only on yerself. If I hear ya left a dirty puddle in a hallway …”

Edith had threatened to cane her on three occasions but had been interrupted each time—twice by the head cook. Arista was not sure what she would do if it came to that. Scrubbing floors was one thing, but allowing herself to be beaten by an old hag was something else. If tried, she might discover there was more to her new chambermaid than she had thought. Arista often amused herself by contemplating which curse might be best for old Edith. At that moment, she was considering the virtues of skin worms, but all she said was “Is there anything else today?”

The older woman glared. “Oh! Ya think yer something, don’t ya? Ya think yer better than the rest of us, that yer arse shines of silver. Well, it don’t! Ya don’t even have a family. I know you live in that alley with the rest of them runners. Yer one dodgy smile away from making yer meals whoring, so I’d be careful, sweetie!”

There were several snickers from the other kitchen workers. Some risked Edith’s wrath by pausing in their work to watch. The scullery maids, charwomen, and chambermaids all reported to Edith. The others, like the cook, butcher, baker, and cupbearer, reported to Ibis Thinly but they sided with Edith—after all, Ella was the
new
girl. In the lives of those who lived in the scullery, seeing punishment administered was what passed for entertainment.

“Is that a yes or a no?” Arista asked calmly.

Edith’s eyes narrowed menacingly. “No, but tomorrow ya start by cleaning every chamber pot in the palace. Not just emptying them, mind ya. I want them scrubbed clean.”

Arista nodded and started to walk past her. As she did, cold water rained down as Edith emptied the bucket on her.

The room burst into laughter. “A shame it wasn’t clean water. Ya could use a bath.” Edith cackled.

The uproar died abruptly as Ibis appeared from out of the cellar.

“What’s going on here?” The chief cook’s booming voice drew everyone’s attention.

“Nothing, Ibis,” Edith answered. “Just training one of my girls is all.”

The cook spotted Arista standing in a puddle, drenched from head to foot. Her hair hung down her face, dripping filthy water. Her entire smock was soaked through and the thin material clung indecently to her skin, causing her to fold her arms across her breasts.

Ibis scowled at Edith.

“What is it, Ibis?” Edith grinned at him. “Don’t like my training methods?”

“No, I can’t say I do. Why do you always have to treat them like this?”

“What are ya gonna do? Ya gonna take Ella under your wing like that tramp Amilia? Maybe this one will become archbishop!”

There was another round of laughter.

“Cora!” Ibis barked. “Get Ella a tablecloth to wrap around her.”

“Careful, Ibis. If she ruins it, the chamberlain will have at you.”

“And if Amilia hears you called her a tramp, you might lose your head.”

“That little pretender doesn’t have the piss to do anything against me.”

“Maybe,” the chief cook said, “but she’s one of
them
now, and I’ll bet that any noble who heard that you insulted one of their own—well, they might take it personally.”

Edith’s grin disappeared and the laughter vanished with it.

Cora returned with a tablecloth, which Ibis folded twice before wrapping around Arista’s shoulders. “I hope you have another kirtle at home, Ella. It’s gonna be cold tonight.”

Arista thanked him before heading out the scullery door. It was already dark and, just as Ibis had predicted, cold. Autumn was in full swing, and the night air shocked her wet body. The castle courtyard was nearly empty, with only a few late carters dragging their wagons out through the main gate. A page raced between the stables and the keep, hauling armloads of wood, but most of the activity that usually defined the yard was absent. She passed through the great gates, where the guards ignored her, as they had done each evening. The moment she reached the bridge and stepped beyond the protection of the keep’s walls, the full force of the wind struck her. She clenched her jaw to stifle a cry, hugged her body with fingers that were already turning red, and shivered so badly it was hard to walk.

Not skin worms. No. Not nearly bad enough.

“Oh dear!” Mrs. Barker exclaimed, rushing over as Arista entered Brisbane Alley. “What happened, child? Not that Edith Mon again?”

Arista nodded.

“What was it this time?”

“I spilled some wash water.”

Mrs. Barker shook her head and sighed. “Well, come over to the fire and try and dry off before you catch your death.”

She coaxed Arista to the communal fire pit. Brisbane Alley was literally the end of the road in Aquesta, a wretched little dirt patch behind Brickton’s Tannery where the stench from the curing hides kept away any except the most desperate. Newcomers without money, relatives, or connections settled here. The lucky ones lived huddled under canvas sheets, carts, and the wagons they had arrived in. The rest simply huddled
against the tannery wall, trying to block the wind as they slept. So had Arista—that is, until the Barkers adopted her.

Brice Barker worked shouting advertisements through the city streets for seven coppers a day. All of that went to buy food to feed three children and his wife. Lynnette Barker took in what sewing work she could find. When the weather turned colder, they had offered Arista a place under their wagon. She had known them for only a few weeks, but already she loved them like her own family.

“Here, Ella,” Lynnette said, bringing an old kirtle for her to put on. The dress was little more than a rag, worn thin and frayed along the hem. Lynnette also brought Esrahaddon’s robe. Arista went around the corner and slipped out of her wet things. Lynnette’s dress did nothing to keep out the cold, but the robe vanquished the wet chill instantly in uncompromising warmth.

“That’s really a wonderful robe, Ella,” Lynnette told her, marveling at how the firelight made it shimmer and reflect colors. “Where did you get it?”

“A … friend left it to me when he died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said sadly. Her expression changed then from one of sadness to one of concern. “That reminds me, a man was looking for you.”

“A man?” Arista asked as she folded the tablecloth. If anything happened to it, Edith would make Ibis pay.

“Yes, earlier today. He spoke to Brice while he was working on the street, and mentioned he was looking for a young woman. He described you perfectly, although oddly enough, he didn’t know your name.”

“What did he look like?” Arista hoped her concern was not reflected in her voice.

“Well,” Lynnette faltered, “that’s the thing. He wore a dark hood and a scarf wrapped about his face, so Brice didn’t get a good look at him.”

Arista pulled the robe tightly about her.

Is he here? Has the assassin managed to track me down?

Lynnette noticed the change in her and asked, “Are you in trouble, Ella?”

“Did Brice tell him I lived here?”

“No, of course not. Brice is many things, but he’s no fool.”

“Did he give a name?”

Lynnette shook her head. “You can ask Brice about him when he returns. He and Wery went to buy flour. They should be back soon.”

“Speaking of that,” Arista said, fishing coins out of her wet dress, “here’s three copper tenents. They paid me this morning.”

“Oh no. We couldn’t—”

“Of course you can! You let me sleep under your wagon, and you watch my things when I’m at work. You even let me eat with you.”

“But three! That’s your whole pay, Ella. You won’t have anything left.”

“I’ll get by. They feed me at the palace sometimes, and my needs are pretty simple.”

“But you’ll want a new set of clothes, and you’ll need shoes come winter.”

“So will your children, and you won’t be able to afford them without an extra three coppers a week.”

“No, no—we can’t. It’s very nice of you, but—”

“Ma! Ma! Come quick! It’s Wery!” Finis, the Barkers’ eldest son, raced down the street, shouting as he came. He looked frightened, his eyes filled with tears.

Lynnette lifted her skirt and ran, Arista chasing after her. They rushed to Coswall Avenue, where a crowd formed outside the bakery. Pushing past the crowd, they saw a boy lying unconscious on the cobblestone.