“So if I wear a servant’s mask, no one will look twice at me.”
He nods with a triumphant glance at Thynos. “That’s right.”
“Excellent. That’s settled, then. You three go about your business as usual. I will return here after I see my father and wait for you. Where am I likely to find my father before the feast? Is there a private chamber of some kind where he may be preparing for the evening?”
“There you go, Nar, the daughter you always wished for but never had,” says Thynos with a laugh. “Gives orders like her father, doesn’t she?”
How can he know how my father gives orders?
“The eastern tower is set aside for the husband.” By Kalliarkos’s pleased expression, he is enjoying the way we are running Rings around the men assigned as his minders. “It was my father’s before he died. You will find General Esladas there before he comes down to greet the guests.”
“Is there anything else you can recommend, Lord Kalliarkos?” I ask.
Inarsis smiles, obviously amused by our interplay, but Thynos frowns.
Kalliarkos glances up at the starry sky. “We will meet here when the Four Sleeping Sisters rise in the east, about midnight. I have no desire to linger at the feast while my sister ornaments herself in the flattery and congratulations of the courtiers and guests. We can return to Garon Palace long before dawn.”
He looks at me, his gaze smoky and intense. A spark leaps between us, as if he is promising another adventure before sunrise. I am so taken aback by the challenge that at first I don’t move.
“Go on,” he says, daring me. “I will be waiting.”
24
It’s easy to be a Commoner. I just have to keep my head down, never look any Patron in the eye, and always step out of their way. When I reach the servants’ gate with its trio of bored soldiers standing guard, I ignore the way they ogle me. The hardest part is trying to copy the way most Commoners pronounce the Saroese language.
“Domon, I am hired for the laundry. I was riding in a wagon but it broke down so I had to walk.” As I speak I pat the Garon badge pinned to the shoulder of my dress. One of the men is smirking, one looks as if he is wondering if he can get away with squeezing my breast, and the third frowns suspiciously.
Smirker gives a wheezy laugh.
“Guess your mother didn’t want to whore you out like she did herself, eh, mule?” says Squeezer as his hand drifts toward my torso.
“Leave it.” Suspicion slaps the other man. “Look at her arms. She’s wrung plenty of laundry and maybe a few men’s necks. Go on, mule. Just as a favor this once, if you are ever caring to return it.” He winks, expecting me to be grateful.
I fix my gaze on the ground lest I betray myself by looking him right in the face with the pride and dignity I deserve. When I curve my shoulders down to make myself seem smaller, they let me go.
The villa boils with activity. In the outer courtyard a quartermaster and his company are readying high-slung military coaches and cargo wagons. In the inner stable yard people load twenty wagons with chests and furniture while others prepare carriages fitted with gold-threaded curtains and cushions. I walk briskly through the commotion. Once inside the servants’ wing I snag a featureless leather mask and fasten it over my face.
A trip through the bustling kitchen nets me a precious lacquered tray complete with a covered cup. A crisp word to a harried girl fetches a pot of hot water and a little basket of pungent herbs. I have helped my mother prepare this mix of dried petals and needles a thousand times. It is one of the niceties she loves to comfort him with after a long day. I used to think her devotion to us all made her a little dull. My hands tighten on the tray: she will never again serve him a cup.
The modest, boring household life I once complained of and wished to escape seems the most golden and treasured memory now.
I approach the main building from the back through the rear garden. The central building rises two stories high, flanked by square towers. Lights burn in both. From the western tower floats the laughter of women; shapes move within the upper chamber. In the eastern tower a person stands at the window looking over the garden. Being lit from behind obscures his face, but I would recognize my father’s posture and the cut of his shoulders anywhere.
In this villa owned by a princely family, servants swarm like rats. The lacquered tray fends off unwanted questions. No one calls you over to give you a task when you are already about an urgent matter. The guards stationed at the bottom of the tower stairs wave me through. Evidently Father’s nightly tea is already an established fact in his new household, although it is now a servant who brings it, not a loving partner.