away. . . .
The door opened a crack. To Kiukiu’s relief, Dysis’ face appeared. But the maid’s face was flushed. Her little lace coif, usually perched neatly on her immaculately arranged hair, was awry, stray wisps of brown hair escaping from the lace.
“Sutlage for my lady,” gabbled Kiukiu, thrusting the tray forward. “Without cinnamon.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Dysis said, her voice a little breathless. “The new Lord Drakhaon is here.”
“Within the hour. So Michailo says.”
Dysis’ pretty mouth briefly twisted into a grimace. She took the tray from Kiukiu and closed the door before Kiukiu could say any more.
As Kiukiu turned to go back to the kitchens, she heard a muffled shriek—and then another crash, sharp with the shards of shattering porcelain.
Kiukiu winced as she crept away. All that sweet, rich pudding wasted, reduced to a splatter of slimy, sticky mess to be painstakingly wiped away by poor Dysis.
Poor Dysis? She stopped, wondering at herself. She had never pitied Dysis before. She had always envied Dysis her elegant Muscobar ways, her pretty looks, her efficiency and neatness. What did it matter that her mistress Lilias happened to be difficult to please? Surely the rewards of service to the Drakhaon’s mistress outweighed the discomforts. The discarded clothes alone must make it worthwhile, the silk gloves, the lace petticoats, the gowns worn once or twice then tossed aside! Kiukiu looked sadly at her patched, stained gown, a hand-me-down from Sosia, which had faded from brown to an indeterminate shade of gray with many scrubbings. She had another gown, more discreetly patched, kept for “best.” It had once been blue, a clear sky blue like flax flowers. . . .
“Kiukiu! What’re you dawdling up here for?” Sosia was standing in the hallway below, glaring up at her. “Get back to the kitchens and baste the roasting fowl. Lord Gavril won’t want to eat a plateful of dry leather!”
“I’ve had tables set in the paneled dining room.” Sosia’s voice was becoming cracked and hoarse with issuing orders. “Kiukiu—go and make sure Oleg’s drawn ten flagons of barley beer, as I told him. Make sure he’s not still in the cellar, sampling the new keg. Tell him to get upstairs and brush off the cobwebs.”
Kiukiu sighed and opened the door to the cellar, only to hear Sosia saying, “To wait at table—Ninusha and Ilsi.”
Ninusha and Ilsi. Not Kiukiu.
“Sosia, can’t I help?” she said plaintively.
Sosia gave a sigh. “What are you still doing here? Go get Oleg. And no, you can’t wait at table, Kiukiu, and you know why.”
Because I’m too clumsy,
Kiukiu thought angrily, fumbling her way down the dank cellar steps by the greasy rope rail.
At the bottom of the stone stairs hung a lantern, faintly illumining the clammy air, which was stale with the smell of old ale.
“Oleg?” Kiukiu called into the darkness, a little uncertainly. Dusty webs clung to the stones. There were great-granny spiders down here as big as her fist; she had seen them.
Around the corner of the archway, she came upon the massive barrels of oak: beer on one side, the smaller barrels of rich, red wine imported from the sun-baked vineyards of Smarna on the other.
Oleg, the Drakhaon’s butler, stood with his back to her, surreptitiously sampling the beer from the farthest barrel. Obviously he had not heard her—or Sosia.
“Oleg!” Kiukiu said again.
He started, turning around with a telltale froth of beer foam whitening his gray moustache.
“Kiukiu,” he said, grinning leeringly at her. “You won’t tell Sosia, will you?”
“She wants the flagons in the lower hall. Ten.”
“She’s a slave driver, that woman. Ten flagons! Come here and give your old Uncle Oleg a hand, Kiukiu, there’s a good girl.”
Kiukiu came forward reluctantly. Being alone with Oleg in the cellar where no one else could hear made her feel very uncomfortable. She didn’t want to
The door opened a crack. To Kiukiu’s relief, Dysis’ face appeared. But the maid’s face was flushed. Her little lace coif, usually perched neatly on her immaculately arranged hair, was awry, stray wisps of brown hair escaping from the lace.
“Sutlage for my lady,” gabbled Kiukiu, thrusting the tray forward. “Without cinnamon.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Dysis said, her voice a little breathless. “The new Lord Drakhaon is here.”
“Within the hour. So Michailo says.”
Dysis’ pretty mouth briefly twisted into a grimace. She took the tray from Kiukiu and closed the door before Kiukiu could say any more.
As Kiukiu turned to go back to the kitchens, she heard a muffled shriek—and then another crash, sharp with the shards of shattering porcelain.
Kiukiu winced as she crept away. All that sweet, rich pudding wasted, reduced to a splatter of slimy, sticky mess to be painstakingly wiped away by poor Dysis.
Poor Dysis? She stopped, wondering at herself. She had never pitied Dysis before. She had always envied Dysis her elegant Muscobar ways, her pretty looks, her efficiency and neatness. What did it matter that her mistress Lilias happened to be difficult to please? Surely the rewards of service to the Drakhaon’s mistress outweighed the discomforts. The discarded clothes alone must make it worthwhile, the silk gloves, the lace petticoats, the gowns worn once or twice then tossed aside! Kiukiu looked sadly at her patched, stained gown, a hand-me-down from Sosia, which had faded from brown to an indeterminate shade of gray with many scrubbings. She had another gown, more discreetly patched, kept for “best.” It had once been blue, a clear sky blue like flax flowers. . . .
“Kiukiu! What’re you dawdling up here for?” Sosia was standing in the hallway below, glaring up at her. “Get back to the kitchens and baste the roasting fowl. Lord Gavril won’t want to eat a plateful of dry leather!”
“I’ve had tables set in the paneled dining room.” Sosia’s voice was becoming cracked and hoarse with issuing orders. “Kiukiu—go and make sure Oleg’s drawn ten flagons of barley beer, as I told him. Make sure he’s not still in the cellar, sampling the new keg. Tell him to get upstairs and brush off the cobwebs.”
Kiukiu sighed and opened the door to the cellar, only to hear Sosia saying, “To wait at table—Ninusha and Ilsi.”
Ninusha and Ilsi. Not Kiukiu.
“Sosia, can’t I help?” she said plaintively.
Sosia gave a sigh. “What are you still doing here? Go get Oleg. And no, you can’t wait at table, Kiukiu, and you know why.”
Because I’m too clumsy,
Kiukiu thought angrily, fumbling her way down the dank cellar steps by the greasy rope rail.
At the bottom of the stone stairs hung a lantern, faintly illumining the clammy air, which was stale with the smell of old ale.
“Oleg?” Kiukiu called into the darkness, a little uncertainly. Dusty webs clung to the stones. There were great-granny spiders down here as big as her fist; she had seen them.
Around the corner of the archway, she came upon the massive barrels of oak: beer on one side, the smaller barrels of rich, red wine imported from the sun-baked vineyards of Smarna on the other.
Oleg, the Drakhaon’s butler, stood with his back to her, surreptitiously sampling the beer from the farthest barrel. Obviously he had not heard her—or Sosia.
“Oleg!” Kiukiu said again.
He started, turning around with a telltale froth of beer foam whitening his gray moustache.
“Kiukiu,” he said, grinning leeringly at her. “You won’t tell Sosia, will you?”
“She wants the flagons in the lower hall. Ten.”
“She’s a slave driver, that woman. Ten flagons! Come here and give your old Uncle Oleg a hand, Kiukiu, there’s a good girl.”
Kiukiu came forward reluctantly. Being alone with Oleg in the cellar where no one else could hear made her feel very uncomfortable. She didn’t want to
Similar Books
