I delivered the leggings to the guardroom, noting that two guards were awake and two sleeping on pallets in the next room. Keeping my eyes down as I had been taught, I asked the guards where I might find the chamberlain. The Zhid directed me up the stairs.
Halfway up the tight staircase, I heard shouting and the unmistakable clash of weapons from outside, beyond a sheltered balcony that opened off the stair landing. Seeing no one to observe me, I stepped onto the balcony, staying to one side where I would be shielded from view by a column that supported the roof.
In the center of a dusty courtyard, two boys were engaged in a fierce fight, circling, weaving, swords flashing in the sunlight. One boy wore boots and padded leather armor, while the other-taller by a head-was barefoot and wearing only a slave tunic and collar. I caught my breath. The boy in leather was Gerick, his face fierce and shining with sweat as he beat off a quick blow and swiveled to attack. The speed and accuracy of his movements had no relation to the awkward ten-year-old I’d watched at Comigor.
The slave parried, and the two boys circled again. The slave was proud and unafraid, and though his left arm dangled useless and bleeding at his side, he advanced on Gerick with cool and deadly precision. What could a slave hope to accomplish by attacking the favored guest of the Lords?
I backed toward the stair ready to run for help, but a glint of sunlight on steel at the edge of the yard stopped me. A Zhid warrior stood watching from the shadowed corner. Gerick moved to attack again. The Zhid shouted something, and the slave shifted his defensive stance before Gerick struck. Earth and sky! This was practice.
Gerick missed an easy opening, and the Zhid stepped out and stopped the match, castigating Gerick thoroughly. While the warrior made Gerick repeat the required move ten times over, the slave boy walked over to a water barrel by the wall and scooped out a drink, holding his wounded arm tightly. The swordmaster completed his instruction, then stepped back and raised his hand. The boys took their positions, and when the Zhid lowered his hand, they went at it again.
As I watched them close and strike out at each other again, I decided I’d been wrong to judge this combat mere practice. In truth, it was war, both boys the casualties. When the opening came again, Gerick did not miss. His sword caught the slave youth just below the ribs, and a red stain blossomed on the youth’s gray tunic. Gerick stepped back, sword raised. The slave was bent over, his sword arm clasped over his middle.
Yield, I begged silently. Someone end this.
The youth, not more than fifteen or sixteen, straightened, and lifted his sword. He was pale. The two engaged once more, and after only a few moments, Gerick knocked his opponent’s sword away. The slave sank to his knees on the red dirt. Gerick touched the point of his sword to the boy’s neck, then sheathed his weapon and turned his back. He walked over to the water barrel, scooped a dipper of water, and drank deep. The swordmaster talked to Gerick for a while, demonstrating another movement and making him practice it ten or fifteen times. Then the two of them moved off toward a shadowed doorway. The gasping slave knelt in the broiling sun, trying to keep his life from leaking away into the red dirt.
Voices from the lower level of the house set me moving again. I could think of nothing to do for the youth. Any deviation from my orders would see us both dead. Certainly my tears could do nothing for him or others like him, nor could they open Gerick’s eyes to see what lessons his masters were teaching.
Quickly I slipped back onto the landing and hurried up the stairs to the second level of the Gray House. A sideways glance told me that the lights I had seen above the main gate were indeed from another guardroom. Next to it was the storage room where I was to find one Sefaro, the person who ran the household. To my astonishment, Sefaro was a slave.
“You’re the chamberlain?” I asked the slight middle-aged man who appeared to be taking inventory of the pottery, linens, and myriad other items on the shelves that lined the large, windowless storage room.
The slave nodded and gestured to himself, then raised his open palms in inquiry. How were we to do our business if he could not speak?
“I am Eda, a sewing woman. Her Worship Kargetha sent me.”
A smile blossomed on his face, the first I’d seen on any face in Zhev’Na. Setting down his pen and paper, he gestured me to follow. Up another winding stair and through a doorway, we came to an immense set of apartments that covered the entire third level.
The sleeping and sitting areas each opened directly onto a balcony that ran the entire length and width of the house. Filmy beige draperies, hung across the south windows of the sitting room, were showing signs of sun rot. Sefaro brought in tall stools and helped me take them down. When the load of fabric made me wobble, he gave me a hand down from my stool and bowed cheerfully at my thanks.
“I was told to find out how soon we must have them done,” I said.
He considered carefully, then raised three fingers.
“Three days?”
He nodded, and opened his hands as if asking if that was reasonable.
“Three days should be fine,” I said.
He smiled again so kindly that I decided to take a great risk. In a much quieter voice than before, I said, “Are you really in charge of this house?”
He cocked his head, surprised at the question.
“I’m new here,” I said. “Don’t know the ways. Nobody told me that such as you… a slave, that is… could be in charge of anything.”
He chuckled and waved his hand about the room, then settled it on his shoulder as if it weighed like stone. Then his fingers touched his collar, and he shook his head with a rueful smile.
“You bear the responsibilities of the house, but, being a slave, you’ve little power to see them done.”
He agreed readily, his eyes appreciative.
I knelt and began to roll up the rotting draperies, motioning him to kneel beside me. He did so, and began to smooth the wide fabric. With my head bent over the folds, I whispered, “Do your responsibilities include checking on the fencing yard, just in case there is anything that needs to be seen to there-something left that might be damaged?”
He paused for a moment, staring at me, and then ducked his head.
“Then, I think I can finish this task alone and find my way out.”
He laid a hand gently on mine, and then he bolted from the room.
At the same time that I finished rolling the fabric, voices sounded on the stair. Heart racing, I patted the red scarf to make sure it covered all my hair and bowed my head as would be expected.
“I told Calador that I wanted better partners.” It was Gerick. “The younger boys don’t last long enough any more.”
“And what did he say to your request?” Curse the devil forevermore… Darzid.
“That he’d see to it.”
The two walked slowly into the apartment. Weapons clanked and rattled as Gerick tossed his sword belt onto a low bench.
“I’m happy to see how you’re improving. Your enemies will not expect such prowess from one of your age. Don’t concern yourself with slaves. Their lives are to serve you.” Raging inside, appalled as I considered the lasting effects of such vile mentoring on a child, I hefted the unwieldy rolls on my shoulder, dipped my knee, and moved slowly toward the stair. Neither of them gave me a second glance. I could not get back to the servants’ compound fast enough. Six more hours of sewing, then to bed. Another thread in my little bundle under the pallet. Six more days, and we’d have Gerick out of this wretched place.