“Mage Lindin.”
Master Servant Rumm had a whipcrack of a voice. She jumped, hearing it, and hurried after him. She didn’t want to risk the binding incant lashing her again.
The master servant led her below stairs, down to the mansion’s working heart. Since this was a grand house, that meant cellars, a kitchen, a scullery, a laundry room, a dry pantry, a meat larder and a buttery, every chamber cool and shadowy. Well, save for the kitchen when the ovens were going. And the laundry, of course. On washing days that would be clouded with steam. Would she be put to work in there, to wrinkle and scald her skin with soap and hot water? How Arndel would love that. Ibbitha and lying, cowardly Baret Ventin, too. How they’d think she’d been justly served.
“In here,” said Master Servant Rumm, pushing open a green baize door. “You’d best sit down before you fall down. But don’t think to make a habit of it. You’ll be far too busy for sitting, soon enough.”
In here was the kitchen, a veritable shrine to cooking that would make Remmie sob with joy, could he see it. A wide wooden table, knife-scarred, in the centre. More vast scrubbed benches against the long, whitewashed stone walls. A roasting alcove complete with turnspit, heavy logs on their grating slowly turning to charcoal. Gleaming pots and pans hanging on hooks overhead, wickedly sharp knives, an enormous, deep triple sink, a full wall of hobs and ovens. Fresh-killed and plucked fowl sat plump on a granite slab, slapped side by side with a rack of bloody beef ribs and a basin of garden peas waiting to be shelled. The fire-warmed air was rich with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Barl felt her mouth flood, and heard her empty belly growl.
A man wrapped in a blue-and-white striped apron stirred a pot on one hot hob. The master servant tapped his shoulder then jerked a thumb. “See what’s low in the flour bins, Biddle. I’ll call when you’re wanted back.” He glanced in the pot. “Take that stock off the heat. It can sit a while with no harm.”
“Master Rumm,” the man muttered, dragged the pot aside then scuttled from the kitchen. Not so much as a curious glance at the newcomer. The master servant would likely cuff him for that kind of temerity.
Rumm pointed at a wooden stool set up by the turnspit. “Sit. Did they feed you, those mages at the Hall?”
“No,” Barl said, cautiously perching on the edge of the stool.
“No, sir,” he corrected, scowling. “You’ll mind your manners here, Mage Lindin.”
She bit back a pointless retort. “No, sir. They did not feed me, or give me drink. If they’d found me dead of hunger this morning they’d have laughed, I think, and counted themselves lucky.”
Rumm grunted. “There’ll be no commenting on the Council under Lord Danfey’s roof. Wait there.”
She watched him leave the vast kitchen through the nearest of its three doors. Waiting, with no-one to gawk at her, she let her spine slump a little. Let the weight of her impossible situation press her closer to the stone floor. Clearly, she was to be put to work here like a servant. Probably this was why Morgan Danfey had offered to house her. Cheap labour. Why pay good money for a housemaid when he could bind himself one for free?
That binding. The incant was quiet again but still, she could feel it. Like a banked fire it burned beneath her skin, its heat as steady as the warmth from the hot coals under the turnspit.
So I might as well be in that stone cell beneath the Hall. If I were in Brantone, or Vharne, if I fled to Iringa, I’d still be the Council’s prisoner. I carry my cage with me.
And Morgan Danfey held the key. Was there any way to steal it from him? Or to wheedle him into setting her free? She had no idea. But both notions were worth pursuing while she was trapped beneath his roof.
For I’m only truly a prisoner if I think of myself that way. If I stop fighting, if I surrender to their brute authority, I might as well have bound myself.
Master Rumm returned, in one hand carrying a heavy stoneware plate burdened with buttered grain bread and cheese topped with a generous dollop of sharp pickle. In his other hand he held a stone mug.
“Eat,” he said, putting plate and mug on the kitchen’s table. “Then you’ll make yourself useful.”
It took every skerrick of self-control she possessed not to fall on the food like a ravenous wolf. “I can’t cook,” she told him, around a glorious mouthful. “Whatever I set my hand to gets burned to a cinder. If you don’t believe me, you can ask my brother.”
Rumm raised his eyebrows. “You’re mad if you think I’d trust you with his lordship’s meals. Never fear. I’ll find plenty to keep you busy.”
She had no doubt of that. But the warning to Rumm reminded her she had unfinished business. “Master Rumm, I have to tell my brother what’s happened. I’m his only family. I can’t leave him to fear for me.”
“If you’re his only family, Mage Lindin, and have a care for his feelings, I’d say you’ve a strange way of showing it.”
The mug was full of sweet cider. Washing down the bread and cheese, Barl made an effort to loosen her clutching fingers. “Are you going to let me tell him, or aren’t you?”
“The decision’s not mine,” said Rumm. “What you can and can’t do here is up to Councillor Danfey. And his lordship, of course.”
Of course. With another gut-wrenching effort, she humbled herself. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult.”
Another raised-eyebrow look from Rumm. “Given your current predicament, Mage Lindin, I find that hard to believe.”
She put down the mug of cider. “Master Rumm, I am not wicked. And no matter what anyone says, I’m not dangerous. All I did was try to set right an injustice. But there are mages in Dorana who take that as a threat. Justice be praised that Councillor Danfey’s not one of them. If he hadn’t helped me…”
“Helped you?” Rumm stared at her, openly skeptical. “It’s my understanding he bound you.”
“He did,” she agreed. “To stop the others from doing worse. Believe me—believe me—I’ve no grudge against your master.” She managed a small, trembling smile. “If I did, I wouldn’t have warned you I can’t cook.”
Rumm didn’t smile back, but his gaze softened, just a little. “You should know I’m a man who puts stock in actions, not words. Behave yourself while you’re under his lordship’s roof, give me no trouble, cause no mayhem with the other servants, do nothing that reflects poorly on Lord Danfey or the councillor, and you’ll have no cause to complain of your treatment. But should you prove mettlesome, should you betray Councillor Danfey’s great kindness? Mage Lindin, I will make you rue the day.”
She didn’t doubt that for a heartbeat. “I’ll behave myself, Master Rumm.”
He nodded. “Good. You can start by finishing your repast, washing that plate and mug, then shelling those peas. There’s not much damage you can do to them.”
According to Remmie, in his more irritated moments, she only had to look at food, cooked or uncooked, in order to render it inedible. But with her position so vulnerable, and Master Rumm lord of the mansion’s servants, she wasn’t about to argue.
He left the kitchen soon after, and the aproned man returned to continue with his aromatic pot-stirring. He scarcely spared her a glance, and said not a word. Either he’d been born taciturn or Master Rumm had warned him to hold his tongue around her. She suspected the latter, and was grateful for it. The last thing she felt like was explaining her presence in the mansion.
Shelling peas proved oddly soothing, a small, manual task that kept her fingers busy and her mind free to absorb and finally accept the bewildering events since she’d stormed to Elvado. As she reached for the last pod, Master Rumm reappeared.
“His lordship will be wanting his morning tea,” he said. “You’ll take it up to him, Mage Lindin.”
She thought, from the hint of constraint in his voice, that Rumm didn’t approve of that arrangement. Had he objected and been overruled? The pinching of his lips suggested it. While the master servant made the tea and set out fresh-baked scones, clotted c
ream and berry jam on a lace-doilied plate, she shelled the last of the peas, disposed of the emptied pods into the kitchen’s composting bin, then waited with her hands meekly folded for Rumm to load Lord Danfey’s morning tea on a polished silver tray.
“Third floor,” he said curtly. “The double doors at the end of the corridor. Knock twice, then wait until you’re bid enter. And mind your manners.”
She took the heavy tray. “Yes, Master Rumm.”
“And Mage Lindin?”
“Yes?” she said, looking back.
Rumm’s face was severe again. “You’ll set not so much as a toe above the third floor landing. Councillor Danfey’s strict instruction.”
Oh, yes? And what was hidden up there that he was so eager she didn’t see? Magework, most likely.
As if there’s anything I can do about that.
“Mage Lindin! Is that clear?”
“Quite clear, Master Rumm.”
Climbing the three flights of stairs up to Lord Danfey’s domain, she couldn’t help but appreciate the mansion’s perfect proportions and genteel beauty. Masterful oil paintings marched up the wall beside her, a few landscapes, some faces, each gilt-framed canvas cracked by the passage of time. There was a stained-glass skylight, high overhead. The coloured sunlight filtered down to her, splashing the silver tea tray crimson, azure and gold.
Her insides squeezed tight. It wasn’t that she begrudged the likes of Lady Grie and Lord Danfey and those mages on the Council their luxuries. But why did it matter so much, that they make sure the rest of Dorana was denied them?
Upon reaching the doors at the end of the third floor corridor, she followed Rumm’s instructions precisely.
“So. Girl. Don’t skulk in the shadows,” Lord Danfey barked. “Let me get a good look at you!”
Barl tightened her hold on the tea tray and took another step into his lordship’s privy parlour. “I wasn’t skulking. I was closing the doors.”
Folded into a shabby, wingbacked armchair, the old man snorted. “And no sass!” His thin hand beckoned, impatient. “Come in, I said! Did my son send you deaf when he bound you?”
“No.”
“No, my lord. Dragged up by the scruff of your neck in a cow byre, were you?”
Her fingers tightened again, painful now. “No. My lord.”
“Then bring me my tea, girl, before it’s stone cold. If it’s stone cold I’ll throw it at you.”
She thought he would. Lord Danfey had that kind of face, austere and intolerant. It wasn’t just the grooved lines of long sickness that made Morgan Danfey’s father look harsh. Though his blue eyes were clouded, their colour almost obscured, they possessed a hard gleam, searching for a fault to criticise as she approached.
He kicked the leg of the low occasional table beside him. “Put the tray there.”
She settled the tray safely and waited. He’d been handsome once, she thought. Possibly as handsome as his powerful son. But time and fever had robbed him of all but the vestiges of good looks. Everything about him was sunken now: eyes, cheeks, chest, belly. As though the only thing stopping him from collapsing in on himself was his ample supply of bile and temper.
“Stir up the fire, girl,” the old man said. “Or are you hoping I’ll freeze solid while you stand there and watch?”
A sharp retort burned her tongue, but she swallowed it. “My lord,” she said, stiffly courteous, no need to give him reason to complain of her, and tended to the fire. As she poked about in the embers then added a fresh, sweetly scented log, she heard the chink and rattle of teaspoon and cup, the soft slosh of tea pouring from pot into cup.
“All right, all right, leave well enough alone,” Lord Danfey commanded. “Poke a fire too much and you kill it. Never learned that, did you?”
The fire was billowing merrily, resurgent flames greedily feeding. She added one last log and turned.
“Do you require anything else, my lord?”
The old man’s pale lips were flour-dusted, smeared sickly red, and he made a wet gobbling sound as his jaw worked an overlarge mouthful of scone, cream and jam. His cloudy eyes below their sparse, pale brows glared at her, brimful of suspicion.
“What’s your name? My son told me, but I don’t remember trivialities.”
She stared back at him. If I even once show him I’m intimidated, he’ll bully me to death. “I am Barl Lindin, my lord.”
“Ha.” The old man reached for another scone. “You say that as though I should be impressed. Lindin?” He pushed more lavishly topped scone past his yellowing teeth. “If you were of consequence I’d have heard of you. I haven’t.”
And what did he expect her to say in reply? What could she say, that wouldn’t land her in even more trouble?
“Lord Danfey—”
“My son risked himself to bind you, Barl Lindin. Risked himself on some upstart, unranked little nobody from nowhere.” The old man raised a crooked, shaking finger. The front of his wine-red velvet jacket was littered with crumbs. “He’s a grown man, a councillor. He can do as he pleases, no need to seek my permission. But you know this, girl. If he had sought it, I’d have denied him. Morgan’s a great man. A great mage. He’ll grow greater in time. You hobble him, Barl Lindin, and it’s me you’ll answer to.”
There was genuine menace in him. Beneath his crusting of sickness, a blood-chilling threat. Feeling it, Barl braced her shoulders.
“Do you even know what I did? Why I’m bound? My lord?”
Contemptuous, he glared over the rim of his teacup. “What do I care for the undisciplined follies of an unranked mage?”
“If justice means anything to you, my lord, you’d care.”
The teacup slammed back in its saucer. “Did I ask you for a lecture? Get out. Take this tray with you. And tell Rumm there wasn’t enough butter in the scones.”
And if she did, would Rumm blame her for the slight?
Perhaps. But if I don’t tell him I’ll be caught out in disobedience.
It seemed she’d have been better off caged at the Hall, after all.
“Well?” said Lord Danfey. “What are you waiting for, girl? Good thing I’m not being asked to fork over a wage for you. Seems to me you’re halfway to being an imbecile. Go on. Get out!”
Rearranging the cup and plates on the tray so they’d not slide as she carried it, she felt a humiliating sting of tears.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. What I do in this place doesn’t change who I am.
Who she’d be again one day. They’d not keep her bound forever.
Halfway down the staircase, heading back to the mansion’s vast kitchen, she heard swift footfalls behind her. Oddly, they sounded angry. Pausing, she turned and looked up the staircase, past the third floor landing.
It was Morgan Danfey.
Chapter Sixteen
Staring at her captor as he halted a few steps above her, Barl saw there was a smudge of yellow on the sleeve of his bronze silk brocade tunic. It looked like powdered gedlef root. As well, an odour of tinctured bidaline clung to his fine clothes. Which must mean he did have his own workroom somewhere upstairs.
And he’s using gedlef? He must be mad. Everyone knows it’s notoriously unstable.
Whatever the councillor was doing with it, and the tinctured bidaline, she thought the work did not go well. Behind his expression of polite disinterest he was vexed. No, more than that. Distressed.
Yes, well, so am I.
So distressed—by her binding, her imprisonment, the Council’s arrogant injustice—she wanted to hurl the laden tray she carried over the staircase banister and watch teapot and plates smash to shards on the foyer’s splendid marble floor.
But if she did that, well…
“Councillor Danfey,” she murmured, and bobbed her head in a servantly show of respect.
He nodded. “Mage Lindin. Here scarcely an hour, and I see Rumm has already put you to work.”
“Yes, sir. Taking morning tea to Lord Danfey.”
They
stood between the third and second floor landings. Councillor Danfey glanced back up the stairs. “I trust you found his lordship well?”
Actually, I found him a cantankerous old goat.
“Yes, sir.”
A hint of warmth crept into his eyes. “He was peevish? Don’t take it to heart. Lord Danfey is weary of being kept close to bed.”
“Yes, sir.”
The councillor stepped one stair tread closer. “You must have spent an uncomfortable night, prisoned beneath the Hall.”
“I survived.”
“The binding. I hope it doesn’t chafe you too badly.”
She shrugged. “I hardly notice it.”
“You will, Mage Lindin, if you test its limits. Don’t.”
“Councillor…” It might be foolish, asking him questions, but she had to try. “How long will the Council keep me bound?”
He stepped closer again, his eyes surprisingly gentle. “I don’t know. I suspect much will depend on my reports of you.”
Of course it would. “And I suppose your reports will depend on what Master Rumm says of me?”
“Exactly,” he said, very close to a smile. “My father might be lord here, but it often feels as though it’s Rumm who rules the roost.”
Interesting, that he found the notion amusing. She couldn’t imagine Lord Varen amused by the bossiness of a servant.
“He is most loyal to the Danfeys, Councillor. I quake in fear lest I offend him, and earn his wrath.”
“Quake in fear, Mage Lindin? You?” Again, that hinting smile. “I find that idea a nonsense.”