Kei's Gift (23 page)

The other problem was the lady of the household who, Kei suspected, encouraged quite a lot of the abuse, though for what reason, he had no idea. She came to the kitchens only rarely, but Kei was set to work in the gardens too, spending long days digging in the hot sun, allowed little rest, and water only grudgingly provided after he’d fainted one day. She watched him from the verandah, fanning herself elegantly, sitting on a kind of long backed chair, chatting to her maids but her eyes on him, speculating, assessing. The gardener liked to express his disapproval with blows from his shovel handle, and more than once, he knocked Kei to the ground not far from where this woman sipped wine from a glass. She never showed any reaction to the violence. Kei wondered how anyone could be so callous—or so cold.

He never saw the woman speak to her husband, nor did any of the staff interact with the general more than brief exchanges with the footman. It was if he barely lived there. Kei himself—provided he did what was asked of him to an adequate standard—was invisible to the man, for all Kei returned to his room each night to sleep.

The only time the general took the slightest interest in him was when Kei’s medical equipment was finally sent to the house, and left for Sei Arman to attend to upon his return. Kei found the general looking at the box the next morning when he woke. “This is yours?”

Kei scrambled to his feet, then held onto the wall so he didn’t fall down. He felt so light-headed these days. “Yes, my lord. They’re my medical supplies.”

“Medical? Show me,” the general ordered.

Kei took the surgical instruments out and displayed them, making sure he mentioned how sharp they were so he would not be accused of storing weapons. The general was struck by the quality of the metal. “Where are they made? In your village?”

“No, my lord. In Darshek. It’s a special method. The steel is very strong and can be made very sharp.”

The general examined one of the knives closely and tested the edge on his thumb. “Interesting. You can’t keep them.”

“No, my lord.”

“And this?”

“Nitre distillation. It’s an antiseptic.” At the man’s puzzled look, he explained further. “It prevents infection.”

“Is that so? What is it, some magical potion or other?”

“No, my lord. It’s distilled nitre weed. Highly toxic if drunk, but safe if not.”

The general’s face wrinkled in disgust. “You said you were a healer. Do your patients survive?”

“Many do, my lord. The credit most times goes to them, not to me.”

“I’m sure. Well, you can’t be allowed to have these, but the tools are too valuable to dispose of. I’ll lock them up in the library.” He closed the lid of the box. “You’re adept at making poisons?”

“No, my lord. I make medicines. I told you, I don’t kill.”

The general’s eyes narrowed. “You’re impertinent, Kei. Go get my breakfast and don’t ever forget who you’re addressing.”

As if he could ever do that
. “Yes, my lord.”

~~~~~~~~

Her Serenity wasn’t happy, and it meant extra work for everyone. The Darshek siege showed no sign of succeeding as yet, and Arman was summoned almost daily for discussions with the Lord Commander and the admirals about ideas on how to hasten things along. Personally, he thought Kita was foolishly impatient. It had only been three months since they had sealed the trade route tighter than a drum. The blockade was holding, so it was a matter of when, not if, Darshek would fall, and the riches of the north could come to Kuplik by sea. The lack of a wagon trail meant Tirko Pass was useless as a supply route, but advances in making it easier to traverse were being achieved every day. Kita was insane to think of expanding to the north before she had conquered Darshian. Taking on the Andonese was a proposal even Blikus refused to consider seriously before Darshek fell.

Arman let Blikus deal with Kita and concentrated on the Kuprij defences and the security of the supply routes. It had been Jozo’s job before he left for Darshian, and Arman hadn’t quite appreciated just how complex a task it was. He supposed it showed how trusted he had become, but it was still a large responsibility.

He welcomed being busy, though, and welcomed also he could spend most days away from the house. He even thought of suggesting he should shift base to the north of Utuk, to the coastal city of Garok. It would make a good deal of logistical sense, and be nearer Tijus, but he didn’t want to have yet another conversation with Kita where he was lectured about his duty to his pregnant wife. Two of those in a month had been quite enough.

So for now, he avoided his home, and rarely even caught a glimpse of his supposedly devoted wife—exactly how he’d always liked it. He spent most evenings with Karus, who never questioned why a man with an expectant spouse would want to spend so little time with her. Arman suspected Karus knew somewhat more about the situation between Mayl and him than he had been officially told, but they never discussed it. The Darshianese woman often waited on them at dinner, but Arman grew inured to her presence. The sharp pang in his heart when he saw any Darshianese had become a dull ache, which was at least more comfortable to live with. Karus could even mention Loke’s name now without Arman’s eyes wanting to betray him with girlish tears. In fact, it was something of a comfort to be able to share happy memories of his friend with a friend. Loke had loved Karus as someone close to Arman, and Karus had felt the same for Loke. Arman needed to be able to talk to someone who knew what it felt like to lose Loke. Karus did. Without him, Arman wondered how he would have got through the first few weeks back in Utuk.

It was thus an unwelcome reminder of Karus’s mortality when a message came to Arman at the palace to say Karus had contracted a cold and would be unable to see Arman that evening, possibly for several more. Arman sent a gift of special quality pijo beans with a note saying he expected to be sharing a cup of pijo with Karus over a kezi game very soon, and tried not to imagine how easily a cold could turn to pneumonia in a man of Karus’s age.

It meant he had to dine at home, which wasn’t as inconvenient as it might be as he had several reports to go over, and he might as well do that in his own rooms as at the palace. The man, Kei, was nowhere to be seen when Arman got back, so he sent the footman to tell Arman’s manservant to bring a tray to his rooms.

His rooms were now chilly in the evenings—he would have to make sure Mykis adjusted the underfloor heating to this wing. He was damned if he’d shiver in his own bed. He had enough of that when he had to sleep in the field. The rooms themselves were neatly ordered as he liked them. At least the Darshianese servant handled that task properly, and kept out of Arman’s way as he’d been ordered to, although he could be damnably slow on those rare occasions when Arman actually required his presence. Like tonight. A meal of soup and roasted vegetables shouldn’t have taken half an hour to bring, especially as he had arrived close to suppertime. He pointed this out in no uncertain terms to Kei when he brought the meal, and received the usual meaningless apology. Probably not his fault, Arman thought absently, but then was soon absorbed in his reports.

He finished his meal and ordered Kei to clear the tray and fetch water for a bath. It really was time he modernised these rooms. One of the new water heaters would mean he wouldn’t need servants every time he wanted to bathe. On the other hand, it would mean a lot of noise and mess while it was installed, and an investment in a house he hated and spent little time in—when Kita didn’t interfere. Perhaps he would endure buckets from the taproom for a little longer.

He heard a crash of crockery and he turned sharply in annoyance. His servant had knocked a glass over, and was staring at it as if he’d never seen such an object before. “Try not to make so much damn noise, and hurry up with the water, will you?”

“Y...yes, my lord.”

Arman grunted and turned back to his papers. The plans for an improved wagon for the desert looked promising, and could cut the journey time between Rutej and Kislik by over a week over that by conventional wagons—or so the engineer claimed. He finished reading the details, not completely convinced by the arguments in the technical details, and was irritated to find he still didn’t have his bath water.

Where in hells is that creature now?
He was tempted to seek his servant out, but the idea of bellowing for the blasted man through the hallways was unattractive, so he let it go. Finally, both man and water arrived, Kei panting as if he’d been running. He looked a sweaty, untidy mess. Arman would have to speak to him about this later—it set a bad example to the other servants. “Took your time, didn’t you? Hurry up, do you think I have all evening?” he muttered as he picked a report on lem supplies in the southern region of Tykir.

“I’m sorry, my lord.”

Arman ignored the soft words, but moments later, when there was an almighty clatter behind him, he threw down his pen and stood up. The useless man had spilled half the water from the bucket all over the floor. “For the gods’ sake! Clean that up, you stupid boy.” It was worse than having a three-year-old as a servant. What was wrong with Kei tonight? He wasn’t usually quite as hopeless as this.

He flung a drying cloth at the man crouched on the floor, cringing, looking at him with wide, frightened eyes. “Just wipe it up.”

Kei caught the cloth clumsily and bent, wiping at the puddle with all the speed and agility of an arthritic eighty-year-old. Arman really had no time for this. He gripped Kei’s shoulder. “Here, give me—” He froze as the man whimpered and pulled away as if Arman’s touch hurt him. “What’s wrong...are you injured?”

Kei stared up at him as if Arman’s Darshianese was somehow unclear, which he knew damn well it wasn’t. “It’s nothing,” he whispered. “Please.”

“What’s nothing? If you have a hurt, I need to know about it. I’m responsible for your welfare, for what it’s worth. Take your shirt off.”

Kei untied his shirt with shaking fingers. Impatient, Arman crouched, gripped the hem of the shirt and raised it, determined to find out what was going on. He sat back, frozen in utter shock as he saw the state of his servant’s back. It was covered with so many bruises and welts, it
was
a bruise, a single, multi-coloured vicious injury covering every inch of Kei’s back. Across his shoulders were at least ten or more fresh, cruel whip marks. “What in hells? Who did this?”

Kei tugged his shirt down, a movement which clearly caused him a great deal of pain. “Mykis, my lord.”

“Mykis? Why?”

Kei swallowed. “I...I broke a glass. My lord.”

“You broke—” Arman stared in astonishment at the man. Whippings were administered in the army and corporal punishment was handed out routinely to civilian criminals—but only for serious offences, like theft or assault or severe dereliction of duty.
Not
for mere clumsiness. “Did you do it deliberately, perhaps?”

“No...no...my lord. It was an accident. I...got dizzy.”

For the first time since the man had been set to work for him, Arman gave him a good look over, and was horrified to note he was in obviously poor condition, looking thin and ill and utterly worn down. The man had
not
been like this four weeks ago. “Have you eaten tonight? Today, at all?”

“Yes...breakfast, my lord.”

“Which was?”

“Some bread, my lord.”

“And that’s it? That’s all you’ve eaten today?” Kei nodded. “And what have you been doing? Are you working in the kitchens?” Arman wasn’t sure what his wife had set his page to do in his absence. He hadn’t cared at all.

“N...no, my lord. The gardens. Digging a new drain.” Kei closed his shirt’s ties. “I...I’ll clean this. I’m sorry for the mess.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Arman growled. “Stay here. Just get out of the water, for the gods’ sake.” He threw the cloth he was still holding into the puddle on the floor, and, seeing how slowly his servant was moving, carefully held his arm and helped him move back out of the mess. Now he was alerted to it, he felt how thin Kei was and how he trembled uncontrollably under his touch.

He stalked out into the hallway, angry with his staff and furious with himself. A general should never have so little regard for his troops, and Darshianese or not, no one under his command would be treated like a common criminal—not unless they
were
criminals, which was what he wanted to find out.

He found his steward smoking a pipe in the kitchen, sitting with the cook, stretched out before the fire. They scrambled to their feet as he came in, possibly more moved by the anger in his expression than natural obedience. “Mykis, I want you to explain why my manservant’s back looks like someone has been knocking the dust out of him with a rug-beater. What has he done to deserve such treatment?”

“Master, the boy is useless. Utterly clumsy. He breaks things, can’t do the simplest task—”

“Oh? Such is not my observation,” Arman bit out, even though he had thought very similar things earlier that evening. That was before he knew under what disability Kei was attempting to work. “And who gave you leave to chastise him in that manner?”

“My mistress, Sei Arman. She told me to keep him under control with whatever it took.”