On Fire’s Wings (5 page)

Two days ago, Sahlik, on a rare visit to the market with some of the kitchen servants, had heard a long forgotten name and spotted Kevla on the corner. Few servants now remained at the House of Four Waters who had seen the young Tahmu through that heartbreaking time eleven years past. It had been Sahlik who had given the cold, but ultimately wise, advice that he had to leave Keishla. And it had been Sahlik who had held her young lord in her arms as he wept after the deed had been done.

There had been no mistaking the youthful energy of the young Tahmu in the child's vigorous dance, nor the sloe eyes of Keishla in her face. Sahlik had known the girl for what she was, and had urged her master to take pity upon her.

A good boy, Tahmu. He listened well.

But no one else must know, not even the girl herself. Sahlik turned her attention to Kevla, her eyes narrowing. Far too thin. Walking slowly over to the child, she examined the new servant the way Tahmu might examine a horse he was planning to purchase. Sahlik opened the girl's mouth and felt around her teeth and gums. Good. No teeth were loose yet, and Dragon willing, they would not come loose later. Her eyes were clear, her thin arms surprisingly strong with muscle.

“She looks well enough,” Sahlik said, stepping back. “Where did you want her, my lord?”

“Put her in as one of Yeshi's attendants.”

By the Great Dragon, he was courting trouble. “Are you certain, my lord? Such positions are usually given as rewards for years of service.”

She was speaking, of course, what they both knew. She hoped Tahmu would sense the other, unsaid words.

“Kevla's mother was a dancer, before her untimely death,” said Tahmu in a conversational tone. Only Sahlik, who knew the man better than nearly anyone, could have caught the undercurrent of tension in the everyday words. This, then, was the story Tahmu and Sahlik would spread.

“Kevla knows many useful skills—hair decorating, henna, massage—things that a woman would appreciate. If she does not work out, there is always another position for her, yes?”

“Certainly,” Sahlik agreed. If Tahmu wanted an easy lot for the child of his blood, then it was not her place to disagree. Yeshi was an unobservant woman. It was possible, perhaps even likely, she would not notice the resemblance. Sahlik would leave such matters up to the discretion—or lack thereof—of the
khashim.

She wiped at the perspiration gleaming on her forehead. Even though she wore a light
rhia
that permitted air to circulate and cool her body, Sahlik found she endured the extreme temperatures less well than she once did.

“It is hot on these old bones,” she said. “I will prepare Kevla myself.”

She grasped the girl's hand. Without waiting for the
khashim's
dismissal, Sahlik led Kevla away.

Kevla followed obediently, showing none of the lively, rather coarse enthusiasm she had displayed the other day in the marketplace. Sahlik was pleased. She led the girl through the kitchen storage house, back out into the bright sunlight, and into another low, ornately decorated building. This one, unlike many of the others, had a wooden door. It was only one story, and much smaller than the other buildings. Torches burned in sconces fastened to the outside walls, even though the day was wiltingly hot. Kevla turned, a question on her lips.

“Why—”

“You'll see soon enough, child. And it's not too soon to learn to speak when you are spoken to, and not before.”

Kevla bowed her head meekly. Sahlik noticed that the child's hair had extremely red highlights in the sun.

“Very good,” approved Sahlik. “Now, open that door, and let's be about it.”

Kevla hastened to obey, pulling the door open and stepping back to allow Sahlik to enter first. The old woman reached for a torch, and stepped into the darkness.

 

Cool,
thought Kevla.
It's cool in here!

She realized that this building was made not of mud or brick, as the others were, but of stone. She followed the old serving woman inside.

“Close the door behind you.”

Kevla obeyed. Now, the only light came from the flickering torch borne by Sahlik. Kevla kept close to the head servant, uncomfortable in this darkness. The tent in which she had spent all her life had not been able to shut out the light as this building did, and even a moonless night outside had a crowded field of bright, twinkling torch lights to keep her company.

Sahlik moved forward, her steps swift for her age, and certain. Kevla realized that there were stairs ahead that wound down even farther into the darkness.

Sahlik continued, moving steadily downward. Other torches hung on the walls, and these she lit as she passed. Wide-eyed and silent, Kevla followed.

The stairs seemed to wind downward forever. At last, a sound reached Kevla's ears. It seemed familiar, but amid the echoes she couldn't be certain. Surely, it was not the gurgle of water that it sounded like. That was to be expected from rivers such as those she had seen earlier, but not here, not at the bottom of a house.

At last the descent ended. Sahlik stepped forward, Kevla at her heels, into a large stone cavern.

Kevla gasped, softly.

It
was
water.

A spring bubbled up into a large pool of gently moving liquid. Kevla could barely see it in the dim illumination provided by Sahlik's single torch, but it took only a little light to catch the gleam of the water and reflect it back. A second, smaller pool had a large pump, and several buckets sat beside it. Sahlik sat down on a stone bench, groaning and rubbing her knees.

“It is a long walk for me, and the trip back to the surface will be even longer. But it is always worth it. What do you think, Kevla?”

Almost, there was warmth in her voice. Kevla glanced at the old woman, but in the faint light she couldn't read Sahlik's expression.

“Is—did the
khashim
make these?” she asked, turning her attention back to the pools.

Sahlik laughed. “No man can create water, child. But yes, a tunnel was dug many years ago between here and the river. It is one of the House's greatest strengths. We will never run out of water for drinking or bathing.”

“B-bathing?” Kevla's voice cracked.

“Of course. Did you think I came all this way simply to give you a drink, girl? Take off that dirty
rhia.
Can't have a servant to the
khashima
running around in that mouse-chewed thing.”

Hesitantly, with a sudden bout of shyness, Kevla drew off the garment. Crossing her arms over her chest, she padded over to the larger pool and glanced at Sahlik for confirmation. At the old servant's nod, Kevla sat down on the smooth stone. She took a deep breath, suddenly filled with a nameless, unreasoning fear, then swung her legs into the water.

It was cool, soft, like a gentle hand caressing her legs. A bath. She, Kevla Bai-sha, was about to take a bath, in the underground spring of the greatest
khashim
in the land.

She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. She wasn't sure why, it just seemed that now, at this moment, it was the only thing she could do.

And when suddenly Sahlik was there, her bony shoulder a curious comfort, her gnarled hands soothing Kevla's hair, Kevla did not think to ask how Sahlik had understood so readily. She merely leaned into the embrace and sobbed her young heart out, her legs, submerged to the knees, splashing the alien water gently.

S
ahlik was glad the girl wept. She knew it was not good to keep powerful emotions locked inside as if in a sealed jar. She herself was no stranger to tears stolen in rare moments alone, although life had been good to her in these later years. A smile curved her lips as she thought,
I am perhaps the only woman I know who is happier as an old servant than a young wife.

The smile faded. She knew the situation in which she had found herself as a young woman was far from unique.

She held the girl as the child sobbed. When Kevla at last drew back, dragging her thin arm across her wet nose and face, Sahlik decided it was a good opportunity to begin the instruction of etiquette.

“Yeshi would have you flogged if you did that in her presence,” Sahlik said gently but firmly.

Kevla's eyes widened and she froze. “Cry? I would not cry in front of a
khashima,
” she said.

“I did not think you would,” replied Sahlik, “but I was referring to this.” She imitated Kevla's gesture, exaggerating it. Through the tears still on her face, Kevla giggled. “If perchance something made you sneeze, or your eyes water, you would beg permission to excuse yourself and bathe your face. Like this.”

Seated next to Kevla beside the pool, she bent, cupped some water in her hands and delicately splashed her face. By the Dragon, it felt good. Kevla followed suit, saying with a faint trace of pride, “I have washed my face before.”

Sahlik smothered her laugh. “That's good,” she said. “Now, it is time to wash your whole body.” She removed her own clothes and slipped off the edge into the pool. The water came to her waist. Each time, it became harder for her to climb out. She would ask Tahmu about installing some steps inside the pool.

Kevla remained seated as if she had turned to stone, staring at the dark water.

“Are you afraid?” asked Sahlik. Kevla hesitated, then nodded. “Do not be. I know how to swim and I will teach you. I will teach you many things, child. Now, slip into the water. I will be right here.”

Kevla looked up, her eyes searching Sahlik's. She took a deep breath, and then, displaying what Sahlik knew to be great trust, slipped into the water. True to her word, Sahlik caught her.

“It's not too deep,” she said as the child began to flail. “You can stand. Hold on to the side. That's it.”

The water came to midchest on Kevla. She was breathing quickly, but remained admirably calm as she found her footing.

“Many a boy-child has panicked the first time in the pool,” Sahlik said. “Even Tahmu's son Jashemi did. Yet you are already standing. Very good. Now, let me wash your hair and body. From now on, you will be able to do this by yourself. When we are done, I will teach you how to use the brush and the oils, so that you may be presentable to the mistress of the House of Four Waters.”

Kevla's body and hair were scrubbed and oiled. Skin and hair, clean and perfumed, gleamed in the torchlight. Sahlik tossed Kevla's old
rhia
into a woven basket in which other items of clothing were jumbled. From a second basket, the old woman withdrew a garment that, to Kevla, seemed impossibly white and fresh.

She reached out and touched the fabric, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. “It is so beautiful,” she breathed. “Surely you cannot mean for me to wear this? Is this not more fitting for the
khashima?
”

Sahlik chuckled. “Yeshi would be outraged if anyone suggested she wear this. You'll soon learn the quality of her clothing. This is standard for all of the young women of the household. It's a working garment. You'll be getting something better soon, once the seamstress has had a chance to take a fitting.”

Kevla's lip trembled and her eyes welled with tears. She gulped and forced them back. “Of course,” she said. “A servant to the
khashima
must reflect her mistress's style and wealth.” She slipped the
rhia
on, but despite her attempt to sound worldly, her small brown hands kept touching the fabric.

Sahlik plaited her hair, clucking her tongue at its coarseness and shaggy length. “You will need a few days before you are ready to serve the mistress,” she said. “This hair must be cut and oiled repeatedly. And these hands—you will stop biting your nails at once. Yeshi likes long, painted nails and she likes for her women to have them, too.”

“Certainly,” Kevla replied immediately.

Sahlik sighed. She turned Kevla around to face her. “Listen to me, Kevla. I will tell you the truth of what life here will be like. Tahmu is a great man, a kind master. We are fortunate to serve in his House. But you will not see him much. Your mistress will be his wife Yeshi. She is beautiful, and quite aware of that beauty. Her world centers on herself, and that is not a bad thing for those who serve her as long as they remember that. It pleases her to have her handmaidens be healthy, pretty, and adorned nearly as lavishly as herself. She likes them smiling and happy and enjoys giving them gifts and treats. Serve her well, put her at the center of
your
world, and your life here will be a very pleasant one.”

“And…those who serve the
khashima
poorly?”

A tendril of the dark, oiled hair had escaped the braid. Gently, Sahlik tucked it back in place with a gnarled hand.

“Yeshi once had a servant that was almost as close to her as a sister. When Yeshi found her trying on her cosmetics, she ordered the woman beaten and turned out onto the streets. The last I saw of her was her back, as she walked away from the House. Blood was beginning to seep into her white
rhia.
”

Kevla swallowed hard. “I will seek to please my mistress,” she said firmly.

“I'm sure you'll succeed. So, this is what you wear when you are serving Yeshi. Tahmu is forward-thinking for a
khashim,
and does not demand that his women constantly wear the veil, but there are times when tradition demands it. Have you ever worn a veil?”

“No, nor did my mother.”

This did not surprise Sahlik;
halaans
were hardly known for womanly modesty.

“The veil is to be worn when you venture anywhere outside the House or the healer's hut. And you must wear it to all formal functions that Yeshi asks you to attend. A simple way to remember the rule is, the men of the household may see your face, but male strangers may not.”

Kevla nodded her understanding. “Veils are pretty,” she said, somewhat wistfully.

“Yes, they are. Now, child. You should have something to eat. Then you will show me exactly what skills you know.”

 

They returned to the kitchens and Sahlik sat Kevla down beside one of the large tables. The girl sat as if glued to the bench, her thin body as upright as if she had a rake handle for a spine. Her eyes followed Sahlik's every move. Sahlik assembled some food on a plate, selected a small cutting knife, and poured watered wine into a chipped ceramic goblet.

Kevla's eyes grew almost as large as the beaten metal plate. She hesitated.

“Go on, you must be hungry,” Sahlik said. She was glad that this was a time when the normally bustling kitchens were quiet, although that was always a relative term.

Delicately, Kevla plucked a few grapes and popped them into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, then looked at Sahlik for approval.

“Good, good. Keep going.”

She didn't say anything as Kevla picked up a
paraah.
Kevla sniffed at it, then bit into it. She made a face, then quickly changed her expression as she tried to chew nonchalantly, as if the fruit were completely to her taste.

Sahlik chuckled. She took the
paraah
and cut it up as she spoke. “Spit that out, Kevla. No, no, into your linen. The first things you ate were grapes. This is a
paraah
. You'll need to either cut it up, like this, or peel it. Now, eat the inside, not the outside. Like this.”

Kevla watched her intently, her small, freshly cleaned fingers holding a
paraah
segment daintily, then imitated Sahlik. A shy smile lit up her face as she chewed.

Such a pretty thing,
Sahlik thought, and wished sadly that Kevla had been born in the right bed.

She took Kevla through holding and cutting meats, eating olives (she warned the girl ahead of time to be careful of the hard pit), sipping wine, and drinking soup. Each time, Kevla closed her eyes briefly, savoring each morsel. She ate much less than Sahlik had expected, and she told Kevla so.

The girl ducked her head, grinning sheepishly. “The great
khashim
bought me a meat pie at the marketplace,” she said, as if she were imparting a secret.

Sahlik threw back her head and laughed. “And here I thought you had a dainty appetite. You've surely had enough. So, now you know how to peel a
paraah
for Yeshi. Come to my quarters and let me see what else you know.”

 

Sahlik was pleasantly surprised. The child's hands, though small yet, were skilled in the art of massage. Although her own locks kept escaping the braid, Kevla was able to work Sahlik's graying, coarse hair into several different and attractive styles. Kevla could grind and mix henna, sing passably well (although all she knew were bawdy songs), and had a natural talent for dancing. Her little body moved with a lithe freedom and grace that Sahlik envied.

At one point, ready to see what Kevla could do with henna, Sahlik slid back the sleeve of her blue and gold
rhia
to expose her upper arm. Kevla gasped.

“What—oh. You have never seen a five-score before?”

Kevla shook her head, staring at the four old scars that rose on Sahlik's lower left arm. Gingerly, she reached to touch them, running a forefinger over their puckered, raised edges.

“There are only four,” she said.

“You can count. Good! How high?”

“As high as need be,” Kevla replied, still distracted by the four scars. “These are old.” She looked up at Sahlik. “Your service should be over. Why are you still here?”

“It is…a long story,” said Sahlik.

Kevla readied her tools and squatted beside Sahlik. As she began to scoop the ground plant paste from a bowl and apply it in a pattern to the older woman's arm, she said logically, “You must stay here for some time while I apply the henna and let it dry. There is time for quite a long story, I would think.”

Sahlik laughed at that. Kevla couldn't know how much she reminded Sahlik of Tahmu when he was young.

“You are certain it won't distract you? I would not like an ugly spot on my arm to compete with my scars.”

Kevla grinned and her eyes sparkled as they met Sahlik's. In a soft, pleasing voice, she said, “I will give you a beautiful pattern,
uhlala,
so that all eyes may fasten upon its exquisiteness and none will notice anything else.”

“Yes, I think you will please Yeshi greatly,” said Sahlik dryly. “Very well. Nearly thirty years ago, when I was but a young woman, I was one of many slaves captured in a battle by Tahmu's father, the great Rakyn.”

“May his name forever be spoken,” murmured Kevla. The polite phrase was always uttered when speaking of the honored dead.

“Yes, may it be so,” Sahlik replied, pleased. “I served him well and loyally, and for four years on the anniversary of my capture, as is the custom, he made a score on my arm. On the fifth year, Rakyn stood to make the fifth cut, but I told him to hold.”

Kevla continued to apply the henna with a steady hand, but Sahlik could almost feel how intently the girl was listening.

“‘Great
khashim
,' I said, ‘You have counted the years wrong.' He stared at me as if I had been
kuli
-cursed and was gibbering with madness. ‘With this last score, Sahlik, you go free,' he said. ‘But great Rakyn, I will be free to do what? Free to return to my husband, who loves his wine better than me? You have scored my arm, but you have never broken my bones. So I say again, with all respect: You have counted the years wrong.'”

“And what did he say?”

“He said, as he lowered the dagger, ‘The sun has dazzled my eyes. There are not four cuts on your arm, Sahlik. It seems I have counted the years wrong.' And neither he nor Tahmu has made a fifth score, and I continue to serve the House of Four Waters.”

“Sahlik is a bold woman,” said Kevla, finishing the design.

“Sahlik had nothing to lose,” Sahlik replied.

Kevla met her eyes, and to Sahlik, they seemed much older than her ten years.

“Neither does Kevla,” she said.

 

“My master?”

Tahmu looked up from the scroll he was perusing. Sahlik stood in the door. From the expression on her face, Tahmu knew exactly why she had come. He motioned her in. She closed the door behind her.