City of Blaze (The Fireblade Array) (4 page)

Caala had warned her to stay out of sight of the army soldiers. Apparently they liked to visit the new female servants in the cellars as a form of sport, though they seemed to like the old servants just as well. Besides, the noblewomen behaved equally as badly. Everyone in this castle seemed to be preoccupied with sex. Whatever happened to reading a nice book or playing a game of kernels? Not that very many could read. She had spent two long, tiresome weeks teaching Caala some basic letters and sounds. Caala was over two-hundred years old and she had only just read her first word. Such a waste of a mind.

She wondered if the blond man at the fountain could read. By the look of him it seemed unlikely; he probably spent more time waving his sword about in the hope of arousing silly women. The green-eyed man had given the impression of some meagre intelligence through his reticence. That or he was too stupid to string a sentence together. He was the kahr, after all. The next bundle of sheets lay in front of her, menacing with their grey, beige and black threads that seemed to weave in impossible patterns she could not comprehend. Artemi caught them up in her arms and trudged over to a free washing bowl. Washing linen had to be the most boring task ever created. She began scrubbing in as ill-tempered a manner as she could get away with. At least the sheets would not try to charm her with a big, shiny weapon.

She worked her way through the rest of the washing allotted to her, finishing as the sun descended behind the dark grey walls of the courtyard. The stones glittered in places but the effect of a whole wall of them was still dreadfully overbearing.

Artemi interlocked her fingers in the air above her head and stretched as far as she could. The tightness in her muscles evaporated with instantaneous effect. She straightened her dress and made her way to leave the courtyard, which had lost its noise just as it had lost light. Most of the other servants and benay-gosa had departed with their blocks of colour. The children had gone inside long ago in search of food; the tower guards had dissipated bar one, who was now pacing the perimeter. The blond man had joined the nobles for a while, unashamedly bare-chested, before moving indoors with them. She wondered at the politics of those people and if any of it actually affected her. The thought made her shiver, remembering her father’s favourite book on leadership: “Power is rarely in the hands of those capable or deserving,” the first paragraph had declared.

The stairs down to the servants’ chamber were protracted and twisted, carved from the bedrock upon which Cadra was built. Each step had been worn by hundreds of years of footfalls to such an extent that they dipped sharply in the middle. In places the ceiling came down so close to Artemi’s head that even she had to stoop. It amused her that the amorous soldiers would practically have to crawl through here to get to their women, though most would probably use their own rooms. She ran her hand along the polished walls as she descended: cold and glassy. The air cooled considerably, cloaking even the heat from the stand lamps that hid among the stones. She folded her arms and thought of the fire in her father’s house. Less of a house, really: perhaps more of a room. At least it had been warmer and more inviting than this dungeon.

A pale whiff of smoke touched her nostrils as she approached the main chamber. Firewood and other flammable materials remained rare down here, so it tended to stay cold and smoke-free. In the exceptional instances when there were items to burn, everyone would crowd around the flame event as if it were a roast boar, filled with roast chickens. It was something of a social occasion. The black tunnel opened into the main hollow of the cellars. Its shape was uneven, asymmetrical and longer than it was wide. Leading from it were smaller cavities and hollows, all intricately interconnected. Each miniature chamber was a lodging of sorts, divided by smooth mud walls and curving pillars. This network of dens extended for a mile underground. Artemi had become lost in them on a handful of occasions, happening upon some unfortunately embarrassing situations.

Privacy was afforded by hanging strips of cloth over one’s chamber but, if yours was badly situated enough to be part of a main thoroughfare, there wasn’t much point.

Smooth pits in the mud walls held the feeble yellow light of stand lamps, and these were dotted around the main gallery. A few rays spilled out from the chambers that were occupied, the illumination lifting out the pits of the floor as if they were peaks. Thankfully the toilet block had been sealed with wooden doors in the last few weeks, which served to contain most of the smell. Artemi doubted that work had been completed at the request of a servant.

The overriding aspect of the servants’ cellar, however, the greatest assault on the senses, was the noise. It wasn’t chatter, movement, snoring, building or laughter. It was the sound of distress: crying, howling, whimpering and moaning. At any one time a large proportion of the servants were suffering
nalka
. It had taken days for Artemi to grow tolerant of the sound. Sometimes in the night she would be awoken by a particularly vocal casualty. The entire situation was barbaric.

She stepped toward the centre of the main chamber, where a crowd had gathered in a tight circle, idly wondering what was on the burning menu today. Maybe a pair of Lord Forllan’s shoes, or his smug head, if they were lucky! There was just enough space for her to squeeze to the front of the group. In the centre, enveloped in hot orange flames, was a pitch-soaked log. Artemi could not conceive of who could have obtained such a treat and how. The flames emanating from it were wonderfully hypnotic. She enjoyed the warmth for a few moments, savoured it, and then wove her way back out of the circle.

Her own hollow was quite deeply embedded in the network. It would take her several minutes to reach it with no obstructions. She cut through the intervening chambers, carefully keeping her eyes on the course she needed to follow. Every five-or-so yards there was a small, circular hole in the ceiling; too small to fit your hand inside. During the day these acted just as the light wells in the city, and while they were surprisingly effective illuminators, they carried plenty of the cold air with them. Her feet made a scraping noise on the mud floor as she walked, setting a rhythm to the undulating wails. Another turn to the left brought her to her room, which was a little way off from the main routes and thus slightly more private. She drew a tattered curtain across the two entrances.

Inside there was just enough space for a bed, made up from an old roll mat and a soft red blanket. In the corner was a foot-high, moulded fireplace. Blazes knew when that was last used. Caala said the chimneys had been blocked-off long ago, their openings taunting reminders of better days when servants were appreciated.

Another linen maid had occupied the room before Artemi, but had been forced to vacate it when the king had placed his red scarves upon her. Benay-gosa accommodation was probably far better-appointed, though one rarely enjoyed it for long, Artemi mused. She loosened the lacing at the back of her blue dress and slipped it off. She could think of nothing more wonderful than diving under that red blanket, which she did, eagerly. Her eyes dropped shut and she slipped into semi-consciousness; her head full of thoughts of scarves and tall men.

“Wake up!”

Was that in a dream or real?

“Artemi, love. Open your bloody eyes!” Caala was standing above her, hands upon broad hips.

Artemi screwed her face up. It was still dark and she needed some sleep! “What?” she managed to utter.

“What’ve you got yourself into, young lady? Didn’t I tell you to stay out of sight of those men? You know very well what will bloody well happen. I thought you would behave differently but, no, instead you paraded yourself around the main courtyard and decided to be smart to one of them!” Caala sat grumpily against the wall and drew her knees up. It was not possible to see her eyes in what little light there was, making her age a mysterious quantity. She looked the same as she had at twenty-five, if perhaps a little wider.

Artemi sat up and attempted to organise her hair. “I just sai-”

“I overheard him talking about you. Lord Forllan, of all people. Said this pretty red-headed girl had come up to him and shamed him for not doing his own washing.”

“All the washing was to be done outside today. I just... bumped into him.” Artemi tried to look as innocent as possible.

Caala took a deep breath. “Well, now you have to be on your guard. He knows your blazed name and thinks that you are
feisty
.” Her mouth twisted with the last word. “What if he takes you in front of the king and
he
takes a shine to you? That’ll be the end of you, my girl! Bloody... bloody blazes!”

Artemi reached an arm around her friend. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be careful, I promise.” She tried to smile in an encouraging manner. “Do you want to do a little more reading tonight?”

Caala looked up and nodded. She pulled a candle out from one of her infinite pockets, stood and collected a flame from the next chamber. Artemi reached over to her two volumes. “I think we should tackle a bit of
Achellon
tonight, don’t you? After all, it’s supposed to be where ‘The Bloody Blazes’ came from.”

Chapter 2

Silar opened the leaded casement of his bedroom window and looked out onto the gardens below. They weren’t particularly elaborate or impressive, and very little light made its way into them. Their design was governed by the same ethic as the rest of the castle: grey simplicity. He exhaled heavily through his nose and pulled his mouth tight. At least there were women here, flashes of beauty inside a dark prison cell. He turned his head to look back into his rooms, where he saw the tapered spears that protruded from each corner of the bed and the sleeping area that was a pile of rumpled white sheets with pillows scattered about. Silar smiled lazily to himself as he walked up to one of the corner lances and leant against it.

His eyes followed the sinuous curves and folds of the linen. He reached out a hand and ran it gently between the ridges, causing the sheets to rework their creases and stir as they moved sideways. A dishevelled mass of brown curls emerged from the far end. It turned groggily and flopped to the pillow below once more, grunting as it did so. Silar stepped softly to the side of the bed and settled on the edge. He pulled some of the dark curls away from Lady Allain’s face and kissed her cheek. A smile touched her lips; she opened her eyes and serenely sat up to face him.

“Are you on duty today?” she uttered in a husky voice, pulling her hair over her shoulders.

“No. But I do have many meetings, starting with King Acher. I’ll be late if I don’t leave soon.” He ran his fingers along her collar bone and down her shoulder. Shoulders truly were a most satisfactory area on a woman.

“I suppose I had better get out of your bed then. And put some clothes on.”

“There’s really no need for clothes.” Silar grinned.

The lady pushed down the covers and swept both legs over one of his. He put an arm around her small waist and rose, bringing her elegantly to her feet.

“I ought to dance with you at the next feast day.” she said, turning from him and walking towards her crumpled undergarments.

“I’ll hold you to that, my lady.” He examined her behind and the curved arch of her back that led to it. She bent down to reach for her clothing, and consequently he swallowed a large amount of air. She was teasing him and there was no time for any of it. He clenched his jaw but did not tear his eyes from her.

“Do you need some help with those?” he ventured.

She said nothing but turned halfway towards him, wearing a small smile. It prompted Silar to fold his arms and properly assess her figure. Her skin was dark and sleek like taut silk. The sides of her full breasts were now visible to him, and they moved as her arms entered the sleeves of her shift. Bosoms were curious things: most of the time they appeared to have very little purpose other than to please men. Silar snorted as he recalled Beetan’s short and somewhat earthy word for them:
norks
. Wherever had that come from?

Lady Allain looked at Silar quizzically and then returned to dressing herself. She raised her yellow silk gown over her head to slide it onto her body, where it hugged her curves quite admirably. Crossing the floor to reach her with feigned laziness, he began doing up the small buttons at her back. He was becoming very practised at these. Once he had finished fastening her bodice, he went to fetch a clean shirt from the wardrobe. The clothing smelled faintly of the laundry soap, a fragrance very specific to Cadra. He turned and donned the shirt, deftly crossing one half over the other before tucking the edges into his trousers. By the time The Lady Allain had gone to stand by the door, she truly looked rather respectable.

He tilted his head to regard her. “Have you ever considered becoming a red head, my lady?”

Lady Allain frowned a little. “Not really. Do you think it would suit me?”

He strode up to her and kissed her deeply. “Perhaps. Shall I see you this evening?”