Rise of a Hero (The Farsala Trilogy) (10 page)

P
LEASE, SIR
, I’
M NEEDING
work.” Soraya had never tried to speak with a peasant accent before—Sudaba would have skinned her alive if she had—but she’d been practicing on the road for several weeks. She feared she was overdoing it, but hopefully the Hrum wouldn’t be able to tell. And she prayed there would be no real Farsalan peasants in the Hrum camp to give her away.

In the months she had dwelled with the Suud, Soraya had learned that despite their primitive technology they had a strong code of personal honor—stronger than that of many deghans. Farsalan peasants were another matter. Soraya
had no idea whether she could trust them, but she wasn’t about to bet on it.

It had taken weeks for Soraya to catch up with the Hrum’s main army, and if they hadn’t stopped to make a permanent camp outside Setesafon, she might not have reached them still. She’d been surprised that they hadn’t occupied the gahn’s palace. The Hrum commander—“Governor” Garren, he called himself, as if all Farsala was no more than a city!—claimed that he wouldn’t take possession of “his” palace till his right to do so was established beyond all doubt.

The country folk, from whom Soraya had heard the story, said it was more likely that the palace had been so damaged in the fighting that tents made a better lodging—that Garren would be moving himself in the moment there was enough of a roof to keep him dry, right or no right.

When she approached the sentries at the perimeter of the Hrum encampment, Soraya had feared she would have to meet with the new governor, but instead a young soldier had taken her to the camp’s ordnancer.

“What work have you had before . . . Sani, is it?”

“Yes, sir.” She bobbed her head awkwardly, swinging her hair even farther over her face. The ordnancer was in his forties, a balding man, with a face she’d have thought kind if he hadn’t been a Hrum officer—and if his gaze, taking in the ragged, too-large skirt and blouse she’d bought from a used-clothing barrel, hadn’t been so shrewd.

“I’ve mostly worked as a kitchen girl,” said Soraya. “I can peel and chop, and fetch and carry.” In truth she had very little idea what went on in kitchens, but surely they peeled and chopped things.

“Why did you leave your old job?”

Soraya blinked. Why should he care? Wasn’t it enough that she needed a new job now? But she sensed no suspicion in the emotions that reached her—just a hint of patience. “The family I worked for, they were . . .” She was about to say “burned out,” when she remembered that the Hrum had burned very little. “They weren’t a high house, you understand, not one of the twelve, but they had money. Some city property. They feared they’d be losing it all when the army came, so they sold up and fled to Kadesh. But they only took the
upper servants with them. They said they could hire Kadeshi, probably cheaper than us.”

If Sudaba had had the sense to flee, that was what she would have done, so it should ring true. Soraya herself would never have given a thought to the plight of undergrooms and kitchen girls. She ran her hands down the shabby skirt. There were patches where her knees hit the fabric, and the over-large garments made her look as if she’d lost even more weight than the weeks on the road had actually cost her.

“I see,” said the ordnancer thoughtfully. “You’re not afraid of the army?”

“I need work, sir. And I heard . . . I heard that the army’s been leaving our women alone.” It was true, and Soraya thanked Azura for it—had she heard otherwise her resolve might have failed. This was frightening enough as it was.

“Very well.” The ordnancer sounded like a man who has just made up his mind. “As it happens, we’re short of kitchen help. As the army spreads out, we usually hire from the local populace, but very few Farsalans have approached us for work.”

Good.
Soraya managed not to say it aloud.

“So I’ve . . . I’m being hired?” Curse this ridiculous accent! Where was Ahriman, the djinn of lies, when you needed him?

“We’ll try you for a month,” the ordnancer corrected her. “If you’ve worked well during that period, then we’ll hire you.”

“I’m to work a month without pay?” Soraya asked in confusion. Surely that couldn’t be right.

“No, no, we’ll pay you, and provide food and shelter, but you won’t receive a ranking till you’ve earned it.”

“Ranking? But I just want kitchen work!” And that didn’t sound at all humble. “Sir,” she added quickly.

The ordnancer laughed. “You’ve got a great deal to learn about us, Sani, but for a start, I’m Ordnancer Reevus. I know it’s a mouthful, but we’re fussy about rank here, and ‘sir’ is for regular officers.”

“Yes, si—Ordnancer Reevus.” Her tongue stumbled on the unfamiliar word. She had already noted that the sentries had spoken good Faran; the ordnancer barely had an accent.

Hopefully she could learn what she needed and depart before the fact that she didn’t sound
like a Farsalan peasant became obvious. Should she have claimed to come from some distant village, with a different accent? Too late now. Soraya bit her lip.

“Don’t worry, girl,” said Ordnancer Reevus, mistaking the cause of her concern. “We’ll teach you. For now, all you need to do is work hard and obey the cooks. You’ll be paid three of your Farsalan iron coins—mares, is it?—a week.”

Only three mares?
But Reevus was smiling, as if he’d offered a very good wage.

“That’ll be . . . being fine, sir, um, Ordnancer Reevus.”

“Come with me, then, and I’ll introduce you to the kitchen master.”

Reevus talked about the Hrum army camp as they walked through it, explaining that each unit was organized by tens, hundreds, and then into a tacti, a thousand men, which was the largest unit of the army. Soraya cared nothing about the Hrum, but she was surprised by the camp, then reluctantly impressed, and finally amazed. It was so big! She’d known the Hrum army was large, but just walking from the perimeter to the central square where the kitchen tents were located seemed to
take forever. It was bigger than most Farsalan towns, though no town she’d ever seen was laid out in such neat squares, with wide, flat roads between them. Even some of the soldier’s tents had wooden walls built halfway up their sides, and the entire square, when they finally reached it, was surrounded by buildings, bright with the glow of new timber. Accustomed to seeing even peasant homes built of stone, the wooden walls looked somehow unfinished. Impermanent. But still, they were buildings, and the Hrum army had been here less than two months!

Soraya was walking backward, gawking at a man who was driving a flock of ducks across the square, when Reevus reached out and yanked her out of the way of a lumbering oxcart.

The driver was speaking Hrum, so Soraya couldn’t tell exactly what he said, but she thought the gist was, “Keep your half-witted servant girls off the road.” Reevus replied in the same language, defending her, to judge by the carter’s scowl.

“I’m sorry,” Soraya mumbled, looking down so her hair hid her face.

“It’s no matter,” said Reevus calmly, taking her arm to steer her onward. “It’s natural you should
be curious—our camp is new to you. But keep an eye on where you’re going. This is a busy place.”

He kept hold of her arm to assure that she would. Given her recent behavior, Soraya could hardly blame him—and if keeping hold of her like that was intolerably rude by deghan standards, well, he didn’t know she was a deghass. And the square was surprisingly busy.

“Is . . . is this a market day?” she asked. Sounding like a credulous country girl came easily now.

Reevus laughed. “No, we don’t hold markets. But we’re doing a bit of building, so it’s busier than usual.”

A bit of building. By the summer’s end they’d have a town. But they would need a town, Soraya realized. They were here to stay. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. There was nothing she could do about the Hrum. She was here to learn where Merdas and Sudaba had been sent, so she could follow and free them, and then take them to live safely with the Suud. If it took time, then she’d have patience. And courage, and endurance, and anything else it took.

The kitchens, and the meal tent where the
soldiers ate, took up the whole south side of the square. And if the square had been chaos, the largest kitchen was bedlam. Men and women raced back and forth with baskets and trays, cleavers thudded into cutting boards and everyone seemed to be shouting—in Hrum, of course.

Reevus wove through the mob, still gripping her arm, until he came to a stop before a short man with curly dark hair, who was inspecting a barrel of cabbages. At the sight of Reevus, he burst into furious speech—in Hrum.

Reevus had let go of her elbow, and Soraya fought down a shameful impulse to burrow against his side.

“I’ve brought you some help,” he said cheerfully, in Faran. “Unless you frighten her to death. Stop ranting, man. This is Sani. She’s worked as a kitchen girl—midsized household, from the sound of it. I’ve taken her on for a month’s probation. Sani, this is Kitchen Master Hennic.”

“Ha!” The short man looked her up and down. Soraya felt her cheeks grow warm and looked away. “She is . . . What is the word? Scrawny. She is scrawny. You sorry for her.”

Soraya glared.

Reevus laughed and said something in Hrum. The cook snorted and eyed her sharply. “So, kitchen girl. Can you cook? Or is it just rough work?”

Rough work?
“I can’t cook,” Soraya admitted.

“Humph. Hands are hands. If no other choice, I take what is given. Here, girl, you will start with pots.”

He grabbed her elbow and led her off. She looked over her shoulder at Reevus, who smiled and made shooing gestures.

Pots?
The kitchen master led her through an open doorway in the back of the building, and into a dirty-looking, fenced yard, turning toward one corner. She’d already admitted she couldn’t cook, so what could she be doing with . . . Pots. A pile, a mountain, of huge iron kettles, filthy with the remains of various porridges, stews, and shit, for all Soraya knew. She flinched.

“Scrape into the midden troughs first,” said Hennic briskly. “Then get hot water from the
fur
—the big tanks. Over there.” He gestured to the west. “The man there will give you soap. Scrub with that brush, rinse, and rinse again—with
hot
water—and pour into that trench.” He pointed to
a small ditch with a trickle of water running along the bottom. From five yards away she could smell it. And she didn’t even want to touch those pots.

“I do
not
 . . .”
No. Merdas, just three years old
. Soraya took a deep breath. She had seen Golnar wash dishes. She had curried horses. How bad could it be? “I don’t know what to scrape them with.”

“This.” Hennic handed her a flat wooden disk with a thick edge designed for a grip. “I will
hubar
—will look close at the pots when you finish.”

He turned and stamped off, leaving Soraya staring at the pile. She stepped closer, and peered gingerly into the nearest kettle. Bean paste of some sort. At least, she hoped it was bean paste. And if Sudaba would have fainted to see her doing this, well, so much the better. Soraya gritted her teeth, picked up the kettle, and hauled it over to the midden trough. The trough was half full of leaves and peelings and bits of bone and gristle, and already smelled rotten. Would she have to eat the food that produced this mess?

She would eat it, and smile, and pretend to be grateful for it if she had to. A deghass didn’t let anything stop her.

Scraping the pots took a long time, and when she was finished, her hands and arms were covered with things Soraya preferred not to think about.

The hot-water tanks, set up in an open yard to the west, were quite ingenious. Eight bronze tanks, each one larger than a big horse’s body, perched on stone walls about three feet high. They each had a funnel at one end where water could be added, and a tap on the end of a long pipe emerged from the other. Beneath them, beds of embers glowed, and logs burned in the center of several fire pits.

“Delfi emma quan, amas?”
The man who came around the side of one of the tanks was even shorter than the cook, only a bit taller than Soraya herself. His hair was graying, but his face wasn’t too lined, and his smile was open and easy.

Soraya found herself smiling back, despite her aching arms. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Hrum.”

The man’s brows rose. “Farsalan? You’re the first they’ve hired. At least . . .” Doubt shadowed his expressive face.

“Yes, I was hired,” Soraya assured him. “But if I’m the only one, where did you learn such good Faran? Everyone seems to speak it.”

“Well, it’s required,” said the man. “Put your kettle under the tap there. Out a bit more, that’s it. Whenever the army goes into a new country, everyone is required to learn the language—so the soldiers can understand what the people around them are saying.”

He took a cloth, folded it several times, and used it to protect his hand as he turned the tap. Steaming water gushed out, and Soraya made a mental note not to touch any part of the tanks with her bare hands.