The Grace of Kings (51 page)

With the armada gone, a fleet of merchant and fishing ships came from Cocru to pick up Mata and
his
army—it no longer seemed necessary to pretend that the soldiers owed their allegiance to anyone but Mata.

King Thufi sent along congratulatory messages, which Mata threw away without even opening.

He was Mata Zyndu, the Butcher of Wolf's Paw. He had killed twenty thousand men with his sword and twenty thousand more with water. He was beyond the opinion of mere mortals like King Thufi. He was a god of death, and he made his own laws of war.

He would now go back to the Big Island and march through Thoco Pass into Pan, where he would crush Emperor Erishi and take what rightfully belonged to him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

THE HOUSEKEEPER

OUTSIDE ÇARUZA: THE TWELFTH MONTH IN THE FOURTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF RIGHTEOUS FORCE.

Lady Jia felt overwhelmed.

Not being of noble birth, she never could seem to break into the social scene at Çaruza. Kuni was too coarse and practical-minded for most of the
real
hereditary nobles and kings and ambassadors, and that was reflected in the way she was treated. While Phin had been alive, his special regard for her had elevated her status somewhat, but after his death, the few noble ladies she had thought were her friends soon grew cold and distant.

Though Mata called on her from time to time and made sure she and the children lacked nothing materially, his care didn't help much with her social life—Mata was stiff and aloof and more feared than liked by the lords and ladies of the court.

She gritted her teeth and tried to venture out to some of the parties in Çaruza on her own a few times, but she couldn't shake the feeling that the stately, great ladies looked down on her and made fun of her too-loud laughter, her homely merchant's-family phrases, her loose and easy and unrefined manners.

So she stayed away from the court and tried to find solace in her son.

But Toto-
tika
had a weak constitution and was often sickly, and he would cry and cry until he fell asleep from exhaustion. It had taken all her skill and knowledge of medicine to nurse him back to health and to keep him alive. She was also pregnant again, and the new baby inside her seemed equally demanding, as it kept her up at night and made her feel irritable and drained.
I suppose it makes sense,
thought Jia,
the baby is going to be born in the Year of the Deer, and it's already bounding around inside me like a high-spirited fawn.

The children seemed to require so much of her attention that she sometimes thought of them as akin to those legendary wraiths in the Gonlogi Desert who sucked travelers' blood until they fell down as empty husks.

Jia knew such thoughts were unbecoming in a mother, but she was beyond caring.

She had a sizable household staff, but most of the servant girls were war orphans who she had taken in out of pity. They were young and needed looking after themselves. Sometimes, Jia felt like one of those women who took in baby birds that had fallen out of their nests and stray cats who meowed for milk—she was happy they were around, but sometimes her compassion became a burden.

Thank goodness for Steward Otho Krin, who was solicitous and kind and seemed to crave her approval in everything he did. . . . Oh, who was she kidding? Jia understood what she really yearned for and was flattered by the attention. Truth be told, she sometimes admired his lanky form and shy but pretty eyes and imagined a secret tryst—but she'd quickly berate herself, blushing guiltily.

But he
was
very good at keeping the footmen and stablehands busy and useful so that all the household repairs and maintenance got done, so at least she didn't need to worry about that. Still, he was a man and could not help her with the thousands of little things that besieged her daily.

It was night. The baby was asleep and the house finally quiet. Jia felt the empty space next to her in bed and the ache in her heart. She closed her eyes and tried to reach across the miles and miles between herself and Kuni with her thoughts.

Letters from Kuni were sporadic and rare, like any reliable news from the front; she had heard nothing from him after he suddenly took off from Zudi without telling anyone where he was going. She realized this was the norm, not the exception, in their life: though they had married for a future of shared excitement, most of the time, Kuni went away and had adventures while she stayed behind with the children and the tedious weight of the quotidian. Where was “the most interesting thing” for her?

What are you up to, my husband? Are you thinking of me?

In a few hours she had to get up again and smile and keep up a stream of cheerful chatter all day. Everyone needed her; everyone depended on her; she was the one who had to be strong and sensible—­one day, she was sure she was going to be sucked dry and fall down where she stood.

She felt so alone. And a heated thought rose into her mind that she resented Kuni for leaving her behind like this. She felt bad immediately and tried to push the thought away, but that only made it linger and hurt worse.

I knew this was going to be hard. But this is the path I've chosen.

She began to cry, at first quietly, and then louder. She bit down on her pillow to stop the sounds from spilling out into the hallway.

Why do I feel so helpless?

She punched the pillow hard, hard enough that her knuckles hurt from the muffled contact with the solid coconut husk core buried in the seeds and herbs she had stuffed the pillow with to give herself better sleep. The pain, surprisingly,
did
make her feel better.

She punched the pillow a few more times, targeting where she could feel the sharp edges of the coconut husk; she winced. She shifted her punches to the sides a bit so that her fist fell into the seeds and crushed herbs; she felt better. At least she was in control of this, she smiled bitterly, tears on her face. She could control how much pain she got from punching her pillow.

Her smile froze.

I've been allowing myself to lose control.

She was in the middle of a maelstrom, and she was at risk of drowning. But she had to find a spar, a piece of driftwood, to hang on to. Then she would climb up and navigate her way out.

She needed to make choices again, to feel she was the master of her own fate.

The door slid open, and she stepped out of the room quietly. Noiselessly, she made her way down the hall, around the corner, to the front wing, and then she slid open another door with a barely audible creak.

She tapped the figure in the dark on the shoulder. It stirred, mumbled, and turned to go back to sleep.

She tapped the shoulder harder and whispered in the dark, “Wake up, Otho.”

Otho Krin rolled over and rubbed his eyes. “What . . . what time is it?”

“It's me, Jia.”

Otho sat up immediately. “Lady Jia! What are you doing here?”

Jia took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around him in a deep embrace. Otho stiffened.

“Don't be alarmed,” said Jia, her voice gaining confidence as she continued to speak. “I have decided on something that will make me happy, something I choose for just myself.”

“You have?” came Otho's muffled response.

Jia laughed quietly. Paradoxically, perhaps insanely, she no longer resented Kuni. She felt alive, in control; she felt she was swimming toward a spar, a glimmer of hope.

She sat back and began to undress Otho in the dark.

“No!” Otho protested. But then he stopped struggling. “Surely this is a dream,” he mumbled. “Is Lady Rapa rewarding me with a lovely dream?”

“This is no dream,” said Jia. “We will justify it another time. It's enough for now to know that sometimes we need to hang on to each other as tightly as possible simply to remember that we are still alive, that we choose our fates, whatever the gods have planned for us.”

And they lay down together in the darkness, their bodies sliding against each other hungrily, desperately, their mouths meeting in urgent kisses that sought time and timelessness in equal measure.

“Let it be known that I am looking for a housekeeper,” Jia said.

“A housekeeper?” Steward Otho Krin asked. He could sense there was something different about her this morning—further evidence that last night had not been a dream.

Jia looked at him in the eyes—there was no awkwardness, no embarrassment in her gaze. She smiled. “I've been feeling too isolated. I want a companion: someone who can help me with women's tasks and be my friend.”

Otho Krin nodded. This was the Jia he had fallen in love with, the woman who had awed him and showed him what was possible in the world. He would always be loyal to her and be discreet, of course, but he had shared a night with her. He had. The joy in his heart was indescribable.

He bowed and left.

At the door stood a middle-aged woman who radiated efficiency from the top of her hair knot—not a single strand out of place—to the uppers of her embroidered cloth shoes—the hand stitches tight and neat like a line of marching ants.

“My name is Soto,” she said.

“You have experience with large households?”

“I grew up in a very large house,” Soto said. “I know some tricks.” She appraised Jia.

Though she tried to speak like a commoner, Jia noted the refined accent and the formal way Soto held herself: There was none of the ingratiating bowing and scraping a real servant would have used to her potential mistress.

She liked Soto immediately.

“Çaruza is filled with many noble houses,” Jia said. “Many of them look on me with contempt. It's not a good stepping-stone to a better position in the future.”

“If I wanted to live in houses run by spoiled children who are too old to spank,” replied Soto evenly, “I would have knocked on those doors.”

Jia laughed, and the hint of a smile appeared on Soto's face. Soto's contempt for Çaruza's aristocrats made Jia guess she was the daughter of a minor Cocru noble family who had fallen on hard times.

“Welcome to the house of Duke Garu. I hope you and Steward Otho Krin get along. I'm just about at my wit's end.”

Soto turned out to be an efficient but kind housekeeper, and soon Jia's house hummed along like a well-oiled machine.

She took the most responsible servant girls and had them take turns taking care of the baby during the day so that Jia could be freed up. The servant girls learned useful domestic skills from her that would stand them in good stead for future employment, while the stablehands and footmen appreciated her gentle touch and eye for details. She took care of things that Steward Krin never bothered with—such as making sure to give everyone an extra egg on the festival days.

And Soto told such wonderful stories about the old days before the Conquest! Even Jia sometimes was mesmerized when Soto spun one of her yarns about the old Cocru aristocracy for the enter­tainment of the servants in the kitchen. Jia thought most of the stories Soto told were probably made up, but she sprinkled them with so many delicious and scandalous details that she wished they were true.

They took walks together in the Cocru countryside: along the beach, over the plains, up and down the hills. Soto was interested in Jia's herbal collection and asked intelligent questions as Jia happily showed her the various seaweeds, flowers, grasses, and shrubs and explained their diverse virtues. She also asked after the history between Jia and Kuni, and Jia happily told her all about Kuni's less well-known exploits.

In return, Soto told Jia many stories of Cocru's past that were tragic, serious, and romantic—like the one about Prime Minister Lurusén, the famous poet, who had drowned himself in the Liru River because King Thoto refused to listen to his counsel to not trust Xana's overtures of peace.