Chapter 4 – A Cheerful Busybody #5
She found Master Didion by the shell of the library, which was currently connected to the rest of the house by the skeleton of a corridor.
It would be a glorious structure, when it was done, with vaulted ceilings, miles of curving shelves, and sculptures and murals enough to employ dozens of artists and artisans.
“A Segoile-trained cook? Here?” Master Didion asked at once, seizing on the most exciting part of her question.
“Well, I know she joined my mother’s household in the capital,” Ophele said, wondering if cooks fell under the Court of Artisans and if there was a sash.
And suddenly, looking at Master Didion, she really understood that her mother had been the Emperor’s mistress.
Not his wife. And Master Didion was old enough that he might have been there in Segoile, when all of it was happening.
Ophele suddenly felt as if she had flung open the doors of her wardrobe to publicly display her chemises.
“…possibly please me more!” Master Didion was saying.
“I believe the masons have just finished, so it should be quite safe to offer you a tour, my lady, provided you allow me to solicit Mistress Bessin’s opinion.
Any cook put forward by the offices of the Emperor is assuredly of the highest quality, subtle and sublime.
How I have longed for the cuisine of the capital! ”
Master Didion enjoyed his alliteration. But it pleased her to think Azelma would be so respected for her own sake, and while Master Didion was effusive in his compliments when they met again later that afternoon, he was also quite serious about consulting her opinion.
“We shall have to smooth this path out,” he noted, offering his arm to the elderly woman as they moved around the steep trail at the back of the manor.
Azelma looked much refreshed after a wash and rest, and ready to set straight to work.
“The servants’ quarters are still under construction, please mind your head… ”
Ophele had rarely visited the back of the house herself, and looked with some awe at the towering edifice, where three underground levels were excavated from the back of the hill.
The kitchens, bakeries, butteries, and pantries would be on the level immediately below the main house, to help keep it heated and ensure food did not get cold in transit.
Davi had to redirect her more than once as she twisted her head back to look up at the wide banks of windows overlooking the river, which would let some natural light into the lower house.
“It’s big enough, isn’t it?” Azelma observed as they stood in the huge empty kitchen, a vast cavern of brick and plaster and wooden beams forming a wide grid in the high ceiling. “You might fit a cow on one of those spits.”
“His Grace will be feeding a great many people one day,” Master Didion said, puffing at the prospect.
“He’ll need a proper army to do it,” Azelma agreed, and Ophele was pleased just to listen as Master Didion questioned her about the operation required. As duchess, she did not need to know such details, but oh, to think Azelma could be here, to help Remin set a table as fine as the Emperor’s…
“…and we must of course consult Her Grace’s preferences,” Master Didion added courteously. He always remembered to ask at least once.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ophele said with a start. “I don’t know much about running kitchens. But I should like it to be…comfortable, please. Weren’t you always saying those hard floors pained your back, Azelma? And poor Alcide and Clio always came out of the scullery looking as if they’d been boiled.”
“That is a consideration,” Master Didion agreed. “There are some comforts I might show you today, my lady. Mistress Bessin, this way, if you please, and mind the troughs of plaster…”
If the servants’ quarters were not quite so fine as the rooms upstairs, they were at least going to be warm and comfortable.
The plastering was not nearly so far advanced downstairs, but Ophele could see the frames of wide halls and generously sized rooms, with suites granted to higher-ranking servants like Adelan and the eventual housekeeper.
“And Mistress Bessin, though the cook’s rooms are usually nearer the kitchen,” Master Didion said, pleased with the arrangements. “Much of the décor from upstairs will be echoed down here, my lady, wooden floors and beams, and these long hallways will be perfect for the paintings we discussed.”
“Remin said he wants the servants to be comfortable, and proud of their House,” Ophele explained to Azelma, trying not to sound as if she were boasting. She failed utterly.
“I’m sure we all shall be, Your High—my lady,” Azelma said, squeezing Ophele’s wrist as she let herself be helped up the steps to the first floor, which were shallow and wide, to allow the safe transportation of heavy loads.
They finished their tour just in time to see Remin, Miche, and Justenin at the front door, stomping back into boots that Samin had just finished cleaning.
“Oh, there you are, wife,” said Remin, rising promptly for a visual inspection. “You were downstairs?”
“Yes, Master Didion was showing us the kitchen and the servants’ quarters,” she said, catching his arm impulsively. “Azelma knows all about how a proper kitchen is run, isn’t it marvelous? She can tell us just how it ought to be set up.”
“It will be good to have the benefit of her experience,” he replied, and Ophele was too pleased to catch the acidity in his words.
“I’ll have Wen send supper up tonight, wife.
We cannot ask Mistress Bessin to begin straightaway.
And…Mistress Bessin,” he said, turning his head to rest cool black eyes upon her.
“Miche has told me of some of your kindnesses to my wife. You have my gratitude.”
“I wish there had been more of them, my lord,” Azelma replied, a slightly perplexing reply that made Ophele glance between them, wondering. Remin only squeezed her hand.
“I’ve some matters to discuss with Miche and Juste, wife. It may be a late night.”
“It will be a late night,” Miche said, with a wink for Ophele that made her smile. “Master Didion, a pleasure as always. Do something about those blasted steps, won’t you?”
* * *
There were some discussions that could only be held with discretion. Dangerous conferences in closed rooms, held in whispers with guards at the doors. Sacred secrets that could only be confided over a campfire, beneath the light of stars.
Other conversations were best suited to the confines of an outdoor Benkki Desan bath, with Master Balad at a discreet distance, steam drifting into the cold air, and lanterns glowing, warm and golden.
And alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.
“…four hundred and ninety miles,” Remin was saying heavily, and not for the first time. “It takes a month to get to Selgin, and that’s with strong men and good horses. He might have five hundred people to bring back, what was I thinking?”
“You were thinking it was Huber.” Miche jabbed Remin with his cup. “Fucking Huber.”
“Fucking Huber,” agreed Tounot, lifting his cup for a toast.
All of Remin’s men had their strengths. Huber was the dark horse, metaphorically and literally: a worker of miracles, turning up when he was most needed and least expected.
Tounot was the one for a song, when his heart wasn’t broken.
If Edemir had been there, he would’ve been the one sober enough to get everyone home, and slipping a few extra sovs into Master Balad’s hand for his trouble.
Juste would listen for hours, if a man wanted to talk.
And if Miche had been willing to own a skill, it was this: knowing when to get them drunk and let them complain.
“You didn’ see the devils.” Remin was on his way to being well and truly inebriated. “We didn’ see ’em either. There’s new devils, did you know?”
“One for sure,” agreed Auber, floating on his back in the steaming water and naked as a jay. He lifted a finger, then considered it and raised another. “Maybe two.”
“Is there really?” Miche asked, shocked.
“It could be more than two,” said Juste without lifting his head.
Miche had always found it strangely apt that the upright Juste was the first to keel over, when drunk; not unconscious, just boneless, as if whatever stiffened his spine was soluble in alcohol.
“One of which has poisonous quills. Like a porcupine. It is quite fascinating, there was an experiment with a goat—”
“Thass the devil that destroyed Nandre,” Remin said, as Juste trailed off into contemplative mumbling.
And though the stars knew Remin had excuse to be a brooding sort of fellow, and Miche would’ve thought less of any man who wasn’t bothered by the destruction of two villages so far, this wouldn’t do at all.
“But you sent Huber,” he repeated. “’Member that day by the Herugel Pass, the day before we meant to march on the fort?
He went for a piss in the morning and didn’t come back, and we all thought a devil got him or he’d been captured or fell off the side of the mountain?
And he came back that night with a hundred prisoners. The whole fucking enemy scout force.”
“He made them tie themselves up,” Remin said reminiscently.
He was sprawled against the stone side of the bath with his huge arms outstretched, his big chest heaving with a sigh.
Beside him were multiple trays filled with the sharp, heady spirit Benkki Desans brewed from some lethal white berry, sloshed into tiny wooden cups that were barely big enough for a good gulp.
Miche had begun the night by challenging Tounot to see who could empty more of a tray.
Shit, Tounot.
Shaking his head to clear it, Miche fumbled about and hauled him out of the water by his hair. Tounot kept wanting to slide under.
“He’s gonna build a village next to mine,” Tounot slurred. “He said village ’cause fuck towns. Bottom part of the Talfel Plateau, he wants it for horses. Said he’d trade me horses for food.”