CHAPTER FOUR
S he did not expect the main road to be barren; yet she was not prepared for so much traffic either. Marching guards, clusters of elegantly attired women. Men of obvious repute and the well-mannered servants who attended to them, two steps behind. Silken coat sheep pulled carts, their wavy fur covering their eyes. There were chariots led by elks no longer young enough to serve as military mounts.
In the same brown cloak as the one hanging long over her frame were other couriers. The robe’s high white collar made them easy to spot.
She mustn’t clutch the scroll like it was stolen. She mustn’t scurry or look over her shoulder. She’d be seen by Lady Elswyth and her staff. When she went back to the hall, the expected duty had been completed. She knew how it worked. She had begged Aldney to describe it many times. There would be confusion, but she would not be kicked back. The oncoming harvest moon festival was with her.
Still, Petra stepped onto the road like an alarm of horns and drums might explode. Her prior status did not permit her to appear on the thoroughfare. Somehow, she feared the magic courier cloak, offering her all she wanted within the city, was a cruel joke. In no less than ten steps, it would fall off and expose her.
Don’t dawdle!
Turning left onto the road, the vague outline of the grand palace in front of her, she kept her focus on the signs at the gate of each hall and palace, trying not to gawk.
She belonged here. Her determination to clear her brother’s name gave her the right.
Into the front pouch of the robe, sewn at the chest, she slid the scroll and fastened the loop closure to keep it secure.
Over the high stone walls of the city, the wind swept and tumbled downwards, hitting the cobbled road, and fracturing outwards. It caught scents from the kitchens, gardens, and the constant burning incense from the grand palace. It swept alongside conversations, hoping to carry secrets.
Inwardly, Petra steeled herself. She must not give away the thrills of being here. Beneath her feet, the stones were clean and smooth, placed at angles to create a mosaic depiction of the rivers and mountains beyond the walls. The length of the main road was over two kilometers. If she glanced over her shoulder, she could not make out the front gates. The width of the road was more than ten men lying head to toe. So much space!
She kept walking.
Although large elk tallow lanterns hung at the gate of each residence, the signs themselves were old and many had not been freshly painted. They were hard to see at night, and she must appear as if she knew them without having to read.
This was one of the first things couriers were taught. The best knew how many steps it took to get anywhere along the road from various points.
Aldney had been trying to learn.
Focus.
The Mansion of Delicate Petals would be on the right if she walked towards the grand palace. It should be close, if not the closest structure on that side. The ladies-in-waiting to the emperor entertained and accompanied him each day; they must live nearby.
Some said the mansion exuded osmanthus day and night, bespeaking of the purity of the women within.
Petra did not smell the fruity, bright floral aroma. She did, however, smell the bread for the emperor being baked, made with spun tree sap, dark and chewy. It was rumored that enough was being made for every mouth to experience one bite during the festival.
Her senses were scattered. Her focus was so pinpointed it masqueraded as distraction. She saw the sign for the Mansion of Delicate Petals but not the five captains of Shivalry exiting the gate.
Couriers were supposed to pause at their approach, or bow while walking.
Instead, she yelped when one of the men grabbed her by the arm and shook her.
“Insolent chit!” He thrust her backwards. “You see Shivalry, and you do not bow?”
Before the tall, gaunt man, she doubled over. “Pardon, Sir! I...I...”
“Be easy, Larkin,” another said, stepping forward.
“She ought to know better!”
“That she should,” said the man, as tall as the first but wider through the shoulders. “But there’s no need to shake her senseless. Likely she is one of the new recruits.” He looked at her. “Remember, next time, Little One. Couriers pause for Shivalry.”
Three times in a row she bowed before she dared look at the rich voice speaking, dared to look at a soldier of Shivalry.
His eyes were an unnatural color. Red. Brown. A rich burgundy steeped in umber and not a color of this world. Around his face, his hair hung loose. Dark hair. The structure of his face was strong and defined. Like the other men, he was muscled, if not slightly more so and the hard line of his shoulders, coupled with his imperious posture, made him seem even bigger.
Petra felt very small. With a flick of his wrist, or a bare graze from the sword that rested against his well-muscled thigh, she’d be mutilated. Even the resonance in his voice, restrained and deep as the darkest point in the sky, could render her immobile.
These men were one of the wonders of the Cloistered City. Endowed with abilities beyond human reach, a Shiv could march against an army alone. They trained like beasts and knelt in reverence before the throne like monks. Worldly pleasures were beyond them. It was the price paid for such inhuman capabilities.
Petra pressed her hands against the breast pocket. “Forgive me! I have only just been entrusted with these duties.”
“Next time,” the gaunt man stated, “you won’t be met with mercy.”
“Leave her, Larkin.” The one with longer hair said. “It’s late and I’m tired. You dally too long with Lady Melisende.”
Larkin grunted a laugh. “Just because you take celibacy seriously doesn’t mean I must.”
Another spoke. “Rand is a monastic, and you are a slave to your codpiece. Somewhere between is the man Melisende wants.”
Now they all laughed and walked on.
Until Petra could no longer hear their voices, she stood stock-still. Behind the halls and palaces, there was meager patience for a slave. In front, where all could see, there was practically none. She must not be an idiot.
Those were high-ranking men of Shivalry. Their uniforms were embroidered with red and gold thread, intertwined on black velvet. It would have been nothing for one of them to cut her down. Though her cloak told of her merit as a courier, her life was nothing to them.
In his early letters, Aldney wrote of how expendable lives were within the city walls. With horror at first and later sorrow. Eventually, he no longer mentioned it and that was worse. To know it was commonplace and not worthwhile news.
Keep alert. Keep quiet. Keep moving.
Soon Petra realized how close she was to the mansion. Its sign looked freshly painted, gleaming under lantern light. She walked up to the gate and pulled the rope attached to a bronze bell, alerting the guard on the other side.
A rectangle slat in the gate slid back. Eyes and the bridge of a nose appeared. The man said nothing, taking note of her garb and the gate was pulled aside. Petra then entered the main courtyard.
Faceted in shape, there were artfully carved statues in the middle, surrounded by polished rocks of different colors and gradients. Radiating outward were slithering paths Petra assumed led to the different mansions. However, surrounding pillars festooned with garlands and tapestries made it impossible to see the roofs of any of the dwellings.
Feigning a level of assurance and dignity she hoped were convincing, Petra spoke over her shoulder to the guard. With the robe on, he did not outrank her. It was well-known all should be done to facilitate message deliveries.
“I am newly appointed,” she said. “Which way to the mansion of Lady Elswyth?”
“The third path on your left.”
She did not thank him and hurried forward, a second wave of realization washing over her. In her imagination and plans within the royal city there had been plenty of time to learn about the city and the people.
Even though Petra often asked Aldney to describe the officials he delivered to, he only shared amusing interactions. She knew one of the scribes could not digest bread and blamed his flatulence on the servants. She knew one of the palace physician’s noses whistled when he exhaled. And she was aware the Mother-of-State was afraid of rabbits.
This felt like...like wading across a river, not knowing if there was a drop-off. At any moment, she might find herself surrounded by cold, black water.
Then I must swim. I must push against the current.
The path under her feet was narrow and made of sand, contained by slightly raised flat stones. Each respected lady had the choice of what the path to her mansion looked like. As a child, Lady Elswyth lived by the sea and made yearly trips, claiming it helped regulate her blood flow.
The path she trod had been sullied with many sets of footprints coming and going. Servants had been sent to check the main gate, possibly every hour.
She quickened her pace and braced herself.
Emerging from around a curve, four women surrounded her, wild looks on their faces, insistent hands on her body.
“Where were you?”
“Who are you?”
“How dare you be late!”
“Come with me!”
The one with the most aggressive hands yanked her wrist, stating her ladyship had lost all control and could not be blamed for her reactions.
“You are new to the Hall of Couriers, but it will not protect you. You were to have been here hours ago!”
Petra tugged back, freeing her wrist from the pinching grip. “I only owe explanation to Lady Elswyth.”
With a snort, the servant grabbed her wrist again and led her inside the mansion.
Elegant furniture and large glass bowls of tropical fish met her eyes. Rugs of every color and shape covered the floors in a mismatched manner. Beyond the fish tanks, and more furniture than Petra ever imagined could fit in one room, was a network of hallways branching off from one another in the shape of a star, connected by the main receiving room.
Petra expected the servant to shake her off and leave her to wait with a ferocious order not to move. However, the young woman kept a tight grip and pulled her down a wide hall decorated with carvings of fish and mermaids all seated it pots of white sand. The hall turned into a wide room covered in carpeting. Fabric had been sewn and woven to make seaweed looking décor that hung from the ceiling.
Seated on a divan shaped like a clam shell, her forehead in one hand, rested Lady Elswyth.
It was well known that no woman who rose to the status of lady-in-waiting was without respected background and beauty. Still Petra was struck. If all the women of the emperor’s choosing looked like this, Petra did not know how any man, let alone the emperor, (though it was disrespectful to think,) could choose. Oval pearls hung from gold chains attached to sticks and combs of jade and bronze, woven into her hair. Her cheeks were dusted with gold powder and red paint stained her lips. She wore cream colored silk, touched around the hems in yellow.
Their steps had not roused her, and the maid was forced to clear her throat.
The resting head shot up. Then with all the ferocity of an ocean storm she lunged off the chair. Grabbing Petra by the neck, she slapped her across the mouth and then shoved her hand in the cloak’s pouch and yanked out the scroll.
Petra doubled over, crossing her arms over her chest and holding her shoulders, as decorum dictated.
“My lady,” she pleaded. “Please forgive the late hour of your delivery!”
Elswyth ripped off the waxen seal and nearly tore the message open in unrolling it. Like an untamed sea siren, she crouched atop her seat and devoured the missive.
“I’ll have you flogged.”
“My lady, I will not protest for this was a great disservice to your dignity, but the failure was not known ‘til only a short while ago.”
Lady Elswyth glanced up, looked down at the letter, and then looked up again, staring at Petra.
“You’re not Inge.”
“My lady. My name is Petra. I am a new courier to the hall. Inge tried her utmost to come but a violent case of diarrhea—”
“Say less!”
“She was mortified, my lady,” Petra prattled on. “I believe she has fled the city in shame.”
“I would have given her hand to my carnivorous fish.” She looked back down at the letter and then cast it aside as if it was nothing and she had not attacked with bared teeth.
“What’s your name?”
“Petra, my lady.”
“And you came directly?”
“I was only stopped briefly by some captains of Shivalry for my own stupidity.”
This made her smile. “They are worth stopping for.”
“I was in the wrong and rightly corrected, my lady.”
She waved her hand and hopped off the seat. “You will remain while I write my reply. You will deliver it to my uncle, and he will reward you. But for now,” she clapped thrice, “it’s late outside and your walk will be long.”
A different servant appeared.
“Fetch her hot sweetened cream.”
Petra bowed. “You are most gracious, my lady!”
She floated to a desk and plucked a sharpened peacock feather. “To those who loyally serve their position.”
“It is an honor to serve in a position as my brother once did.”
To this, Lady Elswyth did not reply. And it was not important that she did. What was important was her writing a reply for Petra to deliver. What was important was her wanting to know Petra’s name. For one day, when it pleased Lady Elswyth to be distracted by the lives of the people who served her, she might ask about Petra’s hopes and Aldney’s name would be mentioned.
And I will learn the truth .