CHAPTER FIVE
T he main road had changed by the time she left the Mansion of Delicate Petals. Now she moved amid a different flux of servants. as the ink of the sky faded, replaced by fairer shades of blue.
In and out of gates, though they moved with purpose, theirs was not the frenzy of festival preparation. All the mania did not affect them; their tasks were set.
In passing, they acknowledged Petra as belonging to their ilk. She was a courier; there were always messages to deliver. It was hard not to feel some of their pride, though she reminded herself her current standing was as tremulous as the first embers of a new fire.
But she was being seen. Soon one of the scribes would see her as well. Though she would be happy if his reward was money to send home, Petra also hoped it might be a token of appreciation. A handkerchief, a tassel of split silks or a spent scent pouch. Coming from his residence, it would be finery and another layer in her armor to protect her position.
When the Cloistered City was built, the emperor of the time was more a general of war than a man of studies. While he acknowledged the need for education, he did not wish to be bothered by dusty tomes and archaic languages. Builders erected an impressive hall, far from the grand palace, from which the emperor hoped his learned men would seldom have reason to leave.
All the faint blue had dissolved from the sky by the time she saw the large sign. Her feet hurt. The creamy drink from Lady Elswyth was a decadent treat but not refreshing and Petra was thirsty. By now, back at the Washing House, others would be getting up from their cots, breaking their overnight fast with rice porridge, dried meat, and a large mug of black tea.
Winfred might look for her. The awful three might notice her absence and think themselves clever.
I’ll get word to you, Winfred. And when I am able, I’ll get you out of there. I cannot hold this good fortune like a secret. I came here to do good, and you will be part of that.
Her stomach growled. She shook her head and walked up to the gate. Decades prior, outer guards at the Hall of Renowned Scribes had been done away with. History and education should not be held behind locks. Learning was for every man.
Leaning her shoulder into the thick wooden panels, Petra pushed with all her body’s weight. It gave in millimeters. She bent her knees and pushed harder. She did not, at the same time, hear footfall behind her, nor see the impressive figure who neared. She did not see a small smirk nor the large hand that pressed into the gate.
Quite suddenly, the entrance gave way, and she tumbled forward with a yelp.
“Joints are stiff in the early morning,” he said, walking past her.
Petra bowed. “I thank you, Sir.”
For a moment, he lingered at the main door. The same Shiv from only hours ago whose reprimand had been gentle. Did he not sleep after a night of carousing?
He was handsome in the daylight, though no less formidable. His facial features were cut from stone, cut for battle and war. To look upon onslaught and blood without trembling. She could do very well without him looking at her, too. Those eyes, poured from molten rock in the deep layers of the earth, felt heavy and exposing.
She did not dare follow him in nor move in the wake of his steps. Instead, Petra remained bent at the waist until she heard the door open and close. Only then did she venture forward and jangle the trio of ceramic bells required for servants to ring.
A servant, simply but well-dressed in unadorned brown wool, opened the door and stepped aside. Aldney hadn’t mentioned how strange it was to be so easily admitted wearing this uniform. There had not yet been twenty-four hours distance from her being a washing wench, yet her worth was recognized now.
“I come with a message from Lady Elswyth.”
The servant nodded and disappeared behind a long, wide horizontal tapestry. Upon it was depicted what Petra assumed were ancient languages, for she could not read the Ensignings. They had been elegantly sewn in multiple colors of thread.
Scant furnishings were to her left and right. No carpets lined the wooden floors. Various reigns had treated their learned men differently. Emperor Cyprian believed in respect for education, but he did not believe its study should be indulgent, dangerously near idolatry and leading towards fruitless pondering of ancient texts.
Petra walked further into the room but did not dare sit down.
Behind the tapestry were the libraries and dormitories. She imagined them as dark tunnels, supplied only with lit torches, guttering more smoke than light. These men would look like moles, large eyes and practically blind. Stooped shoulders and rounded backs.
Aldney had never described them.
She wondered, too, why a captain of Shivalry might be here after a night at the Mansion of Delicate Petals. Too much indulgence? Perhaps he came here to purge.
She shook her head. She shouldn’t entertain such thoughts. Her life could have ended when she met the group of captains and failed to pause at their approach.
Folding her hands and letting her chin rest on her chest, Petra widened her stance slightly, and used her time of waiting to rest. It was a long time. More than once, the same servant passed from behind the tapestry, dusting and taking deliveries. A few times she heard hushed voices from behind the dense curtain, but they moved like echoes, fading away.
Higher the sun rose, and she moved into its lengthening beams.
This, Aldney had mentioned. She remembered smiling at his stories of being positive he’d been forgotten about. Apparently, although Lady Elswyth had waited in distress for her letter, her uncle was in no such rush to read her reply.
Voices from beyond shifted again. She recognized the first.
“I feared you would say as much.”
“Months ago, I informed his royal highness of their war-mongering past.”
“Cyprian insists his rule brings only new life.”
“History is a clock as sure as the skies. But our emperor has a holy right to the throne. He is gifted to know more than mortal men.”
The Shivalry captain laughed low in his throat. “Carefully spoken.”
“I am not such a man as you, Captain Tsenturian. I bleed when struck.”
To this, he did not reply but appeared suddenly from behind the tapestry. Petra did not risk looking up, catching only what she could from her periphery. His stride was purposefully set, and he did not wait for the servant to open the door.
It was several minutes later an elderly man with bushy eyebrows and a clean-shaven face slipped from behind the partition. His hair was more white than gray and sheared close to his head.
“I am told you come from my niece,” he said in a voice like aged paper close to disintegrating.
“Yes, Sir.” She bowed and held out the scroll.
“My letter needed no reply,” he mumbled, unrolling it. “Ah! And she would have me reward you, too?”
At his scoff, Petra folded her arms across her chest. “Your reply came to Lady Elswyth in great distress. Surely, I do not deserve her generosity.”
“Do not prattle so. You will receive your reward, or I shall have to admit to her that I did not give it.”
Into the folds of his robe, he rummaged. A moment later he pulled forth a tiny vial, stuffed with delicate herbal tendrils.
“Here.” He shoved it at her. “As fine as any smelling salts. You are lucky the aroma makes me sneeze.”
The bottle was a pale shade of green and an odd shape.
Lady Elswyth pined for the ocean and her uncle had a sensitive nose for fine smelling salts. She would remember.
It might never serve her but those who made their way well in the Cloistered City remembered odds and ends. Aldney had admitted he was not above the practice and had told her of the times it benefited him to remember who enjoyed clove steeped tea, who had a panache for rabbit fur, and who wielded gossip like a weapon.
Much like the information, Petra tucked the token into one of the pockets of her robe and thanked her benefactor profusely.
***
S O MANY TIMES, SHE had begged her brother to describe the hall where he lived in detail. Back then, it was because she wanted to imagine him there, exactly. She told him it gave her peace and thrill to think of him moving about the rooms and halls, something going on every minute, an integral part of the city.
She blessed the knowledge now. Her movements would be assured. The only question she’d have to ask was where Inge slept. Otherwise in all the uproar of the festival, a new face was likely to go unnoticed for a few days. By then she would have made her worth known.
Still, her heart thundered. Walking up to the only residence in the city that had an arch instead of a gate, for the ease of constant coming and going, she forced her chin high.
Bodies passed her in both directions. She did not make eye contact. Double doors swung with little exertion. Inside, the smell was exactly as Aldney described.
In the royal gardens, bees were kept. Their honey was prized in the kitchens and their wax held dear among couriers. Faintly floral, the beeswax was cut and melted in the hall to secure messages. Aldney had said the ubiquitous aroma took him some getting used to. The smell was not far from the grass of their home, and it made him homesick. Eventually, he came to appreciate it as a constant reminder of his prior life.
Petra relished it now. The clothes her brother had worn. The floors he walked upon and the aroma that made him think of their life. She could not pause and linger. The hot emotions pooling in her chest could not be betrayed.
Later. Later you can cry. You must find Inge’s bed now. You must be seen sitting on it. Her uneaten meal will be yours. Her shoes, too, no matter the size.
The first room was wide and round, studded in chairs and bowls, kept hot or cool depending on the season, to soothe tired feet. Beyond that was a receiving room, cut in half by a table nearly the length of the space. Dug into the table, with even spacing, were oblong divots. Letters from the emperor’s palace, his mother’s residence, the prime minister, and his ladies-in-waiting were placed towards the middle. All others were left in the outer slots.
The emperor, his mother, and the prime minister had preferred couriers. These men and women walked to no other palaces. Aldney had not yet risen to such favor, but he was often requested to the Mansion of Delicate Petals.
Behind the letter delivery table wax was cut, mixed, and melted. The stamps of nobles were cleaned and maintained here, too. Once Aldney told of the uproar caused when one of emperor’s councilmen decided to alter his insignia. Chaos. Profanities and exclamations unworthy of those who served the emperor.
Further in, separated by a long hall, was the living and dining area. Men and women were allowed to eat together but the sleeping dormitory was divided by a long curtain. Men slept on one side and women on the other.
Punishment for crossing sides was severe. Their minds must be above sordid passions. At least, those passions must be carried on outside of the hall.
Then again, men who became couriers were eunuchs first, their sexual desires greatly depleted, if not gone altogether. Still, there had been scandals. But the blood that ran hot was made to flow profusely when its amorous activities were discovered.
The second floor of the hall was used for storage. Paper, robes, quill sharpening instruments, expired insignia stamps, and extra ink wells.
Into the women’s side of the dorm, she walked, fear fluttering her heart. There were so many beds, finer than those of the washing hall. Deeper mattresses. More than one blanket and thick, round pillows.
They all looked comfortable and the same. Petra could not linger staring. She felt the brush of a shoulder and made a fast decision.
“Inge left sewing needles under her bed for me. But I cannot find them. Will you help me look?”
The woman scrunched her face, put out, as Petra hoped. Her mind was elsewhere; a new face did not give her reason to pause.
She hefted a heavy exhale and marched quickly towards the back. At the last bed she stopped and crouched surreptitiously.
“I don’t see anything.”
Petra put her hands on her hips. “You hardly—”
“I came to change my shoes. I have a letter from Lady Melisende that must go to Captain Larkin. Use both your eyes to look next time.”
On her heel she spun and walked away.
For several minutes more, Petra feigned searching. And when she risked looking back, finding the woman gone, she got up, took off her shoes, and stretched out on the bed.
There were others resting. She did not look out of place.
She should have taken off the uniform, but her clothes underneath would betray her. Later, she would find a private moment and change into the basics Inge kept, worn by all couriers under their official robes.
But not right now. Emotions surged at her. It felt as if they pulsed blood through her veins at irregular intervals. Visions of her brother’s face passed through her mind’s eye. In some, he smiled. In others, his features were twisted in torture. The worst of all visions portrayed him like a ghost, staring blank with hollow eyes and his lips a faint line.
If she failed, this would be the memory that haunted her slumber forevermore.
Even if you had died in my arms, I would not fail you. I will not let them say you took your own life like a coward. Beauty and talent breed jealousy and I will find the hand that struck down your light.