brocade, satin, damask, silk. My lady had them all, I'd dare guess, and embroidered and fine, layers stitched upon each other, trimmed and as colorful as a summer sunset. You must think I fib, claiming any person could have such clothes and so many, but I swear by the eight Ancestors that I speak true as truth.
When she was dressed and combed and cleaned, the beauty that is Lady Saren really began to show, and I think she felt it, too. Once she even said, 'Thank you, Dashti.'
Those words made me feel combed and cleaned myself.
Then her honored father entered, and she stiffened and began to whimper as if fighting off a fit of sobs. He had one crooked leg. This surprised me fit to staring. I don't mean disrespect, but I'd always thought that gentry would be formed and perfect of limb, lovely and radiant, being the offspring of the Ancestors. But truth be, if her father had worn common clothing, I might've thought him a mucker. Either the Ancestors want it this way, or else Under, god of tricks, was deceiving my eyes.
'Still bleating about it, are you?' said her honored father. He was a man too small for his voice. 'Titor and his dogs, girl--it's your mess. Crying about it is like rolling around in your own filth.'
He watched her for a moment, and I swear by Titor and his dogs that there was a touch of sympathy in his eyes. I'd have sworn it on my mother's memory till he up and slapped her face. It didn't make sense, as though he slapped her more from duty than anger.
Mama used to say, 'Hitting is the language of cowards and drunkards,' and here a member of the honored gentry struck his daughter for crying.
'What's this thing here?' he asked, looking at me now, taking in my rough boots, my wool deel, my leather sash. 'Why is one of your maids dressed as a mucker? Are you a mucker? Answer me, girl.'
.
I answered him. 'Yes, my lord, I was born on the steppes, and when I came to my lord's city last year --'
'That's enough, I don't want the whole story. You're nothing to look at, are you?'
I thought that was a useless question. I'm right aware of the red birth splotches on my face and arm, not to mention my dull hair and lips thinner than the edge of a leaf. Mama said that beauty is a curse for muckers. She once told me about Bayar, her clan sister, who looked like Evela, goddess of sunlight. And what happened to Bayar? A lord fell for her beauty, got her with child, then left both girl and baby in the mud and never returned. That's gentry's right, I guess, but it was a bit hard on Bayar.
'I remember now,' my lady's father said with a humph, 'Mistress Tolui said some mucker girl was coming from Qadan's. What a hell you walked into, though it can't be worse than your own home. Muckers survive on grass alone, just like sheep, isn't that right?'
'Well, my lord,' I said, not sure how to contradict gentry, 'we --'
He slapped his daughter's face again, suddenly and with no cause, like a snake striking. The sound of her cry was sharp and sad enough to break a bird's wing. It was then that I began to understand my lady--I think she must've lost her mother long ago, before she was old enough to learn how to comfort herself.
'There she goes again!' he said, his big voice booming out of his small head. 'She'd gone quiet, and I've grown accustomed to her crying. Bawl all you want, wench! No one will hear you alone in the tower.'
At that, she forced her tears to stop and looked right back at him, as brave as anything I've seen. 'I won't be alone,' she said. 'My new maid is going with me.'
'Is that what you think?' He was rummaging through her wardrobe, pulling deels from their hooks and tossing them onto the floor. 'You don't deserve a maid, and I won't force one to attend you. So let me hear the maid say she's willing to go.'
My lady was clinging to my arm.
'Go where?' I asked.
Her father laughed. 'Now I understand.' He took hold of one of the deels and ripped the sleeves off. 'I, her honored father, have arranged an enviable match with Lord Khasar. He is the lord of Thoughts of Under, the most powerful of the Eight Realms. And does my daughter thank me? And appreciate her responsibility to form this alliance? No, she declares she's promised herself to Khan Tegus of the lesser realm Song for Evela. She refuses to marry Lord Khasar. How's that for gratitude? I'm sending her to a watchtower shut up as a prison and we'll see if seven years beneath bricks won't kill her rebellion. So say it, mucker girl, will you lock yourself up with this disobedient child?'
My lady was squeezing my arm so tightly now, my fingers felt cold. One of her cheeks was pink from his slap, her brown eyes red from crying. She reminded me of a lamb just tumbled out, wet all over, unsure of her feet and suspicious of the sun.
She'd be alone in that tower, I thought, and I remembered our tent after Mama died, how the air seemed to have gone out of it, how the walls leaned in, like to bury me dead. When Mama left, what had been home became just a heap of sticks and felt. It's not good being alone like that. Not good.
Besides, I'd sworn to serve my mistress. And now that her hair was fixed and her face washed, I saw just how lovely she was, the glory of the Ancestors shining through her. I felt certain that Lady Saren would never disobey her father lightly. Surely she had a wise and profound reason for stubbornness, one blessed by the Ancestors.
'Yes,' I said. 'I'll stay with my lady.'
Then her father up and slapped me across my mouth. It almost made me laugh.
I'm right proud of myself for remembering so much! Maybe I got a few words wrong, but that's so near how the conversation went, I'm going to call it truth. My hand aches from writing and my ink grows thin from watering, so I'll finish for tonight.
Day 14
As my lady didn't budge from my mattress last night, I slept as I could on the sacks of barley flour in the cellar, but squeaks and scratches kept nipping at my dreams. When I woke from a nightmare and sat up, two tiny eyes stared back.
