More than anything else, the sheer absurdity of the situation provided the greatest protection. No one would believe that a sheltered, self-indulgent princess would willingly scrub floors in the palace of her enemy. She doubted even Saldur’s mind would grant enough latitude to penetrate the illusion. Even if some people thought she looked familiar—and several seemed to—their minds simply could not bend that far. To conceive of the thought that Ella the scrub girl was the Princess of Melengar was as ridiculous as the idea that pigs could talk or that Maribor was not god. To entertain such a notion would require a mind open to new possibilities, and no one at the palace fit that description.
The only one she worried about, besides Saldur, was the empress’s secretary. She was not like the others—she noticed Arista. Amilia saw through her veneer with suspicious eyes. Saldur clearly surrounded the empress with his best and brightest, and Arista did all she could to avoid her.
On the road north from Ratibor, Arista had fallen in with a band of refugees fleeing to Aquesta, and they had arrived nearly a month earlier. The location spell had led her to the palace itself. Things grew more complicated after that. If she had been more confident in the magic, and her ability to use it, she might have returned to Melengar right away with the news that Gaunt was a prisoner in the imperial palace. As it was, she felt the need to see Degan for herself. She managed to obtain a job as a chambermaid, hoping to repeat the location spell inside the castle walls at various locations, only that was not working out. Closely watched by the headmistress, Edith Mon, she rarely found enough free time and privacy to cast the spell. On the few occasions she succeeded, the smoke indicated a direction, but the maze of corridors blocked any attempt to follow. Magically stymied, Arista sought to determine Gaunt’s whereabouts by eavesdropping while at the same time learning her way around the grounds.
“What have ya done now?” Edith Mon shouted at Arista as she entered the scullery.
Arista had no idea what a hobgoblin looked like, but she guessed it probably resembled Edith Mon. She was stocky and strong. Her huge head sat on her shoulders like a boulder, crushing whatever neck she might have once had. Her face, pockmarked and spotted, provided the perfect foundation for her broad nose with its flaring nostrils, through which she breathed loudly, particularly when angry, as she was now.
Edith yanked the bucket from her hands. “Ya clumsy little wench! Ya best pray you spilled it only on yerself. If I hear ya left a dirty puddle in a hallway …”
Edith had threatened to cane her on three occasions but had been interrupted each time—twice by the head cook. Arista was not sure what she would do if it came to that. Scrubbing floors was one thing, but allowing herself to be beaten by an old hag was something else. If tried, she might discover there was more to her new chambermaid than she had thought. Arista often amused herself by contemplating which curse might be best for old Edith. At that moment, she was considering the virtues of skin worms, but all she said was “Is there anything else today?”
The older woman glared. “Oh! Ya think yer something, don’t ya? Ya think yer better than the rest of us, that yer arse shines of silver. Well, it don’t! Ya don’t even have a family. I know you live in that alley with the rest of them runners. Yer one dodgy smile away from making yer meals whoring, so I’d be careful, sweetie!”
There were several snickers from the other kitchen workers. Some risked Edith’s wrath by pausing in their work to watch. The scullery maids, charwomen, and chambermaids all reported to Edith. The others, like the cook, butcher, baker, and cupbearer, reported to Ibis Thinly but they sided with Edith—after all, Ella was the new girl. In the lives of those who lived in the scullery, seeing punishment administered was what passed for entertainment.
“Is that a yes or a no?” Arista asked calmly.
Edith’s eyes narrowed menacingly. “No, but tomorrow ya start by cleaning every chamber pot in the palace. Not just emptying them, mind ya. I want them scrubbed clean.”
Arista nodded and started to walk past her. As she did, cold water rained down as Edith emptied the bucket on her.
The room burst into laughter. “A shame it wasn’t clean water. Ya could use a bath.” Edith cackled.
The uproar died abruptly as Ibis appeared from out of the cellar.
“What’s going on here?” The chief cook’s booming voice drew everyone’s attention.
“Nothing, Ibis,” Edith answered. “Just training one of my girls is all.”
The cook spotted Arista standing in a puddle, drenched from head to foot. Her hair hung down her face, dripping filthy water. Her entire smock was soaked through and the thin material clung indecently to her skin, causing her to fold her arms across her breasts.
Ibis scowled at Edith.
“What is it, Ibis?” Edith grinned at him. “Don’t like my training methods?”
“No, I can’t say I do. Why do you always have to treat them like this?”
“What are ya gonna do? Ya gonna take Ella under your wing like that tramp Amilia? Maybe this one will become archbishop!”
There was another round of laughter.
“Cora!” Ibis barked. “Get Ella a tablecloth to wrap around her.”
“Careful, Ibis. If she ruins it, the chamberlain will have at you.”
“And if Amilia hears you called her a tramp, you might lose your head.”