It’s searing hot as I emerge from the shaft. Panting, I pause to rest, gathering my strength. By the glare of the midday sun I realize I’ve been underground half the day.
I shade my eyes, searching for discarded rock pounders along the path. The gate to the priest’s compound is open as a line of wagons waits to enter. There’s been one supply train in and out since I arrived; they come once a month. The priest and his clerk, in company with a visiting priest and clerk sent from the temple, inventory each supply shipment together. By eavesdropping I have figured out that our priest sends exactly the mandated amount of gold each month to the Inkos temple; the excess he splits with the lord of Maldine. Once this was Ottonor. Now it is Gargaron.
An escort of guards lounges in the shade, and I slow down, too exhausted to run the gauntlet of their crude comments. Then I see a familiar face getting down from the second wagon. At first I think I’m seeing wishful visions but instead I have underestimated my sister.
Polodos wears the uniform of Saroese servants, loose trousers and a calf-length jacket that might be fine for the climate in Old Saro but always seems too cumbersome for Efea’s heat. The visiting priest calls him forward but doesn’t introduce him; clerks are never important enough to be acknowledged.
The two priests will do their inventory on the portico, in the shade. I hurry to the kitchen and grab the tray being prepared with wine and a platter of food.
“Hey!” shouts the assistant as I head out. “Women aren’t allowed to serve the priests!”
He chases me. In another life I would easily outdistance him, but my legs drag like they’re burdened with weights. He catches me just as I reach the far end of the portico and clouts me so hard on the head that I stumble and drop the tray. Ceramic shatters. Wine splashes across the brick pavement. Warm bread slaps onto the ground, while precious dates and almonds scatter.
My knees hit the bricks, and I barely catch myself on my right hand. Pain jolts through my wrist. Yet even through the pain I can’t stop myself from scooping up the nearest heap of dates and almonds and stuffing them in my mouth. I’m so hungry.
A blow slams into the back of my head again and I pitch forward. My chin strikes the ground, and then a foot smashes into my side. I lie there in a haze of agony.
“Stop!” cries our priest.
“Let me assist, Your Holiness,” says Polodos.
“No, no, Domon,” says the cook’s assistant, “that is a task for the kitchen servants, not for an honored official like you. This stubborn creature tried to steal the tray.”
I try to croak out a denial but my voice doesn’t work.
“Do you feed the workers?” Polodos is standing an arm’s length from me. “Good Goat! Her eye is badly inflamed.”
“She was whipped by Lord Gargaron,” says our priest, hurrying up to see what the commotion is.
“That must have been over a month ago, before he left.” Polodos’s tone sounds odd and fluttery. I try to focus on his face but it’s blurred. “Why hasn’t it healed?”
“I will deal with it later,” insists our priest. “For now, move her out of the way. This is an unpleasant sight, and she smells. We must complete the inventory.”
“Clerk Polodos, return to me at once,” commands the visiting priest.
I don’t know who grabs me but I’m dragged into the sun and left lying. My wrist really hurts now, and the sun is a punishment, but I’m too tired to move except to roll onto my back, which is a mistake because now the sun glares on my face like fury. I shove with my feet and scoot backward along the courtyard’s dirt until I reach the edge of the shade and, with a final burst of energy, roll into its blessed shelter. It’s peaceful here with the clerks talking as they record the inventory: goods passed from the temple to the mine and gold dust to be returned to the head priest at the Inkos temple, carefully weighed.
Everything in this world is carefully weighed, stone by stone and heart by heart.
Ro’s words bubble up inside me, giving me strength. This will not defeat me. I manage to sit up. By bracing myself against the nearest pillar, I’m able to stand. The guards are eating over on the far side of the courtyard. The grooms are busy watering, feeding, and brushing the mules, which are worth more than the workers because they are harder to replace.
I need to talk to Polodos. Stiff and sore, I hobble to the lavatory courtyard in back, with its limestone benches and sand buckets, hoping he will follow. Footsteps slap on the ground. A hand presses on my shoulder.
“Doma Jessamy? Maraya worked out a clever scheme for me to be assigned to come here, so I could check on you. But you are ill, and so thin.”
“I need a way to poison or incapacitate the guards. Maraya will know a plant or mineral. Can she send something?”
He glances back the way we came, making sure we are alone. “What are you talking about?”
“Efea will rise. We must break these chains. But I haven’t figured out how to rescue you and Maraya. Is she well, Polodos?”
“Yes, she is well treated because everyone knows Lord Menos is intended to become High Priest in time and no one wishes to offend him.”
Hearing this news exhausts me with simple relief because I have had nothing to comfort me in so long. I slide down the wall to the ground as the world reels around me.
“Clerk Polodos?” asks our priest, hurrying into view. “What is going on?”
“I needed to use the lavatory, Your Holiness. This slave has collapsed at my feet. Is there no healer or sickroom here? That wound above her eye needs to be lanced and cleaned. I’m surprised she’s not dead of inflammation. Is that your intention, to kill her with neglect?”
For the first time in a month, our priest is forced to take a close look at me. His mouth drops open in exaggerated alarm, and I am sure he is remembering Gargaron’s threat. After a flurry of orders flies over my head, I’m carried to the stables, where the straw is a more comfortable bed than the dirt I’ve been sleeping on for weeks beside the outdoor hearth.
The head cook cleans out the wound and spreads a salve on it as our priest wrings his hands.
“Give her an extra ration of water and food until she recovers her strength.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
They leave. I have to see Polodos before he goes, but I’m too weak to stand, and when I push up with my right hand, a hot pain flashes up my wrist. I cry out, but there’s no one to help me.
Only at dusk does Djesa appear with a tray of soup, bread, and juice. It hurts even to close my fingers around a cup.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“I hope it’s not broken. Can you get some cloth? I have to wrap it and keep weight off it. That’s what Anise and Tana and Darios would say.”
“Who are they?”
“My Fives trainers. I’m so hungry.”
“You’ve been giving away your ration, haven’t you? I see you hide it inside your vest. You can’t feed everyone from your portion.”
“But they’re dying. It’s so cruel.”