Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [3]
Blushing furiously, Larajin looked up into the stern face of her nemesis: Erevis Cale, head servant and butler to the house of Uskevren. Tall and implacable as a tower, he glared down at her, a terrible wrath in his deep-shadowed eyes. The sleeves of his gray shirt were smudged with what must have been soot, judging by the strong odor of smoke that clung to him, and there was a small cut on his bald scalp, as if he'd banged his head on something.
"B-but, Sir," she sputtered, "it's long past dark, and my chores are done. I know that's a rare and valuable book, but I took great care with it and didn't bend any-"
"And what of the tallow you were melting on the stove?"
The quiet words stopped her cold, more than any shouted rebuke might have done. Her eyes widened as she remembered the last task she'd been assigned that evening: softening tallow for the servants who topped up the lamps in the evening. Despite the close summer warmth of the library, her stomach felt like sharp icicles had suddenly sprouted inside it. A question rose in her mind, one she dared not whisper aloud: How much of the kitchen had been burned?
Behind Cale, the tressym launched herself into the air, seeking the safety of the rafters. For the first time since the creature had followed Larajin back to Stormweather Towers, some eighteen months before, the butler ignored the fact that it had once again crept indoors. Instead he merely stared at Larajin, his lips pressed together in a thin line.
"Get up," he ordered. "This time the master himself will deal with you."
As she was marched to the door, Larajin heard him add, under his breath, "And this time, by the gods, finally be rid of you."
The hallway to the master's study had never seemed so long. Steered by Cale's heavy hand on her shoulder, Larajin dragged her feet along the plush carpet, unwilling to face the disappointment she knew she would see in the master's eyes. Gilt-framed portraits of the Uskevren ancestors glared down at her from either side, and a suit of plate mail holding an axe stood as if waiting for Larajin to place her neck on the chopping block.
From behind the heavy oak door of the master's study came the murmurs of two voices. As Larajin and Cale approached, the door opened. Through it came one of the kitchen staff-Aileen, a girl with wispy blonde hair who hid a shrewish disposition behind pretty smiles-carrying an empty decanter. She wore the formal Uskevren jservant's uniform: a white dress slashed with blue, and a gold vest and turban bearing the Uskevren crest with its horse-at-anchor design. Tiny silver bells sewn onto her turban tinkled as she stopped short, obviously surprised to find Cale and Larajin in the hallway.
Larajin was suddenly aware that she had mislaid part of her uniform-again. Her own turban was lying forgotten in the library, and her long hair hung uncombed and tousled about her shoulders. Aileen noted this with a quick glance and crinkled her nose.
Aileen had halted with one hand still on the door behind her, which remained open a finger's width.
"The master has a visitor, Sir," she told Cale in a mincing voice. "He instructed that…"
Her eye fell on Larajin's shoulder, and the sooty mark Cale's hand had left there. Her lips twitched into a smirk.
"The master instructed that whoever caused the fire atop the stove be brought to him straight away."
Larajin turned to Cale to protest, but her words died on her lips when she saw the hard gleam in his eyes. He either couldn't see that Aileen was ensuring that the master would deal with Larajin more harshly after being interrupted, or he didn't care.
As Aileen scurried away down the hallway, Cale
marched Larajin to the study. As his hand fell on the door latch, a snatch of conversation came from behind the door.
"… such drastic measures," the master was saying. "Surely the Merchant Council must realize the reaction this will prompt. It came as no small surprise to me that the Hulorn encouraged this folly."
Cale paused, obviously reconsidering the wisdom of an interruption.