On Fire's Wings - Christie Golden [30]
“Great lady, I am sorry! But the sound—”
Ranna and Tiah laughed, looking slightly superior. “I suppose a market Bai-sha girl would not know the sounds of the shakaal,” said Ranna, in a voice meant for Yeshi to interpret as fondly indulgent but that Kevla recognized as condescending.
Yeshi chuckled, the pain forgotten. “They are long horns. If you blow on one end, the sound you hear comes out the other. Hurry, girl! If the shakaal has been sounded, they are not too far away!”
Yeshi looked happier and more animated than Kevla had ever seen her. Kevla felt a warmth in her heart at Yeshi’s anticipation that was almost maternal.
“You three will attend me at the dinner. Kevla, watch the others and learn. They have been to many such events and I’m sure will be happy to share their knowledge.”
Kevla looked at the other women. Even now, she doubted very much they would be happy to share anything with her. “Lady,” she began, “I have attended you at dinners before.”
“Not like this one!” Yeshi exclaimed delightedly.
If Kevla had thought that the House had been a flurry of activity two days ago, it was nothing compared to what she saw now. Yeshi disappeared, flitting about to check on everything. Ranna and Tiah took off somewhere immediately afterward. Left on her own, Kevla tentatively wandered throughout the House, keeping out of the way but observing everything. She had a fluttering in her stomach. Ever since she had prepared Jashemi’s room, she had wondered what the khashimu would be like. She was anxious to see him, although she knew that he would barely acknowledge her presence. Tahmu was not old, but he would not live forever. One day, the boy whose room she had cleaned would be the khashim of the Clan of Four Waters.
She had never ventured into the Great Hall before; she had had no need. While Yeshi and Tahmu often entertained guests, the room in which they received them hitherto was much less formal. Now, though, she peered inside, and her brown eyes grew large as eggs at what she beheld.
It was so vast, she had utterly no reference to compare it to. It seemed to her to stretch forever. A low table of dark, polished wood ran almost the full length of the hall. Dozens of pillows flanked it, and after a quick count Kevla realized that nearly fifty people would be fed here tonight. Colorful rugs, every hue of the rainbow, further cushioned the stone floor. Twenty fans made of the feathers of some huge bird were propped up against the walls. No doubt, servants would provide a cooling breeze as their master and his guests dined.
“If you’ve nothing better to do than gawk,” came Sahlik’s voice, “then go back to the kitchen and help with the feast.”
Disappointed, Kevla nodded. She was there for the next three hours, basting chickens, carrying bowls, grinding herbs. So it was that at one point she was given a jug of a mint-and-vinegar beverage and thrust into the throng of servers. Unsure as to what to do, she imitated the others, kneeling to the left and pouring the drink into the ceramic cup, not the glass one or the golden one, and wiping the lip free from any drops.
She might as well have not been present, for all the attention she drew. She knelt and poured for fragrant, bejeweled, and veiled women and for bearded, bold-voiced men. She saw clothing in colors she had only seen before in dreams, and weapons of all varieties lying beside men who seemed as large to her as a horse.
Kevla had lost track of how many glasses she had poured when a hand seized her wrist. She gasped, but the fear faded when she saw that it was Tahmu. It returned full fold when she saw the mixture of anger and—was it fear?—in his eyes.
“Kevla!” he hissed. “Why are you not sitting behind Yeshi? Why are you not wearing the veil?”
Her heart sinking, Kevla glanced over at Yeshi. The khashima was seated opposite her husband and talking animatedly to Bahrim, the uhlal who had approached her litter in the marketplace so long ago. Neither Yeshi nor her handmaidens had noticed Kevla yet. While Yeshi