Page 77

They carry wood, haul water, scour pans, turn spits, and scrape refuse into buckets. Their clothing hangs damp against their backs. Several appear too exhausted to lift their feet fully from the floor. No silver spoons reach them. A pot of thin grain mash waits near the far wall for their meal.

Briar told me the kitchen staff begin before dawn. She did not tell me some of them are children.

A small human boy struggles beside the nearest hearth. Both arms encircle the handle of a heavy cauldron. Steam rises around his face as he tries to drag it from a low iron hook.

The cauldron shifts.

His boot slides through spilled grease.

I cross the room and seize the opposite handle. The weight pulls at my shoulder, but together we guide the vessel onto a stone platform.

The boy stares at me. He cannot be more than ten.

“Where are the carrying rods?” I ask.

His gaze darts toward the Zagfer cooks.

A broad Zagfer woman turns from the carving table. “The rods are being repaired, my lady.”

“Then why is he moving this without them?”

“The broth must reach the lower hall.”

“Find two adults to carry it.”

“The adults have assigned duties.”

“So does he. His current duty is not spilling boiling broth over himself.”

The cook’s black eyes narrow. She is shorter than Rhysandir but still towers over me.

“The kitchen follows an established order.”

“An order that nearly cost you a cauldron of broth.”

I make the point in the language she values. The boy’s safety will not persuade her. Waste may.

Her attention moves to the cauldron. “Two scullions will carry it.”

“After the rods return.”

The muscles around her mouth harden, but she inclines her head.

I send the boy toward the water table. He obeys before the cook can object.

“What is your name?” I ask.

“Perrin, my lady.”

“How many hours have you worked today?”

He looks confused by the question. “Since the first oven.”

“When was that?”

“Before the bells.”

“Which bells?”