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Commandant!
But the hall is empty. I pick up the
letter and shove it into my pocket. It seems alive, like a snake or spider I’ve
decided to keep as a pet. I touch the seal again before jerking my hand away.
Too
dangerous.
But I need something to give the Resistance. Every day when I leave
Blackcliff to run the Commandant’s errands, I fear Keenan will pull me aside
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and demand a report. Every day he doesn’t is a reprieve. Eventually, I’ll run out
of time.
I have to get my cloak, so I head to the servants’ quarters in the open-air
hallway just outside the kitchen. My room, like Kitchen-Girl’s and Cook’s, is a
dank hole with a low entrance and a ragged curtain that serves as a door. Inside,
it’s just wide enough to fit a rope pallet and a crate that serves as a side table.
From here, I can hear the low tones of Cook and Kitchen-Girl speaking.
Kitchen-Girl, at least, has been slightly friendlier than Cook. She’s helped me
with my duties more than once, and at the end of my first day, when I thought
I’d faint from the pain of the lashes I’d received, I saw her scuttle away from my
quarters. When I went in, I found a healing salve and a mug of pain-numbing
tea.
That’s as far as her friendship extends. I’ve asked her and Cook questions,
discussed the weather, complained about the Commandant. No response. I’m
fairly certain that if I walked into the kitchen stark-naked and squawking like a
chicken, I still wouldn’t get a word out of them. I don’t want to approach them
again only to hit a wall of silence, but I need someone to tell me who Spiro
Teluman is and how to find him.
I enter the kitchen to find them both sweating from the heat of the blazing
hearth. Lunch is baking already. My mouth waters, and I long for Nan’s food.
We never had much, but whatever we did have was made with love, which I now
know transforms simple fare into a feast. Here, we eat the Commandant’s scraps,
and no matter how hungry I am, they taste like sawdust.
Kitchen-Girl gives me a glance in greeting, and Cook ignores me. The older
woman perches on a rickety stepstool to reach a string of garlic. She looks like
she’s about to fall, but when I offer a hand to brace her, she glares daggers at me.
I drop my hand and stand there awkwardly for a moment.
“Can—can you tell me where to find Spiro Teluman?”
Silence.
“Look,” I say. “I know I’m new, but the Commandant told me to make
friends. I thought—”
Ever so slowly, Cook turns to me. Her face is gray, as if she might be ill.
“Friends.” It’s the first word she’s said to me that isn’t an order. The old
woman shakes her head and takes her garlic to the counter. The anger in her
strokes as she chops it is unmistakable. I don’t know what I’ve done that’s so
terrible, but she won’t help me now. I sigh and leave the kitchen. I’ll have to ask
someone else about Spiro Teluman.
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“He’s a swordsmith,” I hear a soft voice say. Kitchen-Girl has followed me
out. She looks over her shoulder, worried Cook will hear her. “You’ll find him
along the river, in the Weapons Quarter.” She quickly turns, ready to walk away,
and it’s this more than anything else that makes me speak to her. I haven’t had a
conversation with a normal person in ten days; I’ve barely said anything other
than “Yes, sir” and “No, sir.”
“I’m Laia.”
Kitchen-Girl freezes. “Laia.” She turns the word over in her mouth. “I’m—
I’m Izzi.”
For the first time since the raid, I smile. I’d nearly forgotten the sound of my
own name. Izzi looks up toward the Commandant’s room.
“The Commandant wants you to make friends so she can use them against
you,” she whispers. “That’s why Cook is upset.”
I shake my head—I don’t understand.
“It’s how she controls us.” Izzi fingers her eyepatch. “It’s the reason Cook
does whatever she asks. The reason why every slave in Blackcliff does what she
asks. If you do something wrong, she won’t always punish you. Sometimes,
she’ll punish the people you care about instead.” Izzi’s so quiet I have to lean
forward to hear her. “If—if you want to have friends, make sure she doesn’t
know. Make sure it’s secret.”
She slips back into the kitchen, quick as a cat in the night. I leave for the
couriers’ office, but I can’t stop thinking about what she’s told me. If the
Commandant is sick enough to use the slaves’ friendships against them, then it’s
no wonder Izzi and Cook keep their distance. Is that how Izzi lost her eye? Is
that how Cook got her scars?
The Commandant hasn’t punished me in any permanent way—yet. But it’s
only a matter of time. The Emperor’s letter in my pocket seems suddenly
heavier, and I close my hand over it. Do I dare? The faster I get information, the
faster the Resistance can save Darin and the faster I can leave Blackcliff.
I debate with myself all the way to the school’s gates. When I approach, the
leather-armored auxes, who usually delight in tormenting slaves, barely notice
me. They’re intent on two horsemen making their way up to the school. I use the
distraction to slip quietly past.
Though it’s still early morning, the desert heat has set in, and I fidget under
the itchy weight of the cloak I’ve taken to wearing. Every time I put it on, I think
of Aspirant Veturius, of that unabashed fire that burned in him when he first
turned to me, of his smell when he stepped close, distractingly clean and
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masculine. I think of his words, spoken almost thoughtfully.
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