I’m about to lift the cloth higher, to see if there’s a name, when the barest breath of air moves against my neck.
I have people watching you.
Instinctively, I drop the cloth and whip my head around. Crouched in the shadow of the shrouded pedestal is a person, dressed in black and holding so still that I’d looked right past her. She’s holding a dustpan and brush frozen in midair, as if she’d halted as soon as I sat down.
“I’m so sorry, lord,” she whispers. “I didn’t think anyone would require this space. Forgive my presence.”
“Not at all,” I say, trying to shake off my nerves. “I simply needed a place to sit down out of the way.”
She ducks her head, showing a few streaks of gray in her brown bun. “I will return at a later time.”
“No, by all means, don’t let me interrupt you. I’ll be gone in a moment. It’s just my silly foot.”
Her gaze drops to my feet and the line of angry red sores along the knuckles of my toes.
“If it would be convenient for you, lord, I have some lengths of clean linen that could serve you for bandages,” she says.
“Oh . . . well, yes, actually, I would very much appreciate it.”
With movements small and subtle, as if used to remaining unnoticed, she sets down her brush and pan. Out of the shadow of the pedestal, I can see her more clearly—a kind-faced woman perhaps three decades my senior wearing the all-black attire of the palace servants. She comes around the bench and kneels down in front of me, drawing a few cloths from her apron pocket. I reach to take them from her, but she either doesn’t see my hand or ignores it. She starts to wrap my right foot in linen.
“Thank you,” I say, embarrassed.
“I will have the valets request a more proper fit for you,” she says, looping the cloth around my foot. “You will need sturdy shoes to dance at the Bakkonso Ball next week.”
“I’m afraid it’s my feet, not the shoes,” I say with false cheer. “Where I come from, we only wear soft soles. I have no skill with wooden heels.”
She finishes wrapping my foot. Peeking from one of her long sleeves is a si-oque—rather than the flashy metal bracelets of most of the court, hers is brown hemp corded through a string of colored glass beads, each a different color. It’s the first time I’ve seen a commoner’s si bracelet.
“Why are there so many colors on your si-oque?” I ask without thinking.
She pauses and glances up at me, and then down at her bracelet. Hurriedly she tucks it back under the hem of her black sleeve. “I have no children to pass them on to.”
“Pass them on?” I strain my thoughts back for recollection on this practice—some countries back east pass on hereditary names, like Lumen Lake and Cyprien, but I thought the Moquoians were like my folk, taking their epithets independently.
She looks up at me again. Her lined brown eyes are crinkled with suppressed—perhaps sly—amusement. It’s not an unkind expression, but I realize I’ve betrayed my foreignness, if my accent and appearance hadn’t already done the trick.
“You are one of the Eastern ambassadors?” she asks.
I nod in concession. “Yes—I’m the translator for Ambassador Rou and Princess Eloise. My name is Veran. What’s your name?”
“It’s Fala, lord.” Swiftly, she hooks the hem of her sleeve back again to show me her si-oque. With a better look, I see eight small irregular beads, each flawed with bubbles and scratches. The dye in one didn’t mix all the way, creating a green streak through the clear glass. One is little more than a chip, and so worn I can’t tell the color.
“Common folk have no title,” Fala explains. “The ability to take a si is either inherited, or granted by the king or queen. We are generally given a color by our family based on anything—the si we were born, an ancestor’s wishes, a favorite color.” She touches a faded violet bead at the end of the bracelet. “I was a sweet child, and so my mother gave me quahansi, the color of kindness. But it’s not a title, and it has none of the weight of an official si. Merely a childhood token.” She runs her finger across the beads to the far end, to the scuffed, colorless chip. “They’re passed on to be worn by children, but as I said . . .” She gives the tiniest of shrugs and pulls her sleeve back down.
“You don’t have any other family?” I ask.
“None,” she replies, going back to the bandages. “My work has always come first, I’m afraid.”
“What do you do here?”
“I am the head of palace staff,” she says. “Interiors, grounds, gardens, kitchens, and utilities. This room is normally cleaned at night, but I am short-staffed at the moment—” She cuts herself off, as if realizing she’s about to reveal some kind of defect to me.
“Because of the fever?” I ask.
She draws in a breath. “It is of no importance.”
But she’s the first person I’ve been able to talk to about what goes on behind the veneer of the court, and I don’t want her to close down. “I find the work you do fascinating—it must be quite an operation to keep this palace as orderly as it is. I’ve never been in a place so well-kept.”
“You’re very kind,” she murmurs. She makes a small, sympathetic noise at the state of my left foot, arranging and rearranging the linen.
I look up toward the stage. I wasn’t paying attention to Queen Isme’s words, but now she’s gesturing to Iano to join her. I should hurry and try to find Eloise and Rou before the announcement is made, but there’s no way I can re-join the throng unobtrusively now. Besides, I want to keep talking to Fala. Perhaps she’ll be more forthcoming than the politicians in court.
“May I ask you a question, Fala?”
“I am at your service, lord.”
“Princess Eloise and I corresponded with Prince Iano over the past year, and in his letters he seemed pleased that we were coming, and happy to discuss his agenda with us. But since we arrived, he has barely wanted to speak to us at all. Do you have any idea why that is?”
Her face is bent toward my foot, so I can’t see her expression, but her shoulders take on a hint of tension. “I am sure I don’t know, lord.”
“Nothing at all? Did something happen recently? His father passed away last year, didn’t he?”
“A year and a half ago, rest him.”
I thought as much—we offered him condolences in some of our earliest letters, and even then he seemed ready to discuss policy. “What could it be?” I ask. “Is he ill? Are we appearing too agga . . . acca . . . aggressive?”
She shakes her head despite my fumble. “While I can only make guesses, lord, I expect the transitioning of the ashoki has been very trying for him.”
“Oh, is that all?” I ask, before realizing it came out wrong. “That is, I know it is an important office, but what makes the transition so difficult? What happened to the last one? Did they . . .”
I rack my brain for the word retire, but before I can recall the translation, Fala sighs. “Yes, may she rest in the Colors.”
My brain stumbles over the implication. “Oh, she—she died?”