Enclosed in the small room after her morning chores, Immalaine paces back and forth, restless and pale. Thinking to herself that the food the night before had been sparse, she rubs her stomach as it rumbles and waits for a wave of nausea to pass.
'At least,' she thinks to herself, sitting down on the edge of the bed once more, 'I've a little time to rest before it's time to serve supper.' She shudders, dreading the evening routine, where everything she does is picked apart and criticized whether she performs it exactly as Sallastin instructs or not. As Immalaine mulls over her situation, staring at the blank wall, she doesn't notice the bolt slide in the lock, or the door open.
The door scrapes open to reveal Mary, slightly wide-eyed, pushing her way into Immalaine's room as soon as there's space. "Get up, get up!" she exclaims, a bit breathless. "There's guests shown up a day early for dinner and cook's in a right state." She pulls Immalaine's serving dress from a hook and tosses it to the other girl. "The master wants a fine meal and cook weren't ready for so many. Says she needs us right now!"
With a deep breath, Immalaine stands up and wistfully glances back at the bed she was going to lie down on before taking off the tattered garments she’s forced to wear for daily chores. Her back to the door, she quickly dons the serving dressing, tugging at the uncomfortable tightness of it, before turning to face Mary. "I'm ready," she says, despite the fact that she suddenly feels rather lightheaded.
Mary frowns at her. "Don’t look that sour when we're serving the guests. You know he wants us to smile. No matter what they do." Seeing Immalaine's expression – which has fallen even more at this reminder of past indignities -- she takes a step closer, and lowers her voice. "I don't think he'll let it get too bad, not with the wedding coming so soon.... not too bad to for you anyway." She turns back to the door. "Come on! Cook is waiting!"
Downstairs, Cook looks up from her grumbling as the two girls enter the manor's large kitchen. "Bout time ye got 'ere." She points an imperious finger toward a stack of vegetables on a table. "Need those washed, good and well, and the potatoes peeled. And one of you go fetch me some basil an' lavender from th' herb garden. Mind you get the tender basil, not th' big leaves, an' pinch off any flowers."
At her words, Mary scurries over to the door that leads outside, leaving Immalaine to shuffle, still awkward with her chained ankles, toward the table. "Hurry up," Cook scolds. "It's my back as gets whipped if he's not satisfied with th' food, an' with guests comin'.." She grimaces and returns her attention to stirring a pot that's simmering over the banked cookfire.
Immalaine stares at the pile of vegetables on the table and sighs, before picking up a stack and walking over to a basin of water to begin washing them. She works quickly, holding each one up to the light to check it, before setting it aside to scrub the next one. Soon, she has pile of cleaned carrots and turnips ready. She slips a small carrot into the palm of her hand and turns towards the table to begin peeling potatoes. Halfway there, she stumbles as another wave of dizziness hits her. She glances toward Cook, but the woman is busy, mumbling to herself as she goes from dish to dish. Immalaine lets out a sigh of relief as she makes it to the table and sits down.
She has just finished the potatoes when Mary finally returns with the garden herbs. "Took your time about it, didn't you?" Cook demands. She bustles over to Mary, takes the herbs, and pushes the girl toward the stack of clean vegetables. "Chop those - but not too fine." She returns to the hearth and, at the nearby counter, sorts through the herbs, selects a few, adds them to the pot, tastes its contents and nods. She glances up and sees Immalaine watching her. "All done there? Good, come here an' stir this. I can't keep checkin' on it, not wit' everythin' else that needs doin'.... And mind you don't let th' bottom burn!"
Her hand wrapped around the half eaten carrot, Immalaine stands and drags the stool over to the pots. The smell of supper fills her nose and her stomach responds at the tempting aromas, but Immalaine steels herself and picks up the large spoon cook was using and begins stirring the pot. After looking around to make sure no one is watching, she takes another small bite of the carrot, the vegetable hardly adequate but at least easing the tightness so she could concentrate.
After a few minutes, Cook stops by the hearth to check on Immalaine's progress. "What's wrong with you girl? Y'look pale as merchant's flour." She steps to a side table and returns with a heel from the morning's baking. "Here, get some color in yer cheeks... can' have you comin' over faint when I need yer help gettin' the meal ready!" Then she makes a despairing noise, and scurries off to berate one of the scullery maids who's picked out the wrong set of dishes for the evening meal.
With a grateful nod, Immalaine takes the bread and begins eating it. Though dry and crumbly, it seems to take the edge off the gnawing hunger she has felt all day. Between the small bits of food and the heat from the pots, Immalaine's pale skin soon takes on a pink glow, her movements becoming more energetic and precise.
The next two hours pass in a bustle of frantic preparation, and then Immalaine finds Mary's hand squeezing her shoulder. "It's time," Mary says, her expression bleak. "He'll be wantin' us to pour their drinks and the like... And remember," she adds, reprovingly, despite the grim set of her own features: "smile!”
Immalaine attempts to smile. The result is closer to a sneer, however, and Mary shoots Immalaine a warning look, pursing her lips before presenting a half-hearted smile of her own. Immalaine takes a deep breath and tries again, the smile looking forced but better than the last one, and the two girls square their shoulders and head out along the passage toward the front rooms.
Upstairs, the two girls step into the receiving room and move to flank the small side table where the wine waits. Immalaine takes a quick look around, before Mary's hand gesture reminds her to drop her eyes, as they've been instructed to behave before guests. Across the room, a stranger stands, bulky in chain-mail and coarse furs, gripping the back of a dark wooden armchair. The tattoos of a hill-man tribe rise up from under his collar and onto his left cheek. Sallastin, lean and muscular in his usual black cotton and silks, lounges against the hearth, cold eyes fixed on the visitor.
"... haven't changed at all," the stranger is snarling. as the girls enter. "Books and knives and sneaking about. Pah. Your family was no loss to Angmar."
"And you haven't changed a bit either, Urvatch," comes Sallastin's low reply, his thin smile evident in the tone. "Still barking impotently, like a dog on a leash." The stranger growls and the chair creaks under his tightening grip. "Which," Sallastin continues, unruffled, "is why you're here, running errands for your master, while he is seeking a favor from me." The chair creaks louder.
As she pours wine into a heavy crystal decanter, Immalaine listens to the discussion. She can still hear the bitterness in the mens' voices, and feel the tension in the small room. 'A favor ...' she thinks to herself. 'Nothing good, I'm sure.' Her hand shakes as she places the decanter between the two goblets on a waiting tray, and she takes a deep breath to steady herself.
The stranger, Urvatch, splutters to reply. "Ah, but I am forgetting my manners," croons Sallastin. "Your throat must be dusty after your long ride, messenger boy." He snaps his fingers and demands, without looking over, "Wine!" Mary starts forward with the tray; the goblets, worked in gold and faceted glass, sparkle in the firelight. "Have something to drink before we go in to the meal."
Immalaine lifts her eyes up slightly to watch Mary walk towards the men, grateful that she doesn’t have to carry it. She leans against the wall as a wave of dizziness hits her, and closes her eyes against the room’s spinning.
When Mary pauses at his side, Sallastin lifts the decanter, fills one of the goblets, and offers it to his guest. Urvatch waves it away with a rude grunt, and Sallastin shrugs. "Suits me," he says, lifting the glass to his own lips and taking a long sip. "It's a waste offering good wine to the likes of you, anyway. What would you know of such things?
Mary starts to turn away, but Urvatch's hand darts out and grabs her shoulder. "Too good for me?" he scoffs. "Hardly." He splashes wine from the decanter into the other goblet, sloshing some onto the tray and even the fine Lossoth rug underfoot, and drains it in one long swallow. "I've had better," he says,
From behind, Immalaine hears a pair of footsteps approach, and she shies away as a deep-voiced man speaks. “Our steeds have been tended, Urvatch, and the men settled.”
Urvatch nods, then wipes the back of his wrist over his mouth and flicks the goblet down toward the hearth, where it shatters on the polished stone at Sallastin's feet. "Now, are we going to have that meal you promised or not?"
Sallastin's lip curls, but he gives no other reaction to the shattered glass. "Very well," he says, smoothly. "Immalaine, Mary. Attend us." He gestures Urvatch and his two aides to proceed him through the carved archway into the dining room beyond.
While the men pass, Immalaine looks down at the floor at the broken shards of glass and almost grins. 'Maybe the guest would break a few more things,' she thought, then grimaced at the thought, for surely Sallastin would find a way to blame Mary or herself. Feeling Mary tug at her arm, she turns and quickly follows the procession to the dining room.
Urvatch seats himself at the foot of the table, facing Sallastin. His two men sit on either side of him. A single house guard, decked in Sallastin's colors of indigo, eyes them sternly from beside the archway. Urvatch darts a single look at the man behind him, then pretends indifference.
Mary, without needing a word of instruction, places a fresh goblet at the guest's left hand, and provides another for each of the newcomers. Behind her back, blocked from the two men's sight, she makes a 'hurry up' gesture at Immalaine to bring the wine. "May we serve you now, sir?" Mary asks in a low voice while Mary pours, and Sallastin waves a hand at her. "Yes, yes, get on with it."
As the girls hurry away, he smiles at Urvatch and says, conversationally, "I hear Estan has been promoted again. So sensible of you to get dismissed from the army. I'd not want to be taking orders from my younger brother...."
Mary grabs Immalaine's wrist as they go and pulls her along into the passageway to the kitchens. "Come on," she whispers, urgently.
Immalaine shakes off her daze and follows. When they arrive, cook is putting the final touches on the first course, the aromas from the food making Immalaine's mouth water, and her stomach heave in protest. She spots the servant's drinking bucket and moves towards it for a sip of water.
Mary lifts the plates and looks around for Immalaine. "What's wrong with you tonight? You're going to get yourself whipped if he sees you dawdling, especially in front of guests. Here." She extends the two plates to Immalaine. "I'll take the serving bowl."
Quickly, Immalaine takes a drink of water, then accepts the plates from Mary. "I'm fine," she replies, though her pale skin belies that statement, "I've jus' been a little dizzy is all." Cradling the plates in her arms, she walks carefully and following.
Mary shakes her head. "Well get over it! You know how everything must be perfect in front of guests!"
Upstairs, Sallastin’s ironic laugh echoes in the room just as they reach it. "What, you think me a fool?" he says. "No, I'll not tell you where or what. You just tell Vahkled that I expect to have the second within a few weeks, two months at the outside." He glances over as the girls approach the table. "Finally.”
Keeping her eyes down, Immalaine places the plates down on the table, while Mary sets the serving bowl down and begins ladling food onto them. Mary brings Sallastin's plate to him herself.
Urvatch's two companions start in on their food directly, eating like men who have been on the road for several days. Urvatch gives Sallastin a measuring look, which elicits only a chuckle from the head of the table. "Why would I do you any harm?" Sallastin asks. "My business is with your master is too important to waste his time – or mine – troubling over his lackeys."
Urvatch grits his teeth, but nods. "That’s right. I have Vahkled's ear. So you just watch that clever tongue of yours. I may not know what you're up to, but if it's something some disgraced exile can do, it can't be too hard, now can it? Nor you too important." He grins as Sallastin's expression contorts into a brief flicker of anger, then forks up a mouthful of the food and chews it noisily, still grinning. One of his lieutenants snickers.
Immalaine furrows her brow, listening as the two men snipe at each other, never having heard anyone talk back to Sallastin that way. Storing the bits of conversations in the back of her mind, she tries to focus on the silverware, her stomach protesting in renewed hunger.
Mary suddenly tugs on Immalaine's elbow, jarring her out of a slight daze. Sallastin is frowning at them. Mary tugs again. "He said to get the next course," she whispers, her voice thin with fear.
The lieutenant on the far side of the table looks up from his plate and gives Immalaine a slow wink. "Mebbe she sees something up here she likes too much to leave?" he suggests. Mary tugs again, pulling Immalaine toward the kitchens.
The dinner drags on, and the girls get scarcely a moment's rest, for when they are not bringing or clearing dishes from the table, or running errands for Sallastin and his guests, Cook has them helping her with frantic final preparations in the kitchen. The fragments of conversation Immalaine overhears at the table grow increasingly more hostile, but always coated in smooth civility, and Sallastin's confident, superior smirk never wavers. She is able to grab a few more quick bites in the kitchen, but they merely blunt the edge of her hunger and do nothing to ease her slowly increasing dizziness. But, finally, the end of the meal is in sight, and Immalaine and Mary hurry out to fetch away the last plates before serving Cook's special dessert.
"... merely displays your ignorance, Urvatch." Sallastin is saying as they enter. "Mary," he calls, seeing them. "My Angmaran friends do not find these wines enjoyable. Go fetch that disgusting swill that the fat little mayor sent up at Yule." Hie cold eyes track back to Urvatch. "I expect our guests will find that much more to their tastes."
Mary hesitates a moment, then nods. Before stepping toward the far hall, she gives Immalaine's elbow a quick, encouraging squeeze. "Almost done," she whispers as she hurries away on this new errand.
Immalaine nods and turns her attention back to the dishes. She picks up a load, and cradles them carefully to the kitchen, where she sets them next to the wash basin for later. She pauses for another drink of water before returning for the next load.
By the time Immalaine returns, Mary is already pouring the new drink for Sallastin's guests. One of Urvatch's two men takes a sip, nods in approval, and quickly drains the rest of his mug, then shoves it toward Mary for more.
Urvatch sniffs, takes a sip, shrugs. "Not for me. But my aides seem to like it well enough. "What is it?"
"Winterberry Ale, or some such swill," Sallastin replies. "The locals seem to like it."
Winterberry. Immalaine pauses in the middle of picking up the dishes and looks over, sure she had imagined the words in her dizziness. But, as the aroma of the ale reaches her nose, she smells the undeniable scent of the berries in the brew. It is. Her lips soften into a gentle smile as she remembers the trip to Winterhome with Rastellion, and she sighs. “Rastellion…” she murmurs, not realizing she has spoken his name aloud.
Sallastin attention snaps to her at this. "What's that?" he demands. The nearer of Urvatch's aides looks over curiously.
"I .... what?" she asks, her mind still on the trip, wondering what Sallastin meant and unaware that she'd spoken or that she still had a half smile on her face.
Sallastin's eyes narrow, and his supercilious smile wavers for the first time that evening. "Thinking of your farmer boy back in Bree, are you?" he asks in a low, dangerous tone.
Immalaine lifts her chin, briefly meeting Sallastin's eyes as she hears the edge in his voice, then glancing hurriedly away. She bites her tongue, and takes a step back, silently cursing herself.
Across the table, Mary has ceased pouring the ale and is watching Sallastin, as are, now, the other two guests. Sallastin regards Immalaine coldly for a moment longer, then the cruel smile returns and he leans back in his chair.
"Well, let me give you a bit of news from Bree, little girl. Your boy hasn't been seen for weeks now. Not since I got you back. Rumor is he's run away home with a broken heart." Sallastin chuckles, then leans forward to lift his wine glass; his sharp gaze pierces her. "And if he does come back to Bree? Well, he'll find a little surprise waiting for him. I mean to see him destroyed." He takes a sip from the goblet and leans back, his supercilious smile back in place. He waves a hand at the dirty table. "Now be about your chores!"
At the command, Immalaine takes the dishes in her arms and turns, almost running as she flees the dining room. Hasn't been seen ... gone home ... if he returns .... if he ... he's alive! Immalaine thinks. Sallastin's threat sends a cold chill through her, but her mind focuses on those two words. "He's alive!"
(Credits and love go to Rastellion, who provided the voice of various characters in this story. *Blows kisses to Rastellion and grins widely*)
