not what they cost. If we sold every single bunch, we would get six and a half silver and thirty-two brass min—”
“My boy’s real good at numbers,” Reuben said, ruffling her hair. “It’s all right, master. You can have the lot for six. And then we can go home, eh, Micah?”
“Not if Rhubarb breaks her leg! We can’t go home in the dark, Reuben, you said—”
“Now, now, no one’s going home in the dark.”
The big man looked at all the turnips. “I shall have to make two trips. Unless . . . ?”
Reuben looked at Micah. Micah nodded.
“No trouble, mister; my boy will be glad to help you.” He winked at Micah, which meant “be sure to ask for a tip.” And to her he said: “You just help the nice man carry them all home, and I’ll stay right here and take care of Rhubarb, make sure she gets fed and rubbed down, and make us a nice, cosy bed in the cart for the night. And then we’ll head out at first light, and be home by noontide.”
“Well.” The man drummed his fingers. “That’s very kind of you. Offering help, I mean. It’s not far—just down River Street and into the University.” Reuben started putting their stock in sacks, while the man explained, “I’m Harcourt Onophrion, cook to the Horn Chair of History. A great man, Doctor Fleming, and he’s throwing a little feast for some other University masters tonight. Something about some dead poet, and they all get drunk and sing and recite. I had a splendid meal all planned for them—not that they notice what they’re eating once the Ruthven red starts flowing—but a very good meal. I was just going over the menu with Doctor Fleming—and he nearly burst a blood vessel when he saw I didn’t have mashed turnips on it. Who knew? Turns out you can’t properly celebrate Dead Poet without Mashed Turnips. Won’t be made a fool of in front of his colleagues. Swears he explained all this to me, but I am here to tell you, he may remember ancient history, but he’s clueless about two days ago. Thank you . . . Yes, yes, that’s very good. I’ll use some greens for salad tomorrow, and pickle the rest of them.”
Reuben filled one sack and started on another. “I had to come myself,” Master Onophrion explained. “My boy is down with the quinsy, and I wouldn’t trust Fleming’s manservant to find a black cat in a snowstorm, much less the right kind of turnip. I really am very grateful.”
“That’s all right. Micah, you take these—not too heavy for you, are they?—and just follow the gentleman. You’ll find your way back, right?”
“Right,” said Micah. “I’ve been to university. Last time was fifty-nine days ago, when we made that carrot and potato delivery to Nan’s Cookshop. I remember that way. And if this one is different, I’ll put it on my map.”
“Good boy.”
“Come, then,” said the cook, “Dead Poet won’t wait forever!”
• • •
Back on the dock, Ixkaab thanked the agent profusely, pleased that she would never see him again.
Oh, don’t thank me, always happy to help such a distinguished visitor, so pleased the first ship is in after a hard winter, please give your uncle my best regards and tell him it’s a privilege to serve the Kin-Winny trading fleet . . .
His words ran together in his enthusiasm, but she got the gist of it. Xamanek’s light, was he never going to finish? He was like one of the beggars lining the flower-strewn road to Ixchel’s temple . . . Kaab smiled to herself as she figured it out. Of course he was.
“I will certainly tell my uncle when I see him.” (And not my aunt? She’d heard these people undervalued women. Well, so much the better for her.) “But, sir, please allow the immediate expression of my gratitude for your kindness.”
Kaab and the agent did the dance of protesting, insisting, protesting, insisting—she made note that, as with the Bakhim, it was the usual three times before he conceded. Kaab dug in her sash for her pouch of cacao, and pressed a reasonable-sized chunk on him.
He acted as if it were Nopalco gold, and not just a common-variety bean, barely worth a hot bath back home. So she’d given him too much. But what of it? She raised her chin. The Wasp was full of cacao; and she was a first daughter of the House of Balam.
She let him bow to her one more time, waited until the agent’s attention was once again turned to the unloading of cargo (as it should have been all along), and went to where her personal luggage sat awaiting transport.
Ixkaab was still wearing her shipboard travel dress: loose trousers and blouse under feathered vest under quilted jacket. Her thick, dark hair was decently wrapped atop her head, and she was grateful for the scarf that covered it all. Ever piece of cloth kept you warmer here.
Traders, of course, were supposed to adopt the Local garb, to blend in. There would be plenty of time for that when she had presented herself at her family’s compound. For now, let the Locals think of her what they would! She was not planning to go amongst decent people anyway. Before she settled into being the dutiful daughter of a house of prosperous foreign merchants here, convincing all her kinsfolk that she would never get into trouble again, she needed to test out her newest skill, acquired on the ship from the old crippled sailmaker who had once been a swordsman.
• • •
“There!”
The Duchess Tremontaine finished tearing the long, fine seam of her pale green silk skirt. Her maid was working on the other seam, but the duchess was not above putting her hand to fabric, if it would get the job done faster. And besides, the action of pulling the material apart, the sound of the careful stitches snapping under her hands, gave her satisfaction.
“Yes, good,” she said. “All that green was getting vulgar. I’m going to wear dove colors this spring. They will look dreadful on poor Sarah Perry, but she won’t dare try not to follow, not if Lady Davenant takes it up, and you know she will. Lady Sarah is about to marry her homely daughter to Rupert Vernay, who stands to inherit Lord Filis and’s not inconsiderable estates someday. What a pity she’ll have the choice of looking either stylish or corpsy at their wedding this spring. Now fetch me the grey satin underskirt.”
“I fear I have not yet gotten the chocolate stains out of it, madam.”
“Have you not?” The duchess rested her hands for a moment. But her tone was contemplative, not angry. “Have you not, indeed? Lucinda,” she said with sudden briskness, “you will have to finish the task yourself. Run the seams up the green, so . . .” She bunched the fabric in her hands. “Yes, so it ruches naturally. You need not be precise. Just make sure it falls so that no one can see the chocolate stain on the grey.” Her maid nodded, taking the green silk from her. “I will be writing letters in my closet. I am not to be disturbed.”
“Yes, madam.”
The duchess paused at the door. “Just remember—I want a sense of deliberate carelessness. The way you did my hair for the Lassiters’ ball. A tumble of silk.”
“Deliberate carelessness.” Lucinda nodded, and a slow smile spread across her face. “Madam, no one will be able to copy you.”
“Well, they can try,” Diane said, with the most piquant of little smiles, the one she had when something genuinely amused her. “They can certainly try.”
• • •
The big man huffed and puffed as he walked with his sacks of turnips. He didn’t want to talk. Which was good, because it meant Micah could really concentrate on remembering their route for her map because of the way the old cows had laid out the streets. It took some thought, but she could do it.
“Carry those for you, mister?” An enterprising boy tried to stop Master Onophrion, but: “No need,” the big man huffed. “We’re nearly there. You all right, then, little one?”
“Yes, I am,” said Micah, without the breath to explain that she wasn’t that little: She had strong shoulders