The Final Strife

The kitchen was made up of four brick archways, each filled with a roaring hearth where food bubbled and sizzled for the court above. Three long tables that seated at least two hundred ran across the back walls, where soup was being ladled out to the servants in waiting. The Ghostings who were serving the meal had their elbows hooked under the curved handles of the ladles, their forearm muscles straining.

It didn’t look as good as the groundnut stew Lio made, but it had chicken pieces, and meat was hard to come by in the Duster Quarter.

The atmosphere was relaxed and jovial, Embers laughing and Ghostings signing to one another. An unknown muscle relaxed in her back, and Sylah felt herself at ease for the first time in a long while. Her time as a servant weighed on her shoulders, subjugation cowering her more and more each day. Though she was treated better than the Ghosting servants she had seen around the Keep, she was still bound by obedience to the Ember upper class. In the kitchens no one cared. She was invisible, just one of them.

Just one of them.

The thought struck her like one of her seizures, and she faltered. She wasn’t one of them, though, not really. She had a Duster’s heart. She needed to remember that. Her fingers gripped her bowl of soup—white ceramic. If traded it would have fed a Duster family for a week.

She looked around the kitchens one more time with a brittle stare: the fires, the sizzling meats, the freshly roasted coffee.

This is luxury.

Anoor’s extravagant lifestyle had skewed her judgment for a time, but she wasn’t going to forget the poverty she came from.

Sylah walked to the far end of the tables away from the others. For the last six years, she’d gotten used to being avoided, her red-stained teeth a sure sign of trouble. Even in the Dredge people crossed the street to avoid her. Now that the stains had faded, she no longer had that deterrent. So when a group of young servants came to sit near her, Sylah was unsettled.

“My money’s on Efie for Disciple of Strength.”

Sylah bowed over her soup and began to slurp noisily. The food was so bland she nearly spat it out, even the chicken didn’t improve it. Had she gotten used to Anoor’s fare so quickly?

“Efie, the imir of Jin-Gernomi’s granddaughter? Are you joking? She might be all muscle, but she’s had no formal training in the warden army, she’ll fail tactics for sure.”

“I bet you six slabs Efie wins.”

“I’ll take that bet.”

“Aho, and me.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I’m not betting against all of you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have made a stupid bet then.”

On and on they bickered, and Sylah hunkered deeper and deeper into her soup.

“Would you all shut up.” She said it softly at first, trying not to rattle the pain between her eyes. Then they continued, louder than before.

So she bellowed, “Skies above! You’re like a group of launderers. Will you take your chatter elsewhere and leave me to eat my meal in peace?”

After throwing looks of disdain her way, they didn’t take long to leave. There was silence after that. Sylah smiled.

“Nice work.” One boy hadn’t left. He seemed older than Sylah by a year or two. His dark skin was pockmarked, his shaven head a little knobbly, but he had kind eyes. Sylah wasn’t interested in kindness today.

Sylah mustered as much venom as she could and turned her gaze to him. “Yes?”

“Hello, I’m Kwame. Not seen you here before.”

“No, you won’t have.”

“I think I recognize you. Are you Anoor’s—I mean, Miss Elsari’s—new chambermaid?”

Sylah went back to eating her soup. Salt, it needed salt.

“Will you tell her I asked after her? I hope she’s doing well. I can’t believe she signed up for the Aktibar. Her aerofield skills were really quite impressive.”

At least the bread wasn’t stale.