How would he find out what work he ought to do? Without asking Lark or bothering Demwor? It was easy to guess that he shouldn’t go in search of Lord Brickel.

  He ended up following his nose to the kitchen, a stone building behind the main house—far enough that if the kitchen burned down it wouldn’t take the house with it, but close enough that hot food would still be hot when served, even after being carried through the coldest weather.

  The cook turned out to be cooks: a tall, lean black man and a fleshy woman with slanting eyes. As he approached the kitchen, Runnel could hear him calling her Sourwell—a watername—and her calling him Nikwiz, which wasn’t a word he knew, any more than Demwor’s name had meant anything to him. Their tones were quiet, and when Runnel entered the fire-dried room—so hot that he thought having an oven was redundant—they ignored him and kept speaking to each other.

  “Ready for that.”

  “Steady with the salt.”

  “Taste it, you’ll see.”

  “Old.

  “But edible.”

  “Perfect.”

  If Runnel hadn’t been watching, it wouldn’t even have sounded like a conversation, but he could see that “ready for that” led to her handing him what looked like a large spoon, but with holes in the bottom so that when he shook it over the steaming pot, white granules came out. “Steady with the salt” was said after he made his second pass with the shaker. “Taste it, you’ll see,” led to Sourwell dipping a finger into Nikwiz’s pot as she passed on an errand of her own; she nodded and he made yet another pass with the shaker.

  “Old,” she said when she picked up a couple of turnips and eyed them skeptically. He didn’t even look—he was busy now mincing an onion—so he must have bought the turnips, because his “but edible” sounded authoritative. By then she was on to the oven, where she slid out a long tray with two round loaves on it—“perfect” was pronounced as judgment on the bread.

  Neither of them had yet shown a sign of knowing Runnel was there, but as Nikwiz scattered the onions into a hot pan, making the grease in it sizzle, he said, “If you’ve come to beg for scraps, no. If you’ve come to steal, I promise you dysentery.”

  “I’ve just been hired, and I came to ask if you’ve any work for me,” said Runnel. “My name is Runnel.”

  “Can you cook?” asked Sourwell.

  “Anyone can cook,” said Nikwiz. “You just climb into the oven.”

  It took a moment for Runnel to realize that this was a joke—Sourwell didn’t even break a smile, and yet Runnel could see that both she and Nikwiz were both shaking with mirth at the remark.

  “My mother never let me near the cooking. Or knives. My sisters—”

  “Fascinating,” said Sourwell in a tone that meant the opposite.

  “Put the owl on the roof,” said Nikwiz, “to scare the birds and mice away.”

  And they were back to cooking.

  I’m supposed to catch an owl? Or is there a tame one?

  “Outside,” said Sourwell. “Blew off in the last storm.”

  He went out and walked almost all the way around the kitchen building before he found a carved stone owl leaning against a wall. It was cunningly shaped, and it had been daubed with paint to make it more convincing to birds and mice, though Runnel wondered whether those beasts were really that stupid.

  The owl was also very heavy. He realized at once that they expected him to be too small to manage it.

  But the end walls of the kitchen were stone all the way up, gables and all, the thatch of the roof resting between them like hay in a manger. The owl must rest on the peak of the stone gable—and now that he looked, he could see that another owl rested on the peak of the other end of the kitchen.

  Tucking the owl against his body, Runnel had a tough go of it, climbing up the stone wall one-handed, but with bare feet he managed it well enough, and within two minutes after picking up the owl, he was back down, with the owl perched menacingly atop the crest of the kitchen.

  He went back inside. “What next?” he asked.

  “We didn’t ask you to find the owl,” said Sourwell. “We need it put atop the roof.”

  “Did it,” said Runnel. “What else?”

  As if it were part of her regular routine, Sourwell swept out of the kitchen and in a moment came back in and resumed her cooking. In a perfectly mild voice she said, “Singe my sockets, but the boy must fly.”

  “Bet he left the ladder outside to rot,” said Nikwiz.

  “Ladder?” asked Runnel.

  Their smooth dance of food preparation finally came to a halt, as both of them looked for a long moment at Runnel, then at each other. “Break eggs much?” asked Nikwiz.

  “Prone to spilling things?” asked Sourwell.

  “No more than most,” said Runnel. “I’m not careless, but I’m not perfect.”

  “We wanted perfect,” said Nikwiz, visibly disappointed.

  “Best use me for jobs that can be done by the less-than-perfect,” said Runnel.

  “Here,” said Sourwell, slapping a knife down on a cutting stone and pointing to a pile of peppers. “Don’t cut yourself.”

  For the next hour, Runnel chopped and minced peppers and onions on smooth-cut slabs of granite. He quickly learned not to rub his eyes. He cried a lot and sneezed now and then. His eyes burned. He was useful. He was earning his keep.

  Then they kicked him out of the kitchen with orders to wash his hands with soap three times before washing his face—again with soap—to clear the last of the onion and pepper residues from his face. “Scrub,” said Sourwell. “Hard,” said Nikwiz. “Never a soapmage where you need one,” added Sourwell.

  “I never heard of soapmages,” said Runnel.

  “Me neither,” said Nikwiz. “Go wash.”

  He found a washbasin outside the kitchen, made of stone, of course. He rocked the small cistern and filled the basin with water, then lathered his hands with one of the cakes of hard soap. He was scrubbing his face, including especially his closed eyes, when he heard voices.

  “Doesn’t look like much,” said an old man.

  “Isn’t much,” said Demwor. “But he made himself useful in the kitchen this afternoon without being ordered.”

  “All arse and elbows,” said the old man. “And what is he wearing?”

  “The latest in mountain village fashions,” said Demwor.

  It had to be Lord Brickel himself that Demwor was talking to, and Runnel wanted to see him, but he couldn’t see anything until he rinsed his face, and thoroughly. By the time he was able to towel himself on his shirt and turn around, he could just see them disappearing into the house.

  He didn’t see him at supper, either. Lord Brickel ate with company in his dining room; Runnel ate at the big table in the kitchen with the other servants, of whom there were only the ones he’d already seen: Demwor, Nikwiz, Sourwell, and Ebb, the stupid man from the doorway. Demwor, Nikwiz, and Sourwell kept up a constant conversation about the business of the house and gossip in the neighborhood. Ebb said nothing, which was what Runnel said as well.

  Lark was waiting table tonight so she was in and out of the kitchen, and she certainly didn’t speak to Runnel.

  “Going to buy the new one something respectable to wear?” asked Sourwell.

  “Wasn’t thinking of it,” said Demwor. “He’s not naked. He’s not going out on errands for the house.”

  “He’ll have to wear something when she washes his clothes,” pointed out Sourwell.

  The mentioned “she” had to be Lark. Runnel was sure Lark would be thrilled to know she’d be doing that chore.

  “I can wash my own,” said Runnel. “If you show me where.”

  “It talks,” said Nikwiz.

  “With its mouth full,” said Sourwell.

  They didn’t smile, and nobody laughed, but Runnel knew he was being teased, and with good humor. It felt good.

  “Take him to market with you tomorrow,” said Demwor, “and buy him something that fits. I’ll take it out of his earnings. But if he runs off and takes the new clothes before they’re earned out, I’ll dock your wages.”

  “Just try it,” said Nikwiz.

  “When we prepare every bite of food you eat,” said Sourwell.

  “What kind of household is this?” said Demwor. “Two cooks, one smart-mouthed girl, a mountain bumpkin, and a cheerful dolt.”

  “You’re forgetting Ebb,” said Nikwiz.

  It took a moment for Runnel to get the gibe; he laughed aloud.

  Demwor glared at him. “Don’t get the idea that I’ll let you speak disrespectfully to me, boy, just because I let the cooks do it.”

  “No, sir,” said Runnel.

  “And you’ll wash those clothes and bathe yourself tonight. With soap! I won’t have you bringing fleas into the house.”

  Which explained why Lark’s clothing was so clean. Demwor insisted on it.

  “Where do I wash them?” asked Runnel. “Since there’s no stream close by.”

  “The washbasin is at the west corner of the garden,” said Nikwiz.

  “Carry your own water there,” said Sourwell.

  “There’s a stove out there for heating the water,” said Demwor, “but if you break a jar from overheating it or setting it cold on a hot stove, I’ll dock you.”

  Runnel had no idea what “docking” him might mean, but he was sure it was something he wanted to avoid having done either to him or his wages. But that was all right. He had never heard of heating water for washing clothes. And only Father washed in hot water back home, and only in winter.

  After supper he found the laundry tub, estimated how much water he’d need to wash and rinse the clothes and himself, and then carried a large jar of water from the main cistern. He stripped off his clothes and put them in the water, then soaped them on the washboard.

  “You nasty boy!” said Lark behind him. Her voice was full of revulsion.

  “I haven’t washed myself yet,” he answered.

  “I don’t care that you’re dirty, stupid. You’re naked.”

  “Excuse me, I didn’t think of washing my clothes with me still in them,” said Runnel.

  “Do you always do your laundry naked back in Farzibeck?” she said snidely.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s that or sit naked in the house like a baby while somebody else washes them. Only in Farzibeck, the girls have sense enough to stay away while the boys are laundering, and we boys’d be killed if we walked up on the girls like you just walked up on me.” This was not strictly true. When boys got their man growth, they would keep a loincloth on. But Runnel had not started wearing one yet.

  “I have laundry to do,” said Lark. “For the master.”

  “Then you can either wait till later, or you can do it with your eyes closed, because I’m not leaving here till my clothes and my body are clean.”

  “Dry! It’ll take forever for your clothes to dry!”

  “Dry?” asked Runnel. “Where will they dry, except on me?”

  “I’m not going to go to bed late because you picked this moment to discover cleanliness.”

  “Demwor told me to wash clothes and boy,” said Runnel. “And the reason I was so dirty was because I had just taken a journey along roads and through woods, and slept in leaves on the forest floor. Next time I’ll remember to have someone carry me in a litter or pull me in a carriage.”

  She set down a full basket of white linens.

  “The master must wear a lot of white,” said Runnel.

  “This is his underwear, mountain boy,” she said contemptuously. “Obviously you’ve never heard of it.”

  It was a strange world, indeed, for a man to have underwear like a baby—and a whole basketful at that.

  Lark poured the rest of the water from his jar into the tub and dropped a cake of soap in with it. Then she took the washboard from Runnel’s side of the tub and began scrubbing the linens.

  “I guess my clothes are clean enough now,” said Runnel, getting up.

  “Don’t stand up!” she said. “Don’t you have any modesty?”

  “You just poured out the rinse water,” said Runnel. “I have to get more.”

  “You should have brought more water in the first place,” she said.

  “I brought enough water for my body and my clothes to be washed and rinsed,” he said. “You brought none.” He picked up the empty jar and headed back across the garden to the courtyard where the cistern waited.

  The jar was almost half-full when Demwor came up to him. “In this house we wear clothing,” he said sharply.

  Runnel bit back all his two possible answers: “I’m not in the house” would get him slapped or kicked out for insolence. “You told me to wash my clothes when you knew I didn’t have any others” was likely to get the same result. So instead he said, “I had to replenish the water so Lark could do the laundry.”

  “So you were naked with Lark?” Demwor’s expression turned furious.

  He could not leave that one unanswered. “I was naked alone with a laundry tub! She decided she had to do her laundry right then and use up all the water I brought. I had to get more so I could rinse my clothes because not even for you am I putting them back on with soap still in them!”

  Demwor at first got angrier, but then calmed himself. “You could have left your underwear on until your outerwear was clean.”

  Runnel just sighed.

  “Don’t have underwear?” Now Demwor was amused.

  “I’m not a baby,” said Runnel.

  That was apparently the funniest thing of all. But after one bark of laughter, he was back to chiding. “We don’t do our laundry in the filtered water.” He showed Runnel the tap that drew water directly from the cistern without passing through the porous stone first. It flowed much more readily, and the jar was quickly full.

  “He’s naked!” said Ebb cheerfully, when Demwor passed him on the way back to the house.

  So Runnel had learned something else—people went insane when you took your clothes off. In the village, clothing was for warmth. Only girls worried about modesty, and only when they got near that age. During summer, men often worked naked in the fields. It was part of life; during hot weather, a man would strip himself as surely as he’d shear the sheep. What did they do here in the city? Sweat in their clothing so it would stink? No wonder they had to wash all the time.

  He carried the full waterjar back to the laundry. Lark was still scrubbing linens. He tipped all the water out of the tub onto the stone flags of the washing pit. Lark leapt to her feet with a cry, then began picking up linens. “Now I have to wash them again, you fool! You oaf!”

  “You felt free to take my water and the washboard from me,” said Runnel. “That’s how I thought things were done.”

  “I’m doing the master’s laundry!”

  “And I’m doing the laundry that Demwor told me to do,” he said. “You’re the one who decided to be mean. If you want to get along with me, then treat me fairly. I’ll do the same in return. But right now, I’m rinsing my clothes. And washing and rinsing myself. Then you can do what you like.”

  Only then did he see that she had already slopped his clothes out of the tub and tossed them, not onto the clean flagstones, but out into the dirt. She saw where he was looking and she blushed. That was all he needed—he knew she was sorry for having caused him extra work.

  “Thank you for helping me get this position,” he said. “Even if you punish me the rest of my life for saying one wrong thing without meaning any harm, and for washing clothes the way we do it in the mountains, I’ll still thank you for helping me get a place here. I’m in your debt, and I won’t do anything like pouring out your washwater again. I’m sorry for that. It wasn’t right.”

  As he spoke, he went for his clothes and brought them back to the tub. By now she was pouring water in, her lips set and her eyes downcast. He put his clothes back in the tub and knelt to wash them again. But she held on to the washboard and began scrubbing his clothing herself.

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  But she ignored him and scrubbed.

  “I don’t want you serving me,” he said.

  “Go stand behind something till I have your clothes clean,” she said irritably. “Pretend to be decent.”

  He obeyed and leaned against the stone wall of the garden, with a tree between him and her. He thought of climbing the wall to see what was on the other side, but decided that nude wall-climbing wasn’t in the spirit of decency that she had in mind. He could hear her wringing out his wet clothes and spattering water on the pavement.

  After a while she brought his trousers and tunic and, still averting her eyes, offered them to him. He took the shirt and pulled it on over his head. “I’m covered now,” he said.

  “Just take your pants,” she said.

  He took them, but didn’t fasten them with the cord; they’d stay up well enough, being damp, and it wouldn’t do to tie the cord wet or he’d never get it off. He went back to the washtub as soon as he was dressed.

  “Go away,” she said.

  “Lark,” he said. “I don’t ask you to be my friend. Just let me help you do your work faster, since I delayed you.”

  “I do this job myself.”

  “I can wring out the linens,” said Runnel. “I can pour water, even if you don’t let me scrub.”

  In reply, she handed him a pair of underdrawers to wring. He did, and draped it where she pointed, on one of several strings between two tree limbs.

  After most of the linens were hanging, she finally spoke to him. “It was a waste of time, you know, putting that stupid owl back up on the kitchen roof.”

  “Doesn’t it work?”

  “The mice live inside the kitchen walls and never see the owl,” she said. “And no birds come here.”

  “Doesn’t that mean that it does work?”

  “It means no birds come over these walls, whether there’s an owl or not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’d expect me to feed them and care for them, and I can’t,” she said. “So I ask them not to come.” She looked up at him defiantly.