story - part 15 - whispers - 1210 words

The truth of the matter is, if this is a game, she is good at it. The second we are out of my rooms she loses some of that cocky edge [though by no means all of it] and settles into something calmer, more demure. I can still see the noble under the bowed head and the sideways glances, but only because I know her.

The King and Queen, the prince, a hand full of close relations and allies and enemies who need wooing eat in the Great Hall at night. The servants cluster in a small room in the back of the kitchen, settling down in ones or twos to chat quietly or snatching food and retreating back to their tiny rooms. We are not important enough for the rich meats and fine meals they consume; ours are more often stews made up of a mixture of old meats and vegetables.

It is not bad, but I can tell she is shocked by the way people settle in the kitchen, clustered in corners to chatter between themselves or dragged away to eat alone against counters. In an hour, they will kick into motion, scuttle out of the room bearing platters of food for the nobles - fine foods they will never in a hundred years get to taste. I can see something in her jaw tense and clench, some righteous indignation. As if she has never eaten dinner with the King.

We settle into the line for stew, her hovering nervously at my right elbow. Sideways glances are cast in her direction, curious and thoughtful. It is not because she has that proud edge, or because of the wealth of hair that curls down her back, or because of her flashing eyes. It is because she is new. And because she is with me.

People have a way of making room before me. No one wants to stand directly beside me, no one ever meets my eyes. They are a superstitious people, and they believe I am a hunchback; perhaps they fear that if they touch me, their own spines will twist and warp, and they too will be cursed. I know that a hand full of them have deemed me death, something about my silence or the fact that I always seem to be wandering the halls at night. Whatever the reason, it does not really bother me.

With bowls full of thick stew in hand, we pull away to an empty corner. It is carefully chosen, near enough to the other groups of people that we can pick up on strains of conversation, even the one that has dropped to a hushed murmur. She wanted to know what this life is like, and now she will find out.

"...just don't like the way he's always sneaking around, y'know? He's so quiet, and...and just downright sneaky. It weirds me out..." I wonder, sometimes, if these people realize that their voices are loud enough to be heard, that I can pick out the meaning behind the words.

"Yeh, well, he's alright. You know, just, go to his room if you're sick, and he'll patch you up. It's like magic..."

My eyes lift to Cali, who is picking at her soup [not actually eating any, merely pushing it around in the bowl] as she attempts to listen to another conversation, one that has been dropped to an even more muted whisper. She is not terribly good at subtlety. I can tell by a flicker of her eyes, by the cock of her head, which people she has her focus on.

"...not the point. It's all but war. They're trying to get rid of each other. They're gathering allies, and trying so hard to ruin each other. Did you know he yelled at me, yesterday, for wearing a hair ribbon that was in her color?" I believe this is what Cali came here to listen to, to pick up on - strains of murmured conversations about the nobles, things she can use against them. Idle gossip. Dirt.

"It's more than that, though, you know? I don't understand nobles. I mean, they act like they like each other, at events and meals. They're civil. Some people even think they're lovers. But then there's all this backstabbing, these stupid games. If we had that kind of free time, I definitely think I'd use it on something better..." There is blatant surprise on Cali's face, a hint of a flush on her cheeks. As she blinks back up to meet my eyes.

This is not turning out how she intended. She was probably expecting the same kind of court circles as the noble meals, people clustered at tables having conversation that was strained, laced with innuendo. Would you be so kind as to pass the salt? Of course, my dear, we all know how you love your salt.

A smile flashes across my face at how awkward she looks in here, how surprisingly helpless. I do not think it is more of her act, I do not believe she is doing it intentionally. It is strangely amusing, vaguely endearing. I creep in close enough to her that we can whisper without being overheard, a quiet and private conversation.

"They are not like nobles. What few games they play are direct and hard to misinterpret. They do not spread vicious rumors about each other while smiling pleasantly. Instead they steal and play tricks, they have loud verbal battles that put all their emotions on the table. They fight, and then they fix things, instead of chattering about what is broken."

She blinks up at me, suddenly, surprised by how close I am. Another bright blossom of color comes to her cheeks in a rush as she nods and looks away. Perhaps she is embarrassed by her own games, or her own inability to be this direct and honest. I am not sure.

"We have been here twenty minutes; I believe you get the idea. If you are going to eat your stew, please do so. I would like to leave." As I shift away again, settling back against the wall and peering out at the rest of the servants. I do not like it in here. They cast me too many curious, sideways glances. It is always awkward.

After a moment, Cali actually sets about eating the stew. The rest of the conversations are pointless gossip or the servants bragging about their families. Someone is now a grandmother. Another's daughter was just married to a blacksmith. Tiny victories, and they are so proud of them.

We slip away, back toward my rooms to pull her out of her costume and to wash the grime off her face. It is much easier to put her back into her guise as a noble; it is no longer like trying to force a square peg into a round hole. It fits her.

She lingers for a moment before bidding me goodnight. I think that perhaps there is something else she wants to do or say, but she settles for a dismissive gesture and a shake of her head, a request that we go out into town before the party, so that she can make me respectable. Naturally, I agree.