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“It is worth at least double its weight in silver,” Kamet was saying, in the haughty voice he used when he was being So Very Mede. “It is harvested from the blossoms of the autumn crocus.”
Gen slipped in through the kitchen door and hoisted himself up on a tall stool tucked into a dim corner.
“Double its weight in silver!” Zerchus scoffed. “For a spice! I’d like to see that!”
“What does it taste like?” Tarra, up to her elbows in dill, had stopped chopping to listen.
“Smoky,” said Kamet. “Sweet, and bitter, at the same time. And it turns the food a lovely golden color.” He sniffed. “My master won’t eat rice without it, at home.”
“I’m sorry the food in our palace is so far beneath your standards.” Brinna swept through the room bearing a tray piled high with intricately knotted bread rolls. “I’ll remember that the next time I’m considering offering you a nutcake.”
Kamet’s mouth snapped shut so fast, Gen could almost hear the click. He sniggered.
Kamet swung around, squinting, hunting for the source of the sound. He shot a dark look in Gen’s direction.
Gen smiled affably and waggled his fingers in greeting.
“So how do you prepare this...saffron?” Tarra persisted. “Do you chop it?”
“Heavens, no,” said Kamet, settling back into his chair, looking utterly appalled. And as nearly at home as Gen ever saw him, in the palace of Attolia.
*|*|*
At first, it was nothing but a little bit of extra espionage.
After all, there were only so many opportunities a sandal polisher and general errand boy could have to observe a queen. (By daylight, at least.) So, Gen had decided to use some of his extra time to find out what he could about the Mede as well, to keep Eddis as well-informed as possible. Not just about the ambassador to Attolia’s court, but about the emperor—and the empire—that had sent him.
The most obvious source of information about the Mede ambassador, and his business in Attolia, was the ambassador’s secretary.
*|*|*
Gen was not, in general, well-disposed toward the arrogant. Several of his cousins had learned this fact the hard way. Anyone caught looking down their nose at Gen, or at someone he cared about, was likely to find themselves missing a few earrings.
Kamet, when interacting with most of the servants and the queen’s indentured in the palace, was arrogant enough to justify four or five earrings.
Except—Kamet had no earrings at all. He wore no jewelry, only the gold chain around his neck that marked him as property.
And Kamet, in the company of Nahuseresh the ambassador, was a silent shadow, making notes in meetings or fetching and carrying anything the ambassador might demand, with deep, obsequious bows. Sometimes there was a bruise on his cheek, or a hitch in his gait.
Now Nahuseresh, for his part—who would not stop making advances to the queen of Attolia, all the while underestimating her power and intelligence to an appalling degree—was arrogant enough for two or three dozen earrings.
*|*|*
Kamet seemed to love the palace gardens nearly as much as Gen did. He had gotten better and better at snatching moments to stroll there, taking in the fountains and the flowers and the greenery that must have been very different from the gardens of Ianna-Ir.
Something else Kamet seemed to love was language. His spoken Attolian was much more nimble than Nahuseresh’s heavily accented speech. And more than once, Gen had seen him in the palace library, reading poetry—or translating it, filling a scroll with his spare tidy script.
Gen resolved to make Kamet tell him a story, one day.
*|*|*
Kamet’s arrogance, in the kitchens, fit in neatly with Brinna’s imperiousness, and Tarra’s single-minded curiosity, and Zerchus’s bluster, and Gen’s own blatant shirking of anything that even slightly resembled responsibility.
The only sour note was Onarkus, who bullied and slapped and roared and meant it.
“Hey,” he shouted now, stomping through the room. “Back to work! This is no time for slacking!”
Tarra started and dove wholeheartedly back into dill-chopping. Zerchus grabbed his basket of onions and made for the sauce kitchen before Onarkus could catch him by the ear. Gen took advantage of his proximity to the doorway and slipped out into the kitchen garden.
“And you!” came Onarkus’s roar from inside. “You don’t even belong here! Get out!”
Gen made sure that he was facing away from the door when Kamet skittered through. Onarkus was the one person in Attolia, except possibly for the queen herself, who cowed Kamet as much as Nahuseresh did.
“Come on,” Gen whispered, after giving Kamet a moment to put his face in order. “We’re going to the orangerie.”
Kamet drew himself up, favoring Gen with one of his very best haughty looks. “And what business would I have in the orangerie? Or you, for that matter? I don’t think there are any sandals to polish, in there.”
“None at all,” Gen agreed.
Kamet, shaking his head, turned to go.
“But—” Gen hefted the small sack he was carrying—“I have nutcakes.”
With a sigh, and a roll of his eyes, Kamet turned back.
*|*|*