Loving a Deathseer: The Jaiya Series, #3

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to Adrijus Guscia (Rocking Book Covers) for an excellent book cover, and to Carol Davis (A Better Look Editing Services) for her help in finding and fixing my mistakes.

CHAPTER ONE

Erno stood at the gate and peered through the wrought iron curlicues at the house inside. It was a tall, square building, sheathed in red sandstone and decorated in a traditional Jaiyan style: with scalloped, round-topped windows and the bands of decoration that looked like flowering vines carved out of sandstone from here, but might well turn out to have words carved in the midst of them, words in one of the Old Tongues that Erno couldn’t read. The basic shape of the building—three stories high, not very wide, small garden—was an Imperial design, though. He hoped it had a proper courtyard on the inside, with a fountain. If it didn’t, the place would be hot, stuffy, and uncomfortable, and Erno always did better reconnaissance work when he was comfortable.

He felt like he’d downed six cups of strong coffee this morning, instead of one watered-down cup; every nerve in his body was tingling with excitement.

A man dressed as a gardener came up to the south gate and gave Erno a hard, assessing look through the wrought iron. Erno’s source had said that the gardeners at Lady Orinta’s house were usually retired policemen acting as part of her security detail. The gardener was fifty-plus but strong-looking, with short hair and that set of the shoulders that only policemen had. He eyed Erno as though he had half a set of silverware sticking out of his pockets.

Well, do you have actual business here, or are you just here to rubberneck? the gardener demanded.

I’m Erno from Forkwater, Erno said, rattling off his given name and the town he was born in. His informant had said he was better off not trying a false ID here. He held up his papers so the gardener could see them, but didn’t offer to hand them over.

They invited me here for a job interview, he added.

The gardener looked skeptical, but he unlocked the gate and swung it open. Erno stepped through, his feet crunching on the raked gravel of the drive. It swept up to the front steps of the house in a shallow arc, then curved off to the side gate in the east wall. Erno had circled the property last week, and he knew there was one other entrance to the grounds: not a gate, but a small door in the north wall that only the gardeners seemed to use.

When he got closer to the house, he noted that there were modern air conditioning units in the windows. Good. Erno would have been seriously worried for his own comfort if Lady Orinta had held to the Imperial fashion for closed windows and fans worked by steam boilers or overworked servants. He’d been at a place like that once, and the workload would’ve killed him if it hadn’t been such a short job.

He rapped on the front door, and it was opened by a tall, severe-looking young man with the look of a private secretary. From the way he held his nose in the air, answering the door was not part of his usual job description. Erno again introduced himself as Erno from Forkwater, and handed his papers over this time.

Ah, yes. Well, at least you’re on time, the secretary said in a tone that meant the other candidates hadn’t been, and added, Follow me.

Erno found himself in a wide, shallow room three stories high, with a staircase that went up and up, opening onto the mezzanines for the second and third floor. Beyond it, on the ground floor, he could see a doorway hung with fine muslin. It was floating in the breeze, and he could hear the watery tinkle of a fountain coming from beyond it. So the house did have a proper courtyard, after all.

This way, the secretary said. Don’t dawdle.

Erno gave the secretary his best jolly-yokel smile. The secretary repaid him with a stern look, then turned and stepped through a doorway to the left.

––––––––

Erno followed and found himself in a study, staring down a massive desk and the woman seated behind it. She was a lean woman in late midlife, with a strong, high-cheekboned face. Tall enough that she barely had to crane her neck to make eye contact with a short man like Erno, she studied him with dark, shrewd eyes. Her age showed mostly in her thin, slightly knobby fingers and the dark-gray curls on her head. Her golden skin showed only a few lines here and there, and the stern line of her jaw hardly sagged at all.

Erno’s late mother had been a simple village woman who worked as a weaver, but for some reason, Lady Orinta reminded him of her, and he didn’t give the great politician his jolly-yokel smile; he gave her a real one.

Sit down, please, Orinta said in a polite, tired way.

No, thank you, Milady, he said. I’m dusty from the road.

Very well. She asked the secretary, Do his references check out?

Of course they do, Erno thought. They always do.

The secretary said that the references had proven satisfactory.

So, you’re from Forkwater, she said to Erno. What is it like these days?

That was unexpected.

I haven’t been there since my mother died in the flooding, ten years ago, Erno said truthfully. The town was still putting itself back together after the monsoons when I was there for the funeral. I’ve heard that it’s done pretty well since then.

Orinta pursed her lips. You don’t seem to be all that loyal to your birthplace.

Erno shrugged. Maa was the only family I had. Once she was gone, there wasn’t anything to bring me back there.

Orinta asked him a few more questions, just as random, and he answered them as honestly as he could. He didn’t dare turn on the charm for a woman who dealt with two-faced politicians every day—she would likely recognize what he was trying to do.

Finally, she said, Your duties here will be relatively light. I subscribe to a cleaning service. They send a man to clean the public parts of this house each morning, and three more on Firstday to clean the house as a whole. If you are hired, you would be expected to oversee them and make sure that nothing untoward happens.

Of course, Erno said.

Milady had a reputation for living simply, considering that she was the governor of a small province and a member of the old, pre-Imperial aristocracy. Even so, her house was probably large enough to hold the entire population of Forkwater.

The cleaning staff are not to be admitted here, Orinta went on with a gesture that took in her office. Many of the documents I deal with are privileged information. Neither yourself nor my family members should be in here, either, unless expressly invited by myself or my secretary, Mr. Piran. Would you have trouble keeping the family away in our absence?

I’ve had to play watchdog before, Erno allowed. It’s not that hard as long as you know how to do it politely.

You would also oversee the laundry service, collect the mail, answer the door, and run various errands for the family, Orinta went on. My head cook has recently retired, and you would at least need to draw up the daily menu and oversee the undercook. You may be called upon to cook yourself.

Erno’s face broadened into a grin at that. Milady, every son and daughter of Forkwater knows how to do that.

Excellent. And you’re aware of the salary?

Fifteen hundred a month was what the letter said.

Very well, she said.

The cellphone lying next to her left hand vibrated, and she picked it up.

You will have to excuse me. It’s a call from my son Bassu, she said. Piran, you may tell my husband that Mr. Erno meets with my approval. Let the others interview him, and if they are satisfied, have Mr. Erno sign the contract.

––––––––

Erno bowed a bit awkwardly and followed Piran back into the hall. They crossed to the opposite side, and Piran led him through a door into a sitting room. It was not the largest Erno had ever seen, but it had space and seats enough for a dozen people.

A sofa had been turned to face the doorway, and a bald man was lounging on it in a dressing gown and pajamas. The man was flipping through a musty book which looked like it might have been published ninety-one years ago, around the time Jaiya gained its independence. Two chairs flanked the sofa. A woman of twenty or so who looked like a younger and more chic version of Lady Orinta was sitting in the chair on the left. She was texting someone on her phone, and hadn’t even looked up when Piran and Erno came in.

A middle-aged woman, perhaps a few years younger than Orinta and the bald man, was sitting bolt upright on the other chair. She was wearing the plain white sari and long-sleeved blouse of a tradition-minded widow. The outfit suited her better than the sour expression on her face.

Behind the sofa stood a dark-haired woman. She was shorter than Erno was, and rather thin, but with the muscles of a woman who had to work. She was wearing a blue-green blouse and skirt in a style that he had only seen on teenagers. Her clothes had a worn look to them that said hand-me-down as plainly as if it had been embroidered among the threadbare flowers. Her tousled, shoulder-length hair half-covered her face, as if she were peering around the corner of a curtain. He couldn’t see much of the face behind the hair, but he could tell that she had large, gray-green eyes and a narrow, pointed chin. This woman and the sour widow were the only ones who were looking at him, though everybody surely knew why he was here.

This is Erno from Forkwater, Piran said, breaking the silence. Lady Orinta has interviewed him and found him satisfactory, pending your approval.

The bald man and the young woman with the cellphone looked up. The man looked like he wanted to swat a fly and had just been told that all life was sacred, while the woman just looked bored. The widow continued to look disapproving.

Who is who? Erno asked Piran in a low voice.

Piran cleared his throat. This is Mr. Kavi, Lady Orinta’s husband.

The bald man on the couch nodded curtly.

Erno nodded back. He had heard of Orinta’s second husband, who did not rate a courtesy title of his own, being only a lawyer and the son of a wealthy businessman.

This is their daughter, Miss Bahija, and Mr. Kavi’s sister, Mrs. Mafala.

Well, that accounts for everyone but the little woman in blue, thought Erno. She must not count for much, whoever she is. He felt a little sad for her, because she didn’t look happy. But he was also relieved, because he felt like those half-hidden eyes of her were drilling right through him. If anyone here could figure out what his game was, it would be this woman.

If you will excuse me, I must assist Lady Orinta, Piran said.

Of course, Piran, said Mafala. You may trust me to do what is proper. I certainly can look after this for my dear sister-in-law, even if it takes me away from my primary duties. And don’t roll your eyes at me, Kavi, for you know that you are of no use at all in dealing with the servants.

Kavi shot her another quizzical look over the top of his book, his eyes widening till they looked like they would pop out of his head. He had a funny face with a long nose and weak chin that made him look like a parrot, but the pop-eyes had a shrewd look and maybe a joke lurking at the back of them.

His sister had probably been the handsomer of the two when they were young, with her oval face and hazel eyes, and she still had, beneath her widow’s robes, a nice figure for her age, but that spiteful look on her face and her pushing manner made Erno think he’d rather be interviewed by Kavi.

Now, then, young man, Mafala said to Erno. If you had to feed ten people as cheaply as possible, what would you feed them?

That would depend on what was already in the pantry, Erno said. I would ask you, ma’am, what could be spared.

For a moment, Mafala looked pleased, then seemed to force herself to be horrified. No, indeed, that would not be proper! What nonsense! You should ask dear Orinta what to do, for, after all, it is her house.

But I understood that she isn’t here very often, Erno protested. And it seems to me that you are just the sort of woman who would take charge when she’s away.

He made it sound like a compliment. The woman in the blue blouse seemed to stare at him even more intently.

However did you guess? Kavi drawled without looking up from his book.

Erno felt his mouth twitch up into a smile. He was going to like Kavi; he felt sure of it. But he needed to fight the harder battle first.

So, tell me, ma’am. He addressed himself to Mafala. What do we have in the pantry?

Yams, she said firmly.

Yams, he said thoughtfully. He didn’t care for them much himself. The juice from elephant yams could blister the cook’s hands if he didn’t know what he was doing, and the plant had so little flavor that it seemed to exist just to use up whatever spices were available.

Well, then, here’s my mother’s recipe for yams, he began. I’ll cut up all the yams on hand into itsy-bitsy cubes. I’ll heat oil in a pan, with a pinch of mustard seed—just a pinch, mind you, because anything more would be a waste. Erno saw Mafala nod in approval and knew he’d judged his audience correctly. When it sputters, add a few spoonsful of dried beans, and cook that until it’s roasted. Then add the yams, with some water, turmeric powder, and chili powder, and heat it for maybe ten minutes, stir it once, and then you’re done.

And then get sacked when the distinguished guests of the household put up their noses at your simple, economical dishes. Kavi snorted.

Not to fear, sir! I will apply to you whenever I draw up a menu.

No. Mafala’s nostrils flared in a way that put Erno in mind of a horse. You will not trouble my dear brother with these things...

But, ma’am, if his guests—

If my wife’s guests, said Kavi with heavy emphasis.

If Milady’s guests, Erno amended, don’t like such things, then it is Mr. Kavi I need to talk to, because he will know about such things.

There is really no need— Mafala began.

But of course there is! You are obviously someone who knows how to look after the household economies. But if it is your brother’s money, and your sister-in-law’s guests, surely, they should have the final say?

Mafala huffed and puffed for a bit, but Erno had her where he wanted her. She yielded on this point, and only asked Erno a few more questions about his notions of housekeeping, which he answered by sounding as miserly and industrious as possible. The woman in blue seemed to find this depressing, but Kavi cast a satirical eye over the top of his book and seemed to appreciate Erno’s tactics.

Then Bahija looked up from her writing and said, My cellphone needs charging. Here, Zeni.

The little woman in blue came forward, and Erno finally had a name for her. He also noted that her long, full skirt was gathered in at the hem, which gave it an odd, puffy shape. He’d been a teenager the last time he’d seen that style on any fashionable female.

Take it up to my room and plug it in, Bahija