Page 38 of The Dungeon Book

Bait nodded.

“Tell me, Ealdufrida, how are you getting on in the kitchens?”

Bait shrugged.

“Is that poor boy recovering from his fall?”

Bait shrugged, which Sir Rudyard took to mean as well as can be expected, but which Bait meant as I didn’t have a chance to put sharpened spikes at the bottom of the stairs. She wished the lord would dismiss her, or better yet get distracted by his breakfast so she could steal the letter and read it. Instead, Sir Rudyard turned the awfulness of his full attention on her.

“I must tell you, I fear, that no relative has come forward to claim you. I’ve sent messengers to all the nearby villages, to no avail.”

On the wall of the solarium was a map of the known world. Dunshelm was near the bottom right corner, with nothing between it and the edge of the utter unknown except some jagged tooth-like mountains and a scrawled image of a dragon. But up and left, north and west went roads, through the settled lands of Eskerlund and Crowhaven all the way to the crowned city.

Her father King Arus dwelt there.

“Did you send messengers there?” she pointed at the capital.

“I did, as a matter of fact. Not about you, of course! No, I sent a report about this recent spate of, ah, rumblings underground. Our guests include heroes and exorcists who will drive away any lingering traces of, ah, malicious influence.” Rudyard sipped his tea cautiously, perhaps blaming goblin sabotage for its insufficient temperature. “It’s good that they responded so promptly to my letter. Proper order, eh?”

Bait brought these tidings down to the level of the kitchen. The other servants speculated about who these guests from the far-off court of the king might be; great lords and ladies, no doubt, knights in brightly polished armour and maidens bedecked in silks and jewels, or fabulously wealthy lords whose absurd wealth was matched only by their generosity. Mistress Clove muttered that it was all a malicious lie, and refused to begin any preparations for the feast until word was brought to her by a more reliable channel. When the steward confirmed that, indeed, there were guests coming and a banquet was required, Clove blamed the day’s delay on Bait not making the matter clear.

“And we’re a pair of hands short,” she cursed.

*

Imagine the kitchen as a cooking pot. The demands of the banquet stoked the fires under it, making the pot bubble and boil with furious activity. Now think of Mistress Clove as a heavy, ugly iron lid that has not been washed in decades, clamped atop the pot.

The pressure built.

Soon, it would burst.

Bait scarcely noticed at first. Her brain was full of thoughts of her journey to the capital. If it was too far to walk, as Neb argued, then maybe she could ride. These strangers were riding down the inky line of the road all the way from the capital. When their business was done here, presumably, they’d ride back – and she’d go with them. Maybe she’d have to hide in a saddlebag or stow away in the hold – growing up in the Dungeon meant she had little knowledge of matters equestrian – but surely the strangers were her deliverance from the toils of the keep.

Each day, Mistress Clove added to the toils. Every minute, there came the cry of “Ealdufrida!” She pronounced it with a heavy emphasis on the last syllable, which further irritated Bait. She’d already heard the summons on the “Eal”, put down her current chore on the “du”, and by “fri” was either already on her way to Clove or looking for an escape route. The “DA” was therefore either wholly redundant as Bait was already there, or like the bark of a hunting dog that’s spotted a rabbit, an accusatory note that made Bait feel like she’d been caught.

“Ealdufrida, fetch hot water! Ealdufrida, carry that! No, that! Ealdufrida, clean out Offa’s bedpan!”

It reminded Bait of when Balor the Squinter had roused the kobolds against her, when every waking minute brought new perils, and sleep was a thing snatched in corners. And while Mistress Clove’s eyes did not shoot paralytic magic rays, equally there was no minotaur to drive Bait’s enemies away with his mighty axe. She was alone, so she had no choice but to endure.

But there was more malice here than Bait first suspected.

“Ealdufri—”

“I’m here.”

“—DA!”

“I’m already here!”

“Stir that pot for me.”

The boiling pot was bubbling away like a metaphor. Bait reached towards the metal spoon resting beside it – then some Dungeon-honed instinct twinged. She was the adopted daughter of Clickglee, a child of the Trapsmiths’ Arcade. Her fingers knew a trap before it was triggered. The spoon was blisteringly hot, the metal deliberately left beside the cooking fire.

She became aware that Mistress Clove was holding her breath. That Offa was sitting up in his bed, watching her intently. Most of all, she noticed that Helric was there, in the shadows by the stair, and that his hand was on the hilt of his sword.

Bait plucked a room-temperature wooden spoon from a shelf to stir the pot.

The next holy-day, Mistress Clove insisted on trooping all the kitchen staff up to the chapel. This was much remarked upon, for Mistress Clove was previously only in the habit of attending funerals. But this day she lined all her serving girls and potboys up, and stood there glowering while the chaplain offered up prayers for the health of Sir Rudyard and for those fighting on the northern frontier. When the time came to bless the assembled congregation with a sacred aspergillum, Mistress Clove tried to thrust Bait forward into the holy firing line, but the child twisted out of her grasp and sheltered behind a tapestry when the holy water droplets flew.