Talon the Black (Dragonwall Series # 1)

Chapter 45 - Avoiding Discovery

Fort Squall

Tamara bit her tongue to avoid crying out when her knife sliced her finger. Gods above! She pulled her hand away before blood covered her work, and went in search of a bandage. With a cloth strip tightly tied around the wound, she continued. Her pile of carrot rounds grew until carrots began cascading down from the top. She picked them up, depositing them into an empty crockery. The others were already full, a product of her labor, many hours, and multiple cuts.

Had the cook known about her inexperience, he would have sent her away. She smartly hid her blunders, happy for the assignment. Her mind jumped to the chamber pot maids and she shuddered. No, the cookery was a fine place to work.

When she finished with the last carrot, she paused to admire her work. Not bad for a highborn lady. She stifled a giggle. Her mother would've had a fit, seeing her in such a state. Dirtied face, clothed in rags, wielding a knife to chop vegetables. The necessary disguise was satisfying when she considered the way her mother might feint.

She placed the large crockeries along the hearth then took up several yellow onions. These were her least favorite, forcing painful tears from her eyes. The burning sensation was most unpleasant. She was used to it now, but the first time it had happened, she panicked.

Learning to blend with the servants of Fort Squall offered a myriad of challenges, and onions were the least of them. The journey alone was difficult. It had taken over a week to reach the fort on foot. She kept to the rear of the party, with her eyes downturned. When spoken to, she mumbled responses, pretending to be a dumb little thing. No one bothered her much, which was a small mercy, for her body developed numerous aches the farther she traveled. And the blisters!

Laying eyes upon the city of Squall's End was worth the struggle. Its magnificent expanse had stretched out before her as the party crested a hill, and she could see the fort positioned little more than a field's distance away, to keep Drengr and human politics separate. How gratifying it was to achieve such a feat, reaching her destination with none the wiser to her true identity.

In those short moments, as she had gazed over the sea of rooftops, she felt no remorse. The city could have been hers had she stayed behind to marry Lord Rhal. But no city, not even Kastali Dun with all its rumored splendor, could make up for a stolen life.

"Finished, have you?" The cook's voice startled her. She was staring at her pile of minced onion.

"Oh. Yes, sir."

"Good, gal. Get those into the boiling broth. Quick, now." He pointed his butcher's knife at the largest hearth where a cauldron was bubbling. She followed orders, making several trips to get all the onion into the liquid.

The cook watched her with narrowed eyes. Happy with her performance, he directed her to a mound of potatoes nearly as tall as she. "When you finish with those, you may be dismissed."

Eager to end the day, she began piling potatoes into her apron, which she treated as a hammock, before unloading them onto the long wooden table, which doubled as her work space. Like the other cuttings, the potatoes were for the stew, a common staple food at Fort Squall. There were many hungry mouths to feed, and with patrol teams coming and going all hours of the day, prepared food was kept on hand. Porridge in the morning replaced by stew in the afternoon.

The sun was sinking low to the horizon when she completed her tasks. Rising from the bench, she groaned and stretched to relieve her muscles. Her back hurt from hunching, her face was raw from hovering over the fire, and her fingers were nicked everywhere.

Bidding the cook farewell, she departed. No sooner had she rounded a corner did she stop dead in her tracks. Cold dread took root within the pit of her stomach. There was a voice, velvety smooth, deep in conversation. She recognized it. Creeping into the shadows, she tiptoed further down the corridor and peaked around its corner. There stood Byron with another Drengr. He was dressed in beige leggings and a green tunic, his long sverak strapped to his side.