Chapter 12
Waiting tables
Mary slept like the dead, without dreams or movement, for what seemed too short a time. She awoke bleary-eyed and stiff from the cold hard floor as the creatures around her stirred. With barely a word to one another, they trudged out the door, head down and eyes sunken, bound for more toil and hardship in their master’s employment.
Seeing an opportunity, Mary rolled onto a thin mattress, marvelling at its softness and the residues of body heat still clinging to it after a night spent on the cold hard floor. Her heavy eyes closed and she fell back asleep, as content as she could possibly be in her situation. Blissful dreams took her momentarily away from her cares, but soon twisted into dark nightmares of pursuit and panic. It was then, writhing on the floor as she tried to escape the clutches of an unseen predator, that she was rudely shaken awake. Body already thrashing and fists primed, Mary opened her eyes to a gnarled old man dressed in crude robes, his feeble hands on her shoulders.
"You must wake up, child. To be caught asleep after the first bell is a crime!"
The man sported a twisting goat’s horn from the middle of his forehead, dry and cracked with age. A long matted beard and large buck teeth reinforced a goat-like appearance. Two hairy ears stood out at odd angles, swivelling about at every noise. Mary swatted his clutching hands away and scrambled to her feet.
"What bell? I wasn't told of any bell."
The little man opened his mottled yellow eyes in astonishment. "The bells! We do everything by the bells! Pay them heed or be punished," he lisped through his enormous teeth.
"Well... I'm up now. Thank you, I guess," said Mary yawning and dusting herself down.
Mary stood several feet taller than the brittle little goat man. She felt like patting him on the head but restrained herself.
"Where do I find breakfast around here?" she asked.
"Breakfast? Which department are you in?" queried the little man.
"Kitchens."
"You'll find it in the kitchen then..." replied the little man giving her an odd look, as if she were simple or playing a trick.
"Great..." groaned Mary. "Do you know how to get there? Yesterday was all of a blur to me. I haven't got a clue where I am."
The little man wrung his hands and hopped from foot to foot. "I must not be late for my duties. I'm a busy man, you know?"
"Fine," sighed Mary. "I'll find my own way."
The little man watched Mary walk out of the room and turn right. After several moments he saw her walking past the door in the opposite direction.
"Don't worry. I've got this," she called back.
Biting his knuckles he ran after her. "Slow down. Slow down. I'll show you."
Mary stopped and let the little man catch up.
"It's this way," he lisped breathlessly as he pushed past.
"Thanks. I'm Mary of the House of Horn, by the way."
"Timberash at your service," replied her guide. "I take it you're new here?"
"Very new. It was only yesterday that I was stolen and brought here," said Mary glumly.
"Stolen... How rare."
"Why is that so odd? How did you get stuck here?"
Timberash scratched his matted beard as he spoke. "I couldn't afford full payment on a set of wings I rather fancied. I signed a contract allowing me to work in exchange for the difference. I was so excited I didn't read the fine print... still haven't got those blasted wings yet."
"So he tricked you then. Did he trick everyone else who works here?"
"Not all of them. Some were collateral on others payments. Some work here voluntarily. Some were sold by their parents. The master grew some of them himself... He is very clever, the master. He's even rumoured to see into the future... He always gets what he wants whether you like it or not.”
Timberash’s little shoulders sagged with defeat as he spoke, his fruitless future spelled out for him. Mary smiled briefly at the thought of upsetting The Old Man's plans, even a little, when they took her instead of her brother. It was a small victory but one she was paying dearly for. She could only hope that Stephen was cooking up some way to rescue her. Either that or she would pay the debt some way.
"Has anyone ever finished their service, Timberash? Or escaped?"
The little man slowed as he thought. "Not in my time here," he replied.
"Oh," replied Mary, crestfallen. "How long have you been here?"
"I've lost count," whispered Timberash in a small voice.
They rounded a bend and came out onto the main service tunnel. Creatures thronged the passageway, all heading in one direction. Massive warriors in plate armour mingled with stocky shop keepers in overalls and slight clerks wearing tatty business suits.
"Where are they all going?" shouted Mary over the din of the foot traffic.
"To the great hall," lisped her guide. "It's breakfast time."
Timberash threaded his way into the flow of bodies, his small figure darting quickly between the lumbering strides of those around him. Mary dashed after him, desperate to keep the odd man in sight. After several moments it became apparent she had lost the Timberash in the crowd. Mary gave up and let herself follow the masses. Ahead, they turned left off the main service tunnel and through a large set of metal doors. Two fat-bellied guards in tight iron armour watched the crowd with blank expressions. Beyond was an enormous amphitheatre repurposed for the colossal task of feeding The Old Man's minions. Mary did some quick maths and came up with a figure of three thousand workers, all seated and in the process of eating. Still more creatures were moving in and there were plenty of tables to spare. Mary, despite her low spirits, was impressed. It was like a coliseum dedicated to feasting instead of blood-sport.
The group dynamics were obvious. Run-of-the-mill shop workers were seated along the raised stands around the outside of the room. The tables were crude and were more often crates or boxes. They ate simple gruel from battered bowls and plates, using their hands or shoddy utensils if they were fortunate. Below the store-men were the clerks, their fewer tables much nicer with proper chairs, cutlery and dishes. In the centre of the amphitheatre were the soldiers and guards, seated at long trestle tables with crude stools.
The food they ate looked, to starving Mary, amazing; a smorgasbord of roasted meats and vegetables, fresh bread and mugs of ale. They ate ferociously and thumped the straining wooden tables with massive fists as they spoke for emphasis.
Set to one side, closer to another set of doors, was an odd collection of creatures. Their manner was far more reserved, their clothes better tailored, the food more delicate. Some wore flamboyant armour with gold and silver detailing, others were shrouded head to toe in stealthy suits of sombre black. The weapons they carried were more ornate than the ordinary soldiers seated in the centre. Mary thought they must be the elite fighters or leaders of The Old Man's army. Each creature seemed deadlier than the last, their every movement predatory and calculated, even as they ate. Wanting to see them up close, Mary threaded her way through the centre of the hall.
Soldiers stopped stuffing their faces as she passed, looks of disbelief and hostility in their eyes. Mary caught sight of Mac at a table and waved. Mac shook his head minutely in warning before avoiding eye contact altogether. Some of the soldiers began to wolf whistle and jeer at her. Mary raised her chin and paid them no heed.
She stopped a short distance from the foot of the table, awkwardly staring at the interesting creatures and their amazing weapons. A slim bugbear in overlapping bronze plate armour ate dainty flowers from a bowl and sipped scented oil from a chalice. Opposite the bugbear a woman with a falcon’s plumage tore apart pomegranates with her clawed hands, a long whip with a silver-tipped hook coiled at her elbow. A goblin wearing a red leather vest and golden torc rings in Celtic fashion festooned along his muscled arms sharpened a curved scimitar. Mary’s curious eyes drank up the entire scene for there were many others, each as wonderful as the last. As she looked about, she caugh
t the eye of a red-skinned man wearing fine golden armour that overlapped in small circular plates. He sat at the head of the table, his poise more serene – and also deadlier – than any of his counterparts. His eyes were completely white and unnerving, for he was impossible to judge in character or disposition. A golden half-helm sat on his head, silver hair streaming from a top knot down his neck. The man crooked a finger at Mary and pointed at the space beside him. Mary grimaced and walked over, the strange man’s blank stare following her every step. Mary waited patiently while the red man looked her up and down.
"Tell me, girl, what is your heritage?"
Mary blinked. "Sorry? What?"
The man's white eyes narrowed threateningly. "Your parents, what race are they? And address your betters as sir or ma’am around here; your hide will remain intact much longer."
Mary blushed and looked at the floor. "Sorry, sir... My mother is a fairy or a Sidhe or something, and my dad is from somewhere in the west. Cornwall, maybe?"
The man studied her silently. "Cornwall? I think not!" He suddenly laughed. He had a rich commanding voice, one that filled Mary with comfort.
Mary felt emboldened by the man's easy laugh, and ventured him a question. "Who are you sir, if you don't mind me asking?" She indicated the whole table with the sweep of an arm. "Do you lead the soldiers?"
The man laughed dryly. Those close enough to hear smiled knowingly and shook their heads.
"We keep The Old Man in business, my dear. We are the treasure hunters and relic seekers. We are the adventurers. Without us, this would be a shop with nothing to sell. Nothing important at least..."
Mary eyed the delicate golden armour that adorned him and the hefty pistols strapped to his waist.
"So it's dangerous, what you do?"
"Quite so."
"And how does one join your group?"
"Anyone can try. Most don't tend to last very long though.”
The red giant gestured up and down the table with his hands. His voice lost its friendly edge. “Those you see here are the very best of the best. They have survived ordeals that would curdle a lesser man’s blood."
His eyes narrowed as he leaned forwards and his voice dropped to a deep whisper. "Do you want to die?"
Mary stepped backwards. "No I'm quite fond of breathing. For the moment anyway. Sorry to bother you," she stammered.
"Then be off with you. There is no place for the meek in our ranks," said the man as he dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
Mary turned on her heel and walked away. Laughter burst out behind her. Mary clenched her jaw and hurried on.
She found a tunnel leading to the kitchens after following a ragged serving man carrying a large tray. Barnabas stood by the entrance, arms folded, ladle tapping impatiently on his shoulder. Mary knew she was in for trouble the moment she saw him.
"There you are!" he shouted, pointing the ladle at Mary’s chest like a boarding cutlass. "You've got a lot to answer for, missy!"
"What did I do, sir?" asked Mary timidly.
"Your tears! All that crying into the dishwater, it nearly ruined everything! Everybody has been complaining that the food is more melancholy today! 'Oh Barnabas, this gruel is too maudlin. Oh chef, I can't bear to eat another morsel of this sad, sad veal.' Ingrates!"
Barnabas spat over his shoulder for emphasis. "Too much sadness for the rabble in the morning does them no good. A happy minion is a productive minion. Therefore, you are hereby removed from dish washing duties!"
"Then what will I do?" she asked, her hope rising despite her strong scepticism.
Barnabas blinked several times, dumbfounded. He cast a beady eye around the kitchen, his cruel mind searching for another suitable task. His gaze came to a halt on the small little waiter carrying the enormous tray.
"Wait tables. I'm sure even you couldn't mess that up." With that said he turned from Mary and stalked down the aisles, ladle swinging like a police baton.
The little waiter shrugged at Mary. "I mess it up all the time. It's not that easy, actually."
Mary smiled wryly. "What do I do?"
The waiter rolled his eyes. "Take out the meals and bring the dirty dishes back. It's quite easy – even if I mess it up. Just follow me."
The little waiter trundled back toward the main hall, leaving Mary behind.
Mary made to say something but decided against it. Somebody once said it was impossible to argue with a fool, or something like that. Mary found an empty serving tray and followed suit.
Waiting tables was a slight step up from washing dishes but the job was just as demanding on the body. Her arms ached from carrying the ungainly tray everywhere and her feet were raw from the continual walking. The meal service went all day and into the evening as shifts changed, and staff came on or off duty. She did manage to sneak in the occasional break though, which was a definite bonus.
And!
And there was real food to be eaten, not just scraps and burnt on frying pan scrapings.
However, these small perks did not outweigh the negativity of the constant harassment she received as a by-product of being a girl. Shop keepers jeered and wolf whistled at her, scrawny clerks adjusted their fogged spectacles and tittered as she passed and the soldiers slapped her behind or tried to pull her into their lap. Mary's hands were numb from constantly slapping and punching the offenders in the face. She found herself muttering more than once: It's like they haven't seen a woman in years.