When done, her hair dried at the laundry hearth and pinned up, a finger ringlet before each ear, Martha took her spear, went up the many stone steps – smiled at the six soldiers as they smiled at her – and climbed past them to the Queen.
"Better," Queen Joan said, looking her up and down. "You'll never be a pretty girl, but 'handsome' may be. possible in time, though a fairly large 'handsome.' The ringlets, the ringlets have their charm." And Martha, now so clean, was invited to sit beside the Queen at a mother-of-pearl table, to sort old earrings for keepers and pairs.
"Trumpery crap, most of these." The Queen's long fingers sorted and shifted, flicking silver and gold, bright stones and stones softly-rich this way and that. "Those I had from my sweet Newton, I know and keep – what are you doing?"
"Separating the plain hoops."
"Well… the silver; put those aside."
"Yes, ma'am."
The Queen began to hum as she worked, then said, "What do you think of these?"
"They're very pretty."
"Yes. I thought so too, many years ago. Now, of course, I know better – and so they are spoiled for me." She began to hum again, fingers deft among the jewels. "I do not remember the names of half the men who gave me these… made flowery fucking speeches, bowing, asking Newton's permission to gift me this or that. Once, my sweetheart smiled at Liam Murphy – Lord Murphy's gone, of course. Whole family's gone, and a daughter eaten. Newton smiled at him and said, 'You may give my lady what you please. As it pleases her, it pleases me… though doesn't turn me from my way.' "
The Queen set green studs aside. "Poor Liam should have listened more closely… Do you think of men, Martha?"
"… No."
The Queen stopped sorting. "Martha, you're going to be with me for many years. You've just told me a lie. Never, ever, lie to me again about anything."
"I'm sorry. I do think of men, sometimes."
"And in particular? The truth, now."
"Well, I liked Ralph-sergeant."
The Queen found a little gold lump, with no pin or clasp. "Trash… You liked Ralph-sergeant. And who is he?"
"A soldier. He came to get me at my father's house."
"And why did you like this soldier?"
"He was big – bigger than me. And he was kind."
"Ah… 'kind.' I have many large sergeants in my armies, East-bank and West, but I hope not too many that are kind… Do you have a match for the turquoise?"
"No, ma'am."
"Of course not; that would be too fucking lucky. How am I to get a turquoise to match with that Kipchak squatting on Map-Arizona? This is a useless earring."
"You could give it to Lord Pretty."
"Yes, Gregory'd wear it. Damn fool…"
Through the following days, Martha had learned the attendant ladies' names and titles, learned the servants' names: Ulla, Francis, Orrie, and Sojink – a tiny Missouri tribeswoman with filed teeth and a bluebird tattoo across her face… Martha'd learned the cloth-draped spaces of Upper Solar and Lower, and where Queen Joan slept by a window in the high chamber, curtained in cloudy gray. She'd learned also to stay very near the Queen, just to her right and a little back, the spear always in her hand.
Still, Martha could go up and down the tower, and visit as she wished – but never for very long. That was decided when the Queen was choosing a robe for Wintering the Gardens, and didn't care for the velvet that fat Orrie showed her. She said, "Everything from that clothes-press smells of river mold! Orrie, take them all down to the laundry to be cleaned and pressed again. Martha, help her, and stay there to see it properly done."
"No, ma'am."
The Queen stood very still, then said, "What did you say?" Seeming startled, as if there'd been a birdsong she'd never heard before. Fat Orrie was panting like a puppy.
Martha said, "No, ma'am. I won't go down with the laundry, and stay there."
Then, though the Queen's face didn't change, she put her hand on her dagger's pommel. That knife was a soldier's weapon, long-bladed and heavy enough to weight her jeweled sash.
"I'm here to guard you, ma'am," Martha said, though she was frightened. "I can't guard you if I'm sitting waiting in the laundry."
The Queen turned her head as if she were listening to voices… then took her hand off her dagger. "Yes, that was a proper 'No, ma'am' from you. You'll help Orrie take the laundry down – then come right up again to be near me."
"Yes, ma'am."
"But, Martha," the Queen said, "don't become too free with noes."
…And Martha had been careful not to. She'd shut her mouth and opened her eyes and ears through her first days, and learned the solar chambers, the tower and its people, very well, except for the deep places below. But now, with another place to be at mid-day by the glass exactly, she was lost and wandering Island like a pony loose.
After she'd asked directions of two people – people who seemed Ordinaries, and not too great to answer – then asked a third in a granite passage along her way, Martha climbed, at last and late, two flights of stairs in the South Tower… tapped on a narrow oak door, received no reply, then slowly opened it onto a wide sunny room. It was very bright with windows. The floor, polished white marble streaked with brown, was puddled here and there by something spilled. Smelled like a lamp's Boston oil.
A man was standing by a long oak rack of weapons. He was short and seemed massively fat, big around as a cabbage barrel. He wore low boots, loose tan trousers, and a yellow shirt, and though he appeared to be only in his middle years, his hair – cut evenly in a circle just above his ears – was dappled gray. A bowl-cut, they'd called that in Stoneville.
"You're the Queen's Martha, I suppose. I'm Master Butter-boy." He set a slender sword into the rack. "Don't come late to my class again." Master Butter-boy had a pleasant deep voice, sounded to Martha like a good glee singer. His eyes were dull green, and small.
She closed the door behind her, and set her spear leaning against the wall. The streaks and spills of oil made the marble floor slippery. "I couldn't find the way, Master."
"You have no master now, only the Queen for mistress. 'Sir' will do." Butter-boy strolled a few steps nearer, moving like a pole-boater, with an easy rolling gait. He stood looking at her – and Martha saw he wasn't fat, only very wide, and thick with muscle. Scars were carved into his round face, and three blue dots were tattooed on each cheek. Thinner white scars laced his heavy forearms. " – You are the Queen's, and no other's. You might keep that in mind when some try you for this or that favor, or attempt to command you."
"Yes, sir."
"And you say you couldn't find your way here?"
"Yes. I went to West Tower."
Master Butter-boy gave her a hard look. "Then learn your way. Learn Island well enough to run its passages blind. Because on some dark night of trouble, you may have to. We are at war, though many here don't yet seem to realize it."
"Yes, sir."
"Mmm… Well, you've got size, if it doesn't slow you. None easier to butcher than Large-an'-slows. And thank the River you don't carry big teats – very much in the way, fighting hand to hand. No big teats, and no balls to guard, either… Your age?"
"Seventeen, sir."
"Better and better. Youth makes the third fighting gift. No comment? We stand silent? – though I hope, not stupid." Butter-boy smiled, drew a small knife from his belt, and threw it at her spinning.
Martha thought of ducking away, but there was no time. Thought of catching the knife by its handle, but that seemed unlikely. She swung her hand as the knife came whirling, and slapped it to the side to clatter across the floor. Her palm was cut a little.
"Did you think of catching it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then why didn't you try?"