The thick sponge in his hand was a tool without use. Sopping wet and oozing thick suds down an already pristine wall, it provided a simple comfort to him in that this work was familiar. After the morning’s events, his head was spinning. He could almost swear he caught movement from the looming shadows which pooled together in a nearby intersection, eyes peering out to monitor the servants in their work, but what need there was for such surveillance escaped him.

  He worked alongside several other servants, all close in age to him. Some of them whispered with their heads together about the choices they had been presented in their own meetings with the Mistress of Servants. Thin prospects for the dark-complected kitune a few feet off, who was lackadaisically dusting a vase with a dingy rag, a bottle of vinegar held in his off hand.

  “She said I can work in the furnaces or the boilers. But I’m smarter than that. I can do other things.” He groused.

  “They give those options to all the kitunes.” His friend, a runt of a boy with a mop of shaggy, brown hair falling into his eyes, said.

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Operations with Lady Jain, but she’s a bitch. I asked for laundry. She said I would be wasting my talents, but at least Mistress Rosaline is nice.” He grimaced. “Well, nicer anyway.”

  Lance leaned into his scrubbing, trying to put distance between himself and their conversation. Several almost identical exchanges were occurring down the hall, and he tried his best to ignore those, too. They infected him with intrusive thoughts anyway.

  The couriers might be okay. They move around a lot. But Lady Therien…I don’t know if I want to work for her. Lady Ethelia is as bad as Lady Jain. I’d rather not work for a nobleman. Sami likes her job. Maybe they’re not all bad. Who was the head of her department again?

  He couldn’t remember. A retired soldier. A shadow elf who had made Bloodless before he stepped away. He wasn’t particularly old, either. Had managed the elite corps before he turned thirty, served another ten years in that position. He couldn’t be more than forty.

  He dunked the sponge into a scrub bucket, dragged it a little way down, started up again.

  God, this sucks. The kitchens, the couriers, the treasury or the furnaces. All bad options. Why didn’t I push for something better?

  A dull thunk roused him from his thoughts. Down the hall, near the intersection on that side, a servant had overturned his scrub bucket. Soapy water spilled over the tiled floor, marring it with grime.

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  At the same time, a nobleman came around the corner. Lord Haman Bran, the worst of them. Acne scars from a misspent youth dimpled his cheeks and forehead, which provided ample real estate beneath a receding hair line he tried valiantly to cover with what wispy hair remained. His shoes and the hem of his pants were spattered with wash water, and seeing this, the servants’ whispered conversations all died.

  Everyone was looking at Lord Bran now. Everyone was pointedly ignoring the servant. No one, Lance not least of them, wanted to be caught in the crossfire of this exchange.

  Haman Bran stomped over to the servant, snatched him up by his hair and pulled, forward and down. A snarl painted across his lips wriggled, worm-like, around a stream of curses for the unfortunate youth. He dragged him head first into the floor, smashed his face against the tiles in the midst of all of that soap.

  “Drink!” he roared.

  “I’m sorry, Lord Bran. I didn’t mean to it was an accident.” The servant pleaded.

  “My pants need drying, boy!” he raved. “Your inattentiveness has made me late. I can’t be seen like this!”

  “I’ll take them to the laundry. I’ll…I’ll tell Lady Tamalsen what happened. I’ll take the punishment, just please let me go!”

  The servant was sobbing. His cheek pressed into the pool expanding over the floor. Lord Bran pressed the heel of his shoe against the poor boy’s temple, and for a moment, Lance thought he might kill him. An irrational thought. He had never seen a nobleman do it before. Had never seen one take it that far. But Haman Bran wasn’t like other nobles. He was far crueler than most of them. If anyone would take it there, it would be him.

  He bared down on the servant with his heel, snarling, manic glee lighting his eyes as he tortured that poor soul, and though Lance’s insides writhed, he couldn’t look away.

  Another man came around the corner. An older man with salt and pepper hair running down the length of his back. He was dressed in military reliefs unadorned by patches or medals, but none of those embellishments were necessary. Everyone knew who he was.

  Lord Tarkenta of the Council of Liam approached Lord Bran, took him by the back of his overcoat and yanked. Lord Bran stumbled back, released the boy’s hair and spun round to face his new assailant.

  “Enough.” Lord Tarkenta said.

  Lord Bran blanched. “Lord…Lord Tarkenta. This insolent…” he gestured curtly behind him. “…fool has made me late for my affairs.”

  “And how has he done that?”

  “Look at me!” he snapped, arms thrusting down to address the state of his pants and shoes.”

  Lord Tarkenta glanced at the hem of his pants. “A little water?” he met his gaze. “I will escort this servant to Lady Tamalsen. You will go back to your chambers. In the meantime, I will send word to your peers that you will be late for their gathering. I am sure they will understand.

  “Who is it that you are meeting?”

  “Lady Bethel. Some others.”

  “Drinks?”

  “It hardly matters what we are to be doing. The point is—“

  “The point is you have misstepped by jumping over Lady Tamalsen in her official capacity as Mistress of Servants. I will leave that out of my report when I see her, if you leave the matter alone.”

  “I…” Lord Bran’s shoulders slumped. “Okay. Okay.”

  He marched off, and Lord Tarkenta removed the servant from the hall in short order.

  Maybe the furnaces, then. At least I’ll be out of his way. Lance thought. His heart was beating a furious rhythm in his chest. He picked up his sponge, and scrubbed, and the hall was silent.