Magus Star Rising
Chapter Seven

Serve well! You and yours and the One!

SPIRIT DICTUM

Questions and Answers

Behoola shed the outer wrap of her longfrock and donned an apron. Here, in the close, warm confines of the Honin-Zay kitchen, the heat reflecting properties of the garment’s often proved stifling. She sighed in relief as the ceiling fans pushed moist air against her body, relatively cool in the thin sleeveless undervest she wore. She wiped her face with a cloth, and continued sealing up the leftovers from tonight’s dinner.

But her mind drifted to other matters. It’s not like the mistress, Behoola thought. Normally she’s more concerned, more open in her questioning. Her hands worked independently of her own thinking as her mind’s eye pictured her mistress at dinner tonight, their conversations, what was said and, more importantly, what was not. Something’s not right, Behoola thought. I feel it.

And, again, Kazrah. The new servant, the bodyguard, seemed more than just a member of the second class. Behoola shook her head as if to rid her mind of such thoughts. Why does he bother me so? she asked herself again. He’s so cold but most bodyguards are such. It’s part of their protocol to not get close to anyone. Yet, at the same time, he seems overly familiar with my mistress.

She brought herself up short. Was it simple jealousy that caused her concerns? She had served the Honin-Zays for four-and-a-half cycles and had risen to Head Servant through her hard work, dedication and intelligence. This Kazrah seemed to have attained a favored position with her mistress in a very short time. How could that have happened?

No, no, she thought, nervously scratching the tiny gemstone inset into the side of her nose. I’m imagining things surely. Both my mistress and master approved of his employment. They would know best.

She had expressed her concerns to an old friend earlier in the evening right after dinner.

“Have you talked with anyone else in the household about this feeling of yours? Your suspicion?”

Behoola sighed, glancing away from the familiar face on the vid-phone. She had taken a few stolen moments to call her oldest friend, Tarvinder. An impulse, but one she thought was needed.

“Not really,” Behoola replied. “I’m not certain of anything. I just have this feeling. I’m famous for my worrying around here. I don’t think anyone would take me seriously on my relying on just a feeling.”

The face on the other end of the vid-phone nodded knowingly. “You’re the Head Servant, Behoola,” Tarvinder said. “And a good one. They would have to, at least, listen to you. And, what? Do you think all high-born are good? That none of them have entertained and gone through with untoward thoughts?”

“I know, I know.”

“That’s the problem with you, Behoola. You’re much too lenient. Too permissive. Too forgiving. It was the same at the Wenta-Bons. You always took on extra duty to give someone else the time off, always picked up after everyone’s mistakes.”

Including yours. “And we’re still friends, aren’t we?” Behoola didn’t want to argue with Tarvinder. They had known each other too long, having started their second duties in the Wenta-Bon household twelve cycles ago. Though different in many ways, the two had hit if off immediately and had remained in touch through the seasons.

Tarvinder smiled, her handsome, full face outlined in black curls. “Yes, thank the Spirits. You’ve done so much for me in the past, Behoola. Why didn’t you mention this to me sooner?”

Now it was Behoola’s turn to frown. She had mostly kept her suspicions to herself and certainly didn’t want to bother Tarvinder whose nature was almost as worrisome (and certainly more talkative) as hers, though she would never admit it. “Ah, Tar...”

“Yes. I know. But here you are calling me even though this is the night of your mistress’ departure for retreat. From what you’ve told me, I don’t see any cause for alarm myself. You know these high-born. They change with the weather, especially since Contact. I can tell you stories about my mistress you wouldn’t believe!”

Behoola laughed. “And so you have!”

“Yes, and you’ve seen such behavior yourself. The point is, I’m not there with you. Talk to someone else in the household. Get another opinion, especially on this bodyguard.” Tarvinder paused, pursing her lips. “What about Marka? You two get along well, don’t you?”

Marka. Yes, Behoola had reasoned if anyone would take her seriously about Kazrah and her mistress’ different behavior of late, it would be Marka, the master chef.

Before she could respond, Tarvinder softened her voice. “And Arshelle? Has her condition improved?”

Arshelle. Behoola lowered her eyes, a sudden ache blossoming in her chest. “No, it hasn’t, at least that I know of. I must go and see her. I feel terrible, Tar. It’s been two moons since my last visit.”

“You know I’ll help you in any way I can with her, Behoola. Please stop doing all of it yourself. You have enough to worry about.” Tarvinder looked over her shoulder and sighed. “I must go. Duty calls. Though I’m not the Head Servant like you, I’m kept hopping.”

Behoola smiled, remembering the lazy streak Tarvinder could bring into play at a moment’s notice. “Thank you, Tar. I must be getting back to my own duties too. I’ll call you later.”

At the far end of the kitchen, Ladora, also sans longfrock, and Terenio, Marka’s cook Second, washed and dried the dishes. Both laughed at some comment or joke, Ladora leaning in close to whisper in Terenio’s ear.

“My thanks again, Behoola.” Marka, the Honin-Zay’s longtime master chef, wiped down the last of the counters. His rotund figure filled out his clothes almost to the bursting. “Your help is greatly appreciated.”

Behoola smiled, absently running her wet hands along her apron. “You’re welcome. Since Mistress Honin-Zay is on her way to retreat and the master is also out for the evening, I see no reason for everyone to stay any later than necessary.”

Marka untied his apron and looked around the brick-lined cooking area. Pots, pans, utensils of all sorts hung from the walls and ceiling racks. Oil-globes illuminated a wooden floor, spanking clean now as always. The ovens and cooking fires still glowed a warmish orange. Picked-over remains of the two quaya fish skeletons lay on the huge chopping block that took up the center of the kitchen. Against the far wall, the refrigeration units hummed softly. “You would think with all their money, they could expand this,” Marka said with a shake of his head. “I have requested it so many times.” He threw up his hands. “You know, I have pleaded with the master.”

Behoola laughed. Beneath Marka’s rough-looking exterior, he was quite the gentle one as well as excelling in the kitchen. He hailed from the eastern continent, a land well-known for its artists and chefs. The Honin-Zays paid him well; enough that an unfulfilled request now and then would not bother him too much despite the tempting offers from other households and eating establishments. “Yes,” Behoola teased, her mood lifting. “But that would stifle your creativity. I can’t imagine your stuffed hennit being made any other way.”

Marka smiled, picking at his lower lip. “Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully. “But think of the time we would save. Why, I might even have to let Terenio go!”

“Oh, no, master chef!” Terenio called out playfully. “I would starve!”

Behoola laughed. “At least they installed the electricals for the refrigerators.”

“Yes, yes,” Marka said. “An interesting development, that. I suppose some good has resulted from Contact. No more spoiled meats and desserts from the heat!”

“Though we still must fuel and clean the oil-globes.”

“Yes! Well, perhaps next season, eh?”

Behoola nodded, and then decided to take Tarvinder’s advice, saying, more softly, slowly, “Marka, have you noticed anything different about our mistress? I don’t know how to explain it.”

Marka frowned, rubbing his ample belly. “Hmmmm. Now that you mention it, except for tonight, she has been requesting different foods for breakfast. Sometimes lunch and dinner too. Odd combinations of vegetables and grains.”

“Yes, I noticed that too.” It started when Kazrah was hired. “Are those combinations Terran in origin?”

“Some, yes. Not all.” Marka shrugged. “No doubt it has something to do with her retreat. She said as much to me.”

Behoola bowed her head. “Yes,” she murmured. “No doubt, although she seems to be very interested of late in the Terran way of life. But, tonight at dinner, she...”

“Remember, Behoola,” Marka interrupted. “I’ve worked here much longer than you. Mistress has developed interests in many things over the years. Why, one spring, she ate and drank nothing except soup and water! For ‘purification purposes’ she said. It drove me mad. Talk about stifling my creativity!” Marka doffed his small, blue chef’s hat, and scratched his bald head. “The high-born fems have a great enemy. Boredom. So, they try to fill their time up with as many distractions as they can. Other household servants will tell you the same thing about their own masters and mistresses. Do you understand?”

Behoola nodded, remembering Tarvinder saying much the same thing. “Of course. I have seen it myself. In other words, don’t worry.”

Marka shook his hat at her. “Yes! Now you see!”

She sighed and looked away. Was Marka right? Maybe. And what about the influence of the rising Magus Star? Her mother swore it affected people’s behavior, just like the old tales described. No, no, surely that was superstition.

“And Kazrah?”

Marka frowned. “Old Shadow? What about him?”

Behoola smiled despite herself at the nickname the other servants had given Kazrah. He was indeed a dark sort, always popping up when you least expected it.

“What do you think of him?” She was surprised she hadn’t asked him before.

Another frown, this time accompanied by a shrug. “He’s a strange one, all right. But he seems devoted, maybe not so much to your mistress but to his job. Sometimes it takes such a personality, or lack of one, to do the job right.”

Behoola nodded. Marka did seem to have a keen insight at times. Maybe she was overreacting.

Very well. Enough for now. Behoola put those thoughts out of her mind. She would talk to Marka at length later. “Go, Marka. Ladora and I will finish.” Behoola and the master chef were the only ones who lived at the estate, their quarters situated at the rear of the house.

Marka nodded and motioned to Terenio. Though the kitchen was Marka’s domain, Behoola knew he trusted her with its care. Once the two cooks had exited the kitchen, she walked over to Ladora.

“Ladora,” she said. “We are done for this moon but I want to ask you something before you leave, if I may.”

Ladora hung up the dish towel and faced Behoola, nodding. Her hair was done up in a topknot, her eyes unblinking. There were times Behoola wondered about her Second’s past, her life before. Sometimes, there seemed more to Ladora than a simple servant.

“Surely, Behoola.”

“I noticed you drew your knife in the bazaar today.”

Ladora paused before replying, perhaps not thinking Behoola had seen that. “Yes, a reflex. I’m glad I didn’t have to use it.”

Behoola smiled. “And I. But it resembled a Puman blade. Is it such?”

Ladora laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, no,” she said. “Simply a cheap imitation. I could never afford a real one.”

“Of course. Thank you and I apologize for prying. You may go.”

Ladora bowed and left. Behoola stared after her for a moment. I wonder, she thought. Is she telling the truth? With a sigh, she turned and sat on a stool by the chopping block. Closing her eyes, she reflected on the evening.

Mistress Honin-Zay had found out about the incident in the market but had been surprisingly calm and lenient with Behoola for not telling her about it. Her mistress had then dismissed her rather abruptly after a short, perfunctory questioning. Instead, she seemed to be in a hurry to finish her meal and leave.

Surely her life with the Honin-Zay household had been good. Unexpectedly good, considering. Her mistress had taken Behoola with her on two past retreats, which Behoola remembered fondly. Because of those events and others throughout the last four and a half cycles, Behoola thought she knew her mistress as well as anyone could know a high-born.

Well, it seemed, there were many things she did not know.

She picked out a piece of quaya fish still hanging off the bones on the chopping block and chewed it slowly. She was in a rush to leave for the retreat, she reasoned. She was distracted. Behoola felt the first nudges of sleep overtaking her but she could not let this go. Her ‘instincts’ were talking to her again. There was something...

Kazrah again. And this pointed interest in Terra her mistress had recently developed. Behoola recalled how her mistress couched certain questions to her, innocently, casually, about the Terran language or certain Terran customs Behoola was familiar with because of her father. Not to mention the Terran women who had been interviewed. Mistress Honin-Zay had never shown such an interest before.

At that moment, Tarvinder’s question about Arshelle rushed back to her, reminding Behoola again of her inattention. Guilt and shame overwhelmed her concern for her mistress.

No, no. Behoola put her fingers to her temples. Her eyes itched with fatigue, her head hurt. I will think about all this tomorrow. She rose to her feet, turned off the oil-globes, and walked out of the kitchen.