Koenyg was keeping it quiet. Now Damon had fumed to her, moments before mounting his horse and riding out on guard as his brother ordered, that Koenyg had known how Krayliss would react to the threat of a trial without Sasha's presence, and had been ready for it. Koenyg, the master warrior, played games to destroy his opponents. Now that game included Sasha's life.
“Who is he meeting with?” Sofy asked the sergeant, struggling for composure.
“I'm sorry, Your Highness, I cannot say.”
Sasha would know what to do, Sofy thought with a surge of frustration. Gods, she was so tired of being treated like a child. People ignored her, and patronised her, and told her to go elsewhere. Everyone except Sasha…and Damon.
She tossed her head back, and gave the sergeant a stare. “Do you have a sister, Sergeant?”
“I do, Highness.”
“Do you love her?”
“Very much, Highness.”
“Will you not let me in?”
“I love my prince too, Your Highness,” the sergeant said simply.
Sofy sniffed. “One day, Sergeant, I fear you may come to question that ordering of priorities. Pray that you choose wisely.”
She moved off down the stone hall, Anyse hurrying at her side. “Highness, we should really be making our way back to your Rathynal guests, they'll be wondering where you are…”
“Let them wonder,” Sofy said shortly. They descended the grand staircase to the royal quarters, Sofy noting that the guard had been doubled. Instead of making her way onward to the great hall, she turned left, back toward Koenyg's quarters. A smaller, service corridor ran along the east palace wall, its windows overlooking Fortress Road and up to Saint Ambellion Temple beyond, all aflurry with commotion and soldiers.
“Highness,” Anyse dared to ask, “where are you going?” Ahead, the corridor ended at an open kitchen door. A servant passed through, carrying porcelain plates on a tray. “Highness?” Sofy paused by one door, glanced up and down the corridor, then opened the latch and slid inside, beckoning Anyse to follow. “Those are the servants’ stores!”
Sofy grabbed her impatiently by the arm and dragged her inside. She left the door ajar to let in some light, for the room was pitch black and musty.
“Anyse,” said Sofy, “do you know where the servants’ uniforms are? I want one.”
Anyse stared at her. “Highness?”
“You heard me.”
“You…you want to dress as a…?” Sofy nodded.
Anyse looked aghast. “Absolutely not!”
“I'm going whether you help me or not,” Sofy said firmly. “Do you want me to get caught?”
“I'll go!” Anyse said desperately. “I'll spy for you, I'll listen to what they're…”
“No!”
Anyse blinked in astonishment to see such anger in the younger woman's eyes.
“I need to hear myself, there's no telling if you'll understand all that's said. Now can you find me a uniform, I don't know where they're stored.”
“Highness, no!” Desperately. “Sofy! It's too dangerous!”
“Do you think Koenyg would execute me?” Sofy said with disbelief.
“He thinks you're Sashandra's friend!”
“I am Sashandra's friend,” Sofy said firmly. “And if you truly are mine, you'll help me.”
The hem of the brown dress was low enough to obscure the fancy leather boots that were surely too good for any servant girl. No one looked at her as she entered Koenyg's personal kitchen. Cooks tended to pots atop metal ovens, firewood stacked high to one side. Another chopped and sliced on the main bench, while the head cook gave forceful instructions.
At the kitchen's far corner, a staircase wound upward. A servant descended that staircase now, placing empty entrée plates and glasses on a bench, picking up the empty water bucket and hurrying out, not sparing Sofy a glance as he passed. Sofy ducked her head, the servant's bonnet feeling most unusual tied beneath her chin and atop the bundled hair that Anyse had helped to arrange.
There was liquor waiting on a tray, arranged with six small glasses, and Sofy went straight to it. Barely had her hands grasped the tray when the head cook saw her.
“You girl! Just what the hells do you think you're doing?”
Sofy's heart skipped a beat. She turned, hands folded demurely, and lowered her gaze in the head cook's direction. “I…I was told to take these up to…”
“Where are your wits, girl? The whisky is for later. They've barely finished their tea yet. Take the wine, girl, the wine!” Pointing to a large decanter and glasses upon the central benches.
Sofy arranged the glasses and decanter on a tray, trying to keep her hands from trembling, and made her way up the stairs. No one stopped her. She felt a surge of relief and triumph.