The Elixir of Inheritance by E.M. Burnham

Author:E.M. Burnham
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9798985095272
Publisher: E.M. Burnham

He supposed it was the kind of favor Yilka the Green excelled at, showing all three of her faces and supplying both opportunity and work, with the appearance of luck on the horizon. Fact one being that Master and Mistress Ignalle lived in a respectable but nondescript home attached on either side to their neighbors, but near enough a bakery-mill, and a draughtshop not to notice the lack of a courtyard to grow anything. The buildings clustered behind the Bureau of Currency, a popular area for lower government officials. Fact two being that they had not been at home to visitors, and fact three resulting in that their maid-of-all-work was forced by sheer dint of courteous obstinacy to linger on the doorstep beneath the rather plain portico and speak with Ibram, while Ahksell stood tall in his best impression of an eager soul by his side.

“Lady Azadiya wanted us to pass on the condolences of the sect, you see, Mistress Agapito,” Ibram said with a smile.

The maid was older than either of them, but not by much, and her red hair and tunic were neat as pins in a seam. Her wrapped trousers were grey, and her tunic matched in a finer cloth than most maids could afford. She had big dark eyes and a familiar chin. Ibram couldn’t quite place her, but she matched her surroundings rather well.

She stood in the doorway and looked at Ahksell from the corner of her eye, before smiling politely. “Lady Azadiya? Mentor Hobon up the living mountain?” she asked. “Why—I mean, thank you. I will pass the message along to my mistress.”

“We know, well, we all know about the problems in the family,” Ahksell said, “but Mentor has had a relationship with the Savoldyns for a very long time. I mean, a father is a father, is he not?”

The corner of her upper lip curled; it was very slight, but Ibram made note of it. Beyond that tiny derisive slip, she nodded quite appropriately, and touched her hand to the back of her low bun. Servants were often a good barometer for the health of a household.

“I suppose you’re right, Attendant Solari,” she murmured. “But if you—”

“And it’s not as if we could pass them on to Mistress Savoldyn,” Ibram said. “With the rushes tied and all.”

Remarkable how that little lip curled in derision, like Mistress Agapito couldn’t control the expression, nor the sullen gleam in her eyes. He should crack an egg to Yilka the Green after all; she brought the most interesting folk into his life, to be sure.

“I suppose you aren’t acquainted, though,” he said, and leaned on the doorway. “What with this trouble I keep hearing so much about.”

“Well, no, not as such,” she said. “It’s none of my business, but I wasn’t such a cracked stone to inquire.”

“Been with the Ignalles long, then?” he asked, and peered over her shoulder. “It seems a neat room, must be easy to clean.”

She moved right and blocked his view. “Since they married,” she said.

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