Free Banner of the Damned by Sherwood Smith

hazel.
    Second most important on her staff was Head Dresser Dessaf, compact and gray-haired, with a quick, ever-alert gaze and a small, prim mouth.
    They were both waiting for me but afterward, I almost never saw them together, they were always so busy.
    There were sixteen more women and girls crowded into the room, the pages and housemaids against the wall, and those with skills—seamstresses, dressers—stood forward. All wore variations in the soft blue-shaded gray robes, some with peach-colored aprons.
    “Welcome, Scribe Emras,” Seneschal Marnda said.
    The page had vanished into a small chamber. She reappeared, her posture self-important as she carefully bore a beautiful silver tray with a service of pale blue porcelain cups with silver reeds painted in the harmonious pattern of
spring breeze
. The air filled with the perfume of wine as Seneschal Marnda poured, observing the solemn and graceful ritual.
    “Let us celebrate your joining us.”
    I thanked her with the customary words, then took the proper three of the bite-sized ceremonial breads, each perfectly shaped, as Seneschal Marnda named the princess’s staff. I was glad I already knew their names. Now I could put faces to those names.
    “Scribe Emras, you may summon any duty page on the princess’s behalf. If you summon anyone else, it is a courtesy among us to include, at least briefly, the reason. That can save time, if an item is to be brought, for example.”
    In other words, I could summon no pages on my own behalf, but this I already knew. Some scribes had their own staff. I did not. The possibility for such lay not only in my future but also in the princess’s. In the meantime, I must be my own page until ordered differently.
    The seneschal said to the others, “In turn, you may not summon the scribe. If she is seated doing nothing, you may not assign her tasks. Her duty time will be different from yours. If there is a question of procedure, you bring it to me.”
    Then back to me: “Within the princess’s inner chambers, we remove our house slippers and wear chamber slippers. We all keep pairs by our doors.”
    I made The Peace. I already knew about courtiers and their costly carpets.
    “In recreation time, the two back rooms are open to you, as to us all, and of course, there are the servants’ halls. We always have fresh caffeo and steep available. There is a strict rule, from the queen herself, against fermented or distilled drinks on duty.”
    “What is your custom for meals?” I asked.
    She made the two-finger gesture of appreciation for my discreet wording. “We do not know yet how your meals will fit into our practice. You might have noticed that my staff does not dine with the rest of the palace staff.”
    I signed assent.
    She continued, “We always have hot breakfast cakes, morning steep, and fresh caffeo in the sun room at dawn. For supper, you may join the queen’s personal staff who, you probably know, are served separately.”
    A privilege indeed. Impressed as well as intimidated, I placed my hands together, and Seneschal Marnda mirrored The Peace, then dismissed the staff. She then showed me to my room, on the same hall as the princess’s outer salon. It overlooked the Rose Walk. The summer bed lay under the window, the desk and trunk against the inside wall on the low platform—the sleeping platform in winter, when the vents under it would be opened to the warm air of the furnace. This platform, and the narrow door at the other side of the room, were signs of prestige indeed: I would not have to retreat to a dormitory in winter, and further, I had my own entrance to the bath.
    “You may call upon the services of Anhar once a week,” she said, and I remembered the personal dresser whose pale, moon-round face made me wonder if she were half Chwahir. Her hair was a dull shade of light brown not unlike mine. “I understand scribes like to keep their nails pared, so you may make private arrangements with her when she is not