Lukewarm Tea and Faked Thanks

The mental inventory with which I planned to save my skin fit in the palm of a hand: a linen nightgown that scratched as if it harbored trained fleas, the aftertaste of Damián's hardtack still stuck to the roof of my mouth, and a ninety-day countdown before they lopped my head off in the main square.

A shit show of a panorama, if you asked me.

The clinking of a tin tray against the hallway wood interrupted my calculations. The bedroom door creaked on its toothless hinges and Beltrán appeared, the head butler of the Albalat house, entering backward as if he were hauling nitroglycerin. His nose was sharp as a carving knife and his expression tightened like someone already mentally calculating the trajectory of tableware flying toward his forehead.

He stopped at exactly four paces from the bed. His shoulders shrank, tense as two wall hooks.

He expected the usual spectacle: the earthenware plate smashed against the moldings of the walnut sideboard, the hysterical shrieks of the spoiled little duchess, and maybe a cup of boiling broth spilled over his gray doublet.

"Your morning refreshment, my lady," said Beltrán, staring fixedly at the tip of his own dull leather shoes, ready to leap backward.

On the tray, a clay cup steamed with a yellowish concoction smelling of sage and a rye roll so hard it could well have served as a cobblestone on Seventh.

I got up carefully, dragging the skirts that weighed like a wet blanket, and approached the nightstand. The butler squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the blast.

I curtsied. It came out clumsy, long-legged, a strange mix between a medieval queen's greeting and a farewell outside an office in Chapinero, bending my right knee until my kneecap popped with a crisp click.

"Many thanks, Beltrán. Truly, you outdid yourself."

The man didn't open his eyes right away. He blinked once. Twice. His jaw dropped a couple of centimeters, exposing a fake tooth of yellowish bone.

"My lady... is thanking me?"

"Sure thing, pal. It's freezing as hell and that hot tea is just what I needed," I answered, holding the bowl between my hands to warm my numb fingers. "Or did you expect me to throw it at your head?"

"I... habit, my lady. The sideboard has three notches from last week's turnip broth."

"Well, today we save the carpenter. Rest."

Beltrán backed away shuffling his feet, not daring to turn his back on me, looking at me as if a glowing horn had sprouted in the middle of the duchess's forehead. The door closed with a soft click, followed by a perplexed silence on the stair landing.

From the doorway leading to the low latrines, a smothered chuckle broke the gloom.

Damián Sanchis stepped out from behind a frayed tapestry showing a faded deer hunt with more moths than thread. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forearms dusted with pale flour, and a dark grease stain crossing his left cheekbone.

"He almost peed himself," whispered the boy, leaning his back against the carved stone frame. "If you'd smiled at him with all your teeth, he'd have dropped flat on the floor."

"Courtesy disarms faster than a dagger, especially when they're expecting you to bite," I said, taking a sip from the bowl. It tasted exactly like hot water with El Virrey park grass, but at least it wasn't bitter.

"I don't know where you get those old minstrel phrases, but Sibila de Moncada isn't going to disarm with clumsy curtsies, my lady. That woman eats hammered iron for breakfast."

Damián pulled a small bronze compass from his smock pocket that pointed a bit crooked toward the northeast, with the glass scratched in a cross, and spun it over his thumb pad.

"And what's that?" I asked, pointing at the gadget.

"The pilot of the Genoese carrack who brought the Flanders fabrics two moons ago left it behind. It doesn't point north to save its life, but I like how the needle hums when you shake it."

"A very useful toy to save the duchy, sure thing."

"Better than your watered-down tea, for sure."

Damián put the compass away, crossed his arms, and his face suddenly lost the mocking smirk. He took a step toward the table, dropping his voice to a whisper of air.

"The notary from Peñafiel is back. I saw him dismount his mule in the small courtyard from the kneading window. He's carrying boiled leather folders tied with red waxed ribbon. They say Sibila has a lunch of roast pig prepared for him in the keep to celebrate the signing before noon bells toll."

I felt an icy stab behind my ribs. It wasn't metaphysical fear; it was the mathematical certainty that if that lady kept the fief today, my ninety-day deadline was going to turn into ninety minutes.

"And the master keys of the jurors' archive?" I asked, remembering the papers Caterina had muttered between prayers.

"The bailiff carries them on his studded leather belt. And that guy stands two yards tall and smells like a stable."

"Cool. Easy peasy, then."

"Pure tavern fun."

Damián smiled with half his mouth, but his eyes danced toward the corridor.

Suddenly, the muffled murmur of the fortress broke.

A dry thud. Metallic. Heavy.

The unmistakable snap of three halberds striking in unison against the granite tiles of the outer hallway echoed in the damp stone, followed by the screech of the portcullis bolts.

Measured, hard footsteps, with the exact cadence of the royal guard.

They had come to check if the prey was still breathing behind bars.