Clovis hated pottage stew. And sour whiskey. And cats.

“And the color purple,” he muttered to himself.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Clovis?” said his new head maid, Mairwen.

“Just talking to myself,” he said after a beat. He didn’t want to take out his irritation on her. It wasn’t her fault that the only thing left in the kitchen was last night’s stew.

This morning, most of his servants had resigned. Oh, and they had done it with such theatrics, too. They had gathered outside his door, patiently waiting for him to leave his room. When he did, they each took turns listing their dissatisfaction with his employment – some medley of complaints about the other guests, his oblique or contradictory orders, and his general forgetfulness – and then gave an exaggeratedly low bow or curtsy.

Why, one scoundrel had worn a gown just so that he could perform a curtsy. He cursed the boy, swearing to bad-mouth him to his next employer, but the problem was that the servant’s name had already slipped his mind. He let out a lengthy sigh.

“What’s bothering you, Clovis? Still scared of turning thirty-one?” Thracius, one of the painters he sponsored, sat down next to him at the unfurnished table. He was a handsome man, short of stature with a fine dark beard, and he made watercolor paintings that were so captivating that they seemed to drain the world of color by comparison.

He was also a very picky eater, and he frowned at the maid. “Pottage stew again?”

“I apologize, Lord Thracius. The maids were supposed to buy groceries this morning, but…” She broke off, looking at Clovis.

“They left!” Clovis wailed. “And now all I have are six servants on the day of my mother’s visit.”

“Five,” the maid corrected in a low whisper.

Thracius let out a booming laugh. “What did I tell you about taking in priests? What do you expect from men who’ve abandoned their worldly desires? A devotion to cleanliness and good hygiene?”

“Actually,” he grumbled, “I heard your name come up often. Something about forcing the servants to play dice and then cheating?”

Thracius straightened the gilded cuff of his coat sleeve. It was hard to tell who the patron was; with a tight-fitting green coat and a golden vest underneath, he dressed much better than Clovis did. “Friend, I was thinking of you. I can’t be using your money all the time.” He paused. “Though I would appreciate two half-pittens to get a real meal in the 2nd ward.”

Clovis snorted. “Two half-pittens? Are you trying to buy a steak and the cow that it came from?”

“Consider it an advance on next week’s stipend,” Thracius said breezily.

“I’ve heard that one too many times,” he said, but he turned to the maid. “Grab this fool his half-pittens.”

“Um, the steward resigned as well,” the maid said timidly.

He let out another lengthy sigh. One more sigh and I should give up on the day and head back to sleep.

He scrutinized the maid, and she seemed to panic under his gaze. Mairwen seemed no older than her mid-twenties. Spindly with chestnut-colored hair and a spray of freckles across her cheeks and nose, she reminded him of those timid tree wardens. She wore a light blue servant’s gown; he’d have to give her a new one. Head servants wore dark colors.

He dismissed her with a wave. “Go sweep the house or something. I’ll fetch the money.”

She gave a quick curtsy and disappeared out the room.

“That one worries me,” Thracius said, chuckling.

“I’m less worried about what she won’t do and more worried about what she will do,” he said, half lightheartedly and the other half weary. “I’ll go get your half-pittens.”

Thracius clapped him on the shoulder and stood up from his chair. “I’ll come for it later. I have a sneaking suspicion that you don’t know where your steward kept the money. I can’t wait for that.”

He grinned. “Keeping a lady waiting?”

“No, but you are. Last time your mother came, she gawked at all of us like we were a thrasher infestation.” He shook his head at the memory. “Bless your mother, but I’ve had enough of that treatment for a lifetime.”

“I apologize on her behalf,” he said with embarrassment. “I swear, House Arken quite likes artists. It’s just that she’s…”

Fortunately, he was spared an explanation as a male servant entered the room. Unfortunately, the servant bore bad news.

“I apologize for interrupting, Lord Clovis,” the servant said, his face pale. “I told her to wait for me to call you, but…”

From the adjoining hallway, he could hear his mother’s reedy voice. It sounded like she was interrogating one of the maids.

“I’ll let the others know to stay out of sight,” Thracius whispered, and then he disappeared up the stairs. Clovis grimaced and waved the servant away.

His mother was dressed as gaudily as always. She wore a rich purple dress that clashed against her olive skin tone and white gloves embedded with sapphires at the knuckles. Her flaxen hair maintained a healthy shimmer; in fact, it felt like she had stopped aging after the age of fifty. And of course, the one she was propositioning was Mairwen.

“A half-pitten a month,” she was saying. “All you have to do is make sure he starts following a daily schedule again. Waking up at eight, out of the manor by noon, that kind of thing. He could do with some sociability. Encourage him to see his friends. Like that lovely Javi he used to g–”

“Mother, I missed you,” he lied.

His mother looked over and plastered a wide smile on her face. Behind her, Mairwen gave him a grateful glance before making her escape.

“Clovis, my dear son!” She ran to him and forced him into a hug. On her left index finger, he spotted a ring. The leaf of a frost fern, the symbol of House Arken, was engraved into the red center stone. “What ever happened to the last head maid? I quite liked her.”

He couldn’t help himself – he sighed.

It was well into the evening before his mother left, and the moment she did, the houseguests on the upper floors opened the doors to their room. He didn’t keep track of how many people he sponsored. The number ranged from twelve to twenty. Sitting in the dining room, he heard their footsteps above him and their voices traveled down the stairwell.

“Finally! I thought she was never going to leave.”

“Do all Arkens talk that much?”

“You didn’t know? That’s how we beat the Worldrenders. The Foretoken talked so much they surrendered in fright.”

A round of laughter.

“You weren’t here last time. She stopped Polly and told her that sh–”

Clovis stood up from the table abruptly, his chair screeching against the wood floor, and yelled up the stairwell. “That’s still my mother, you heathens. Quiet down.”

The voices fell to a shush followed by a quiet “Our apologies, Clovis” from one of the sculptors.

He scratched his right wrist; it was aching. He could feel his dark mood pulling him down. He hated speaking to his mother not because of what she said but because of the conviction that came with it. She spoke with this aggressive confidence and it was as if each of her sentences ended with an exclamation of “...and that’s simply how it is!”

“All this curse nonsense is silly,” she had said one time. “All Vivineers need a break.” Of course, that was back during the second year of his “break.” Now he was well into his sixth and she had stopped consoling him. The issue, she concluded now, was one of motivation and discipline.

She thought him a dilettante, wasting his money on patronage. Not just his money. “Time and talent squandered by the minute” was what she had said today, her frustration echoing off the walls. Mother couldn’t accept that her son, the brilliant young man whom she’d often brag to relatives would become the next Forespeaker of House Arken, had turned into an average prodigal Foretoken.

He decided to go on a walk through the ward. That would clear his head. When he reached the manor door, he saw Mairwen in the lounging room to his right. She was standing at the large window that overlooked the gardens and rubbing disconsolately at a smudge near the hinge. The rag she was using was filthy.

“Mairwen, attend to me,” he said. “We’re leaving the manor.”

She jumped and saw him. “Where are we going, Lord Clovis?”

He thought for a second. “The house still needs groceries?”

“Yes, my lord. At least a half-dozen bushels of grapes, two sacks of flour, four barrels of –”

“We’re getting groceries.”

“Yes, my lord.” She looked down at her gown and then at his clothes. “Are you going to change, my lord?”

“Hm?” He was wearing a long black robe, tied at the waist by a black sash. It was extremely informal for a man of his station, but he didn’t care.

There was a breeze though, so he went to grab a coat. In one of his many wardrobes, he found a fine black one with silver trim that he had once worn a long time ago when he was a Vivineer. The wealthy favored form-fitting clothes, but the coat was made tighter by the steady weight he’d gained over the years. He managed to fit into it, but it looked strange over his oversized robe. It would have to do.

Most dreamed of living in the 4th ward. It was the safest of the nine wards. Gallinger lamps, long black poles shaped like tulips, lit the whole ward, and the paved cobblestone streets were wide enough to accommodate both pedestrians and carriages. At night, Inquell trainees patrolled the streets.

But more importantly, living here was a status symbol. Only the most successful lived here. Most of them came from Foretoken families as he did, but that wasn’t a necessity. There was the occasional lowborn Vivineer or explosively wealthy merchant. But even then, all of the ambitious ones married into the seven Foretoken families.

There were market stalls near the square, but he craved salted greengills. Fish would be cheaper and fresher in the 3rd ward. A northern bridge linked the two wards and the walk would take roughly half an hour.

For a while, they strolled in silence, her eyes to the ground and his at the waning clouds. He was reflecting over his mother’s visit, a small rage smoldering in his chest.

“Is there a reason you took me along, Lord Clovis?” the maid asked.

Because you were ruining my window. “No reason,” he said.

“I see.”

They fell back into silence. A part of him did feel bad for needlessly dragging her along. The truth was that he had wanted company, but the artists spoke too abstractly and the priests were even worse. He wasn’t in the mood for that kind of conversation. Or maybe he truly was mad at them for the way they spoke of his mother.

He scratched at his stubble. “How long have you been in my employ, Mairwen?”

“Four months, my lord.”

“And why didn’t you quit with the rest of them?”

“I suppose,” she said slowly, “it’s because I lack pride.”

It was an unexpected answer. “Care to elaborate?”

She blushed. “Sorry. It’s just something a friend told me one time. But I agree with her. I’m clumsy and slow. I have served many households, but I’m often let go. I’ve worked in six of the nine wards.

“The fourth ward, though, is different. I don’t know how much you know about this, my lord, since you grew up in a Foretoken family, but servants here have just as much pride as the people they serve.”

“So since you lack pride, so do I?” he said with a grin.

“No, no.” She grew flustered. “Forgive me, I–”

“I’m teasing. Carry on.”

“Oh. Well...” She hesitated for a moment. “The servants here like to brag about their masters. A master’s reputation is a reflection of a servant’s competence, or so it has been explained to me. And, my lord, you have quite the reputation.”

“A bad reputation, I’m sure.”

“Yes – ah, I mean no!” She looked down at the ground. “I mean, they’re attracted to your good reputation.”

“As a child prodigy? The young, precocious Vivineer with ingenious innovations and startling potential?” He had started in jest, but a note of bitterness had crept into his voice. “That was six years ago. No one thinks of me that way anymore.”

“You’ll find that most servants don’t care at first,” she said quietly. “The ones who served you didn’t believe you to be cursed. They thought that they just had to wait until you rose back to prominence. But, well, the other guests can be testing on their patience. And because you are so…” She paused.

“You can just say I’m an ass,” he said lightly.

“That’s not what I was going to say,” she said hurriedly, but she seemed to understand his jokes now. “It’s just that you’re too carefree, too informal. It chafes their pride.”

“Servants want to be treated like servants.” He chuckled. “No, they relish it, huh?”

“Not all, but most who serve in the 4th ward do,” she said.

“But you don’t.”

“I just want a warm place and a modest salary,” she said in a voice so low that it was hard to hear over the carriages beside them. Having never lacked either, he kept quiet. In the distance, he saw the sun sinking toward the large wooden bridge that led into the 3rd ward.

“Ah, but that’s not the only reason we serve you,” she said eventually. “Do you remember what happened last month with Jaska?”

“Jaska?” The name sounded familiar. “Ah!” That was the name of the male servant that had brought his mother into the house.

“A maid reported it to you one night,” she recounted. “How one of the composers had been harassing Jaska, telling him that he had spilled something in his room. He had tried this on all the male servants, but he always gave Jaska this very peculiar stare.”

He grimaced. Now he remembered. The composer’s name was Raphael. Brilliant with the harp, but he always insisted on singing along with his scratchy tenor voice.

“When you learned that, you flew into a rage and ran into his room with a large lance. We all thought you were going to kill him!”

I would have if the lance had been working properly. Instead, he had used it like a club, beating the man over the head repeatedly until he left the grounds.

“I will not have anyone, servant or guest, harassed in my manor,” he said hotly. They were on the bridge and several of the pedestrians glanced over at him, but he ignored them.

Mairwen finally smiled. “And that’s why we five stayed. Not all masters are willing to protect their servants.”

Now he was the one who felt flustered. It was unearned praise. Had he ever truly thought about servants as people? They were, like the pittens that sat in his bank account, simply convenient to have, and it just made good financial sense to protect one’s assets.

“Now look here,” he said, searching for a witty rejoinder. But then his eyes caught a figure on the other side of the bridge and he froze.