Page 60 of Traitor Son

“Of course he could,” she crooned, stroking his ears. He needed a good brushing. “Can’t you, Eugene?”

The donkey seemed a little shy of hands around his head, but she gave him a few minutes to get used to her, moving her hand from his shoulder to his neck so he would know where she was. Tam had told her it was like that with horses; they were big animals, and they couldn’t see what was around their sides unless they turned their heads to look. Tonight, she would give him a good wash and scrub.

“Let’s get him hitched up.” Sir Miche straightened and untied the ropes that blocked the donkey’s improvised stall. “Most days I’ll have the stable boys get him ready for you, but you’ll need to learn to manage his tack yourself, just in case.”

Two helpful stableboys were nearby to explain the harness and cart, a tiny four-wheeled wagon that showed signs of hasty repair. The leather harness looked like a tangled mess until they got it on Eugene, but Ophele soon saw how it all fit together, with an additional bit of complex strapping in the wagon to keep the barrel from bouncing out.

She was delighted with all of it. Not just because of the donkey—though she already considered Eugene a gentleman and bosom friend—but also because this meant she reallywasdoing something valuable, however humble.

“He can start by carrying my shovel,” said Sir Miche, cheerfully pitching the tool into the back of the wagon as they set off. His sword was strapped in its usual place on his hip, never absent even when he was digging ditches. “I finally got one with a decent handle yesterday, they’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

“Can we see if there are carrots or apples in the kitchen?” Ophele asked as they approached the cookhouse. They were already a little late; the sun was a finger-width above the horizon, but she could make up any lost time now that she had Eugene.

“I’m sure there are, but you’ll have to talk Wen into parting with them,” Sir Miche said dubiously. “If you can do it in five minutes, my lady, I’ll make friends with Eugene in the meantime.”

Ophele blanched. She had secretly been hoping that he would get them for her. And he likely suspected as much; there was a teasing look in his eyes as he reached for Eugene’s lead rope, and before she left, he sketched the sign of the stars’ blessing over her head and intoned, “When you find yourself in the void, may the light find you.”

She could do it. Hadn’t she just been telling herself last night that she could make her own way? Ophele hurried to the kitchen at the back of the cookhouse, braced herself, and opened the door.

The massive cook did not have a knife in his hand. That was a good omen.

“Master Wen?” she asked timidly, remembering not to cross the sacred threshold. “Excuse me?”

His vast back to her as he stirred something over the fire, and he showed no sign that he had heard.

“Master Wen?” Louder.

He didn’t so much as twitch. Ophele bit her lip.

“Master Wen,” she said loudly. “Excuse me!”

“What, what, what whatwhat?!”He went off like a volcano. “Your Grace, I amstirring.”

“I—I just wondered if you had some apples or carrots to spare,” she stammered. “If you point to where they are, I won’t trouble you—”

“You are not settingfootin me kitchen,” he said, pointing at her as if he were a Vallethi sorcerer about to level her with a curse. “What d’ye need them for?”

“A donkey.” This answer did not impress him, and she hurriedly explained. “They gave me a donkey to help at the wall. He’s old and he’s just been living on scrub brush and he’s going to be hauling water for everyone all day. So I want to give him something good to eat. Like carrots? Even old ones. Please.” The words tumbled out in a cluster of fits and starts and Master Wen looked more incredulous with every syllable, but she had to try. “His name is Eugene.”

“The donkey’s name is Eugene.”

She nodded, petrified.

“What a coincidence, me sainted mother’s name was Eugene,” Wen said, hands on his vast hips. “Well, I suppose if it’s for Master fu—bloody Eugene, of course, of course.” It was a soaring fit of sarcasm, but he still abandoned his stirring and reached into a cupboard to produce a small bundle of ancient carrots. “Not one foot in me kitchen,” he warned, and tossed them.

Ophele clung to the doorframe with one hand and snatched them out of the air.

“Thank you!” She said breathlessly. “Thank you, Master Wen!”

“You’re a blooming duchess, me name’s just Wen!” He roared after her as she escaped, clutching her prize.

“You actually managed to wheedle it out of him?” Sir Miche looked impressed.

“Carrots for Master Eugene,” she said, tickled by the title, and broke off a bit of one to present it victoriously to the donkey.

They spent the day getting used to each other. It was a different routine, only a little less arduous even with the barrel. It was a relief not to have to haul buckets up and down the hill, but her hands were blistered from the windlass after she filled the barrel for the third time, and Ophele tore up her handkerchief to bandage her palms, hoping no one would notice. The cart and barrel were alsojustshort enough for her to reach on tiptoe, and she didn’t dare to climb on the cart. In the first place, it might fall to pieces, and in the second, Eugene sometimes took it in his head to start walking while she was busy with the buckets.

“No, no, not yet,” she admonished, hurrying to grab his lead rope. He might be elderly and small, but he was still surprisingly strong; when she tried tying the lead rope around her waist to keep him from wandering while she refilled buckets, she found herself being dragged along with the cart for a dozen paces, to the amusement of the watching masons.

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