"At all those accounting books," the cook said, and Raspu wondered that he'd never previously noticed the pleasantness of her voice.
"I mean," said the cook, "what thanks do you get for keeping all those numbers ordered and neat?"
That's right! Raspu thought. No-one has ever thanked me for all the work I've put in.
"Just a can here and there," said a gardener, poking his head in the open window. "For me kids, y'understand. No-one else."
Of course. Of course.
"Just a can here and there," the cook whispered, and Raspu nodded.
"Just here and there," he said.
Gwendylyr stood before the closed brown door to the kitchen. She tucked a stray hair neatly behind her ear, then took a deep breath. She opened the door and walked in.
Raspu jerked out of his doze and leapt to his feet.
A cat, which had been curled up beside his head on the table, yowled, and fled out the door to the garden.
The cook was lying in an alcoholic coma to one side of the kitchen, an empty brandy bottle in her hand, and the remains of a meat pie crumbled across her ample bosoms.
She'd vomited a while before, and the horrid stuff lay crusted on her chin and neck.
One of the maids had pulled her blouse open to allow a footman to lick and suck at her breasts, while two other footmen were packing sacks full of food and assorted packets and handing them out the window to one of the gardeners who put them in a cart.
Three footmen were once more engaged in a game of poker at a small table in the farthest reaches of the kitchen.
A thin-ribbed hound was humping a grunting bitch in the cold room, while several rats chewed on a joint of meat lying on the floor.
Dust and grime and trails of fat lay everywhere.
Raspu's uniform was creased and stained and his hair wild.
Gwendylyr stood, as if transfixed by the mess and sloth, and then she half gasped, half sobbed, and began to cry, slapping her hands to her face in theatrical despair.
Raspu reddened, and then cursed as he realised the blaze spreading across his cheeks.
Gwendylyr managed to control her weeping, and she turned her face to Raspu. "I am so sad, Demon. I thought you were strong enough to govern my household but —"
"No, wait!" Raspu cried, and stepped over to the cook, landing a foot in her ribs. "Wake up, you drunken sot! There's a meal to prepare! You! Get back to work!"
He made a grab at the footman nuzzling against the maid's breast, but the man rolled to one side, and Raspu's hand slapped harmlessly against a barrel.
"Be still," said Gwendylyr. "It is too late. You have made your —"
"No!" Raspu screamed turning back to her. "Wait! I can still redeem myself! I can —"
"Ah," Gwendylyr said, "now that would be difficult. How can any man redeem himself who cannot even keep a kitchen in order?"
Gwendylyr waved her hand around at the mess. "Look at this! You allowed yourself to embrace laziness and corruption, you allowed yourself to —"
"Give me another chance."
"No."
"I know I will manage next time — just give me the chance!"
Gwendylyr stared at the Demon, still red-faced, although now from fear. "No. You have failed the challenge. You could not govern this household, and thus you have lost the right to govern yourself."
"No!"
"Yes. Self-determination is no longer yours, Raspu —"
He stretched out a hand, his face twisted in pleading, but already he could feel the bonds encircling his being.
He was no longer free.
"— and thus you must accept an eternity of servitude."
"No," he whispered.
,
"Servitude is the price of your failure," Gwendylyr said, no sympathy in her voice at all. "What a pity you would not listen to me when I tried to tell you that."
Raspu crouched close to the floor, whimpering.
Gwendylyr stared at Raspu briefly, then twisted her fingers amid his hair and hauled him to his feet.
