She awakened late one night, thirsty, and the carafe beside the bed was empty. She slipped out of her room, down the stairs, through the passage to the small courtyard and thence to the kitchen. While there, she heard a woman’s voice, and, puzzled, she followed the sound through a panel door that stood ajar, a panel she had not seen before, one that led down another level. She had not realized there was a lower level, but she could not argue with her eyes or her nose that between them perceived a musty-smelling, dimly-lit and stone-floored room at the bottom of the stairs. She took a step and almost fell over a huddled body.
“Oh,” she murmured, “sorry.”
The body didn’t move. She leaned over, tapped it. It shivered.
“For heaven’s sake, get up,” she said in her labored Mahahmbi. It wasn’t enough unlike Haven talk to be a different language, but it was pronounced differently and had a lot of words for local things that had no counterpart on Haven. Though she could understand almost all of it she heard, she had had minimal experience using the language.
“Please,” the body whimpered.
Abruptly, she realized what she must have done. “Oh, I am sorry. I’ll bet you’re malghaste, aren’t you? I’m not supposed to be here.”
The body moved, squirmed away from her, not looking at her. An old woman.
“I won’t tell,” said Genevieve. “Honestly, I won’t tell. Nobody will ever know. Please, talk to me.”
She saw actual amusement in the flash of the woman’s eyes. “They’ll kill me if you do, if I do, if you do, lady.”
This stopped her only for a moment. “They’ll kill you if I ask you to talk? That is, if you talk? And if I tell?”
A nod. The figure turned to face her, legs crossed, somber cloth wrappings half hiding her face. “You’ve had baby, lady. We’ve heard him crying.”
Genevieve rubbed her flat stomach thoughtfully. “No one’s supposed to know that I’m even here, much less that my baby is. He’s a week old now.”
“Week?”
“Ah. Sorry. Let’s see. It’s an old, old human division of days, seven days. The only time we use it is in figuring the age of infants. Two weeks, six, eight, then we start on months. The only time we say months is when we’re talking about babies or pregnancy. It’s a survival, I guess. You probably use a seasonal count. Most planets do.”
“Twelve days to period. Times six equals season. Times four plus new year holy day equals year. We work here season by season, we malghaste. Season on. Season off.”
“Did you know I was here?”
“Oh, yes. We overhear your people talking. You are one handsome one calls Jenny.”
“That’s short for Genevieve. What’s your name?”
“Awhero,” she said,Ah-fhair-oh. “Old name in ancient earthian language of our people. In our tongue it means Hope.”
“Awhero.”
“Why did you come here?” the old woman asked.
She thought about this a moment, seeking a simple reason. “My husband was required to come, by the Prince. The Prince also required me to come. Also, this was my first child, and I wanted to be near my husband.”
“No, no. Why did you come down here?” The old woman patted the stones at her feet.
“I was wakeful. Thirsty. And lonely. I heard your voice. I didn’t think. Who were you talking to? Why are you even here at this time of night?”
“When I am assigned here, it is easiest just to stay. Someone must wash out privies. Someone must scrub floors and walls and burn sulfur when you are gone, to get rid of your unclean spirits. Or bury some of you, if you die.”
Genevieve blinked at this. “And you’re it?”
“Me. Yes. Also, I listen for the persons of Shah. I am spy.” The old woman grinned, toothily. “All malghaste in houses of arghaste are spies.”
“Arghaste?”
“Foreigners, unclean ones. Like you.”
Genevieve drew a deep breath. “Have you told anyone I’m here?”
The old woman laughed. “Not yet. I did not even tell one-who-asks-me how you got water. I said I did not see how you did it.” Her shoulders shook with laughter. “Always they ask us, and always we lie to them. They think we are impenetrably stupid, but they still ask us.