The Harlot's Stage or a Gilded Cage

3. The Competition

    Elsewhere in Waecaris, other young women were also finding out they would be spending the foreseeable future in the Waecare, the Waecarian palace and fortress nestled in the heart of the queendom.

    In the outer reaches of the kingdom, a herald stood knee-deep in fertilizer and dried straw to gingerly pass out bags of rice to the young women who continued to work the fields and keep Waecaris fed. Over the course of carrying out their work, they had become lean, muscled, and tanned by the sun. Although some had tried to clean themselves up a bit and even wear a dress, most wore the dusty pants, muddy boots, and sweat that they wore day in and day out as they tilled the soil. The herald tried to hide his disdain, but his pinched face wasn’t fooling anybody. It was clear he wasn’t eager about potentially riding back to the palace with one of these harridans. In fact, at that very moment, he was praying that the token lower class Seeds that were also included to ward off suspicion would come from the other districts so that he could ride back to the capital without the stench of manure singing his nostril hairs. Unfortunately for him, at that very moment, the woman with the dustiest clothes and a head full of short unruly curls that clearly hadn’t had a comb in them for too long opened her bag to find purple grains. Apparently, Hasim would be accompanying him back to the Waecare.

    On the other side of Waecaris in one of the more well-off towns, the same process looked like it was taking place worlds away. Carefully primped and coiffed young ladies in their fanciest, frilliest attire politely queued around the block. Rather than make a scene, most discreetly opened their bags a fraction to glimpse inside as they walked away from the herald. They could have waited until they were back in the safety of their own homes, but they didn’t want to miss the opportunity to gloat if the opportunity arose. 

    Mixed in with these daughters of nobility were the working class folks who made their lives of comfort and leisure possible. Dressed in clean but plain clothes, many of them uniforms, most of these women worked as they waited in line. They’re employers had refused to allow them time off to participate in the process, and many had actually threatened to let them go if their standard of work suffered at all. Some women, too frightened by the risk of unemployment, decided to make the decidedly illegal decision to forgo participation altogether. After all, it was only illegal if they got caught, right? And it’s not like the heralds were keeping track of their attendance. Others wanted their chance at a better life, so they found ways to meet their employer’s demands while they waited. As they waited in line, they darned socks or peeled carrots or even wove on portable looms. 

    If the herald had been paying more attention, he might have noticed the suspicious pattern of the vast majority of these women leaving the square in the direction of the biggest house at the end of the row where all the wealthiest families lived. Weeks earlier, the lady of this house had made it known that she would pay handsomely for any bags of rice that women brought to her on the day of The Selection. Duchess von Arete refused to entertain any version of reality where her daughter, Camine, was not a Seed. Even if she didn’t end up marrying the prince (although obviously she would, no one else would be able to hold a candle to her pedigree), simply participating in The Reaping as a Seed would greatly increase Camine’s social standing. Considering their wealth, status, and heritage, Duchess von Arete struggled to figure out why Camine was not friends with any other young ladies from similar backgrounds. 

    What the Duchess failed to realize was that somehow, despite her parents, Camine had been born with a gentle, compassionate heart. She simply wasn’t snooty or cutthroat enough to get along with the other young ladies of her station. Instead, she had made friends with the staff and the other workers at the homeless shelter. She had begun working there because the Duchess believed that charity made for a well-rounded reputation, but her mother would have stopped the occupation entirely had she realized how strongly it had affected Camine. Secretly, Camine longed to donate most of their wealth to good causes and live in a small cottage with a man who loved her for her rather than her money or her last name. 

    “Yes, yes, come in, put your bag in, and get a piece of silver from the valet on your way out,” said the Duchess as a steady stream of women came in through the servant’s entrance in the back entrance. “For heaven’s sakes, don’t loiter around out there. We don’t need to give people reasons to ask questions.” As the Duchess continued to marshal women through, the pile of rice bags grew steadily in the corner of the kitchen.

    One woman lingered, reluctant to hand over her bag so easily. “Will we get more if our bag ends up being special?” Niko asked as she twirled the bag round her fingers by its screen.

    “I’m already paying you ten times what the amount of rice in that bag is worth. Why should I give you any more?” The Duchess crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. Some people felt so entitled to take advantage of others. 

    “I don’t know,” replied Niko. “I’ve got a good feeling about this one. Maybe I’ll hold on to it just in case.” Niko worked as a maid for the Westerlys a couple houses down. They had often remarked that their maid had a bit of a smart mouth, but the Duchess hadn’t realized just how smart. 

    “Don’t be silly. The prince will never pick you and if you leave, you won’t have a job to come back to.” The Duchess wasn’t in the habit of losing, let alone to a maid, so she decided to call her bluff. Niko wasn’t ready to back down so easily, either, though.

    “Perhaps. But I hear they pay us a lot more than I make here just for going. And who knows, even if I don’t end up with the prince, I might meet someone else nice up at the Waecare who would be able to take care of me.” The bag continued around Niko’s fingers as she paused the let the Duchess consider her options and make her next move. 

    The Duchess was peeved by Niko’s gall, but she also wondered if perhaps the maid knew something she didn’t. Had she seen some purple poking out of the bag? Niko was pretty enough; it was possible that the herald had slipped her a winning bag thinking she would be a good contender from a lower class to round out the Seeds. Ultimately, Duchess von Arete knew she’d never forgive herself if this ended up being the winning bag and she’d missed out just because she was unwilling to shell out a couple extra silvers. “Fine,” she said curtly. “I’ll give you an extra silver, double what I paid the others.”

    Niko knew she had a big fish on the hook and she wasn’t about to let it go just yet. “Triple.” She crossed her arms to match the Duchess’s posture. The Duchess stared her down for a beat before giving her answer. 

    “Alright, triple. But ask for any more, and I might need to have a word with the Westerlys about hiring help with a little less lip.” She nodded to the valet to give Niko two extra silvers. Niko happily headed towards the door, her three silver coins in hand. 

    “No need to worry, Duchess. After all, I don’t want to have to explain what I was doing here. Then we’d both be in prison for a long time, right?” With one last cheeky grin, Niko bounded out the door without giving Duchess von Arete a chance to answer.

    As soon as Niko was out of sight, the Duchess eagerly ripped open the bag. White grains spilled out. Over the course of negotiating with Niko, she’d convinced herself that this was the one, but no, she’d just been scammed. Enraged, she started tearing through the other bags, tossing them aside as she demolished the pile. White. White. Purple. White. WAIT! Purple? She looked around frantically, trying to figure out where she had thrown that bag. She finally found it under the counter after a few minutes of scrambling around on her hands and knees. 

    “Camine!” she yelled as soon as she had it in hand. “Come down here, please! Camine? CAMINE!” The last bellow brought Camine skittering down the stairs.

    “Mother! Is everything alright? Why are you on the floor? Where did all this rice come from?” Camine surveyed the scene before her in confusion. Their normally pristine kitchen was covered in a fine layer of rice and haphazardly strewn sacks with her mother at its center - quite possible the oddest part of the scene. Her mother typically refused to set a single toe in the kitchen, claiming it was the domain of house mice and underlings. 

    “Never mind that, sweetheart. I need you to come to the front room with me.” The Duchess stood off and brushed herself off in as dignified a manner as she could muster. To her credit, she was actually somewhat convincing. “You!” she barked at the valet who had been in charge of handing out the silver. “Run and fetch the herald! And bring him to the front door!”

    Camine was still confused as she followed her mother to the front room. She’d been one of the first in line hours ago and had come away with only a normal bag of rice. Where had all these come from? That’s when she noticed the purple grains for rice that clung to the opening of the sack. It slipped through her hands, hitting the ground just as the herald entered. 

    “My presence was requested?” The herald looked around before settling on addressing the Duchess. “How may I be of assistance?” 

    The Duchess fanned herself with her handkerchief as if overwhelmed. She was so good that her eyes even pricked with the beginnings of fake tears of joy and surprise. “Thank you for coming so quickly! We’ve just found out that my daughter has been Selected and I thought we should let the Waecare know as soon as possible.” 

    The herald got out the powder to start the process of verifying The Selection. Duchess won Arete wasn’t expecting to have to navigate any more obstacles. “What’s that?” she asked as she suspiciously eyed the mint green powder and the brush in the herald’s hands.

    “It’s just part of the policy to ensure everything’s in order, m’lady. The bags are treated with a dye that deposits on the hands of the first person to hold it. This powder reveals it.” He began dusting Camine’s hands. 

    “Ah, I see,” the duchess stalled. She racked her brain to find a suitable explanation for the lack of dye on her daughter’s hands. 

    “Hmm, that’s odd. I can only find traces.” The herald put away his brush and turned back to Camine. “Young lady, did you take this bag from someone else. If you tell the truth, the consequences will be much easier on you.” He sternly stared her down as he waited for her answer, but her mother interjected before she could reply.

    “Oh, that! Her hands are so delicate that she always wears gloves when she goes to avoid sunburn. I guess the dye couldn’t penetrate the cloth.” The duchess smiled serenely, sure she had put the issue to bed. 

    “Easy enough to solve in that case! May I have the gloves for verification?” The herald held out his hand expectantly. 

    The duchess was back in the hot seat. “Erm, yes, well, I would...but they’ve already been donated! I refuse to have my daughter rewear clothes like a commoner so the minute she takes something off, I have it run down to the shelter.” Trying to preempt any further inquiries, the duchess decided to take her lie a bit further. “I’d send someone to fetch them back, but they’re probably impossible to find now that they’ve been mixed in with all the others we’ve sent, or maybe even given away already.” She held her breath, waiting to see if the herald would buy her story. 

    He wasn’t quite sold. “Ah. And may I ask why you decided to open your bag here rather than in the square with the others where we could verify you were the initial recipient?” Once again, the duchess interjected before Camine could say anything. 

    “It’s quite possibly the biggest moment of her life! She preferred to experience it in the privacy and safety of her own home. Is that a crime?” Now that duchess was ready to use some of her own clout. “Are you insinuating that we’ve done something untoward? Because I don’t know how I feel about someone casting aspersions against a family that’s been a friend to Waecaris for so long. I’m sure my friends at the Waecare would feel the same.”

    The herald still felt like something fishy was going on here, but frankly, it wasn’t worth losing his livelihood over. “Of course, not, m’lady, my apologies.” He bowed in deference to the duchess and then turned to Camine. “If you’ll pack your bags, we can set off towards the Waecare immediately.”

    Camine hadn’t been able to get a word in edgewise during this entire charade. Now that she had the chance, she knew she should say something, but she also knew that if she did, she’d besmirch the family name for eternity. Not to mention, she’d be condemning her mother to a life in prison, or worse. The first she could stomach, but despite her disagreements, she couldn’t live with the idea of causing such harm to her mother. Whatever their differences, Camine still loved her. So she kept her mouth shut and went upstairs to pack, quashing the misgivings and guilt that had started stirring in her stomach.

    Back in the capital of Waecarton, although she didn’t know it, one other young woman was about to receive a fated bag of rice from the same herald that gave Elona hers. Lady Kyera had lived in the Waecare all her life with her mother who the rest of Waecaris knew as Madame Ritivia. Ritivia had risen through the ranks, all the way from apprentice dressmaker when she first became pregnant with Kyera to now being in charge of one Waecaris’ most important traditions; The Reaping. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have been allowed to run the contest since she had an eligible child, but King Firzen had squashed any objection. He argued that there was no one else he could trust with his son’s future and happiness. Besides, there was no guarantee that Kyera would be Selected, and even if she were, he trusted Ritivia to run a fair and effective Reaping. With such an impassioned defense from the king consort and no pushback from the queen, the rest of the advisors had no choice but to fall in line. 

    The square around The Garden was now emptying, most of its previous occupants walking dejectedly back to their homes. There were a few hopeful stragglers left in line as the royal processional prepared to return to the Waecare. Kyera had waited until the last possible second to get in line, preferring to maintain her personal bubble of space rather than get crushed in the eager throngs. She now stepped to the front and took her place in line. From her vantage point, she couldn’t see her mother give the herald a meaningful look as she came to the front of the line. He didn’t say anything, but he did give a slight nod to Madame Ritivia before digging down in the depths of his crate and pulling out a bag to give to Kyera. She opened on the spot, expecting to see the same sea of white that had greeted so many others. Instead, she found the telltale purple that indicated that her days at the Waecare were about to be very different. When she ran to tell her mother, Madame Ritivia managed to look appropriately surprised, but the glint of victory in her eyes hinted at something more. Only that glint gave away that she had many more plans to come.