"What is this scullion's name?"
"Fitch, Mr. Campbell."
"Fitch. Ah, I get it, then. And how long has he worked in the household?"
"Some four years, Mr. Campbell."
"Four years. That long." He turned fully around to face Master Drummond. "And is he a slacker, then, who ruins the workings of your fine kitchen? One who should have been put out of the household long ago, but has not been for some mysterious reason? You haven't been overlooking your responsibility as kitchen master, allowing a slacker to be under the Minister's roof, have you? Are you truly guilty of such dereliction?"
Fitch stood in frozen terror, wondering if he would be beaten before they threw him out, or if they would simply show him the door and send him away without so much as a morsel of food. Master Drummond's gaze flicked back and forth between Fitch and the aide.
"Well, uh, no sir. No, Mr. Campbell. I see to it that Fitch pulls his share of the load. I'd not let him be a slacker under the Minister's roof. No sir."
Dalton Campbell peered back at Fitch with a puzzling expression. He looked once again to the kitchen master. "Well, then, if he does as you ask, and does his work, I see no reason to demean the young man by calling him Fetch,
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do you? Don't you think that reflects badly on you, Drummond, as kitchen master?"
"Well, I-"
"Very good, then. I'm glad you agree. We'll have no more of that kind of thing in the household."
Either with stealth or bold intent, nearly every eye in the kitchen was on the exchange between the two men. That fact was not lost on the kitchen master.
"Well, now, just a minute, if you don't mind. No real harm is meant, and the boy doesn't mind, do you now, Fitch-"
Dalton Campbell's posture changed in a way that halted the words in Master Drummond's mouth before they could finish coming out. The noble-looking aide's dark Ander eyes took on a dangerous gleam. He seemed suddenly taller, his shoulders broader, his muscles more evident under his fine, dark blue doublet and quilted jerkin.
His offhanded, distracted, casual, and at times stuffy official tone was suddenly gone. He'd transformed into a threat as deadly-looking as the weapon at his hip.
"Let me put it another way for you, Drummond. We'll not have that sort of thing under this roof. I expect you to comply with my wishes. If I ever again hear you demean any of our staff by calling them by names intended to be humiliating, I will have a new kitchen master and you put out. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir. Very clear, thank you, sir."
Campbell started to leave, but turned back, his whole person conveying the image of menace. "One other thing. Minister Chanboor gives me orders, and I carry them out without fail. That is my job. I give you orders, and you carry them out without fail. That is your job.
"I expect the boy to do his work or be put out, but you put him out and you had better be prepared to provide proof of why, and moreover, if you make it hard on him because of my orders, then I will not put you out, but instead I will gut you and have you roasted on that spit over there. Now, is all that absolutely clear, Mr. Drummond?"
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Fitch hadn't known Master Drummond's eyes could go so wide. Sweat beaded all over his forehead. He swallowed before he spoke.
"Yes sir, absolutely clear. It will be as you say. You have my word." x .
Dalton Campbell seemed to shrink back to his normal size, which was not small to begin with. The pleasant expression returned to his face, including the polite smile.
"Thank you, Drummond. Carry on."
Not once during the exchange had Dalton Campbell looked at Fitch, nor did he as he turned and strode out of the kitchen. Along with Master Drummond and half the people in the kitchen, Fitch let out his breath.
When he thought again about what had just happened, and he realized, for the first time, really, that Master Drummond would no longer be calling him "Fetch," he was overcome with weak-kneed astonishment. He suddenly thought very highly of Dalton Campbell.
Pulling his white towel from behind his belt and blotting his forehead, Master Drummond noticed people watching. "Back to work, all of you." He replaced the towel. "Fitch," he called in a normal voice, just like when he called the other people in his kitchen.
Fitch took two quick steps forward. "Yes, sir?"
He gestured. "We need some more oak. Not as much as the last time. About half that much. Be quick about it, now."
"Yes, sir."
Fitch ran for the door, eager to get the wood, not even caring about the splinters he might get.
He would never again have to be humiliated by that hated name. People would not laugh at him over it. All because of Dalton Campbell.'
At that moment, Fitch would have carried hot coals in his bare hands if Dalton Campbell asked it, and smiled all the way.
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CHAPTER 17
UNBUTTONING THE TOP BUTTON of his doublet, Dalton Campbell, with his other hand, nudged the tall mahogany door to their quarters until he felt the latch click home. At once, the balm of quiet began to soothe him. It had been a long day, and it was far from over; there was still the feast to attend.
"Teresa," he called across the sitting room back toward the bedroom, "it's me."
He wished they could stay in. Stay in and make love. His nerves needed the diversion. Later, perhaps. If business didn't interfere.
He unfastened another button and tugged open the collar as he yawned. The fragrance of lilacs filled his lungs. Heavy blue moire drapes at the far windows were drawn against the darkening sky, leaving the room to perfumed mellow lamplight, scented candles, and the flickering glow of a low fire in the hearth, burning for the cheer it brought, rather than the need of heat.
He noted the dark violet carpet and its wheat-colored fringe looked freshly brushed. The gilded chairs were angled to show off the tawny leather seats and backs as they posed beside elegant tables set with lush sprays of fresh flowers. The plush throws and pillows on the couches were set just
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so, the deliberate precision meant to convey a casual intimacy with luxury.
Dalton expected his wife to oversee the staff and insure that the quarters were kept presentable for business as well as entertaining, which were, although approached differently, one and the same. Teresa would know that with a feast that night, it was even more likely he would ask someone back to their apartments-someone important. That could be anyone from a dignitary to an inconspicuous pair of eyes and ears".
They were all important, in their own way, all meshing into the cobweb he worked, listening, watching, for any tiny little tug. Crowded feasts were concentrated confusion, alive with drinking, conversation, commotion, and emotion. They often provided opportunities to forge alliances, reinforce loyalties, or enforce fealties-to tend his cobweb.
Teresa stuck her head past the doorframe, grinning her joy upon seeing him. "There's my sweetheart."
Despite the weary mood enveloping him as he had closed the door behind, shutting out the day's troubles if only for the moment, he smiled helplessly at her dark, sparkling eyes. "Tess, my darling. Your hair looks grand." A gold comb decorated the front lift of the full top. The wealth of dangling dark tresses were tied with an abundance of sequined gold ribbons that added to her hair's length, almost forming a collar. Parting as she leaned forward, the sparkling strips teasingly revealed her graceful neck.
In her mid-twenties, she was younger than he by nearly ten years. Dalton thought her a ravishing creature beyond compare-a bonus to her allure of trenchant commitment to objectives. He could scarcely believe that a short six months ago she had finally and at long last become his wife. Others had been in contention, some of greater standing, but none with more ambition.
Dalton Campbell was not a man to be denied. Anyone who took him lightly came to a day of reckoning, when they learned better than to underestimate him, or came to regret the mistake.
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Nearly a year ago, when he ha
d asked her to be his wife, she had quizzed him, asking, in that velvet bantering manner of hers that often cloaked the steel of her aims, if he was really a man who intending on going places, as she certainly meant to rise up in the world. At the time, he had been an assistant to the magistrate in Fairfield, not an unimportant job, but only a convenient port as far as he was concerned, a place to gather his resources and cultivate connections.
He had not played into her chaffing questions, but instead assured her in all sobriety that he was a man on the way up, and no other man she was seeing, despite his present station, had any chance of approaching Dalton Campbell's future stature. She had been taken aback by his solemn declaration. It wiped the smile off her face. On the spot, in the spell of his conviction, the truth of his purpose, she consented to marry him.
She had been pleased to learn the reliability of his predictions. As plans proceeded for their wedding, he was awarded a better appointment. In their first few months of marriage, they had moved three times, always to improved quarters, and as a result of advanced positions.
The public who had cause to know of him, either because of his reputation or because of their dealings with Anderith government, valued his keen understanding of Anderith law. Dalton Campbell was widely recognized for his brilliant insight into the complexities of the law, the fortress bedrock it was built upon, the intricate structure of its wisdom and precedent, and the scope of its protective walls.
The men for whom Dalton worked appreciated his vast understanding of the law, but valued most his knowledge of the law's arcane passages, burrows, and obscure openings out of dark traps and corners. They also valued his ability to swiftly abandon the law when the situation required a different solution, one the law couldn't provide. In such cases, he was just as inventive, and just as effective.
In no more time than a snap of the fingers, it seemed, Teresa easily adjusted to the meliorated circumstances in which she regularly found herself, taking up the novel task
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of directing household staff with the aplomb of one who had been doing it for the whole of her life.
Only weeks before, he had won the top post at the Minister's estate. Teresa had been jubilant to learn they would be taking on luxurious charters in such a prestigious place. She now found herself a woman of standing among women of rank and privilege.
She might have been overjoyed, nearly tearing off his clothes to have him on-the spot when he told her the news, but the truth be known, she had expected no less.
If there was one person who shared his ruthless ambition, it was Teresa.
"Oh, Dalton, will you tell me what dignitaries will be at the feast? I can't stand the suspense a moment longer."
He yawned again as he stretched. He knew she had her own cobwebs to tend. "Boring dignitaries." "But the Minister will be there." "Yes."
"Well, silly, he's not boring. And I've gotten to know some of the women, the wives, of the estate. They're all grand people. Good as I could have hoped. Their husbands are all important."
She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip in a sly, teasing gesture. "Just not as important as my husband." "Tess, my darling," he said with a smile, "you could inspire a dead man to become important for you."
She winked and then disappeared. "There were several messages slipped under the door for you," she called back from the other room. "They're in the desk."
The elegant desk in the corner glowed like a dark gem. Made of polished elm burl, each panel of quartered, book-matched veneer was outlined with diamond-patterned banding of alternating plain and dyed maple. Each dark diamond was inset with a dot of gold. The legs were varnished to a deep luster, rather than gilded, as were the legs of most of the other furniture in the room. In the secret compartment behind, an upper drawer, there
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were several sealed messages. He broke the seals and scanned each message, assessing its importance. Some were of interest, but none were urgent. They mostly meant to pass along information-little vibrations from every corner of his cobweb.
One reported an odd and apparently accidental drowning in a public fountain. It had happened in early afternoon as crowds regularly passed the landmark in the Square of the Martyrs. Even though it had been daylight and in full view of everyone, no one noticed until it was too late. Having seen similar messages of unexplained deaths of late, Dalton knew the unspoken implication of the message was a admonition, that it might have been some sort of a vendetta involving magic, but made to look like an unfortunate accident.
One mentioned only a "perturbed lady," reporting that she was restless and that she had written a missive to a Director, asking for a moment of his time in private at the feast, and asking him to keep her letter confidential. Dalton knew the woman to whom the message referred, and, because of that, he knew also it would be Director Linscott to whom she had written-the person writing the message for him knew better than to write down names.
He suspected the reason for the restless part. It was the desire for the private meeting that concerned him. The message said the woman's letter was somehow lost, and never delivered.
Dalton slipped the messages back into the compartment for later review and replaced the drawer. He was going to have to do something about the woman. What, he didn't yet know.
Overreacting could sometimes cause as much trouble as doing nothing. It might be he need only give the woman an ear, let her vent her pique, as perhaps she meant to do with Director Linscott. Dalton could just as easily hear her grievance. Someone, somewhere in his intricate cobweb of contacts, would give him the bit of information he needed to make the right decision, and if not, talking to the woman in
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a reassuring manner might smooth things enough to give him the direction he needed.
Dalton had only had his new post a short time, but he'd wasted none of it in establishing himself in nearly every aspect of life at the estate. He became a useful colleague to many, a confidant to others, and shield to a few. Each method, in its own way, earned him loyalty. Along with the gifted people he knew, his evergrowing cobweb of connections virtually hummed like a harp.
From the first day, though, Dalton's primary objective had been to make himself indispensable to the Minister. During his second week on the job, a "researcher" had been sent out to the estate libraries by one of the Directors from the Office of Cultural Amity. Minister Chanboor had not been pleased. The truth be known, he had flown into a resentful rage, not an uncommon response from Bertrand Chanboor when presented with worrisome, even ominous, news.
Two days after the researcher arrived, Dalton was able to inform Minister Chanboor that the man had ended up getting himself arrested, drunk and in the bed of a harlot back in Fairfield. None of that was a crime of any consequence, of course, even though it would have looked bad enough to some of the Directors, but the man was found to have had an extremely rare and valuable book in the pocket of his
coat.
An extremely rare and valuable book written by none other than Joseph Ander himself. The ancient text, valuable beyond price, had been reported missing from the Minister of Culture's estate right after the researcher went off drinking.
At Dalton's instructions, the Directors' office was immediately-informed of the book's disappearance-hours before the culprit was apprehended. With the report, Dalton had sent his personal assurance to the Directors that he would not rest until the malefactor was found, and that he intended to launch an immediate public investigation to discover if such a cultural crime was the precursor to a trea-
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sonous plot. The stunned silence from the Office of the Directors had been thunderous.
The magistrate in Fairfield, the one for whom Dalton had once worked, was an admirer of the Minister of Culture, serving as he did at the Minister's pleasure, and of course did not take lightly the theft from the Anderith Library of Culture. He recognized the theft for what it was: sedition. The researcher who had been caught wit
h the book was swiftly put to death for cultural crimes against the Anderith people.
Far from quelling the scandal, this caused the air to become rampant with ugly rumors of a confession, taken before the man was put to death-a confession, it was said, that implicated others. The Director who had sent the man to the estate to do "research," rather than be associated with a cultural crime, as a point of honor and in order to end speculation and innuendo, had resigned. Dalton, as the Minister's official representative looking into the whole affair, after reluctantly taking the Director's resignation, issued a statement discrediting the rumors of a confession, and officially closed the entire matter.
An old friend of Dalton's had been fortunate enough to earn the appointment to the suddenly vacant seat for which he had been working nearly his whole life. Dalton had been the first to shake his hand, the hand of a new Director. A more grateful and joyous man Dalton had never met. Dalton was pleased by that, by seeing deserving people, people he loved and trusted, happy.
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