Faith of the Fallen tsot-6

by Terry Goodkind

  When men’s names were called, they stood to hear the share to be taken from their wages the next week. Because he was new, Richard’s name was called last. He stood, staring off across the dimly lit room at the people in moth-eaten coats sitting behind the long table made of two old doors.

  Ishaq sat at one end, going along with the others in everything. Several of the women still had their heads together. When they finished, they whispered to the chairman and he nodded.

  “Richard Cypher, being as you are new, you still have some catching up to do on your duty to your workers’ group. Your next weeks wages are assessed as due in aid . . .”

  Richard stood dumbly for a moment. “How am I to eat—to pay my rent?”

  People in the room turned to frown at him. The chairman slapped his hand on the table, calling for silence.

  “You should thank the Creator to be blessed with good health so as you can work, young man. Right now, there are those who are not as fortunate in life as you, those with greater need than you. Suffering and need comes before selfish personal enrichment.”

  Richard sighed. What did it really matter? After all, he was lucky in life.

  “Yes, sir. I see what you mean. I’m happy to volunteer my share toward those with needs.”

  He wished Nicci hadn’t given away all their money.

  “Well,” he said to Nicci as they shuffled out into the night, “I guess we can ask the landlord for the rent money back. We can stay on where we were staying before, until I can work some more and save up some money.”

  “They don’t give rent money back,” she said. “The landlord will understand our need and let our debt build until we can start paying on it. Next meeting, you just have to go up before the review board and explain your hardship. If you present it properly, they will give you a hardship charity to pay your rent.”

  Richard was exhausted. He felt like he were having some kind of silly dream.

  “Charity? It’s my wages—for the work I do.”

  “That’s a selfish way of looking at it, Richard. The job is at the grace of the workers’ group, the company, and the Order.”

  He was too tired to argue. Besides, he didn’t expect any justice in anything done in the name of the Order. He just wanted to go to their new room and get some sleep.

  When they opened the door, one of the three youths was pawing through Nicci’s pack. Holding some of her underthings in one hand, he aimed a smirk back over his shoulder at them.

  “Well, well,” he said as he stood. He still wore no shirt. “Looks like the two drowned rats have found a hole to live in.” His leering gaze slid to Nicci. He wasn’t looking at her face.

  Nicci snatched the pack away first, then her things from his other hand. She stuffed her personal clothes back in the pack while he watched, grinning the whole time. Richard feared she might abandon the link to Kahlan in order to use her power, but she only glared at the youth.

  The room reeked of mold. The low ceiling made Richard feel uncomfortably hemmed in. The ceiling had once been whitewashed, but was now dark with soot from candles and lamps, making the room feel cavelike. A candle sitting on a rusted bracket by the door provided the only light. A wardrobe stood crookedly in the corner in front of dirty walls spotted with flyblows. The wardrobe was missing a door. Two wooden chairs at a table under one small window on the far wall were the only place to sit, other than the warped and gouged pine floor. The small squares of window glass were opaque under a variety of different-colored layers of paint.

  Through a small triangle in the corner where the glass was broken out, Richard could see the gray wall of the next building.

  “How did you get in here?” Nicci snapped.

  “Master key.” He waved it like a king’s pass. “See, my father’s the landlord. I was just checking your things for subversive writings.”

  “You can read?” Nicci sniped. “I would have to see that to believe it.”

  The defiant grin never left his face. “We’d not like to find we have subversives living under our roof. Could endanger everyone else. My father has a duty to report any suspicious activity.”

  Richard stepped aside to let the young man by as he headed for the door, but then caught his arm as the youth picked up the candle.

  “That’s our candle,” Richard said.

  “Yeah? What makes you think so?”

  Richard tightened his grip on the bare, lean, muscular arm. Looking him in the eye, he gestured with his other hand.

  “Our initials are scratched in the bottom, there.”

  Before he thought, the young man instinctively turned the candle to have a look. The hot wax spilled over his hand. He dropped the candle with a yelp.

  “Oh my, I am sorry,” Richard said. He stooped and picked up the candle. “You’re all right, I hope. You didn’t get any of that burning wax in your eyes, did you? Hot wax in your eyes hurts something fierce.”

  “Yeah?” He swiped his straight dark hair back from his eyes. “How would you know that?”

  “Back where I came from, I saw it happen to some poor fellow.”

  Richard leaned partway out into the hall, into the light of another candle on a shelf. With his thumbnail, he made a show of carving an R and a C in the bottom of the candle. “See, here? My initials.”

  The youth didn’t bother to look. “Uh-huh.”

  He swaggered out the door. Richard went with him and lit the candle from the flame of the one in the hall. Before walking away, the young man turned back with a haughty look.

  “How did that fellow manage to be stupid enough to get hot wax in his eyes? Was he a big dumb ox like you?”

  “No,” Richard said offhandedly. “No, not at all. He was a cocky young man who foolishly put his hands on another man’s wife. He got the hot wax dripped in his eyes by the husband.”

  “Yeah? Well why didn’t the dumb jackass just shut his eyes?”

  Richard gave the lad a deadly smile for the first time.

  “Because his eyelids had been cut off, first, so he couldn’t close them. You see, where I come from, anyone touching a woman against her wishes isn’t treated indulgently.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. The young man’s eyelids weren’t the only thing that got cut off.”

  The young man swiped his black hair back again. “You threatening me, ox?”

  “No. There would be nothing I could do to you that would harm you more than what you’re already doing to harm yourself.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You are never going to amount to anything. You will always be the worthless muck people scrape from their shoes. You only get one life and you are wasting yours. That’s a terrible shame. I doubt you will ever know what it is to be truly happy, to achieve anything of worth, to have genuine pride in yourself. You bring it all on yourself, and I could do no worse to you.”

  “I can’t help what life deals me.”

  “Yes, you can. You create your own life.”

  “Yeah? How do you figure?”

  Richard gestured around himself. “Look at the pigsty you live in. Your father is the landlord. Why don’t you show some pride and fix up the place?”

  “He’s the landlord, not the owner. The man who owned it was a greedy bastard, charging more rent than many could afford. The Order took the place over. For his crimes against the people they tortured the owner to death. My father was given the job of landlord. We just run the place to help out fools like you who don’t have a place; we’ve no money to go around fixing up the building.”

  “Money?” Richard pointed. “It takes money to pick up that garbage left there in the hall?”

  “I didn’t put it there.”

  “And these walls—it doesn’t take money to wash the walls. Look at the ceiling in this room. It hasn’t been washed in a decade, at least.”

  “Hey, I’m no scrub woman.”

  “And the front stoop? Someone is going to break their neck on it. Could be y
ou, or your father. Why don’t you do something worthwhile for a change and fix it?”

  “I told you, we’ve no money to fix things.”

  “It doesn’t take money. You just need to take it apart, clean the joints, and put in some new wedges. You can cut them from any little scrap of wood lying around.”

  The young man wiped his palms on his pants. “If you’re so smart, then why don’t you fix the stairs?”

  “Good idea. I will.”

  “Yeah?” His sneer returned. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Tomorrow, after I get home from work, I will fix the stairs. If you show up, I’ll teach you how it’s done.”

  “I might show up just to see some dupe going to the work of fixing something that isn’t even his, and for nothing besides.”

  “It isn’t for nothing. It’s because I use the front steps, too, and for the pleasure in the place where I live. I care if my wife falls and breaks her leg. But if you want to come and learn how to fix the steps, you will wear a shirt out of respect for the women in your building.”

  “And if I show up and watch you, and I don’t wear a stupid shirt like some old geezer?”

  “Then I wouldn’t have enough respect for you to bother teaching you how to fix the stairs. You will learn nothing, then.”

  “What if I don’t want to learn something?”

  “Then you will have taught me something, about you, instead.”

  He rolled his dark eyes. “Why should I care about learning to fix some dumb stairs?”

  “You shouldn’t necessarily care about fixing some stairs, but if you care about yourself, you should care about learning—even learning simple things. You come to have pride in yourself only by accomplishing things, even from fixing some old stairs.”

  “Yeah? I got pride in myself.”

  “You intimidate people and then mistake that for respect. Others can’t grant you self-respect, even others who care about you. You have to earn self-respect yourself. All you know right now is how to stand around and look stupid.”

  He folded his arms. “Who you calling—”

  Richard jabbed a finger against the young man’s smooth chest, forcing him back a pace. “You only get one life. Is that all you want out of it standing around calling names, scaring people with your gang? Is that all you want your one life to mean to you?

  “Anyone who wants more out of life, who wants their life to mean something, would care about learning things. Tomorrow I’m going to fix those stairs. Tomorrow we’ll see what sort you are.”

  The youth folded his arms again in a defiant stance. “Yeah? Well, maybe I’d rather spend time with my friends.”

  Richard shrugged. “That’s why your lot in life isn’t fate. I don’t have any say in much of my life, but I make whatever choices I can make in my own rational best interest. It’s my choice to fix those stairs and make the place I live a little better—instead of whining and waiting and hoping for someone else to do something for me. I have pride that I know how to do that for myself.

  “Fixing stairs isn’t going to make you a man, but it’s going to make you a little more confident in yourself. If you want, bring your friends, and I’ll teach you all how to use those knives of yours for something more than just waving in people’s faces.”

  “We might come to laugh at you working, Ox.”

  “Fine. But if you and your pals want to learn anything of worth, then you’d better start out by showing me you mean to learn by showing respect and showing up with shirts. That’s the first choice you have. If you make it wrong, then your choices as you go along are only going to become more limited. And my name is Richard.”

  “Like I said, you might be good for a laugh.” He made a face. “Richard.”

  “Laugh all you want. I know my own worth and don’t need to prove it to someone who doesn’t know theirs. If you want to learn, you know what you must do. If you ever wave a knife at me again, though—or, worse, my wife—then you will be making the last of your many mistakes in life.”

  He chose to ignore the threat with more bravado. “What am I ever going to be? Some dupe, like you, working your tail off for that greedy Ishaq and his transport company?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kamil.”

  “Well, Kamil, I work in exchange for wages so I can support myself and my wife. I have have something of value—myself. Someone values my worth enough to pay me for my time and ability. Right now, choosing to work at loading wagons is one of the few choices I have to make in my life. I chose to fix the steps because it improves my life.” Richard narrowed his eyes. “And what does Ishaq have to do with it, anyway?”

  “Ishaq? He’s the one who owns the transport company.”

  “Ishaq is just the load master.”

  “Ishaq used to live here, back before the Order took over the building. My father knew him. Matter of fact, you’ll be sleeping in his parlor. Back then, it was his transport company. He chose the path of enlightenment over greed, though, when it was offered him. He let the citizen workers’ group help him to learn to be a better citizen of the Order, learn his place under the Creator. Now he knows he’s no better than any of the rest of us—even me.”

  Richard glanced at Nicci, who was standing in the middle of their room, watching the conversation. He’d forgotten all about her. He didn’t feel like talking anymore.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow evening, whether you come to laugh or to learn. It’s your life, Kamil, and your choice.”

  Chapter 47

  The sun was just coming up. Dusty shafts of light angled into the warehouse through the high windows. When he saw Ishaq coming down the aisle to give him the list of iron to be loaded for various wagons, Richard hopped down off the rack where he’d been waiting.

  Richard hadn’t seen the load master for a week. “Ishaq. Are you all right? Where have you been?”

  The burly load master hurried up the aisle. “Hello to you, too.”

  “I’m sorry—hello. I was worried. Where have you been?”

  He made a face. “Meetings. Always meetings. Wait in this office, wait in that office. No work, just meetings for this and for that. I had to go see people to try to arrange for loads people need. Sometimes I think no one really wants any goods to move in this city. It would be easier for them if everyone got paid, but had to do no work—then they would not have to sign their name on a piece of paper and worry if maybe someday they will be called to account for having done it.”

  “Ishaq, is it true that this transport company used to be yours?”

  The man paused to catch his breath. “Who tells you these things?”

  “What about it? Did the transport company used to be yours?”

  Ishaq shrugged. “Still is, I guess.”

  “What happened?”

  “What happened? Nothing happened, except maybe I got smart and figured out it was more work than I needed.”

  “What did they threaten you with?”

  Ishaq peered at Richard for a time. “Where are you from? You don’t seem like any farmboy I ever met.”

  Richard smiled. “You didn’t answer my question, Ishaq.”

  The man gestured irritably. “What for you want to know about past history? Past is past. A man has to look at the way things are and do the best he can from what life presents him. A choice was put to me, and I made it. Things are they way they are. Wishing don’t put food before my children.”

  Richard’s inquisitive frown suddenly felt cruel on his face. He let it go. “I understand, Ishaq. I really do. I’m sorry.”

  The man shrugged again. “Now I work here just like everyone else. Much easier. I must follow the same rules, or I could lose my job, just like everyone else. Everyone is equal, now.”

  “Praise be to the Order.” Ishaq smiled at Richard’s gibe. Richard held out his hand. “Let’s have the list.”

  The load master handed over the paper. It only had the names of two places on it, with some directions fo
r grade, length, and amounts.

  “What’s this?” Richard asked.

  “We need a loader to go with a wagon to pick up some iron and see it delivered.”

  “So, I’m working on the wagons, now? Why? I thought you needed me in the warehouse.”

  Ishaq took off his red hat and scratched his head of dark, thinning hair. “We had some . . . complaints.”

  “About me? What did I do? You know I’ve worked hard.”

  “Too hard.” Ishaq readjusted his hat on his head. “Men in the warehouse say you are petty and spiteful. Their words, not mine. They say you make them feel bad by flaunting how young and strong you are. They say you are laughing behind their backs.”

  Many of the men were younger than Richard, and strong enough.

  “Ishaq, I never—”

  “I know, I know. But they feel that you do. Don’t make trouble for yourself, now. Their feelings are what matter, not what is.”

  Richard let out a frustrated sigh. “But I was told by the workers’ group that I have the ability to work whereas others don’t, and that I was supposed to contribute my full effort in order to help relieve the strain on those less able—those who don’t have my ability. They said that I would lose the job if I didn’t do my full effort.”

  “It’s a fine line to walk.”

  “And I stepped over the line.”

  “They want you dismissed.”

  Richard sighed. “So, I’m through, here?”

  Ishaq waggled his hand. “Yes, and no. You are dismissed from the warehouse for having a bad attitude. I convinced the committee to give you another chance and let you be moved to the wagons. The wagons aren’t as much work, because you can only load it, and then when you get to where it’s going, you unload it. Can’t get in much trouble, that way.”

  Richard nodded. “Thanks, Ishaq.”

  Ishaq’s gaze sought refuge among the racks of iron and the bins of charcoal and long rows of ore that needed delivery. He scratched his temple.