Soul of the Fire

by Terry Goodkind

  “Since you swear you didn’t see anything on your way back to the kitchen, you are proving to me that you are a lad of potential. Perhaps one who could be entrusted with more responsibility.”

  “Responsibility, sir?”

  Dalton Campbell’s dark eyes gleamed with a terrifying, incomprehensible intelligence, the kind Fitch imagined the mice must see in the eyes of the house cats.

  “We sometimes have need of people desiring to move up in the household. We will see. Keep yourself vigilant against the lies of people wishing to bring disrepute to the Minister, and we will see.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d not like to hear anyone say anything against the Minister. He’s a good man, the Minister. I hope the rumors I’ve heard are true, that one day we might be blessed enough by the Creator that Minister Chanboor would become Sovereign.”

  Now the aide’s smile truly did take hold. “Yes, I do believe you have potential. Should you hear any… lies, about the Minister, I would appreciate knowing about it.” He gestured toward the stairs. “Now, you had best get back to the kitchen.”

  “Yes, sir, if I hear any such thing, I’ll bring it to you.” Fitch made for the stairs. “I’d not want anyone lying about the Minister. That would be wrong.”

  “Young man—Fitch, was it?”

  Fitch turned back from the top step. “Yes, sir. Fitch.”

  Dalton Campbell crossed his arms and turned his head to peer with one questioning eye. “What have you learned at penance about protecting the Sovereign?”

  “The Sovereign?” Fitch rubbed his palms on his trousers. “Well… um… that anything done to protect our Sovereign is a virtue?”

  “Very good.” Arms still folded, he leaned toward Fitch. “And, since you have heard that Minister Chanboor is likely to be named Sovereign, then…?”

  The man expected an answer. Fitch groped wildly for it. He cleared his throat, at last. “Well… I guess… that if he’s to be named Sovereign, then maybe he ought to be protected the same?”

  By the way Dalton Campbell smiled as he straightened his back, Fitch knew he’d hit upon the right answer. “You may indeed have potential to move up in the household.”

  “Thank you, sir. I would do anything to protect the Minister, seeing as how he’ll be Sovereign one day. It’s my duty to protect him in any way I can.”

  “Yes…” Dalton Campbell drawled in an odd way. He cocked his head, catlike, as he considered Fitch. “If you prove to be helpful in… whatever way we might need in order to protect the Minister, it would go a long way toward clearing your debt.”

  Fitch’s ears perked up. “My debt, sir?”

  “Like I told Morley, if he proves to be of use to the Minister, it might be that he could even earn himself a sir name, and a certificate signed by the Sovereign to go with it. You seem a bright lad. I would expect no less might be in your future.”

  Fitch’s jaw hung open. Earning a sir name was one of his dreams. A certificate signed by the Sovereign proved to all that a Haken had paid his debt and was to be recognized with a sir name, and respected. His mind tumbled backward to what he’d just heard.

  “Morley? Scullion Morley?”

  “Yes, didn’t he tell you I talked to him?”

  Fitch scratched behind an ear, trying to imagine that Morley would have kept such astonishing news from him. “Well, no, sir. He never said nothing. He’s about my best friend; I’d recall if he’d said such a thing. I’m sorry, but he never did.”

  Dalton Campbell stroked a finger against the silver of the scabbard at his hip as he watched Fitch’s eyes. “I told him not to mention it to anyone.” He arched an eyebrow. “That kind of loyalty pays plums. I expect no less from you. Do you understand, Fitch?”

  Fitch surely did. “Not a soul. Just like Morley. I got it, Master Campbell.”

  Dalton Campbell nodded as he smiled to himself. “Good.” He again rested a hand on the hilt of his magnificent sword. “You know, Fitch, when a Haken has his debt paid, and earns his sir name, that signed certificate entitles him to carry a sword.”

  Fitch’s eyes widened. “It does? I never knew.”

  The tall Ander smiled a stately farewell and with a noble flourish turned and started off down the hall. “Back to work, then, Fitch. Glad to have made your acquaintance. Perhaps we will speak again one day.”

  Before anyone else caught him up there, Fitch raced down the stairs. Confounding thoughts swirled through his head. Thinking again about Beata, and what had happened, he just wanted the day to end so he could get himself good and drunk.

  He ached with sorrow for Beata, but it was the Minister, the Minister she admired, the Minister who would someday be Sovereign, that Fitch had seen on her. Besides, she struck him, a terrible thing for a Haken to do, even to another Haken, although he wasn’t certain the prohibition extended to women. But even if it didn’t, that wouldn’t make him feel any less miserable about it.

  For some unfathomable reason, she hated him, now.

  He ached to get drunk.

  16

  “Fetch! Here boy! Fetch!”

  Usually, when Master Drummond called him by that name, Fitch knew he blushed with humiliation, but this time he was in such anguish over what he had seen upstairs earlier that he hardly felt any shame over so petty a thing. Master Drummond’s talking down to him as if he were dirt could not match Beata’s hating him, and hitting him.

  It had been a couple of hours, but his face still throbbed where she’d clouted him, so he was clear on that much of it: she hated him. It confused and confounded him, but he was sure she hated him. It seemed to him she should be angry at someone, anyone, besides him.

  Angry at herself, maybe, for going up there in the first place. But he guessed she couldn’t very well have refused to go see the Minister if he asked for her. Then Inger the butcher would have thrown her out when the Minister told him that his Haken girl refused to go up to take his special request. No, she couldn’t very well have done that.

  Besides, she wanted to meet the man. She’d told him she did. Fitch knew, though, that she never expected he would have his way with her. Maybe it wasn’t the Minister she was so distraught about. Fitch remembered that man, Stein, winking at him. She was up there a long time.

  That was still no reason for her to hate Fitch. Or to hit him.

  Fitch came to a halt. His fingers throbbed from having them in scalding water for so long, scrubbing and scraping. The rest of him felt sick and numb. Except, of course, his face.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Master Drummond opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it and instead leaned down. He frowned.

  “What happened to your face?”

  “One of the billets of apple slipped and hit me as I picked up an armload, sir.”

  Master Drummond shook his head as he wiped his hands on his white towel. “Idiot,” he muttered. “Only an idiot,” he said, in a voice loud enough for others could hear, “would hit himself in the face with a stick of wood as he picked it up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Master Drummond was just about to speak when Dalton Campbell, studying a well-used piece of paper covered with messy lines of writing, glided up beside Fitch. He had a whole stack of disheveled papers, their curled and crumpled edges protruding every which way. He followed down the writing with one finger as he nested the papers in the crook of his other arm.

  “Drummond, I came to make sure of a few items,” he said without looking up.

  Master Drummond quickly finished at wiping his hands and then straightened his broad back. “Yes sir, Mr. Campbell. Whatever I can do for you.”

  The Minister’s aide lifted the paper to peer at a second sheet beneath.

  “Have you seen to putting the best platters and ewers in the ambry?”

  “Yes, Mr. Campbell.”

  Dalton muttered absently to himself about how they must have been changed after he’d looked. He scanned the paper and then flipped to a third piece. “You will need to make two
additional places at the high table.” He flipped back to the second page.

  Master Drummond’s mouth twisted in agitation. “Two more. Yes, Mr. Campbell. If you could, in the future, would you kindly let me know such as this a little earlier in the day?”

  Dalton Campbell’s finger flicked at the air, but his eyes never left his papers. “Yes, yes. Only too happy to do so. If the Minister informs me of it sooner, that is.” He tapped a place in his papers and looked up. “Lady Chanboor objects to the musicians’ stomachs grumbling along with their music. Please see to it that they are fed something first, this time? Especially the harpist. She will be closest to Lady Chanboor.”

  Master Drummond dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, Mr. Campbell. I will see to it.”

  Fitch, ever so slowly so as not to be obvious, slipped backward a couple of paces, keeping his head down, trying not to appear as if he were listening to the Minister’s aide giving the kitchen master instructions. He wished he could leave, rather than risk being thought a snoop, but he knew he’d be yelled at if he left without being sent off, so he compromised at trying to be inconspicuous but at hand.

  “And the spiced wine, there needs to be more of a variety this time. Some people thought last time’s selection skimpy. Hot and cold, both, please.”

  Master Drummond pressed his lips together. “Short notice, Mr. Campbell. If you could, in the future—”

  “Yes, yes, if I am informed, so will be you.” He flipped over another page. “Dainties. They are to be served at the head table only, until they have had their fill. Last time the Minister was embarrassed to discover them gone and some guests at his table left wanting more. Let the other tables go wanting, first, if for some reason you have been unable to acquire a proper supply.”

  Fitch remembered that incident, too, and he knew that this time Master Drummond had ordered more of the deer testicles fried up. Fitch had pilfered one of the treats as he took the fry pan to be washed, although he had to eat it without the sweet-and-sour sauce. It was still good.

  As Dalton Campbell checked his papers, he asked questions about different salts, butters, and breads, and gave Master Drummond a few more corrections to the dinner. Fitch, as he waited, trying not to watch the two men, watched instead the woman at a nearby table make the pig’s stomachs, stuffed with ground meats, cheeses, eggs, and spices, into hedgehogs by covering them with almond “spines.”

  At another table, two women were re-feathering roasted peacocks with feathers colored by saffron and yellow turnsole. Even the beaks and claws were colored, so that the newly plumed birds looked like spectacular creatures of gold—like gold statues—only more lifelike.

  Dalton Campbell, at last seeming to finish with his list of questions and instructions, lowered his arms, one hand loosely holding the hand holding the papers.

  “Is there anything you would like to report, Drummond?”

  The kitchen master licked his lips, seeming not to know what the aide was talking about. “No, Mr. Campbell.”

  “And everyone in your kitchen, then, is doing their job to your satisfaction?” His face was blank of emotion.

  Fitch saw eyes in the room cautiously turn up for a quick peek. The work going on all about seemed to grow quieter. He could almost see ears getting bigger.

  It seemed to Fitch like maybe Dalton Campbell was working around the edges of accusing Master Drummond of not running a good kitchen by allowing lazy people to avoid their duties and then failing to punish them. The kitchen master seemed to suspect the same accusation.

  “Well, yes sir, they are doing their job to my satisfaction. I keep them in line, Mr. Campbell. I’ll not have slackers ruining the workings of my kitchen. I couldn’t have that; this is too important a household to allow any sluggard to spoil things. I don’t allow it, no sir, I don’t.”

  Dalton Campbell nodded his pleasure at hearing this. “Very good, Drummond. I, too, would not like to have slackers in the household.” He scanned the room of silent, quietly hardworking people. “Very well. Thank you, Drummond. I will check back later, before it’s time to begin serving.”

  Master Drummond bowed his head. “Thank you, Mr. Campbell.”

  The Minister’s aide turned and started to leave, and as he did so, he caught sight of Fitch standing there. As he frowned, Fitch lowered his head on his shoulders even more, wishing he could melt into the cracks in the wood floor. Dalton Campbell glanced back over his shoulder at the kitchen master.

  “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, 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?”

  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.”

  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 t
he 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.

  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.