Soul of the Fire

by Terry Goodkind

  19

  Fitch folded his legs as he sat on the grass. The cool brick felt good against his sweaty back. He took a deep breath of the sweet-smelling night, the aromas of roasting meat wafting out through open windows, and the clean smell of the apple-wood pile. Since they would be working late cleaning up the mess after the feast, they’d been given a welcome respite.

  Morley handed him the bottle. It would be late before they could get good and drunk, but at least they could have a sample. Fitch took a big swig. Instantly, he coughed violently, before he could get it down, losing most of the mouthful of liquor.

  Morley laughed. “Told you it was strong.”

  Fitch wiped the back of his sleeve across his dripping chin. “You’re right about that. Where’d you get it? This is good stuff.”

  Fitch had never had anything so strong that it burned that much going down. From what he’d heard, if it burned, that meant it was good stuff. He’d been told that if he ever had a chance, he’d be a fool to turn down good stuff. He coughed again. The back of his nose, back in his throat, burned something awful.

  Morley leaned closer. “Someone important ordered it sent back. Said it was swill. They were trying to be pompous in front of everyone. Pete, the cupbearer, he ran it back and set it down. When he grabbed another and ran out, I snatched it up and slipped it under my tunic before anyone noticed.”

  Fitch was used to drinking the wine they’d managed to scavenge. He’d drain almost empty small casks and bottles, collecting the dregs and what was left behind. He’d never gotten his hands on any of the scarce liquor before.

  Morley pushed at the bottom of the bottle, tipping it to Fitch’s lips. Fitch took a more cautious pull, and got it down without spitting it back out. His stomach felt like a boiling cauldron. Morley nodded approvingly. Fitch smiled with smug pride.

  Through distant open windows, he could hear people talking and laughing in the gathering hall, waiting for the feast to begin. Fitch could already feel the effects of the liquor. Later, after they cleaned up, they could finish getting drunk.

  Fitch rubbed the gooseflesh on his arms. The music drifting out from the windows put him in a mood. Music always did that, made him feel like he could rise up and do something. He didn’t know what, but something. Something powerful.

  When Morley held out his hand Fitch handed over the bottle. He watched the knob in Morley’s throat move up and down with every swallow. The music built with emotion, quickened with excitement. On top of the effects of the drink, it gave him chills.

  Off past Morley, Fitch saw someone tall coming down the path toward them. The person was walking deliberately, not just out for a stroll, but going someplace. In the yellow lamplight coming from all the windows, Fitch saw the glint off the silver scabbard. He saw the noble features and bearing.

  It was Dalton Campbell. He was coming right for them.

  Fitch elbowed his friend and then stood. He steadied himself on his feet before straightening his tunic. The front of it was wet with liquor he’d coughed out. He quickly swiped back his hair. With the side of his foot, he kicked Morley and signaled with a thumb for him to get up.

  Dalton Campbell walked around the woodpile, headed straight toward them. The tall Ander seemed to know right where he was going. Fitch and Morley, when it was just the two of them lifting drink and sneaking off, never told anyone where they went.

  “Fitch. Morley,” Dalton Campbell called out as he approached.

  “Good evening, Master Campbell,” Fitch said, raising a hand in greeting.

  Fitch guessed, what with the light from the windows, it wasn’t really that hard to see. He could see Morley good enough, see him holding the bottle behind his back. It must be that the Minister’s aide saw them from a window as they were going out to the woodpile.

  “Good evening, Master Campbell,” Morley said.

  Dalton Campbell looked them over, like he was inspecting soldiers. He held out his hand.

  “May I?”

  Morley winced as he pulled the bottle from behind his back and handed it over. “We was… that is…”

  Dalton Campbell took a good swig.

  “Ahh,” he said, as he handed the bottle back to Morley. “You two are fortunate to have such a good, and full, bottle of liquor.” He clasped his hand behind his back. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  Both Fitch and Morley, stunned at Dalton Campbell taking a swig of their bottle, and more so that he handed it back, both shook their heads vigorously.

  “No, sir, Master Campbell,” Morley said.

  “Good, then,” Campbell said. “I was looking for the two of you. I have a bit of trouble.”

  Fitch leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “Trouble, Master Campbell? Is there anything we can do to help?”

  Campbell watched Fitch’s eyes, and then Morley’s. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, that’s why I was looking for you. You see, I thought you two might like a chance to prove yourselves—to begin showing me you have the potential I hope you have. I could take care of it myself, but I thought you two might like to have a chance to do something worthwhile.”

  Fitch felt like the good spirits themselves had just asked if he’d like a chance to do good.

  Morley set the bottle down and straightened his shoulders like a soldier going to attention. “Yes sir, Master Campbell, I surely would like a chance.”

  Fitch straightened himself up. “Me, too, Master Campbell. You just name it, and we’d both like a chance to prove to you we’re men ready to take responsibility.”

  “Good… very good,” he said as he studied them. He let the silence go on a bit before he spoke again. “This is important. This is very important. I thought about taking it to someone else, someone more experienced, but I decided to give you two a chance to show me you can be trusted.”

  “Anything, Master Campbell,” Fitch said, and he meant it. “You just name it.”

  Fitch trembled with the excitement of having the chance to prove himself to Dalton Campbell. The music seemed to pump him full of need to do something important.

  “The Sovereign is not well,” Campbell said.

  “That’s terrible,” Morley said.

  “We’re sorry,” Fitch added.

  “Yes, it’s a shame, but he is old. Minister Chanboor is still young and vigorous. He’s undoubtedly going to be named Sovereign, and it isn’t likely to be long. Most of the Directors are here to discuss business with us—Seat of the Sovereign business. Making inquiries, as it were, while they have the leisure to do so. They want to determine certain facts about the Minister. They are looking into his character to see what kind of man he is. To see if he’s a man they could support, when the times comes.”

  Fitch snatched a quick glance and saw Morley’s wide eyes fixed on Dalton Campbell. Fitch could hardly believe he was hearing such important news from a man as important as this—they were just Hakens, after all. This was the Minister’s aide, an Ander, an important Ander, telling them about matters of the highest substance.

  “Thank the Creator,” Fitch whispered. “Our Minister is finally getting the recognition he deserves.”

  “Yes,” Campbell drawled in an odd way. “Well, the thing is, there are people who would like to prevent the Minister from being named Sovereign. These people mean to harm the Minister.”

  “Harm him?” Morley asked, clearly astonished.

  “That’s right. You both recall learning how the Sovereign is to be protected, that anything done to protect our Sovereign is a virtue?”

  “Yes, sir,” Morley said.

  “Yes, sir,” Fitch echoed. “And since the Minister is to be Sovereign, then he should be protected just the same.”

  “Very good, Fitch.”

  Fitch beamed with pride. He wished the drink didn’t make it so hard to focus his eyes.

  “Master Campbell,” Morley said, “we’d like to help. We’d like to prove ourselves to you. We’re ready.”

  “Yes sir, we s
urely are,” Fitch added.

  “I shall give you both your chance, then. If you can do right, and keep silent about it no matter what—and that means to your graves—I will be pleased my faith in you was well placed.”

  “To our graves,” Fitch said. “Yes sir, we can do that.”

  Fitch heard an odd metallic sound. He realized with horror that there was a sword point under his chin.

  “But if either of you fails to live up to my faith, I would be very disappointed, because the Minister would then be in danger. Do you understand? I won’t have people I trust let me down. Let the future Sovereign down. Do you both understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” Fitch nearly shouted.

  The sword point flashed to Morley’s throat, poised before the prominent bump in his gullet. “Yes, sir!” he said.

  “Did either of you tell anyone where you would be tonight having your drink?”

  “No, sir,” Morley and Fitch said as one.

  “Yet I knew where to find you.” The tall Ander lifted an eyebrow. “You just remember that, if you ever think to get it in your head that you could hide from me. If you ever cause me trouble, I will find you, no matter where you go to ground.”

  “Master Campbell,” Fitch said, after he swallowed, “you just tell us what it is we can do to help, and we’ll do it. We can be trusted. We’ll not let you down—I swear.”

  Morley was nodding. “That’s right. Fitch is right.”

  Dalton Campbell slid his sword back into its scabbard and smiled. “I’m already proud of you both. You two are going to advance around here. I just know you will prove my faith in you.”

  “Yes sir,” Fitch said, “you can count on us both.”

  Dalton Campbell put one hand on Fitch’s shoulder and the other on Morley’s. “All right, then. You listen close, now.”

  “Here she comes,” Morley whispered in Fitch’s ear.

  Fitch nodded after looking where his friend pointed. Morley moved off to the black maw of the open service doors while Fitch squatted down behind some barrels stacked to the side of the loading dock. Fitch recalled earlier in the day seeing Brownie standing with the butcher’s cart across the way. He wiped the palms of his hands on his trousers. It had been a day of important events.

  They’d talked about it on the way over, and Morley felt the same way; as much as the idea of it had Fitch’s heart hammering against his ribs, there was no way he was going to let Dalton Campbell’s faith in him be spoiled. Morley thought the same.

  The music coming from the open windows across the lawn—strings and horns and a harp—was filling his head with purpose, swelling his chest with pride to be chosen by Dalton Campbell.

  The Minister—the future Sovereign—had to be protected.

  Quietly, with light steps, she climbed the four steps up onto the dock. In the dim light, she looked around at the deep shadows, stretching her neck to peer about. Fitch swallowed at how good-looking she was. She was older, but she was a looker. He’d never looked so long and hard at an Ander lady as he did at her.

  Morley made his voice come out deep in order to sound older.

  “Claudine Winthrop?”

  She wheeled expectantly toward Fitch’s friend, standing in the dark doorway. “I’m Claudine Winthrop,” she whispered. “You received my message, then?”

  “Yes,” Morley said.

  “Thank the Creator. Director Linscott, it’s important I speak with you about Minister Chanboor. He pretends to uphold Anderith culture, but he is the worst example we could have in his post, or any other. Before you consider his name for a future Sovereign, you must hear of his corruption. The pig forced himself on me—raped me. But that is only the beginning of it. It gets worse. For the sake of our people, you must hear my words.”

  Fitch watched as she stood with the soft yellow light from the windows falling across her pretty face. Dalton Campbell hadn’t said she was going to be so pretty. She was older, of course, and so not someone he ordinarily thought of as pretty. It surprised him to realize he was thinking of someone so old—she look almost thirty—as attractive. He took a slow, silent breath, trying to tighten his resolve. But he couldn’t help staring at what she wore, or more accurately, at where she wasn’t wearing anything.

  Fitch recalled the two women in the stairwell talking about such dresses as the one Claudine Winthrop wore now. Fitch had never seen so much of a woman’s breasts. The way they heaved as she wrung her hands had his eyes popping.

  “Won’t you come out?” she asked in a whisper toward the darkness where Morley waited. “Please? I’m frightened.”

  Fitch suddenly realized he was supposed to be doing his part. He sneaked out from behind the barrels, taking careful steps so she wouldn’t hear him coming.

  His stomach felt like it was in a knot. He had to wipe the sweat out of his eyes in order to see. He tried to breathe calmly, but his heart seemed to have a mind of its own. He had to do this. But, dear spirits, he was more than afraid.

  “Director Linscott?” she whispered toward Morley.

  Fitch snatched her elbows and wrenched her arms behind her back. She gasped. He was surprised at how easy it was for him to keep her arms pinned behind her as she struggled with all her might. She was confused and startled. Morley shot out from the dark, once he saw that Fitch had her.

  Before she could get much of a scream out, Morley slugged her in the gut as hard as he could. The powerful blow nearly knocked both her and Fitch from their feet.

  Claudine Winthrop doubled over, vomit spewing all over the dock. Fitch let go of her arms. She crossed them over her middle as she went to her knees, heaving violently. Both he and Morley stepped back as it splashed the dock and her dress, but they weren’t about to get more than an arm’s length away from her.

  After a few long convulsions, she straightened, seeming to have finished, and tried to get her feet as she struggled and gasped for breath. Morley lifted her and spun her around. With his powerful grip, he locked her arms behind her back.

  Fitch knew this was his chance to prove himself. This was his chance to protect the Minister. This was his chance to make Dalton Campbell proud.

  Fitch punched her in the stomach as hard as he dared.

  He’d never punched anyone before, except his friends, and that was only in fun. Never like this, not for real, not deliberately to hurt someone. Her middle was small, and soft. He could see how much his fist had hurt her.

  It made him feel sick. Made him feel like throwing up, too. This was the violent way his Haken ancestors behaved. This was what was so terrible about them. About him.

  Her eyes were wide with terror as she tried over and over to suck in a breath, but couldn’t seem to. She fought desperately to get her wind as her eyes fixed on him, like a hog watching the butcher. Like her Ander ancestors used to watch his.

  “We’re here to give you a message,” Fitch said.

  They’d agreed Fitch would do the talking. Morley didn’t remember so well what they were to tell Claudine Winthrop; Fitch had always been better at remembering.

  She finally got her breath back. Fitch hunched forward and landed three blows. Quick. Hard. Angry.

  “Are you listening?” he growled.

  “You little Haken bastard—”

  Fitch let go with all his strength. The wallop hurt his fist. It staggered even Morley back a step. She hung forward in Morley’s grip as she vomited in dry heaves. Fitch had wanted to hit her face—punch her in the mouth—but Dalton Campbell had given them clear instructions to only hit her where it wouldn’t show.

  “I’d not call him that again, were I you.” Morley grabbed a fistful of her hair and savagely yanked her up straight.

  Arching her up so forcefully made her breasts pop out the top of her dress. Fitch froze. He wondered if he should pull the front of her dress back up for her. His jaw hung as he stared at her. Morley leaned over her shoulder for a look. He grinned at Fitch.

  She glanced down to see herself spilled out of her
dress. Seeing it, she put her head back and closed her eyes in resignation.

  “Please,” she said, panting for breath toward the sky, “don’t hurt me anymore?”

  “Are you ready to listen?”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  That surprised Fitch even more than seeing her naked breasts. No one in his whole life had ever called him “sir.” Those two meek words felt so strange to his ears that he just stood there staring at her. For a moment, he wondered if she was mocking him. As she looked him in the eye, her expression told him she wasn’t.

  The music was filling him with such feelings as he’d never had before. He’d never been important before, never been called “sir” before. That morning he’d been called “Fetch.” Now, an Ander women called him “sir.” All thanks to Dalton Campbell.

  Fitch punched her in the gut again. Just because he felt like it.

  “Please, sir!” she cried. “Please, no more! Tell me what you want. I’ll do it. If you wish to have me, I’ll submit—just don’t hurt me anymore. Please, sir?”

  Although Fitch’s stomach still felt heavy with queasy disgust at what he was doing, he also felt more important than he’d ever felt before. Her, an Ander woman with her breasts exposed to him like that, and her calling him “sir.”

  “Now, you listen to me you filthy little bitch.”

  His own words surprised him as much as they surprised her. Fitch hadn’t planned them. They just came out. He liked the sound of it, though.

  “Yes sir,” she wept, “I will. I’ll listen. Whatever you say.”

  She looked so pitiful, so helpless. Not an hour ago, if an Ander woman, even this Claudine Winthrop, would have told him to get down on his knees and clean the floor with his tongue, he’d have done it and been trembling at the same time. He’d never imagined how easy this would be. A few punches, and she was begging to do as he said. He never imagined how easy it would be to be important, to have people do as he said.

  Fitch remembered what it was Dalton Campbell told him to say.

  “You were strutting yourself before the Minister, weren’t you? You were offering yourself to him, weren’t you?”