Soul of the Fire

by Terry Goodkind

  Director Linscott was near to purple with contained rage.

  Bertrand uncurled a finger from his fist and pointed out at the crowd. “The masons vast knowledge should be employed, by all means it should, but with this new law, the common man will be employed, too, under the supervision of masons, and the children will not go hungry for their fathers’ want of work.”

  The Minister struck a fist to the palm of his other hand to emphasize each point he added.

  “I call upon the Directors of Cultural Amity to show us, now, by their raised hands, their support of putting starving people to work, their support of the government finally being able to complete projects at a fair price by using those willing to work and not just the members of a secret society of masons who set their own exorbitant rates we all must bear! Their support for the children! Their support of the Winthrop Fair Employment Law!”

  Director Linscott shot to his feet. “I protest such a show of hands! We have not yet had time to—”

  He fell silent when he saw the Sovereign lift his hand.

  “If the other Directors would like to show their support,” the Sovereign said in a clear voice into the hush, “then the people gathered here should know of it, so that none may bear false witness to the truth of each man’s will. There can be no harm in judging the sentiment of the Directors while they are all here. A show of hands is not the final word, and so does not close the matter to debate before it becomes law.”

  The Sovereign’s impatience had just unwittingly saved the Minister the task of forcing a vote. Though it was true that a show of hands here would not make the law final, in this case such a schism among the guilds and professions would insure it did.

  Dalton did not have to wait for the other Directors to show their hands; there was no doubt in his mind. The law the Minister had announced was a death sentence to a guild, and the Minister had just let them all see the glint off the executioner’s axe.

  Though they would not know why, the Directors the would know one of their number had been singled out. While only four of Directors were guild masters, the others were no less assailable. The moneylenders might have their allowed interest lowered or even outlawed, the merchants their trade preferences and routes changed; the solicitors and barristers could have their charges set by law at a rate even a beggar could afford. No profession was safe from some new law, should they displease the Minister.

  If the other Directors did not support the Minister in this, that blade might be turned on their guild or profession. The Minister had called for a public showing of their hands rather than a closed-door vote, the implication being that the axe would not swing in their direction if they went along.

  Claudine sank into her chair. She, too, knew what this meant. Men were formerly forbidden work at the trade of mason unless they were members of the Masons Guild. The guild set training, standards, and rates, governed disputes, assigned workers to various jobs as needed, looked after members injured or sick, and helped widows of men killed on the job. With unskilled workers allowed to work as masons, guild members would lose their skilled wages. It would destroy the Masons Guild.

  For Linscott, it would mean the end of his career. For the loss of the protection of guild law while under his watch as a Director, the masons would doubtless expel him within a day. The unskilled would now work; Linscott would be an outcast.

  Of course, the land’s projects would, in the end, cost more. Unskilled workers were, after all, unskilled. A man who was expensive, but knew his job, in the end cost less, and the finished job was sound.

  A Director lifted his hand, showing his informal, but for all practical purposes final, support for the new law. The others watched that hand go up, as if seeing an arrow fly to a man’s chest to pierce his heart. Linscott was that man. None wanted to join his fate. One by one, the other Director’s hands began going up, until there were eleven.

  Linscott gave Claudine a murderous look before he stalked out of the feast. Claudine’s ashen face lowered.

  Dalton started applauding the Directors. It jolted everyone out of the somber drama, and people began joining in. All those around Claudine began congratulating her, telling her what a wonderful thing she and her husband had done for the children of Anderith. Tongues began indignantly scolding the masons’ selfish ways. Soon a line of people wanting to thank her formed to file past and add their names to those on the side of the Minister of Culture and the courage of his fairness.

  Claudine shook their hands but managed only a pallid smile.

  Director Linscott was not likely to ever again wish to listen to anything Claudine Winthrop had to say.

  Stein glanced over, giving Dalton a cunning smile. Hildemara directed a self-satisfied smirk his way, and her husband clapped Dalton on the back.

  When everyone had returned to their seats, the harpist poised her hands with fingers spread to pluck a cord, but the Sovereign again raised his hand. All eyes went to him as he began to speak.

  “I believe we should take his opportunity, before the next course, to hear what the gentleman from afar has to say to us.”

  No doubt the Sovereign was having trouble staying awake and, before he fell asleep, wanted to hear Stein speak. The Minister stood to once again address the room.

  “Good people, as you may know, a war is spreading. Each side has arguments as to why we should join with them. Anderith wants only peace. We have no desire to see our young men and women bleed in a foreign struggle. Our land is unique in being protected by the Dominie Dirtch, so we have no need to fear violence visiting us, but there are other considerations, not the least of which is trade with the world beyond our borders.

  “We intend to hear what the Lord Rahl of D’Hara and Mother Confessor have to say. They are pledged to wed, as you have all no doubt heard from the diplomats returning from Aydindril. This will join D’Hara with the Midlands to create a formidable force. We await listening respectfully to their words.

  “But tonight we are going to hear what the Imperial Order wishes us to know. The Emperor Jagang has sent a representative from the Old World beyond the Valley of the Lost, which has now for the first time in thousands of years been opened for passage.” Bertrand held out a hand. “May I introduce the emperor’s spokesman, Master Stein.”

  People applauded politely, but it trailed off as Stein rose up. He was an imposing, fearsome, and fascinating figure. He hooked his thumbs behind his empty weapon belt.

  “We are engaged in a struggle for our future, much the same as the struggle you have just witnessed, only on a larger scale.”

  Stein picked up a small loaf of hard bread. His big hands squeezed until it broke apart. “We, the race of mankind, and that includes the good people of Anderith, are slowly being crushed. We are being held back. We are being suffocated. We are being denied our destiny, denied our future, denied life itself.

  “Just as you have men without work because a self-interested guild held sway over the lives of others, denying them work and thus food for their children, magic holds sway over all of us.”

  A hum rose in the room as whispering spread. People were confused, and just a little worried. Magic was loathed by some, but respected by many.

  “Magic decides for you your destiny,” Stein went on. “Those with magic rule you, though you have not willingly consented to it. They have the power, and they keep you in their grip.

  “Those with magic cast spells to harm those they envy. Those with magic bring harm to innocent people they fear, they dislike, they envy, and simply to keep the masses in check. Those with magic rule you, whether you like it or not. The mind of man could flourish, were it not for magic.

  “It is time regular folks decided what will be, without magic holding its shadow over those decisions, and your future.”

  Stein lifted his cape out to the side. “These are the scalps of the gifted. I killed each myself. I have prevented each of these witches from twisting the lives of normal people.

  “People
should fear the Creator, not some sorceress or wizard or witch. We should worship the Creator, none other.”

  Low murmurs of agreement began to stir.

  “The Imperial Order will end magic in this world just as we ended the magic that kept the people of the New and Old World separated for thousands of years. The Order will prevail. Man will decide his own destiny.

  “Even without our help, fewer and fewer gifted are born all the time as even the Creator, with his nearly infinite patience, tires of their vile ways. The old religion of magic is dying out. The Creator Himself has thus given us a sign that the time has come for man to cast magic aside.”

  More rustles of agreement swept through the room.

  “We do not wish to fight the people of Anderith. Nor do we wish to force you, against your will, to take up arms to join us. But we intend to destroy the forces of magic led by the bastard son of D’Hara. Any who join him will fall under our blade, just as those with magic”—he held out the cape—“fell under mine.”

  He slowly swept a finger before the crowd as he held his cape out with his other hand. “Just as I killed these gifted witches who came up against me, we will kill any who stand against us.

  “We also have other means beyond the blade to end magic. Just as we brought down the magic separating us, we will bring an end to all magic. The time of man is upon us.”

  The Minister casually lifted a hand. “And what is it, then, if not the swords of our powerful army, the Order wishes from us?”

  “Emperor Jagang gives his word that if you do not join with the forces fighting for those with magic, we will not attack you. All we wish is to trade with you, just as you trade with others.”

  “Well,” the Minister said, playing the part of the skeptic for the benefit of the crowd, “we already have arrangements that commit a great deal of our commodities to the Midlands.”

  Stein smiled. “We offer double the highest price anyone else offers to pay.”

  The Sovereign lifted his hand, bringing even the whispering to a halt. “How much of the output of Anderith would you be interested in purchasing?”

  Stein looked out over the crowd. “All of it. We are a huge force. You need not lift a blade to fight in the war, we will do the fighting, but if you sell us your goods, you will be safe and your land will become wealthy beyond your hopes and dreams.”

  The Sovereign stood, surveying the room. “Thank you for the emperor’s words, Master Stein. We will want to hear more.

  “For now, your words have given us much to consider.” He swept a hand before the people. “Let the feast resume.”

  23

  Fitch’s head hurt something awful. The dawn light hurt his eyes. Despite sucking on a small piece of ginger, he couldn’t get the foul sour taste in the back of his throat to go away. He figured the headache and awful taste was probably from too much of the fine wine and rum he and Morley had treated themselves to. Even so, he was in good spirits and smiled as he scrubbed the crusty pots.

  Slow as he was moving, trying not to make his head feel any worse, Master Drummond wasn’t yelling at him. The big man seemed relieved that the feast was over and they could go back to their regular cooking chores. The kitchen master had sent him after a number of things, not once calling him “Fetch.”

  Fitch heard someone coming his way, and looked up to see that it was Master Drummond.

  “Fitch, dry your hands.”

  Fitch pulled up his arms and shook off some of the soapy water. “Yes, sir.”

  He snatched up a nearby towel as he recalled with acute pleasure the title of “sir” being directed to him the night before.

  Master Drummond wiped his forehead with his own white towel. With the way his head was sweating, he looked like he might have had some drink the night before, too, and might not be feeling his best, either. It had been a tremendous amount of work getting ready for the feast, so Fitch grudgingly guessed that Master Drummond deserved to get drunk, too. At least the man got to be called “sir” all the time.

  “Get yourself up to Master Campbell’s office.”

  “Sir?”

  Master Drummond tucked the white towel behind his belt. The nearby women were watching. Gillie was scowling, no doubt waiting for an opportunity to twist Fitch’s ear and scold him for his wicked Haken ways.

  “Dalton Campbell just sent word that he wants to see you. I’d guess he means right now, Fitch, so get to it and see what he needs.”

  Fitch bowed. “Yes, sir, right away.”

  Before she could give him much of a thought, he cut a wide path around Gillie, keeping out of her reach and disappearing as quickly as possible. This was one task Fitch was only too happy to rush to do, and he didn’t want to be snagged by the sour-faced saucer woman.

  As he took the stairs two at a time, his throbbing head seemed to be only a minor annoyance. By the time he’d reached the third floor, he suddenly felt pretty good. He rushed past the spot where Beata had clouted him and down the hall just a short ways to the right, to where only a week before he’d taken a plate of sliced meat late one evening, to Dalton Campbell’s office.

  The door to the outer office stood open. Fitch caught his breath and shuffled in, keeping his head low in a respectful sort of way; he’d only been there that once before, and he wasn’t exactly sure how he was supposed to act in the offices of the Minister’s aide.

  There were two tables in the room. One had disorderly stacks of papers all over it, along with messenger pouches and sealing wax. The another dark shiny table was nearly clean except for a few books and an unlit lamp. The morning sun streaming in the tall windows provided light aplenty.

  Along the far wall to the left, opposite the wall with the windows, four young men lounged and chatted on a long padded bench. They were talking about road conditions to outlying towns and cities. They were messengers, a coveted job in the household, so Fitch guessed it seemed a logical enough thing for them to discuss, but he always thought messengers would talk more of the grand things they saw in their job.

  The four were well dressed, all the same, in the Minister’s aide’s exclusive livery of heavy black boots, dark brown trousers, white shirts with ruffled collars, and sleeved doublets quilted with an interlocking cornucopia design. The edges of the doublets were trimmed with distinctive brown and black braided wheat banding. To Fitch’s way of thinking, the outfits made any of the messengers look almost noble, but especially so those messengers belonging to the Minister’s aide.

  There were a number of different kinds of messengers in the household, each with its own individual uniform, each working for specific person or office. Fitch knew of messengers working for the Minister, Lady Chanboor, the chamberlain’s office, the marshal’s office; the sergeant-at-arms had several; there were a number of army messengers working out of the estate and those who brought messages to the estate but lived elsewhere—even the kitchen had a messenger. From time to time he saw others he didn’t recognize.

  Fitch couldn’t understand why they were all needed. He couldn’t understand how much messaging a person could possibly need to do.

  Far and away the largest contingent of messengers—nearly an army’s worth, it seemed—belonged to the office of the Minister’s chief aide: Dalton Campbell.

  The four men sitting on the padded bench watched him with friendly enough smiles. Two nodded in greeting, something messengers had done before when he came across them. Fitch always thought it odd when they did because, even though they too were Haken, he always figured messengers were better than he, as if, while not Ander, they were some indefinable step above a mere Haken.

  Fitch nodded in kind to return the greeting. One of the men who had nodded, perhaps a year or two older than Fitch, lifted a thumb toward the room beyond.

  “Master Campbell is waiting on you, Fitch. You’re to go on in.”

  Fitch was surprised to be called by name. “Thank you.”

  He shambled over to the tall doorway to the inner room and waite
d at the threshold. He’d been in the outer waiting room before—the interior door had always been closed—and he expected Master Campbell’s inner office to be more or less the same, but it was larger and much more grand, with rich-looking blue and gold drapes on the three windows, a wall of fancy oak shelves holding a colorful array of thick books, and, in the other corner, several magnificent Ander battle standards. Each long banner was of a yellow background with red markings along with a bit of blue. The standards were arranged in a display flanked by formidable-looking pole weapons.

  Dalton Campbell looked up from behind a massive desk of shiny mahogany with curved legs and a scalloped skirt. The top had three inset leather squares, smaller ones to each side, of a large one in the middle, each with a curly design painted in gold around its edges.

  “Fitch, there you are. Good. Shut the door and come in, please.”

  Fitch crossed the big room and stood before the desk when he had done as bidden. “Yes, sir? You needed something?”

  Campbell leaned back in his brown leather chair. His princely scabbard and sword stood beside a tufted bench, in their own special holder of hammered silver made to look like a scroll. Lines of writing were engraved on the scroll, but Fitch couldn’t read, so he didn’t know if they were real words.

  Tipping his chair back on the two rear legs while he sucked on the end of a glass dipping pen, the Minister’s aide studied Fitch’s face.

  “You did a good job with Claudine Winthrop.”

  “Thank you, sir. I tried my best to remember everything you told me you wanted me to do and say.”

  “And you did that quite well. Some men would have turned squeamish and failed to do as I instructed. I can always use men who follow orders and remember what I tell them I want done. In fact, I would like to offer you a new position with my office, as a messenger.”

  Fitch stared dumbly. He’d heard the words, but they didn’t seem to make any sense to him. Dalton Campbell had plenty of messengers—a whole army of them, it seemed.