Soul of the Fire tsot-5

by Terry Goodkind

  “It’s too late for that. He already went to the estate and got people stirred up that you was raped there. Got important people stirred up. He made demands. He wants justice. Inger is going to make you tell who hurt you.”

  “He can’t.”

  “He’s Ander. You’re Haken. He can. Even if he changed his mind and didn’t, because of the hornets’ nest he swatted, the people at the estate might decide to haul you before the Magistrate and have him put an order on you to name the person.”

  “I’ll just deny it all.” She hesitated. “They couldn’t make me tell.”

  “No? Well it would sure make you a criminal, if you refused to tell them what happened. They think it’s Haken men who did it and so they want the names. Inger is an Ander and he said it happened. If you didn’t tell them what they ask they’d likely put you in chains until you changed your mind. Even if they didn’t, at the least, you’d lose your work. You’d be an outcast.

  “You said you wanted to join the army, someday—that it’s your dream. Criminals can’t join the army. That dream would be gone. You’d be a beggar.”

  “I’d find work. I work hard.”

  “You’re Haken. Refusing to cooperate with a Magistrate would get you named a criminal. No one would hire you. You’d end up a prostitute.”

  “I would not!”

  “Yes you would. When you got hungry and cold enough, you would. You’d have to sell yourself to men. Old men. Master Campbell told me the prostitutes get horrible diseases and die. You’d die like that, from being with old men who—”

  “I would not! Fitch, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

  “Then how you going to live? If you get named a Haken criminal for refusing to answer a magistrate’s questions, how you going to live?

  “And if you did tell, who would believe you? You’d be called a liar and that would make you a criminal for lying about an Ander official. That’s a crime, too, you know—lying about Ander officials by making false accusations.”

  She searched his eyes for a moment. “But it’s not false. You could vouch for the truth of what I say.

  “You said you wanted to be the Seeker of Truth, remember? That’s your dream. My dream is joining the army, and yours is being a Seeker of Truth. As someone who wants to be a Seeker, you’d have to stand up and say it was true.”

  “See? You said you’d never tell, and now you’re already talking about telling.”

  “But you could stand up with me and tell the truth of it.”

  “I’m a Haken. You think they’re going to believe two Hakens against the Minister of Culture himself? Are you crazy?

  “Beata, no one believed Claudine Winthrop, and she was Ander and she was important besides. She made the accusation to try to hurt the Minister, and now she’s dead.”

  “But, if it’s the truth—”

  “And, what’s the truth, Beata? That you told me about what a great man the Minister was? That you told me how handsome you thought he is? That you looked up at his window and sighed and called him Bertrand? That you was all twinkly-eyed as you was invited up to meet the Minister? That Dalton Campbell had to hold your elbow to keep you from floating away with delight at the invitation to meet the Minister just so he could tell you to relay his message that he liked Inger’s meats?

  “I only know you and he . . . Maybe you got demanding, after. Women sometimes later get that way, from what I hear: demanding. After they act willing, then they sometimes make accusations in order to get something for themselves. That’s what people say.

  “For all I know, maybe you was so thrilled to meet him you hiked up your skirts to show him you was willing, and asked him if he’d like to have you. You never said anything to me. All I got from you was a slap—maybe for seeing you was having yourself a good time with the Minister when you was supposed to be working. For as much as I know about it, that could be the truth.”

  Beata’s chin trembled as she tried to blink the tears from her eyes. She dropped to the ground, sat back on her heels, and started crying into her hands.

  Fitch stood for a minute dumbly wondering what he should do. He finally knelt down in front of her. He was frightfully worried at seeing her cry. He’d known her a long time, and he’d never even heard stories of her crying, like other girls. Now she was bawling like a baby.

  Fitch reached out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She shrugged the hand away.

  Since she wasn’t interested in being comforted, he just sat there, on his own heels, and didn’t say anything. He thought briefly about going off and leaving her alone to her crying, but he figured maybe he should at least be there if she wanted something.

  “Fitch,” she said between sobs, tears streaming down her cheeks, “what am I going to do? I’m so ashamed. I’ve made such a mess of it. It was all my fault—I tempted a good Ander man with my vile, wanton Haken nature. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t think I was, but that’s what I did. What he did is all my fault.

  “But I can’t lie and say I was willing when I wasn’t—not even a little. I tried to fight them off, but they were too strong. I’m so ashamed. What am I going to do?”

  Fitch swallowed at the lump in his throat. He didn’t want to say it, but for her sake he had to tell her. If he didn’t, she was liable to end up like Claudine Winthrop—and he might be the one who would be called on to do it. Then everything would be ruined because he knew he couldn’t do that. He’d be back in the kitchen, scrubbing pots—at best. But he’d do that before he’d hurt Beata.

  Fitch took her hand and gently opened it. He reached in his coat pocket. In her palm he placed the pin with a spiral end. The pin Beata used to close the collar of her dress. The pin she had lost up on the third floor that day.

  “Well, as I figure it, you’re in a pack of trouble, Beata. I don’t see as there’s any way out of it but one.”

  Chapter 41

  Teresa smiled. “Yes, please.”

  Dalton lifted two dilled veal balls from the platter held out by the squire. The Haken boy genuflected, spun with a light step, and glided past. Dalton set the meat on the charger he shared with Teresa as she nibbled on her favorite of suckling rabbit.

  Dalton was tired and bored with the lengthy feast. He had work of importance that needed tending. Certainly his first responsibility was tending the Minister, but that goal would be better served handling matters behind the curtain of governance than on stage nodding and laughing at the Minister’s witticisms.

  Bertrand was waving a sausage as he told a joke to several wealthy merchants at the far end of the head table. By the merchants’ guttural laughter, and the way Bertrand wielded the sausage, Dalton knew what sort of joke it was. Stein particularly enjoyed the bawdy story.

  As soon as the laughter died down, Bertrand graciously apologized to his wife and asked that she forgive his joke. She let out a titter and dismissed it with an airy wave of a hand, adding that he was incorrigible. The merchants chuckled at her good-natured indulgence of her husband.

  Teresa gently elbowed Dalton and whispered, “What was that joke the Minister told? I couldn’t hear it.”

  “You should thank the Creator he didn’t bless you with better hearing. It was one of Bertrand’s jokes, if you follow.”

  “Well,” she said with a grin, “will you tell me when we get home?”

  Dalton smiled. “When we get home, Tess, I’ll demonstrate it.”

  She let out a throaty laugh. Dalton picked up one of the veal balls and dragged it through a wine-and-ginger sauce. He let her have a bite and lick some of the sauce off his finger before putting the rest in his mouth.

  As he chewed, he turned his attention to three of the Directors across the room engaged in what looked to be a serious conversation. They gestured expansively while leaning in, frowning, shaking their heads, and holding up fingers to make their point. Dalton knew what the conversation concerned. Nearly every conversation around the room involved a similar topic: the murder of Claudine Winthrop.

/>   The Minister, wearing a purple-and-rust-striped close-fitting sleeveless jerkin over a golden-wheat-patterned sleeved doublet, draped his arm over Dalton’s shoulders as he leaned close. The white raffs at the Minister’s wrist were stained with red wine, making him look as if he were bleeding from under the tight sleeve.

  “Everyone is still quite upset over Claudine’s murder,” said Bertrand.

  “And rightly so.” Dalton dipped a mutton cube in mint jelly. “It was a terrible tragedy.”

  “Yes, it has made us all realize how frail is the grip we have on the ideals of civilized behavior we so cherish. It has shown us how much work yet lies before us in order to bring Hakens and Anders together in a peaceful society.”

  “With your wise leadership,” Teresa said with genuine enthusiasm as Dalton ate the mutton cube, “we will succeed.”

  “Thank you for your support, my dear.” Bertrand leaned just a little closer to Dalton, lowering his voice a bit, too. “I hear the Sovereign might be ill.”

  “Really?” Dalton sucked the mint jelly off his finger. “Is it serious?”

  Bertrand shook his head in mock sorrow. “We’ve had no word.”

  “We will pray for him,” Teresa put in as she selected a slender slice of peppered beef. “And for poor Edwin Winthrop.”

  Bertrand smiled. “You are a most thoughtful and kind-hearted woman, Teresa.” He stared at her bodice, as if to see her kind heart beating there, behind her exposed cleavage. “If I am ever stricken ill, I could ask for no more noble a woman than you to pray to the Creator on my behalf. Surely, His own heart would melt at your tender beseeching words.”

  Teresa beamed. Hildemara, nibbling on a slice of pear, asked her husband a question and he turned back to her.

  Stein leaned in to converse with them about something. They all pulled back when a squire brought a platter of crisped beef.

  As Stein took a handful of the crisped beef, Dalton glanced again at the Directors, still engaged in their discussion. He scanned the table opposite them and caught the eye of Franca Gowenlock. The woman’s face told him that she was unable to detect any of it. Dalton didn’t know what was wrong with her powers, but it was becoming a serious impediment.

  A squire held a silver platter toward the Minister. He took several slices of pork. Another came with lamb in lentil, which Hildemara favored. A steward poured more wine for the head table before moving on. The Minister enfolded a husband’s arm around Hildemara’s shoulder and spoke to her in a whisper.

  A server entered carrying a large basket piled high with small loaves of brown bread. He took it to the serving board to be transferred onto silver trays. From a distance, Dalton couldn’t tell if there was any problem with the bread. A large quantity of it had been declared unfit for the feast and had been consigned for donation to the poor. Leftover food from feasts, usually great quantities of it, was distributed to the poor.

  Master Drummond had had some sort of trouble down in the kitchen earlier in the day with the baking of the bread. Something to do with the ovens going “crazy,” as the man described it, A woman was badly burned before she could be doused. Dalton had more important things to worry about than baking bread, and hadn’t inquired further.

  “Dalton,” the Minister said, returning his attention to his aide, “have you managed to prove out any evidence about the murder of poor Claudine Winthrop?”

  On the other side of the Minister, Hildemara looked keenly interested in hearing Dalton’s answer.

  “I’ve been looking into several promising areas,” Dalton said without committing himself. “I hope to soon reach a conclusion to the investigation.”

  As always, they had to be circumspect when they spoke at feasts, lest words they would not want repeated be carried to listening ears. Gifted listeners other than Franca might be present and having no trouble with their ability. Dalton, to say nothing of Bertrand and his wife, didn’t doubt that the Directors might be using the gifted.

  “Well, the thing is,” Bertrand said, “Hildemara tells me some people are getting quite concerned that we aren’t taking the matter seriously enough.”

  Dalton began to offer evidence to the contrary, when Bertrand held up a hand and went on.

  “Of course this isn’t true at all. I know for a fact how hard you’ve been working on apprehending the criminals.”

  “Day and night,” Teresa said. “I can assure you, Minister Chanboor, Dalton is hardly getting any sleep of late, what with how hard he has been working since poor Claudine’s murder.”

  “Oh I know,” Hildemara said as she leaned past her husband to pat Dalton’s wrist in a show for Teresa and any watching eyes. “I know how hard Dalton has been working. Everyone appreciates all he is doing. We know of the great number of people he has brought in to be interviewed for information.

  “It’s just that some people are beginning to question if all the effort is ever going to produce the guilty party. People fear the killers still among them and are eager to settle the matter.”

  “That’s right,” Bertrand said, “and we, more than anyone, want the murder solved so as to have the peace of mind that our people can rest safely again.”

  “Yes,” Hildemara said, with a cold glint in her eye. “It must be solved.”

  There was no mistaking the icy command in her tone. Dalton didn’t know if Hildemara had told Bertrand what she had ordered be done with Claudine, but it wouldn’t really matter to him. He was finished with the woman and had moved on to others. He wouldn’t mind at all if she cleaned up his mess behind him and silenced any potential trouble.

  Dalton had been expecting that the Minister and his wife might grow weary of the people complaining, before the people grew weary of talking about the murder of a prominent woman from the estate. As a precaution, he already had laid plans; it looked as if he was to be forced into them.

  His first choice would be to wait, for he knew the talk would soon die down and the whole matter would be forgotten, or at most people would occasionally click their tongues in passing sorrow and perhaps even titillation. But Bertrand liked to be seen as competent in his office. The toll on others was only a minor consideration to him. To Hildemara, it was irrelevant. Their impatience, however, was dangerous.

  “I, as much as anyone, want the killers found,” Dalton said. “However, as a man of the law, I am bound by my oath of office to be sure we find the true killers, and not simply accuse someone falsely just to see someone punished.

  “I know you have sternly given me this very caution in the past,” Dalton lied for any listening ears.

  When he saw Hildemara about to object to any delay, Dalton added in a low, suddenly ill-humored tone, “Not only would it be wrong to be so hasty as to falsely accuse innocent men, but were we to rashly charge men with the crime, and after the sentence it turned out the Mother Confessor wished to take their confessions, and she found we had sentenced innocent men, our incompetence would be rightly denounced not only by the Mother Confessor, but the Sovereign and the Directors as well.”

  He wanted to make sure they fully grasped the risks involved.

  “Worse, though, should we sentence men to death and carry out the executions before the Mother Confessor was allowed to review the case, she might interject herself in a way that could not only topple the government, but see top officials touched by her power as punishment.”

  Bertrand and Hildemara sat wide-eyed and silent after Dalton’s quiet but sobering lecture.

  “Of course, Dalton. Of course you’re right.” Bertrand’s fingers fanned the air in a motion like a fish wriggling its fins to swim backward. “I didn’t mean to give the impression I meant any such thing, of course.

  “As Minister I cannot allow a person to be falsely accused. I wouldn’t have such a thing happen. Not only would it be a terrible injustice to the ones falsely accused, but in so doing it would allow the real killers to thus escape to kill again.”

  “But that said”—a tone of threat returned t
o Hildemara’s voice—“I think you must be close to naming the killers? I’ve heard such good things about your abilities that I suspect you are merely being thorough. Surely the Minister’s chief aide will soon see justice done? The people will want to know the Minister of Culture is competent. He must be seen as effective in seeing this through to resolution.”

  “That’s right,” Bertrand said, eyeing his wife until she eased back into her seat. “We wish a just resolution.”

  “Added onto that,” Hildemara said, “there is talk of a poor Haken girl recently being raped. Rumors are spreading rapidly about the rape. People think the two crimes are connected.”

  “I heard whispers of that, too,” Teresa said. “It’s just terrible.”

  Dalton might have guessed Hildemara would have found out about that and want it cleaned up, too. He had been prepared for that eventuality, as well, but hoped to skirt the issue if he could.

  “A Haken girl? And who is to say she’s telling the truth? Perhaps she is attempting to cover a pregnancy out of wedlock and is claiming rape so as to gain sympathy in a time of heightened passions.”

  Bertrand dragged a slice of pork through a small bowl of mustard. “No one has yet come forward with her name, but from what I’ve heard, it is believed to be genuine. People are still trying to discover her name so as to bring her before a magistrate.”

  Bertrand frowned with a meaningful look until he was sure Dalton understood that they were talking about the butcher’s girl. “It is feared not only to be true, but to be the same ones who attacked Claudine. People fear the same criminals have now struck twice, and fear they will be striking again.”

  Bertrand tilted his head back and dropped the pork in his mouth. Stein, on the other side of Hildemara, watched the conversation with growing disdain as he ate crisped beef. He, of course, would solve the matter quickly with his blade. Dalton would, too, were it that simple.

  “That is why,” Hildemara said as she leaned in once more, “the crime must be solved. The people must know who is responsible.” Having delivered the order, she straightened in her chair.