Blood of the Fold tsot-3

by Terry Goodkind

  “I’ve been back for a couple months, and I’ve never seen the city empty out for this game before.”

  “The season just started. Official games are only allowed to be played in the the Ja’La season.”

  “That doesn’t fit with your theory, then. If the game is a distraction from more important matters of life, why not let them play it all the time?”

  Warren gave her a smug smile. “Anticipation makes the fervor stronger. The prospects for the upcoming season are talked about endlessly. By the time the season finally arrives the people are worked up into a fever pitch, like young lovers returned to the embrace after an absence—their minds are dull to anything else. If the game went on all the time, the ardor might cool.”

  Warren had obviously thought long and hard on his theory. She didn’t think she believed in it, but he seemed to have an answer for everything, so she changed the subject.

  “Where did you hear this, about him bringing his team?”

  “Master Finch.”

  “Warren, I sent you to the stables to find out about those horses, not to gab about Ja’La.”

  “Master Finch is a big Ja’La enthusiast and was all excited about today’s opening game, so I let him ramble on about it so I could find out what you wanted to know.”

  “And did you?”

  They came to an abrupt halt, looking up at the sign carved with a headstone, shovel, and the names BENSTENT and SPROUL.

  “Yes. Between telling me how many lashes the other team was going to get, and telling me how to make money betting on the outcome, he told me that the missing horses have been gone for quite a time.”

  “Since right after winter solstice, I’d bet.”

  Warren shielded his eyes with a hand as he peered into the window. “You’d win the bet. Four of his strongest horses, but full tack for only two, are gone. He’s still searching for the horses, and swears he’ll find them, but he thinks the tack was stolen.”

  From behind the door in the back of the dark room, she could hear the sound of a file on steel.

  Warren took his hand from his face and checked the street. “Sounds like there’s someone here who isn’t a Ja’La enthusiast.”

  “Good.” Verna tied the shawl under her chin and then pulled open the door. “Let’s go hear what this gravedigger has to say.”

  Chapter 25

  Only the small, street-side window coated with ancient layers of dirt, and an open door in the back, lit the dim, dusty room, but it was enough to see a path through the cluttered mounds of sloppy rolls of winding sheets, rickety workbenches, and simple coffins. A few rusty saws and planes hung on one wall, and a disorderly stack of pine planks leaned against another.

  While people of means frequented undertakers who provided guidance in the selection of ornate, expensive coffins for their loved ones, people with precious little money could afford no more than the services of simple gravediggers who supplied a plain box and a hole to put it in. While the departed loved ones of those who came to gravediggers were no less precious to them, they had to worry about feeding the living. Their memories of the deceased, however, were no less gilded.

  Verna and Warren paused at the doorway out into a tiny pit of a work yard, its borders steep and high with lumber stacked upright against a fence to the back and stuccoed buildings at each side. In the center, with his back to them, a gangly, barefoot man in tattered clothes stood facing away from them as he filed the blades of his shovels.

  “My condolences on the loss of your loved one,” he said in a gravelly but surprisingly sincere voice. He resumed drawing the file against the steel. “Child, or adult?”

  “Neither,” Verna said.

  The hollow-cheeked man glanced back over his shoulder. He wore no beard, but looked as if his efforts at shaving were rare enough that he was close to crossing the line. “In between, then? If you’ll tell me the size of the departed, I can work a box to fit.”

  Verna clasped her hands. “We’ve no one to bury. We’re here to ask you some questions.”

  He quieted his hands and turned around fully to look them up and down. “Well, I can see that you can afford more than me.”

  “You aren’t interested in Ja’La?” Warren asked.

  The man’s droopy eyes came a little more alert as he took another look at Warren’s violet robes. “Folks don’t fancy the likes of me around at festive occasions. Spoils their good time to look on my face, like it were the face of death itself walking among ’em. Aren’t shy about telling me I’m not welcome, either. But they come by when they’ve need of me. They come, then, and act like they never turned their eyes away before. I could let ’em go pay for a fancy box what the dead won’t see, but they can’t afford it, and their coin don’t do me no good if I grudge ’em their fears.”

  “Which are you,” Verna asked, “Master Benstent, or Sproul?”

  His flaccid eyelids bunched into creases as his eyes turned to up her. “I’m Milton Sproul.”

  “And Master Benstent? Is he about, too?”

  “Ham’s not here. What’s this about?”

  Verna bowed her mouth in a nonchalant expression. “We’re from the palace, and wanted to ask about a tally we were sent. We just need to be sure it’s correct, and everything is in order.”

  The bony man turned back to his shovel and stroked the file across the edge. “Tally’s correct. We’d not cheat the Sisters.”

  “Of course we aren’t suggesting any such thing, it’s just that we can’t find any record of who it was you buried. We just need to verify the deceased, and then we can authorize payment.”

  “Don’t know. Ham done the work and made out the tally. He’s an honest man. He wouldn’t cheat a thief to get back what was stole from him. He made out the tally and told me to send it over, that’s all I know.”

  “I see.” Verna shrugged. “Then I guess we’ll need to see Master Benstent in order to clear this up. Where can we find him?”

  Sproul took another stroke with his file. “Don’t know. Ham was getting on in years. Said he wanted to spend what little time was left to him being with his daughter and grandchildren. He left to be with them. They live downcountry somewheres.” He circled his file in the air. “Left his half of the place, such, as it is, to me. Left me his half of the work, too. Guess I’m have to take on a younger man to do the digging; I’m getting old myself.”

  “But you must know where he went, and about this tally.”

  “Said I don’t. He packed up all his things, not that that was much, and bought himself a donkey for the journey, so I reckon it must be a goodly distance.” He pointed his file over his shoulder toward the south. “Like I said, downcountry.

  “The last thing he told me was to be sure I sent the tally to the palace, because he done the work and it was only fair that they pay for what was done. I asked him where to send the payment, as he done the work, but he said to use it to hire a new man. Said it was only fair what with him leaving me on such short notice.”

  Verna considered her options. “I see.” She watched him take a dozen strokes on his shovel, and then turned to Warren. “Go outside and wait for me.”

  “What!” he whispered heatedly. “Why do you—”

  Verna held up a finger to silence him. “Do as I say. Take a little walk around the area to be sure . . . our friends aren’t looking for us.” She leaned a little closer with a meaningful look. “They might be wondering if we need any assistance.”

  Warren straightened and glanced to the man filing his shovel. “Oh. Yes, all right, I’ll go look and see where our friends have gotten to.” He fumbled with the silver brocade on his sleeve. “You won’t be long, will you?”

  “No. I’ll be out shortly. Go on now, and see if you see them anywhere.”

  After Verna heard the front door shut, Sproul glanced over his shoulder. “Answer’s still the same. I told you what . . .”

  Verna produced a gold coin in her fingers. “Now, Master Sproul, you and I are going to h
ave a candid conversation. What’s more, you are going answer my questions truthfully.”

  He frowned suspiciously. “Why’d you send him out?”

  She no longer made an effort to show him a pleasant smile. “The boy has a weak stomach.”

  He took an unconcerned stroke with his file. “I told you the truth. If you want a lie, then just tell me and I’ll build you one to fit.”

  Verna shot him a menacing scowl, “Don’t you even think of lying to me. You may have told the truth, but not all the truth there is to tell. Now, you are going to tell me the rest of it, either in exchange for this token of my appreciation—” Verna used her Han to snatch the file from his hand and send it sailing up into the air until it vanished from sight. “—or in appreciation for my sparing you any unpleasantness.”

  Whistling with speed, the file streaked out of the sky to slam into the ground, burying itself a scant inch from the gravedigger’s toes. Only the tang stuck above the dirt, and that glowed red. With angry mental effort, she drew the hot steel up in a long, thin line of molten metal. Its white-hot glow illuminated his shocked expression, and she, too, could feel the sizzling heat on her face. His eyes had gone wide.

  She waggled a finger, and the ductile line of glowing steel wavered before his eyes, dancing in time with her finger’s movement. She swirled her finger and the hot steel coiled around the man, holding mere inches from his flesh.

  “One twitch of my finger, Master Sproul, and I bind you up in your file.” She opened her hand, holding her palm up. A howl of flame ignited, hovering obediently in the air. “After I have you bound up, then I will start at your feet, and I’ll cook you an inch at a time, until you give me the whole truth.”

  His crooked teeth chattered. “Please . . .”

  She brought the coin up in her other hand, and showed him a humorless smile. “Or, as I say, you can choose to tell me the truth in exchange for this token of my appreciation.”

  He swallowed, eyeing the hot metal around him, and the hissing flame in her hand. “It seems I do recall some more of it. I’d be most pleased if you’d let me set the story straight with the rest I’m now remembering.”

  Verna extinguished the flame above her hand, and with an abrupt effort, flipped the Han’s heat to its opposite, to bitter cold. The glow left the metal like a candle’s flame being snuffed. The steel went from red hot to icy black, and shattered, the fragments dropping around the stiff gravedigger like hail.

  Verna lifted his hand and pressed the gold into it, closing his fingers around the coin. “I’m so sorry. I seem to have broken your file. This will more than cover it, I’m sure.”

  He nodded. It was likely more gold than the man could earn in a year. “I’ve got more files. It’s nothing.”

  She laid a hand on his shoulder. “All right, Master Sproul, why don’t you tell me what else you remember about that tally.” She tightened her grip. “Every last bit of it, no matter how unimportant you consider it. Understand?”

  He licked his lips. “Yes. I’ll tell you every bit. Just like I said, Ham did the work. I didn’t know nothing about it. Said he had some digging to do for the palace, but nothing more. Ham’s the closemouthed sort, and I never paid it no mind.

  “Right after, he broke it on me, real sudden like, that he was quitting, and going off to live with his daughter, just like I told you. He was always talking about going to live with his daughter, before he had to dig his own hole, but he didn’t have no money and she’s no better off, so I never paid him no mind. Then he bought that donkey, a good one, too, so I knew he weren’t mooning this time. He said he didn’t want the money from the work for the palace. Said to hire a new man to help me.

  “Well, the next night, before he left, he brought over a bottle of liquor. Good stuff what cost more than the bottles we always bought. Ham never could keep a secret from me when he gets to drinking, everyone knows the truth of that. He don’t tell what he shouldn’t to others, understand, he’s a man to be trusted, but he’ll tell me everything, if he’s been drinking.”

  Verna took her hand back. “I understand. Ham is a good man, and your friend. I don’t want you to worry about betraying a confidence, Milton. I’m a Sister. You aren’t doing wrong to confide in me, and you need not fear I will bring trouble to you for it.”

  He nodded, clearly relieved, and managed a weak smile. “Well, like I said, we had that bottle, and we was talking old times. He was leaving, and I knew I’d be missing him. You know. We was together for a long time, not that we didn’t . . .”

  “You were friends. I understand. What did he say?”

  He loosened his collar. “Well, we was drinking, and feeling all misty-eyed about breaking up. That bottle was stronger than what we was used to. I asked him where his daughter lived, so I could send him the pay from the tally to help out with things. I got this place, after all, and I can get by. I got work. But Ham says no, he don’t need it. Don’t need it! Well, I was powerful curious after he said that. I asked him where he got money, and he said he saved it. Ham never saved nothing. If he had it, it was because he just got it, that’s all, and hadn’t spent it yet.

  “Well, that’s when he told me to be sure to send the tally to the palace. He was real insistent, I guess because he felt bad about leaving me with no help. So, I asks him, ‘Ham, who’d you put in the ground for the palace?’ ”

  Milton leaned toward her, lowering his voice to a gravely whisper. “ ‘Didn’t put no one in the ground,’ Ham says, ‘I took ’em out.’ ”

  Verna snatched the man’s dirty collar. “What! He dug someone up? Is that what he meant? He dug someone up?”

  Milton nodded. “That’s it. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Digging up the dead? Putting ’em in the ground don’t bother me, it’s what I do, but the idea of digging ’em up gives me the shivers. Seems a desecration. Course, at the time, we was drinking to old times and all, and we was in stitches over it.”

  Verna’s mind was racing in every direction at once. “Who did he exhume? And on whose orders?”

  “All’s he said was ‘for the palace.’ ”

  “How long ago?”

  “A good long time. I don’t remember . . . wait, it was after the winter solstice, not long after, maybe just a couple of days.”

  She shook him by die collar. “Who was it? Who did he dig up!”

  “I asked him. I asked him who it were they wanted back. He told me, he says, ‘They didn’t care who, I’m just to bring ’em, wrapped up all pretty in clean winding sheets.’ ”

  Verna worked her fingers on his collar. “Are you sure? You were drinking—he might have just been making up drunken stories.”

  He shook his head as if he feared she were going to bite it off. “No. I swear Ham don’t make up stories, or lie, when he drinks. When he drinks he would tell me anything true. No matter what sin he done, when he drinks he confesses it to me true. And I remember what he told me; it was the last night I saw my friend, remember what he said.

  “He said to be sure to get the tally to the palace, but to wait a few weeks and they was busy, they’d told him.”

  “What did he do with the body? Where did he take it? Who did he give it to?”

  Milton tried to back away a bit, but her grip on his collar didn’t allow it. “I don’t know. He said he took ’em to the palace in a cart covered over real good and he said they give him a special pass so as the guards wouldn’t check his load. He had to dress in his best clothes so people wouldn’t recognize him for what he was, so as not to frighten the fine people at the palace, and especially so as not to upset the delicate sensibilities of the Sisters, who were communing with the Creator. He said he done as he was told, and he was proud that he done it right, ’cause no one got disturbed by his going there with the bodies. That’s all he said about it. I don’t know no more, I swear it on my hope to go to the Creator’s light after this life be done.”

  “Bodies? You said bodies. More than one?” She fixed him with a dangerous
glare as she tightened her grip. “How many? How many bodies did he dig up and deliver to the palace?

  “Two.”

  “Two . . .” she repeated in a whisper, wide-eyed. He nodded.

  Verna’s hand fell away from his collar.

  Two.

  Two bodies, wrapped in clean winding sheets.

  Her fists tightened as she growled in a rage.

  Milton swallowed, holding up a hand. “One other thing. I don’t know if it matters.”

  “What?” She asked through gritted teeth.

  “He said that they wanted ’em fresh, and one was small, and weren’t too bad but the other gave him a time, because he were a big one. I didn’t think to ask him more about it. I’m sorry.”

  With great effort, she managed a smile. “Thank you, Milton, you’ve been a great help to the Creator.”

  He scrunched his shirt closed at the neck. “Thank you, Sister. Sister, I’ve never had the nerve to go to the palace, being what I am, and all. I know folks don’t like to see me around. Well, I’ve never gone. Sister, could you give me the Creator’s blessing?”

  “Of course, Milton. You have done his work.”

  He closed his eyes with a murmured prayer.

  Verna gently touched his forehead. “The Creator’s blessing on his child,” she whispered as she let the warmth of her Han flow into his mind. He gasped in rapture. Verna let her Han seep through his mind. “You will remember nothing of what Ham told you about the tally while you were drinking. You will recall only that he said he did the work, but you know nothing of its nature. After I’ve left, you will not recall my visit.”

  His eyes rolled beneath his eyelids for a time before coming open at last. “Thank you, Sister.”

  Warren was pacing on the street outside. She stormed past him without sloping to say anything. He ran to catch up.