Fitch had to admit the idea of getting drunk sounded very good to him. The possibility of hearing about the Wizard’s Keep sounded intriguing, though.
“I think I’d best be getting back to the estate myself. If you wouldn’t mind having a Haken walk with you, I’d be well pleased to go along. Franca,” he added in afterthought.
She studied his face again in that way that made him fidget.
“I’m gifted, Fitch. That means I’m different than most people, and so most all people, Ander and Haken both, think of me the way most Ander people think of you because you’re Haken.”
“They do? But you’re Ander.”
“Being Ander is not enough to overcome the stigma of having magic. I know what it feels like to have people dislike you without them knowing anything about you.
“I’d be well pleased to have you walk along with me, Fitch.”
Fitch smiled, partly in the shock of realizing he was having a conversation with an Ander woman, a real conversation, and partly in shock that Anders would dislike her—another Ander—because she had magic.
“But don’t they respect you because you have magic?”
“They fear me. Fear can be good, and bad. Good, because then even though people don’t like you, they at least treat you well. Bad, because people often try to strike out at what they fear.”
“I never looked at it that way before.”
He thought about how good it had made him feel when Claudine Winthrop called him “sir.” She only did because she was afraid, he knew, but it still made him feel good. He didn’t understand the other part of what Franca said, though.
“You’re very wise. Does magic do that? Make a person wise?”
She let out the breathy laugh again, as if she found him as amusing as a fish with legs.
“If it did, then they would call it the Wise Man’s Keep, instead of the Wizard’s Keep. Some people would be wiser, perhaps, had they not been born with the buttress of magic.”
He’d never met anyone who’d been to Aydindril, much less the Wizard’s Keep. He could hardly believe a person with magic would talk to him. To an extent, he was worried because he didn’t know anything about magic and he figured that if she got angry she might do him harm.
He thought her fascinating, though, even if she was old.
They started out down the road toward the estate in silence. Sometimes silence made him nervous. He wondered if she could tell what he thought with her magic.
Fitch looked over at her. She didn’t look like she was paying any attention to his thoughts. He pointed at her throat.
“Mind if I ask what sort of thing that is, Franca? That band you wear at your throat? I’ve never seen anyone wear anything like it before. Is it something to do with magic?”
She laughed aloud. “Do you know, Fitch, that you are the first person in a great many years to ask me about this? Even if it is because you don’t know enough to fear asking a sorceress such a personal question.”
“Sorry, Franca. I didn’t mean to say nothing offensive.”
He began to worry he had stupidly said something to make her angry. He surely didn’t want an Ander woman, and one with magic besides, angry with him. She was silent for a time as they walked on down the road. Fitch stuck his sweating hands back in his pockets.
At last she spoke again. “It isn’t that, Fitch. Offensive, I mean. It just brings up bad memories.”
“I’m sorry, Franca. I shouldn’t have said it. Sometimes I say stupid things. I’m sorry.”
He was wishing he had gone to get drunk, instead.
After a few more strides, she stopped and turned to him. “No, Fitch, it wasn’t stupid. Here.”
She hooked the throat band and pulled it down for him to see. Even though it was dark, there was a moon and he could see a thick lumpy line, all white and waxy-looking, ringing her neck. It looked to him to be a nasty scar.
“Some people tried to kill me, once. Because I have magic.” Moonlight glistened in her moist eyes. “Serin Rajak and his followers.”
Fitch never heard the name. “Followers?”
She pulled the throat band back up. “Serin Rajak hates magic. He has followers who think the same as he. They get people all worked up against those with magic. Gets them in a state of wild hate and blood lust.
“There’s nothing uglier than a mob of men when they have it in their heads to hurt someone. What one alone wouldn’t have the nerve to do, together they can easily decide is right and then accomplish. A mob takes on a mind of its own—a life of its own. Just like a pack of dogs chasing down some lone animal.
“Rajak caught me and put a rope around my neck. They tied my hands behind my back. They found a tree, threw the other end of the rope over a limb, and hoisted me up by that rope around my neck.”
Fitch was horrified. “Dear spirits—that must have hurt something awful.”
She didn’t seem to hear him as she stared off.
“They were stacking kindling under me. Going to have a big fire. Before they could get the fire lit, I managed to get away.”
Fitch’s fingers went to his throat, rubbing his neck as he tried to imagine hanging on a rope around his neck.
“That man—Serin Rajak. Is he a Haken?”
She shook her head as they started out again. “You don’t have to be Haken to be bad, Fitch.”
They walked in silence for a time. Fitch got the feeling she was off somewhere in her memories of hanging by a rope around her throat. He wondered why she didn’t choke to death. Maybe the rope wasn’t tight, he decided—tied with a knot so it would hold its loop. He wondered how she got away. He knew, though, that he’d asked enough about it, and dared ask no more.
He listened to the stone chips crunching under their boots. He stole careful glances, now and again. She no longer looked happy, like she had at first. He wished he’d kept his question to himself.
Finally, he thought maybe he’d ask her about something that had made her smile before. Besides, it was why he had really wanted to walk along with her in the first place.
“Franca, what was the Wizard’s Keep like?”
He was right; she did smile. “Huge. You can’t even imagine it, and I couldn’t tell you how big it is. It stands up on a mountain overlooking Aydindril, beyond a stone bridge crossing a chasm thousands of feet deep. Part of the Keep is cut from the mountain itself. There are notched walls rising up like cliffs. Broad ramparts, wider than this road, go to various structures. Towers rise up above the Keep, here and there. It was magnificent.”
“Did you ever see a Seeker of Truth? Did you ever see the Sword of Truth, when you was there?”
She frowned over at him. “You know, as a matter of fact, I did. My mother was a sorceress. She went to Aydindril to see the First Wizard about something—what, I’ve no idea. We went across one of those ramparts to the First Wizard’s enclave in the Keep. He has a separate place where he had wonders of every sort. I remember that bright and shiny sword.”
She seemed well pleased with telling him about it, so he asked, “What was it like? The First Wizard’s enclave? And the Sword of Truth?”
“Well, let me see.…” She put a finger to her chin to think a moment before she began her story.
37
When Dalton Campbell reached to dip his pen, he saw the legs of a woman walking through the doorway into his office. By the thick ankles he knew before his gaze lifted that it was Hildemara Chanboor. If there was a woman with less appealing legs, he had yet to meet her.
He set down the pen and rose with a smile. “Lady Chanboor, please, come in.”
In the outer office, the morning sunlight revealed Rowley on duty, standing ready to summon the messengers should Dalton have call for them. He didn’t at the moment, but with Hildemara Chanboor paying a visit, that eventuality seemed more likely.
As she closed the door, Dalton went around his desk and pulled out a comfortable chair in invitation. She wore a wool dress the color of straw. The
color of the dress conveyed a sickly pallor to her flesh. The hem came to midcalf on her puffy, straight, pillar-like legs.
Hildemara glanced briefly at the chair, but remained standing.
“So good to see you, Lady Chanboor.”
She put on a smile. “Oh, Dalton, must you always be so proper? We’ve known each other long enough for you to call me Hildemara.” He opened his mouth to thank her, but she added, “When we’re alone.”
“Of course, Hildemara.”
Hildemara Chanboor never made visits to inquire after anything so mundane as matters of work. She only arrived like a chill wind before a storm. Dalton decided it best to let the foul weather build on its own, without his help, like some wizard summoning it forth. He also thought it better to keep the meeting on a more formal level, despite her indulgence with her name.
Her brow bunched, as if her attention were distracted. She reached out to fuss with a possibly loose thread on his shoulder. Sunlight streaming in the windows sparkled off the jewels on her fingers, and the bloodred ruby necklace hanging across the expanse of exposed skin on her upper chest. The dress wasn’t nearly as low-cut as those worn lately at feasts, yet he still found its cut less than refined.
With a woman’s tidy touch, Hildemara picked and then smoothed. Dalton glanced, but didn’t see anything. Seeming to have satisfied herself, her hand gently pressed out the fabric of his light coat against his shoulder.
“My, my, Dalton, but don’t you have fine shoulders. So muscular and firm.” She looked into his eyes. “Your wife is a lucky woman to have a man so well endowed.”
“Thank you, Hildemara.” His caution prevented him saying another word.
Her hand moved to his cheek, her bejeweled fingers gliding over the side of his face.
“Yes, she is a very lucky woman.”
“And your husband is a lucky man.”
Chortling, she withdrew her hand. “Yes, he is often lucky. But, as is said, what is commonly thought luck is often merely the result of incessant practice.”
“Wise words, Hildemara.”
The cynical laugh evaporated and she soon returned the hand to his collar, ordering it, as if it needed ordering. Her hand wandered to the side of his neck, a finger licking the rim of his ear.
“The word I hear is that your wife is faithful to you.”
“I am a lucky man, my lady.”
“And that you are equally faithful to her.”
“I care for her deeply, and I also respect the vows we have taken.”
“How quaint.” Her smile widened. She pinched his cheek. He thought it more stern than playful in manner. “Well, someday I hope to convince you to be a little less… stuffy, in your attitudes, shall we say.”
“If any woman could open my eyes to a broader attitude, Hildemara, it would be you.”
She patted his cheek, the cynical laugh returning. “Oh, Dalton, but you are a exceptional man.”
“Thank you, Hildemara. Coming from you that is quite the compliment.”
She took a breath as if to change the mood. “And you did an exceptional job with Claudine Winthrop and Director Linscott. Why, I never imagined anyone could so deftly lance two boils at once.”
“I do my best for the Minister and his lovely wife.”
She regarded him with cold calculation. “The Minister’s wife was quite humiliated by the woman’s loose lips.”
“I don’t believe she will be any further—”
“I want her done away with.”
Dalton cocked his head. “I beg your pardon?”
Hildemara Chanboor’s expression soured.
“Kill her.”
Dalton straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “Might I inquire as to the reason you would request such a thing?”
“What my husband does is his business. The Creator knows he is what he is and nothing short of castration will change it. But I’ll not have women humiliating me before the household by making me look a fool. Discreet indulgences are one thing; publicly airing tales to make me the butt of whispering and jokes is quite another.”
“Hildemara, I don’t believe Claudine’s loose talk was in any way meant to place you at any disadvantage, nor should it, but rather to denounce Bertrand for inappropriate conduct. Nevertheless, I can assure you she has been silenced and has lost her position of trust among people in authority.”
“My, my, Dalton, but aren’t you the gallant one.”
“Not at all, Hildemara. I just hope to show you—”
She took hold of his collar again, her manner no longer gentle. “She has become revered by foolish people who actually believe that load of dung about starving children and putting men to work with her law. They crowd her door seeking her favor in any number of causes.
“Such reverence by the people is dangerous, Dalton. It gives her power. Worse, though, was the nature of the charges she made. She was telling people Bertrand forced himself on her. That amounts to rape.”
He knew where she was going, but he preferred she put words to it, and clear excuse to her orders. Such would later leave him with more arrows should he ever need them and her less room for denial, or for abandoning him to the wolves, if it suited her purpose or worse, her mood.
“An accusation of rape would elicit hardly more than a yawn from the people,” Dalton said. “I could easily get them to see such a thing as the prerogative of a man in a position of great power who needed a simple and harmless release of tension. None would seriously begrudge him such a victimless act. I could easily prove the Minister to be above such common law.”
Her fist tightened on his collar.
“But Claudine could be brought into the Office of Cultural Amity and invited to testify. The Directors fear Bertrand’s power, and skill. They are jealous of me, too. Should they have a mind, they might champion the woman’s cause as offensive to the Creator, even if outside commoners’ law.
“Such a supposed offense against the Creator could disqualify Bertrand from consideration for Sovereign. The Directors could join forces and take a stand, leaving us suddenly helpless and at their mercy. We could all be out looking for new quarters before we knew what happened.”
“Hildemara, I think—”
She pulled his face closer to her own.
“I want her killed.”
Dalton had always found that a plain woman’s kind and generous nature could make her tremendously alluring. The other side of that coin was Hildemara; her selfish despotism and boundless hatred of anyone who stood in the way of her ambition corrupted any appealing aspect she possessed into irredeemable ugliness.
“Of course, Hildemara. If that is your wish, then it shall be done.” Dalton gently removed her hand from his collar. “Any particular instructions as to how you would like it accomplished?”
“Yes,” she hissed. “No accident, this deed. This is killing and it should look like a killing. There is no value in the lesson if my husband’s other bedmates fail to grasp it.
“I want it to be messy. Something that will open women’s eyes. None of this dying-peacefully-in-her-sleep business.”
“I see.”
“Our hands must look entirely clean in this. Under no circumstances can suspicion point to the Minister’s office—but I want it to be an object lesson to those who might consider wagging their tongues.”
Dalton already had a plan in mind. It would fit the requirements. No one would think it an accident, it would certainly be messy, and he knew exactly where fingers would point, should he need fingers to point.
He had to admit that Hildemara had valid arguments. The Directors had been shown the glint off the Minister’s axe. They might decide in their own self-interest to swing an axe themselves.
Claudine could make more trouble. It was unwise to knowingly allow such a potential danger to remain at large. He regretted what had to be done, but he couldn’t disagree that it needed doing.
“As you wish, Hildemara.”
Her smil
e paid another visit to her face.
“You have been here only a short time, Dalton, but I have come to greatly respect your ability. And, too, if there is one thing I trust about Bertrand, it’s his ability to find people who can accomplish the job required. He has to be good at choosing people to properly handle the work, you see, or he might have to actually take care of matters himself, and that would require him to vacate the loins of whoever fascinated him at the moment.
“I trust you didn’t get to where you are by being squeamish, Dalton?”
He knew without doubt she had placed discreet inquiries as to his competence. She would already know he was up to the task. Further, she would not risk such a demand had she not been sure he would honor it. There were others to whom she could have turned.
With ever so much care, he spun a new line on his cobweb.
“You requested a favor of me, Hildemara. The favor is well within my capacity.”
It was not a favor, and they both knew it; it was an order. Still, he wanted to fasten her more closely to the deed, if only in her own mind, and such a seed would set down roots.
Ordering a murder was a great deal worse than any accusation of a petty rape. He might someday have need of something within her sphere of influence.
She smiled with satisfaction as she cupped his cheek. “I knew you were the right man for the job. Thank you, Dalton.”
He bowed his head.
Like the sun going behind a cloud, her expression darkened. Her hand moved down his face until a single finger lifted his chin.
“And keep in mind that while I may not have the power to castrate Bertrand, I can you, Dalton. Any time it pleases me.”
Dalton smiled. “Then I shall be sure to give you no cause, my lady.”
38
Fitch scratched his arm through his crusty old scullion clothes. He’d never realized what rags they were until he’d been in his messenger uniform for a while. He relished the respect he was given as a messenger. It wasn’t like he was important or anything, but most people respected messengers as someone with a responsibility; no one ever respected scullions.
Soul of the Fire Page 42
