Soul of the Fire by Terry Goodkind
He hated putting back on his old clothes. It felt like putting back on his old life, and he never wanted to go back to that. He liked working for Dalton Campbell, and would do anything to keep that job.
For this, though, his old clothes were necessary.
The sweet melody of a lute rippled in from a faraway inn. Probably the Jolly Man tavern, over on Wavern Street, he guessed. They often had a minstrel sing there.
The piercing warbles from a reed shawm intermittently cut through the night. At times the shawm went silent, and then the minstrel sang ballads whose words were unintelligible because of the distance. The tune, though, was quick and pleasant and made Fitch’s heart beat faster.
He glanced back over his shoulder and in the moonlight saw the grim faces of the other messengers. They, too, were all back in the clothes of their former lives. Fitch intended to remain in his new life. He wouldn’t let the other men down. No matter what, he wouldn’t let them down.
They looked a scruffy bunch, they did. Dressed as they were, no one would likely recognize them. No one would be able to tell them from any of the other young redheaded Haken men in rags.
There were always young Haken men around in Fairfield, hoping for someone to hire them for any task. Often they were chased away from the streets where they gathered. Some went out to the country to help work farms, some found work in Fairfield if only for a day, some went behind the buildings to drink, and some waited in the dark to rob people. Those, though, didn’t live long if they were caught by the city guards, and they usually were.
Morley’s boots creaked as he shifted his weight as he crouched beside Fitch. Fitch, like the rest of the men, wore his boots for this, even though they were part of his uniform; people wouldn’t be able to tell anything from boots.
Even though Morley wasn’t yet a messenger, Master Campbell had asked him to join Fitch and the others who weren’t off to distant places with messages. Morley had been disappointed that he didn’t get to be a messenger along with Fitch. Fitch told him what Master Campbell had said about Morley being useful from time to time for various work, and how he would someday likely join the messenger service. For now, that was good enough hope for Morley.
Fitch’s new friends among the messengers were nice enough, but he was glad to have Morley along. He and Morley had been kitchen scullions together for a long time. That meant something. When you’d been getting drunk with someone for years, it was a strong bond, as Fitch figured it. Morley seemed to feel the same and was glad to be asked along so he might prove himself.
Despite his fear, Fitch, too, didn’t want to let Dalton Campbell down. More than that, for this task, he and Morley both had cause. For them, unlike the other men, this was personal. Still, it had Fitch’s palms sweating and he had to wipe them on his knees every few minutes.
Morley nudged Fitch. Fitch peered off to the dimly lit road outside the row of two- and three-story stone buildings. He saw Claudine Winthrop step out onto the landing attached to the front of one of them. There was a man beside her, just as Master Campbell had said there would be—a finely dressed Ander wearing a sword. By the narrow scabbard it looked a light sword. Quick, but deadly, Fitch imagined as he gave it a few parries in his mind.
Rowley, in his messenger outfit, stepped up to the tall Ander man as he came down off the landing and handed him a rolled message. Rowley and the man spoke as he broke the seal and unfurled the paper, but Fitch was too far away to hear the words.
Music rose from an inn in the distance. At the Jolly Man, the minstrel sang and played his lute and shawm. People, most wearing a light cloak or shawl, talked and laughed as they passed up and down the street. Men somewhere in a hall all laughed together now and again. Carriages with folded-down tops carried finely dressed folks. Horses and wagons went by, jangling and clopping, adding to the confusion of noise at the edge of Fairfield.
The man stuffed the paper in the pocket of his dark doublet as he turned to Claudine Winthrop, gesturing as he spoke words Fitch couldn’t hear. She looked up the street into Fairfield, and then shook her head. She lifted a hand toward the estate, toward the road where Fitch and the other messengers in their old clothes waited. She was smiling and seemed in a good mood.
The man with her then took up her hand, shaking it as he seemed to bid her a good night. She waved a farewell as he hurried off down the street and into the city.
Dalton Campbell had sent the message with Rowley. Now that the message was delivered, Rowley vanished into the streets. Rowley had instructed them as to exactly how it was to work. Rowley always instructed them. If Master Campbell wasn’t around, Rowley always knew what to do.
Fitch liked Rowley. For a Haken, the young man seemed pretty confident in himself. Dalton Campbell treated him with respect, just like he treated everyone else, but maybe with a little more. If Fitch were blind he might have thought Rowley was Ander. Except he treated Fitch kindly, if in a businesslike manner.
Claudine Winthrop, alone, turned to the road back to the estate. Two of the patrolling city guard, big Ander men armed with cudgels, ambled up the street and watched her go. It wasn’t a great distance. Just an hour’s walk or so.
The night was pleasant, warm enough to be comfortable, and not so warm that the walk would work up a sweat. And the moon was out. A pleasant night for a brisk walk back to the estate. She snugged her cream-colored shawl around her shoulders, covering her skin, though there wasn’t as much flesh showing as Fitch had seen before.
She could have sat down on a bench and waited for one of the carriages that regularly ran back and forth between the estate and the city, but she didn’t. There was really no need. When a carriage caught up with her as she walked back, she could always take it then, if she tired of walking.
Rowley was off to insure that the carriage was delayed with an errand.
Fitch waited with the rest of the men, where Rowley told them to wait, and watched Claudine Winthrop walking briskly up the road. The beat of the music strummed in Fitch’s head. The sound felt connected to the pounding of his heart.
He watched her coming up the road, his finger tapping against his bent knee as the shawm played a bouncy tune Fitch knew, called “Round the well and back,” about a man chasing a woman he loved, but who always ignored him. The man finally had enough and chased her in the song until he caught her. He then held her down and asked her to wed him. She said yes. Then the man lost his nerve and she was the one who chased him round the well and back.
As Claudine strode down the road, she looked to be less comfortable with her decision to walk. She glanced at the fields of wheat to her right and the sorghum to her left. She quickened her pace as the light of the city fell away behind her. Only moonlight accompanied her down the ribbon of road between the silent fields to each side.
Fitch, squatted down on the balls of his feet, could feel himself rocking, his heart was pounding so hard. He wished he wasn’t there, going to do what he was going to do. He knew nothing would ever be the same again.
He wondered, too, if he really would be able to do as he had been told to do. He wondered if he would have the nerve. There were enough other men, after all. He wouldn’t really have to do anything. They could do it.
But Dalton Campbell wanted him to do it. Wanted him to learn what was necessary when people didn’t do as they promised they would do. Wanted him to be part of the team of messengers.
He had to do this to be part of the team. To really be part. They wouldn’t be afraid like he was. He couldn’t show his fear.
He was frozen, staring wide-eyed as she got closer, her shoes crunching against the road. He felt terror rising up inside at the whole idea. He wished she would turn around and run. She was still far enough away. It had seemed so simple when he had nodded to Dalton Campbell’s instructions.
It sounded plain enough when he stood there in Dalton Campbell’s office, as he explained it. In the light. It made sense in the light. Fitch had tried to help her with a warning. It wasn’
It seemed altogether different in the dark, out in a field, as he watched her, all alone, getting closer.
He set his jaw. He couldn’t let the others down. They would be proud of him for being as tough as they. He would show them he could be one of them.
This was his new life. He didn’t want to go back to the kitchen. Back to Gillie twisting his ear and scolding him for his vile Haken ways. Back to being “Fetch,” like he was before Dalton Campbell gave him a chance to prove himself.
Fitch nearly cried out in startled fright when Morley sprang up, lunging for the woman.
Before he had time to think, Fitch flew after his friend.
Claudine gasped. She tried to cry out, but Morley clamped a meaty hand over her mouth as he and Fitch tackled her. Fitch whacked his elbow painfully against the ground as they all crashed to the road. The impact drove a deep grunt from her as Morley landed on her with all his weight.
Her arms flailed. Her legs kicked. She tried to scream, but couldn’t get much out. They were far enough out that no one was likely to hear even if she did.
She seemed all elbows and knees. She twisted and fought for her life. Fitch finally snagged one of her arms and twisted it behind her back. Morley got a good grip on her other arm and hauled her to her feet. With a cord, Fitch secured her wrists behind her back as Morley stuffed a rag in her mouth and tied a gag around her head.
Morley and Fitch each grabbed her under an arm and started dragging her down the road. She dug in her heels, twisting and pulling. The other men swarmed all around. Two of them each grappled a leg and lifted her clear of the ground. Another man took ahold of her hair.
Together, the five of them, with the others in a tight knot around them, trotted maybe another half mile down the road, farther away from the city. Claudine Winthrop, in the clutch of terror, screamed against the gag. She wrenched and squirmed violently the whole way.
She had good cause to be in such panic, after what she’d done.
When they were out of sight of the city and then some, they cut off the road to the right, through the wheat field. They wanted to be off the road in case someone came along. They didn’t want to have a coach unexpectedly come upon them. They didn’t want to have to drop her and run for it. Dalton Campbell would not like to hear that they messed up.
When they’d gone over a gentle swell in the land, to where they figured they were out of sight and out of earshot, they finally dumped her on the ground. She cried out with muffled screams against the gag. In the moonlight Fitch could see her wide eyes, like a hog at butcher.
Fitch panted, less from exertion than from his dread at what they were doing. His heart pounded in his ears and thumped against his chest. He could feel his knees trembling.
Morley lifted Claudine Winthrop to her feet and held her up from behind.
“I warned you,” Fitch said. “Are you stupid? I warned you not to ever again tell anyone your treasonous accusations against our Minister of Culture. It’s a lie that the Minister raped you, and you said you’d stop saying it, and now you’ve broken your word.”
She was shaking her head vigorously. That she was trying to deny it only made Fitch more determined.
“I told you not to say those vile lies about our Minister of Culture! You said you wouldn’t! You told me you wouldn’t. Now you’ve gone flapping your tongue again with those same hateful lies.”
“You tell her, Fitch,” one of the other men said.
“That’s right. Fitch is right,” another said.
“You gave her a chance,” still another said.
Several of the men clapped Fitch on the back. It made him feel good that they were proud of him. It made him feel important.
She shook her head. Her brow was bunched to a knot of skin in the middle.
“They’re all right,” Morley said as he shook her. “I was there. I heard him tell you. You should have done what you was told. Fitch gave you a chance, he did.”
She frantically tried to talk against the gag. Fitch yanked it down below her chin.
“No! I never did! I swear, sir! I never said anything after you told me not to! I swear! Please! You have to believe me—I wouldn’t tell anyone—not after you told me to keep quiet—I wouldn’t—I didn’t!”
“You did!” Fitch’s fists balled into tight knots. “Master Campbell told us you did. Are you now calling Master Campbell a liar?”
She shook her head. “No! Please, sir, you must believe me!” She started to sob. “Please sir, I did as you said.”
Fitch was enraged to hear her deny it. He had warned her. He had given her a chance. Master Campbell had given her a chance, and she had continued with her treason.
Even her calling him “sir” didn’t bring him much delight. But the men behind urging him on did.
Fitch didn’t want to hear any more of her lies. “I told you to keep your mouth shut! You didn’t!”
“I did,” she said as she wept, hanging in Morley’s arms. “I did. Please, I told no one anything. I never told—”
Hard as he could, Fitch slammed his fist square into her face. Straight in. All his might. He felt bone snap.
The blow stung his fist, but it was only a far-off pain. Great gouts of blood bloomed across her face in lurid gushes.
“Good one, Fitch!” Morley called out, staggered a step by the blow. Other men agreed. “Give it to her again!”
Feeling pride at the praise, Fitch let the rage go wild. He cocked his arm. She was trying to harm Dalton Campbell and the Minister—the future Sovereign. He liberated his anger at this Ander woman.
His second blow to her face tumbled her out of Morley’s grip. She crashed to her side on the ground. Fitch could see her jaw was unhinged. He couldn’t recognize her face, what with the way her nose was flattened and with all the blood.
It was shocking, in a distant sort of way, like he was watching someone else doing it.
Like a pack of dogs, the rest of the men were on her. Morley was the strongest, and fierce. They lifted her. They all seemed to be punching her at once. Her head snapped one way and then the other. She doubled over from punches in the gut. The men walloped her in the kidneys. Blow after blow rained down, driving her from the arms that were holding her up, pummeling her to the ground.
Once she was down, they all started kicking her. Morley kicked the back of her head. Another man stomped down on the side of it. Others kicked her body so hard it lifted her from the ground, or rolled this way and that. The sounds of the blows, hollow and sharp, almost drowned out the grunts of effort.
Fitch, landing a kick in her ribs, seemed to be in some quiet place, watching the whole thing. It disgusted him, but it excited him at the same time. He was part of something important, with other good men, doing important work for Dalton Campbell and the Minister of Culture—the future Sovereign.
But a part of him was sickened by what was happening. A part of him wanted to run crying from what was happening. A part of him wished they had never found her coming out of that building.
But a part of him was wildly excited by it, excited to be part of it, excited to be one of the men.
He didn’t know how long it went on. It seemed forever.
The thick smell of blood filled his nostrils and seemed to coat his tongue. Blood saturated their clothes. It gloved their fists. It was splattered across their faces.
The heady experience filled Fitch with a profound sense of camaraderie. They laughed with the exhilaration of brotherhood.
When they heard the sound of the carriage, they all froze. Sharing the same wild look in their eyes, they stood panting as they listened.
The carriage stopped.
Before they had a chance to find out why, or anyone came over the hill, they all, as one, ran for it, ran for a dunk in a distant pond to wash off the blood.
39
Dalton glanced up from the report when he heard the knock.
“Yes?”
The d
“Master Campbell, there’s someone out here wants to see you. Says his name is Inger. Says he’s a butcher.”
Dalton was busy and wasn’t in the mood to handle kitchen troubles. There were already enough troubles he needed to handle. There were any number of problems, running the gamut from the trifling to the serious, needing his attention.
The murder of Claudine Winthrop had created a sensation. She was well known and widely liked. She was important. The city was in an uproar. But, if a person knew how to properly handle such things, confusion created opportunity. Dalton was in his element.
He had made sure Stein was addressing the Directors of Cultural Amity at the time of the murder so no one would be able to raise any suspicion of him. A man with a cape of human scalps, even if they were taken in war, tended to raise suspicion.
The city guard had reported seeing Claudine Winthrop leaving Fairfield to walk back to the estate—commonly done, even at night; it was a heavily traveled road and previously believed perfectly safe. The guard reported, too, young Haken men gathered that night drinking before the murder. People naturally surmised she had been attacked by Hakens and loudly decried the incident as yet more proof of Haken hatred of Anders.
Guards now escorted people who walked at night.
There was a chorus of demands that the Minister do something. Edwin Winthrop, taken by the shock of his wife’s murder, was bedridden. From his bed he, too, sent demands for justice.
Several young men had later been arrested, but were released when it was proven they had been working at a farm the night of the murder. Men in a tavern the next night, emboldened by rum, went searching for the “Haken killers.” They found several Haken boys they were sure were guilty and beat them to death in front of cheering onlookers.
Dalton had written several speeches for the Minister and had issued orders in his name for a number of crisis measures. The murder gave the Minister an excuse to allude, in his fiery speeches, to those who opposed him for Sovereign as being responsible for stirring up contempt for the law and thus violence. He called for more stringent laws regulating “rancorous language.” His addresses to the Office of Cultural Amity, if not the new laws, weakened the knees of Directors suspicious of the Minister.