Soul of the Fire (23 page)

In return for keeping Richard in the world of life until he recovered, she had unwittingly pledged the chimes the one thing they needed in order to also remain in the world of life.

A soul. Richard’s soul.

But he would be safe at the Keep; the place where they had been called was a safe haven for the one pledged.

Zedd put half his tava bread to Nissel’s lips. She smiled and chomped a big bite. She fed him a bite of her tava bread, after touching it to the end of his nose first. The foolishness of this old healer putting a dot of honey on his nose, like some mischievous little girl, made him chuckle.

Finally, Ann asked, “What ever happened to your cat, Lurk?”

Zedd frowned as he puzzled, trying to recollect. “To tell you the truth, I don’t recall. So much was happening back then. The war with D’Hara—led by Richard’s other grandfather, Panis Rahl—was just igniting. The lives of thousands hung under threat. I was yet to be named First Wizard. Erilyn was pregnant with our daughter.

“
I guess with all that was going on, we just lost track of the cat. There are countless places in the Keep with mice; it probably found lurking about more appealing than two busy people.”

Zedd swallowed at the painful memories. “After I moved to Westland, and Richard was born, I always kept a cat as a reminder of Erilyn and home.”

Ann smiled in kind, sincere sympathy.

“
I hope you never named one ‘Lurk,’ so that Richard would have cause to suddenly recall the name.”

“
No,” Zedd whispered. “I never did.”

“
Fetch!” Master Drummond called out.

Fitch pressed his lips tight trying unsuccessfully, he knew, to keep his face from going red. His smiled politely as he trotted past the snickering women.

“
Yes, sir?”

Master Drummond wagged a hand toward the rear of the kitchen. “Fetch in some more of the apple wood.”

Fitch bowed with a “Yes, sir,” and headed toward the door out to the wood. Even though the kitchen was a fog of marvelous aromas, from sizzling butter and onions and spices to the mouthwatering savor of roasting meats, he was glad for the chance to get away from the crusty cauldrons. His fingers ached from scraping and scrubbing. He was glad, too, that Master Drummond didn’t ask for any oak. Fitch was relieved to have done one thing right by having brought in enough of the oak.

Trotting through the patches of warm sunlight on his way down to the heap of apple wood, he wondered again why Minister Chanboor had wanted to see Beata. She had certainly looked happy enough about it. Women seemed to go all giddy whenever they got a chance to meet the Minister.

Fitch didn’t see what was so special about the man. After all, he was starting to get gray in his hair; he was old. Fitch couldn’t imagine himself ever getting old enough to have gray hairs. Just thinking about it made his nose wrinkle with disgust.

When he reached the woodpile, something caught his eye. He put a hand to his brow, shielding his eyes from the sunlight as he peered over to the shade of the turn round. He’d assumed it was just another delivery, but it was Brownie, still standing there with the butcher’s cart.

He’d been busy in the kitchen and had thought Beata would have left long ago. There were any number of doors out, and he would have no way of knowing when she’d left. He’d just assumed she had.

It must have been an hour since she’d gone upstairs. Minister Chanboor probably wanted to give her a message for the butcher—some special request for his guests. Surely, he would have finished with her long ago.

So why was the cart still there?

Fitch bent and plucked a stick of apple wood. He shook his head in frustration; Minister Chanboor was probably telling her stories. Fitch hefted another billet from the woodpile. For some reason, women liked listening to the Minister’s stories, and he liked telling them. He was always talking to women, telling them stories. Sometimes, at dinners and feasts, they gathered around him in giggling groups. Maybe they were just being polite—he was an important man, after all.

No girls worried about being polite to him, and they never much liked listening to his stories, either. Fitch gathered up the armload of apple wood and headed for the kitchen. He thought his stories about getting drunk were pretty funny, but girls weren’t much interested in listening to them.

Morley liked his stories, at least. Morley, and the others who had pallets in the room where Fitch slept. They all liked telling each other stories, and they all liked to get drunk. There was nothing else to do on their rare time off from work and penance assembly.

At least at penance assembly they could sometimes talk to girls afterward, if their work was done and they didn’t have to get back to it. But Fitch, like the others, found assembly a depressing experience, hearing all those terrible things. Sometimes, when they got back, if they could filch some wine or ale, they would get drunk.

After Fitch had brought in a dozen armloads, Master Drummond snagged his sleeve and shoved a piece of paper into his hand.

“
Take this down to the brewer.”

Fitch bowed and said his “Yes, sir” before starting out. He couldn’t read the paper, but since there was going to be a feast and he’d carried such papers in the past, he guessed the columns of writing were probably orders for what the kitchen wanted brought up. He was glad for the errand because it didn’t involve any real work, and it gave him a chance to get away from the heat and noise of the kitchen for a time, even if he did enjoy the aromas and could occasionally snatch a delicious scrap—all that tempting food was for guests, not the help. Sometimes, though, he just wanted away from the noise and confusion.

The old brewer, his dark Ander hair mostly gone and what was left mostly turned white, grunted as he read the paper Fitch handed him. Rather than sending Fitch on his way, the brewer wanted him to lug in some heavy sacks of trial hops. It was a common behest; Fitch was just a scullion, and so everyone had the right to order him to do work for them. He sighed, figuring it was the price for the slow walk he’d had, and the one he’d have on the way back.

When he went out to the service doors where much of the estate goods were delivered, he noticed that across the way Brownie was still standing there with the butcher’s cart. He was relieved to see, stacked to the side of the loading dock, that there were only ten sacks to be lugged down to the brewery. When he’d finished with the sacks he was sent on his way.

Still catching his breath, he sauntered back through the service halls toward the kitchen, seeing few people, and all but one of them Haken servants so he had only to pause to bow that once. Echoing footsteps swished back to him as he climbed the flight of stairs up to the main floor and the kitchen. Just before going through the door, he paused.

He looked up at the stairwell’s square ascent all the way to the third floor. No one was on the stairs. No one was in the halls. Master Drummond would believe him when he explained that the brewer wanted sacks brought in. Master Drummond was busy with preparations for that night’s feast; he wouldn’t bother asking how many sacks, and even if he did, he wasn’t going to take the time to double-check.

Fitch was taking the steps two at a time almost before he’d realized that he’d decided to go have himself a quick look. At what, or for what, he wasn’t sure.

He’d been on the second floor only a few times, and the third floor only once, just the week before to take the Minister’s new aide, Dalton Campbell, an evening meal he’d ordered down to the kitchen. Fitch had been told by an Ander underling to leave the tray of sliced meats on the table in the empty office. The upper floors, in the west wing with the kitchen where Fitch worked, was where a number of officials’ offices were located.

The Minister’s offices were supposed to be on the third floor. From the stories Fitch had heard, the Minister had a number of offices. Why he would need more than one, Fitch couldn’t guess. No one had ever explained it.

The first and second floor of the west wing, Fitch had heard it said, were where the vast Anderith Library was located. The library was a store of the land’s rich and exemplary culture, drawing scholars and other important people to the estate. Anderith culture was a source of pride and the envy of all, Fitch had been taught.

The third floor of the east wing was the Minister’s family quarters. His daughter, younger than Fitch by a maybe two or three years and dirt plain as Fitch heard it told, had gone off to an academy of some sort. He had only seen her from a distance, but he’d judged the description fair. Older servants sometimes whispered about an Ander guard who was put in chains because the Minister’s daughter, Marcy or Marcia, depending on who was telling the story, accused him of something. Fitch had heard versions running from he was doing nothing but standing quietly guarding in a hall, to eavesdropping on her, to rape.

Voices echoed up the stairwell. Fitch paused with a foot on the next step, listening, every muscle stiff and still. As he remained motionless, it turned out to be someone passing along the first-floor hall, below. They weren’t coming upstairs.

Thankfully, the Minister’s wife, Lady Hildemara Chanboor, rarely came into the west wing where Fitch worked. Lady Chanboor was one Ander who made even other Anders tremble. She had a foul temper and was never pleased with anyone or anything. She had dismissed staff just because they’d glanced up at her as they passed her in a hall.

People who knew had told Fitch that Lady Chanboor had a face to match her temper: ugly. The unfortunate staff who had looked up at Lady Chanboor as they passed her in the hall were put out on the spot. Fitch learned they’d become beggars.

Fitch had heard the women in the kitchen say that Lady Chanboor would go unseen for weeks because the Minister would have enough of one thing or another from his wife and give her a black eye. Others said that she was just on a drunken binge. One old maid whispered that she went off with a lover from time to time.

Fitch reached the top step. There was no one in the halls of the third floor. Sunlight streamed in windows trimmed with gauzy lace to fall across bare wooden floors. Fitch paused on the landing at the top of the stairs. It had doors on three sides and the stairs on the other to his back. He looked down empty halls running left and right, not knowing if he dared walk down them.

He could be stopped by any number of people, from messengers to guards, and asked to explain what he was doing there. What could he say? Fitch didn’t think he wanted to be a beggar.

As much as he didn’t like to work, he did like to eat. He seemed to always be hungry. The food wasn’t as good as what was served to the important people of the household or to the guests, but it was decent, and he got enough. And when no one was watching, he and his friends did get to drink wine and ale. No, he didn’t want to be put out to be a beggar.

He took a careful step into the center of the landing. His knee almost buckled and he nearly cried out as he felt something sharp stick him. There, under his bare foot, was a pin with a spiral end. The pin Beata used to close the collar of her dress.

Fitch picked it up, not knowing what it could mean. He could take it and give it to her later, possibly to her joy to have it returned. But maybe not. Maybe he should leave it where he’d found it, rather than have to explain to anyone, Beata especially, how he’d come to have it. Maybe she’d want to know what he was doing going up there; she’d been invited, he hadn’t. Maybe she’d think he’d been spying on her.

He was bending to put the pin back when he saw movement—shadows—in the light coming from under one of the tall doors ahead. He cocked his head. He thought he heard Beata’s voice, but he wasn’t sure. He did hear muffled laughter.

Fitch checked right and left again. He saw no one. It wouldn’t be like he was going down a hall. He would just be stepping across the landing at the top of the stairs. If anyone asked, he could say he was only intending to step into a hall to get a look at the view of the beautiful grounds from the third floor—to look out over the wheat fields that surrounded the capital city of Fairfield, the pride of Anderith.

That seemed plausible to him. They might yell but, surely, they wouldn’t put him out. Not for looking out a window. Surely.

His heart pounded. His knees trembled. Before he could consider if it was a foolish risk, he tiptoed across to the heavy, four-panel door. He heard what sounded like a woman’s whimpers. But he also heard chuckling, and a man panting.