Soul of the Fire (61 page)

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 smile 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.”

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.

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.