Soul of the Fire

"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."

CHAPTER 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.

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.