Soul of the Fire

Fitch made two turns and in short order found the room he wanted. It was deserted. Carrying a lamp, they both slipped inside and shut the door.

"Fitch, are you crazy, shutting us in here? We could be halfway to Fairfield by now."

Fitch licked his lips. "Who are they looking for, Morley?"

"Us!"

"No, I mean, from the way they're thinking, who are they looking for. A messenger, and a kitchen scullion, right?"

Morley scratched his head as he kept looking at the door. "I guess."

"Well, this is the estate supply room-where they keep some of the livery. Before a seamstress fitted me up with my uniform, I got one from down here to wear till she was done with mine."

"Well, if you got your uniform, then what are we doing-"

"Take off your clothes."

"Why?"

Fitch growled in frustration. "Morley, they're looking for a messenger and a scullion. If you put on a messenger's outfit, then we'll be two messengers."

Morley's eyebrows went up. "Oh. That's a good idea."

In a rush Morley stripped out of his filthy scullion clothes. Fitch held out the lamp as he searched the shelves for outfits of messengers for the Minister's aide. He- tossed Morley some dark brown trousers.

"Do these fit?"

Morley stepped into the legs and pulled them up. "Good enough."

Fitch pulled out a white shirt with ruffled collar. "How about this?"

Fitch watched as Morley tried to button it. It was too small to fit over Morley's broad shoulders.

"Fold it back up," Fitch said as he searched for another.

Morley tossed the shirt aside. "Why bother?"

"Pick it up and fold it back up. You want us to get caught? I don't want it to look like we was down here. If they don't know someone took clothes, then we can get away better."

"Oh," Morley said. He plucked up the shirt and started folding with his big hands.

Fitch handed him another that was only just a little too big. In short order Fitch found a sleeved doublet quilted with an interlocking cornucopia design. The edges were trimmed with the distinctive brown and black braided-wheat banding of Dalton Campbell's messengers.

Morley poked his arms through the sleeves. It fit fine.

"How do I look?"

Fitch held up the lamp. He let out a low whistle. His friend was built a lot stouter than Fitch. In the messenger uniform Morley looked almost noble. Fitch never thought of his friend as good-looking, but now he was a sight.

"Morley, you look better than Rowley does." 'Morley grinned. "Really?" The grin vanished. "Let's get out of here."

Fitch pointed. "Boots. You need boots, or you'll look foolish. Here, put on these stockings or you'll get blisters."

Morley hauled up the stockings and then sat on the floor while he matched up boot soles with the bottom of his foot until he found a pair that fit. Fitch told him to pick up all his old clothes so no one would know they had been there and taken an outfit, if they even discovered it missing- there was a lot of livery stored in the room and it wasn't orderly enough to tell if one outfit was gone.

When they heard boots in the hall, Fitch blew out the lamp. He and Morley stood frozen in the dark. They were too terrified to breathe. The boots came closer. Fitch wanted to run, but if they did they would have to run out the door, and that was where the men were.

Men. He realized it was boots from two men. Guards. Guards making their rounds.

Once again, Fitch felt panic at the idea of being put to death before a jeering crowd. Sweat trickled down his back.

The door opened.

Fitch could see the man, standing with his hand on the doorknob, outlined in the dim light from the hall. He could see the sword at the man's hip.

Fitch and Morley were back a ways in the room, in an aisle between shelves. The long rectangle of light from the doorway fell across the floor and came almost right up to Fitch's boots. He held his breath. He dared not move a muscle.

Maybe, he thought, the guard, his eyes accustomed to the light, didn't see the two of them standing there in the dark.

The guard closed the door and walked on with his fellow, who was opening other doors in the hall. The sound of footsteps receded into the distance.

"Fitch," Morley said in a shaky whisper, "I'd be needing to relieve myself something awful. Can we get out of here? Please?"

Fitch had to force his voice to return. "Sure."

He made for where he remembered seeing the door in the pitch blackness. The light of the empty hall was a — welcoming sight. The two of them hurried on to the nearest way out, the service entrance not far from the brewer's room. Along their way they dumped Morley's old clothes in the rag bin near the service dock.

They heard the old brewer singing a drunken song. Morley wanted to stop and lift something to drink. Fitch licked his lips as he considered Morley's idea. It sounded good to him, too. He surely would like a drink right then.

"No," he finally whispered. "I'd not like to be put to death for a drink. We have plenty of money. We can buy a drink later. I don't want to be here a second longer than necessary."