Soul of the Fire

Now the aide's smile truly did take hold. "Yes, I do believe you have potential. Should you hear any… lies, about the Minister, I would appreciate knowing about it." He gestured toward the stairs. "Now, you had best get back to the kitchen."

"Yes, sir, if I hear any such thing, I'll bring it to you." Fitch made for the stairs. "I'd not want anyone lying about the Minister. That would be wrong."

"Young man-Fitch, was it?"

Fitch turned back from the top step. "Yes, sir. Fitch."

Dalton Campbell crossed his arms and turned his head to peer with one questioning eye. "What have you learned at penance about protecting the Sovereign?"

"The Sovereign?" Fitch rubbed his palms on his trousers. "Well… um… that anything done to protect our Sovereign is a virtue?"

"Very good." Arms still folded, he leaned toward Fitch. "And, since you have heard that Minister Chanboor is likely to be named Sovereign, then…?"

The man expected an answer. Fitch groped wildly for it. He cleared his throat, at last. "Well… I guess… that if he's to be named Sovereign, then maybe he ought to be protected the same?"

By the way Dalton Campbell smiled as he straightened his back, Fitch knew he'd hit upon the right answer. "You may indeed have potential to move up in the household."

"Thank you, sir. I would do anything to protect the Minister, seeing as how he'll be Sovereign one day. It's my duty to protect him in any way I can."

"Yes…” Dalton Campbell drawled in an odd way. He cocked his head, catlike, as he considered Fitch. "If you prove to be helpful in… whatever way we might need in order to protect the Minister, it would go a long way toward clearing your debt."

Fitch's ears perked up. "My debt, sir?"

"Like I told Morley, if he proves to be of use to the Minister, it might be that he could even earn himself a sir name, and a certificate signed by the Sovereign to go with it. You seem a bright lad. I would expect no less might be in your future."

Fitch's jaw hung open. Earning a sir name was one of his dreams. A certificate signed by the Sovereign proved to all that a Haken had paid his debt and was to be recognized with a sir name, and respected. His mind tumbled backward to what he'd just heard.

"Morley? Scullion Morley?"

"Yes, didn't he tell you I talked to him?"

Fitch scratched behind an ear, trying to imagine that Morley would have kept such astonishing news from him.

"Well, no, sir. He never said nothing. He's about my best friend; I'd recall if he'd said such a thing. I'm sorry, but he never did."

Dalton Campbell stroked a finger against the silver of the scabbard at his hip as he watched Fitch's eyes: "I told him not to mention it to anyone." He arched an eyebrow. "That kind of loyalty pays plums. I expect no less from you. Do you understand, Fitch?"

Fitch surely did. "Not a soul. Just like Morley. I got it, Master Campbell."

Dalton Campbell nodded as he smiled to himself. "Good." He again rested a hand on the hilt of his magnificent sword. "You know, Fitch, when a Haken has his debt paid, and earns his sir name, that signed certificate entitles him to carry a sword."

Fitch's eyes widened. "It does? I never knew."

The tall Ander smiled a stately farewell and with a noble flourish turned and started off down the hall. "Back to work, then, Fitch. Glad to have made your acquaintance. Perhaps we will speak again one day."

Before anyone else caught him up there, Fitch raced down the stairs. Confounding thoughts swirled through his head. Thinking again about Beata, and what had happened, he just wanted the day to end so he could get himself good and drunk.

He ached with sorrow for Beata, but it was the Minister, the Minister she admired, the Minister who would someday be Sovereign, that Fitch had seen on her. Besides, she struck him, a terrible thing for a Haken to do, even to another Haken, although he wasn't certain the prohibition extended to women. But even if it didn't, that wouldn't make him feel any less miserable about it.

For some unfathomable reason, she hated him, now.

He ached to get drunk.

CHAPTER 16

"Fetch! Here, Boy! Fetch!"

Usually, when Master Drummond called him by that name, Fitch knew he blushed with humiliation, but this time he was in such anguish over what he had seen upstairs earlier that he hardly felt any shame over so petty a thing. Master Drummond's talking down to him as if he were dirt could not match Beata's hating him, and hitting him.

It had been a couple of hours, but his face still throbbed where, she'd clouted him, so he was clear on that much of it: she hated him. It confused and confounded him, but he was sure she hated him. It seemed to him she should be angry at someone, anyone, besides him.