温馨提醒：系统正在全面升级。您可以访问最新站点。谢谢！
"No, Gillie-I wasn't-I swear. I have nothing but respect for the Ander people. I daily school my vile nature so there may be no room in my heart or mind for hate or spite, and I pray the Creator gives me strength to transform my flawed soul, and that he burns me for eternity should I fail," he prated by rote. "I'll get the skimmers for you, Gillie. Please, let me get them?"
She shoved his head. "Go on then, and be quick."
Comforting his throbbing ear, Fitch raced to the rack where he'd left the skimmers to dry. He snatched a handful and bore them to Gillie with as much respect as he could muster, considering that Master Drummond was watching out of the corner of his eye, no doubt thinking about beating him for not having the skimmers to Gillie sooner so he could be doing as ordered and have the cauldron hung and the firewood on its way in.
He bowed as he held out the skimmers.
"I hope you see fit to take yourself to an extra penance assembly this week." Gillie snatched up the skimmers. 'The humiliations from your kind we Anders must endure," she muttered with a rueful shake of her head.
"Yes, Gillie, I need the reassurance of an extra penance. Thank you for reminding me."
When she snorted her contempt and turned to her work, Fitch, feeling the shame of having thoughtlessly let his wicked nature demean an Ander, hurried off to get one of the other scullions to help him lift the heavy cauldron onto the racking crook. He found Morley up to his elbows in scalding water and only too happy for any excuse to pull them free, even for heavy lifting.
Morley checked over his shoulder as -he helped lift the iron cauldron. It wasn't as hard for him as it was for Fitch.
Fitch was gangly; Morley had a muscular build.
Morley 【创建和谐家园】iled conspiratorially. "Big affair tonight. You know what that means."
Fitch 【创建和谐家园】iled that he did. With all the guests, there would be the noise of laughter, shouting, singing, eating, and drinking. With all that, and people running hither and yon, wine and ale would be in endless supply, and whether in half-full glasses or half-full bottles, it would be little missed.
"It means one of the only advantages of working for the Minister of Culture," Fitch said.
Morley, the cords in his muscular neck straining from the weight, leaned closer over the cauldron as they lugged it across the floor. "Then you'd better be more respectful of the Ander people or you'll not have that advantage. Nor the one of a roof over your head and meals to fill your belly."
Fitch nodded. He hadn't meant to be disrespectful-that was the last thing he would want to do; he owed everything to the Anders. But every now and then, he felt the Anders took offense too easily, though he knew it was his insensitivity and ignorance that lead to such misunderstandings, so he guessed he had no one to blame but himself.
As soon as the cauldron was hung, Fitch rolled his eyes and hung his tongue out the side of his mouth, intimating to Morley that they would drink themselves sick that night. Morley swiped his red Haken hair back from his face and simulated a drunken, if silent, hiccup before plunging his arms back into the soapy water.
【创建和谐家园】iling, Fitch trotted out the postern to retrieve the firewood. The recent drenching rains had moved east, leaving behind the sweet aroma of fresh, damp earth. The new spring day promised to be warm. In the distance, the lush fields of verdant new wheat shimmered in the sun. On some days, when the wind was from the south, the 【创建和谐家园】ell of the .sea drifted in to wash over the fields, but not today, though a few gulls wheeled in the sky.
Fitch checked the avenue each time he trotted back out for another armload, but didn't see the butcher's cart. His tunic was damp with sweat by the time he'd finished with the oak. He'd managed to hustle it in with only one splinter, a long one, in the web of his thumb.
As he plucked billets from the mound of apple wood, he caught the rhythmic creaking of an approaching cart. Sucking at the painful oak splinter, trying unsuccessfully to catch hold of the buried end with his teeth, he surreptitiously glanced to the shade of the great oaks lining the long avenue into the estate and saw the plodding gait of Brownie, the butcher's swayback horse. Whoever was bringing the load was on the other side of the cart. With that, and the distance, he couldn't tell who it was.
Besides the butcher's cart, a number of other people were also arriving at the sprawling estate; everyone from scholars visiting the Anderith Library, to servants bringing messages and reports, to workers bringing wagons with deliveries. There were also a number of well-dressed people coming with some other purpose.
When first Fitch had come to work in the kitchen, he had found it, and the whole estate, a huge and baffling place. He had been intimidated by everyone and everything, knowing it would be his new home and he had to learn to fit into the work if he was to have a sleeping pallet and food.
His mother had told him to work hard and with luck he would always have both. She had warned him to mind his betters, do as he was told, and even if he thought the rules harsh, follow them. She said that if the behests were onerous, he should still do them without comment, and especially without complaint.
Fitch didn't have a father, one he knew anyway, though at times there had been men he'd thought might marry his mother. She had a room provided by her employer, a merchant named Ibson. It was in the city, beside Mr. Ibson's home, in a building that housed other of his workers. His mother worked in the kitchen, cooking meals. She could cook anything.
She was always hard-pressed to feed Fitch, though, and wasn't able to watch over him much of the time. When he wasn't at penance assembly, she often took him to work with her, where she could keep an eye on him. There, he turned spits, "carried this and that, washed 【创建和谐家园】aller items, swept the courtyard, and. often had to clean out the stables where some of Mr. Ibson's wagon horses were kept.
His mother had been good to him, whenever she saw him, anyway. He knew she cared about him and about what would become of him. Not like some of the men she occasionally saw. They viewed Fitch as little more than an annoyance. Some, wanting to be alone with his mother, opened the door to his mother's single room and heaved him out for the night.
Fitch's mother would wring her hands, but she was too timid to stop the men from putting him out.
When the men put him out, he'd have to sleep on the doorstep to the street, under a stairway, or at a neighbor's, if they were of a mind to let him in. Sometimes, if it was raining, the night stablehands at Mr. Ibson's place next door would let him sleep in the stables. He liked being with the horses, but he didn't like having to endure the flies.
But enduring the flies was better than being caught alone at night by Ander boys.
Early the next day his mother would go off to work, usually with her man friend who worked in the household, too, and Fitch would get to go back inside. When she'd come home on the days after he'd been shoved out for the night, she'd usually bring him some treat she'd filched from the kitchen where she worked.
His mother had wanted him to learn a trade, but she didn't know anyone who would take him on as a helper, much less as an apprentice, so, about four years before, when he was old enough to earn his own meals, Mr. Ibson helped her place him for work in the kitchen at the Minister of Culture's estate, not far outside the capital city of Fairfield.
Upon his arrival, one of the household clerks had sat Fitch down along with a few other new people and explained the rules of the house, where he would sleep with the other scullions and such, and what his duties were to be. The clerk explained in grave tones the importance of the place where they labored; from the estate, the Minister of Culture directed the affairs of his high office, overseeing nearly every aspect of life in Anderith. The estate was also his home. The post of Minister of Culture was second only to that of the Sovereign himself.
Fitch had simply thought he'd been sent to some merchant's kitchen to work; he'd had no idea his mother had managed to get him placed in such a high household. He'd been immensely proud. Later, he found that it was hard work, like any other work, in any other place. There was nothing glamorous about it. But still, he was proud that he, a Haken, worked in the Minister's estate.
Other than what Fitch had been taught about the Minister making laws and such to insure that Anderith culture remained exemplary and the rights of all were protected, Fitch didn't really understand what the Minister of Culture did that required so many people coming and going all the time. He didn't even understand why there needed to be new laws all the time. After all, right was right, and wrong was wrong. He'd asked an Ander once, and had been told that new wrongs were continually being uncovered, and needed to be addressed. Fitch didn't understand that, either, but hadn't said so. Just asking the first question had brought a scowl to the Ander's face.
Unable to pull out the oak splinter, he bent to pick up a stick of apple wood while keeping an eye to the avenue and the butcher's cart. One of the approaching strangers, a brawny man in unfamiliar military attire, wore an odd cloak that almost looked to Fitch like it was covered in patches of hair.
Each of the man's fingers was ringed, with a leather strap from each of those rings going over a knuckle to a studded black leather bracer around his wrists and forearms. Silver studs girded his boots, too. Fitch was stunned to see the glint of metal studs in the man's ear and nose.
The man's leather belts held weapons the likes of which Fitch had never even conjured in his nightmares. Riding in a hanger at his right hip was an axe with the great horns of its blade curling back around until they almost touched. A wooden handle, dark with age and use, had a spiked ball attached to its top via a chain. A long spike, like a single talon, capped the bottom of the handle.
The man's thatch of thick dark hair made him look as if he were possibly an Ander, but his thick brow spoke that he wasn't. The tangle of dark hair fell around a bull neck that must have been nearly as big around as Fitch's waist. Even at a distance, the sight of the man made Fitch's stomach go queasy.
As the stranger passed the slow butcher's cart, the man drank in a long look at the person on the other side of Brownie. He finally moved on, turning his attention back to the windows of the estate, searching them, too, with dark intent.
CHAPTER 13
Knowing better than to stand and wait for the cart to make it the rest of the way up the avenue to the lane to the kitchen yard, Fitch hurriedly gathered up an armload of apple wood and lugged it inside. In his haste to be back outside, he heaved it all into the bin without thinking, but over the people talking and calling out, the sounds of myriad foods sizzling in pans, the crackle of the fires, the rapping of spoons in bowls, the grinding of pestles in mortars, the rasp of brushes, and the general clatter of everyone working, no one heard his wood carelessly thunking home. Some spilled out, and he was going to leave it, but when he spied Master Drummond not far off, he dropped to his knees and quickly stacked the wood in the bin.
When he rushed back out, his heart hammering, his breath caught up short when he saw who'd brought the butcher's cart.
It was her.
Fitch wrung his hands as he watched her leading Brownie into the turn round. His hand-wringing twisted the splinter lying under his flesh, making him grimace. He cursed under his breath, then snapped his mouth shut, hoping she hadn't heard. He trotted over to the cart, shaking the stinging hand to dispel the pain.
"Good day, Beata."
She only glanced up. "Fitch."
He groped for something to say, but couldn't think of anything meaningful. He stood mute as she clucked her tongue, urging Brownie to back up. One hand held the trace chain as her other hand stroked the horse's chest, guiding, reassuring, as he clopped backward. What Fitch wouldn't give to have that hand touch him in such a gentle manner.
Her short red hair, so soft, so lustrous, so fetching the way its fullness tapered to turn in and caress the nape of her neck, ruffled in the warm spring breeze.
Fitch waited beside the cart, fearing to say something stupid and have Beata think him a fool. Even though he thought about her often, he figured thoughts about him probably never passed through her mind. That was one thing, but to have her think him a fool would be unbearable. He wished he knew some interesting bit of news, or something to make her have pleasant thoughts about him.
Expressionless, Beata gestured as she walked back to the cart where he stood. "What's wrong with your hand?"
The shape of her, so close, paralyzed him. The dusky blue dress swept up from the top of the flare of the long skirt, hugging her ribs, swelling over her bosom in a way that made him have to swallow to get his breath. Worn wooden buttons marched up the front. A pin with a simple spiral head held the collar closed at her throat.
It was an old dress; she was, after all, a Haken, like him, and not deserving of better. Edges of the blue fabric were frayed here and there, and it faded a little at the shoulders, but Beata made it look somehow majestic.
With an impatient sigh, she snatched up his hand to look for herself.
"It's nothing ... it's a splinter," he stammered.
She turned his hand over, laying it palm up in her other as she pinched up the skin to inspect the splinter's depth. He was stunned by the unexpected warm touch of her hand holding his. He was horrified to see that his hands, from being in the hot soapy water cleaning pots and cauldrons, were cleaner than her hands. He feared she would think he did no work.
"I was washing pots," he explained. "Then I had to bring in oak. Lots of heavy oak. That's why I'm sweating."
Without a word, Beata pulled the pin from the top of her dress. The neckline fell open a few inches, revealing the hollow at the base of her neck. His jaw went slack at seeing so much of her, so much she ordinarily kept hidden. He wasn't worthy of her help, much less to look upon the flesh at her throat she meant to be kept hidden. He made himself look away.
Fitch yelped when he felt the sharp pin probe. Frowning in concentration, she- absently muttered an apology as she dug at the splinter. Trying not to contort his face with pain, he instead curled his toes against the dirt as he waited.
He felt a deep, sharp, painful tug. She briefly inspected the long, needle-like oak splinter she'd pulled out, and then tossed it aside. She closed her collar and secured it once again with the pin.
"There you go," she said, turning to the cart. "Thank you, Beata." She nodded. "That was very kind." He followed in her steps. "Uh, I'm to help you take in the load."
He dragged a huge hind section of beef to the end of the cart and ducked under to hoist it onto his shoulder. The weight nearly buckled his knees. When he managed to get it wheeled around, he saw Beata already going up the path with a fat net full of pullets in one hand, and a section of mutton ribs balanced on the other shoulder, so she didn't see his mighty effort.
Inside, Judith, the pantler, told him to get a list of everything the butcher had sent. He bowed and promised he would, but inwardly, he cringed.
When they returned to the cart, Beata ticked off the cargo for him, slapping a hand to each item as she called it out. She knew he couldn't read and so had to commit the list to memory. She took care to make each item clear. There was pork, mutton, ox, beaver, and beef, three crocks of marrow, eight fat skins of fresh blood, a half-barrel of pig stomachs for stuffing, two dozen geese, a basket of doves, and three nets of pullets, counting the one she had already taken in.
"I know I put..." Beata pulled over a net of the pullets, looking for something. "Here it is," she said. "I feared for a moment I didn't have them." She dragged it free. "And a sack of sparrows. The Minister of Culture always wants sparrows for his feasts."
Fitch could feel the heat of his face going red. Everyone knew sparrows, and sparrow eggs, were consumed to stimulate lust-although he couldn't fathom why; lust hardly seemed to him in need of any more stirring. When Beata looked up into his eyes to see if he'd added it to his mental list, he felt the overwhelming need to say something- anything-to change the subject.
"Beata, do you think we'll ever be absolved of our ancestral crimes, and be as pure of heart as the Ander people?"
Her 【创建和谐家园】ooth brow twitched. "We are Haken. We can never be as good as the Ander; our souls are corrupt and unable to be pure; their souls are pure, and unable to be corrupt. We cannot ever be completely cleansed; we can only hope to control our vile nature."
Fitch knew the answer as well as she. Asking probably made her think him hopelessly ignorant. He was never any good at explaining his thoughts in a way that spoke what he really meant.
He wanted to pay his debt-gain absolution-and earn a sir name. Not many Hakens ever achieved that privilege. He could never do as he wished until he could do that much. He hung his head as he sought to amend his question.
"But, I mean ... after all this time, haven't we learned the errors of our ancestors' ways? Don't you want to have more of a say in your own life?"
"I am Haken. I am not worthy of deciding my destiny. You should know that down that path lies wickedness."
He picked at the torn flesh where she'd taken out the splinter. "But some Hakens serve in ways that go toward absolution. You said once that you might join the army. I'd like to join, too."
"You are male Haken. You are not allowed to touch weapons. You should know that, too, Fitch."
"I didn't mean to say ... I know I can't. I just meant-I don't know." He shoved his hands in his back pockets. "I just meant that I wish I could, that's all, so that I could do good-prove myself. Help those who we've made to suffer."
"I understand." She gestured to the windows on the upper floors. "It is the Minister of Culture himself who passed the law allowing Haken women to serve in the army, along with the Ander women. That law also says all must show respect to those Haken women. The Minister is compassionate to all people. The Haken women owe him a great debt."
Fitch knew he wasn't getting across what he really meant. "But don't you want to marry and-"
"He also passed the law that Haken women must be given work so that we might feed ourselves without having to marry and be slaves to the Haken men, for it is their nature to enslave, and given the chance through marriage, they will even do it with their own kind. Minister Chanboor is a hero to all Haken women.
"He should be a hero to Haken men, too, because he brings culture to you, so that you may give over your warlike ways and come into the community of peaceful people. I may decide to join because serving in the army is a means by which Haken women may earn respect. It is the law. Minister Chanboor's law."
Fitch felt as if he were at penance. "I respect you, Beata, even though you aren't in the army. I know you will do good for people whether or not you join the army. You are a good person."
Beata's heat faltered. She lifted one shoulder in a little shrug. The edge in her voice softened. "The main reason I might one day join the army is like you say-to help people and do good. I, too, want to do good."
Fitch envied her. In the army she would be able to help communities facing difficulties with everything from floods to famine. The army helped needy people. People in the army were respected.
And, it wasn't like the past, when being in the army could be dangerous. Not with the Dominie Dirtch. If the Dominie Dirtch were ever unleashed, it could school any opponent into submission without those in the army having to do battle. Thankfully, the Anders were in charge of the Dominie Dirtch, now, and they would only use such a weapon to keep peace-never to intentionally bring harm.
The Dominie Dirtch was the one thing Haken that the Anders used. The Ander people could never have conceived such a thing themselves-they were not capable of even thinking the vile thoughts that must have been required to conceive such a weapon. Only Hakens could have created a weapon of such outright evil.
"Or I might hope to be sent here to work, like you were," Beata added.
Fitch looked up. She was staring at the windows on the third floor. He almost said something, but instead closed his mouth. She stared up at the windows as she went on.
"He walked into Inger's place once, and I actually saw him. Bertrand-I mean Minister Chanboor-is much more attractive to look upon than Inger the butcher."
Fitch didn't know how to judge such things in a man, not with the way women fussed over men Fitch thought unattractive. Minister Chanboor was tall and perhaps had once been good-looking, but he was starting to get wisps of gray in his dark Ander hair. Women in the kitchen all giggled to each other over the man. When he came into the room, some reddened and had to fan then: faces as they sighed. He seemed repulsively old to Fitch.
"Everyone says the Minister is a very charming man. Do you ever see him? Or talk with him? I heard that he even speaks with Hakens, just like regular folks. Everyone speaks so highly of him.
"I've heard Ander people say that one day he will likely be the Sovereign."
Fitch sank back against the cart. "I've seen him a couple of times." He didn't bother to tell her that Minister Chanboor had once cuffed him when he'd dropped a dull butter knife right near the Minister's foot. He'd deserved the 【创建和谐家园】ack.
He glanced back at her. She was still looking up at the windows. Fitch gazed down at the ruts in the damp dirt. "Everyone likes and respects the Minister of Culture. I am joyous to be able to work for such a fine man, even though I am unworthy. It is a mark of his noble heart that he would give Hakens work so that we won't starve."
Beata suddenly glanced around self-consciously as she brushed her hands clean on her skirts. He sought once more to try to make her see his worthwhile intentions.
"I hope someday to do good. To contribute to the community. To help people."
Beata nodded approvingly. He felt emboldened by that approval. Fitch lifted his chin.
"I hope one day to have my debt paid and earn my sir name, and then to travel to Aydindril, to the Wizard's Keep, to ask the wizards to name me the Seeker of Truth, and present me with the Sword of Truth so that I might return to protect the Ander people and do good."
Beata blinked at him. And then she laughed.
"You don't even know where Aydindril is, or how far it is." She shook her head between her fits of laughter.
He did too know where Aydindril was. "North and east," he mumbled.
"The Sword of Truth is said to be a thing of magic. Magic is vile and dirty and evil. What do you know about magic?"
"Well... nothing, I guess-"