Soul of the Fire

Chapter 17

Unbuttoning the top button of his doublet, Dalton Campbell, with his other hand, nudged the tall mahogany door to their quarters until he felt the latch click home. At once, the balm of quiet began to soothe him. It had been a long day, and it was far from over; there was still the feast to attend.

“Teresa,” he called across the sitting room back toward the bedroom, “it’s me.”

He wished they could stay in. Stay in and make love. His nerves needed the diversion. Later, perhaps. If business didn’t interfere.

He unfastened another button and tugged open the collar as he yawned. The fragrance of lilacs filled his lungs. Heavy blue moire drapes at the far windows were drawn against the darkening sky, leaving the room to perfumed mellow lamplight, scented candles, and the flickering glow of a low fire in the hearth, burning for the cheer it brought, rather than the need of heat.

He noted the dark violet carpet and its wheat-colored fringe looked freshly brushed. The gilded chairs were angled to show off the tawny leather seats and backs as they posed beside elegant tables set with lush sprays of fresh flowers. The plush throws and pillows on the couches were set just so, the deliberate precision meant to convey a casual intimacy with luxury.

Dalton expected his wife to oversee the staff and insure that the quarters were kept presentable for business as well as entertaining, which were, although approached differently, one and the same. Teresa would know that with a feast that night, it was even more likely he would ask someone back to their apartments—someone important. That could be anyone from a dignitary to an inconspicuous pair of eyes and ears.

They were all important, in their own way, all meshing into the cobweb he worked, listening, watching, for any tiny little tug. Crowded feasts were concentrated confusion, alive with drinking, conversation, commotion, and emotion. They often provided opportunities to forge alliances, reinforce loyalties, or enforce fealties—to tend his cobweb.

Teresa stuck her head past the doorframe, grinning her joy upon seeing him. “There’s my sweetheart.”

Despite the weary mood enveloping him as he had closed the door behind, shutting out the day’s troubles if only for the moment, he smiled helplessly at her dark, sparkling eyes. “Tess, my darling. Your hair looks grand.” A gold comb decorated the front lift of the full top. The wealth of dangling dark tresses were tied with an abundance of sequined gold ribbons that added to her hair’s length, almost forming a collar. Parting as she leaned forward, the sparkling strips teasingly revealed her graceful neck.

In her mid-twenties, she was younger than he by nearly ten years. Dalton thought her a ravishing creature beyond compare—a bonus to her allure of trenchant commitment to objectives. He could scarcely believe that a short six months ago she had finally and at long last become his wife. Others had been in contention, some of greater standing, but none with more ambition.

Dalton Campbell was not a man to be denied. Anyone who took him lightly came to a day of reckoning, when they learned better than to underestimate him, or came to regret the mistake.

Nearly a year ago, when he had asked her to be his wife, she had quizzed him, asking, in that velvet bantering manner of hers that often cloaked the steel of her aims, if he was really a man who intending on going places, as she certainly meant to rise up in the world. At the time, he had been an assistant to the magistrate in Fairfield, not an unimportant job, but only a convenient port as far as he was concerned, a place to gather his resources and cultivate connections.

He had not played into her chaffing questions, but instead assured her in all sobriety that he was a man on the way up, and no other man she was seeing, despite his present station, had any chance of approaching Dalton Campbell’s future stature. She had been taken aback by his solemn declaration. It wiped the smile off her face. On the spot, in the spell of his conviction, the truth of his purpose, she consented to marry him.

She had been pleased to learn the reliability of his predictions. As plans proceeded for their wedding, he was awarded a better appointment. In their first few months of marriage, they had moved three times, always to improved quarters, and as a result of advanced positions.

The public who had cause to know of him, either because of his reputation or because of their dealings with Anderith government, valued his keen understanding of Anderith law. Dalton Campbell was widely recognized for his brilliant insight into the complexities of the law, the fortress bedrock it was built upon, the intricate structure of its wisdom and precedent, and the scope of its protective walls.

The men for whom Dalton worked appreciated his vast understanding of the law, but valued most his knowledge of the law’s arcane passages, burrows, and obscure openings out of dark traps and corners. They also valued his ability to swiftly abandon the law when the situation required a different solution, one the law couldn’t provide. In such cases, he was just as inventive, and just as effective.

In no more time than a snap of the fingers, it seemed, Teresa easily adjusted to the meliorated circumstances in which she regularly found herself, taking up the novel task of directing household staff with the aplomb of one who had been doing it for the whole of her life.

Only weeks before, he had won the top post at the Minister’s estate. Teresa had been jubilant to learn they would be taking on luxurious charters in such a prestigious place. She now found herself a woman of standing among women of rank and privilege.

She might have been overjoyed, nearly tearing off his clothes to have him on—the spot when he told her the news, but the truth be known, she had expected no less.

If there was one person who shared his ruthless ambition, it was Teresa.

“Oh, Dalton, will you tell me what dignitaries will be at the feast? I can’t stand the suspense a moment longer.”

He yawned again as he stretched. He knew she had her own cobwebs to tend. “Boring dignitaries.”

“But the Minister will be there.”

“Yes.”

“Well, silly, he’s not boring. And I’ve gotten to know some of the women, the wives, of the estate. They’re all grand people. Good as I could have hoped. Their husbands are all important.”

She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip in a sly, teasing gesture. “Just not as important as my husband.”

“Tess, my darling,” he said with a smile, “you could inspire a dead man to become important for you.”

She winked and then disappeared. “There were several messages slipped under the door for you,” she called back from the other room. “They’re in the desk.”

The elegant desk in the corner glowed like a dark gem. Made of polished elm burl, each panel of quartered, book-matched veneer was outlined with diamond-patterned banding of alternating plain and dyed maple. Each dark diamond was inset with a dot of gold. The legs were varnished to a deep luster, rather than gilded, as were the legs of most of the other furniture in the room. In the secret compartment behind, an upper drawer, there were several sealed messages. He broke the seals and scanned each message, assessing its importance. Some were of interest, but none were urgent. They mostly meant to pass along information—little vibrations from every corner of his cobweb.

One reported an odd and apparently accidental drowning in a public fountain. It had happened in early afternoon as crowds regularly passed the landmark in the Square of the Martyrs. Even though it had been daylight and in full view of everyone, no one noticed until it was too late. Having seen similar messages of unexplained deaths of late, Dalton knew the unspoken implication of the message was a admonition, that it might have been some sort of a vendetta involving magic, but made to look like an unfortunate accident.

One mentioned only a “perturbed lady,” reporting that she was restless and that she had written a missive to a Director, asking for a moment of his time in private at the feast, and asking him to keep her letter confidential. Dalton knew the woman to whom the message referred, and, because of that, he knew also it would be Director Linscott to whom she had written—the person writing the message for him knew better than to write down names.

He suspected the reason for the restless part. It was the desire for the private meeting that concerned him. The message said the woman’s letter was somehow lost, and never delivered.

Dalton slipped the messages back into the compartment for later review and replaced the drawer. He was going to have to do something about the woman. What, he didn’t yet know.

Overreacting could sometimes cause as much trouble as doing nothing. It might be he need only give the woman an ear, let her vent her pique, as perhaps she meant to do with Director Linscott. Dalton could just as easily hear her grievance. Someone, somewhere in his intricate cobweb of contacts, would give him the bit of information he needed to make the right decision, and if not, talking to the woman in a reassuring manner might smooth things enough to give him the direction he needed.

Dalton had only had his new post a short time, but he’d wasted none of it in establishing himself in nearly every aspect of life at the estate. He became a useful colleague to many, a confidant to others, and shield to a few. Each method, in its own way, earned him loyalty. Along with the gifted people he knew, his evergrowing cobweb of connections virtually hummed like a harp.

From the first day, though, Dalton’s primary objective had been to make himself indispensable to the Minister. During his second week on the job, a “researcher” had been sent out to the estate libraries by one of the Directors from the Office of Cultural Amity. Minister Chanboor had not been pleased. The truth be known, he had flown into a resentful rage, not an uncommon response from Bertrand Chanboor when presented with worrisome, even ominous, news.

Two days after the researcher arrived, Dalton was able to inform Minister Chanboor that the man had ended up getting himself arrested, drunk and in the bed of a harlot back in Fairfield. None of that was a crime of any consequence, of course, even though it would have looked bad enough to some of the Directors, but the man was found to have had an extremely rare and valuable book in the pocket of his coat.

An extremely rare and valuable book written by none other than Joseph Ander himself. The ancient text, valuable beyond price, had been reported missing from the Minister of Culture’s estate right after the researcher went off drinking.

At Dalton’s instructions, the Directors’ office was immediately informed of the book’s disappearance—hours before the culprit was apprehended. With the report, Dalton had sent his personal assurance to the Directors that he would not rest until the malefactor was found, and that he intended to launch an immediate public investigation to discover if such a cultural crime was the precursor to a treasonous plot. The stunned silence from the Office of the Directors had been thunderous.

The magistrate in Fairfield, the one for whom Dalton had once worked, was an admirer of the Minister of Culture, serving as he did at the Minister’s pleasure, and of course did not take lightly the theft from the Anderith Library of Culture. He recognized the theft for what it was: sedition. The researcher who had been caught with the book was swiftly put to death for cultural crimes against the Anderith people.

Far from quelling the scandal, this caused the air to become rampant with ugly rumors of a confession, taken before the man was put to death—a confession, it was said, that implicated others. The Director who had sent the man to the estate to do “research,” rather than be associated with a cultural crime, as a point of honor and in order to end speculation and innuendo, had resigned. Dalton, as the Minister’s official representative looking into the whole affair, after reluctantly taking the Director’s resignation, issued a statement discrediting the rumors of a confession, and officially closed the entire matter.

An old friend of Dalton’s had been fortunate enough to earn the appointment to the suddenly vacant seat for which he had been working nearly his whole life. Dalton had been the first to shake his hand, the hand of a new Director. A more grateful and joyous man Dalton had never met. Dalton was pleased by that, by seeing deserving people, people he loved and trusted, happy.

After the incident, Bertrand Chanboor decided his responsibilities required a closer working relationship with his aide, and designated Dalton as chief of staff, as well as aide to the Minister, thus giving him authority over the entire household. Dalton now reported only to the Minister. The position had also accorded them their latest quarters—the finest on the estate other than those of the Minister himself.

Dalton thought Teresa had been even more pleased about it than he—if that was possible. She was in love with the apartment that came with the elevated authority. She was captivated by the people of noble standing among whom she now mingled. She was intoxicated with meeting important and powerful people who came to the estate.

Those guests, as well as people of the estate, treated Teresa with the deference due one of her high standing, despite the fact that most of them were nobly born and she, like Dalton, was well born but not noble. Dalton had always found matters of birth to be petty, and less consequential than some people thought, once they understood how auspicious allegiances could be considerably more significant to a providential life.

Across the room, Teresa cleared her throat. When Dalton turned from the desk, she lifted her nose and with noble grace stepped out into the sitting room to display herself in her new dress.

His eyes widened. Displaying herself was exactly what she was doing.

The fabric glimmered dreamlike in the light from lamps, candles, and the low fire. Golden patterns of leafy designs swirled across a dark background. Goldcolored piping trimmed seams and edges, drawing attention to her narrow waist and voluptuous curves. The silk fabric of the skirt, like new wheat hugging every nuance of the rolling lowland hills, betrayed the shape of her curvaceous legs beneath.

But it was the neckline that had him speechless. Sweeping down from the ends of her shoulders, it plunged to an outrageous depth. The sight of her sensuous breasts so exposed had a profound effect on him, as arousing as it was unsettling.

Teresa twirled around, showing off the dress, the deeply cut back, the way it sparkled in the light. With long strides Dalton crossed the room to catch her in his arms as she came back around the second time. She giggled to find herself trapped in his embrace. He bent to kiss her, but she pushed his face away.

“Careful. I’ve spent hours painting my face. Don’t muss it, Dalton.”

She moaned helplessly against his mouth as he kissed her anyway. She seemed pleased with the effect she was having on him. He was pleased with the effect she was having on him.

Teresa pulled back. She reached up and tugged the sequined gold ribbons tied to her hair.

“Sweetheart, does it look any longer yet?” she asked in a pleading voice. “It’s pure misery waiting for it to grow.”

With his new post and attendant new apartments, he was moving up in the world, becoming a man of power. With that new authority came the privileges of rank: his wife was allowed to wear longer hair to reflect her status.

Other wives in the household wore hair nearly to their shoulders; his wife would be no different, except perhaps that her hair would be just a little longer than all but a few other women in the house, or in the whole land of Anderith for that matter, in the whole of the Midlands. She was married to an important man.

The thought washed through him with icy excitement, as it did from time to time when it really sank in just how far he had risen, and what he had attained.

Dalton Campbell intended this to be only the beginning. He intended to go further. He had plans. And he had the ear of a man with a lust for plans.

Among other things. But, no matter; Dalton could handle such petty matters. The Minister was simply taking the perks of his position.

“Tess, darling, your hair is growing beautifully. If any woman looks down her nose at you for it not yet being longer, you just remember her name, for your hair in the end will be longer than any of theirs. When it finally grows, you can then revisit that name for recompense.”

Teresa bounced on the balls of her feet as she threw her arms around his neck. She squealed in giddy delight.

Intertwining her fingers behind his back, she peeked up at him with a coquettish look. “Do you like my dress?” To make her point, she pressed up against him while gazing into his eyes, watching deliberately as his gaze roamed lower.

In answer, he bent to her, and in one swift motion slipped his hand up under her silky skirt, along the inside of her leg, up to the bare flesh above her stockings. She gasped in mock surprise as his hand reached her private places.

Dalton kissed her again as he groped her. He was no longer thinking about taking her to the feast. He wanted to take her to the bed.

As he pushed her toward the bedroom, she squirmed out of his lustful grip. “Dalton! Don’t muss me, sweetheart. Everyone will see the wrinkles in my dress.”

“I don’t think anyone will be looking at the wrinkles in the dress. I think they will be looking at what is spilling out of it.

“Teresa, I don’t want you to wear such a thing anywhere but to greet your husband at the door upon his return home to you.”

She playfully swatted his shoulder. “Dalton, stop.”

“I mean it.” He looked down her cleavage again. “Teresa, this dress is . . . it shows too much.”

She turned away. “Oh, Dalton, stop. You’re being silly. All the women are wearing such dresses nowadays.” She twirled to him, the flirt back on her face. “You aren’t jealous, are you? Having other men admire your wife?”

She was the one thing he had wanted more than power. Unlike everything else in his life, he entertained no invitations for understandings where Teresa was concerned. The spirits knew there were enough men at the estate who were admired, even envied, because they gained for themselves the courtesy of influence, inasmuch as their wives made themselves available to Minister Chanboor. Dalton Campbell was not one of them. He used his talent and wits to get where he was, not his wife’s body. That, too, gave him an edge over the others.

His forbearance was rapidly evaporating, leaving his tone less than indulgent. “And how will they know it to be my wife? Their eyes will never make it up to your face.”

“Dalton, stop. You’re being insufferably stodgy. All the other women will be wearing dresses similar to this. It’s the style. You’re always so busy with your new job you don’t know anything about prevailing custom. I do.

“Believe it or not, this dress is conservative compared to what others will be wearing. I wouldn’t wear a dress as revealing as theirs—I know how you get—but I don’t want to look out of place, either. No one will think anything of it, except that perhaps the wife of the Minister’s right-hand man is a tad prissy.”

No one was going to think her “prissy.” They were going to think she was proclaiming herself available to invitation.

“Teresa, you can wear another. The red one with the V neck. You can still see . . . see enough of your cleavage. The red one is hardly prissy.”

She showed him her back, folding her arms in a pout. “I suppose you will be happy to have me wear a homely dress, and have every other woman there whispering behind my back at how I dress like the wife of a lowly assistant to a magistrate. The red dress was what I wore when you were a nobody. I thought you would be happy to see me in my new dress, to see how your wife can fit in with the fashion of the important women here.

“But now I’ll never fit in around here. I’ll be the stuffy wife of the Minister’s aide. No one will even want to talk to me. I’ll never have any friends.”

Dalton drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He watched her dab a knuckle at her nose. “Tess, is this really what the other women will be wearing at the feast?”

She spun around, beaming up at him. It occurred to him that it was not so unlike the way the Haken girl, down in the kitchen, had beamed at his invitation to meet the Minister of Culture.

“Of course it’s like what the other women are wearing. Except that I’m not as bold as they, so it shows less. Oh, Dalton, you’ll see. You’ll be proud of me. I want to be a proper wife of the Minister’s aide. I want you to be proud. I’m proud of you. Only you, Dalton.

“A wife is crucial to a man as important as you. I protect your station when you aren’t there. You don’t know what women can be like—petty, jealous, ambitious, scheming, treacherous, traitorous. One clever nasty word to their husband, and soon it’s on every tongue. I make sure that if there is a nasty word, it dies quickly, that none dare repeat it.”

He nodded; he knew full well that women brought their husbands information and gossip. “I suppose.”

“You always said we were partners. You know how I protect you. You know how hard I work to make sure you fit in at each new place we go. You know I would never do anything to jeopardize what you’ve worked so hard to gain for us. You always told me how you would take me to the best places, and I would be accepted as the equal of any woman.

“You’ve done as you promised, my husband. I always knew you would; that was why I agreed to marry you. Even though I always loved you, I would never have married you had I not believed in your future. We have only each other, Dalton.

“Have I ever made a misstep when we went to a new place?”

“No, Tess, you never have.”

“Do you think I would recklessly do so, now, at a place as important as this? When you stand on the brink of true greatness?”

Teresa was the only one in whom he confided his audacious ambitions, his boldest plans. She knew what he intended, and she never derided him for it. She believed him.

“No, Tess, you wouldn’t jeopardize all that. I know you wouldn’t.” He wiped a hand over his face as he sighed. “Wear the dress, if you think it proper. I will trust your judgment.”

The matter settled, she shoved him toward the dressing room. “Come on, now, change your clothes. Get ready. You will be the most handsome one there, I just know it. If there is any cause for jealously, it is I who will have it, for all the other wives will be green with envy that I have the prize of the household, and it is you who will get the whispered invitations.”

He turned her around and grasped her by the shoulders, waiting until she looked up into his eyes. “You just stay away from a man named Stein—Bertrand’s guest of honor. Keep your . . . your new dress out of his face. Understand?”

She nodded. “How will I know him?”

He released her shoulders and straightened. “It won’t be hard. He wears a cape of human scalps.”

Teresa gasped. “No.” She leaned closer. “The one you told me about, come from beyond the wilds to the south? From the Old World? Come to discuss our future allegiance?”

“Yes. Stay away from him.”

She blinked again at such startling news. “How stimulating. I don’t know that anyone here has ever met such an interesting foreigner. He must be very important.”

“He is an important man, a man with whom we will be discussing business, so I’d like not to have to slice him into little pieces for trying to force you to his bed. It would waste valuable time, waiting for the emperor to send another representative from the Old World.”

It was no idle boast, and she knew it. He studied the sword as intently as he studied the law. Dalton could behead a flea on a peach without disturbing the fuzz.

Teresa smirked. “He need not look my way, and he’ll not sleep alone tonight, either. There will be women fighting over the chance to be with so outrageous a man. Human scalps . . .” She shook her head at so astounding a notion. “The woman who wins his bed will be at the head of every invitation for months to come.”

“Maybe they would like to invite a Haken girl to tell them how exciting and grand it was,” Dalton snapped.

“Haken girl?” Teresa grunted dismissively at such whimsy. “I think not. Haken girls don’t count to those women.”

She turned once more to the important part of his news.

“So, no decision has yet been made? We still don’t know if Anderith will stick with the Midlands, or if we will break and join with Emperor Jagang from the Old World?”

“No, we don’t yet know how it will go. The Directors are divided. Stein only just arrived to speak his piece.”

She stretched up on her toes to give him a peck. “I will stay away from the man. While you help decide the fate of Anderith, I will watch your back, as always, and keep my ears open.”

She took a step toward the bedroom, but spun back to him. “If the man has come to speak his side of matters . . .” Sudden realization stole into her dark eyes. “Dalton, the Sovereign is going to be here tonight, isn’t he? The Sovereign himself will be at the feast.”

Dalton took her chin in his fingertips. “A smart wife is the best ally a man can have.”

Smiling, he let her seize him by his little fingers and tug, pulling him into the dressing room. “I’ve only seen the man from afar. Oh, Dalton, you are a marvel, bringing me to such a place as I would get to break bread with the Sovereign himself.”

“You just remember what I said and stay away from Stein, unless I’m with you. For that matter, the same goes for Bertrand, though I doubt he’d dare to cross me. If you’re good, I’ll introduce you to the Sovereign.”

She was struck speechless for only a moment. “When we retire to bed tonight, you will find out just how good I can be. The spirits preserve me,” she added in a whisper, “I hope I can wait that long. The Sovereign. Oh, Dalton, you are a marvel.”

While she sat before a mirror on her dressing table, checking her face to see what damage he had wrought with his kisses, Dalton pulled open the tall wardrobe. “So, Tess, what gossip have you heard?”

He peered into the wardrobe, looking through his shirts, looking for the one with the collar he liked best. Since her dress was a golden color, he changed his plans and decided to wear his red coat. Best, anyway, if he was to put forth an assured appearance.

As Teresa leaned toward the mirror, dabbing her cheeks with a small sponge she had dragged across a silver container of rose-colored powder, she rambled on about the gossip of the house. None of it sounded important to Dalton. His thoughts wandered to the real concerns with which he had to deal, to the Directors he had yet to convince, and about how to handle Bertrand Chanboor.

The Minister was a cunning man, a man Dalton understood. The Minister shared Dalton’s ambition, if in a larger, more public sense. Bertrand Chanboor was a man who wanted everything—everything from a Haken girl—who caught his eye to the seat of the sovereign. If Dalton had any say, and he did, Bertrand Chanboor would get what Bertrand Chanboor wanted.

And Dalton would have the power and authority he wanted. He didn’t need to be Sovereign. Minister of Culture would do.

The Minister of Culture was the true power in the land of Anderith, making most laws and appointing magistrates to see them carried through. The Minister of Culture’s influence and authority touched every business, every person in the land. He held sway over commerce, arts, institutions, and beliefs. He oversaw the army and all public projects. He was the embodiment of religion, as well. The Sovereign was all ceremony and pomp, jewels and exquisite dress, parties and affairs.

No, Dalton would “settle” for Minister of Culture. With a Sovereign who danced on the cobweb Dalton thrummed.

“I had your good boots polished,” Teresa said. She pointed to the other side of the wardrobe. He bent to retrieve them.

“Dalton, what news is there from Aydindril? You said Stein is to speak his peace of the Old World, and the Imperial Order. What about Aydindril? What has the Midlands to say?”

If there was one thing that could spoil Dalton’s ambitions and plans, it was the events in Aydindril.

“The ambassadors returning from Aydindril reported that the Mother Confessor has not only thrown her lot, and that of the Midlands, in with Lord Rahl, the new leader of the D’Haran Empire, but she was to marry the man. By now, she must be wedded to him.”

“Married! The Mother Confessor herself, married.” Teresa returned her attention to the mirror. “That must have been a grand affair. I can imagine such a wedding would put anything in Anderith to shame.” Teresa paused at her mirror. “But a Confessor’s power takes a man when she marries him. This Lord Rahl will be nothing but a puppet of the Mother Confessor.”

Dalton shook his head. “Apparently, he is gifted, and not subject to being destroyed by her power. She’s a clever one, marrying a gifted Lord Rahl of D’Hara; it shows cunning, conviction, and deft strategic planning. Joining the Midlands with D’Hara has created an empire to be feared, an empire to be reckoned with. It will be a difficult decision.”

The ambassadors had further reported Lord Rahl a man of seeming integrity, a man of great conviction, a man committed to peace and the freedom of those who joined with him.

He was also a man who demanded their surrender into the growing D’Haran Empire, and demanded it immediately.

Men like that tended to be unreasonable. A man like that could be no end of trouble.

Dalton brought out a shirt and held it up to show Teresa. She nodded her approval. He stripped to the waist and slipped his arms into the crisp, clean shirt, savoring the fresh aroma.

“Stein brings Emperor Jagang’s offer of a place for us in his new world order. We will hear what he has to say.”

If Stein was any indication, the Imperial Order understood the nuances of power. Unlike all indications from Aydindril, they were willing to negotiate a number of points important to Dalton and the Minister.

“And the Directors? What have they to say about our fate?”

Dalton grunted his discontent. “The Directors committed to the old ways, to the so-called freedom of the people of the Midlands, dwindle in number all the time. The Directors insisting we stay with the rest of the Midlands—join with Lord Rahl—are becoming isolated voices. People are tired of hearing their outdated notions and uninspired morals.”

Teresa set down her brush. Worry creased her brow. “Will we have war, Dalton? With whom will we side? Will we be thrown into war, then?”

Dalton laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “The war is going to be a long, bloody struggle. I have no interest in being dragged into it, or having our people dragged into it. I’ll do what I must to protect Anderith.”

Much hinged on which side held the upper hand. There was no point in joining the losing side.

“If need be, we can unleash the Dominie Dirtch. No army, not Lord Rahl’s, not Emperor Jagang’s, can stand against such a weapon. But, it would be best, before the fact, to join the side offering the best terms and prospects.”

She clasped his hand. “But this Lord Rahl is a wizard. You said he was gifted. There is no telling what a wizard might do.”

“That might be a reason to join with him. But the Imperial Order has vowed to eliminate magic. Perhaps they have ways of countering his ability.”

“But if Lord Rahl is a wizard, that would be fearsome magic—like the Dominie Dirtch. He might unleash his power against us if we fail to surrender to him.”

He patted her hand before going back to his dressing. “Don’t worry, Tess. I’ll not let Anderith fall to ashes. And as I said, the Order claims they will end magic. If true, then a wizard wouldn’t hold any threat over us. We will just have to see what Stein has to say.”

He didn’t know how the Imperial Order could end magic.

Magic, after all, had been around as long as the world. Maybe what the Order really meant was that they intended to eliminate those who were gifted. That would not be a novel idea and to Dalton’s mind had a chance of success.

There were those who already advocated putting to the torch all the gifted. Anderith held several of the more radical leaders in chains, Serin Rajak among them. Charismatic, fanatical, and rabid, Serin Rajak was ungovernable and dangerous. If he was even still alive; they’d had him in chains for months.

Rajak believed “witches,” as he called those with magic, to be evil. He had a number of followers he had incited into wild and destructive mobs before they’d arrested him.

Men like that were dangerous. Dalton had lobbied against his execution, though. Men like that could also be useful.

“Oh, and you just won’t believe it,” Teresa was saying. She had started back on the gossip she’d heard. As he pondered Serin Rajak, he only half listened. “This woman, the one I mentioned, the one who thinks so much of herself, Claudine Winthrop, well, she told us that the Minister forced himself on her.”

Dalton was still only half listening. He knew the gossip to be true. Claudine Winthrop was the “perturbed lady” in the message in the secret compartment of his desk, the one for whom he needed to find a plum. She was also the one who had sent the letter to Director Linscott—the letter that never arrived.

Claudine Winthrop hovered around the Minister whenever she had the chance, flirting with him, smiling, batting her eyelashes. What did she think was going to happen? She’d gotten what she had to know she was going to get. Now she complains?

“And so, she’s so angry to be treated in such a coarse manner by the Minister, that after the dinner she intends to announce to Lady Chanboor and all the guests that the Minister forced himself on her in the crudest fashion.”

Dalton’s ears perked up.

“Rape it is, she called it, and rape she intends to report it to the Minister’s wife.” Teresa turned in her seat to shake a small squirrel-hair eye-color brush up at him. “And to the Directors of Cultural Amity, if any are there. And Dalton, if the Sovereign is there, it could be an ugly row. The Sovereign is liable to hold up a hand, commanding silence, so she may speak.”

Dalton was at full attention, now. The twelve Directors would be at the feast. Now, he knew what Claudine Winthrop was about.

“She said this, did she? You heard her say it?”

Teresa put one hand on a hip. “Yes. Isn’t that something? She should know what Minister Chanboor is like, how he beds half the women at the estate. And now she plans to make trouble? It should create quite the sensation, I’d say. I tell you, Dalton, she’s up to something.”

When Teresa started prattling onto another subject, he broke in and asked, “What had the other women to say about her? About Claudine’s plans?”

Teresa set down the squirrel-hair brush. “Well, we all think it’s just terrible. I mean, the Minister of Culture is an important man. Why, he could be Sovereign one day—the Sovereign is not a young man anymore. The Minister could be called upon to step into the Seat of Sovereign at any moment. That’s a terrible responsibility.”

She looked back to the mirror as she worked with a hair pick. She turned once more and shook it at him. “The Minister is terribly overworked, and has the right to seek harmless diversion now and again. The women are willing. It’s nobody’s business. It’s their private lives—it has no bearing on public business. And it’s not like the little tramp didn’t ask for it.”

Dalton couldn’t dispute that much of it. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand how women, whether a noble or a Haken girl, could bat their lashes at the letch and then be surprised when he rose, so to speak, to the bait.

Of course, the Haken girl, Beata, hadn’t been old enough, or experienced enough, to truly understand such mature games. Nor, he supposed, had she foreseen Stein in the bargain. Dalton felt a bit sorry for the girl, even if she was Haken. No, she hadn’t seen Stein lurking in the tall wheat when she smiled in awe at the Minister.

But the other women, the women of the household, and mature women come from the city out to the estate for feasts and parties, they knew what the Minister was about, and had no grounds to call foul after the fact.

Dalton knew some only became unhappy when they didn’t get some unspecified, but significant, recompense. Some plum. That was when it became Dalton’s problem. He found them a plum, and did his best to convince them they would love to have it. Most, wisely, accepted such generosity—it was all many had wanted in the first place.

He didn’t doubt that the women of the estate were agitated that Claudine was scheming to bring trouble. Many of those wives had been with the Minister, seduced by the heady air of power around the man. Dalton had reason to suspect many who had not been to the Minister’s bed wanted to end there. Bertrand either simply hadn’t gotten to them yet, or didn’t wish to. Most likely the former; he tended to appoint men to the estate only after he’d met their wives, too. Dalton had already had to turn down a perfectly good man as regent because Bertrand thought his wife too plain.

Not only was there no end to the women swooning to fall under the man, but he was a glutton about it. Even so, he had certain standards. Like many men as they got older, he savored youth.

He was able to indulge his wont for voluptuous young women without needing, as most men passing fifty, to go to prostitutes in the city. In fact, Bertrand Chanboor avoided such women like the plague, fearing their virulent diseases.

Other men his age who could have young women no other way, and could not resist, did not get a chance to grow much older. Nor did the young women. Disease swiftly claimed many.

Bertrand Chanboor, though, had his pick of a steady supply of healthy young women of limited experience, and standards. They flew, of their own accord, into that candle flame of high rank and nearly limitless authority.

Dalton ran the side of his finger gently along Teresa’s cheek. He was fortunate to have a woman who shared his ambition but, unlike many others, was discerning in how to go about it.

“I love you, Tess.”

Surprised by his sudden tender gesture, she took his hand in both of hers and planted kisses all along it.

He didn’t know what he could possibly have done in his life to deserve her. There had been nothing about him that would augur well for his ever having a woman as good as Teresa. She was the one thing in his life he had not earned by sheer force of will, by cutting down any opposition, eliminating any threat to his goal. With her, he had simply been helplessly in love.

Why the good spirits chose to ignore the rest of his life and reward him with this plum, he couldn’t begin to guess, but he would take it and hold on for dear life.

Business intruded on his lustful wanderings as he stared into her adoring eyes.

Claudine would require attention. She needed to be silenced, and before she could cause trouble. Dalton ticked off favors he might have to offer her in return for seeing the sense in silence. No one, not even Lady Chanboor, gave much thought to the Minister’s dalliances, but an accusation of rape by a woman of standing would be troublesome.

There were Directors who adhered to ideals of rectitude. The Directors of the Office of Cultural Amity held sway over who would be Sovereign. Some wanted the next Sovereign to be a man of moral character. They could deny an initiate the Seat.

After Bertrand Chanboor was named Sovereign, it would not matter what they thought, but it certainly mattered before.

Claudine would have to be silenced.

“Dalton, where are you going?”

He turned back from the door. “I just have to write a message and then send it on its way. I won’t be long.”