Sword of Truth 05 Soul of the Fire by Terry Goodkind

Author:Terry Goodkind [Goodkind, Terry]
Format: epub
Published: 2010-05-17T22:14:39.979000+00:00

"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."

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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

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guessed. They often had a minstrel sing there.

The piercing warbles from a reed shawm intermittently cut through the night. At times the shawm went silent, and then the minstrel sang ballads whose words were unintelligible because of the distance. The tune, though, was quick and pleasant and made Fitch's heart beat faster.

He glanced back over his shoulder and in the moonlight saw the grim faces of the other messengers. They, too, were all back in the clothes of their former lives. Fitch intended to remain in his new life. He wouldn't let the other men down. No matter what, he wouldn't let them down.

They looked a scruffy bunch, they did. Dressed as they were, no one would likely recognize them. No one would be able to tell them from any of the other young redheaded Haken men in rags.

There were always young Haken men around in Fairfield, hoping for someone to hire them for any task.

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