Soul of the Fire

Chapter 12

“Fetch! Here, Boy! Fetch!”

The men laughed. The women giggled. Fitch wished his face wouldn’t always go as red as his hair when Master Drummond mocked him with that epithet. He left the scrub brush in the crusty cauldron and scurried to see what the kitchen master wanted.

Dashing around one of the long tables, his elbow whacked a flagon someone had set near the edge. He caught the heavy, cobalt blue glass vessel just before it toppled to the floor. Exhaling in relief, he pushed it back near the stack of braided bread. He heard his name yelled again.

Fitch jigged to a halt before Master Drummond, keeping his eyes to the floor—he didn’t want a lump on his head for appearing to protest being the butt of jokes.

“Yes, Master Drummond?”

The portly kitchen master wiped his hands on a white towel he always kept tucked behind his belt. “Fitch, you have to be the clumsiest scullion I’ve ever seen.”

“Yes, sir.”

Master Drummond stretched up on his toes, peering out the back window. Someone in the distance behind Fitch cursed as they burned themselves on a hot pan and in recoiling knocked metalware clattering across the brick floor near the baking hearth. There was no angry shouting, so Fitch knew it wasn’t one of the other Haken scullions.

Master Drummond gestured toward the service door of the sprawling kitchen. “Fetch in some wood. We need the oak, and also a bit of apple to flavor the ribs.”

“Oak and apple. Yes, sir.”

“And get a four-hand cauldron up on a racking crook first. Hurry up with the oak.”

Fitch sagged with a “Yes, sir.” The big split slabs of oak for the roasting hearth were heavy and always gave him splinters. Oak splinters were the worst kind, and would plague him for days after. The apple wasn’t so bad, at least. It was going to be a big affair; he knew to bring enough of it.

“And keep your eye out for the butcher’s cart. It’s due here any minute. I’ll wring Inger’s neck if he sends it late.”

Fitch perked up. “Butcher’s cart?” He dared not ask what he wanted to ask. “Would you like me to unload it, then, sir?”

Master Drummond planted his fists on his wide hips. “Don’t tell me, Fitch, that you’re starting to think ahead?” Nearby, several women working at sauces snorted a laugh. “Of course I want you to unload it! And if you drop any, like the last time, I’ll roast your scrawny rump instead.”

Fitch bowed twice. “Yes, Master Drummond.”

As he withdrew, he moved aside to make way for the dairymaid bringing a sample of cheese for Master Drummond’s approval. One of the women saucers snagged Fitch’s sleeve before he could be off.

“Where are those skimmers I asked for?”

“Coming, Gillie, as soon as I see to—”

She snatched him by an ear. “Don’t patronize me,” Gillie growled. She twisted the ear. “Your kind always fall to that, in the end, don’t they?”

“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 smiled conspiratorially. “Big affair tonight. You know what that means.”

Fitch smiled 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.

Smiling, 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 smell 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 smaller 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.