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“No, sir,” Morley and Fitch said as one.
“Yet I knew where to find you.” The tall Ander lifted an eyebrow. “You just remember that, if you ever think to get it in your head that you could hide from me. If you ever cause me trouble, I will find you, no matter where you go to ground.”
“Master Campbell,” Fitch said, after he swallowed, “you just tell us what it is we can do to help, and we’ll do it. We can be trusted. We’ll not let you down—I swear.”
Morley was nodding. “That’s right. Fitch is right.”
Dalton Campbell slid his sword back into its scabbard and smiled. “I’m already proud of you both. You two are going to advance around here. I just know you will prove my faith in you.”
“Yes sir,” Fitch said, “you can count on us both.”
Dalton Campbell put one hand on Fitch’s shoulder and the other on Morley’s. “All right, then. You listen close, now.”
“Here she comes,” Morley whispered in Fitch’s ear.
Fitch nodded after looking where his friend pointed. Morley moved off to the black maw of the open service doors while Fitch squatted down behind some barrels stacked to the side of the loading dock. Fitch recalled earlier in the day seeing Brownie standing with the butcher’s cart across the way. He wiped the palms of his hands on his trousers. It had been a day of important events.
They’d talked about it on the way over, and Morley felt the same way; as much as the idea of it had Fitch’s heart hammering against his ribs, there was no way he was going to let Dalton Campbell’s faith in him be spoiled. Morley thought the same.
The music coming from the open windows across the lawn—strings and horns and a harp—was filling his head with purpose, swelling his chest with pride to be chosen by Dalton Campbell.
The Minister—the future Sovereign—had to be protected.
Quietly, with light steps, she climbed the four steps up onto the dock. In the dim light, she looked around at the deep shadows, stretching her neck to peer about. Fitch swallowed at how good-looking she was. She was older, but she was a looker. He’d never looked so long and hard at an Ander lady as he did at her.
Morley made his voice come out deep in order to sound older.
“Claudine Winthrop?”
She wheeled expectantly toward Fitch’s friend, standing in the dark doorway. “I’m Claudine Winthrop,” she whispered. “You received my message, then?”
“Yes,” Morley said.
“Thank the Creator. Director Linscott, it’s important I speak with you about Minister Chanboor. He pretends to uphold Anderith culture, but he is the worst example we could have in his post, or any other. Before you consider his name for a future Sovereign, you must hear of his corruption. The pig forced himself on me—raped me. But that is only the beginning of it. It gets worse. For the sake of our people, you must hear my words.”
Fitch watched as she stood with the soft yellow light from the windows falling across her pretty face. Dalton Campbell hadn’t said she was going to be so pretty. She was older, of course, and so not someone he ordinarily thought of as pretty. It surprised him to realize he was thinking of someone so old—she look almost thirty—as attractive. He took a slow, silent breath, trying to tighten his resolve. But he couldn’t help staring at what she wore, or more accurately, at where she wasn’t wearing anything.
Fitch recalled the two women in the stairwell talking about such dresses as the one Claudine Winthrop wore now. Fitch had never seen so much of a woman’s breasts. The way they heaved as she wrung her hands had his eyes popping.
“Won’t you come out?” she asked in a whisper toward the darkness where Morley waited. “Please? I’m frightened.”
Fitch suddenly realized he was supposed to be doing his part. He sneaked out from behind the barrels, taking careful steps so she wouldn’t hear him coming.
His stomach felt like it was in a knot. He had to wipe the sweat out of his eyes in order to see. He tried to breathe calmly, but his heart seemed to have a mind of its own. He had to do this. But, dear spirits, he was more than afraid.
“Director Linscott?” she whispered toward Morley.
Fitch snatched her elbows and wrenched her arms behind her back. She gasped. He was surprised at how easy it was for him to keep her arms pinned behind her as she struggled with all her might. She was confused and startled. Morley shot out from the dark, once he saw that Fitch had her.
Before she could get much of a scream out, Morley slugged her in the gut as hard as he could. The powerful blow nearly knocked both her and Fitch from their feet.
Claudine Winthrop doubled over, vomit spewing all over the dock. Fitch let go of her arms. She crossed them over her middle as she went to her knees, heaving violently. Both he and Morley stepped back as it splashed the dock and her dress, but they weren’t about to get more than an arm’s length away from her.
After a few long convulsions, she straightened, seeming to have finished, and tried to get her feet as she struggled and gasped for breath. Morley lifted her and spun her around. With his powerful grip, he locked her arms behind her back.
Fitch knew this was his chance to prove himself. This was his chance to protect the Minister. This was his chance to make Dalton Campbell proud.
Fitch punched her in the stomach as hard as he dared.
He’d never punched anyone before, except his friends, and that was only in fun. Never like this, not for real, not deliberately to hurt someone. Her middle was small, and soft. He could see how much his fist had hurt her.
It made him feel sick. Made him feel like throwing up, too. This was the violent way his Haken ancestors behaved. This was what was so terrible about them. About him.
Her eyes were wide with terror as she tried over and over to suck in a breath, but couldn’t seem to. She fought desperately to get her wind as her eyes fixed on him, like a hog watching the butcher. Like her Ander ancestors used to watch his.
“We’re here to give you a message,” Fitch said.
They’d agreed Fitch would do the talking. Morley didn’t remember so well what they were to tell Claudine Winthrop; Fitch had always been better at remembering.
She finally got her breath back. Fitch hunched forward and landed three blows. Quick. Hard. Angry.
“Are you listening?” he growled.
“You little Haken bastard—”
Fitch let go with all his strength. The wallop hurt his fist. It staggered even Morley back a step. She hung forward in Morley’s grip as she vomited in dry heaves. Fitch had wanted to hit her face—punch her in the mouth—but Dalton Campbell had given them clear instructions to only hit her where it wouldn’t show.
“I’d not call him that again, were I you.” Morley grabbed a fistful of her hair and savagely yanked her up straight.
Arching her up so forcefully made her breasts pop out the top of her dress. Fitch froze. He wondered if he should pull the front of her dress back up for her. His jaw hung as he stared at her. Morley leaned over her shoulder for a look. He grinned at Fitch.
She glanced down to see herself spilled out of her
dress. Seeing it, she put her head back and closed her eyes in resignation.
“Please,” she said, panting for breath toward the sky, “don’t hurt me anymore?”
“Are you ready to listen?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
That surprised Fitch even more than seeing her naked breasts. No one in his whole life had ever called him “sir.” Those two meek words felt so strange to his ears that he just stood there staring at her. For a moment, he wondered if she was mocking him. As she looked him in the eye, her expression told him she wasn’t.
The music was filling him with such feelings as he’d never had before. He’d never been important before, never been called “sir” before. That morning he’d been called “Fetch.” Now, an Ander women called him “sir.” All thanks to Dalton Campbell.
Fitch punched her in the gut again. Just because he felt like it.
“Please, sir!” she cried. “Please, no more! Tell me what you want. I’ll do it. If you wish to have me, I’ll submit—just don’t hurt me anymore. Please, sir?”
Although Fitch’s stomach still felt heavy with queasy disgust at what he was doing, he also felt more important than he’d ever felt before. Her, an Ander woman with her breasts exposed to him like that, and her calling him “sir.”
“Now, you listen to me you filthy little bitch.”
His own words surprised him as much as they surprised her. Fitch hadn’t planned them. They just came out. He liked the sound of it, though.
“Yes sir,” she wept, “I will. I’ll listen. Whatever you say.”
She looked so pitiful, so helpless. Not an hour ago, if an Ander woman, even this Claudine Winthrop, would have told him to get down on his knees and clean the floor with his tongue, he’d have done it and been trembling at the same time. He’d never imagined how easy this would be. A few punches, and she was begging to do as he said. He never imagined how easy it would be to be important, to have people do as he said.
Fitch remembered what it was Dalton Campbell told him to say.
“You were strutting yourself before the Minister, weren’t you? You were offering yourself to him, weren’t you?”
