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me because I can get it for you cheaper, and because I can deliver it when
you need it."
"You looking to get buried in the sky?"
Richard smiled. "No. I just happen to think that the emperor wants his
palace built. From what I've heard, they have a lot of slave labor down
there-people they've captured. But they don't have enough slave labor to do
it all for them. They need people like you, and the foundries.
"If the officials of the Order want to have the work progress-and not
have to explain to Emperor Jagang why it isn't they will be inclined to look
the other way. In that narrow crack of need, there is opportunity. I expect
I'll have to bribe a few officials to get them to be busy elsewhere when I
come to pick up loads, but I've already figured that cost into it. I'll be
acting on behalf of myself, not an established transport company, so they
will be more inclined to see this as a way of accomplish ing what they need
without suspending their morass of restrictions.
"You will be getting iron for less than you pay now, and I can deliver.
You can't even get what you need at the higher price. You will make more,
too. We both benefit."
The blacksmith stared for a moment as he tried to find a flaw in
Richard's plan.
"You're either the stupidest crook I ever saw, or the . . . I don't
even know what. But I have Brother Narev breathing down my neck, and that
isn't pleasant. Not pleasant at all. I probably shouldn't tell you this, but
you know how Ishaq sweats over me? I sweat ten times that much when Brother
Narev comes to ask why the tools aren't ready. The brothers don't want to
hear my troubles, they just want what they want."
"I understand, Mr. Cascella."
He let out a sigh. "All right, Richard Cypher, one and a half gold
marks for fifty bars delivered by dawn tomorrow-but I'll only give you the
one and a quarter now. You get the other quarter mark in the morning, when
my iron is here."
"Agreed. Who is this Brother Narev, anyway?"
"Brother Narev? He's the high priest-"
"Did I hear someone mention my name?" The voice was deep enough to
nearly rattle the tools off the walls.
Richard and the blacksmith turned to see a man approaching from around
the corner of the shop. Here and there, his heavy robes betrayed his large
bony frame. His face seemed to pull the gathering darkness into the deep
creases of his face. Dark eyes gleamed out from under a hooded brow
overspread with a tangle of graying hairs. Wiry hair above his ears curled
up from under the edges of a dark, creased cap. The cap sat halfway down his
forehead. He looked like a shadow come to life to stalk the world.
Mr. Cascella bowed. Richard followed his lead.
"We were just discussing the problem of getting enough iron, Brother
Narev."
"Where are all my new chisels, blacksmith?"
"I have yet to-"
"I have stone sitting down there with no chisels to cut it. I have
stonecutters who need more tools. You are holding up my palace."
The blacksmith lifted a hand toward Richard. "This is Richard Cypher,
Brother Narev. He was just telling me how he thought he might be able get me
the iron I need and-"
The high priest held up his hand for silence.
"You can get the blacksmith what he needs?" Brother Narev snapped at
Richard.
"It can be done."
"Then do it."
Richard bowed his head. "By your command, Brother Narev."
The shadowed figure turned to the shop. "Show me, blacksmith."
The blacksmith seemed to know what the high priest wanted and followed
behind him, gesturing for Richard to come along. Richard understood; he
couldn't get the money to buy the iron until the blacksmith first took care
of the important man who had just vanished into the shadows of the shop.
When the blacksmith snapped his fingers and pointed at a lamp on his
way by, Richard snatched it up. He lit a long splinter in the glowing coals
of the forge and then lit the lamp. He held it up behind the two men as they
stood just inside the doorway to the room with the complex contraption of
metal bars sitting on the floor beyond.
Mr. Cascella held the chalkboard up in the light. Brother Narev looked
at the drawing on the chalkboard, then to the maze of iron lines on the
floor, comparing them.
Richard felt an icy tingle at the base of his scalp when he suddenly
realized what the thing on the floor was.
Brother Narev pointed to the drawing, to the line Richard had said was
wrong.
"This line is wrong," Brother Narev growled.
The blacksmith wagged his finger over the chalk drawing. "But I have to
stabilize this mass over here."
"I told you to add braces, I didn't invite you to ruin the main scheme.
You can leave the top of the support where you have it, but the bottom
should be attached . . . here."
Brother Narev pointed to where Richard had said it should go.
Mr. Cascella scratched his head of short hair as he stole a glance over
his shoulder just long enough to scowl at Richard.
"That would work," the blacksmith conceded. "It won't be as easy, but
it will work."
"I'm not concerned with how easy it is," Brother Narev said with
menace. "I don't want anything attached to this area, here."
"No, sir."
"It must be seamless, so none of the joining work shows through when it
is covered in gold. Get me those tools made, first."
"Yes, Brother Narev."
The high priest turned an uncomfortable scrutiny on Richard. "There's
something about you .... Do I know you?"
"No, Brother Narev. I've never before met you. I would remember.
Meeting a great man such as yourself, I mean. I would remember such a
thing."
He glared askance at Richard. "Yes, I suppose you would. You get the
blacksmith his iron."
"I said I would."
The Brother grunted irritably. "So you did."
As the tall shadow of a man stared into Richard's eyes, Richard
absently reached to lift his sword a little to make sure it was clear in its
scabbard. The sword wasn't there.
Brother Narev opened his mouth to say something, but his attention was
caught by two young men entering the shop. They wore robes like the high
priest, but without caps. They had simple hoods pulled up over their heads,
instead.
"Brother Narev," one called.
"What is it, Neal?"
"The book you sent for has arrived. You asked that we come for you at
once."
Brother Narev nodded to the young disciple, then directed a sour look
at Mr. Cascella and Richard.
"Get it done," he said to both.
Both Richard and the blacksmith bowed their heads as the high priest
swept out of the shop.
It felt as if a thundercloud had just departed over the horizon.
"Come on," Mr. Cascella said. "I'll get you the gold."
Richard followed him into a little room where the master blacksmith
pulled out a strongbox attached with massive chain to a huge pin in the
floor under the plank serving as his desk. He unlocked the strongbox and
handed Richard a gold mark.
"Victor."
Richard looked up from the gold mark and frowned. "What?"
"Victor. You asked what more there was to my name." He set silver to
make up the quarter mark on top of the gold mark resting in Richard's palm.
"Victor."
After leaving Ishaq's place and before going to get the iron for
Victor, Richard rushed back to his room. It wasn't dinner he wanted, but to
let Nicci know that he had to go back to work. She had in the past made it
clear that they were husband and wife, and that she would take a dim view of
him vanishing. He was to remain in Altur'Rang and work, just like any other
normal man.
Kamil and one of his friends were waiting for him. Both were wearing
shirts.
Richard stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the two. "I'm
sorry, Kamil, but I have to go back to work-"
"Then you're a bigger dupe than I thought-taking work at night, too.
You should just stop trying. It's no use trying in life. You just have to
take what life gives you. I knew you would have an excuse not to do what you
said you would do. You almost had me thinking that you might be different
than-"
"I was going to say that I have to go back to work, so we have to do
this right away."
Kamil twisted his mouth, as was his habit to express his displeasure
with those older and stupider than he.
"This is Nabbi. He wants to watch your foolish labor, too."
Richard nodded, not showing any irritation at Kamil's arrogant
attitude. "Glad to meet you, Nabbi." The third young man glared from the
shadows back by the stairs in the hall. He was the biggest. He wasn't
wearing a shirt.
To pry the steps apart, Richard used his knife and a rusty metal bar
Kamil found for him. It wasn't difficult-they were ready to fall apart on
their own. As the two youths watched, Richard cleaned the grooves in the
stringers. Since they were chewed up from being loose, he deepened their
bottoms, showing the two what he was doing and explaining how he would bevel
the ends of the treads to lock into the deepened channel. Richard watched
Kamil and Nabbi as they whittled wedges to match the one he made as a
pattern for them. They were only too delighted to show him their knife work;
Richard was delighted that it helped get the job done sooner.
Once they had them back together, Kamil and Nabbi both ran up and down
the repaired steps, apparently surprised that they really were now sturdy
underfoot, and pleased that they were partly responsible for the repair.
"You both did a good job," Richard told them, because they had. They
didn't make any smart remarks. They actually smiled.
Richard's dinner was watery millet eaten by the light of a burning wick
floating in linseed oil. The smell from the simple light went poorly with
dinner, which was more water than millet. Nicci said she'd already eaten,
and didn't want any more. She encouraged him to finish it.
He didn't give Nicci the details of his second job. She was insistent
only that he
work; the work itself was irrelevant to her. She tended to her
household chores and expected him to earn them a living.
She seemed satisfied that he was learning how ordinary people had to
work themselves sick just to make enough to get along in life. The promise
of money to buy them more food seemed to spark a longing in her eyes that
her lips did not express. He noticed that the black material covering her
once full bosom was now slack and half empty. Her elbows and hands had
become bony.
As he took another spoonful of millet, Nicci casually mentioned that
the landlord, Kamil's father, had come by.
Richard looked up from his soup. "What did he say?"
"He said that since you have a job, the area citizens' building
committee had assessed us extra rent in order to help pay the rent of those
in the local buildings who can't work. You see, Richard, how life under the
ways of the Order cultivates caring in people, so that we all work together
for the benefit of all?"
Nearly all of what was not taken by the workers' group was taken by the
area building committee, or some other committee, and all for the same
purpose: for the betterment of the people of the Order. Richard and Nicci
had next to nothing left for food. Richard's clothes were getting looser all
the time, but not as loose as Nicci's dresses were getting.
She seemed smug about the fact that their rent was past due.
Foodstuffs, at least, were relatively inexpensive-when they were available.
People said that it was only by the grace of the Creator and the wisdom of
the Order that they could afford any food at all. Richard had heard talk at
Ishaq's place that more plentiful and varied food could be had, for a price.
Richard didn't have the price.
On his wagon ride with Jori to the foundry and the blacksmith, Richard
had spotted distant houses that looked to be quite grand. Well-dressed
people walked those streets. Occasionally, he saw them in carriages. They
were people who neither dirtied their hands or soiled their morals with
business. They were men of principle. They were officials of the Order who
saw to it that those with the ability sacrificed for the cause of the Order.
"Self-sacrifice is the moral duty of all people," she said in challenge
to his clenched teeth.
Richard could not hold his tongue. "Self-sacrifice is the obscene and
senseless suicide of slaves."
Nicci gaped at him. It was as if he had just said that a mother's milk
was poison to her newborn.
"Richard, I do believe that that's the cruelest thing I've ever heard
you say."
"It's cruel to say that I would not happily sacrifice myself for that
thug, Gadi? Or for some other thug I don't know? It's cruel not to willingly
sacrifice what's mine to any greedy wretch who lusts to possess plundered
goods, the unearned, even at the cost of their victim's blood?
"Self-sacrifice for a value held dear, for a life held dear, for
freedom and the freedom of those you respect-self-sacrifice such as mine for
Kahlan's life-is the only rationally valid sacrifice. To be selfless means
you are a slave who must surrender your most priceless possession-your
life-to any smirking thief who demands it.
"The suicide of self-sacrifice is but a requirement imposed by masters
on slaves. Since there is a knife to my throat, it is not to my good that I
am stripped of what I earn by my own hand and mind. It is only to the good
of the one with the knife, and
those who by weight of numbers but not reason dictate what is the good
of allthose cheering him on so they might lap up any drop of blood their
masters miss.
"Life is precious. That's why sacrifice for freedom is rational: it is
for life itself and your ability to live it that you act, since life without
freedom is the slow, sure death of self-sacrifice to the `good' of
mankind-who is always someone else. Mankind is just a collection of
individuals. Why should everyone's life be more important, more precious,
more valuable than yours? Mindless mandatory self-sacrifice is insane."
She stared, not at him, but at the flame dancing on the pool of linseed
oil. "You don't really mean that, Richard. You're just tired and angry that
you have to work at night, too, just to get by. You should realize that all
those others you help are there to help society, including you, should you
be the one in desperate need."
Richard didn't bother to argue with her, and said only, "I feel sorry
for you, Nicci. You don't evert know the value of your own life. Sacrifice
could mean nothing to you."
"That's not true, Richard," she whispered, "I sacrifice for you .... I
saved what millet we had for you, that you might have strength."
"The strength to stand upright when I throw my life away? Why did you
sacrifice your dinner, Nicci?"
"Because it was the right thing to do-it was for the good of others."
He nodded as he peered at her in the dim light. "You would endanger
your life to starvation for others-for any others." He pointed a thumb back
over his shoulder. "How about that thug, Gadi? Would you starve to death so
he might eat? It might mean something, Nicci, if it was a sacrifice for
someone you value, but it isn't; it's a sacrifice to some mindless gray
ideal of the Order."
When she didn't answer, Richard pushed the rest of his dinner before
her. "I don't want your meaningless sacrifice."
She stared at the bowl of millet for an eternity.
Richard felt sorry for her, for what she couldn't understand as she
stared at the bowl. He thought about what would happen to Kahlan if Nicci
were to fall sick from not getting enough to eat.
"Eat, Nicci," he said softly.
She finally picked up her spoon and did as he said.
When she had finished, she looked up with those blue eyes that seemed
so eager for the sight of something he could not make her see. She slid the
empty bowl to the center of the table.
"Thank you, Richard, for the meal."
"Why thank me? I am a selfless slave, expected to sacrifice for any
worthless person who presents their need to me."
He strode to the door. With his hand on the loose knob, he turned back.
"I have to go, or I will lose my work."
Her big blue eyes were brimming with tears as she nodded.
Richard made the first trip from the foundry through the dark streets
to Victor's shop carrying five bars. From windows along the way, a few
people blinked out at the man lugging a load past. They blinked without
comprehension at the meaning of what he was doing. He was working for
nothing but his own benefit.
Bent under the weight, Richard kept telling himself that carrying five
bars each time would make it only ten trips, and the less trips, the better.
He carried five the second trip, and the third. By the fourth time he
returned to the foundry, he decided
that he would have to make an extra trip in order to give himself a
break and only carry four bars for a few of the trips. He lost track of how
many times he went back and forth throughout the empty night. The next to
last time, he struggled to lift but two bars. That left three. He forced
himself to carry all three the last time, trading the extra effort for the
lesser distance.
He got the last three bars to Victor's place before dawn. His shoulders
were bruised and painful. He had to walk all the way to his job at Ishaq's
place, so he couldn't wait for Victor to arrive to complete his payment of
the last quarter gold mark.
The day of work was a break from the night of exhausting lugging of
iron bars. Jori didn't talk unless spoken to, so Richard lay in the wagon
bed with a load of charcoal and snatched a few minutes of sleep here and
there as the wagon bounced along. He only felt relieved that he had done as
he had promised.
--]----
As he returned home after an interminable day, Richard looked up and
saw Kamil and Nabbi standing at the head of the stairs. They both had on
shirts.
"We've been waiting for you to come home and finish the job," Kamil
said.
Richard swayed on his feet. "What job?"
"The stairs."
"We did that last night."
"You did only the stairs in the front. You said you intended to fix the
stairs. The front is only part of the stairs. The back stairs are twice as
long and in worse shape than the front were. You don't want your wife and
the other women of the building to fall and break their necks when they go
out back to the cooking hearth or the privy, do you?"
This was their idea of a little test. Richard knew he would lose an
opportunity if he put them off. He was so tired he couldn't think straight.
Nicci stuck her head out the front door. "I thought I heard your voice.
Come in to dinner. I have soup waiting on you."
"Got any tea?"
Nicci cast a sidelong glance at the two in shirts. "I can make tea.
Come on, and I'll get it while you have your soup."
"Please bring it out to the back," Richard said. "I promised to fix the
stairs."
"Now?"
"There are still a couple hours of light. I can eat while we're
working."
Kamil and Nabbi asked more questions than the evening before. The third
youth, Gadi, passed by occasionally as Richard and the other two worked.
Gadi, without his shirt, made a point of looking Nicci up and down when she
brought Richard his soup and tea.
When Richard had finally finished, he went to the room that had once
been Ishaq's parlor, and was now his and Nicci's home. He took off his shirt
and splashed water on his face from the washbasin. His head was throbbing.
"Wash your hair," Nicci said. "You're filthy. I don't want lice in
here."
Rather than argue that he had no lice, Richard dipped his face in the
water and scrubbed his head with the cake of coarse soap. It was easier than
talking her out of it so he could go to sleep. Nicci hated lice.
He was thankful, he supposed, that she was at least a clean wife in
their fraudu-
lent arrangement. She kept the room, bedding, and his clothes clean,
despite the difficulty of hauling water from the well down the street. She
never objected to any work necessary to simulate the lives of normal people.
She seemed to want something so badly that she often lost herself in the
role to the extent that while he never forgot she was a Sister of the Dark
and his captor, she occasionally did. He dunked his head again, swishing his
hair, rinsing out the soap.
As a stream of water ran off his chin and back into the basin, he
asked, "Who is Brother Narev?"
Nicci, sitting on her pallet sewing, paused and looked up. Her sewing
suddenly looked out of place, as if her parody of domestic life lost its
aura for her.
"Why do you ask?"
"I met him yesterday, out at the blacksmith's."
"Out at the site of the project?"
Richard nodded. "I had to deliver iron out there."
She bent back to her needlework. Richard watched in the light of the
linseed-oil lamp sitting beside her as she took a few more stitches in the
patch to the knees of a pair of his pants. She finally paused and let her
arms, one sheathed in his pant leg, sink to her lap.
"Brother Narev is the high priest of the Fellowship of Order-an ancient
sect devoted to doing the Creator's will in this world. He is the heart and
soul of the Order-their moral guide-so to speak. He and his disciples lead
the righteous people of the Order in the ways of the everlasting Light of
the Creator. He is an advisor to Emperor Jagang."
Richard was taken aback. He hadn't expected her to be so versed on the
subject. His caution, along with the hair at the back of his neck, lifted.
"What sort of advisor?"
She took another stitch, pulling the long thread through. "Brother
Narev was Jagang's pedagogue-his teacher, advisor, and mentor. Brother Narev
put the fire in Jagang's belly."
"He's a wizard, isn't he." It was more statement than question.
She looked up from her sewing. He could see in her blue eyes that she
was weighing whether or not to tell him, or perhaps how much she wanted to
tell him. His steady gaze told her that he was expecting the whole truth.
"In the language of the street, you could describe him as such."
"What does that mean?"
"Common people, those who understand little about magic, would describe
him as a wizard. Strictly speaking, though, he is not a wizard."
"Then what is he? Strictly speaking."
"Actually, he is a sorcerer."
Richard could only stare at her. He had always assumed that a wizard
and a sorcerer were the same thing. When he thought about it, he realized
that people who knew about magic spoke exclusively of a male with the gift
as a wizard. He had never heard any of those people mention a sorcerer.
"You mean he's like you, like a sorceress, only male?"
The question stymied her for a moment. "I suppose you could think of it
that way, but that's not really right. If you want to compare it, then you
would have to say he has more in common with a wizard, since both are male.
The concept of sorceress introduces irrelevant issues."
Richard swiped water from his face. "Please, Nicci, I've been up all
last night
working, and I'm dead on my feet. Don't go all abstract and complex on
me? Just tell me what it means?"
She set her sewing aside and gestured to his pallet for him to sit near
her, in the light. Richard pulled his shirt back on. He yawned as he crossed
his legs under himself on his pallet.
"Brother Narev is a sorcerer," she began. "I'm sorry, but the
distinction is just not something simply explained. It's a very complex
matter. I will try to make it as clear as I can, but you must understand
that I can't boil it down too much or it will lose any real flavor of the
truth.
"Sorcerers are much the same as wizards, but different-in much the way
that water and oil are both liquids, you might say. Both pour and can
dissolve things, but they don't mix and they dissolve different things.
Neither do the magic of a wizard and a sorcerer mix, nor do they work on the
same things.
"Anything he did against a wizard's gift, or anything a wizard did
against his, would not work. While both are the gift, they are different
aspects-they don't mix. The magic of each nullifies the other, making it
just sort of . . . fizzle."
"You mean like Additive and Subtractive are opposites?"
"No. While on the surface, that would seem a good way to understand it,
it's entirely the wrong way to think of it." She lifted her hands as if to
begin again, but then let them drop back into her lap. "It's very hard to
explain the difference to one such as you who has little understanding of
how his own gift works; you have no basis in which to ground anything I
could tell you. There are no words which are both accurate and which you
would understand; this is beyond your understanding."
"Well . . . do you mean that, much like a wolf and a cougar are both
predators, they are not the same sort of creature?"
"That's a little closer to it."
"How common are these sorcerers?"
"About as common as dream walkers..." she said as she gave him a
meaningful look, "or war wizards."
Even though he couldn't understand it and she couldn't explain it,
Richard, for some reason, found that bit of news troubling.
"What is it, though, that he does differently?"
Nicci let out a sigh. "I'm no expert, and I'm not entirely sure, but I
believe he does the same basic sort of things a wizard would do, but just
does them with a sorcerer's unique quality of magic-liquor and ale both get
you drunk, but they are different kinds of drink made from different
things."
"One of those is stronger." -
"Not so with wizards and sorcerers. Do you see why words and these
kinds of comparisons are so inadequate? The strength of a wizard and
sorcerer's gift is dependent on the individual, it is not influenced by the
fundamental nature of his magic."
Richard scratched his stubble as he considered her words. In view of
the fact that both could do magic, he couldn't come up with any distinction
that seemed of any practical importance.
"Is there anything that he can do that a wizard can't?" He waited. She
didn't look like she was thinking about his question, but more like she was
considering whether she wanted to answer it at all. "Nicci, you told me when
you first captured me that you would tell me the truth about things. You
said you had no reason to deceive me."
She watched his eyes, but finally looked away as she pulled her blond
hair back from her face. The gesture unexpectedly, painfully, reminded him
of Kahlan.
"Perhaps. I believe he may have learned how to replicate the spell that
surrounded the Palace of the Prophets. It took wizards, thousands of years
ago, with both sides of the gift to create that particular spell. I believe
that one of the ways sorcerers are different is that their power is not
divisible into its constituent elements, as it is in wizards. So, while his
magic works differently, he may have learned enough of how the wizards-who
at that time possessed both sides of the gift, as do you-were able to create
the spell around the Palace of the Prophets to be able to replicate it in
his own fashion."
"You mean the spell that slowed aging? You think he can cast such a
web?"
"Yes. Jagang intimated as much to me. I knew Brother Narev when I was
young. He was a grown man then, a visionary, preaching the doctrine of the
Order. He spoke pensively about wishing to live long enough to see his
vision of the Order come to fruition. When I was taken to live at the palace
in Tanimura, I believe that may have given him the idea as he not long after
went there, too.
"The Sisters knew nothing of him. They thought him no more than a
humble worker. Since his gift is different than that of a wizard, they
didn't detect his ability. I now believe that he went there for the express
purpose of studying the spell around the Palace of the Prophets so that he
could re-create such a spell for his own benefit."
"Why didn't he storm the palace-take it over-and then he could have the
spell for his purpose?"
"It's possible that in the beginning he thought he might one day take
over the palace for his cause-in fact, Emperor Jagang had that exact
plan-but it's also possible that he was from the beginning studying the
spell because he wanted not simply to re-create it, but to enhance it."
Richard rubbed his brow, trying to comfort his aching head. "You mean
that now maybe he thinks he can create the spell over the Retreat-the
emperor's new palace-like that one at the Palace of the Prophets, but
better, so that aging will be slowed even more, so that he and his chosen
will live even longer?"
"Yes. Don't forget, age is relative. To one who lives to a thousand
years, living less than one century would seem all too brief. To a person
who lives many thousands of years, though, a lifetime that lasts but a mere
one millennium would seem fleeting.
"I suspect that Brother Narev has learned to slow aging to such an
extent that it would make him the next best thing to immortal. Jagang had
planned on capturing the Palace of the Prophets. It might have been that
once they secured the palace, Brother Narev intended to augment its spell to
suit his purposes."
"But I spoiled that plan."
Nicci nodded. "As are all of us who were once at the palace, Brother
Narev now grows older just like everyone else. Once away from the spell, it
feels like a headlong rush toward the grave. What youth Brother Narev has
left, he is no doubt eager to preserve. Remaining relatively young forever
has much to be said for it. Remaining old forever would be less attractive.
Because you destroyed the Palace of the Prophets, where he could have had
ample time to bring his plan to bear, he has been forced to act sooner,
rather than later."
Richard flopped back on his mat. He laid the back of a wrist over his
forehead. "He has the blacksmith making a spell-form in iron. The blacksmith
has no idea what it is he's creating. The spell-form is to be covered with
gold, eventually."
"For purity. It's likely that is merely part of the process. It could
even be that the gold-covered spellform is nothing more than a pattern, from
which the true spellform will be cast in pure gold."
Richard squinted in thought. "If it is a pattern for casting, that
would make it more likely that Narev intends to cast a number of these
spell-forms-that they will work together."
Nicci looked up and frowned. "Yes, that is a possibility."
"Will making such a thing harm the blacksmith?"
"No. It is propitious conjuring. Disregarding for the moment the
purpose for which it is desired, such a spell is meant to be beneficial; it
is to slow aging in order to lengthen life."
"What about Brother Narev's disciples?"
"Young wizards from the Palace of the Prophets."
Alarmed, Richard sat up. "I was at the Palace of the Prophets. They
will recognize me." '
"No. They were young wizards in training there, but they left to follow
Brother Narev before you arrived. If they see you, they will not know you."
"If they're wizards, won't they recognize that I have magic?"
A smile of contempt colored her features. "They are not that talented.
They are but bugs to what you are."
Richard found no comfort in the compliment. "Won't Brother Narev, or
his disciples, recognize you?"
Her face turned serious. "Oh, they would know me."
"It sounds as if Brother Narev must be strong in his gift. Won't he be
able to recognize that I have the gift? He was looking at me strangely. He
asked if he knew me. He sensed something."
"Why did you think him a wizard?"
Richard picked at the straw stuffing coming out of the pad over his
pallet as he considered the question.
"There was nothing that gave it away for a fact, but I strongly
suspected it from a lot of little things: the way he carried himself; the
way he looked at people; the way he spoke-everything about him. Only after I
surmised that Narev was a wizard did I realize that the thing the blacksmith
was making for him looked like some sort of spell-form."
"He would suspect you of being gifted in much the same way. Can you
tell the gig?..
"Yes. I've learned to recognize an ageless look in their eyes. I can in
some way see the aura of the gift around those in whom it is powerful-you,
for instance. At times, the air crackles around you."
She stared in fascination. "I've never heard of such a thing. It must
have something do to with you having both sides."
"You have both sides. Don't you see it?"
"No, but I acquired the Subtractive side in a different manner."
She had given her soul to the Keeper of the underworld.
"But you see nothing of the sort in Brother Narev, do you?" When
Richard shook his head, she went on with her explanation. "That is because,
as I explained, you have different aspects of the gift. Other than with your
faculty of reason, you have no wizardly ability to recognize the gift in
him; he has no sorcerous ability to
recognize the gift in you. Your magic won't work on one another. Only
your faculty of reason betrayed his gift to you."
Richard realized that, without saying it, she was telling him that if
he didn't want Narev to learn that he had the gift, then he had better be
careful around the man.
There were times when he thought he had her game figured out.
There were times, like now, when it seemed his entire perception of her
purpose shifted. At times, it almost seemed to him as if she threw her
beliefs in his face, not because she believed them, but because she was
desperately hoping for a reason not to, hoping he would find her in some
lost, dark world and show her the way out. Richard sighed inwardly; he had
given her his arguments as to why her beliefs were wrong, but, rather than
sway her, it only angered her, at best, or worse, further entrenched her in
her convictions.
As tired as he was, he lay in his bed, his eyes but narrow slits,
watching Nicci lit by the light of a single wick, bent in - concentration
over her sewing-one of the most powerful women ever to walk the world, and
she appeared perfectly content to sew a patch in the knee of his pants.
She accidentally stuck herself with the needle. As she shook her hand
and winced with the pain, Richard had the sudden cold recollection of the
link between her and Kahlan; his beloved would feel that prick.
Richard took the snow-white slice when Victor held it out.
"What's this?"
"Try it," Victor said as he waved an insistent hand. "Eat. Tell me what
you think. It's from my homeland. Here, a red onion goes well with it."
The white slice was smooth, dense, and rich with salt and herbs.
Richard let out a rapturous moan. He rolled his eyes.
"Victor, this is the best thing I've ever had. What is it?"
"Lardo."
They sat on the threshold of the double doors out of the room with the
marble monolith, watching dawn break over the site, where the walls of the
Retreat had begun to rise. Only a few people stirred below. Before long,
laborers would arrive in great numbers to begin again their work on the
Retreat. It went on every day without pause, rain or shine. Now that spring
was wearing on, the weather was pleasant nearly every day, with afternoon
rains every few days, but nothing dreary or oppressive-just enough to wash
you clean and make you feel refreshed.
If not for the ever-present ache of missing Kahlan, his worry over the
war far to the north, his loathing of being held prisoner, the slave labor
at the site, the abuse of people, the people who disappeared or those who
confessed under torture, and the grindingly repressive nature of life in
Altur'Rang, he might have found the spring quite enjoyable.
Day by day, too, his worry grew that Kahlan would soon be able to leave
their mountain home. He dreaded her getting caught up in such a war as would
be soon be roaring into full flame.
After he had eaten some of the mild onion, Richard went back to the
delightful lardo. He moaned again.
"Victor, I've never tasted anything like this. What's lardo?"
Victor held out another thin slice. Richard gladly accepted. After a
long night of work, the dense delicacy was really hitting the spot.
Victor gestured with his knife to the tin beside him holding the pure
white block. "Lardo is paunch fat from the boar."
"And this tin of it is from your homeland?"
"No, no-I make it myself. I come from far to the south of here, far
away-near the sea. That is where we make lardo. When I come here, I make it
here.
"I put the paunch fat in tubs I carved myself out of marble as white as
the lardo." Victor gestured with his hands as he spoke, working the air as
vigorously as he worked iron. "The fat is put in the tubs with coarse salt
and rosemary and other spices. From time to time I turn it in the brine. It
must rest a year in the stone to cure, to became lardo."
"A year!..
Victor nodded emphatically. "This we are eating, I made last spring. My
father taught me to make lardo. Lardo is something only men make. My father
was a quarry worker. Lardo gives quarry workers the stamina they need to
work long hours sawing blocks of our marble, or swinging a pickaxe. For
blacksmiths, too, lardo gives you power to lift a hammer all day."
"So, there are quarries where you lived?"
He waved his thick hand at the towering block behind them. "This. This
is Cavatura marble-from my homeland." He pointed out at several of the stock
areas below. "That, there, and there, i's marble from Cavatura, too."
"That's where you're from? Cavatura?"
Victor grinned like a wolf as he nodded. "The place where all that
beautiful marble came from. Our city gets its name from the marble quarries.
My family are all carvers, or quarry workers. Me? I end up a blacksmith
making tools for them."
"Blacksmiths are sculptors."
He grunted a laugh. "And you? Where are you from?"
"Me? Far away. They had no marble there. Only granite." Richard changed
the subject, lest he have to start inventing lies. Besides, it was getting
light. "So, Victor, when do you need more of that special steel?"
"Tomorrow. Are you up to it?"
The steel Victor needed was from farther away, at a foundry out near
the charcoal makers. They needed a lot of charcoal to cook with the iron to
make high-grade steel. Ore came in by barge, from not far away. It would
take most of the night for Richard to get there and back.
"Sure. I will be sick today and get some sleep."
He had become sick quite a lot over the last several months. It fit
right in with the way most of the others worked. Work some, be sick, tell
the workers' group that you were ailing. Some people limped in with a story.
It wasn't necessary; the workers' group never questioned.
The only thing he rarely missed were the meetings where those with bad
attitudes were named. People at the meetings were often named, but you were
more likely to bring attention if you missed the meetings. Those named were
often subsequently arrested and given an opportunity to confess. More than
once, a person named at a meeting as having an unsatisfactory attitude
killed themselves.
"One of Brother Narev's disciples, Neal, came around last evening with
some new orders." Victor's voice had taken on a tense edge. "What you just
brought will last me the day, but I need that steel by tomorrow."
"You will have it."
"Are you sure?"
"Have I ever let you down, Victor?"
Victor's hard face melted into a helpless smile. He passed Richard
another slice of lardo. "No, Richard, you never have. Not once. I had given
up hope of ever meeting another man who kept his word."
"Well, I'd best be off and take care of my horses. They've had a hard
night, and I'll need them rested for tonight. How much steel do you need?"
"Two hundred. Half square, and half round."
Richard performed a pained moan. "You're going to make me strong, or
kill me, Victor."
Victor smiled his approval. "You want the gold?"
"No. You can pay me when I deliver."
Richard no longer needed the money in advance. He had a heavy wagon,
now, and a strong team of horses. He paid Ishaq to care for them along with
the transport company's teams in the company stables. Ishaq helped Richard
with any number of the special arrangements that he'd had to make. Ishaq
knew which officials lived in the nice homes. They couldn't afford those
homes with just their pay as officials of the Order.
"You be careful of Neal," Richard said.
"Why's that?"
"For some reason, he believes I'm in need of lecturing. He truly
believes that the Order is mankind's savior. He puts the good of the
fellowship of Order above the good of mankind."
Victor sighed as he stood and tied on his leather apron. "My thoughts
about him, too."
As they passed into the building, the sun was just lighting the marble
standing there. Richard lingered and put a hand to the cold stone, as he
always did whenever he passed it. It almost felt alive to him. Alive with
potential.
"Victor, I asked you once what this was. Mind telling me, now?"
The blacksmith paused beside Richard and gazed up at the pure stone
before him. He reached out and touched it lightly, letting his fingertips
glide over the surface, testing, caressing.
"This is my statue."
"What statue?"
"The one I want to carve, someday. Many in my family are carvers. As
far back as I can remember, I always wanted to carve, too. I wanted to be a
great sculptor. I wanted to create great works.
"Instead, I had to work for the master blacksmith at the quarry. My
family needed to eat. I was the oldest living son. My father and the
blacksmith were friends. My father asked the blacksmith to take me on ....
He didn't want another son lost to the stone. It's a hard and dangerous
life, cutting stone from a mountain."
"Did you carve other things? I mean, like wood, or something."
Victor, still staring at his stone, shook his head. "I only wanted to
carve stone. I bought this block with my savings. I own it. Few men can say
they own a part of a mountain. A part as pure and beautiful as this."
Richard could understand the sentiments. "So, Victor, what will you
carve out of it?"
He squinted, as if trying to peer beyond the surface. "I don't know.
They say that the stone will speak to you and tell you what it should be."
"Do you believe that?"
Victor laughed his deep laugh. "No-not really. But the thing is, this
is a beautiful piece of stone. There is none finer for statues than Cavatura
marble, and few blocks of Cavatura marble with as fine a grain as this
piece. I couldn't bear to see it carved up into something ugly, like what
they carve nowadays.
"It used to be, long ago, that only beauty was carved from beauty such
as this. No more," he whispered in distant bitterness. "Now, man must be
carved with a twisted nature-as an object of shame."
Richard had delivered tools down to the site for Victor, down to where
the carving was taking place, and had had the opportunity to get a closer
look at the work being done. The outside of the stone walls was to be
covered with expansive scenes
on a scale that was staggering. The walls that would enclose the palace
went on for miles. The carvings being produced for the Retreat were the same
as those Richard had seen everywhere in the Old World, but would have no
equal in sheer, overpowering quantity. The entire palace was to be an epic
portrayal of the Order's view of the nature of life, and of redemption in
the afterlife of the underworld.
The figures being carved were stilted, with limbs that could not
possibly function. Those carved in relief were forever bound to the stone
from which they only haltingly emerged. The poses reflected a view of man as
ineffective, shallow, unsubstantial.
The elements of the hated anatomy of man, his muscle, bone, and flesh,
were melted together into lifeless limbs, their proportions distorted to
strip the figures of their humanity. Expressions were either impassive, if
the statue was supposed to portray virtue, or filled with terror, agony,
torment, if intended to illustrate the fate of evildoers. Proper men and
women, bent under the weight of labor, were always made to look out at the
you need it."
"You looking to get buried in the sky?"
Richard smiled. "No. I just happen to think that the emperor wants his
palace built. From what I've heard, they have a lot of slave labor down
there-people they've captured. But they don't have enough slave labor to do
it all for them. They need people like you, and the foundries.
"If the officials of the Order want to have the work progress-and not
have to explain to Emperor Jagang why it isn't they will be inclined to look
the other way. In that narrow crack of need, there is opportunity. I expect
I'll have to bribe a few officials to get them to be busy elsewhere when I
come to pick up loads, but I've already figured that cost into it. I'll be
acting on behalf of myself, not an established transport company, so they
will be more inclined to see this as a way of accomplish ing what they need
without suspending their morass of restrictions.
"You will be getting iron for less than you pay now, and I can deliver.
You can't even get what you need at the higher price. You will make more,
too. We both benefit."
The blacksmith stared for a moment as he tried to find a flaw in
Richard's plan.
"You're either the stupidest crook I ever saw, or the . . . I don't
even know what. But I have Brother Narev breathing down my neck, and that
isn't pleasant. Not pleasant at all. I probably shouldn't tell you this, but
you know how Ishaq sweats over me? I sweat ten times that much when Brother
Narev comes to ask why the tools aren't ready. The brothers don't want to
hear my troubles, they just want what they want."
"I understand, Mr. Cascella."
He let out a sigh. "All right, Richard Cypher, one and a half gold
marks for fifty bars delivered by dawn tomorrow-but I'll only give you the
one and a quarter now. You get the other quarter mark in the morning, when
my iron is here."
"Agreed. Who is this Brother Narev, anyway?"
"Brother Narev? He's the high priest-"
"Did I hear someone mention my name?" The voice was deep enough to
nearly rattle the tools off the walls.
Richard and the blacksmith turned to see a man approaching from around
the corner of the shop. Here and there, his heavy robes betrayed his large
bony frame. His face seemed to pull the gathering darkness into the deep
creases of his face. Dark eyes gleamed out from under a hooded brow
overspread with a tangle of graying hairs. Wiry hair above his ears curled
up from under the edges of a dark, creased cap. The cap sat halfway down his
forehead. He looked like a shadow come to life to stalk the world.
Mr. Cascella bowed. Richard followed his lead.
"We were just discussing the problem of getting enough iron, Brother
Narev."
"Where are all my new chisels, blacksmith?"
"I have yet to-"
"I have stone sitting down there with no chisels to cut it. I have
stonecutters who need more tools. You are holding up my palace."
The blacksmith lifted a hand toward Richard. "This is Richard Cypher,
Brother Narev. He was just telling me how he thought he might be able get me
the iron I need and-"
The high priest held up his hand for silence.
"You can get the blacksmith what he needs?" Brother Narev snapped at
Richard.
"It can be done."
"Then do it."
Richard bowed his head. "By your command, Brother Narev."
The shadowed figure turned to the shop. "Show me, blacksmith."
The blacksmith seemed to know what the high priest wanted and followed
behind him, gesturing for Richard to come along. Richard understood; he
couldn't get the money to buy the iron until the blacksmith first took care
of the important man who had just vanished into the shadows of the shop.
When the blacksmith snapped his fingers and pointed at a lamp on his
way by, Richard snatched it up. He lit a long splinter in the glowing coals
of the forge and then lit the lamp. He held it up behind the two men as they
stood just inside the doorway to the room with the complex contraption of
metal bars sitting on the floor beyond.
Mr. Cascella held the chalkboard up in the light. Brother Narev looked
at the drawing on the chalkboard, then to the maze of iron lines on the
floor, comparing them.
Richard felt an icy tingle at the base of his scalp when he suddenly
realized what the thing on the floor was.
Brother Narev pointed to the drawing, to the line Richard had said was
wrong.
"This line is wrong," Brother Narev growled.
The blacksmith wagged his finger over the chalk drawing. "But I have to
stabilize this mass over here."
"I told you to add braces, I didn't invite you to ruin the main scheme.
You can leave the top of the support where you have it, but the bottom
should be attached . . . here."
Brother Narev pointed to where Richard had said it should go.
Mr. Cascella scratched his head of short hair as he stole a glance over
his shoulder just long enough to scowl at Richard.
"That would work," the blacksmith conceded. "It won't be as easy, but
it will work."
"I'm not concerned with how easy it is," Brother Narev said with
menace. "I don't want anything attached to this area, here."
"No, sir."
"It must be seamless, so none of the joining work shows through when it
is covered in gold. Get me those tools made, first."
"Yes, Brother Narev."
The high priest turned an uncomfortable scrutiny on Richard. "There's
something about you .... Do I know you?"
"No, Brother Narev. I've never before met you. I would remember.
Meeting a great man such as yourself, I mean. I would remember such a
thing."
He glared askance at Richard. "Yes, I suppose you would. You get the
blacksmith his iron."
"I said I would."
The Brother grunted irritably. "So you did."
As the tall shadow of a man stared into Richard's eyes, Richard
absently reached to lift his sword a little to make sure it was clear in its
scabbard. The sword wasn't there.
Brother Narev opened his mouth to say something, but his attention was
caught by two young men entering the shop. They wore robes like the high
priest, but without caps. They had simple hoods pulled up over their heads,
instead.
"Brother Narev," one called.
"What is it, Neal?"
"The book you sent for has arrived. You asked that we come for you at
once."
Brother Narev nodded to the young disciple, then directed a sour look
at Mr. Cascella and Richard.
"Get it done," he said to both.
Both Richard and the blacksmith bowed their heads as the high priest
swept out of the shop.
It felt as if a thundercloud had just departed over the horizon.
"Come on," Mr. Cascella said. "I'll get you the gold."
Richard followed him into a little room where the master blacksmith
pulled out a strongbox attached with massive chain to a huge pin in the
floor under the plank serving as his desk. He unlocked the strongbox and
handed Richard a gold mark.
"Victor."
Richard looked up from the gold mark and frowned. "What?"
"Victor. You asked what more there was to my name." He set silver to
make up the quarter mark on top of the gold mark resting in Richard's palm.
"Victor."
After leaving Ishaq's place and before going to get the iron for
Victor, Richard rushed back to his room. It wasn't dinner he wanted, but to
let Nicci know that he had to go back to work. She had in the past made it
clear that they were husband and wife, and that she would take a dim view of
him vanishing. He was to remain in Altur'Rang and work, just like any other
normal man.
Kamil and one of his friends were waiting for him. Both were wearing
shirts.
Richard stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the two. "I'm
sorry, Kamil, but I have to go back to work-"
"Then you're a bigger dupe than I thought-taking work at night, too.
You should just stop trying. It's no use trying in life. You just have to
take what life gives you. I knew you would have an excuse not to do what you
said you would do. You almost had me thinking that you might be different
than-"
"I was going to say that I have to go back to work, so we have to do
this right away."
Kamil twisted his mouth, as was his habit to express his displeasure
with those older and stupider than he.
"This is Nabbi. He wants to watch your foolish labor, too."
Richard nodded, not showing any irritation at Kamil's arrogant
attitude. "Glad to meet you, Nabbi." The third young man glared from the
shadows back by the stairs in the hall. He was the biggest. He wasn't
wearing a shirt.
To pry the steps apart, Richard used his knife and a rusty metal bar
Kamil found for him. It wasn't difficult-they were ready to fall apart on
their own. As the two youths watched, Richard cleaned the grooves in the
stringers. Since they were chewed up from being loose, he deepened their
bottoms, showing the two what he was doing and explaining how he would bevel
the ends of the treads to lock into the deepened channel. Richard watched
Kamil and Nabbi as they whittled wedges to match the one he made as a
pattern for them. They were only too delighted to show him their knife work;
Richard was delighted that it helped get the job done sooner.
Once they had them back together, Kamil and Nabbi both ran up and down
the repaired steps, apparently surprised that they really were now sturdy
underfoot, and pleased that they were partly responsible for the repair.
"You both did a good job," Richard told them, because they had. They
didn't make any smart remarks. They actually smiled.
Richard's dinner was watery millet eaten by the light of a burning wick
floating in linseed oil. The smell from the simple light went poorly with
dinner, which was more water than millet. Nicci said she'd already eaten,
and didn't want any more. She encouraged him to finish it.
He didn't give Nicci the details of his second job. She was insistent
only that he
work; the work itself was irrelevant to her. She tended to her
household chores and expected him to earn them a living.
She seemed satisfied that he was learning how ordinary people had to
work themselves sick just to make enough to get along in life. The promise
of money to buy them more food seemed to spark a longing in her eyes that
her lips did not express. He noticed that the black material covering her
once full bosom was now slack and half empty. Her elbows and hands had
become bony.
As he took another spoonful of millet, Nicci casually mentioned that
the landlord, Kamil's father, had come by.
Richard looked up from his soup. "What did he say?"
"He said that since you have a job, the area citizens' building
committee had assessed us extra rent in order to help pay the rent of those
in the local buildings who can't work. You see, Richard, how life under the
ways of the Order cultivates caring in people, so that we all work together
for the benefit of all?"
Nearly all of what was not taken by the workers' group was taken by the
area building committee, or some other committee, and all for the same
purpose: for the betterment of the people of the Order. Richard and Nicci
had next to nothing left for food. Richard's clothes were getting looser all
the time, but not as loose as Nicci's dresses were getting.
She seemed smug about the fact that their rent was past due.
Foodstuffs, at least, were relatively inexpensive-when they were available.
People said that it was only by the grace of the Creator and the wisdom of
the Order that they could afford any food at all. Richard had heard talk at
Ishaq's place that more plentiful and varied food could be had, for a price.
Richard didn't have the price.
On his wagon ride with Jori to the foundry and the blacksmith, Richard
had spotted distant houses that looked to be quite grand. Well-dressed
people walked those streets. Occasionally, he saw them in carriages. They
were people who neither dirtied their hands or soiled their morals with
business. They were men of principle. They were officials of the Order who
saw to it that those with the ability sacrificed for the cause of the Order.
"Self-sacrifice is the moral duty of all people," she said in challenge
to his clenched teeth.
Richard could not hold his tongue. "Self-sacrifice is the obscene and
senseless suicide of slaves."
Nicci gaped at him. It was as if he had just said that a mother's milk
was poison to her newborn.
"Richard, I do believe that that's the cruelest thing I've ever heard
you say."
"It's cruel to say that I would not happily sacrifice myself for that
thug, Gadi? Or for some other thug I don't know? It's cruel not to willingly
sacrifice what's mine to any greedy wretch who lusts to possess plundered
goods, the unearned, even at the cost of their victim's blood?
"Self-sacrifice for a value held dear, for a life held dear, for
freedom and the freedom of those you respect-self-sacrifice such as mine for
Kahlan's life-is the only rationally valid sacrifice. To be selfless means
you are a slave who must surrender your most priceless possession-your
life-to any smirking thief who demands it.
"The suicide of self-sacrifice is but a requirement imposed by masters
on slaves. Since there is a knife to my throat, it is not to my good that I
am stripped of what I earn by my own hand and mind. It is only to the good
of the one with the knife, and
those who by weight of numbers but not reason dictate what is the good
of allthose cheering him on so they might lap up any drop of blood their
masters miss.
"Life is precious. That's why sacrifice for freedom is rational: it is
for life itself and your ability to live it that you act, since life without
freedom is the slow, sure death of self-sacrifice to the `good' of
mankind-who is always someone else. Mankind is just a collection of
individuals. Why should everyone's life be more important, more precious,
more valuable than yours? Mindless mandatory self-sacrifice is insane."
She stared, not at him, but at the flame dancing on the pool of linseed
oil. "You don't really mean that, Richard. You're just tired and angry that
you have to work at night, too, just to get by. You should realize that all
those others you help are there to help society, including you, should you
be the one in desperate need."
Richard didn't bother to argue with her, and said only, "I feel sorry
for you, Nicci. You don't evert know the value of your own life. Sacrifice
could mean nothing to you."
"That's not true, Richard," she whispered, "I sacrifice for you .... I
saved what millet we had for you, that you might have strength."
"The strength to stand upright when I throw my life away? Why did you
sacrifice your dinner, Nicci?"
"Because it was the right thing to do-it was for the good of others."
He nodded as he peered at her in the dim light. "You would endanger
your life to starvation for others-for any others." He pointed a thumb back
over his shoulder. "How about that thug, Gadi? Would you starve to death so
he might eat? It might mean something, Nicci, if it was a sacrifice for
someone you value, but it isn't; it's a sacrifice to some mindless gray
ideal of the Order."
When she didn't answer, Richard pushed the rest of his dinner before
her. "I don't want your meaningless sacrifice."
She stared at the bowl of millet for an eternity.
Richard felt sorry for her, for what she couldn't understand as she
stared at the bowl. He thought about what would happen to Kahlan if Nicci
were to fall sick from not getting enough to eat.
"Eat, Nicci," he said softly.
She finally picked up her spoon and did as he said.
When she had finished, she looked up with those blue eyes that seemed
so eager for the sight of something he could not make her see. She slid the
empty bowl to the center of the table.
"Thank you, Richard, for the meal."
"Why thank me? I am a selfless slave, expected to sacrifice for any
worthless person who presents their need to me."
He strode to the door. With his hand on the loose knob, he turned back.
"I have to go, or I will lose my work."
Her big blue eyes were brimming with tears as she nodded.
Richard made the first trip from the foundry through the dark streets
to Victor's shop carrying five bars. From windows along the way, a few
people blinked out at the man lugging a load past. They blinked without
comprehension at the meaning of what he was doing. He was working for
nothing but his own benefit.
Bent under the weight, Richard kept telling himself that carrying five
bars each time would make it only ten trips, and the less trips, the better.
He carried five the second trip, and the third. By the fourth time he
returned to the foundry, he decided
that he would have to make an extra trip in order to give himself a
break and only carry four bars for a few of the trips. He lost track of how
many times he went back and forth throughout the empty night. The next to
last time, he struggled to lift but two bars. That left three. He forced
himself to carry all three the last time, trading the extra effort for the
lesser distance.
He got the last three bars to Victor's place before dawn. His shoulders
were bruised and painful. He had to walk all the way to his job at Ishaq's
place, so he couldn't wait for Victor to arrive to complete his payment of
the last quarter gold mark.
The day of work was a break from the night of exhausting lugging of
iron bars. Jori didn't talk unless spoken to, so Richard lay in the wagon
bed with a load of charcoal and snatched a few minutes of sleep here and
there as the wagon bounced along. He only felt relieved that he had done as
he had promised.
--]----
As he returned home after an interminable day, Richard looked up and
saw Kamil and Nabbi standing at the head of the stairs. They both had on
shirts.
"We've been waiting for you to come home and finish the job," Kamil
said.
Richard swayed on his feet. "What job?"
"The stairs."
"We did that last night."
"You did only the stairs in the front. You said you intended to fix the
stairs. The front is only part of the stairs. The back stairs are twice as
long and in worse shape than the front were. You don't want your wife and
the other women of the building to fall and break their necks when they go
out back to the cooking hearth or the privy, do you?"
This was their idea of a little test. Richard knew he would lose an
opportunity if he put them off. He was so tired he couldn't think straight.
Nicci stuck her head out the front door. "I thought I heard your voice.
Come in to dinner. I have soup waiting on you."
"Got any tea?"
Nicci cast a sidelong glance at the two in shirts. "I can make tea.
Come on, and I'll get it while you have your soup."
"Please bring it out to the back," Richard said. "I promised to fix the
stairs."
"Now?"
"There are still a couple hours of light. I can eat while we're
working."
Kamil and Nabbi asked more questions than the evening before. The third
youth, Gadi, passed by occasionally as Richard and the other two worked.
Gadi, without his shirt, made a point of looking Nicci up and down when she
brought Richard his soup and tea.
When Richard had finally finished, he went to the room that had once
been Ishaq's parlor, and was now his and Nicci's home. He took off his shirt
and splashed water on his face from the washbasin. His head was throbbing.
"Wash your hair," Nicci said. "You're filthy. I don't want lice in
here."
Rather than argue that he had no lice, Richard dipped his face in the
water and scrubbed his head with the cake of coarse soap. It was easier than
talking her out of it so he could go to sleep. Nicci hated lice.
He was thankful, he supposed, that she was at least a clean wife in
their fraudu-
lent arrangement. She kept the room, bedding, and his clothes clean,
despite the difficulty of hauling water from the well down the street. She
never objected to any work necessary to simulate the lives of normal people.
She seemed to want something so badly that she often lost herself in the
role to the extent that while he never forgot she was a Sister of the Dark
and his captor, she occasionally did. He dunked his head again, swishing his
hair, rinsing out the soap.
As a stream of water ran off his chin and back into the basin, he
asked, "Who is Brother Narev?"
Nicci, sitting on her pallet sewing, paused and looked up. Her sewing
suddenly looked out of place, as if her parody of domestic life lost its
aura for her.
"Why do you ask?"
"I met him yesterday, out at the blacksmith's."
"Out at the site of the project?"
Richard nodded. "I had to deliver iron out there."
She bent back to her needlework. Richard watched in the light of the
linseed-oil lamp sitting beside her as she took a few more stitches in the
patch to the knees of a pair of his pants. She finally paused and let her
arms, one sheathed in his pant leg, sink to her lap.
"Brother Narev is the high priest of the Fellowship of Order-an ancient
sect devoted to doing the Creator's will in this world. He is the heart and
soul of the Order-their moral guide-so to speak. He and his disciples lead
the righteous people of the Order in the ways of the everlasting Light of
the Creator. He is an advisor to Emperor Jagang."
Richard was taken aback. He hadn't expected her to be so versed on the
subject. His caution, along with the hair at the back of his neck, lifted.
"What sort of advisor?"
She took another stitch, pulling the long thread through. "Brother
Narev was Jagang's pedagogue-his teacher, advisor, and mentor. Brother Narev
put the fire in Jagang's belly."
"He's a wizard, isn't he." It was more statement than question.
She looked up from her sewing. He could see in her blue eyes that she
was weighing whether or not to tell him, or perhaps how much she wanted to
tell him. His steady gaze told her that he was expecting the whole truth.
"In the language of the street, you could describe him as such."
"What does that mean?"
"Common people, those who understand little about magic, would describe
him as a wizard. Strictly speaking, though, he is not a wizard."
"Then what is he? Strictly speaking."
"Actually, he is a sorcerer."
Richard could only stare at her. He had always assumed that a wizard
and a sorcerer were the same thing. When he thought about it, he realized
that people who knew about magic spoke exclusively of a male with the gift
as a wizard. He had never heard any of those people mention a sorcerer.
"You mean he's like you, like a sorceress, only male?"
The question stymied her for a moment. "I suppose you could think of it
that way, but that's not really right. If you want to compare it, then you
would have to say he has more in common with a wizard, since both are male.
The concept of sorceress introduces irrelevant issues."
Richard swiped water from his face. "Please, Nicci, I've been up all
last night
working, and I'm dead on my feet. Don't go all abstract and complex on
me? Just tell me what it means?"
She set her sewing aside and gestured to his pallet for him to sit near
her, in the light. Richard pulled his shirt back on. He yawned as he crossed
his legs under himself on his pallet.
"Brother Narev is a sorcerer," she began. "I'm sorry, but the
distinction is just not something simply explained. It's a very complex
matter. I will try to make it as clear as I can, but you must understand
that I can't boil it down too much or it will lose any real flavor of the
truth.
"Sorcerers are much the same as wizards, but different-in much the way
that water and oil are both liquids, you might say. Both pour and can
dissolve things, but they don't mix and they dissolve different things.
Neither do the magic of a wizard and a sorcerer mix, nor do they work on the
same things.
"Anything he did against a wizard's gift, or anything a wizard did
against his, would not work. While both are the gift, they are different
aspects-they don't mix. The magic of each nullifies the other, making it
just sort of . . . fizzle."
"You mean like Additive and Subtractive are opposites?"
"No. While on the surface, that would seem a good way to understand it,
it's entirely the wrong way to think of it." She lifted her hands as if to
begin again, but then let them drop back into her lap. "It's very hard to
explain the difference to one such as you who has little understanding of
how his own gift works; you have no basis in which to ground anything I
could tell you. There are no words which are both accurate and which you
would understand; this is beyond your understanding."
"Well . . . do you mean that, much like a wolf and a cougar are both
predators, they are not the same sort of creature?"
"That's a little closer to it."
"How common are these sorcerers?"
"About as common as dream walkers..." she said as she gave him a
meaningful look, "or war wizards."
Even though he couldn't understand it and she couldn't explain it,
Richard, for some reason, found that bit of news troubling.
"What is it, though, that he does differently?"
Nicci let out a sigh. "I'm no expert, and I'm not entirely sure, but I
believe he does the same basic sort of things a wizard would do, but just
does them with a sorcerer's unique quality of magic-liquor and ale both get
you drunk, but they are different kinds of drink made from different
things."
"One of those is stronger." -
"Not so with wizards and sorcerers. Do you see why words and these
kinds of comparisons are so inadequate? The strength of a wizard and
sorcerer's gift is dependent on the individual, it is not influenced by the
fundamental nature of his magic."
Richard scratched his stubble as he considered her words. In view of
the fact that both could do magic, he couldn't come up with any distinction
that seemed of any practical importance.
"Is there anything that he can do that a wizard can't?" He waited. She
didn't look like she was thinking about his question, but more like she was
considering whether she wanted to answer it at all. "Nicci, you told me when
you first captured me that you would tell me the truth about things. You
said you had no reason to deceive me."
She watched his eyes, but finally looked away as she pulled her blond
hair back from her face. The gesture unexpectedly, painfully, reminded him
of Kahlan.
"Perhaps. I believe he may have learned how to replicate the spell that
surrounded the Palace of the Prophets. It took wizards, thousands of years
ago, with both sides of the gift to create that particular spell. I believe
that one of the ways sorcerers are different is that their power is not
divisible into its constituent elements, as it is in wizards. So, while his
magic works differently, he may have learned enough of how the wizards-who
at that time possessed both sides of the gift, as do you-were able to create
the spell around the Palace of the Prophets to be able to replicate it in
his own fashion."
"You mean the spell that slowed aging? You think he can cast such a
web?"
"Yes. Jagang intimated as much to me. I knew Brother Narev when I was
young. He was a grown man then, a visionary, preaching the doctrine of the
Order. He spoke pensively about wishing to live long enough to see his
vision of the Order come to fruition. When I was taken to live at the palace
in Tanimura, I believe that may have given him the idea as he not long after
went there, too.
"The Sisters knew nothing of him. They thought him no more than a
humble worker. Since his gift is different than that of a wizard, they
didn't detect his ability. I now believe that he went there for the express
purpose of studying the spell around the Palace of the Prophets so that he
could re-create such a spell for his own benefit."
"Why didn't he storm the palace-take it over-and then he could have the
spell for his purpose?"
"It's possible that in the beginning he thought he might one day take
over the palace for his cause-in fact, Emperor Jagang had that exact
plan-but it's also possible that he was from the beginning studying the
spell because he wanted not simply to re-create it, but to enhance it."
Richard rubbed his brow, trying to comfort his aching head. "You mean
that now maybe he thinks he can create the spell over the Retreat-the
emperor's new palace-like that one at the Palace of the Prophets, but
better, so that aging will be slowed even more, so that he and his chosen
will live even longer?"
"Yes. Don't forget, age is relative. To one who lives to a thousand
years, living less than one century would seem all too brief. To a person
who lives many thousands of years, though, a lifetime that lasts but a mere
one millennium would seem fleeting.
"I suspect that Brother Narev has learned to slow aging to such an
extent that it would make him the next best thing to immortal. Jagang had
planned on capturing the Palace of the Prophets. It might have been that
once they secured the palace, Brother Narev intended to augment its spell to
suit his purposes."
"But I spoiled that plan."
Nicci nodded. "As are all of us who were once at the palace, Brother
Narev now grows older just like everyone else. Once away from the spell, it
feels like a headlong rush toward the grave. What youth Brother Narev has
left, he is no doubt eager to preserve. Remaining relatively young forever
has much to be said for it. Remaining old forever would be less attractive.
Because you destroyed the Palace of the Prophets, where he could have had
ample time to bring his plan to bear, he has been forced to act sooner,
rather than later."
Richard flopped back on his mat. He laid the back of a wrist over his
forehead. "He has the blacksmith making a spell-form in iron. The blacksmith
has no idea what it is he's creating. The spell-form is to be covered with
gold, eventually."
"For purity. It's likely that is merely part of the process. It could
even be that the gold-covered spellform is nothing more than a pattern, from
which the true spellform will be cast in pure gold."
Richard squinted in thought. "If it is a pattern for casting, that
would make it more likely that Narev intends to cast a number of these
spell-forms-that they will work together."
Nicci looked up and frowned. "Yes, that is a possibility."
"Will making such a thing harm the blacksmith?"
"No. It is propitious conjuring. Disregarding for the moment the
purpose for which it is desired, such a spell is meant to be beneficial; it
is to slow aging in order to lengthen life."
"What about Brother Narev's disciples?"
"Young wizards from the Palace of the Prophets."
Alarmed, Richard sat up. "I was at the Palace of the Prophets. They
will recognize me." '
"No. They were young wizards in training there, but they left to follow
Brother Narev before you arrived. If they see you, they will not know you."
"If they're wizards, won't they recognize that I have magic?"
A smile of contempt colored her features. "They are not that talented.
They are but bugs to what you are."
Richard found no comfort in the compliment. "Won't Brother Narev, or
his disciples, recognize you?"
Her face turned serious. "Oh, they would know me."
"It sounds as if Brother Narev must be strong in his gift. Won't he be
able to recognize that I have the gift? He was looking at me strangely. He
asked if he knew me. He sensed something."
"Why did you think him a wizard?"
Richard picked at the straw stuffing coming out of the pad over his
pallet as he considered the question.
"There was nothing that gave it away for a fact, but I strongly
suspected it from a lot of little things: the way he carried himself; the
way he looked at people; the way he spoke-everything about him. Only after I
surmised that Narev was a wizard did I realize that the thing the blacksmith
was making for him looked like some sort of spell-form."
"He would suspect you of being gifted in much the same way. Can you
tell the gig?..
"Yes. I've learned to recognize an ageless look in their eyes. I can in
some way see the aura of the gift around those in whom it is powerful-you,
for instance. At times, the air crackles around you."
She stared in fascination. "I've never heard of such a thing. It must
have something do to with you having both sides."
"You have both sides. Don't you see it?"
"No, but I acquired the Subtractive side in a different manner."
She had given her soul to the Keeper of the underworld.
"But you see nothing of the sort in Brother Narev, do you?" When
Richard shook his head, she went on with her explanation. "That is because,
as I explained, you have different aspects of the gift. Other than with your
faculty of reason, you have no wizardly ability to recognize the gift in
him; he has no sorcerous ability to
recognize the gift in you. Your magic won't work on one another. Only
your faculty of reason betrayed his gift to you."
Richard realized that, without saying it, she was telling him that if
he didn't want Narev to learn that he had the gift, then he had better be
careful around the man.
There were times when he thought he had her game figured out.
There were times, like now, when it seemed his entire perception of her
purpose shifted. At times, it almost seemed to him as if she threw her
beliefs in his face, not because she believed them, but because she was
desperately hoping for a reason not to, hoping he would find her in some
lost, dark world and show her the way out. Richard sighed inwardly; he had
given her his arguments as to why her beliefs were wrong, but, rather than
sway her, it only angered her, at best, or worse, further entrenched her in
her convictions.
As tired as he was, he lay in his bed, his eyes but narrow slits,
watching Nicci lit by the light of a single wick, bent in - concentration
over her sewing-one of the most powerful women ever to walk the world, and
she appeared perfectly content to sew a patch in the knee of his pants.
She accidentally stuck herself with the needle. As she shook her hand
and winced with the pain, Richard had the sudden cold recollection of the
link between her and Kahlan; his beloved would feel that prick.
Richard took the snow-white slice when Victor held it out.
"What's this?"
"Try it," Victor said as he waved an insistent hand. "Eat. Tell me what
you think. It's from my homeland. Here, a red onion goes well with it."
The white slice was smooth, dense, and rich with salt and herbs.
Richard let out a rapturous moan. He rolled his eyes.
"Victor, this is the best thing I've ever had. What is it?"
"Lardo."
They sat on the threshold of the double doors out of the room with the
marble monolith, watching dawn break over the site, where the walls of the
Retreat had begun to rise. Only a few people stirred below. Before long,
laborers would arrive in great numbers to begin again their work on the
Retreat. It went on every day without pause, rain or shine. Now that spring
was wearing on, the weather was pleasant nearly every day, with afternoon
rains every few days, but nothing dreary or oppressive-just enough to wash
you clean and make you feel refreshed.
If not for the ever-present ache of missing Kahlan, his worry over the
war far to the north, his loathing of being held prisoner, the slave labor
at the site, the abuse of people, the people who disappeared or those who
confessed under torture, and the grindingly repressive nature of life in
Altur'Rang, he might have found the spring quite enjoyable.
Day by day, too, his worry grew that Kahlan would soon be able to leave
their mountain home. He dreaded her getting caught up in such a war as would
be soon be roaring into full flame.
After he had eaten some of the mild onion, Richard went back to the
delightful lardo. He moaned again.
"Victor, I've never tasted anything like this. What's lardo?"
Victor held out another thin slice. Richard gladly accepted. After a
long night of work, the dense delicacy was really hitting the spot.
Victor gestured with his knife to the tin beside him holding the pure
white block. "Lardo is paunch fat from the boar."
"And this tin of it is from your homeland?"
"No, no-I make it myself. I come from far to the south of here, far
away-near the sea. That is where we make lardo. When I come here, I make it
here.
"I put the paunch fat in tubs I carved myself out of marble as white as
the lardo." Victor gestured with his hands as he spoke, working the air as
vigorously as he worked iron. "The fat is put in the tubs with coarse salt
and rosemary and other spices. From time to time I turn it in the brine. It
must rest a year in the stone to cure, to became lardo."
"A year!..
Victor nodded emphatically. "This we are eating, I made last spring. My
father taught me to make lardo. Lardo is something only men make. My father
was a quarry worker. Lardo gives quarry workers the stamina they need to
work long hours sawing blocks of our marble, or swinging a pickaxe. For
blacksmiths, too, lardo gives you power to lift a hammer all day."
"So, there are quarries where you lived?"
He waved his thick hand at the towering block behind them. "This. This
is Cavatura marble-from my homeland." He pointed out at several of the stock
areas below. "That, there, and there, i's marble from Cavatura, too."
"That's where you're from? Cavatura?"
Victor grinned like a wolf as he nodded. "The place where all that
beautiful marble came from. Our city gets its name from the marble quarries.
My family are all carvers, or quarry workers. Me? I end up a blacksmith
making tools for them."
"Blacksmiths are sculptors."
He grunted a laugh. "And you? Where are you from?"
"Me? Far away. They had no marble there. Only granite." Richard changed
the subject, lest he have to start inventing lies. Besides, it was getting
light. "So, Victor, when do you need more of that special steel?"
"Tomorrow. Are you up to it?"
The steel Victor needed was from farther away, at a foundry out near
the charcoal makers. They needed a lot of charcoal to cook with the iron to
make high-grade steel. Ore came in by barge, from not far away. It would
take most of the night for Richard to get there and back.
"Sure. I will be sick today and get some sleep."
He had become sick quite a lot over the last several months. It fit
right in with the way most of the others worked. Work some, be sick, tell
the workers' group that you were ailing. Some people limped in with a story.
It wasn't necessary; the workers' group never questioned.
The only thing he rarely missed were the meetings where those with bad
attitudes were named. People at the meetings were often named, but you were
more likely to bring attention if you missed the meetings. Those named were
often subsequently arrested and given an opportunity to confess. More than
once, a person named at a meeting as having an unsatisfactory attitude
killed themselves.
"One of Brother Narev's disciples, Neal, came around last evening with
some new orders." Victor's voice had taken on a tense edge. "What you just
brought will last me the day, but I need that steel by tomorrow."
"You will have it."
"Are you sure?"
"Have I ever let you down, Victor?"
Victor's hard face melted into a helpless smile. He passed Richard
another slice of lardo. "No, Richard, you never have. Not once. I had given
up hope of ever meeting another man who kept his word."
"Well, I'd best be off and take care of my horses. They've had a hard
night, and I'll need them rested for tonight. How much steel do you need?"
"Two hundred. Half square, and half round."
Richard performed a pained moan. "You're going to make me strong, or
kill me, Victor."
Victor smiled his approval. "You want the gold?"
"No. You can pay me when I deliver."
Richard no longer needed the money in advance. He had a heavy wagon,
now, and a strong team of horses. He paid Ishaq to care for them along with
the transport company's teams in the company stables. Ishaq helped Richard
with any number of the special arrangements that he'd had to make. Ishaq
knew which officials lived in the nice homes. They couldn't afford those
homes with just their pay as officials of the Order.
"You be careful of Neal," Richard said.
"Why's that?"
"For some reason, he believes I'm in need of lecturing. He truly
believes that the Order is mankind's savior. He puts the good of the
fellowship of Order above the good of mankind."
Victor sighed as he stood and tied on his leather apron. "My thoughts
about him, too."
As they passed into the building, the sun was just lighting the marble
standing there. Richard lingered and put a hand to the cold stone, as he
always did whenever he passed it. It almost felt alive to him. Alive with
potential.
"Victor, I asked you once what this was. Mind telling me, now?"
The blacksmith paused beside Richard and gazed up at the pure stone
before him. He reached out and touched it lightly, letting his fingertips
glide over the surface, testing, caressing.
"This is my statue."
"What statue?"
"The one I want to carve, someday. Many in my family are carvers. As
far back as I can remember, I always wanted to carve, too. I wanted to be a
great sculptor. I wanted to create great works.
"Instead, I had to work for the master blacksmith at the quarry. My
family needed to eat. I was the oldest living son. My father and the
blacksmith were friends. My father asked the blacksmith to take me on ....
He didn't want another son lost to the stone. It's a hard and dangerous
life, cutting stone from a mountain."
"Did you carve other things? I mean, like wood, or something."
Victor, still staring at his stone, shook his head. "I only wanted to
carve stone. I bought this block with my savings. I own it. Few men can say
they own a part of a mountain. A part as pure and beautiful as this."
Richard could understand the sentiments. "So, Victor, what will you
carve out of it?"
He squinted, as if trying to peer beyond the surface. "I don't know.
They say that the stone will speak to you and tell you what it should be."
"Do you believe that?"
Victor laughed his deep laugh. "No-not really. But the thing is, this
is a beautiful piece of stone. There is none finer for statues than Cavatura
marble, and few blocks of Cavatura marble with as fine a grain as this
piece. I couldn't bear to see it carved up into something ugly, like what
they carve nowadays.
"It used to be, long ago, that only beauty was carved from beauty such
as this. No more," he whispered in distant bitterness. "Now, man must be
carved with a twisted nature-as an object of shame."
Richard had delivered tools down to the site for Victor, down to where
the carving was taking place, and had had the opportunity to get a closer
look at the work being done. The outside of the stone walls was to be
covered with expansive scenes
on a scale that was staggering. The walls that would enclose the palace
went on for miles. The carvings being produced for the Retreat were the same
as those Richard had seen everywhere in the Old World, but would have no
equal in sheer, overpowering quantity. The entire palace was to be an epic
portrayal of the Order's view of the nature of life, and of redemption in
the afterlife of the underworld.
The figures being carved were stilted, with limbs that could not
possibly function. Those carved in relief were forever bound to the stone
from which they only haltingly emerged. The poses reflected a view of man as
ineffective, shallow, unsubstantial.
The elements of the hated anatomy of man, his muscle, bone, and flesh,
were melted together into lifeless limbs, their proportions distorted to
strip the figures of their humanity. Expressions were either impassive, if
the statue was supposed to portray virtue, or filled with terror, agony,
torment, if intended to illustrate the fate of evildoers. Proper men and
women, bent under the weight of labor, were always made to look out at the