When they returned to the cart, Beata ticked off the cargo for him, slapping a hand to each item as she called it out. She knew he couldn’t read and so had to commit the list to memory. She took care to make each item clear. There was pork, mutton, ox, beaver, and beef, three crocks of marrow, eight fat skins of fresh blood, a half-barrel of pig stomachs for stuffing, two dozen geese, a basket of doves, and three nets of pullets, counting the one she had already taken in.
“I know I put…” Beata pulled over a net of the pullets, looking for something. “Here it is,” she said. “I feared for a moment I didn’t have them.” She dragged it free. “And a sack of sparrows. The Minister of Culture always wants sparrows for his feasts.”
Fitch could feel the heat of his face going red. Everyone knew sparrows, and sparrow eggs, were consumed to stimulate lust—although he couldn’t fathom why; lust hardly seemed to him in need of any more stirring. When Beata looked up into his eyes to see if he’d added it to his mental list, he felt the overwhelming need to say something—anything—to change the subject.
“Beata, do you think we’ll ever be absolved of our ancestral crimes, and be as pure of heart as the Ander people?”
Her smooth brow twitched. “We are Haken. We can never be as good as the Ander; our souls are corrupt and unable to be pure; their souls are pure, and unable to be corrupt. We cannot ever be completely cleansed; we can only hope to control our vile nature.”
Fitch knew the answer as well as she. Asking probably made her think him hopelessly ignorant. He was never any good at explaining his thoughts in a way that spoke what he really meant.
He wanted to pay his debt—gain absolution—and earn a sir name. Not many Hakens ever achieved that privilege. He could never do as he wished until he could do that much. He hung his head as he sought to amend his question.
“But, I mean… after all this time, haven’t we learned the errors of our ancestors’ ways? Don’t you want to have more of a say in your own life?”
“I am Haken. I am not worthy of deciding my destiny. You should know that down that path lies wickedness.”
He picked at the torn flesh where she’d taken out the splinter. “But some Hakens serve in ways that go toward absolution. You said once that you might join the army. I’d like to join, too.”
“You are male Haken. You are not allowed to touch weapons. You should know that, too, Fitch.”
“I didn’t mean to say… I know I can’t. I just meant—I don’t know.” He shoved his hands in his back pockets. “I just meant that I wish I could, that’s all, so that I could do good—prove myself. Help those who we’ve made to suffer.”
“I understand.” She gestured to the windows on the upper floors. “It is the Minister of Culture himself who passed the law allowing Haken women to serve in the army, along with the Ander women. That law also says all must show respect to those Haken women. The Minister is compassionate to all people. The Haken women owe him a great debt.”
Fitch knew he wasn’t getting across what he really meant. “But don’t you want to marry and—”
“He also passed the law that Haken women must be given work so that we might feed ourselves without having to marry and be slaves to the Haken men, for it is their nature to enslave, and given the chance through marriage, they will even do it with their own kind. Minister Chanboor is a hero to all Haken women.
“He should be a hero to Haken men, too, because he brings culture to you, so that you may give over your warlike ways and come into the community of peaceful people. I may decide to join because serving in the army is a means by which Haken women may earn respect. It is the law. Minister Chanboor’s law.”
Fitch felt as if he were at penance. “I respect you, Beata, even though you aren’t in the army. I know you will do good for people whether or not you join the army. You are a good person.”
Beata’s heat faltered. She lifted one shoulder in a little shrug. The edge in her voice softened. “The main reason I might one day join the army is like you say—to help people and do good. I, too, want to do good.”
Fitch envied her. In the army she would be able to help communities facing difficulties with everything from floods to famine. The army helped needy people. People in the army were respected.
And, it wasn’t like the past, when being in the army could be dangerous. Not with the Dominie Dirtch. If the Dominie Dirtch were ever unleashed, it could school any opponent into submission without those in the army having to do battle. Thankfully, the Anders were in charge of the Dominie Dirtch, now, and they would only use such a weapon to keep peace—never to intentionally bring harm.
The Dominie Dirtch was the one thing Haken that the Anders used. The Ander people could never have conceived such a thing themselves—they were not capable of even thinking the vile thoughts that must have been required to conceive such a weapon. Only Hakens could have created a weapon of such outright evil.
“Or I might hope to be sent here to work, like you were,” Beata added.
Fitch looked up. She was staring at the windows on the third floor. He almost said something, but instead closed his mouth. She stared up at the windows as she went on.
“He walked into Inger’s place once, and I actually saw him. Bertrand—I mean Minister Chanboor—is much more attractive to look upon than Inger the butcher.”
Fitch didn’t know how to judge such things in a man, not with the way women fussed over men Fitch thought unattractive. Minister Chanboor was tall and perhaps had once been good-looking, but he was starting to get wisps of gray in his dark Ander hair. Women in the kitchen all giggled to each other over the man. When he came into the room, some reddened and had to fan their faces as they sighed. He seemed repulsively old to Fitch.
“Everyone says the Minister is a very charming man. Do you ever see him? Or talk with him? I heard that he even speaks with Hakens, just like regular folks. Everyone speaks so highly of him.
“I’ve heard Ander people say that one day he will likely be the Sovereign.”
Fitch sank back against the cart. “I’ve seen him a couple of times.” He didn’t bother to tell her that Minister Chanboor had once cuffed him when he’d dropped a dull butter knife right near the Minister’s foot. He’d deserved the smack.
He glanced back at her. She was still looking up at the windows. Fitch gazed down at the ruts in the damp dirt. “Everyone likes and respects the Minister of Culture. I am joyous to be able to work for such a fine man, even though I am unworthy. It is a mark of his noble heart that he would give Hakens work so that we won’t starve.”
Beata suddenly glanced around self-consciously as she brushed her hands clean on her skirts. He sought once more to try to make her see his worthwhile intentions.
“I hope someday to do good. To contribute to the community. To help people.”
Beata nodded approvingly. He felt emboldened by that approval. Fitch lifted his chin.
“I hope one day to have my debt paid and earn my sir name, and then to travel to Aydindril, to the Wizard’s Keep, to ask the wizards to name me the Seeker of Truth, and present me with the Sword of Truth so that I might return to protect the Ander people and do good.”
Beata blinked at him. And then she laughed.
“You don’t even know where Aydindril is, or how far it is.” She shook her head between her fits of laughter.
He did too know where Aydindril was. “North and east,” he mumbled.
“The Sword of Truth is said to be a thing of magic. Magic is vile and dirty and evil. What do you know about magic?”
“Well… nothing, I guess—”
“You don’t know the first thing about magic. Or swords. You’d probably cut off your foot.” She bent to the cart, hoisted the basket of doves and another net of pullets as she chuckled, and then headed for the kitchens.
Fitch wanted to die. He’d told her his secret dream, and she’d laughed. His chin sunk to his chest. She was right. He was Haken. He could never hope to prove his worth
.
He kept his eyes down and didn’t say anything else as they unloaded the cart. He felt a fool. With every step, he silently rebuked himself. He wished he’d kept his dreams to himself. He wished he could take back the words.
Before they pulled the last of it from the cart, Beata caught his arm and cleared her throat, as if she intended to say more. Fitch again cast his gaze down, resigned to hear what else she would have to say about his foolishness.
“I’m sorry, Fitch. My corrupt Haken nature caused me to slip and be cruel. It was wrong of me to say such cruel things.”
He shook his head. “You were right to laugh.”
“Look, Fitch… we all have impossible dreams. That too is just part of our corrupt nature. We must learn to be better than our base dreams.”
He wiped hair off his forehead as he peered up at her gray-green eyes. “You have dreams, too, Beata? Real dreams? Something you wish?”
“You mean like your foolish dream to be the Seeker of Truth?” He nodded. She at last looked away from his eyes. “I suppose it’s only fair, so that you can laugh at me in turn.”
“I wouldn’t laugh,” he whispered, but she was staring off at small puffs of white clouds drifting across the bright blue sky and didn’t seem to hear him.
“I wish I could learn to read.”