Fitch cleared his throat. “No, sir. I swear an oath not to go to any of the prostitutes in Fairfield. No, sir, I won’t.”
24
After the boy left, Dalton yawned. He had been up long before dawn, calling in staff, meeting with trusted assistants to hear their reports of any relevant discussions at the feast, and then seeing about the preparation of all the messages. The staff employed in the copying and preparation of messages, among other things, took up the next six rooms down the hall, but they had needed his outer offices to complete the task in such short order.
By first light Dalton had his messengers off to the criers in every corner of Anderith. Later, when the Minister was up and had finished with whoever had ended up as his bed partner, Dalton would let the man know the wording of the statement so he might not be taken by surprise, seeing as how he was the signatory to the announcement.
The criers would read the messages in meeting halls, guild halls, merchant and trade halls, town and city council halls, taverns, inns, every army post, every university, every worship service, every penance assembly, every fulling, paper, and grain mill, every market square—anywhere people gathered—from one end of Anderith to the other. Within a matter of days, the message, the exact message as Dalton had written it, would be in every ear.
Criers who didn’t read the messages exactly as written were sooner or later reported and replaced with men more interested in keeping their source of extra income. Besides sending the messages to the criers, Dalton, on a rotating basis, sent identical messages to people about the land who earned a bit of extra money by listening to the crier and reporting if the message was altered. All part of tending his cobweb.
Few people understood, as did Dalton, the importance of a precisely tailored, cogent-sounding, uniform message reaching every ear. Few people understood the power wielded by the one controlling the words people heard; what people heard, if put to them properly, they believed, regardless of what were those words. Few people understood the weapon that was a properly fashioned twist of information.
Now there was a new law in the land. Law forbidding partial hiring practices in the mason profession, and ordering the hiring of willing workers who presented themselves for work. The day before, such action against a powerful guild would have been unthinkable.
His messages chided people to act by the highest Ander cultural ideals, and not to take understandably belligerent action against masons for their past despicable practices of being a party to children starving. Instead, his message insisted that they follow the new, higher standards of the Winthrop Fair Employment Law. And the startled masons, rather than attacking the new law, would be busily and vigorously trying to prove that they were not intentionally starving the children of their neighbors.
Before long, masons across the land would not only comply, but embrace the new law as if they themselves had all along been urging its passage. It was either that, or be stoned by angry mobs.
Dalton liked to consider every eventuality and have the road laid before the cart arrived. By the time Rowley got Fitch cleaned up and into messenger livery, and the boy off on his way with the law pouch, it would be too late for the Office of Cultural Amity, if for some reason the eleven Directors changed their minds, to do anything about it. The criers would already be proclaiming the new law all over Fairfield, and soon it would be known far and wide. None of the eleven Directors would now be able to alter their show of hands at the feast.
Fitch would fit right in with the rest of Dalton’s messengers. They were all men he had collected over the previous ten years, young men pulled from obscure places, otherwise doomed to a life of hard labor, degradation, few options, and little hope. They were the dirt under the heels of Anderith culture. Now, through the delivery of messages to criers, they helped shape and control Anderith culture.
The messengers did more than merely deliver messages; in some ways they were almost a private army, paid for by the public, and one of the means by which Dalton had risen to his present post. All his messengers were unshakably loyal to no one but Dalton. Most would willingly go to their death if he requested it. There had been occasions when he had.
Dalton smiled as his thoughts wandered to more pleasant things—wandered to Teresa. She was floating on air from having been introduced to the Sovereign. When they had returned to their apartments after the feast and retired to bed, as she had promised, she had soundly rewarded him with just how good she could be. And Teresa could be extraordinarily good.
She had been so inspired by the experience of meeting the Sovereign that she was spending the morning in prayer. He doubted she could have been more moved had she met the Creator Himself. Dalton was pleased that he could provide Teresa such an exalting experience.
At least she had not fainted, as had several women and one man when they were presented to the Sovereign. Were it not a common occurrence, it would have been embarrassing for those people. As it was, everyone understood and readily accepted their reaction. In some ways, it was a mark of distinction, a talisman of faith, proving one’s devotion to the Creator. No one considered it anything but sincere faith laid bare.
Dalton, however, recognized the Sovereign as the man he was, a man in a high office, but a man nonetheless. For some people, though, he transcended such worldly notions. When Bertrand Chanboor, a man already widely respected and admired as the most outstanding Minister of Culture ever to serve, became Sovereign, he, too, would become the object of mindless adoration.
Dalton suspected, though, that a great many of the swooning women would be endeavoring to fall under him, rather than faint before him. To many, it would be a religious experience beyond the mere coupling with a man of power such as the Minister of Culture. Even husbands would be ennobled by their wives’ holy acceptance into such congress with the Sovereign.
When he heard a knock at the door, Dalton looked up and began to say “Enter,” but the woman was already barging in. It was Franca Gowenlock.
Dalton rose. “Ah, Franca, how good to see you. Did you enjoy the feast?”
For some reason, the woman had a dark look. Added to her dark eyes and hair, and the general aspect which made her seem as if she were somehow always standing in a shadow even when she wasn’t, that made the look very dark indeed. The air always seemed still and cool whenever Franca was about.
She snatched the top rail of a chair on her way past, dragging it along to his desk. She set the chair before the desk, plopped herself down in front of him, and folded her arms. Somewhat taken aback, Dalton sank back into his chair.
Fine lines splayed out from her squinted eyes. “I don’t like that one from the Order. Stein. I don’t like him one bit.”
Dalton relaxed back into his chair. Franca wore her black, nearly shoulder length hair loose, yet it swept back somewhat from her face, as if it had been frozen stiff by an icy wind. A bit of gray streaked her temples, but, rather than adding years to her looks, it added only to her serious mien.
Her simple sienna dress buttoned to her neck. A little higher up, a band of black velvet hugged her throat. It was usually black velvet, but not always. Whatever it was made from, it was always at least two fingers wide.
Because she always wore a throat band, Dalton wondered all the more why, and what, if anything, might be under it. Franca being Franca, he never asked.
He had known Franca Gowenlock for nearly fifteen years, and had employed her talents for well over half that time. He had sometimes mused to himself that she must have once been beheaded and sewn her own head back on.
“I’m sorry, Franca. Did he do something to you? Insult you? He didn’t lay a hand to you, did he? I will have him dealt with, if that’s the case—you have my word.”
Franca knew his word to her was beyond reproach. She twine
d her long graceful fingers together in her lap. “He had enough women willing and eager; he didn’t need me for that.”
Dalton, truly at a loss, but cautious nonetheless, spread his hands. “Then what is it?”
Franca put her forearms on the desk and tipped her head in. She lowered her voice.
“He did something with my gift. He scrambled it all up, or something.”
Dalton blinked, true concern roiling through him. “You mean you think the man has some kind of magical power? That he cast a spell, or something?”
“I don’t know,” Franca growled, “but he did something.”
“How do you know?”
“I tried to listen to conversations at the feast, just like I always do. I tell you, Dalton, I wouldn’t know I had the gift if I didn’t know I did. Nothing. I got nothing from no one. Not a thing.”
Dalton’s frown now mimicked hers. “You mean that your gift didn’t help you overhear anything?”
“Don’t you hear anything? Isn’t that what I just said?”
Dalton drummed his fingers on the table. He turned and peered out the window. He got up and lifted the sash, letting in the warm breeze. He motioned to Franca, and she came around the desk.
Dalton pointed to two men engaged in conversation under a tree across the lawn. “Down there, those two. Tell me what they’re saying.”
Franca put her hands on the sill and leaned out a little, staring at the two men. The sun on her face showed how time truly was beginning to wrinkle, stretch, and sag what he had always thought was one of the most beautiful, if not the strangest, women he had ever known. Even so, despite the advance of time, her beauty was still haunting.
Dalton watched the men’s hands move, gesturing as they spoke, but he could hear none of their words. With her gift, she should be able to easily hear them.
Franca’s face went blank. She stood so still she looked like one of the wax figures from the traveling exhibition that came through Fairfield twice a year. Dalton couldn’t even tell if the woman was breathing.