The door closed behind them. Fitch exhaled.

Right in front of him, the Minister's door burst open.

The big stranger had Beata by the upper arm. Her back was to Fitch as she was put out of the room. The man shoved her, as if she weighed no more than a feather pillow. She landed on her bottom with a thud. She didn't know Fitch was standing right behind her.

The stranger's unconcerned gaze met Fitch's wide eyes. The man's thick mat of dark hair, in tangled stringy strands, hung to his Shoulders. His clothes were dark, covered in leather plates and straps and belts. Most of his weapons were lying on the floor in the room. He looked a man who didn't need them, though, a man who could, with his big callused hands, crush the throat of nearly anyone.

When he turned back to the room, Fitch realized to his horror that the odd cape was made from scalps. That was why it looked like it was covered with patches of hair. Because it was covered with patches of hair, human hair. Every color from blond to black.

From beyond the doorframe, the Minister called the stranger by name, "Stein," and pitched him a small white handful of cloth. Stein caught it and then stretched Beata's underpants between two meaty fingers for a look. He tossed them into her lap as she sat on the floor struggling for breath, trying mightily not to cry.

Stein looked up into Fitch's eyes, completely unconcerned, and smiled. His smile wrinkled aside his heavy mat of stubble.

He gave Fitch a larking wink.

Fitch was stunned by the man's disregard for someone being there, seeing what was happening. The Minister peered out as he buttoned his trousers. He, too, smiled, and then pulled the door shut behind himself as he stepped out into the hall.

"Shall we visit the library now?"

Stein held out a hand in invitation. "Lead the way, Minister."

Beata sat hanging her head as the two men, chatting amicably, strode off down the hall to the left. She seemed crushed by the ordeal, too disillusioned to be able to muster the will to stand, to leave, to go back to her life the way it had been.

Stock-still, Fitch waited, hoping that, somehow, the impossible would happen-that maybe she wouldn't turn, that maybe she would be confused and wander off down the other hall, and she wouldn't notice him there behind her, unblinking, holding his breath.

Sucking back her sobs, Beata staggered to her feet. When she turned and saw Fitch, she stiffened with a gasp. He stood paralyzed, wishing more than anything that he had never gone up the stairs for a look. He'd gotten considerably more of a look than he wanted.

"Beata…" He wanted to ask if she was hurt, but of course she was hurt. He wanted to comfort her, but didn't know how, didn't know the right words to use. He wanted to take her in his arms and shelter her, but he feared she might misconstrue his aching concern.

Beata's face warped from misery to blind rage. Her hand unexpectedly whipped around, striking his face with such fury that it made his head ring inside like a bell.

The wallop wrenched his head to the side. The room swam in his vision. He thought he saw someone in the distance down a hall, but he wasn't sure. As he tried to get his bearings, to grope for a railing as he staggered back, his hand found the floor instead. One knee joined his hand on the floor. He saw a blur of her blue dress as Beata raced down the stairs, the staccato sounds of her footfalls hammering an echo up the stairwell.

Dazing pain, sharp and hot, drove into his upper jaw just in front of his ringing ear. His eyes hurt. He was stupefied by how hard she had hit him. Nausea bloated in the pit of his stomach. He blinked, trying to force his vision to clear.

A hand under his-arm startled him. It helped lift him back to his feet. Dalton Campbell's face loomed close to his.

Unlike the other two men, he did not smile but, rather, studied Fitch's eyes the way Master Drummond scrutinized a halibut brought in by the fishmonger. Just before he gutted it.

"What is your name?"

"Fitch, sir. I work in the kitchen, sir." Between the punch and his dread, Fitch's legs felt like boiled noodles.

The man glanced toward the stairs. "You seem to have wandered from the kitchen, don't you think?"

'I took a paper to the brewer." Fitch paused to gulp air, trying to make his voice stop trembling. "I was just on my way back to the kitchen, sir."

The hand tightened on Fitch's arm, drawing him closer. "Since you were rushing to the brewer, down on the lower level, and then right back to the kitchen, on the first floor, you must be a hardworking young man. I would have no reason to recall seeing you up here on the third floor." He released Fitch's arm. "I suppose I recall seeing you downstairs, rushing back to the kitchen from the brewer? Without wandering off anywhere along the way?"

Fitch's concern for Beata turned to a focused hope to keep himself from being thrown out of the house, or worse.

"Yes, sir. I'm on my way right back to the kitchen."

Dalton Campbell draped his hand over the hilt of his sword. "You've been working, and haven't seen a thing, have you?"

Fitch swallowed his terror. "No, sir. Nothing. I swear. Just that Minister Chanboor smiled at me. He's a great man, the Minister. I'm thankful that a man so great as he would give work to a worthless Haken such as myself."

The corners of Dalton Campbell's mouth turned up just enough that Fitch thought the aide might be pleased by what he'd heard. His fingers drummed along the length of the brass crossguard of his sword. Fitch stared at the lordly weapon. He felt driven to speak into the silence.

"I want to be good and be a worthy member of the household. To work hard. To earn my keep."

The smile widened. "That is indeed good to know. You seem a fine young man. Perhaps, since you are so earnest in your desire, I could count on you?"

Fitch wasn't sure exactly what he was to be counted on for, but he gave a "Yes, sir" anyway, and without hesitation.

"Since you swear you didn't see anything on your way back to the kitchen, you are proving to me that you are a lad of potential. Perhaps one who could be entrusted with more responsibility."

"Responsibility, sir?"

Dalton Campbell's dark eyes gleamed with a terrifying, incomprehensible intelligence, the kind Fitch imagined the mice must see in the eyes of the house cats.

"We sometimes have need of people desiring to move up in the household. We will see. Keep yourself vigilant against the lies of people wishing to bring disrepute to the Minister, and we will see."

"Yes, sir. I'd not like to hear anyone say anything against the Minister. He's a good man, the Minister. I hope the rumors I've heard are true, that one day we might be blessed enough by the Creator that Minister Chanboor would become Sovereign."

Now the aide's smile truly did take hold. "Yes, I do believe you have potential. Should you hear any… lies, about the Minister, I would appreciate knowing about it." He gestured toward the stairs. "Now, you had best get back to the kitchen."

"Yes, sir, if I hear any such thing, I'll bring it to you." Fitch made for the stairs. "I'd not want anyone lying about the Minister. That would be wrong."

"Young man-Fitch, was it?"

Fitch turned back from the top step. "Yes, sir. Fitch."

Dalton Campbell crossed his arms and turned his head to peer with one questioning eye. "What have you learned at penance about protecting the Sovereign?"

"The Sovereign?" Fitch rubbed his palms on his trousers. "Well… um… that anything done to protect our Sovereign is a virtue?"

"Very good." Arms still folded, he leaned toward Fitch. "And, since you have heard that Minister Chanboor is likely to be named Sovereign, then…?"

The man expected an answer. Fitch groped wildly for it. He cleared his throat, at last. "Well… I guess… that if he's to be named Sovereign, then maybe he ought to be protected the same?"