Fitch’s head hurt something awful. The dawn light hurt his eyes. Despite sucking on a small piece of ginger, he couldn't get the foul sour taste in the back of his throat to go away. He figured the headache and awful taste was probably from too much of the fine wine and rum he and Morley had treated themselves to. Even so, he was in good spirits and smiled as he scrubbed the crusty pots.

Slow as he was moving, trying not to make his head feel any worse, Master Drummond wasn't yelling at him. The big man seemed relieved that the feast was over and they could go back to their regular cooking chores. The kitchen master had sent him after a number of things, not once calling him "Fetch."

Fitch heard someone coming his way, and looked up to see that it was Master Drummond.

"Fitch, dry your hands."

Fitch pulled up his arms and shook off some of the soapy water. "Yes, sir."

He snatched up a nearby towel as he recalled with acute pleasure the title of «sir» being directed to him the night before.

Master Drummond wiped his forehead with his own white towel. With the way his head was sweating, he looked like he might have had some drink the night before, too, and might not be feeling his best, either. It had been a tremendous amount of work getting ready for the feast, so Fitch grudgingly guessed that Master Drummond deserved to get drunk, too. At least the man got to be called «sir» all the time.

"Get yourself up to Master Campbell's office."

"Sir?"

Master Drummond tucked the white towel behind his belt. The nearby women were watching. Gillie was scowling, no doubt waiting for an opportunity to twist Fitch's ear and scold him for his wicked Haken ways.

"Dalton Campbell just sent word that he wants to see you. I'd guess he means right now, Fitch, so get to it and see what he needs."

Fitch bowed. "Yes, sir, right away."

Before she could give him much of a thought, he cut a wide path around Gillie, keeping out of her reach and disappearing as quickly as possible. This was one task Fitch was only too happy to rash to do, and he didn't want to be snagged by the sour-faced saucer woman.

As he took the stairs two at a time, his throbbing head seemed to be only a minor annoyance. By the time he'd reached the third floor, he suddenly felt pretty good. He rushed past the spot where Beata had clouted him and down the hall just a short ways to the right, to where only a week before he'd taken a plate of sliced meat late one evening, to Dalton Campbell's office.

The door to the outer office stood open. Fitch caught his breath and shuffled in, keeping his head low in a respectful sort of way; he'd only been there that once before, and he wasn't exactly sure how he was supposed to act in the offices of the Minister's aide.

There were two tables in the room. One had disorderly stacks of papers all over it, along with messenger pouches and sealing wax. The other dark shiny table was nearly clean except for a few books and an unlit lamp. The morning sun streaming in the tall windows provided light aplenty.

Along the far wall to the left, opposite the wall with the windows, four young men lounged and chatted on a long padded bench. They were talking about road conditions to outlying towns and cities. They were messengers, a coveted job in the household, so Fitch guessed it seemed a logical enough thing for them to discuss, but he always thought messengers would talk 'more of the grand things they saw in their job.

The four were well dressed, all the same, in the Minister's aide's exclusive livery of heavy black boots, dark brown trousers, white shirts with ruffled collars, and sleeved doublets quilted with an interlocking cornucopia design. The edges of the doublets were trimmed with distinctive brown and black braided wheat banding. To Fitch's way of thinking, the outfits made any of the messengers look almost noble, but especially so those messengers belonging to the Minister's aide.

There were a number of different kinds of messengers in the household, each with its own individual uniform, each working for a specific person or office. Fitch knew of messengers working for the Minister, Lady Chanboor, the chamberlain's office, the marshal's office; the sergeant-at-arms had several; there were a number of army messengers working out of the estate and those who brought messages to the estate but lived elsewhere-even the kitchen had a messenger. From time to time he saw others he didn't recognize. Fitch couldn't understand why they were all needed. He couldn't understand how much messaging a person could possibly need to do.

Far and away the largest contingent of messengers- nearly an army's worth, it seemed-belonged to the office of the Minister's chief aide: Dalton Campbell.

The four men sitting on the padded bench watched him with friendly enough smiles. Two nodded in greeting, something messengers had done before when he came across them. Fitch always thought it odd when they did because, even though they too were Haken, he always figured messengers were better than he, as if, while not Ander, they were some indefinable step above a mere Haken.

Fitch nodded in kind to return the greeting. One of the men who had nodded, perhaps a year or two older than Fitch, lifted a thumb toward the room beyond.

"Master Campbell is waiting on you, Fitch. You're to go on in."

Fitch was surprised to be called by name. "Thank you." He shambled over to the tall doorway to the inner room and waited at the threshold. He'd been in the outer waiting room before-the interior door had always been closed- and he expected Master Campbell's inner office to be more or less the same, but it was larger and much more grand, with rich-looking blue and gold drapes on the three windows, a wall of fancy oak shelves holding a colorful array of thick books, and, in the other corner, several magnificent Ander battle standards. Each long banner was of a yellow background with red markings along with a bit of blue. The standards were arranged in a display flanked by formidable-looking pole weapons.

Dalton Campbell looked up from behind a massive desk of shiny mahogany with curved legs and a scalloped skirt. The top had three inset leather squares, smaller ones to each side of a large one in the middle, each with a curly design painted in gold around its edges.

"Fitch, there you are. Good. Come in and shut the door, please."

Fitch crossed the big room and stood before the desk when he had done as bidden. "Yes, sir? You needed something?"

Campbell leaned back in his brown leather chair. His princely scabbard and sword stood beside a tufted bench, in their own special holder of hammered silver made to look like a scroll. Lines of writing were engraved on the scroll, but Fitch couldn't read, so he didn't know if they were real words.

Tipping his chair back on the two rear legs while he sucked on the end of a glass dipping pen, the Minister's aide studied Fitch's face.

"You did a good job with Claudine Winthrop."

"Thank you, sir. I tried my best to remember everything you told me you wanted me to do and say."

"And you did that quite well. Some men would have turned squeamish and failed to do as I instructed. I can always use men who follow orders and remember what I tell them I want done. In fact, I would like to offer you a new position with my office, as a messenger."

Fitch stared dumbly. He'd heard the words, but they didn't seem to make any sense to him. Dalton Campbell had plenty of messengers-a whole army of them, it seemed.

"Sir?"

"You did well. I'd like you to be one of my messengers."

"Me, sir?"

"The work is easier than kitchen work, and the job, unlike kitchen work, pays a wage in addition to food and living quarters. Earning a wage, you could begin to set money aside for your future. Perhaps one day when you earn your sir name, you might be able to buy yourself something. Perhaps a sword."