Fitch stood frozen, his mind focused intently on Dalton Campbell's words, running them through his head again. He never even dreamed such dreams as working as a messenger. He'd not considered the possibility of work that would give him more than a roof and food, the opportunity to lift some good liquor, and perhaps a penny bonus now and again.

Of course he dreamed of having a sword and reading and other things, but those were silly dreams and he knew it- they were just for fun dreaming. Daydreaming. He hadn't dared dream close to real things such as this, such as actually being a messenger.

"Well, what do you say, Fitch? Would you like to be one of my messengers? Naturally, you couldn't wear those… clothes. You would have to wear messenger livery." Dalton Campbell leaned forward to look over the desk and down. "That includes boots. You would have to wear boots to be a messenger.

"You would have to move to new quarters, too. The messengers have quarters together. Beds, not pallets. The beds have sheets. You have to make up your bed, of course, and keep your own trunk in order, but the staff washes the messenger's clothes and bedding.

"What do you say, Fitch? Would you like to join my staff of messengers?"

Fitch swallowed. "What about Morley, Master Campbell? Morley did just as you said, too. Would he become a messenger with me?"

The leather squeaked when Dalton Campbell again tipped back onto the two rear legs of his chair. He sucked on the end of the spiraled-blue and clear-glass pen for a time as he studied Fitch's eyes. At last he took the pen away from his mouth.

"I only need one messenger right now. It's time you started thinking about yourself, Fitch, about your future. Do you want to be a kitchen boy the rest of your life?

"The time has come for you to do what's right for you, Fitch, if you ever want to get places in life. This is your chance to rise up out of that kitchen. It may be the only chance you get.

"I'm offering the position to you, not Morley. Take it or leave it. What's it going to be, then?"

Fitch licked his lips. "Well, sir, I like Morley-he's my friend. But I don't think there's anything I'd rather do in the whole world than be your messenger, Master Campbell. I'll take the job, if you'll have me."

"Good. Welcome to the staff, then, Fitch." He smiled in a friendly way. "Your loyalty to your friend is admirable. I hope you feel the same of this office. I will have a… part-time position for Morley for now, and I suspect that at some point in the future a position may open up and he could then join you on the messenger staff."

Fitch felt relief at that news. He'd hate to lose his friend, but he would do anything to get out of Master Drummond's kitchen and to be a messenger.

"That's awfully kind of you, sir. I know Morley will do right by you, too. I swear I will."

Dalton Campbell leaned forward again, letting the front legs of the chair thunk down. "All right, then." He slid a folded paper across the desk. "Take this down to Master Drummond. It informs him that I have engaged your services as a messenger, and you are no longer responsible to him. I thought you might like to deliver it yourself, as your first official message."

Fitch wanted to jump up and hoot a cheer, but he instead remained emotionless, as he thought a messenger would. "Yes, sir, I would." He realized he was standing up straighter, too.

"Right after, then, one of my other messengers, Rowley, will take you down to estate supply. They will provide you with livery that fits close enough for the time being. When you're down there, the seamstress will measure you up so your new clothes can be fitted to you.

"While in my service, I expect all my messengers to be smartly dressed in tailored livery. I expect my messengers — to reflect well on my office. That means you and your clothes are to be clean. Your boots polished. Your hair brushed. You will conduct yourself properly at all times. Rowley will explain the details to you. Can you do all that, Fitch?"

Fitch's knees trembled. "Yes, sir, I surely can, sir."

Thinking about the new clothes he would be wearing, he suddenly felt very ashamed of what had to be his filthy scruffy look. An hour ago he thought he looked just fine as he was, but no longer. He couldn't wait to get out of his scullion rags.

He wondered what Beata would think when she saw him in his handsome new messenger's livery.

Dalton Campbell slid a leather pouch across the desk. The flap was secured with a large dribbling of amber wax impressed with a sheaf-of-wheat seal design.

"After you clean up and get on your new outfit, I want you to deliver this pouch to the Office of Cultural Amity, in Fairfield. Do you know where it is?"

"Yes, sir, Master Campbell. I grew up in Fairfield, and I know just about any place there."

"So I was told. We have messengers from all over Anderith, and they mostly cover the places they know-the places where they grew up. Since you know Fairfield, you will be assigned to that area for most of your work."

Dalton Campbell leaned back to fish something from a pocket. "This is for you." He flipped it through the air.

Fitch caught it and stared dumbly at the silver sovereign in his palm. He expected that most rich folk didn't even carry such a huge sum about.

"But, sir, I haven't worked the month, yet."

"This is not your messenger's wage. You get your wage at the end of every month." Dalton Campbell lifted an eyebrow. "This is to show my appreciation for the job you did last night."

Claudine Winthrop. That was what he meant — scaring Claudine Winthrop into keeping quiet.

She had called Fitch "sir."

Fitch laid the silver coin on the desk. With a finger, he reluctantly slid the coin a few inches toward Dalton Campbell.

"Master Campbell, you owe me nothing for that. You never promised me anything for it. I did it because I wanted to help you, and to protect the future Sovereign, not for a reward. I can't take money I'm not owed."

The aide smiled to himself. "Take the coin, Fitch. That's an order. After you deliver that pouch in Fairfield, I don't have anything else for you today, so I want you to spend some of that-all of it if you wish-on yourself. Have some fun. Buy candy. Or buy yourself a drink. It's your money; spend it as you wish."

Fitch swallowed back his excitement. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'll do as you say, then."

"Good. Just one thing, though." Campbell put an elbow on the desk and leaned forward. "Don't spend it on prostitutes in the city. There are some very nasty diseases going through the whores in Fairfield this spring. It's an unpleasant way to die. If you go to the wrong prostitute, you will not live long enough to be a good messenger."

While the idea of being with a woman was achingly tantalizing, Fitch didn't see how he would ever work up the nerve to go through with it and get naked in front of one. He liked looking at women, the way he liked looking at Claudine Winthrop and he liked looking at Beata, and he liked imagining them naked, but he never imagined them seeing him naked, in an aroused state. He had enough trouble hiding his aroused condition from women when he had his clothes on. He ached to be with a woman, but couldn't figure how the embarrassment of the situation wouldn't ruin the lust of it. Maybe if it was a girl he knew, and liked, and he kissed and cuddled and courted her for a period of time- came to know her well-he might see how he could get to the point of the procedure, but he couldn't imagine how anyone ever worked up the nerve to go to a woman he didn't even know and just strip naked right in front of her.

Maybe if it was dark. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was dark in the prostitutes' rooms, so the two people wouldn't actually see each other. But he still- "Fitch?"

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."