"Such a supposed offense against the Creator could disqualify Bertrand from consideration for Sovereign. The Directors could join forces and take a stand, leaving us suddenly helpless and at their mercy. We could all be out looking for new quarters before we knew what happened."

"Hildemara, I think-"

She pulled his face closer to her own.

"I want her killed."

Dalton had always found that a plain woman's kind and generous nature could make her tremendously alluring. The other side of that coin was Hildemara; her selfish despotism and boundless hatred of anyone who stood in the way of her ambition corrupted any appealing aspect she possessed into irredeemable ugliness.

"Of course, Hildemara. If that is your wish, then it shall be done." Dalton gently removed her hand from his collar. "Any particular instructions as to how you would like it accomplished?"

"Yes," she hissed. "No accident, this deed. This is killing and it should look like a killing. There is no value in the lesson if my husband's other bedmates fail to grasp it.

"I want it to be messy. Something that will open women's eyes. None of this dying-peacefully-in-her-sleep business."

"I see."

"Our hands must look entirely clean in this. Under no circumstances can suspicion point to the Minister's office- but I want it to be an object lesson to those who might consider wagging their tongues."

Dalton already had a plan in mind. It would fit the requirements. No one would think it an accident, it would certainly be messy, and he knew exactly where fingers would point, should he need fingers to point.

He had to admit that Hildemara had valid arguments. The Directors had been shown the glint off the Minister's axe. They might decide in their own self-interest to swing an axe themselves.

Claudine could make more trouble. It was unwise to knowingly allow such a potential danger to remain at large. He regretted what had to be done, but he couldn't disagree that it needed doing.

"As you wish, Hildemara."

Her smile paid another visit to her face.

"You have been here only a short time, Dalton, but I have come to greatly respect your ability. And, too, if there is one thing I trust about Bertrand, it's his ability to find people who can accomplish the job required. He has to be good at choosing people to properly handle the work, you see, or he might have to actually take care of matters himself, and that would require him to vacate the loins of whoever fascinated him at the moment.

"I trust you didn't get to where you are by being squeamish, Dalton?"

He knew without doubt she had placed discreet inquiries as to his competence. She would already know he was up to the task. Further, she would not risk such a demand had she not been sure he would honor it. There were others to whom she could have turned.

With ever so much care, he spun a new line on his cobweb.

"You requested a favor of me, Hildemara. The favor is well within my capacity."

It was not a favor, and they both knew it; it was an order. Still, he wanted to fasten her more closely to the deed, if only in her own mind, and such a seed would set down roots.

Ordering a murder was a great deal worse than any accusation of a petty rape. He might someday have need of something within her sphere of influence.

She smiled with satisfaction as she cupped his cheek. "I knew you were the right man for the job. Thank you, Dalton."

He bowed his head.

Like the sun going behind a cloud, her expression darkened. Her hand moved down his face until a single finger lifted his chin.

"And keep in mind that while I may not have the power to castrate Bertrand, I can you, Dalton. Any time it pleases me."

Dalton smiled. "Then I shall be sure to give you no cause, my lady."

Fitch scratched his arm through his crusty old scullion clothes. He'd never realized what rags they were until he'd been in his messenger uniform for a while. He relished the respect he was given as a messenger. It wasn't like he was important or anything, but most people respected messengers as someone with a responsibility; no one ever respected scullions.

He hated putting back on his old clothes. It felt like putting back on his old life, and he never wanted to go back to that. He liked working for Dalton Campbell, and would do anything to keep that job.

For this, though, his old clothes were necessary.

The sweet melody of a lute rippled in from a faraway inn. Probably the Jolly Man tavern, over on Wavern Street, he guessed. They often had a minstrel sing there.

The piercing warbles from a reed shawm intermittently cut through the night. At times the shawm went silent, and then the minstrel sang ballads whose words were unintelligible because of the distance. The tune, though, was quick and pleasant and made Fitch's heart beat faster.

He glanced back over his shoulder and in the moonlight saw the grim faces of the other messengers. They, too, were all back in the clothes of their former lives. Fitch intended to remain in his new life. He wouldn't let the other men down. No matter what, he wouldn't let them down.

They looked a scruffy bunch, they did. Dressed as they were, no one would likely recognize them. No one would be able to tell them from any of the other young redheaded Haken men in rags.

There were always young Haken men around in Fairfield, hoping for someone to hire them for any task. Often they were chased away from the streets where they gathered. Some went out to the country to help work farms, some found work in Fairfield if only for a day, some went behind the buildings to drink, and some waited in the dark to. rob people. Those, though, didn't live long if they were caught by the city guards, and they usually were.

Morley's boots creaked as he shifted his weight as he crouched beside Fitch. Fitch, like the rest of the men, wore his boots for this, even though they were part of his uniform; people wouldn't be able to tell anything from boots.

Even though Morley wasn't yet a messenger, Master Campbell had asked him to join Fitch and the others who weren't off to distant places with messages. Morley had been disappointed that he didn't get to be a messenger along with Fitch. Fitch told him what Master Campbell had said about Morley being useful from time to time for various work, and how he would someday likely join the messenger service. For now, that was good enough hope for Morley.

Fitch's new friends among the messengers were nice enough, but he was glad to have Morley along. He and Morley had been kitchen scullions together for a long time.

That meant something. When you'd been getting drunk with someone for years, it was a strong bond, as Fitch figured it. Morley seemed to feel the same and was glad to be asked along so he might prove himself.

Despite his fear, Fitch, too, didn't want to let Dalton Campbell down. More than that, for this task, he and Morley both had cause. For them, unlike the other men, this was personal. Still, it had Fitch's palms sweating and he had to wipe them on his knees every few minutes.

Morley nudged Fitch. Fitch peered off to the dimly lit road outside the row of two- and three-story stone buildings. He saw Claudine Winthrop step out onto the landing attached to the front of one of them. There was a man beside her, just as Master Campbell had said there would be-a finely dressed Ander wearing a sword. By the narrow scabbard it looked a light sword. Quick, but deadly, Fitch imagined as he gave it a few parries in his mind.

Rowley, in his messenger outfit, stepped up to the tall Ander man as he came down off the landing and handed him a rolled message. Rowley and the man spoke as he broke the seal and unfurled the paper, but Fitch was too far away to hear the words.