"It's your business, why can't-"

"Why, why, why. Here, take this order. I don't need to have that blacksmith come all the way down here again and yell at me. He's in trouble with his orders and he needs the iron."

"Why is he in trouble? I thought everyone had to wait their turn."

Ishaq lifted an eyebrow and lowered his voice. "His customer is the Retreat."

"The Retreat? What's that?"

"The Retreat." Ishaq spread his arms, indicating something big. "That's the name of the place being built for the emperor."

Richard hadn't known the name. The emperor's new palace was the reason for all the workers coming to Altur'Rang. He supposed it was the reason Nicci had insisted they come to the city, too. She had some interest in having him be part of the grand project. He assumed it was her grotesque sense of irony.

"The new palace is going to be huge," Ishaq said, waving his arms again. "A lot of work for a lot of people. It will be work for years building the Retreat."

"So, when the goods are for the Order, then you had better deliver, I take it."

Ishaq smiled and dipped a deep nod. "Now, you are starting to understand, Mr. Richard why, why, why. The blacksmith is working directly from the orders of the builders of the palace, who report to the highest people. The builders need tools and things made. They don't want to hear excuses from a lowly blacksmith. The blacksmith doesn't want to hear excuses from me, but I have to go by what the review board says-he doesn't, he goes by what the palace says. I'm in the middle."

Ishaq paused when one of the other loaders came down the aisle with a piece of paper. Ishaq read the paper the man gave him, while the man gave a sidelong look at Richard. Ishaq sighed and gave brief directions to the man. After he was gone, Ishaq turned back to Richard.

"I can only transport what the review board allows me to move. That paper, just now-it was instructions from the board for me to hold a shipment of timbers to the mines because the load was going to go to a company that needs the work. You see? I can't put other people out of business by being unfair and delivering more than

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they do, or else I have trouble, and I get replaced by someone who will not be so unfair to his competitors. Ah, it's not like the old days, when I was young and foolish."

Richard folded his arms. "You mean to say that if you do a good job, you get in trouble-just like I did."

"Good job. Who's to say what is a good job. Everybody's got to work together for the good of everybody. That is a good job-if you help your fellow man."

Richard watched a couple of men off in the distance loading a wagon with charcoal. "You don't really believe that mouthful of mush, do you, Ishaq?"

Ishaq sighed in a long suffering manner. "Richard, please, load the wagon when you get to the foundry and then go with the wagon out to the Retreat and unload it at the blacksmith's shop. Please. Don't get sick on me, or get a bad back, or have infirm children in the middle of the run? I don't need to see the blacksmith again, or I will have to go swimming with an iron bar around my neck."

Richard grunted a laugh. "My back is feeling fine."

"Good. I'll get a driver over here to drive the wagon." Ishaq waggled a cautionary finger. "And don't ask the driver to help load or unload. We don't need that kind of grievance brought up at the next meeting. I had to beg Jori not to lodge a complaint after I asked him to help me unload the wagon that day in the rain, when the wheels broke-the day you helped me get the load to the warehouse. Remember?"

"I remember."

"Please, don't give Jori any trouble. Don't touch the reins-that's his job. Be a good fellow, then? Get the iron loaded and unloaded so that blacksmith doesn't come to see me again?"

"Sure, Ishaq. I won't make any trouble for you. You can trust me."

"There's a good fellow." Ishaq started away, but turned back. "Was not so much trouble on a farm-am I right?"

"No, it wasn't. I wish I was back there, now."

Before he got far, Ishaq turned back once more. "You be sure to bow and scrape if you see any of those priests. You hear?"

"Priests? What priests? How will I know them?"

"Brown robes and creased caps-oh, you'll know them. You can't miss them. If you see any, you be on your best manners. If a priest suspects you of having an improper attitude toward the Creator or such, he can have you tortured. The priests are Brother Narev's disciples."

"Brother Narev?"

"The high priest of the Fellowship of Order-" Ishaq waved his arms impatiently. "I have to get Jori to come with the wagon. Please, Richard, do as I ask. That blacksmith will feed me to his forge if I don't have that iron out there today. Please, Richard, get that load out there. Please?"

Richard gave Ishaq a smile in order to put his mind at ease.

"You have my word, Ishaq. The blacksmith will have the iron."

Ishaq heaved a sigh and hurried off to find his driver.

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CHAPTER 48

It was late in the muggy afternoon by the time they made it to the site of the Retreat. Sitting in the wagon beside Jori as they cleared the top of the final hill, Richard was awestruck by the sight. It was beyond huge. He couldn't imagine how many square miles had been cleared. Gangs of thousands of men, looking like ants spread out below, worked in lines with shovels and baskets reshaping the contour of the land.

Jori was disinterested in the construction, and only spat over the side, offering the occasional "I suppose" to some of Richard's questions.

The foundation was still being laid in deep trenches, enabling Richard, looking down from the road, to see on the ground the outline of the future structure. It was hard to fathom how enormous the building was going to be. Seeing the specks moving slowly beside it, it was hard to keep in mind that they were men.

For sheer size, the structure would rival anything Richard had ever seen. There were miles of grounds and gardens going in. Fountains and other towering structures along entrance roads were beginning to be erected. Sweeping stretches of mazes were being constructed with hedges. Hillsides were dotted with trees that had been planted according to a grand plan.

The Retreat faced a lake in what was to be that majestic park. The short side of the main building was to run a quarter mile along the river. Stone pilings marched partway out into the river, with a series of connecting arches just starting to be constructed. Apparently, part of the palace was to extend out over the water, with docks for the emperor's pleasure craft.

Across the river lay more of the city. On the palace side of the river, too, the city spread all around, though at a great distance from the Retreat. Richard couldn't imagine how many buildings and people had been displaced for the construction. This was to be no distant and remote emperor's palace, but rather it was set right in the center of Altur'Rang. Roads were being paved with millions of cobbles, giving the multitudes of citizens of the Order access to come and see the wand structure. There were already crowds of people standing behind rope barricades, watching the construction.

Despite the poverty of the Old World, it would appear that this grand palace was to be a crown jewel of unsurpassed splendor.

Stone of various kinds lay in great piles. In the distance, Richard could see men working at cutting it into the required shapes. The heavy afternoon air rang with the faraway knells of hundreds of hammers and chisels. There were stockpiles of granite and marble in a variety of colors, and massive quantities of limestone blocks. Special quarry wagons waited in serpentine columns to deliver yet more. The long blocks of stone, called lifts, were slung under heavy beams that bridged the front

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and rear axles. Huts and great open shelters had been built for the stone workers so they could work no matter the weather. Timber was stickered in row upon row of huge stacks covered with purpose-built roofs. The overflow was covered in canvas. Small mountains of materials for mortar were scattered around the foundation, looking like anthills, the illusion aided by all the dark specks of men moving about.

Away from the site itself, on a road that snaked its way along the side of a hill, among a small city of new work buildings overlooking the site, lay the blacksmith's shop. It was quite large, compared with such places Richard had seen before. Of course, Richard had never seen anything on this scale being built. He had seen grand places that already existed. To see one just beginning was a revelation. The sheer scale of everything was disorienting.

Jori expertly backed his team, putting the rear of the wagon right at double doors standing open into blackness.

"There you be," Jori said. It was a long speech for the lanky driver. He pulled out a loaf of bread and a waterskin filled with ale and climbed down from the wagon to find a place farther down the hill, where he could sit and watch the building while Richard worked at unloading the iron.

The blacksmith's shop was dark and stifling hot, even in the outer, cluttered, stockroom. Like all blacksmith's shops, the walls in the workroom were covered in soot. Windows were kept to a minimum, mostly located overhead and covered with shutters, so as to keep it dark in order to more easily judge the nature of the glowing metal.

Despite being recently built for the work at the palace, the blacksmith's shop already looked a hundred years old. Nearly every spot held some tool or other in a dizzying array and variety. There were rows of tools, piles of them. The rafters were hung with tongs and fire pots and crucibles and squares and dividers and contraptions like huge insects which looked to be used for clamping pieces together. Low benches seemingly cobbled together in haste were hung all round with long-handled dies of every sort. Some benches held smaller grindstones. Slots around some tables held hundreds of files and rasps. Some of the low tables were covered in a jumble of hammers in such variety as Richard had never imagined, their handles all sticking out, making the tabletops look like huge pincushions.

The floor was choked with clutter: boxes overflowing with parts, bars, rivets; wedges; lengths of iron stock; clippings; pry bars; pole hooks; dented pots; wooden jigs; tin snips; lengths of chain; pulleys; and a variety of special anvil attachments. Everything was covered with soot or dust or metal filings.

Broad short barrels full of liquids sat around the anvils where men hammered on glowing iron held in tongs, flattening, stretching, cutting, squaring, clipping. Glowing metal hissed and smoked in protest as it was quenched in the liquid. Other men used the horns of their anvils to bend metal that looked like bits of sunset held captive in tongs. They held up those fascinating bits and matched them to patterns, hammered on the metal some more, and checked it again.

Richard could hardly think in all the noise.

In the darkness, a man worked a big bellows, putting all his weight on the downstroke. The blast of air made the fire roar. Charcoal overflowed from baskets sitting wherever there had been room to put them. Cubbyholes held pipe and odd scraps of metal. Metal hoops leaned against benches and planks. Some of the hoops were for barrels, bigger ones were for wagon wheels. Tongs and hammers lay here and there on the floor where men had dropped them in the haste of battle with the hot iron.

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The whole place was as agreeable a clutter as he had ever seen.

A man in a leather apron stood not far away at a door to another workroom. He held out a chalkboard covered with a maze of lines as he studied a large contraption of metal bars on the floor in the room beyond. Richard waited, not wanting to interrupt the man's concentration. The sharply defined muscles of his sooty arms glistened with sweat. The man tapped the chalk against his lip as he puzzled, then swiped a line clean on the board and drew it again, moving its connecting points.

Richard frowned at the drawing. It looked familiar, somehow, even though it was no recognizable object.

"Would you be the master blacksmith?" Richard asked when the man paused and looked over his shoulder.

The man's brow seemed enduringly fixed in an intimidating scowl. His hair was cropped close to his skull-a good practice around so much fire and white-hot metaladding to his menacing demeanor. He was of average height and sinewy, but it was his countenance that made him look big enough for any trouble that might come along. By the way the other men moved, and glanced at this man, they feared him.

Taken by inexplicable compulsion, Richard pointed at the line the man had just drawn. "That's wrong. What you just did is wrong. You have the top end right, but the bottom should go here, not where you put it."

He didn't so much as blink. "Do you even know what this is?"

"Well, not exactly, but I-"

"Then how can you presume to tell me where to put this support?"

The man looked like he wanted to stuff Richard in the forge and melt him down.

"Offhand, I don't know, exactly. Something just tells me that-"

"You had better be the man with the iron."

"I am," Richard said, glad to change the subject and wishing he had kept his mouth shut in the first place. He had only been trying to help. "Where would-"

"Where have you been all day? I was told it would be here first thing this morning. What did you do? Sleep till noon?"

"Ah, no, sir. We went right to the foundry first thing. Ishaq sent me right there at dawn. But the man at the foundry was having problems because-"

"I'm not interested. You said you had the iron. It's already late enough. Get it unloaded."

Richard looked around. Every spot seemed occupied.

"Where would you like it?"

The master blacksmith glared around at the crammed room as if he expected some of the piles to get up and move for him. They didn't.

"If you'd have been here when you were supposed to be here, you could have put it out there, just inside the door in the outer supply room. Now they brought that big rock sled that needs welding, so you will have to put the iron in the back. Next time, get out of bed earlier."

Richard was trying to be polite, but he was losing his patience with being castigated because the blacksmith was having a troubled day.

"Ishaq made it quite clear that you were to get iron today, and he sent me to see to it. I have your iron. I don't see anyone else able to deliver on such short notice."

The hand with the chalkboard lowered. The full attention of the man's glower focused on Richard for the first time. Men who had heard Richard's words scurried off to attend to important work farther away.

"How much iron did you bring?"

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"Fifty bars, eight feet."

The man let out an angry breath. "I ordered a hundred. I don't know why they sent an idiot with a wagon when-"

"Do you want to hear the way it is, or do you want to yell at someone? If you just want to spout off to no point and no useful end, then go right ahead as I'm not much injured by ranting, but when you finally want to hear the truth of the way things are, just let me know and I'll give it."

The blacksmith peered silently for a moment, a bull bewildered by a bumblebee. "What's your name?"

"Richard Cypher."

"So, what's the truth of the way things are, Richard Cypher?"

"The foundry wanted to fill the order. They have bar stock stacked to the rafters. They can't get it delivered. They wanted to let me have the whole order, but a transport inspector stationed there wouldn't let us have the whole hundred bars because the other transport companies are supposed to get their equal loads, but their wagons are broken down."

"So Ishaq's wagons aren't allowed to take more than their fair share, and fifty was their allotment."

"That's right," Richard said. "At least until the other companies can move some more goods."

The blacksmith nodded. "The foundry is dying to sell me all the iron I can use, but I can't get it here. I'm not allowed to transport it-to put transport workers, like you, out of work."

"Were it up to me," Richard said. "I'd go back for another load today, but they told me they couldn't give me any more until next week at the earliest. I'd suggest you get every transport company you can find to deliver you a wagonload. That way, you'll have a better chance to get what you need."

The blacksmith smiled for the first time. It was amusement at the foolishness of Richard's idea. "Don't you suppose I already thought of that? I've got orders in with them all. Ishaq is the only one with equipment at the moment. The rest are all having wagon problems, horse problems, or worker problems."

"At least I have fifty bars for you."

"That will only keep me going the rest of the day and for the morning." The blacksmith turned. "This way. I'll show you where you can stack it."

He led Richard through the congested workshop, among the confusion of work and material. They went through a door and down a short connecting hall. The noise fell away behind. They entered a quiet building in back, attached, but set off on its own. The blacksmith unhooked a line attached at a cleat and let down a trapdoor covering a window in the roof.

Light cascaded down into the center of the large room, where stood a huge block of marble. Richard stood staring at the stunning stone heart of a mountain.

It seemed completely out of place in a blacksmith's workshop. There were tall doors at the far end, where the monolith had been brought in on skids. The rest of the room had space left open all around the towering stone. Chisels of every sort and various-size mallets stuck up from slots along the pitch black walls.

"You can put the bars here, on the side. Be careful when you bring them in."

Richard blinked. He had almost forgotten the man was there with him. Still he stared at the lustrous quality of the stone before him. "I'll be careful," he said without looking at the blacksmith. "I won't bang it into the stone."

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As the man started to leave, Richard asked, "I told you my name. What's yours?"

"Cascella."

"Is there more to it?"

"Yes. Mister. See that you use it all."

Richard smiled as he followed the man out. "Yes, sir, Mr. Cascella. Ah, mind if I ask what this is?"

The blacksmith slowed to a stop and turned back. He gazed at the marble standing in the light as if it were a woman he loved.

"This is none of your business, that's what it is."

Richard nodded. "I only asked because it's a beautiful piece of stone. I've never seen marble before it was a statue or made into something."

Mr. Cascella watched Richard watching the stone. "There's marble all over this site. Thousands of tons of it. This is just one small piece. Now, get my shorted order of iron unloaded."

By the time Richard was done, he was soaked in sweat, and filthy, not only from the iron bars, but from the soot of the blacksmith's shop. He asked if he could use some of the water in a rain barrel that the men were using to wash in as they were getting ready to leave for the day. They told him to go ahead.

When he finished, Richard found Mr. Cascella back at the chalkboard, alone in the suddenly silent shop, making corrections to the drawing and writing numbers down the side.

"Mr. Cascella, I'm finished. I kept the bars well off to the side, away from the marble."

"Thank you," he mumbled.

"Mind if I ask what you will have to pay for that fifty bars of iron?"

The glare was back. "What's it to you?"

"From what I heard at the foundry, the man there had been hoping to fill the whole order so he could get three point five gold marks, so, since you got half your order, I believe you will be paying one point seven five gold marks for the fifty bars of iron. Am I correct?"

The glare darkened. "Like I said, what's it to you?"

Richard put his hands in his back pockets. "Well, I was wondering if you would be willing to buy another fifty bars for one point five gold marks."

"So, you're a thief, too."

"No, Mr. Cascella, I'm not a thief."

"Then how are you going to sell me iron for a quarter mark less than the foundry is selling it for? You smelting a little iron ore in your room at night, Mr. Richard Cypher?"

"Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?"

His mouth twisted in annoyance. "'balk."

"The foundry man was furious because he wasn't allowed to transport your whole order. He has more iron than he can sell because he isn't allowed to transport it, and the transport companies are all jammed up so they aren't showing up. He said he would be willing to sell it to me for less."

Why?"

"He needs the money. He showed me his cold blast furnaces. He owes wages and needs charcoal and ore and quicksilver, among other things, but hasn't enough money to buy it all. The only thing he has plenty of is smelted metal. His business is strangling because he can't move his product. I asked what price he would be

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willing to sell me iron for, if he didn't have to transport it-if I picked it up myself. He told me that if I came after dark, he would sell me fifty bars for one point two five gold marks. If you're willing to buy it from me for one point five, I'll have you another fifty bars by morning, when you said you need it."

The man gaped as if Richard was a bar of iron that had just come to life before his eyes and started talking.

"You know I'm willing to pay one and three-quarters, why would you offer to sell it to me for one and a half?"

"Because," Richard explained, "I want to sell it for less than you'd have to pay through a transport company so that you'll buy it from me, instead, and, because I need you to loan me the one and a quarter gold marks, first, so I can buy the bars in the first place and bring them to you. The foundry will only sell them to me if I pay when I come to take them."

"What's to keep you from disappearing with my one and a quarter gold marks?"

"My word."

The man barked a laugh. "Your word? I don't know you."

"I told you, my name is Richard Cypher. Ishaq is scared to death of you, and he trusted me to get you the iron so you won't come wring his neck."

Mr. Cascella smiled again. "I'd not wring Ishaq's neck. I like the fellow. He's stuck in a tight spot. -But don't you tell him I said that. I'd like to keep him on his toes."

Richard shrugged. "If you don't want me to, I won't tell him you know how to smile. I know, though, that you're in a tighter spot than Ishaq. You have to deliver goods for the Order, but you're at the mercy of their methods."

He smiled again. "So, Richard Cypher, what time will you be here with your wagon?"

"I don't have a wagon. But, if you agree, I'll have your fifty iron bars right there"-Richard pointed at a spot out the double doors beside where Jori had parked the wagon-"in a pile, by dawn."

Mr. Cascella frowned. "If you don't have a wagon, how you going to get the bars here? Walk?"

"That's right."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"I don't have a wagon, and I want to earn the money. It's not all that far. I figure I can carry five at a time. That only makes ten trips. I can do that by dawn. I'm used to walking."

"Tell me the rest of it-why you want to do this. The truth, now."

"My wife isn't getting enough to eat. The workers' group assesses most of my wages, since I'm able to produce, and gives it to those who don't work. Because I can work, I've become a slave to those who can't, or who don't wish to. Their methods encourage people to find an excuse to let others take care of them. I intensely dislike being a slave. I figure I can entice you to go along with the deal by offering you a better price. We each gain a benefit. Value for value."

"If I were to go along, what do you plan to do with all that money-go live off it for a while? Drink it away?"

"I need the money to buy a wagon and a team of horses."

The frown knotted tighter. "What do you need with a wagon?"

"I need the wagon to deliver you all the iron you're going to buy from me because I can get it for you cheaper, and because I can deliver it when you need it."

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"You looking to get buried in the sky?"

Richard smiled. "No. I just happen to think that the emperor wants his palace built. From what I've heard, they have a lot of slave labor down there-people they've captured. But they don't have enough slave labor to do it all for them. They need people like you, and the foundries.

"If the officials of the Order want to have the work progress-and not have to explain to Emperor Jagang why it isn't they will be inclined to look the other way. In that narrow crack of need, there is opportunity. I expect I'll have to bribe a few officials to get them to be busy elsewhere when I come to pick up loads, but I've already figured that cost into it. I'll be acting on behalf of myself, not an established transport company, so they will be more inclined to see this as a way of accomplish ing what they need without suspending their morass of restrictions.

"You will be getting iron for less than you pay now, and I can deliver. You can't even get what you need at the higher price. You will make more, too. We both benefit."

The blacksmith stared for a moment as he tried to find a flaw in Richard's plan.

"You're either the stupidest crook I ever saw, or the . . . I don't even know what. But I have Brother Narev breathing down my neck, and that isn't pleasant. Not pleasant at all. I probably shouldn't tell you this, but you know how Ishaq sweats over me? I sweat ten times that much when Brother Narev comes to ask why the tools aren't ready. The brothers don't want to hear my troubles, they just want what they want."

"I understand, Mr. Cascella."

He let out a sigh. "All right, Richard Cypher, one and a half gold marks for fifty bars delivered by dawn tomorrow-but I'll only give you the one and a quarter now. You get the other quarter mark in the morning, when my iron is here."

"Agreed. Who is this Brother Narev, anyway?"

"Brother Narev? He's the high priest-"

"Did I hear someone mention my name?" The voice was deep enough to nearly rattle the tools off the walls.

Richard and the blacksmith turned to see a man approaching from around the corner of the shop. Here and there, his heavy robes betrayed his large bony frame. His face seemed to pull the gathering darkness into the deep creases of his face. Dark eyes gleamed out from under a hooded brow overspread with a tangle of graying hairs. Wiry hair above his ears curled up from under the edges of a dark, creased cap. The cap sat halfway down his forehead. He looked like a shadow come to life to stalk the world.

Mr. Cascella bowed. Richard followed his lead.

"We were just discussing the problem of getting enough iron, Brother Narev."

"Where are all my new chisels, blacksmith?"

"I have yet to-"

"I have stone sitting down there with no chisels to cut it. I have stonecutters who need more tools. You are holding up my palace."

The blacksmith lifted a hand toward Richard. "This is Richard Cypher, Brother Narev. He was just telling me how he thought he might be able get me the iron I need and-"

The high priest held up his hand for silence.

"You can get the blacksmith what he needs?" Brother Narev snapped at Richard.

"It can be done."

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"Then do it."

Richard bowed his head. "By your command, Brother Narev."

The shadowed figure turned to the shop. "Show me, blacksmith."

The blacksmith seemed to know what the high priest wanted and followed behind him, gesturing for Richard to come along. Richard understood; he couldn't get the money to buy the iron until the blacksmith first took care of the important man who had just vanished into the shadows of the shop.

When the blacksmith snapped his fingers and pointed at a lamp on his way by, Richard snatched it up. He lit a long splinter in the glowing coals of the forge and then lit the lamp. He held it up behind the two men as they stood just inside the doorway to the room with the complex contraption of metal bars sitting on the floor beyond.

Mr. Cascella held the chalkboard up in the light. Brother Narev looked at the drawing on the chalkboard, then to the maze of iron lines on the floor, comparing them.

Richard felt an icy tingle at the base of his scalp when he suddenly realized what the thing on the floor was.

Brother Narev pointed to the drawing, to the line Richard had said was wrong.

"This line is wrong," Brother Narev growled.

The blacksmith wagged his finger over the chalk drawing. "But I have to stabilize this mass over here."

"I told you to add braces, I didn't invite you to ruin the main scheme. You can leave the top of the support where you have it, but the bottom should be attached . . . here."

Brother Narev pointed to where Richard had said it should go.

Mr. Cascella scratched his head of short hair as he stole a glance over his shoulder just long enough to scowl at Richard.

"That would work," the blacksmith conceded. "It won't be as easy, but it will work."

"I'm not concerned with how easy it is," Brother Narev said with menace. "I don't want anything attached to this area, here."

"No, sir."

"It must be seamless, so none of the joining work shows through when it is covered in gold. Get me those tools made, first."

"Yes, Brother Narev."

The high priest turned an uncomfortable scrutiny on Richard. "There's something about you .... Do I know you?"

"No, Brother Narev. I've never before met you. I would remember. Meeting a great man such as yourself, I mean. I would remember such a thing."

He glared askance at Richard. "Yes, I suppose you would. You get the blacksmith his iron."

"I said I would."

The Brother grunted irritably. "So you did."

As the tall shadow of a man stared into Richard's eyes, Richard absently reached to lift his sword a little to make sure it was clear in its scabbard. The sword wasn't there.

Brother Narev opened his mouth to say something, but his attention was caught by two young men entering the shop. They wore robes like the high priest, but without caps. They had simple hoods pulled up over their heads, instead.

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"Brother Narev," one called.

"What is it, Neal?"

"The book you sent for has arrived. You asked that we come for you at once."

Brother Narev nodded to the young disciple, then directed a sour look at Mr. Cascella and Richard.

"Get it done," he said to both.

Both Richard and the blacksmith bowed their heads as the high priest swept out of the shop.

It felt as if a thundercloud had just departed over the horizon.

"Come on," Mr. Cascella said. "I'll get you the gold."

Richard followed him into a little room where the master blacksmith pulled out a strongbox attached with massive chain to a huge pin in the floor under the plank serving as his desk. He unlocked the strongbox and handed Richard a gold mark.

"Victor."

Richard looked up from the gold mark and frowned. "What?"

"Victor. You asked what more there was to my name." He set silver to make up the quarter mark on top of the gold mark resting in Richard's palm. "Victor."

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CHAPTER 49

After leaving Ishaq's place and before going to get the iron for Victor, Richard rushed back to his room. It wasn't dinner he wanted, but to let Nicci know that he had to go back to work. She had in the past made it clear that they were husband and wife, and that she would take a dim view of him vanishing. He was to remain in Altur'Rang and work, just like any other normal man.

Kamil and one of his friends were waiting for him. Both were wearing shirts.

Richard stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the two. "I'm sorry, Kamil, but I have to go back to work-"

"Then you're a bigger dupe than I thought-taking work at night, too. You should just stop trying. It's no use trying in life. You just have to take what life gives you. I knew you would have an excuse not to do what you said you would do. You almost had me thinking that you might be different than-"

"I was going to say that I have to go back to work, so we have to do this right away."

Kamil twisted his mouth, as was his habit to express his displeasure with those older and stupider than he.

"This is Nabbi. He wants to watch your foolish labor, too."

Richard nodded, not showing any irritation at Kamil's arrogant attitude. "Glad to meet you, Nabbi." The third young man glared from the shadows back by the stairs in the hall. He was the biggest. He wasn't wearing a shirt.

To pry the steps apart, Richard used his knife and a rusty metal bar Kamil found for him. It wasn't difficult-they were ready to fall apart on their own. As the two youths watched, Richard cleaned the grooves in the stringers. Since they were chewed up from being loose, he deepened their bottoms, showing the two what he was doing and explaining how he would bevel the ends of the treads to lock into the deepened channel. Richard watched Kamil and Nabbi as they whittled wedges to match the one he made as a pattern for them. They were only too delighted to show him their knife work; Richard was delighted that it helped get the job done sooner.

Once they had them back together, Kamil and Nabbi both ran up and down the repaired steps, apparently surprised that they really were now sturdy underfoot, and pleased that they were partly responsible for the repair.

"You both did a good job," Richard told them, because they had. They didn't make any smart remarks. They actually smiled.

Richard's dinner was watery millet eaten by the light of a burning wick floating in linseed oil. The smell from the simple light went poorly with dinner, which was more water than millet. Nicci said she'd already eaten, and didn't want any more. She encouraged him to finish it.

He didn't give Nicci the details of his second job. She was insistent only that he

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work; the work itself was irrelevant to her. She tended to her household chores and expected him to earn them a living.

She seemed satisfied that he was learning how ordinary people had to work themselves sick just to make enough to get along in life. The promise of money to buy them more food seemed to spark a longing in her eyes that her lips did not express. He noticed that the black material covering her once full bosom was now slack and half empty. Her elbows and hands had become bony.

As he took another spoonful of millet, Nicci casually mentioned that the landlord, Kamil's father, had come by.

Richard looked up from his soup. "What did he say?"

"He said that since you have a job, the area citizens' building committee had assessed us extra rent in order to help pay the rent of those in the local buildings who can't work. You see, Richard, how life under the ways of the Order cultivates caring in people, so that we all work together for the benefit of all?"

Nearly all of what was not taken by the workers' group was taken by the area building committee, or some other committee, and all for the same purpose: for the betterment of the people of the Order. Richard and Nicci had next to nothing left for food. Richard's clothes were getting looser all the time, but not as loose as Nicci's dresses were getting.

She seemed smug about the fact that their rent was past due. Foodstuffs, at least, were relatively inexpensive-when they were available. People said that it was only by the grace of the Creator and the wisdom of the Order that they could afford any food at all. Richard had heard talk at Ishaq's place that more plentiful and varied food could be had, for a price. Richard didn't have the price.

On his wagon ride with Jori to the foundry and the blacksmith, Richard had spotted distant houses that looked to be quite grand. Well-dressed people walked those streets. Occasionally, he saw them in carriages. They were people who neither dirtied their hands or soiled their morals with business. They were men of principle. They were officials of the Order who saw to it that those with the ability sacrificed for the cause of the Order.

"Self-sacrifice is the moral duty of all people," she said in challenge to his clenched teeth.

Richard could not hold his tongue. "Self-sacrifice is the obscene and senseless suicide of slaves."

Nicci gaped at him. It was as if he had just said that a mother's milk was poison to her newborn.

"Richard, I do believe that that's the cruelest thing I've ever heard you say."

"It's cruel to say that I would not happily sacrifice myself for that thug, Gadi? Or for some other thug I don't know? It's cruel not to willingly sacrifice what's mine to any greedy wretch who lusts to possess plundered goods, the unearned, even at the cost of their victim's blood?

"Self-sacrifice for a value held dear, for a life held dear, for freedom and the freedom of those you respect-self-sacrifice such as mine for Kahlan's life-is the only rationally valid sacrifice. To be selfless means you are a slave who must surrender your most priceless possession-your life-to any smirking thief who demands it.

"The suicide of self-sacrifice is but a requirement imposed by masters on slaves. Since there is a knife to my throat, it is not to my good that I am stripped of what I earn by my own hand and mind. It is only to the good of the one with the knife, and

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those who by weight of numbers but not reason dictate what is the good of allthose cheering him on so they might lap up any drop of blood their masters miss.

"Life is precious. That's why sacrifice for freedom is rational: it is for life itself and your ability to live it that you act, since life without freedom is the slow, sure death of self-sacrifice to the `good' of mankind-who is always someone else. Mankind is just a collection of individuals. Why should everyone's life be more important, more precious, more valuable than yours? Mindless mandatory self-sacrifice is insane."

She stared, not at him, but at the flame dancing on the pool of linseed oil. "You don't really mean that, Richard. You're just tired and angry that you have to work at night, too, just to get by. You should realize that all those others you help are there to help society, including you, should you be the one in desperate need."

Richard didn't bother to argue with her, and said only, "I feel sorry for you, Nicci. You don't evert know the value of your own life. Sacrifice could mean nothing to you."

"That's not true, Richard," she whispered, "I sacrifice for you .... I saved what millet we had for you, that you might have strength."

"The strength to stand upright when I throw my life away? Why did you sacrifice your dinner, Nicci?"

"Because it was the right thing to do-it was for the good of others."

He nodded as he peered at her in the dim light. "You would endanger your life to starvation for others-for any others." He pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. "How about that thug, Gadi? Would you starve to death so he might eat? It might mean something, Nicci, if it was a sacrifice for someone you value, but it isn't; it's a sacrifice to some mindless gray ideal of the Order."

When she didn't answer, Richard pushed the rest of his dinner before her. "I don't want your meaningless sacrifice."

She stared at the bowl of millet for an eternity.

Richard felt sorry for her, for what she couldn't understand as she stared at the bowl. He thought about what would happen to Kahlan if Nicci were to fall sick from not getting enough to eat.

"Eat, Nicci," he said softly.

She finally picked up her spoon and did as he said.

When she had finished, she looked up with those blue eyes that seemed so eager for the sight of something he could not make her see. She slid the empty bowl to the center of the table.

"Thank you, Richard, for the meal."

"Why thank me? I am a selfless slave, expected to sacrifice for any worthless person who presents their need to me."

He strode to the door. With his hand on the loose knob, he turned back. "I have to go, or I will lose my work."

Her big blue eyes were brimming with tears as she nodded.

Richard made the first trip from the foundry through the dark streets to Victor's shop carrying five bars. From windows along the way, a few people blinked out at the man lugging a load past. They blinked without comprehension at the meaning of what he was doing. He was working for nothing but his own benefit.

Bent under the weight, Richard kept telling himself that carrying five bars each time would make it only ten trips, and the less trips, the better. He carried five the second trip, and the third. By the fourth time he returned to the foundry, he decided

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that he would have to make an extra trip in order to give himself a break and only carry four bars for a few of the trips. He lost track of how many times he went back and forth throughout the empty night. The next to last time, he struggled to lift but two bars. That left three. He forced himself to carry all three the last time, trading the extra effort for the lesser distance.

He got the last three bars to Victor's place before dawn. His shoulders were bruised and painful. He had to walk all the way to his job at Ishaq's place, so he couldn't wait for Victor to arrive to complete his payment of the last quarter gold mark.

The day of work was a break from the night of exhausting lugging of iron bars. Jori didn't talk unless spoken to, so Richard lay in the wagon bed with a load of charcoal and snatched a few minutes of sleep here and there as the wagon bounced along. He only felt relieved that he had done as he had promised.

--]--- As he returned home after an interminable day, Richard looked up and saw Kamil and Nabbi standing at the head of the stairs. They both had on shirts.

"We've been waiting for you to come home and finish the job," Kamil said.

Richard swayed on his feet. "What job?"

"The stairs."

"We did that last night."

"You did only the stairs in the front. You said you intended to fix the stairs. The front is only part of the stairs. The back stairs are twice as long and in worse shape than the front were. You don't want your wife and the other women of the building to fall and break their necks when they go out back to the cooking hearth or the privy, do you?"

This was their idea of a little test. Richard knew he would lose an opportunity if he put them off. He was so tired he couldn't think straight.

Nicci stuck her head out the front door. "I thought I heard your voice. Come in to dinner. I have soup waiting on you."

"Got any tea?"

Nicci cast a sidelong glance at the two in shirts. "I can make tea. Come on, and I'll get it while you have your soup."

"Please bring it out to the back," Richard said. "I promised to fix the stairs."

"Now?"

"There are still a couple hours of light. I can eat while we're working."

Kamil and Nabbi asked more questions than the evening before. The third youth, Gadi, passed by occasionally as Richard and the other two worked. Gadi, without his shirt, made a point of looking Nicci up and down when she brought Richard his soup and tea.

When Richard had finally finished, he went to the room that had once been Ishaq's parlor, and was now his and Nicci's home. He took off his shirt and splashed water on his face from the washbasin. His head was throbbing.

"Wash your hair," Nicci said. "You're filthy. I don't want lice in here."

Rather than argue that he had no lice, Richard dipped his face in the water and scrubbed his head with the cake of coarse soap. It was easier than talking her out of it so he could go to sleep. Nicci hated lice.

He was thankful, he supposed, that she was at least a clean wife in their fraudu 380

lent arrangement. She kept the room, bedding, and his clothes clean, despite the difficulty of hauling water from the well down the street. She never objected to any work necessary to simulate the lives of normal people. She seemed to want something so badly that she often lost herself in the role to the extent that while he never forgot she was a Sister of the Dark and his captor, she occasionally did. He dunked his head again, swishing his hair, rinsing out the soap.

As a stream of water ran off his chin and back into the basin, he asked, "Who is Brother Narev?"

Nicci, sitting on her pallet sewing, paused and looked up. Her sewing suddenly looked out of place, as if her parody of domestic life lost its aura for her.

"Why do you ask?"

"I met him yesterday, out at the blacksmith's."

"Out at the site of the project?"

Richard nodded. "I had to deliver iron out there."

She bent back to her needlework. Richard watched in the light of the linseed-oil lamp sitting beside her as she took a few more stitches in the patch to the knees of a pair of his pants. She finally paused and let her arms, one sheathed in his pant leg, sink to her lap.

"Brother Narev is the high priest of the Fellowship of Order-an ancient sect devoted to doing the Creator's will in this world. He is the heart and soul of the Order-their moral guide-so to speak. He and his disciples lead the righteous people of the Order in the ways of the everlasting Light of the Creator. He is an advisor to Emperor Jagang."

Richard was taken aback. He hadn't expected her to be so versed on the subject. His caution, along with the hair at the back of his neck, lifted.

"What sort of advisor?"

She took another stitch, pulling the long thread through. "Brother Narev was Jagang's pedagogue-his teacher, advisor, and mentor. Brother Narev put the fire in Jagang's belly."

"He's a wizard, isn't he." It was more statement than question.

She looked up from her sewing. He could see in her blue eyes that she was weighing whether or not to tell him, or perhaps how much she wanted to tell him. His steady gaze told her that he was expecting the whole truth.

"In the language of the street, you could describe him as such."

"What does that mean?"

"Common people, those who understand little about magic, would describe him as a wizard. Strictly speaking, though, he is not a wizard."

"Then what is he? Strictly speaking."

"Actually, he is a sorcerer."

Richard could only stare at her. He had always assumed that a wizard and a sorcerer were the same thing. When he thought about it, he realized that people who knew about magic spoke exclusively of a male with the gift as a wizard. He had never heard any of those people mention a sorcerer.

"You mean he's like you, like a sorceress, only male?"

The question stymied her for a moment. "I suppose you could think of it that way, but that's not really right. If you want to compare it, then you would have to say he has more in common with a wizard, since both are male. The concept of sorceress introduces irrelevant issues."

Richard swiped water from his face. "Please, Nicci, I've been up all last night

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working, and I'm dead on my feet. Don't go all abstract and complex on me? Just tell me what it means?"

She set her sewing aside and gestured to his pallet for him to sit near her, in the light. Richard pulled his shirt back on. He yawned as he crossed his legs under himself on his pallet.

"Brother Narev is a sorcerer," she began. "I'm sorry, but the distinction is just not something simply explained. It's a very complex matter. I will try to make it as clear as I can, but you must understand that I can't boil it down too much or it will lose any real flavor of the truth.

"Sorcerers are much the same as wizards, but different-in much the way that water and oil are both liquids, you might say. Both pour and can dissolve things, but they don't mix and they dissolve different things. Neither do the magic of a wizard and a sorcerer mix, nor do they work on the same things.

"Anything he did against a wizard's gift, or anything a wizard did against his, would not work. While both are the gift, they are different aspects-they don't mix. The magic of each nullifies the other, making it just sort of . . . fizzle."

"You mean like Additive and Subtractive are opposites?"

"No. While on the surface, that would seem a good way to understand it, it's entirely the wrong way to think of it." She lifted her hands as if to begin again, but then let them drop back into her lap. "It's very hard to explain the difference to one such as you who has little understanding of how his own gift works; you have no basis in which to ground anything I could tell you. There are no words which are both accurate and which you would understand; this is beyond your understanding."

"Well . . . do you mean that, much like a wolf and a cougar are both predators, they are not the same sort of creature?"

"That's a little closer to it."

"How common are these sorcerers?"

"About as common as dream walkers..." she said as she gave him a meaningful look, "or war wizards."

Even though he couldn't understand it and she couldn't explain it, Richard, for some reason, found that bit of news troubling.

"What is it, though, that he does differently?"

Nicci let out a sigh. "I'm no expert, and I'm not entirely sure, but I believe he does the same basic sort of things a wizard would do, but just does them with a sorcerer's unique quality of magic-liquor and ale both get you drunk, but they are different kinds of drink made from different things."

"One of those is stronger." "Not so with wizards and sorcerers. Do you see why words and these kinds of comparisons are so inadequate? The strength of a wizard and sorcerer's gift is dependent on the individual, it is not influenced by the fundamental nature of his magic."

Richard scratched his stubble as he considered her words. In view of the fact that both could do magic, he couldn't come up with any distinction that seemed of any practical importance.

"Is there anything that he can do that a wizard can't?" He waited. She didn't look like she was thinking about his question, but more like she was considering whether she wanted to answer it at all. "Nicci, you told me when you first captured me that you would tell me the truth about things. You said you had no reason to deceive me."

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She watched his eyes, but finally looked away as she pulled her blond hair back from her face. The gesture unexpectedly, painfully, reminded him of Kahlan.

"Perhaps. I believe he may have learned how to replicate the spell that surrounded the Palace of the Prophets. It took wizards, thousands of years ago, with both sides of the gift to create that particular spell. I believe that one of the ways sorcerers are different is that their power is not divisible into its constituent elements, as it is in wizards. So, while his magic works differently, he may have learned enough of how the wizards-who at that time possessed both sides of the gift, as do you-were able to create the spell around the Palace of the Prophets to be able to replicate it in his own fashion."

"You mean the spell that slowed aging? You think he can cast such a web?"

"Yes. Jagang intimated as much to me. I knew Brother Narev when I was young. He was a grown man then, a visionary, preaching the doctrine of the Order. He spoke pensively about wishing to live long enough to see his vision of the Order come to fruition. When I was taken to live at the palace in Tanimura, I believe that may have given him the idea as he not long after went there, too.

"The Sisters knew nothing of him. They thought him no more than a humble worker. Since his gift is different than that of a wizard, they didn't detect his ability. I now believe that he went there for the express purpose of studying the spell around the Palace of the Prophets so that he could re-create such a spell for his own benefit."

"Why didn't he storm the palace-take it over-and then he could have the spell for his purpose?"

"It's possible that in the beginning he thought he might one day take over the palace for his cause-in fact, Emperor Jagang had that exact plan-but it's also possible that he was from the beginning studying the spell because he wanted not simply to re-create it, but to enhance it."

Richard rubbed his brow, trying to comfort his aching head. "You mean that now maybe he thinks he can create the spell over the Retreat-the emperor's new palace-like that one at the Palace of the Prophets, but better, so that aging will be slowed even more, so that he and his chosen will live even longer?"

"Yes. Don't forget, age is relative. To one who lives to a thousand years, living less than one century would seem all too brief. To a person who lives many thousands of years, though, a lifetime that lasts but a mere one millennium would seem fleeting.

"I suspect that Brother Narev has learned to slow aging to such an extent that it would make him the next best thing to immortal. Jagang had planned on capturing the Palace of the Prophets. It might have been that once they secured the palace, Brother Narev intended to augment its spell to suit his purposes."

"But I spoiled that plan."

Nicci nodded. "As are all of us who were once at the palace, Brother Narev now grows older just like everyone else. Once away from the spell, it feels like a headlong rush toward the grave. What youth Brother Narev has left, he is no doubt eager to preserve. Remaining relatively young forever has much to be said for it. Remaining old forever would be less attractive. Because you destroyed the Palace of the Prophets, where he could have had ample time to bring his plan to bear, he has been forced to act sooner, rather than later."

Richard flopped back on his mat. He laid the back of a wrist over his forehead. "He has the blacksmith making a spell-form in iron. The blacksmith has no idea what it is he's creating. The spell-form is to be covered with gold, eventually."

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"For purity. It's likely that is merely part of the process. It could even be that the gold-covered spellform is nothing more than a pattern, from which the true spellform will be cast in pure gold."

Richard squinted in thought. "If it is a pattern for casting, that would make it more likely that Narev intends to cast a number of these spell-forms-that they will work together."

Nicci looked up and frowned. "Yes, that is a possibility."

"Will making such a thing harm the blacksmith?"

"No. It is propitious conjuring. Disregarding for the moment the purpose for which it is desired, such a spell is meant to be beneficial; it is to slow aging in order to lengthen life."

"What about Brother Narev's disciples?"

"Young wizards from the Palace of the Prophets."

Alarmed, Richard sat up. "I was at the Palace of the Prophets. They will recognize me." '

"No. They were young wizards in training there, but they left to follow Brother Narev before you arrived. If they see you, they will not know you."

"If they're wizards, won't they recognize that I have magic?"

A smile of contempt colored her features. "They are not that talented. They are but bugs to what you are."

Richard found no comfort in the compliment. "Won't Brother Narev, or his disciples, recognize you?"

Her face turned serious. "Oh, they would know me."

"It sounds as if Brother Narev must be strong in his gift. Won't he be able to recognize that I have the gift? He was looking at me strangely. He asked if he knew me. He sensed something."

"Why did you think him a wizard?"

Richard picked at the straw stuffing coming out of the pad over his pallet as he considered the question.

"There was nothing that gave it away for a fact, but I strongly suspected it from a lot of little things: the way he carried himself; the way he looked at people; the way he spoke-everything about him. Only after I surmised that Narev was a wizard did I realize that the thing the blacksmith was making for him looked like some sort of spell-form."

"He would suspect you of being gifted in much the same way. Can you tell the gig?..

"Yes. I've learned to recognize an ageless look in their eyes. I can in some way see the aura of the gift around those in whom it is powerful-you, for instance. At times, the air crackles around you."

She stared in fascination. "I've never heard of such a thing. It must have something do to with you having both sides."

"You have both sides. Don't you see it?"

"No, but I acquired the Subtractive side in a different manner."

She had given her soul to the Keeper of the underworld.

"But you see nothing of the sort in Brother Narev, do you?" When Richard shook his head, she went on with her explanation. "That is because, as I explained, you have different aspects of the gift. Other than with your faculty of reason, you have no wizardly ability to recognize the gift in him; he has no sorcerous ability to

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recognize the gift in you. Your magic won't work on one another. Only your faculty of reason betrayed his gift to you."

Richard realized that, without saying it, she was telling him that if he didn't want Narev to learn that he had the gift, then he had better be careful around the man.

There were times when he thought he had her game figured out.

There were times, like now, when it seemed his entire perception of her purpose shifted. At times, it almost seemed to him as if she threw her beliefs in his face, not because she believed them, but because she was desperately hoping for a reason not to, hoping he would find her in some lost, dark world and show her the way out. Richard sighed inwardly; he had given her his arguments as to why her beliefs were wrong, but, rather than sway her, it only angered her, at best, or worse, further entrenched her in her convictions.

As tired as he was, he lay in his bed, his eyes but narrow slits, watching Nicci lit by the light of a single wick, bent in - concentration over her sewing-one of the most powerful women ever to walk the world, and she appeared perfectly content to sew a patch in the knee of his pants.

She accidentally stuck herself with the needle. As she shook her hand and winced with the pain, Richard had the sudden cold recollection of the link between her and Kahlan; his beloved would feel that prick.

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CHAPTER 50

Richard took the snow-white slice when Victor held it out.

"What's this?"

"Try it," Victor said as he waved an insistent hand. "Eat. Tell me what you think. It's from my homeland. Here, a red onion goes well with it."

The white slice was smooth, dense, and rich with salt and herbs. Richard let out a rapturous moan. He rolled his eyes.

"Victor, this is the best thing I've ever had. What is it?"

"Lardo."

They sat on the threshold of the double doors out of the room with the marble monolith, watching dawn break over the site, where the walls of the Retreat had begun to rise. Only a few people stirred below. Before long, laborers would arrive in great numbers to begin again their work on the Retreat. It went on every day without pause, rain or shine. Now that spring was wearing on, the weather was pleasant nearly every day, with afternoon rains every few days, but nothing dreary or oppressive-just enough to wash you clean and make you feel refreshed.

If not for the ever-present ache of missing Kahlan, his worry over the war far to the north, his loathing of being held prisoner, the slave labor at the site, the abuse of people, the people who disappeared or those who confessed under torture, and the grindingly repressive nature of life in Altur'Rang, he might have found the spring quite enjoyable.

Day by day, too, his worry grew that Kahlan would soon be able to leave their mountain home. He dreaded her getting caught up in such a war as would be soon be roaring into full flame.

After he had eaten some of the mild onion, Richard went back to the delightful lardo. He moaned again.

"Victor, I've never tasted anything like this. What's lardo?"

Victor held out another thin slice. Richard gladly accepted. After a long night of work, the dense delicacy was really hitting the spot.

Victor gestured with his knife to the tin beside him holding the pure white block. "Lardo is paunch fat from the boar."

"And this tin of it is from your homeland?"

"No, no-I make it myself. I come from far to the south of here, far away-near the sea. That is where we make lardo. When I come here, I make it here.

"I put the paunch fat in tubs I carved myself out of marble as white as the lardo." Victor gestured with his hands as he spoke, working the air as vigorously as he worked iron. "The fat is put in the tubs with coarse salt and rosemary and other spices. From time to time I turn it in the brine. It must rest a year in the stone to cure, to became lardo."

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"A year!..

Victor nodded emphatically. "This we are eating, I made last spring. My father taught me to make lardo. Lardo is something only men make. My father was a quarry worker. Lardo gives quarry workers the stamina they need to work long hours sawing blocks of our marble, or swinging a pickaxe. For blacksmiths, too, lardo gives you power to lift a hammer all day."

"So, there are quarries where you lived?"

He waved his thick hand at the towering block behind them. "This. This is Cavatura marble-from my homeland." He pointed out at several of the stock areas below. "That, there, and there, i's marble from Cavatura, too."

"That's where you're from? Cavatura?"

Victor grinned like a wolf as he nodded. "The place where all that beautiful marble came from. Our city gets its name from the marble quarries. My family are all carvers, or quarry workers. Me? I end up a blacksmith making tools for them."

"Blacksmiths are sculptors."

He grunted a laugh. "And you? Where are you from?"

"Me? Far away. They had no marble there. Only granite." Richard changed the subject, lest he have to start inventing lies. Besides, it was getting light. "So, Victor, when do you need more of that special steel?"

"Tomorrow. Are you up to it?"

The steel Victor needed was from farther away, at a foundry out near the charcoal makers. They needed a lot of charcoal to cook with the iron to make high-grade steel. Ore came in by barge, from not far away. It would take most of the night for Richard to get there and back.

"Sure. I will be sick today and get some sleep."

He had become sick quite a lot over the last several months. It fit right in with the way most of the others worked. Work some, be sick, tell the workers' group that you were ailing. Some people limped in with a story. It wasn't necessary; the workers' group never questioned.

The only thing he rarely missed were the meetings where those with bad attitudes were named. People at the meetings were often named, but you were more likely to bring attention if you missed the meetings. Those named were often subsequently arrested and given an opportunity to confess. More than once, a person named at a meeting as having an unsatisfactory attitude killed themselves.

"One of Brother Narev's disciples, Neal, came around last evening with some new orders." Victor's voice had taken on a tense edge. "What you just brought will last me the day, but I need that steel by tomorrow."

"You will have it."

"Are you sure?"

"Have I ever let you down, Victor?"

Victor's hard face melted into a helpless smile. He passed Richard another slice of lardo. "No, Richard, you never have. Not once. I had given up hope of ever meeting another man who kept his word."

"Well, I'd best be off and take care of my horses. They've had a hard night, and I'll need them rested for tonight. How much steel do you need?"

"Two hundred. Half square, and half round."

Richard performed a pained moan. "You're going to make me strong, or kill me, Victor."

Victor smiled his approval. "You want the gold?"

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"No. You can pay me when I deliver."

Richard no longer needed the money in advance. He had a heavy wagon, now, and a strong team of horses. He paid Ishaq to care for them along with the transport company's teams in the company stables. Ishaq helped Richard with any number of the special arrangements that he'd had to make. Ishaq knew which officials lived in the nice homes. They couldn't afford those homes with just their pay as officials of the Order.

"You be careful of Neal," Richard said.

"Why's that?"

"For some reason, he believes I'm in need of lecturing. He truly believes that the Order is mankind's savior. He puts the good of the fellowship of Order above the good of mankind."

Victor sighed as he stood and tied on his leather apron. "My thoughts about him, too."

As they passed into the building, the sun was just lighting the marble standing there. Richard lingered and put a hand to the cold stone, as he always did whenever he passed it. It almost felt alive to him. Alive with potential.

"Victor, I asked you once what this was. Mind telling me, now?"

The blacksmith paused beside Richard and gazed up at the pure stone before him. He reached out and touched it lightly, letting his fingertips glide over the surface, testing, caressing.

"This is my statue."

"What statue?"

"The one I want to carve, someday. Many in my family are carvers. As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to carve, too. I wanted to be a great sculptor. I wanted to create great works.

"Instead, I had to work for the master blacksmith at the quarry. My family needed to eat. I was the oldest living son. My father and the blacksmith were friends. My father asked the blacksmith to take me on .... He didn't want another son lost to the stone. It's a hard and dangerous life, cutting stone from a mountain."

"Did you carve other things? I mean, like wood, or something."

Victor, still staring at his stone, shook his head. "I only wanted to carve stone. I bought this block with my savings. I own it. Few men can say they own a part of a mountain. A part as pure and beautiful as this."

Richard could understand the sentiments. "So, Victor, what will you carve out of it?"

He squinted, as if trying to peer beyond the surface. "I don't know. They say that the stone will speak to you and tell you what it should be."

"Do you believe that?"

Victor laughed his deep laugh. "No-not really. But the thing is, this is a beautiful piece of stone. There is none finer for statues than Cavatura marble, and few blocks of Cavatura marble with as fine a grain as this piece. I couldn't bear to see it carved up into something ugly, like what they carve nowadays.

"It used to be, long ago, that only beauty was carved from beauty such as this. No more," he whispered in distant bitterness. "Now, man must be carved with a twisted nature-as an object of shame."

Richard had delivered tools down to the site for Victor, down to where the carving was taking place, and had had the opportunity to get a closer look at the work being done. The outside of the stone walls was to be covered with expansive scenes

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on a scale that was staggering. The walls that would enclose the palace went on for miles. The carvings being produced for the Retreat were the same as those Richard had seen everywhere in the Old World, but would have no equal in sheer, overpowering quantity. The entire palace was to be an epic portrayal of the Order's view of the nature of life, and of redemption in the afterlife of the underworld.

The figures being carved were stilted, with limbs that could not possibly function. Those carved in relief were forever bound to the stone from which they only haltingly emerged. The poses reflected a view of man as ineffective, shallow, unsubstantial.

The elements of the hated anatomy of man, his muscle, bone, and flesh, were melted together into lifeless limbs, their proportions distorted to strip the figures of their humanity. Expressions were either impassive, if the statue was supposed to portray virtue, or filled with terror, agony, torment, if intended to illustrate the fate of evildoers. Proper men and women, bent under the weight of labor, were always made to look out at the world through the vacant stupor of resignation.

Most often, it was difficult to tell male from female; their worldly bodies, an everlasting source of shame, were hidden by bulky garments like those the priests of the Order wore. Further reflecting the Order's teachings, only the sinful were shown naked, so that all could see their detestable cankerous bodies.

The carvings represented man as helpless, doomed by the inadequacy of his intellect to suffer every blow of existence.

Most of the sculptors, Richard suspected, feared to be questioned, or even tortured, and so repeated the view that man was to be carved accepting his vile nature, thus earning his reward only through death. The carvings were meant to assure the masses that this was the only proper goal for which man could hope. Richard knew that a few of the carvers vehemently believed such teachings. He was always careful of what he said around them.

"Ah, Richard, I wish you could see beautiful statues, instead of today's scourge."

"I have seen statues of great beauty," Richard softly assured the man.

"Have you? I'm so glad. People should see those things, not this, this"-he waved a hand toward the rising walls of the Retreat-"this evil in the guise of goodness."

"So you will one day carve such beauty?"

"I don't know, Richard," he finally admitted. "The Order takes everything. They say that the individual is of no importance except inasmuch as he can contribute to the good of others. They take what art can be, the lifeblood of the soul, and turn it to poison, turn it to death."

Victor smiled wistfully. "This way, as it is, I can enjoy the beautiful statue inside the stone."

"I understand, Victor-I really do. The way you describe it, I can see it, too."

"We will both enjoy my statue the way it is, then." Victor took his hand from the stone and pointed to the base. "Besides, you see there? There is an imperfection in the stone. It runs all the way through. That is why I could afford this piece of marble-because it has this flaw. Were most anyone to carve this, it would endanger the stone. If not done just right, and with the flaw taken in mind, the entire piece could easily shatter. I have never been able to think of how to carve this stone to take advantage of its beauty, but to also avoid the flaw."

"Perhaps, someday, it will come to you how to carve the stone, to create a thing of nobility."

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"Nobility. Ali, but wouldn't that be something-the most sublime form of beauty." He shook his head. "But I will not do it. Not unless the revolt comes."

"Revolt?"

Victor's careful gaze swept the hillside through the open door. "The revolt. It will come. The Order cannot stand-evil cannot stand, not forever, anyway. In my homeland, when I was young, there used to be beauty, and there used to be freedom. They were shamed into giving up their lives, their freedom, bit by bit, to the cause of fairness to all men. People didn't know what they had, and let freedom slip away for nothing but the hollow promise of a better world, a world without effort, without struggle to achieve, without productive work. It was always someone else who would do these things, who would provide, who would make their lives easy.

"We used to be a land of abundance. Now, what food is grown, rots, while it awaits committees to decide who should have it, who should move it, and what it should cost. Meanwhile, people starve.

"Insurgents, those disloyal to the Order, are blamed for all the starvation and strife that slowly destroys us, and so ever more people are arrested and put to death. We are a land of death. The Order continually proclaims its feelings for mankind, but their ways can but cultivate death. On my way here, I have seen corpses by the thousands go uncounted and unburied. The New World is blamed for every ill, every failure, and young men, eager to smite their oppressors, march off to war.

"Many people, though, have come to see the truth. They, and the children of these people-me, and others like me-hunger for freedom to live our own lives, rather than be slaves to the Order and their reign of death. There is unrest in my homeland, as there is here. A revolt is coming."

"Unrest? Here? I've seen no unrest."

Victor smiled a sly smile. "Those with revolt in their hearts do not show their true feelings. The Order, always fearful of insurrection, tortures confessions from those they wrongly arrest. Every day more are put to death. Those who want things to change know better than to make themselves targets before the time has come. Someday, Richard, revolt will come."

Richard shook his head. "I don't know, Victor. Revolt takes resolve. I don't think such real resolve exists."

"You have seen people who are unhappy with the way things are. Ishaq, those at the foundries, my men and me. All those you deal with, other than the officials you bribe, hunger for change." Victor lifted an eyebrow at Richard. "Not one of them complains to any board or committee about what you do. You may want nothing to do with it, as I believe is your right, but there are those who listen to the whispers of the freedom to the north."

Richard tensed. "Freedom to the north?"

Victor nodded solemnly. "They speak of a savior: Richard Rahl. He leads them in the fight for freedom. They say that this Richard Rahl will bring us our revolt."

Had it not all been so overwhelmingly tragic, Richard would have burst out laughing.

"How do you know this Rahl character is worth following?"

Victor fixed Richard with a look that Richard remembered from the first time he met the blacksmith.

"You can judge a man by his enemies. Richard Rahl is hated by the emperor, and by Brother Narev, and by his disciples, as no other man is hated. He is the one. He bears the torch of revolution."

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Richard could muster only a desolate smile. "He is but a man, my friend. Don't worship a man. Worship his cause, but not him."

Victor's glare, so full of his emotion, his burning hunger for freedom, turned back to his wolfish grin.

"Ah, but that is what Richard Rahl would say. That is why he is the one."

Richard thought it would be best to change the subject. He saw that it was getting light.

"Well, I have to get going. I'm sure you'll figure out what to do with the stone, Victor. It will come to you when the time is right."

The blacksmith feigned a scowl, but it was a poor spoof of the very real one that had just departed. "That is always what I thought, too."

Richard scratched his head. "Have you ever carved anything Victor?"

"No, nothing."

"Are you sure you are able to carve? That you have the ability?"

Victor tapped his temple, as if to dissuade a skeptic. "In here I have ability. In here I have beauty. That is all that matters to me. If I never touch steel to this stone, then I will always have the beauty of what it could be, and that, the Order can never take away from me."

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CHAPTER 51

Nicci wiped the sweat off her brow as she went down the line, checking to see if her clothes were dry. Summer was only around the corner, and it was already hot. Her back hurt from her earlier work at the washtub and various other chores. The other women were chatting in the warm sunshine. They occasionally giggled over some quirk that one of them, after a round of amiable urging, would divulge about her husband. Everyone in the building, it seemed, had begun coming alive along with the new spring growth.

Nicci knew that spring had nothing to do with it.

That knowledge drew frustration up from her darkest recesses. She couldn't figure out how Richard did it. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't unravel the knot he seemed to tie around everything. She was beginning to believe that if she took him down into the deepest cave she could find, the sunlight would make its way into the darkest recesses to shine on him. She would think it was some kind of magical luck, except she knew beyond doubt that he had not used any magic whatsoever.

The backyard, such an overgrown tangled place, so filthy, with piles of scrap and garbage, was now a garden. The men who lived in the building, after they came home from work, had rid the yard of the refuse. Even several of the ones who didn't work had come out of their rooms to help cart away an item or two. After it was cleared out,- the women of the building had turned the soil and planted a garden. They were going to have vegetables. Vegetables! There was talk of getting a few chickens.

The single latrine off in the back corner, so overused and so foul, was now two privies in good repair. Now, there was rarely a wait to use a privy and there were no more urgent pleas or frayed tempers. Kamil and Nabbi had helped Richard build them-partly out of scraps of lumber salvaged from the refuse piles in the yard, before they were hauled away, and some they collected from other rubbish heaps.

Nicci had hardly believed her eyes when she had seen Kamil and Nabbi-in shirts---digging the holes for the new privies. Everyone thanked them profusely. The two toughs beamed with pride.

The outdoor cooking hearth had been repaired, so the women could set more pots in it and cook at the same time, requiring less wood to be hauled. Richard and some of the other men of the building built stands for the washtubs, so the wives wouldn't have to bend so far or chafe their knees raw. The men made a simple roof of canvas salvaged from the refuse so that the women could cook and wash without getting wet when it rained.

The people in the buildings to either side, at first surly and suspicious of the activity, began asking curt questions. Richard, Kamil, and Nabbi went over and explained what they had done, and how they could put their place in shape, too, and even helped them get started. Nicci had yelled at Richard for spending his time at

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other people's places. He said that she was the one who had told him that it was his duty to help others. Nicci had no answer-at least, none that made any sense so as she could say it aloud and not sound a fool.

When Richard showed people how to improve their homes, he didn't lecture, or teach, but rather, somehow-Nicci couldn't understand how-managed to infect them with his enthusiasm. He hadn't told them what to do, but rather he'd made them pant to figure out for themselves how they could make things better for themselves. Everybody took a liking to Richard. It made her growl under her breath.

Nicci collected her washing in the woven basket Richard had shown the women of the building how to make from thin strips of wood. Nicci had to admit that the basket was easy enough to make, and a better way to lug clothes.

She climbed the sturdy stairs-stairs that she'd once thought would be the end of her. The hallway inside was spotless. The floors had been washed. Somewhere; Richard had come up with ingredients for paint, and the men had a grand time of mixing it up and painting over the stains on the walls. One of the men in the building knew about roofs, so he fixed the roof so it wouldn't leak and stain the walls again.

As Nicci walked down the hall, she saw Gadi, without his shirt, sitting up the stairway, in the shadows. He was using his big knife to whittle at a piece of wood and in so doing make clear his dangerous nature. Later, the women living i31 the building would tsk and clean it up. Gadi, not happy about people nagging at him of late, leered down at her. She now had something for him to leer at, now that she had gained her weight back.

Richard's second job at night enabled him to be able to afford more food. He brought home things she had missed for months-chicken, oil, spices, bacon, cheese, and eggs. She could never find such things in the city stores, Nicci had thought they sold the same food everywhere in the city shops, but Richard's travels while delivering things, he said, took him to places where they sold a wider variety of food.

Kamil and Nabbi, sitting on the front steps, saw her through the open door. They stood and bowed politely as she came down the hall.

"Good evening, Mrs. Cypher," Kamil said.

"Could we help you carry that?" Nabbi asked.

She found it all the more irritating because she knew for a fact that they were sincere; they liked her because she was Richard's wife.

"Thank you, no. I'm there, now."

They held the door for her and closed it behind her when she had passed into her room.

She thought of them as Richard's soldiers. He seemed to have a private army of people who broke into grins when they saw him coming. Most people seemed only too pleased to do whatever they thought Richard might like done. Kamil and Nabbi would have washed diapers, if he asked it, for the chance to ride with him at night in the wagon as he picked up and delivered things around Altur'Rang. He only rarely took them with him, saying that he could get in trouble with the workers' group. The youths didn't want Richard to get in trouble and lose his job, so they patiently waited for the rare times when he tilted his head for them to come along.

Their room had been transformed. The ceiling had been cleaned and whitewashed. The flyblown walls had been scrubbed and painted a salmon color-a color she had picked, thinking that Richard would not possibly be able to come up with the rare ingredients needed for the color. The walls were now mockingly salmon.

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One day a man had shown up with an armload of tools. Kamil said that Richard had sent him over to fix their room. The man spoke a language Nicci didn't understand. He waved his arms a lot and chattered and laughed good-naturedly, as if she must understand at least a little of what he told her. He pointed around at walls and asked questions. She hadn't the foggiest notion of what he was there to do.

She suspected he had come to fix the wobbly table. She rapped the top with the flat of her hand and then showed him how it wobbled. He nodded and grinned and chattered. She finally left him to his work while she went to the city store to wait in line to buy bread. She was there the entire morning. In the afternoon, she waited in line for millet.

When Nicci finally returned home, the man was gone. The old window, broken and not only long painted over but also painted shut, had new glass, and it was raised. And, they had a new window in the other wall. Both windows were open. A cool cross-breeze let fresh air into the stuffy room.

Nicci stood in the center of the room, stunned to be looking through the window to the building next door. She gaped out the window in the wall where there had been no window before. She was able to see the street. Mrs. Sha'Rim, from next door, had smiled and waved as she'd walked past.

Nicci set down the wash basket and opened the window at the side, to get some air into the stifling room. She pushed the curtains back. With windows you could see though, she had decided that curtains were in order. Richard somehow got her fabric. When she was finished, he told her she had done a wonderful job. Nicci found herself grinning just as everyone else grinned when Richard told them they had done well.

She had brought Richard to the worst place in the Old World, to the worst build

ing she could find, and he somehow ended up making everything better just as she had insisted was his duty.

But she had never meant it to be like this.

She didn't know what she'd meant.

She only knew that she lived for the times Richard was with her. Even though she knew he hated her, and wanted nothing more than to be away from her and back with his Kahlan, Nicci could not help feeling her heart rise into her throat when he came home. Through the link to Kahlan, she thought that at times she could feel the woman's longing for him. Every inch of her ached with understanding of Kahlan's longing.

The room grew darker as she waited. Life didn't start until Richard came home. As the daylight faded, the lamplight took its place. They had a real lamp, now, not just a wick through a wooden button floating in linseed oil.

The door opened. Richard put one foot inside. He was speaking to Kamil as the young man was going off to his family's place upstairs. It was getting late. Finally, still smiling, Richard came in and shut the door. The smile faded, as it always did.

He held out a burlap sack. "I came across some onions, carrots, and some pork. I thought you might like to make a stew."

Nicci lifted a hand weekly toward the millet she had spent the afternoon in line to buy. It had bugs in it. It was moldy.

"I bought millet. I thought I would make you a soup."

Richard shrugged. "If you prefer. Your millet soup saw us through some pretty lean times."

Nicci felt that flash of pride that he had acknowledged what she had done as valuable.

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She shut the windows. It was dark out. With her back to the windows as she watched him, she closed the curtains tight.

Richard stood in the center of the room, watching her, a puzzled frown creasing his brow between his eyes. Nicci closed the distance to him. She was aware of the exposed flesh of her bosom rising and falling above the top of her black dress. Gadi had just been staring at her bosom. She wanted Richard to stare at her like that. Richard watched only her eyes.

Her fingers tightened around his muscled arms.

"Make love to me," she whispered.

His brow drew down. "What?"

"Richard, I want you to make love to me. Now."

He appraised her eyes for an eternity. Her heart thundered in her ears. Every fiber of her being screamed out for him to take her. She teetered on the edge, waiting, her life suspended in the exquisite anguish of expectation.

His voice came, not at all harsh. If anything, it was tender, but it was also resolute. "No."

Nicci felt as if a thousand needles of ice were dancing up her arms. His refusal stunned her. No man had ever refused her.

It hurt to her core--worse than anything Jagang or any other man had ever done. She had thought . . .

Blood rushed to her face, melting the ice in a flash of heat. Nicci flung open the door. "Come out into the hall and wait," she commanded in a shaky voice.

He was standing in the center of their room, looking into her eyes. The lamp on the table cast harsh shadows across his face. His shoulders looked so broad, tapering down to his waist, a waist she ached to encircle with her arms. She wanted to scream. Instead she spoke softly, but with authority he could not mistake.

"You will come out into the hall and wait, or. . ."

Nicci made a snipping gesture with two fingers.

By the look in his eyes, he knew that she was not bluffing. Kahlan's life now hung by a thread, and if he didn't do as she ordered, she would not hesitate to cut that thread.

With his gray eyes on her the whole time, Richard stepped out into the hall. She put a finger to the center of his chest and pushed until his back was against the wall beside their door.

"You are to wait right there, on that spot, until I tell you that you may move from it." She gritted her teeth. "Or Kahlan will die. Do you understand?"

"Nicci, you're better than this. Think about what you're-"

"Or Kahlan will die. Do you understand?"

He let out a breath. "Yes."

Nicci marched to the stairwell. Gadi stood halfway up the stairs, his dark eyes watching. He arrogantly descended toward her, until he was at the bottom with her. He had a fine form, she supposed, displayed as it was without a shirt. He was close enough to feel the heat of him.

Nicci looked him in the eye. He was the same height as she.

"I want you to have sex with me."

"What?"

"My husband does not adequately take care of my needs. I wish you to."

A smirk spread on his face as his gaze slid to Richard. He looked back at her bosom, at what was within his power to possess.

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Gadi was young and bold and stupid enough to believe himself irresistible to her, to believe his puerile primping had swept away her inhibitions to the point of helpless lust for what he had to offer.

One arm pulled her to him. With his other hand, he swept her hair out of the way. His thin lips kissed her neck. When his teeth raked her flesh, she moaned to encourage him to be rough. The last thing in the world she wanted was tenderness. There could be no retribution in tenderness. Tenderness would not cleave Richard's soul with anguish. Tenderness would not hurt him.

Gadi's hands squeezed her bottom, pulling her hard against his groin. He moved against her in a lewd fashion. She panted in his ear to encourage his confidence in his dominion over her body.

"Tell me why."

"I'm sick of his gentle nature, his kind touch, his caring ways. That's not what a real woman needs. I want him to know what a real man can do-I want what he can't give me."

She nearly cried out in pain when he twisted her nipple.

"Yeah?"

"Yes. I want what a real man like you can do for a woman."

His rough hands squeezed her breast. She performed another moan. He smiled.

"My pleasure."

His smirk sickened her. "No, mine," she whispered in breathy submission.

He cast one more hateful glare at Richard, then bent to slip a hand up the front of her dress to see if she really meant it, if she would really let him have his way with her. His hand slid up the inside of her bare thigh, commanding surrender. She obediently parted her legs for him.

Nicci held on to his shoulders as he groped her. His upper lip curled in a haughty grin. His fingers worked without mercy. Her eyes watered. She trembled and bit the inside of her cheek to hold back her cry. Mistaking agony for lust, he was inflamed by her whimpers.

Jagang and his friend Kadar Kardeef, to name but a few, took her without her consent. None of it had ever approached the sense of violation she felt at that moment as she stood there in the hall letting that smirking little thug do to her as he would.

She forced her hand down between them and seized him.

"Gadi, are you afraid of Richard? Are are you man enough to take me while he is outside the room, listening to us, knowing you are his better with me?"

"Afraid? Of him?" His voice came in a husky growl. "Just tell me when."

"Right now. I need it from you now, Gadi."

"I thought so."

Nicci smiled inwardly at his solemn look of lust.

"Say `please,' first, you little whore."

"Please." She ached only to crush his worthless skull. "Please, Gadi."

With his arm around her waist, Gadi gave Richard a taunting sneer as he swaggered past. Nicci's fingers on Gadi's back urged him to go on into their room and wait. He smiled over his shoulder and did as she wanted. Nicci paused to glare into Richard's eyes.

"We are linked. What happens to me, happens to her. I hope you are not foolish enough to think I wouldn't make you sorry for the rest of your days if you don't stay right there. I swear to you, she will die this night if you don't stay there."

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"Nicci, please don't do this. You're only hurting yourself."

His voice was so tender, so compassionate. She almost threw her arms around him to beg him to stop her . . . but the flame of his refusal still burned shamefully in her heart.

Nicci turned back from the doorway and gave Richard a vicious grin. "I hope your Kahlan enjoys this as much as I'm going to enjoy it. After tonight, she will never believe in you again."

--]--- Kahlan gasped. Her eyes opened. She could only make out obscure shapes in the swirling darkness. She gasped again.

A feeling she couldn't define, couldn't interpret, couldn't put a nature to, welled up in her. It was something totally foreign, yet at the same time bewitchingly familiar. Something inappropriate, yet longed for. It filled her with a kind of passionate terror that undulated seductively to indecent pleasure, pushing before it a sense of shapeless dread.

She felt the weight of a shadow over her.

Feelings and sensations she could not grasp or control inundated her even as she fought them. Nothing seemed real. She gasped again at the crude sensation. It confused her. It hurt, and at the same time she felt a kind of wild hunger awakening.

It was as if Richard were there, in bed with her. It felt so good again. She was panting. Her mouth was dry as dust.

In Richard's intimate embrace she had always felt a kind of expectant delight that their shameless lust could never be completely sated-that there was always a spark of something left to explore, to reach toward, to define. She had always exalted in the idea of that endless quest for the unattainable.

She drew a sharp breath. She felt herself in that headlong rush, now.

But this was something she had never imagined. Her fists clutched at the sheets, her mouth opened in a silent scream against the ripping thrust of pain.

This was not human. It made no sense. She gasped again in panic as the most awful feelings burgeoned through her. She moaned at the horror of it, at the hint of pleasure in it, and at the confusion of nearly enjoying the sensation.

The realization came to her. She knew what this meant.

Tears stung her eyes. She rolled onto her side, torn between the joy of feeling Richard, and the pain of knowing that Nicci was feeling him in this way, too. She was slammed onto her back.

She gasped again, her eyes going wide, her whole body rigid.

She cried out at the pain. She twisted and struggled, covering her breasts with her arms. Her eyes watered at agony she couldn't explain or completely identify.

She missed Richard so much. She wanted him so badly it hurt.

She gave in to him, even in this, she surrendered herself to him. A low wail escaped her throat.

Her muscles knotted as tight as oak roots. She was racked with wave after wave of startling pain mixed with an unsatisfied longing that had turned to revulsion. She couldn't get her breath.

She burst into tears as it ceased, her body finally able to move again, but too exhausted to do so. She had hated every violent appalling brutal second of it, and grieved that it had ended because she had at least felt him.

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She felt joy that she had so unexpectedly sensed him, and blind rage at what it meant. She clutched the sheets in her fists as she wept inconsolably.

"Mother Confessor?" A dark form slipped into the tent. "Mother Confessor?"

It was Cara's whisper. Cara set a candle on the table. The light seemed blindingly bright as Cara looked down. "Mother Confessor, are you all right?"

Kahlan pulled a ragged breath. She was lying on her back in her bed, tangled in her blanket. It was twisted around between her legs.

Maybe it was just a dream. She wished it was. She knew it wasn't.

Kahlan ran her fingers back into her hair as she sat up. "Cara-" It came out as a choking sob.

Cara knelt on the ground beside her and gripped Kahlan's shoulders. "What is it?"

Kahlan struggled to get her breath.

"What's wrong? What can I do? Are you hurt? Are you sick?"

"Oh, Cara . . . he's been with Nicci."

Cara held her at arms length, her face a picture of concern.

"What are you talking about? Who's been-"

Her words cut off when she realized what Kahlan meant.

Kahlan struggled against Cara's grip. "How could he-"

"She no doubt made him," Cara insisted. "He must have done it to save your life. She would have had to threaten him."

Kahlan was shaking her head. "No, no. He was enjoying it too much. He was like an animal. He never took me like that. He never acted . . . Oh, Cara, he's fallen for her. He couldn't resist her any longer. He's-"

Cara shook her until Kahlan thought her teeth would come loose.

"Wake up! Open your eyes. Mother Confessor, wake up. You're half asleep. You're still half dreaming."

Kahlan blinked as she looked around. She was panting, still getting her breath. She had stopped crying.

Cara was right. It had happened, there was no doubt in Kahlan's mind, but it had happened when she was sleeping, and in her sleep, it had taken her unaware. She hadn't reacted rationally.

"You're right," Kahlan said in a voice hoarse from crying. Her nose was stuffed up so that she could only breath through her mouth.

"Now," Cara said in a calm voice, "tell me what happened."

When she felt her face go red, Kahlan wished for the darkness. How could she tell anyone what had happened? She wished Cara hadn't heard her.

"Well, through the link"-Kahlan swallowed-"I could sense that, that, well, that Richard made love to Nicci."

Cara looked skeptical. "Did it feel like when, well, I mean, are you sure? Could you tell it was him?"

Kahlan felt her face go a darker shade of red. "Not exactly, I guess. I don't know." She covered her breasts. "I could feel his . . . his teeth on me. He was biting .."

Cara scratched her head, averting her gaze, unsure how to frame her question. Kahlan answered it for her.

"Richard never hurt me like that."