from controlling your minds."
     That might  explain  much  of what Nicci didn't understand: why  Jagang
sometimes couldn't enter her mind.
     "But if the chimes are loose-"
     "Were," Sister Georgia said. "Even if it was true, for a time, they now
have been banished. His Excellency has full access to us,  I'm happy to say,
and everything else concerning magic has returned to normal."
     Nicci could  almost see the three  of  them  wondering  if  Jagang  was
listening to their words. But if magic was returned to normal, Jagang should
be  in  Nicci's  mind;  he  wasn't.  She  felt   the  spark  of  a  possible
understanding fizzle and die.  "So,  the Prelate  made a blunder and  Jagang
caught her."
     "Well . . .  not exactly,"  Sister Rochelle said. "Sister Georgia  went
and got the guards. We turned her in, as was our duty."
     Nicci burst  out with  a  laugh. "Her  own Sisters of  the  Light?  How
ironic! She risks her life, while the chimes have interrupted magic, to come
and save  your worthless hides, and  instead of escaping with  her, you turn
her in. How fitting."
     "We  had to!" Sister  Georgia  protested. "His  Excellency  would  have
wished it. Our place is to serve. We know better than  to try to escape.  We
know our place."
     Nicci surveyed their tense  faces,  these women sworn to the  Creator's
light, these Sisters of  the Light  who had  worked hundreds of years in His
name. "Yes, you do."
     "You'd have done the same,"  Sister Aubrey snapped. "We  had to, or His
Excellency  would  have  taken it out  on the others. It was our duty to the
welfare of the others-and that  includes you, I might add. We couldn't think
only of ourselves, or Ann, but had to think of what was good for everyone."
     Nicci felt the numb indifference smothering her. "Fine, so you betrayed
the Prelate." Only a  spark of  curiosity remained. "But what made her think
she could escape with you for good? Surely,  she must have had some plan for
the chimes.

     What was she expecting to  happen  when Jagang once again had access to
your minds?-and hers?"
     "His Excellency  is always with  us," Sister Aubrey insisted. "Ann  was
just trying to fill our heads with her preposterous notions. We know better.
The rest of it was just a trick, too. We were too smart for her."
     "Rest of it? What was the rest of her plan?"
     Sister  Georgia huffed  her  indignation. "She tried  to tell  us  some
foolishness about a bond to Richard Rahl."
     Nicci blinked. She concentrated  on keeping her breathing even.  "Bond?
What nonsense are you talking about, now?"
     Sister Georgia met  Nicci's  gaze  squarely.  "She insisted that  if we
swore allegiance to Richard, it would  protect us. She claimed some magic of
his would keep Jagang from our mind."
     "How?"
     Sister  Georgia  shrugged. "She  claimed this  bond  business protected
people's minds from dream walkers. But we aren't that gullible."
     To still her fingers,  Nicci pressed her hands to her  thighs. "I don't
understand. How would such a thing work?"
     "She  said something about it  being inherited  from his  ancestor. She
claimed that  we had but  to swear loyalty  to him, loyalty in our hearts-or
some  such  nonsense.  To  tell the truth, it was so preposterous  I  wasn't
really paying  that much attention. She claimed that was why Jagang couldn't
enter her mind."
     Nicci was staggered. Of course . . .
     She  had  always wondered  why  Jagang didn't  capture the rest  of the
Sisters. There  were many more still free. They were protected  by this bond
to Richard. It had to be true. It made sense. Her own leader, sister Ulicia,
and  Richard's other teachers had escaped, too. But that didn't seem to make
sense; they were Sisters of the Dark-like Nicci-they would have had to swear
loyalty to Richard. Nicci couldn't imagine such a thing.
     But then, Jagang was often unable to enter Nicci's mind.
     "You said Sister Alessandra has vanished."
     Sister Georgia fussed with  the collar  of her scruffy  dress. "She and
Ann both vanished."
     "Jagang doesn't  bother to inform you of his actions. Perhaps he simply
had them put to death."
     Georgia  glanced  at her  companions.  "Well  . .  . maybe.  But Sister
Alessandra was one of yours  . . .  a Sister of the Dark. She was caring for
Ann-"
     "Why weren't you caring for her? You are her Sisters."
     Sister Georgia cleared  her throat. "She threw such a fit about us that
His Excellency assigned Sister Alessandra to look after her."
     Nicci could only imagine that it must have been quite a fit.  But after
being betrayed  by her own Sisters, it was understandable. Jagang would have
thought the woman valuable enough that he wanted to keep her alive.
     "As we marched into the city, the wagon  with  Ann's  cage never showed
up," Sister Georgia went on. "One of the drivers finally  came around with a
bloody  head and reported that the last thing  he saw  before the world went
dark was Sister Alessandra. Now the two of them are gone."
     Nicci felt her fingernails  digging  into her palms.  She made  herself
relax her  fists. "So, Ann offered you all freedom, and you chose instead to
continue to be slaves."

     The three women lifted their noses. "We did what is best for everyone,"
Sister Georgia said. "We are  Sisters  of the  Light.  Our  duty  is not  to
ourselves, but to relieve the suffering of others-not cause it."
     "Besides," Sister Aubrey added, "we don't see you leaving. Seems you've
been free of His Excellency from time to time, and you don't go."
     Nicci frowned. "How do you know that?"
     "Well, I, I mean. . ." Sister Aubrey stammered.
     Nicci seized the woman by the throat. "I asked you  a  question. Answer
it."
     Sister Aubrey's face reddened  as Nicci added the force  of her gift to
the grip. The tendons in her wrist stood  out  with the  strain. The woman's
eyes showed white all around  as Nicci's power began squeezing the life from
her.  Unlike Nicci, Jagang possessed  their minds, and they  were prohibited
from using their power except at his direction.
     Sister Georgia gently placed a hand on Nicci's forearm. "His Excellency
questioned us about it, that's all, Sister. Let her go. Please?"
     Nicci  released  the woman  but  turned her  glare  on  Sister Georgia.
"Questioned you? What do you mean? What did he say?"
     "He simply  wanted  to know  if  we knew why he was  from  time to time
blocked from your mind."
     "He  hurt us," Sister  Rochelle said.  "He hurt us  with his questions,
because we had no answer. We don't understand it."
     For the first time, Nicci did.
     Sister Aubrey comforted her throat. "What is it with you, Sister Nicci?
Why is it His Excellency is so curious about you?  Why is it you  can resist
him?"
     Nicci turned and walked away. "Thank you for the help, Sisters."
     "If  you  can be  free of  him, why do you  not  leave?" Sister Georgia
called out.
     Nicci  turned back from the doorway. "I enjoy seeing Jagang torment you
Witches of the Light. I stay around so that I might watch."
     They were unmoved by her insolence-they were accustomed to it.
     "Sister Nicci," Rochelle said, smoothing back  her frizz of hair. "What
did you do that made His Excellency so angry?"
     "What?  Oh,  that. Nothing  of  importance.  I  just  had the  men  tie
Commander Kardeef to a pole and roast him over a fire."
     The three of them  gasped as  they straightened  as one. They  reminded
Nicci of three owls on a branch.
     Sister Georgia fixed Nicci with a grim glare, a rare blaze of authority
born of seniority.
     "You deserve everything Jagang does to you, Sister-and what the  Keeper
will do to you, too."
     Nicci smiled  and  said,  "Yes, I do," before ducking through the  tent
opening.


        Chapter 10

     The city of Fairfield had returned  to a semblance of order. It was the
order  of a military  post. Little  of what could be said to make a city was
left.  Many of the buildings remained, but  there were few of the people who
had once lived and worked in them. Some of the buildings had been reduced to
charred beams and blackened rubble, others were hulks with windows and doors
broken out, yet most were much the same as they  had been before, except, of
course, that all had been emptied in the wanton looting. The buildings stood
like husks, only a reminder of past life.
     Here and there, a few toothless old  people  sat, legs splayed, leaning
against a wall, watching with empty eyes the  masses of armed men moving  up
and down their streets. Orphaned  children wandered in a daze, or peered out
from dark  passageways.  Nicci found it remarkable  how quickly civilization
could be stripped from a place.
     As  she walked through  the  streets, Nicci thought she understood  how
many of the  buildings would feel if they could feel: empty, devoid of life,
lacking purpose  while  they  waited for  someone to  serve; their only true
value being in service to the living.
     The  streets, populated  as  they  were  by grim-faced soldiers,  gaunt
beggars, the skeletal old and sick, wailing children, all amongst the rubble
and filth, looked much  like some of the streets Nicci remembered  from when
she  was little. Her  mother  often  sent her  out to  streets like this  to
minister to the destitute.
     "It's  the fault of men  like your father," her mother had  said. "He's
just like  my  father  was. He  has  no feelings, no  concern for anyone but
himself. He's heartless."
     Nicci had stood, wearing a freshly washed, frilly  blue dress, her hair
brushed and pinned back, her hands  hanging at  her sides, listening  as her
mother  lectured on good and evil, on the ways of sin and  redemption. Nicci
hadn't understood a lot d it, but in later years it would  be repeated until
she would come  to  know every word,  every concept, every desolate truth by
heart.
     Nicci's  father  was wealthy.  Worse,  to Mother's  way of thinking, he
wasn't morseful about it. Mother explained that self-interest and greed were
like the eyes of a monstrous  evil, always  looking  for yet more  power and
gold to feed its insatiable hunger.
     "You must learn, Nicci, that a person's moral course in this life is to
help others  not  yourself,"  Mother said. "Money  can't  buy  the Creator's
blessing."
     "But how can we show the Creator we're good?" Nicci asked.
     "Mankind is a wretched lot, unworthy, morbid, and foul.  We must  fight
depraved nature. Helping others is the only way to prove your soul's  value.
It's only true good a person can do."
     Nicci's father had been born  a noble, but  all his adult  life he  had
worked as

     armorer. Mother believed that he had been born with comfortable wealth,
and instead of being satisfied with that, he sought to build his legacy into
a shameless fortune.  She said wealth could only be had by  fleecing it from
the poor in  one fashion or another. Others of the nobility, like Mother and
many  of her friends, were  content not to squeeze an undeserved  share from
the sweat of the poor.
     Nicci  felt great  guilt  for Father's wicked ways,  for his ill-gotten
wealth. Mother said she was doing her best to try to save his straying soul.
Nicci never worried for her mother's soul, because people were always saying
how  caring, how  kindhearted, how  charitable Mother was, but  Nicci  would
sometimes lie awake at  night, unable to sleep with  worry for Father, worry
that the Creator might exact punishment before Father could be redeemed.
     While Mother went to meetings with her important friends, the nanny, on
the way to the  market, often  took Nicci to  Father's  business to  ask his
wishes for dinner. Nicci relished  watching  and learning things at Father's
work. It was a fascinating place. When  she was very  young, she thought she
might grow up to be an armorer, too. At home, she would sit on the floor and
play at  hammering  on  an item  of clothing meant to  be  armor laid on  an
upturned shoe used as an anvil. That innocent time was her fondest memory of
her childhood.
     Nicci's father had a great many people  working for him. Wagons brought
foursquare bars  and other supplies from  distant  places.  Heavy cast-metal
sows  came  in on  barges. Other  wagons, with guards, took goods to far-off
customers. There  were men who forged metal, men who hammered it into shape,
and yet other  men who shaped glowing metal into weapons. Some of the blades
were made from costly "poison steel," said to inflict mortal wounds, even in
a small cut.  There were other men who sharpened  blades,  men who  polished
armor,  and men who did beautiful engraving  and  artwork on shields, armor,
and blades.  There were even women who worked for Nicci's father, helping to
make  chain mail. Nicci watched them, sitting  on  benches  at  long  wooden
tables,  gossiping  a  bit  among themselves, tittering at stories, as  they
worked with their pincers burring over tiny rivets in the flattened  ends of
all those thousands of little steel rings that together went into the making
of a  suit  of chain-mail armor.  Nicci thought  it  remarkable  that  man's
inventiveness could turn something as hard as metal into a suit of clothes.
     Men  from  all around, and from  distant  places,  too, came to buy her
father's  armor. Father  said  it was the finest armor  made.  His eyes, the
color of the blue sky on a perfect summer day, sparkled wonderfully  when he
spoke of his  armor. Some was so  beautiful that  kings traveled from  great
distances to have armor ordered and  fitted. Some  was so elaborate that  it
took skilled men hunched at benches many months to make.
     Blacksmiths,  bellowsmen,   hammermen,   millmen,  platers,   armorers,
polishers, leatherworkers, riveters, patternmakers,  silversmiths, guilders,
engraving artists, even  seamstresses  for the  making of  the  quilted  and
padded linen, and, of course, apprentices, came from great distances, hoping
to work for her  father. Many of those with skills  lugged along samples  of
their best work to show him. Father turned away far more than he hired.
     Nicci's father was an impressive figure, upright, angular, and intense.
At his work, his blue eyes always seemed to Nicci to see more than any other
person saw, as if the metal spoke to him when his fingers glided over it. He
seemed  to move his limbs precisely as much as was needed,  and no  more. To
Nicci, he was a vision of power, strength, and purpose.

     Officers, officials, and  nobility  came  round to talk to him, as  did
suppliers, and  his workers. When  Nicci went  to her father's work, she was
always astonished to see him engaged in so much conversation. Mother said it
was because he was arrogant, and made his poor workers pay court to him.
     Nicci liked to watch the intricate dance of people working. The workers
would pause to smile at her, answer her questions, and sometimes let her hit
the metal with a hammer. From the looks of it, Father enjoyed talking to all
those people, too. At  home, Mother talked, and Father said  little,  as his
face took on the look of hammered steel.
     When he did talk at  home, he spoke almost exclusively about his  work.
Nicci  listened  to  every  word, wanting  to  learn  all  about him and his
business. Mother confided that at  his core  his vile nature ate away at his
invisible soul. Nicci always hoped to someday redeem his soul and make it as
healthy as he outwardly appeared.
     He adored Nicci, but seemed to  think raising her was a task too sacred
for his coarse  hands, so he left it to Mother. Even  when he disagreed with
something, he would bow to Mother's wishes, saying she would know best about
such a domestic duty.
     His work kept him busy most of the time. Mother said it was a  sign  of
his  barren  soul  that he  spent so  much  of  his  time  at  building  his
riches-taking from people, she often called it-rather than giving of himself
to people, as the Creator meant  all men to do. Many times, when Father came
home for dinner,  while  servants  scurried in and  out  with all the dishes
they'd prepared, Mother would go on, in tortured tones, about how bad things
were  in the  world. Nicci often heard people say  that  Mother was a  noble
woman because of how deeply she cared. After dinner Father  would go back to
work, often without a word. That would anger Mother, because she had more to
tell him about his soul, but he was too busy to listen.
     Nicci remembered  occasions  when Mother  would  stand  at  the window,
looking out over  the dark city,  worrying, no doubt, about  all  the things
that plagued her  peace. On those quiet  nights,  Father sometimes glided up
behind Mother, putting a hand tenderly to her back, as if she were something
of  great  value. He seemed to be mellow and  contented at those moments. He
squeezed her bottom just a little as he whispered something in her ear.
     She would look up hopefully and ask him to contribute to the efforts of
her  fellowship.  He would ask how  much.  Peering  up  into  his eyes as if
searching for some shred of human decency, she would name a figure. He would
sigh and  agree, His  hands would settle around her waist, and he would  say
that it was late, and that they should retire to bed.
     Once,  when he asked  her  how much she wished him  to contribute,  she
shrugged  and  said,  "I  don't know. What  does  your conscience tell  you,
Howard? But, a man of true compassion  would  do better than you usually do,
considering  that you have more than your fair share of wealth, and the need
is so great."
     He sighed. "How much do you and your friends need?"
     "It  is not me and my friends who  need it, Howard,  but the masses  of
humanity crying out  for help. Our  fellowship simply struggles to  meet the
need."
     "How much?" he repeated.
     She said, "Five hundred gold crowns," as if the number were  a club she
had been  hiding behind her  back,  and, seeing  the opening  she  had  been
waiting for, she suddenly brandished it to bully him.
     With a gasp, Father staggered back a step. "Do you have any idea of the
work required to make a sum of that size?"
     "You do no work, Howard-your slaves do it for you."
     "Slaves! They are the finest craftsmen!"
     "They should be. You steal the best workers from all over the land."
     "I pay the best wages in the land! They are eager to work for me!"
     "They are the poor victims of your tricks. You exploit them. You charge
more than anyone else. You have connections and make deals to cut out  other
armorers. You steal the food from the mouths of working people, just to line
your own pockets."
     "I offer the  finest  work! People buy from me  because  they want  the
best. I charge a fair price for it."
     "No one charges as  much  as you and that's the simple fact. You always
want more. Gold is your only goal."
     "People come to me willingly because I have the highest standards. That
is my goal! The other  shops produce  haphazard work that doesn't proof out.
My tempering is superior. My work is all proofed to a double-stamp standard.
I won't sell  inferior  work. People trust me;  they know I create  the best
pieces."
     "Your workers do. You simply rake in the money."
     "The profits go to wages and to the business-I just sank a fortune into
the new battering-mill!"
     "Business,  business,  business!  When  I  ask  you to  give  a  little
something back to the community, to those in  need,  you  act as if I wanted
you to gouge out your  eyes. Would you really  rather see people die than to
give  a pittance to save them? Does money really  mean more to  you, Howard,
than people's lives? Are you that cruel and unfeeling a man?"
     Father hung his head for a time, and at last quietly agreed to send his
man around with  the gold. His voice came  gentle again. He  said  he didn't
want  people to die, and he hoped the  money would help. He told her it  was
time for bed.
     "You've put me off,  Howard, with  your arguing. You couldn't just give
charitably of yourself; it always has to be dragged out of you-when it's the
right  thing to  do  in the first place.  You only agree now because of your
lecherous needs. Honestly, do you think I have no principles?"
     Father simply turned and headed for the door. He paused  as he suddenly
saw Nicci sitting on the  floor,  watching. The  look on his face frightened
her,  not because it was angry, or fierce, but because there seemed to be so
much in his eyes,  and  the weight  of  never being  able to express  it was
crushing him. Raising Nicci was Mother's work,  and  he had  promised her he
would not meddle.
     He swept his blond hair back from his  forehead, then turned and picked
up his coat. In a level  voice he said to Mother that he was going to go see
to some things at work.
     After  he was gone, Mother,  too,  saw Nicci,  forgotten  on the floor,
playing with  beads  on a board,  pretending  to make  chain mail. Her  arms
folded, she stood over Nicci for a long moment.
     "Your father goes  to whores, you know. I'm sure that's where he's  off
to now: a whore. You may be too young to understand, but I want you to know,
so that you don't  ever put any faith in him. He's  an evil man. I'll not be
his whore.
     "Now, put  away your  things and come with Mother. I'm going  to see my
friends.

     It's time you came  along and began learning about the needs of others,
instead of just your own wants."
     At her friend's house, there  were a few men  and several women sitting
and talking in  serious tones.  When they politely  inquired  after  Father,
Nicci's mother  reported that he was off, "working or whoring, I  don't know
which,  and can control neither." Some of  the women laid  a hand on her her
arm and comforted her. It was a terrible burden she bore, they said.
     Across the room sat a silent man, who looked to  Nicci as grim as death
itself.
     Mother quickly forgot  about Father  as  she became  engrossed  in  the
discussion her friends were  having about the terrible  conditions of people
in the city. People were suffering from hunger, injuries, sickness, disease,
lack of  skill, no  work, too many children to feed, elderly to care for, no
clothes,  no  roof  over  their  heads,  and  every  other  kind  of  strife
imaginable. It was all so frightening.
     Nicci  was  always anxious when Mother talked about how things couldn't
go on the way they were for  much longer, and that something had to be done.
Nicci wished someone would hurry up and do it.
     Nicci  listened  as  Mother's fellowship  friends talked about all  the
intolerant people who harbored hate. Nicci feared ending  up as one of those
terrible people. She didn't want the Creator to punish her for having a cold
heart.
     Mother and  her  friends  went on at  great  length  about  their  deep
feelings  for  all  the problems around  them. After each  person said their
piece, they would steal a  glance over  at the  man sitting  solemnly  in  a
straight  chair against the  wall,  watching with careful, dark eyes as they
talked.
     "The prices of things are just terrible,"  a  man with  droopy  eyelids
said.  He was all crumpled down in his chair, like a pile of dirty  clothes.
"It  isn't  fair. People  shouldn't  be allowed to  just raise their  prices
whenever they want. The duke should do something. He has the king's ear."
     "The duke  . .  ." Mother said. She sipped  her tea. "Yes,  I've always
found  the duke to be a man sympathetic to good causes.  I think he could be
persuaded to introduce sensible laws."  Mother glanced  over the gold rim of
her cup at the man in the straight chair.
     One of the women said she would encourage her husband to back the duke.
Another spoke up that they would write a letter of support for such an idea.
     "People  are  starving,"  a  wrinkled woman  said  into a  lull  in the
conversation.  People eagerly mumbled their acknowledgment, as  if this were
an umbrella to run in under to escape the drenching silence. "1 see it every
day. If we could just help some of those unfortunate people."
     One of the other women puffed herself up like a chicken ready to lay an
egg. "It's just terrible the way no one  will  give them a job, when there's
plenty of work if it was just spread around."
     "I know," Mother said with a tsk. "I've talked to Howard until I'm blue
in the face. He just hires people who please him, rather than  those needing
the job the most. It's a disgrace."
     The others sympathized with her burden.
     "It isn't right that a few men should have so much more than they need,
while so  many people have so much less," the  man with  the droopy  eyelids
said. "It's immoral."
     "Man has no right  to exist for his own sake," Mother was quick  to put
in as she  nibbled on  a piece  of dense cake while  glancing  again  at the
grimly silent man. "I

     tell Howard  all the time that  self-sacrifice in the service of others
is man's highest moral  duty and  his only  reason for being  placed in this
life.
     "To that  end," Mother announced, "I  have decided to  contribute  five
hundred gold crowns to our cause."
     The other people gasped their delight, and congratulated Mother for her
charitable nature. They agreed, as they  sneaked peeks across the room, that
the Creator would reward her in  the  next life,  and talked about all  they
would be able to do to help those less fortunate souls.
     Mother finally turned  and regarded Nicci for a moment,  and then said,
"I believe my daughter is old enough to learn to help others."
     Nicci sat forward on the edge of  her chair, thrilled at the idea of at
last putting her hand to what Mother and her friends said was noble work. It
was as if the Creator Himself had offered her a path  to salvation. "I would
so like to do good, Mother."
     Mother  cast  a  questioning  look  at  the man in the straight  chair.
"Brother Narev?"
     The  deep creases of his face pleated to each side as the thin  line of
his  mouth stretched in a smile. There was no joy in it, or in his dark eyes
hooded  beneath  a brow of tangled white  and black hairs. He wore a creased
cap and heavy robes as dark as dried blood. Wisps of his wiry hair above his
ears curled  up around the edge of  the  cap that  came  halfway down on his
forehead.
     He stroked his  jaw  with the side of a finger as he spoke  in  a voice
that  almost rattled  the teacups.  "So, child, you  wish  to  be  a  little
soldier?"
     "Well . . .  no, sir." Nicci didn't know what soldiering had to do with
doing  good.  Mother always said  that  father pandered to  men in  an  evil
occupation-soldiers. She said soldiers only cared about  killing. "I wish to
help those in need."
     "That is what we all try to do, child." His spooky smile remained fixed
on  his  face as he spoke. "We here are  all soldiers in  the fellowship-the
Fellowship of Order-as we call  our little group. All  soldiers fighting for
justice."
     Everyone seemed too timid to look directly at him.  They glanced  for a
moment,  looked  away,  then  glanced back  again,  as if his  face was  not
something to  be taken in all at  once, but  sipped at, like a scalding-hot,
foul-tasting remedy.
     Mother's brown eyes darted around like a cockroach looking for a crack.
"Why, of course,  Brother Narev. That is the only moral sort of  soldier-the
charitable  sort."  She  urged  Nicci  up  and scooted her  forward. "Nicci,
Brother Narev, here, is a great man. Brother Narev is the high priest of the
Fellowship of Order-an  ancient sect devoted to doing the Creator's will  in
this world. Brother  Narev is  a  sorcerer." She  cast  a smile  up  at him.
"Brother Narev, this is my daughter, Nicci."
     Her mother's hands pushed her at  the man,  as if she were an  offering
for the Creator. Unlike everyone else, Nicci couldn't take her gaze from his
hooded eyes. She had never seen their like.
     There was nothing in them but dark cold emptiness.
     He held out a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Nicci."
     "Curtsy and kiss his hand, dear," Mother prompted.
     Nicci went to one knee. She  kissed  the knuckles so as not to have  to
put her lips on the spongy web of thick blue veins covering  the back of his
hairy  hand floating before her face.  The whitish knobs were cold,  but not
icy, as she had expected.
     "We welcome you to our movement, Nicci," he said in that  deep rattling
voice of  his. "With your mother's  caring hand  raising you up, I know  you
will do the Creator's work."
     Nicci thought that the Creator Himself must be very much like this man.

     From all  the  things her mother told her, Nicci feared  the  Creator's
wrath. She was old enough to know that she had to start  doing the good work
her mother always  talked about, if she was to have any chance at salvation.
Everyone  said  Mother was a caring, moral person. Nicci wanted to be a good
person, too.
     But good work seemed so hard, so  stern-not  at all like  her  father's
work, where people smiled and laughed and talked with their hands.
     "Thank you, Brother  Narev," Nicci said. "I will do my  best to do good
in the world."
     "One day, with the help  of fine young people like  you, we will change
the  world.  I don't delude myself;  with so much callousness  among men, it
will take time to  win true converts,  but we  here in this room, along with
others of like mind throughout the land, are the foundation of hope."
     "Is the fellowship a secret, then?" Nicci asked in a whisper.
     Everyone  chuckled.  Brother Narev didn't  laugh, but his  mouth smiled
again. "No,  child. Quite the contrary. It is our most fervent wish and duty
to  spread the truth  of mankind's corruption.  The Creator is  perfect;  we
mortals are but miserable wretches. We  must recognize our wicked  nature if
we  hope to avoid His righteous  wrath and reap our deliverance in the  next
world.
     "Self-sacrifice for the good of all is the only route to salvation. Our
fellowship  is  open to all  those  willing to give of  themselves and  live
ethical lives. Most people don't take us seriously. Someday they will."
     Gleaming, mousy  eyes around the room watched  without blinking  as his
deep, powerful voice rose, like the Creator's own fury.
     "A  day will come  when the hot flames of change will sweep across  the
land, burning away the old, the decaying, and the foul, to allow a new order
to  grow from the blackened remains of  evil. After we burn clean the world,
there will be no kings, yet the world  will  have order,  championed  by the
hand  of  the common man,  for  the common man. Only then, will  there be no
hunger, no shivering in the cold, no suffering without help. The good of the
people will be put above the selfish desires of the individual."
     Nicci wanted  to  do good-she truly did.  But his voice sounded  to her
like a rusty dungeon door grating shut on her.
     All the eyes in  the room watched her, to see if she was good, like her
mother, "That sounds wonderful, Brother Narev."
     He nodded. "It will be, child. You will help bring this to be. Let your
feelings  be your guide. You will be a soldier, marching toward a  new world
order. It will be a long and arduous task. You must keep the faith. The rest
of us in this room will not likely live to see it flourish,  but perhaps you
will live long enough to one day see such a wondrous order come to pass."
     Nicci swallowed. "I will pray for it, Brother Narev."


        Chapter 11

     The next day, loaded with  a big basket of bread, Nicci was let  out of
the carnage, along with a gaggle of other people from the fellowship, to fan
out and distribute bread to the needy. Mother  had attired  her in a ruffled
red  dress  for the special occasion. Her  short white stockings had designs
stitched in red  thread. Filled with pride  to at last be doing good,  Nicci
marched  down the  garbage strewn  street,  armed  with her basket of bread,
thinking about the day when the hope  of a new order  could be spread to all
so that all could finally rise up out of destitution and despair.
     Some people smiled and  thanked her for the bread. Some took the  bread
without a word  or  a smile.  Most, though, were surly about it, complaining
that the bread was late and the  loaves were  too  small, or the wrong kind.
Nicci was not discouraged.  She told them what Mother had said, that  it was
the  baker's fault, because he baked bread  for profit, first, and since  he
received a reduced rate for charity, baked that second. Nicci told them that
she  was  sorry that wicked people  treated  them as  second-rate,  but that
someday the  Fellowship of Order would come to the land and  see to  it that
everyone was treated the same.
     As Nicci walked down the street, handing  out the bread, a man snatched
her arm  and pulled her into the stench  of a narrow dark alley. She offered
him  a loaf  of bread.  He  swiped the basket out of  her  hands. He said he
wanted silver or gold. Nicci  told him she had no money. She gasped in panic
as he yanked her close.  His filthy probing fingers groped everywhere on her
body, even violating her most private places, looking for a purse, but found
none hidden on her. He  pulled  off  her shoes and  threw  them away when he
found they had no coins hidden in them.
     His fist punched her twice in the stomach. Nicci crashed to the ground.
He spat a curse at her as he stole away into the shadowed heaps of refuse.
     Holding herself up on trembling arms, Nicci vomited into the oily water
running from  under the mounds of offal.  People passing the alley looked in
and saw her retching  there on the ground, but turned their eyes back to the
street and  hurried on their way. A few quickly darted into the alley, bent,
and scooped up bread  from the overturned basket before  rushing  off. Nicci
panted, tears stinging her eyes, trying to get her wind back. Her knees were
bleeding. Her dress was splattered with scum.
     When she returned home,  in tears,  Mother smiled at seeing her. "Their
plight often brings tears to my eyes, too."
     Nicci shook her  head, her golden locks swinging side to side, and told
Mother that a  man  had  grabbed her  and hit her,  demanding  money.  Nicci
reached for her mother as she wailed in misery  that he was a wicked, wicked
man.
     Mother smacked her mouth. "Don't  you dare judge people. You are just a
child. How can you presume to judge others?"
     Stopped cold, Nicci was bewildered  by the slap,  more  startling  than
painful. The

     rebuke stung more. "But,  Mother, he  was  cruel to  me-he  touched  me
everywhere and then he hit me."
     Mother smacked her mouth again, harder the  second time. "I'll not have
you disgrace me before Brother Narev and my  friends  with such  insensitive
talk.  Do you hear? You don't know what made him do it. Perhaps he has  sick
children at home,  and  he  needs money  to buy medicine. Here  he sees some
spoiled  rich child, and he finally breaks, knowing his  own child has  been
cheated in life by the likes of you and all your fine things.
     "You don't know what burdens life has handed the man. Don't you dare to
judge  people  for their  actions  just  because you  are  too  callous  and
insensitive to take the time to understand them."
     "But I think-"
     Mother  smacked  her across the mouth  a  third time,  hard  enough  to
stagger her. "You think? Thinking is a vile acid that corrodes faith! It  is
your duty to believe,  not think. The mind of man is inferior to that of the
Creator. Your thoughts-the thoughts  of anyone-are worthless, as all mankind
is worthless. You must have faith that the Creator has invested His goodness
in those wretched souls.
     "Feelings, not thinking, must be  your guide. Faith, not thinking, must
be your only path."
     Nicci swallowed back her tears. "Then what should I do?"
     "You  should  be ashamed  that  the world  treats those poor  souls  so
cruelly that they would so pitifully strike out in confusion. In the future,
you should find a way to help people like that because you are able and they
are not-that is your duty."
     That night, when her father came home  and tiptoed into her room to see
if she was tucked in snugly, Nicci clutched two  of his big fingers together
and held them  tight  to  her cheek. Even  though her mother said  he was  a
wicked man,  it felt  better than anything else in  the world when  he knelt
beside the bed and silently stroked her brow.
     In her work on the streets, Nicci came to  understand the needs of many
of the  people there.  Their  problems seemed insurmountable. No matter what
she did, it never seemed to resolve anything. Brother Narev said it was only
a sign that she wasn't  giving enough of herself.  Each time she  failed, at
Brother Narev's or Mother's urging, Nicci redoubled her efforts.
     One night at  dinner, after being in the fellowship several years,  she
said, "Father, there is a man  I've been trying to help. He has ten children
and no job. Will you hire him, please?"
     Father looked up from his soup. "Why?"
     "I told you. He has ten children."
     "But what sort of work can he do? Why would I want him?"
     "Because he needs a job."
     Father set down his spoon. "Nicci, dear, I employ skilled workers. That
he has ten children is not going to shape steel, now is it? What can the man
do? What skills has he?"
     "If  he had  a  skill, Father, he could get  work. Is it fair  that his
children should starve because people won't give him a chance?"
     Father  looked at her as if  inspecting  a wagonload of some suspicious
new metal, Mother's narrow mouth turned up in a little  smile, but she  said
nothing.
     "A chance? At what? He has no skill."
     "With a business as big as yours, surely you can give him a job."

     He tapped a finger on  the  stem  of  his  spoon  as he considered  her
determined expression.  He cleared  his throat. "Well, perhaps I could use a
man to load wagons."
     "He can't load wagons. He  has a bad back. He  hasn't been able to work
for years because of his back troubling him so."
     Father's  brow drew down.  "His back didn't prevent him from  begetting
ten children.
     Nicci wanted to do good, and so she met his stare with a steady look of
her  own. "Must you be so  intolerant, Father? You have  jobs, and  this man
needs  one. He has hungry children needing  to be fed and clothed. Would you
deny him  a  living just because he has never had a fair chance in life? Are
you so rich that all your gold has blinded  your eyes to the needs of humble
people?"
     "But I need-"
     "Must you always frame everything in terms of what you need, instead of
what others need? Must everything be for you?"
     "It's a business-"
     "And what is the purpose of  a  business? Isn't it  to employ those who
need work? Wouldn't it be better if the man had a  job instead of  having to
humiliate himself begging? Is that what you want? For him to beg rather than
work? Aren't you the one who always speaks so highly of hard work?"
     Nicci was firing the questions like arrows, getting them off so fast he
couldn't get  a word through her barrage.  Mother smiled as Nicci rolled out
words she knew by heart.
     "Why must you reserve your  greatest  cruelty for the  least  fortunate
among us?  Why can't you for once think of  what you can do to help, instead
of always thinking of money, money,  money? Would it hurt  you to hire a man
who needs a  job?  Would it Father? Would it bring your business to  an end?
Would that ruin you?"
     The room echoed her  noble questions. He stared at her as if seeing her
for  the  first  time. He looked  as if real arrows had struck him. His  jaw
worked, but  no words came out. He didn't seem able to move;  he  could only
gape at her.
     Mother beamed.
     "Well . . ." he finally said, "I  guess . .  ." He  picked up his spoon
and stared down into his soup. "Send him around, and I'll give him a job."
     Nicci swelled with a new sense  of pride-and power. She had never known
it would be so easy to stagger her  father.  She had just bested his selfish
nature with nothing more than goodness.
     Father pushed back  from the table. "I .  . . I  need to go back to the
shop."  His  eyes searched  the  table,  but he  would not  look at Nicci or
Mother. "I just remembered . . . I have some work I must see to."
     After he had gone, Mother  said, "I'm glad to see  that you have chosen
the  righteous  path,  Nicci, instead of following his  evil ways.  You will
never regret letting  your love of mankind guide your feelings.  The Creator
will smile upon you."
     N