ring to tell the  time of
day."
     "I still don't understand. Why is it a sentence? You are a carver. That
is your job."
     Richard shook his head. "I am to buy the stone out of my own money, and
I am to carve this at night, on my own time, as my gift to the Order."
     "And why do you see this as what I wanted?"
     Richard ran a  finger down the lightning bolt,  his eyes  studying  the
statue. "You  brought me here, to the Old  World,  because you  wanted me to
learn the errors of my ways. I have.  I should have confessed to a crime and
let them end it."
     Without  thinking, Nicci reached across the table and put her hand over
his. "No, Richard, that's not what I wanted."
     He pulled his hand away.
     Nicci pushed  his  bowl closer  to  him. "Eat, Richard. You  need  your
strength."
     Without complaint,  he  did  as  she  told  him. A  prisoner, doing  as
ordered. She hated to see him like this.
     The  spark  was gone from  his  eyes, just as it had left  her father's
eyes.
     When he looked at the statue sitting in the center  of their table, his
eyes were dead.  It was  as if the life, the energy, the hope, was gone from
him. When he was  finished with  his meal, he went without a word to his bed
and lay down, facing away from her.
     Nicci sat at the table,  listening to the sputter of  the lamp's flame,
watching Richard's even breathing as he went to sleep.
     It seemed his spirit was crushed. She had believed for so long that she
would  learn something valuable  when he  was  pushed to  such extremes.  It
appeared she had  been wrong,  that he had finally given up. She could learn
nothing from him, now.
     There  was little left for  her  to do. Little  reason to  continue the
whole  thing.  For   a   moment,   she  felt  the  crushing  weight  of  her
disappointment; then even that was gone.

     Empty  and  unfeeling, Nicci collected the bowl and  spoon and  carried
them  to  the  wash  bucket. She  worked quietly, to let  him  sleep, as she
resigned herself to returning to Jagang.
     It wasn't Richard's fault he could teach her nothing; there was nothing
more to life to learn. This was all there was. Her mother had been right.
     Nicci took out the butcher knife and set it quietly on the table.
     Richard had suffered enough.
     It would be for the best.


        CHAPTER 59

     Nicci sat at  the  table,  the  knife  under her fingers, forever.  She
watched his  back. His  chest slowly expanded with his  breath of  life, and
sank again.  There was time enough to slip the knife into his back,  between
his ribs, to pierce his heart.
     There was time enough yet before dawn.
     Death was so  final.  She wanted to watch him for a  while. Nicci never
tired of watching Richard.
     After she did it, she wouldn't be able to  watch him anymore.  He would
be gone forever. With the damage the chimes had done to the worlds and their
interconnection, she didn't even know if a person's  soul could still go  to
the  spirit world. She didn't even know if the underworld  still existed and
if Richard's spirit would go there,  or  if he  would simply be  . . .  gone
forever-if he and that which was his soul would simply cease to exist.
     In her numb state, she had lost track of time.
     When she glanced out the window that Richard had had installed with the
money he had earned, she noticed that the  sky had taken on a the color of a
week-old bruise.
     Linked as  she was to  Kahlan, Nicci couldn't accomplish  the deed with
her magic. As  much as she abhorred the idea of it, and knowing how gruesome
it would be, she had to use the sharp blade.
     Nicci curled her fingers around the wooden handle of the  stout  knife.
She wanted it to be quick. She couldn't bear to think of  him  suffering. He
had suffered enough in life, she didn't want him to suffer in death, too.
     He would struggle briefly, but then it would be over.
     Richard abruptly  rolled  onto his back and then  sat  up. Nicci froze,
still sitting in her  chair.  He rubbed  the sleep from his eyes. Could  she
kill him when  he was awake? Could she look into those  eyes of his  as  she
plunged the knife into his chest?
     She would have to.
     It was for the best.
     Richard yawned and stretched. He sprang to his feet.
     "Nicci. What are you doing? Haven't you gone to bed?"
     "I . . . I guess I fell asleep in the chair."
     "Oh, well, I-there it is. I need that."
     He snatched the knife out of her hand. "Mind  if I borrow  this? I need
to use it.  I'm afraid  I'll  have to sharpen it for you later. I won't have
time before  I have to leave.  Can you make  me something to eat?  I'm  in a
hurry. I have to go see Victor before I start to work."
     Nicci was dumbfounded. He  was  suddenly revived. In the lamplight, and
the  faint  dawn coming  in the  windows, he had that look in  his eyes.  He
looked . . . resolute, determined.

     "Yes, all right," she said.
     "Thanks," he called over his shoulder while hurrying out the door.
     "Where are you-?"
     But he  was  gone. She decided he  must be going  out back  to get some
vegetables. But why would he need the big knife for  that? She was confused,
but she was revived, too. Richard seemed himself again.
     Nicci pulled from the pantry  some eggs she had been saving, along with
an iron skillet, and hurried out back to the  cooking hearth. The coals were
still glowing from the cook fires of the evening before, providing  a little
light. She  carefully fed in some small twigs  and  kindling, then stacked a
bed of finger-thick branches on top.  She simply  set the iron  skillet atop
the wood as it caught, rather than set up the rack-eggs were quick.
     As she waited  for  the skillet  to get hot,  she heard an odd scraping
noise. In the flickering light of the fire,  she  didn't  see Richard in the
garden. She couldn't imagine where he  had gone, or  what  he was up to. She
broke  the eggs  into the hot skillet and  tossed the shells  in the compost
bucket at the side of the hearth. With a wooden spoon she scrambled the eggs
around as they cooked.
     As Nicci  stood, using her skirt to hold the hot handle of the skillet,
she was  surprised  to see Richard coming out from behind the broad  cooking
hearth.
     "Richard, what are you doing?"
     "There are some loose bricks back here. I was just seeing to it  before
I  went  to work. I cleaned out  the joints. I'll bring some mortar home and
fix it later."
     He pulled a handful of thick-bladed grass and used it as a potholder to
take the skillet from  her.  With his other hand, he flipped the  knife into
the air, caught it by the point, and  held the handle out to her. Nicci took
the heavy knife, now scratched and dulled from scraping the bricks clean. He
ate standing, using the wooden spoon.
     "Are you all right?" she asked.
     "Fine," he said around a hot mouthful of eggs. "Why?"
     Nicci gestured toward  the house. "Well, last night . . . you seemed so
. . . defeated."
     He frowned at her. "So, I've no right to feel  sorry for myself now and
again?"
     "Well, yes, I suppose. But now . . . ?"
     "Now I've thought it over."
     "And . . . ?"
     "It's  to  be my gift  to the people,  is it? I shall give the people a
gift they need."
     "What are you talking about?"
     Richard waved the wooden spoon. "Brothers Narev and Neal said this will
be  my  gift  to the people, and so it shall be." He shoveled more eggs into
his mouth.
     "So you are going to carve the statue they want?"
     He  was already  running up  the stairs  before  she had  finished  the
question.
     "I have to get the model of the statue and be off to work."
     Nicci raced after him up the stairs. He was still eating the eggs as he
went. He stood in their  room, peering down at the small statue on the table
as he finished the eggs. She couldn't make sense of ithe was smiling.
     He set  the skillet  on  the table  and scooped  up  the  model.  "I'll
probably be home late. I have to get started on my penance for the Order, if
I can. I may have to work all night."
     In astonishment, she watched him hurry off to work.

     She could  hardly believe that he  had once again somehow evaded death.
Nicci couldn't  recall ever being so  grateful  about anything. She couldn't
understand it.
     --]----
     Richard reached the blacksmith's shop shortly after Victor  had  opened
up for the day's work. His men had not yet arrived.  Victor wasn't surprised
to see him; Richard sometimes came early and  the two of them would sit  and
watch the sun come up over the site.
     "Richard! I'm glad to see you."
     "And I you, Victor. I need to talk to you."
     He let out a gruff grunt. "The statue?"
     "That's  right," Richard said,  a little  taken aback. "The statue. You
know?"
     With Richard following behind,  Victor made  his way  through the  dark
shop, weaving among the clutter  of benches, work, and  tools.  "Oh, yes,  I
heard." Along the way, he stooped to pick up  a hammer here,  a bar of  iron
there,  and set  them on a  table, or shoved them in a bin,  as if one could
tidy a mountain by arranging a few pebbles and picking up a fallen limb.
     "What did you hear?"
     "Brother  Narev paid me a  visit last evening. He said there is to be a
dedication  of the Retreat, to show our  respect to  the  Creator for all he
provides for  us." He  glanced back over his  shoulder as he strode past his
huge block of Cavatura marble. "He told me you are to carve a statue for the
entrance plaza-a big statue. He said it is to be done for the dedication.
     "From what I hear from people, from Ishaq and others, the Order credits
the  uprising  to the drain  of building  such  a monumental project as  the
Retreat in addition to waging  the war. They have armies of men working  for
the construction-not just here, but from quarries far and wide, to mines for
the gold and silver, to forests where they cut the wood. Even slaves must be
fed. The purge of officials, leaders, and skilled workers after the uprising
was expensive. With a dedication, I think Brother Narev wants to show people
the progress, to inspire them, to involve outlying lands in the celebration,
believing this will head off further troubles."
     In the blackness of  the room,  only the skylight  in the  high ceiling
above let light cascade down over the  stone. The marble took the light deep
into its fine crystalline structure, and gave it back as a loving gift.
     Victor opened  the  double  doors  that looked  out  over  the Retreat.
"Brother Narev told me that your  statue is also to be  a sundial,  with the
Creator's  Light shining  down  on  mankind's  torment. He  told me I am  to
oversee the making of the gnomon and dial plane for its shadow to fall upon.
He said something about a lightning bolt. . ."
     Victor turned  around,  his eyes following as  Richard set the model of
the statue on a narrow tool shelf that ran the length of the room.
     "Dear spirits . . ." Victor whispered. "That is grotesque."
     "They want me to carve this. They want it to be a statue with the power
to dominate the grand entrance."
     Victor nodded. "Brother Narev said as much. He told me how big would be
the metal for the dial plane. He wants bronze."
     "Can you cast the bronze?"
     "No." With the backs of his fingers, Victor tapped Richard's arm. "Here
is the

     good part:  few  people  can cast  such  a piece. Brother Narev ordered
Priska released to do the casting."
     Richard blinked in astonishment. "Priska is alive?"
     Victor  nodded. "High people must have not wanted him buried in the sky
in case they  needed  his skills. They had him locked away in a dungeon. The
Order knows  they  need  people with ability;  they released him to get this
done. If he wants to remain alive, and out of the dungeon, he is to cast the
bronze, at his own  expense, as a  gift to the  people. They  say it  is his
penance. I  am  to give him the specifications and see to  its  assembly and
placement on the statue."
     "Victor, I want to buy your stone."
     The blacksmith's brow slid into an unfriendly frown.
     No.
     "Narev and Neal found out about my civil fine. They think I got off too
lightly.  They ordered that I  carve their statue-much  like  Priska  is  to
provide  the castingas my  penance.  I must buy the stone myself, and I must
carve it after my work at the site is finished for the day. They want it for
this winter's dedication of the Retreat."
     Victor's eyes turned toward  the model on the shelf, as  if it was some
monster come to visit ruin on  him. "Richard, you know what this stone means
to me. I won't-,,
     "Victor, listen to me."
     "No." He  held his  palm up toward Richard. "Don't ask  this  of me.  I
don't  want this stone  to become ugly, like all the Order  touches. I won't
allow it."
     "Neither will L"
     Victor  gestured angrily at the  model. "That is what you are to carve.
How can you even think of that ugliness visiting my pure marble?"
     "I can't."
     Richard  set the  plaster  model  on the floor. He picked  up  a  large
hammer,  its  handle  leaning  against  the  wall, and with  a  mighty  blow
shattered the abomination into a thousand pieces. He stood as the white dust
slowly billowed over  the  threshold, out the door, and down the hill toward
the Retreat like some ghost of evil returning to the underworld.
     "Victor, sell me your stone. Let me liberate the beauty inside."
     Victor squinted his  distrust.  "The stone  has a  flaw.  It  can't  be
carved."
     "I've thought about it. I have a way. I know I can do it."
     Victor put  his hand to his stone,  almost  as if he were comforting  a
loved one in distress.
     "Victor, you know me. Have I ever done anything to betray you?  To harm
you?"
     His voice came softly. "No, Richard, you have not."
     "Victor,  I need this stone. It is the best piece of marble-the  way it
can take in light  and  send it back.  It has grain that can hold detail.  I
need the best  for this statue. I swear, Victor, if you trust me with  it, I
will  be true  to  your vision. I  won't betray your love of  this  stone, I
swear."
     The  blacksmith gently ran his beefy, callused hand up the side of  the
white marble that towered to nearly twice his height.
     "What if you were to refuse to carve them their statue?"
     "Neal  said  that then they will take me back to the prison  until they
get a confession  out of me, or until I  die from the questioning. I will be
buried in the sky in return for nothing."

     "And if you do as  you  want, instead"-Victor gestured to the fragments
of the model-"and don't carve them what they want?"
     "Maybe I would like to see beauty again before I die."
     "Bah. What  would you carve? What  would you  see before you die?  What
could be worth your life?"
     "Man's nobility-the most sublime form of beauty."
     The man's hand paused on the  stone, his eyes searching  Richard's, but
he said nothing.
     "Victor, I need you to help me. I'm not asking you to give me anything.
I'm willing to pay your price. Name it."
     Victor returned his loving gaze to his stone.
     "Ten gold marks," he said with bold confidence, knowing Richard had  no
money.
     Richard reached into his pocket and then counted out ten gold marks. He
held the fortune out to Victor. The blacksmith frowned.
     "Where did you get such money?"
     "I worked and I  saved it.  I  earned it helping  the Order build their
palace. Remember?"
     "But they took all  your  money. Nicci told them how much  you had, and
they took it all."
     Richard cocked his head. "You didn't think I'd be foolish enough to put
all  my money  in one place, did  you? I have gold stashed all over. If this
isn't enough, I will pay you whatever you ask."
     Richard knew that the stone  was valuable, although not worth ten  gold
marks, but  it was to Victor, so Richard would not argue the price. He would
pay whatever the man asked.
     "I can't take your money, Richard." He waved a hand in  resignation. "I
don't know how to carve. It was but a dream. As long as I never carved it, I
could dream of the beauty in the stone. This is from my homeland, where once
there was  freedom." His fingers blindly found the  wall of marble. "This is
noble stone. I would  like to see  nobility in this Cavatura marble. You may
have the stone, my friend."
     "No, Victor.  I  don't want to take  your dream.  I want to,  in a way,
fulfill it. I cannot accept it as a gift. I want to buy it."
     "But, why?"
     "Because I will have  to give  it to the Order. I don't want you giving
this to the Order; I will have to do that. More than that, though, they will
no doubt want it destroyed. It must  be mine when they do that. I want it to
be paid for."
     Victor held out his hand. "Ten marks, then."
     Richard counted out  the ten  gold marks  and then closed the man's big
fingers around them.
     "Thank you, Victor," Richard whispered.
     Victor grinned. "Where do you wish me to deliver it?"
     Richard held out another gold mark. "May I rent this room? I would like
to carve it here. From  here, when  I'm done, it  can be sledged down to the
entrance plaza."
     Victor shrugged. "Done."
     Richard handed over a twelfth gold mark. "And I want you to make me the
tools  with  which I will carve  this stone-the  finest tools you have  ever
made.  The kind of tools used to carve beauty  in your homeland. This marble
demands the best. Make the tools out of the best steel."

     "Points, toothed chisels, and chisels for fine work-I can make them for
you. There are hammers aplenty about you may use."
     "I  also need rasps, in a variety of shapes. And files,  too. Straight,
curved-a  wide  selection-the finest smoothing  files. I need you to get  me
pumice stones, the  fine  white close-grained  pumice--ground  to  the  same
shapes to match the rasps and files, and a  good  supply of powdered pumice,
too."
     Victor's eyes had gone wide. The blacksmith had come from a place where
they had once done such carving. He knew full well what it was Richard meant
to do.
     "You intend to do flesh in stone?"
     "I do."
     "You know how?"
     Richard knew from statues he had seen in D'Hara  and  in Aydindril, and
from what some of the other carvers told him, and from his own  tests in his
work for  the  Order's palace, that  if carved  properly, then smoothed  and
polished to  a high luster, quality marble could take in the  light and give
it back in  a way  that  seemed  to liberate  the  stone from  its hardness,
softening it, so  that it assumed the look of flesh. If  done properly,  the
marble could seem to almost come alive.
     "I've seen it done before, Victor. I've carved before. I've learned how
to do it. I've thought about it for months. Ever since I started carving for
them, this  purpose has kept my mind alive. I've  used my work for the Order
to practice what I've seen, what I've  learned, and  what I've thought of on
my own.  Even  before, when they questioned  me . .  . I  thought about this
stone,  about the statue I know is in it, to keep my mind from what they did
to me."
     "You mean it helped you to endure their torture?"
     Richard  nodded. "I  can  do  it, Victor."  He  lifted a fist  in  firm
conviction. "Flesh in stone. I only need the proper tools."
     Victor rattled the gold in his fist. "Done. I can make the proper tools
for what you want to do. This is what I know. I don't know how to carve, but
this will be my part-what I can do to bring the beauty out."
     Richard clasped forearms with Victor to seal their agreement.
     "I have one thing I would ask you-as a favor."
     Victor laughed his deep  belly laugh. "I must feed you lardo so you may
have the strength to carve this noble stone?"
     Richard smiled. "I wouldn't ever turn down lardo."
     "What is it then?" Victor asked. "What is the favor?"
     Richard's fingers tenderly touched the stone. His stone.
     "No one is to see it until  it is done. That includes you. I would like
to have  a canvas tarp, so I can cover  it. I would ask that you not look at
it until it is done."
     "Why?"
     "Because  I need it to  be mine alone while I carve it. I need solitude
with  it as I shape  it. When I'm finished, then the world can have it,  but
when I work on it, it  is  to be my vision and mine alone. I  wish no one to
see it before it is finished.
     "But  most of  all, I don't want you to see it because if anything goes
wrong, I don't want  you involved  in this. I don't want  you to know what I
do.  If you don't see it,  you  can't be  buried in the  sky for not telling
them."
     Victor shrugged. "If that is your wish,  then it  shall be  so.  I will
tell the  men that the back room is rented, and it is off-limits. I will put
a lock  on the inner  door.  I  will put a chain  on the outer double doors,
here, and give you the key."
     "Thank you. You don't know what that means to me."

     "When do you need the chisels?"
     "I need the heavy point to rough it out, first. Can you have it done by
tonight? I need to get started. There isn't much time."
     Victor  dismissed Richard's concern  with  a flourish of his hand. "The
heavy point is easy. I can make that in  short order.  It will be  done when
you come from your  work down there-your work with the ugliness. Long before
you need the other chisels, they will be ready for you to carve beauty."
     "Thank you, Victor."
     "What is this  `thank  you' talk? This is business. You have paid me in
advancevalue  for value between honest men. I  can't tell you how good it is
to have a customer other than the Order."
     Victor scratched his head and turned more serious. "Richard, they  will
want to see your work, won't they?  They will want to see how you  are doing
on their statue."
     "I don't think so. They trust my work. They gave me the model they want
scaled up. They have already approved it. They've told me my life depends on
this. Neal  delighted  in telling  me how  he ordered  those  other  carvers
tortured  and put to death. He wanted to frighten me. I doubt they will give
it a second thought."
     "But what if a Brother does come, wanting to see it?"
     "Then I will have  to  bend  an iron  bar  around his neck  and let him
pickle in the brine barrel."


        CHAPTER 60

     Richard touched the length of the point  chisel  to his forehead, as he
had so often touched the Sword of Truth there in much the same way. This was
no less a battle. This was life and death.
     "Blade, be true this day," he whispered.
     The chisel  had eight  sides, so  as  to provide grip in a sweaty hand.
Victor  had  given  it  a  proper  heavy  blunt point.  He had also put  his
initials-V C-in small letters on one of the facets, proclaiming the pride of
its maker.
     Such  a heavy  chisel would  shatter stone and  remove  a  great excess
material in short  order. It was  a  weapon that would do  a  lot of damage,
fracturing the structure of the marble down the width  of  three  fingers. A
point used carelessly on unnoticed flaws could shatter the entire piece.
     Finer points would cause shallower fractures, but remove less material.
Even with the finest point punches, Richard knew that he could only approach
to within the  last half  finger of the final layer. The network  of spidery
cracks  left by a point  were fractures in the  crystalline structure of the
marble itself. So damaged, the stone lost its  translucence  and its ability
to take a high polish.
     To do  flesh in stone, the final layers had to be approached with care,
and be left undamaged by any tool.
     After  the  heavy  point removed much of  the waste,  then  finer-point
chisels  would allow Richard to get  closer, refining the shape. Once he was
within as  close as a  half finger of the  final layer, he would turn to the
clawed chisels, simply chisels with notches in their edge, to shear away the
stone without fracturing the underlying structure of  the marble. The coarse
claws took off  the most stone, leaving  rough gouges.  He would use chisels
with a series of finer and finer teeth to refine the work. Finally, he would
use smooth-bladed chisels, some only half as wide as his little finger.
     Down at  the site, where he carved scenes for the frieze, that  was  as
far as the  carvers  went. It  left an ugly  surface,  ungainly  and coarse,
rendering flesh as wooden, leaving no definition or refinement to muscle and
bone. It robbed the people in the carvings of their humanity.
     On this statue, Richard would really only begin where the  carvings for
the  Order ended. He would use rasps to define bone, muscle,  even  veins in
the arms. Fine files would remove the marks left by the rasps and refine the
most  subtle contours.  The  pumice  stones would  remove  the filing marks,
leaving  the surface ready  to  polish  with pumice paste  held  in leather,
cloth, and finally straw.
     If he did it right, he would  have his vision in stone. Flesh in stone.
Nobility.
     Holding the heavy point chisel to his palm with  his thumb, Richard put
his hand

     to the stone, feeling its cool surface. He knew what  was inside-inside
not only the stone, but inside himself.
     There were no doubts, only the heart-pounding passion of expectation.
     As he so often did, Richard thought of  Kahlan.  It had been  nearly  a
year since he had looked into her green eyes, touched her cheek, held her in
his arms. She would have long ago  left the safety of their home for dangers
he could vividly imagine. For a  moment, he was overwhelmed with  the weight
of despair, choked by the sadness of how much he missed her,  humbled at how
much he loved her. Now he knew he must  dismiss her from his mind so that he
could devote himself entirely to the task he had to do.
     As he so often did, Richard said his silent good-night to Kahlan.
     Then he set the point at  ninety degrees to the face of the  stone, and
took a powerful swing with the steel club. Stone chips exploded away.
     His breaths came deeper and faster. It was begun.
     With great violence, Richard attacked the stone.
     By the light  of lamps Victor left for him after the work day was done,
Richard lost himself in  the work, raining down blow  upon blow. Sharp stone
chips  rattled  off  the wooden walls, and stung when they  hit his arms  or
chest. With a clear vision  of what he wanted to do, he broke away the waste
stone.
     His ears rang with  the sound of steel on steel and steel on  stone. It
was  music. Jagged chips and chunks fell away.  They  were the fallen enemy.
The air boiled with the white dust of battle.
     Richard knew precisely  what  we  wanted to accomplish.  He  knew  what
needed  to  be  done, and how  to  do  it. He was  filled with a clarity  of
purpose, a course to follow. Now that it had begun, he was lost in the work.
     Dust  billowed up around  him  until his dark clothes were white, as if
the  stone  were absorbing him, as  he was transforming with  it, until they
were one. Sharp shards nicked him as they shot away. His bare arms, white as
the marble  itself,  were soon  streaked here and  there with blood from the
battle.
     From time to time, he opened the  doors  to shovel  out  the ankle-deep
scree. The white scrap avalanched down the hill, tinkling  with a sound like
a thousand tiny bells. The white dust covering him was cut through with dark
rivulets of sweat, and red scratches.  The cool  air felt refreshing against
his sweat-soaked  skin. But  then he once again shut out the night, shut out
the world to be alone.
     For the first time in nearly a year, Richard felt free. In this, he was
in complete control. No one watched him. No one told him what he must do.
     This work was his singular  purpose, in which he strove for perfection.
There  were no chains, no limitations, no desires of others to which he must
bow. In this struggle to accomplish his best, he was utterly free.
     What he intended would stand in unyielding opposition to everything the
Order represented. He intended to show them life.
     Richard knew that when the Brothers saw the statue, they would sentence
him to death.
     Stone  chips burst forth with each blow, taking him closer to his goal.
He had to stand  on  a work stool to reach  the top of the marble, moving it
around the monolith to work all sides, narrowing it down to what would be.
     Richard swung the steel  club with the fury of battle.  His chisel hand
stung with the  ringing blows. As violent as the attack  was, though, it was
controlled.  A trimming hammer, called  a pitcher,  could be used  for  such
rough work. It removed waste

     with greater speed  than  a heavy point to shape the block,  but it was
used with a full swing, and Richard feared, because of the  flaw, to unleash
that much power against the  stone. In the beginning, the block had strength
in its sheer mass,  but even so, he  considered such a trimming  hammer  too
dangerous for this particular stone.
     Richard would have Victor make him a set of drill bits for a bow drill.
With a bow's cord run around the shaft of the drill, it could be twisted and
driven  through the marble.  Richard  had thought long and  hard  about  the
problem of the flaw. He had resolved to cut  out most of it.  First, to stop
any further cracks from running  through more of the stone,  he  would drill
holes through  the crack  to  relieve the stress.  With  another  series  of
closely  spaced holes, he would weaken the stone in a waste  area around the
flaw and simply remove most of it.
     There  would  be two figures: a  man,  and a woman. When finished,  the
space between them would be where Richard had removed the worst of the flaw.
With the weakest stone  removed,  the  sound  stone that remained  would  be
strong enough to take  the stress of the work.  Since the  defect started at
the base, he couldn't eliminate it all, but he  could reduce the  problem it
presented to a manageable level. That was the secret to this piece of stone:
eliminating its weakness, then working in its strength.
     Richard considered it  a fortunate flaw, first of  all  because it  had
reduced the value of the stone, enabling Victor to purchase it in  the first
place. To Richard's mind,  though, the flaw had been valuable because it had
caused  him to think about  the stone, and how to carve it. That thought had
brought him to his design. Without the  flaw, he might not have  come to the
same design.
     As he worked, he was filled with the energy of the fight, driven onward
by the  heat of  the attack. Stone stood between him and  what  he wanted to
carve, and he craved to eliminate that excess so he could get to the essence
of the figures. A huge corner of waste broke loose, slipping away, slowly at
first,  then  crashing  down.  Chips  and  shards  rained down as he worked,
burying the fallen foe.
     Several more  times he had  to open the doors and shovel out the scrap.
It was invigorating to see what was once an irregular shaped block, becoming
a  rough shape. The figures were still completely encased,  their  arms  far
from being free,  their legs not separate, yet, but  they were  beginning to
emerge.  He  would have to be  careful, drilling holes  in the open areas to
prevent breaking off the arms.
     Richard  was  surprised  to  see light  streaming  through  the  window
overhead. He had worked the entire night without realizing it.
     He  stood back  and appraised  the  statue  that  was now  more or less
roughly a cone shape. Now, there were only lumps where the arms would extend
out from the  bodies. He wanted the arms to be  free, the bodies  to  convey
grace  and  movement. Life. What he  carved for the  Order was  never  free,
always tightly  bound  to the stone,  forever stiff, unable  to  move,  like
cadavers.
     Half  of what had  been  there the  night before was now  gone. Richard
ached to  stay and  work on, but he  knew he couldn't.  From the corner,  he
excavated the canvas tarp Victor  had left  for  him, and flung it over  the
statue.
     When  he threw open the door, the  white dust billowed out.  Victor was
sitting among the rubble of his stone monolith.
     The blacksmith blinked. "Richard, you have been here the whole night!"
     "I guess I have."
     He gestured as a grin split his face. "You look like a good spirit. How
goes the battle with the stone?"

     Richard could think of  nothing to say. He could only beam with the joy
of it.
     Victor laughed  his belly  laugh.  "Your face says it all. You  must be
tired and hungry. Come, sit and rest-have some lardo."
     --]----
     Nicci heard Kamil and Nabbi shout a greeting as Richard  came  down the
street,  and then their footsteps  as they ran  down the  front stairs.  She
glanced  out  the  front  window and, in the failing light of dusk, saw them
meet up with Richard as he came down  the street. She, too, was happy to see
him coming home this early.
     Nicci had seen precious little of Richard in the weeks since he took on
the duty of carving the statue for  Brother Narev.  She couldn't imagine how
Richard could endure carving a  statue she knew had to  be agony for him-not
so much because of its size, but because of its nature.
     If  anything, though,  Richard seemed invigorated. Often, after working
all day carving the moral  lessons  for  the facade of the palace,  he would
then work late into the night on the grand statue for the entrance plaza. As
tired as he had to be when he came home, he would sometimes pace. There were
nights when he would only sleep for a couple  of hours, rise, and go to work
on the statue for hours before  his workday at the site began. Several times
he had worked the entire night.
     Richard  seemed driven.  Nicci didn't know  how  he  could  do  it.  He
sometimes came home to eat and to take a nap  for an hour, and then he would
go back. She would urge  him to stay  and sleep,  but he would say  that the
penance had to  be paid or they would put him back in  prison. Nicci  feared
that possibility, so she didn't  insist that he stay  home  to sleep. Losing
sleep was preferable to him losing his life.
     He had always been muscular and strong, but his muscles had become even
more  lean and defined since  he came to the Old  World. All that  labor  of
loading iron and now moving rock and swinging a hammer had built him up even
more. When he went  out  back to the washtubs and removed his shirt to rinse
off the stone dust, the sight of him made her knees weak.
     Nicci heard footsteps passing  down the hallway, and the excited voices
of  Kamil  and Nabbi  asking  questions.  She couldn't understand  Richard's
words, but she easily recognized the timbre of his  voice  calmly giving the
two the answers to their questions.
     As tired as he was, as much as he was away at  his work, he  still took
time to talk to Kamil and  Nabbi,  and to the people of the building. He was
no doubt now  on his way out back  to  give pointers to the two young men on
their carving. During the day, they worked around the building, cleaning and
caring for the place. They turned over  the dirt  in the  garden, mixing  in
compost when it was ready. The women appreciated having the heavy spade work
done for them.  The two washed,  painted, and repaired, hoping Richard would
approve and  then  show  them how to do new  things. Kamil  and Nabbi always
offered to  help  Nicci with anything she  might  need-she  was, after  all,
Richard's wife.
     .  Richard came  in  the  door as  Nicci stood at the  table cutting up
carrots and onions
     into a pot. He slumped down into the chair across the table. He  looked
spent from his day of work-after having been up hours earlier working on the
statue.
     "I came home to get something to eat. I have to go back and work on the
statue."
     "This is for tomorrow's stew. I have some millet cooked."
     "Is there anything more in it?"

     She shook her head. "I only had enough money for the millet today."
     He nodded without complaint.
     Despite how exhausted he  looked,  there was some remarkable quality in
his eyes, some  inner passion, that  made her pulse race faster. Whatever it
was  that she  had  seen in him from the  first  moment seemed to have  only
gotten stronger since that night  she had almost  put the  knife through his
heart.
     "Tomorrow, we'll  have this stew." she said. His gray eyes were staring
off into his private visions. "From the garden."
     She retrieved the cook pot  after setting  a  wooden bowl on the  table
before  him and  spooned millet into his bowl  until it was  full. There was
little  left,  but  he  needed it more  than she. She had spent  the morning
waiting in line for the millet, and then had spent the afternoon picking all
the worms out of it.  Some of  the  women just cooked it until  you couldn't
tell. Nicci didn't like to feed that to Richard.
     Standing  close to-the table,  cutting up carrots,  she  could  finally
stand it no more. "Richard, I want to come to the site with you and see this
statue that you're carving for the Order."
     He was silent for a moment  as  he  chewed  and then swallowed. When he
finally  did  speak,  it  was  with  a   quiet  quality  that  matched  that
inexplicable look in his eyes.
     "I want you to see the statue, Nicci-I want everyone to see it. But not
until I'm finished."
     "Why?"
     He stirred his spoon around in his bowl. "Please, Nicci, will you grant
me this? Let me finish it, then you will see it."
     Her heart pounded against her ribs. This was important to him.
     "You aren't carving what they told you to carve, are you?"
     Richard's face turned up until his gaze met hers.
     "No, I'm  not. I'm carving  what I need to  carve,  what people need to
see."
     Nicci swallowed. She knew: this was what she had been  waiting for.  He
had been ready to give up, then he wanted to live, and now he was willing to
die for this.
     Nicci nodded,  having to look away  from those gray eyes of  his. "I'll
wait until it's ready."
     Now she knew why he seemed so driven, lately. That quality hinted at in
her  father's eyes, and blazing in Richard's, she felt  was somehow tied  to
this. The very idea was intoxicating.
     In more ways than one, this was a matter of life and death.
     "Are you sure about this, Richard?"
     "I am."
     She nodded again. "All right, I will honor your request."
     The next day, Nicci got an early start to buy bread. She wanted Richard
to have bread  with the stew she was cooking. Kamil  offered  to go for her,
but she wanted to  get out  of the house. She asked him  to  keep  an eye on
Richard's stew as it simmered on the banked coals.
     It was  an overcast  day, and cool-a hint  of  the  rapidly approaching
winter.  The  streets were  crowded with people out looking  for  work, with
carts hauling everything from manure to bolts of coarse dark cloth, and with
wagons, mostly carrying building materials for the  palace.  She had to step
carefully to  avoid the dung in the road and squeeze between all  the people
moving as  slowly  as the sludge  of the  open sewers as  she  made  her way
through the city.
     There  were  crowds  of  needy people  in  the  street,  many  come  to
Altur'Rang for

     work, no  doubt, although there  were few people at  the workers' group
hall. The lines at the bakeries were long. At least the Order saw to it that
people got bread, even if it was  gray,  tough bread. You  had to go  early,
though,  before they ran out. With more people  all the time, the shops  ran
out earlier every week.
     Someday, it was rumored, they were  going  to  be  able to provide more
than one  kind of bread. She hoped that  this day, at least, they might have
some butter, too. Sometimes, they sold butter. The bread,  and  the  butter,
were  inexpensive, so  she  knew  she  could afford  to  buy  a  little  for
Richard-if they had any. They almost never had any butter.
     Nicci had spent a hundred  and eighty years trying to help people,  and
people seemed no better off now than they ever  were. Those in the New World
were prosperous enough, though. Someday, when the Order ruled the world, and
those with the  means were  made to contribute their  fair  share  to  their
fellow man, then everything would finally fall into place and all of mankind
could  at last live with the  dignity they deserved.  The Order would see to
it.
     The  bread shop  stood  at an  intersection of  two  roads, so the line
turned around the corner onto another street. Nicci was  around that corner,
leaning a shoulder again