"Speaking of forgetting," Wolter said with bushy eye shy;brows raised, "I didn't see you at morning worship." Wolter eyed Tate's attire. "Hadn't you better get your dandified self down there and pay Kiri-Jolith his due?"
Tate colored, looking properly chastised. "I stopped for a brief moment to enjoy the good weather and lost track of time."
Wolter pushed him toward the steps. "I'll come and tell you when three hours have passed." He winked. "Just in case you get equally absorbed by your prayers." The old knight knew how difficult Tate found it to meditate for an entire day, especially with the castle in so much need of attention.
"Get you gone," Wolter said more kindly. "The meditation is as important to your quest as anything else. I'll keep an eye on things, don't you worry."
Tate clambered down the circular tower steps. He passed by the blacksmith's shop, forge always glowing to meet the constant demands of the craftsmen. He saluted the two sen shy;tries at the gate house, though he didn't know their names, or those of many of the younger knights.
The temple to Kiri-Jolith was defined more by function than decor. In reality it was a walled-off section of the first lord knight's once-sumptuous apartments. Long ago stripped of its riches, it now contained just six rows of hard wooden benches and a small altar, decorated only with the god's bison head symbol. The room was always cold and dark, lit by a single candle, which was meant to aid concentration.
The temple was empty now as well. Tate slipped inside and onto the wooden bench nearest the altar. He was glad for the privacy, since it allowed him to pray aloud and thus remain focused. Tate cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Kiri-Jolith, Sword of Justice, hear my call. Guide this humble knight in his quest for honor and justice. Help him to see grievous wrongs and right them. Let him never stray from the path of obedience. Keep his will and his sword arm strong in your service."
Tate chanted the lines over and over. He envied those knights who could simply meditate, free-form, for hours on end. He was not gifted with profound words or thoughts. Tate fancied himself a man of action.
The knight was reciting the prayer for the one hundred thirty-seventh time when shouts in the courtyard sliced through his already fragile concentration. One word alone was enough to draw his attention.
"Fire!"
Tate's heart skipped a beat. Fire in a castle could mean dis shy;aster. Certain Kiri-Jolith would understand the distraction, the knight jumped to his feet and was on his way to the door when a young squire, his thin face glowing from sweat, burst through it. He nearly knocked Tate down.
"Sir Tate!" cried the squire, his voice thin and reedy from inhaling smoke. "There's fire, sir! Sir Wolter sent me to get you." The youth collapsed on a bench, unable to draw a breath.
"Where is it?" The youth couldn't get enough air to speak. Tate shook him impatiently. "Damn it, tell me!"
"Bake house," the squire managed to rasp.
The bake house … It was next to the granary. They'd had to rebuild a lot of it with wood. He thought of Abel-every shy;thing had looked fine just a few short hours ago. Tate bolted through the door and headed for the opposite corner of the courtyard, where black smoke choked the sun. The normal bustle of the castle had been replaced by near panic. As Tate approached the bake house, it came to him that he'd broken another of the laws of the holy day. He'd spoken harshly to the squire.
A good morning was suddenly turning very bad.
Abel, covered in flour and soot, ran to and fro in front of the small building, clutching at everyone who came near enough, begging them to fetch water. A few ran to the well, others with more level heads went to nearby shops or to the stables to find buckets. The stonemasons, working above the kitchen and very near the burning bakery, scrambled down from their scaffolding and joined the force; the blacksmith bolted from his forge; the sentries left their posts to help. Even a small fire could rage out of control and consume an entire building in the time it took to organize a fire brigade.
The well was more than a hundred paces away, too far to form a continuous water supply line to the fire. Dozens of workers ran back and forth, sloshing water from heavy wooden buckets all the way, to splash a few gallons onto the rapidly growing blaze.
Wolter dashed out of the knights' barracks, weaving and dodging his way through the sprinting water carriers. He had barely reached the scene before Tate grabbed him by the shoulders. "I thought you were keeping an eye on things!"
Sir Wolter's eyes already appeared red from smoke. "I couldn't be everywhere there was flame," the old knight said sadly, "and neither could you."
"Send word out to the village," Tate told him. "We need every man, woman, and child who can carry water, and every container that will hold it."
Wolter immediately collared half a dozen boys and dis shy;patched them with Tate's message, along with a warning to "run their hearts out, and pound down people's doors if nec shy;essary."
Meanwhile, Tate had captured the distraught baker and removed him a few score paces from the tumult. "Is anyone still inside?"
The baker shook his head vigorously. "No, sir, I don't think so. But all my implements are there, everything I need to do my job. It's all being destroyed." Abel's wide eyes turned back toward the smoking, half-timbered building, and he started to pull away.
Tate grabbed the man's arm and commanded his atten shy;tion. "How did it start?"
"It was Kaye, sir, the apprentice." Abel wrung his flour-covered hands uncontrollably. 'The boy's apron must have caught an ember when he crouched down to feed the fire. Suddenly it was burning and Kaye, why, sir, he nearly expired of a fit right there. Lucky for him young Idwoir was nearby, waiting for a biscuit. Idwoir ripped the apron off the boy and tried to get rid of it, but it fell to the floor.
"The reeds on the floor caught up next. Idwoir tried to douse them, but I guess he was too excited because he missed the flames. Before we could fetch more water, the whole place was filled with smoke so bad it choked a man just to be near it. Oh, I'm awfully sorry, Sir Tate. This is a catastrophe, thaf s what it is."
Tate was in no mood to soothe the man's nerves. "See if you can help by passing a bucket," he ordered, then turned back to the fire.
The blaze was intensifying rapidly. Tall flames were visi shy;ble through the windows, gyrating in the black billows. Yel shy;low smoke, so thick that it looked like raw wool, streamed upward through the thatched roof.
By now, villagers were arriving with leather and wooden buckets, cooking pots, ancient helmets with chin-strap han shy;dles, even crockery mugs and tin cups. Wolter and the other knights directed them into two long lines from the bakery to the well.
"Every able-bodied person available, and some not so able, is here," Wolter reported. "We've got to make sure we keep rotating the men at the front. It's hot as wizard fire, and no one can stand it long when they're up close enough to throw on water."
One line of people, containing mainly men and matrons, passed the heavy, sloshing buckets from the well to the fire. Empty containers traveled back to be refilled along the other line, passing through the hands of grandparents, children, young women, even some ailing residents who, Tate real shy;ized, must have left their sickbeds to take a place in line.