Later, I promised the pup. “I’m sorry,” I said, and tried to look repentant. “I was just distracted by the puppy.” He had cuddled into the crook of my arm and was casually chewing the edge of my jerkin. It is difficult to explain what I felt. I needed to pay attention to Lady Patience, but this small being snuggled against me was radiating delight and contentment. It is a heady thing to be suddenly proclaimed the center of someone’s world, even if that someone is an eight-week-old puppy. It made me realize how profoundly alone I had felt, and for how long. “Thank you,” I said, and even I was surprised at the gratitude in my voice. “Thank you very much.”
“It’s just a puppy,” Lady Patience said, and to my surprise she looked almost ashamed. She turned aside and stared out the window. The puppy licked his nose and closed his eyes. Warm. Sleep. “Tell me about yourself,” she demanded abruptly.
It took me aback. “What would you like to know, lady?”
She made a small frustrated gesture. “What do you do each day? What have you been taught?”
So I attempted to tell her, but I could see it didn’t satisfy her. She folded her lips tightly at each mention of Burrich’s name. She wasn’t impressed with any of my martial training. Of Chade, I could say nothing. She nodded in grudging approval at my study of languages, writing, and ciphering.
“Well,” she interrupted suddenly. “At least you’re not totally ignorant. If you can read, you can learn anything. If you’ve a will to. Have you a will to learn?”
“I suppose so.” It was a lukewarm answer, but I was beginning to feel badgered. Not even the gift of the puppy could outweigh her belittlement of my learning.
“I suppose you will learn, then. For I have a will that you will, even if you do not yet.” She was suddenly stern, in a shifting of attitude that left me bewildered. “And what do they call you, boy?”
The question again. “Boy is fine,” I muttered. The sleeping puppy in my arms whimpered in agitation. I forced myself to be calm for him.
I had the satisfaction of seeing a stricken look flit briefly across Patience’s face. “I shall call you, oh, Thomas. Tom for every day. Does that suit you?”
“I suppose so,” I said deliberately. Burrich gave more thought to naming a dog than that. We had no Blackies or Spots in the stables. Burrich named each beast as if they were royalty, with names that described them or traits he aspired to for them. Even Sooty’s name masked a gentle fire I had come to respect. But this woman named me Tom after no more than an indrawn breath. I looked down so she couldn’t see my eyes.
“Fine, then,” she said, a trifle briskly. “Come tomorrow at the same time. I shall have some things ready for you. I warn you, I shall expect willing effort from you. Good day, Tom.”
“Good day, lady.”
I turned and left. Lacey’s eyes followed me, and then darted back to her mistress. I sensed her disappointment, but did not know what it was about.
It was still early in the day. This first audience had taken less than an hour. I wasn’t expected anywhere; this time was my own. I headed for the kitchens, to wheedle scraps for my pup. It would have been easy to take him down to the stables, but then Burrich would have known about him. I had no illusions about what would happen next. The pup would stay in the stables. He would be nominally mine, but Burrich would see that this new bond was severed. I had no intention of allowing that to happen.
I made my plans. A basket from the launderers, an old shirt over straw for his bed. His messes now would be small, and as he got older my bond with him would make him easy to train. For now, he’d have to stay by himself for part of each day. But as he got older he could go about with me. Eventually, Burrich would find out about him. I resolutely pushed that thought aside. I’d deal with that later. For now, he needed a name. I looked him over. He was not the curly-haired yappy type of terrier. He would have a short smooth coat, a thick neck, and a mouth like a coal scuttle. But grown, he’d be less than knee high, so it couldn’t be too weighty of a name. I didn’t want him to be a fighter. So no Ripper or Charger. He would be tenacious, and alert. Grip, maybe. Or Sentry.
“Or Anvil. Or Forge.”
I looked up. The Fool stepped out of an alcove and followed me down the hall.
“Why?” I asked. I no longer questioned the way the Fool could guess what I was thinking.
“Because your heart will be hammered against him, and your strength will be tempered in his fire.”
“Sounds a bit dramatic to me,” I objected. “And Forge is a bad word now. I don’t want to mark my pup with it. Just the other day, down in town, I heard a drunk yell at a cutpurse, “May your woman be Forged.’ Everyone in the street stopped and stared.”