Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Everett B. Cole

  “The captain,” he whispered urgently. “In the door.”

  Feldor looked around, then stiffened. The captain was standing there. Several men-at-arms flanked him and he was looking over the scuffle with obvious disapproval.

  Suddenly, Feldor thrust Weroaen into the arms of his comrades and went toward his superior.

  “We stopped, sir,” he improvised quickly, “to investigate this tavern, which seemed unduly crowded. And we found this man,” he pointed accusingly at Weroaen, “trying to influence these two.” He pointed out the pair of serfs who had been sitting near Weroaen.

  “This man,” he added, “was trying to persuade these two good farmers to accept the doctrines of the Duernian heretics. But so far as we could determine, they were having none of his lying words.”

  He beckoned to the serfs commandingly. “We were correct, were we not, in thinking you were rejecting this man’s false doctrine?”

  The two serfs looked for a moment at each other, considering this question. They faced the captain and nodded doubtfully.

  The captain looked at Feldor suspiciously, then examined Weroaen, who stood between two men-at-arms. Finally, the officer nodded curtly.

  “Very well,” he said. “We shall examine further into the matter. Bring him along. And bring his goods and possessions as well. They may contain evidence.” He pointed at the two serfs.

  “You two will come with us as well. We shall have need of your testimony.” He turned and went out Feldor crossed to the serfs. “Come along, you two,” he ordered. In a lower tone, he muttered: “And see to it you testify well. The inquisitor is impatient with laggard witnesses.”

  One of the serfs shrugged. “We will testify, master,” he promised. “The peddler is nothing to us. And we love life.”

  Lord Markorik, Inquisitor and Scourge of Heretics, looked up in annoyance as his captain stepped before him.

  “Well, Gurol, and what brings you here at this hour? Surely you don’t have to consult me on your disciplinary problems. And unless it be of pressing importance, this is no time for reports.”

  Captain Gurol nodded. “I am aware of that, your lordship,” he said smoothly, “and I would never disturb your lordship for anything trivial. But I bring news of a Duernian heretic, caught in the very act of proselyting in a tavern not far from this town. Some of my men apprehended him and we have examined the witnesses and questioned the culprit. He has no proper business, but is posing as a wandering peddler. Would you examine him on the morrow perhaps, sir?”

  Markorik set his winecup down. “An heretic, eh? And caught this very night of our arrival. This is most exemplary, captain. You and your men deserve praise for your devotion to duty.” He turned to the earl.

  “As I was telling you, Dorolik,” he remarked, “we rest little. And we lose no time in uprooting and exposing heresy, wherever it may be found.” He paused, looking up at Gurol.

  “Hold me the man,” he ordered, “for examination tomorrow. I shall question him after midday.” He waved a hand negligently, dismissing the captain from his presence.

  “Perhaps, Dorolik,” he continued, “you and your household would see how we of the Church perform our examinations and inquisitions?” Dorolik nodded hastily. “Oh, to be sure,” he agreed. “And perhaps we may learn from your methods. I shall have the castle chapel readied for your disposal. And I shall see to it that all my people attend, that they may see how justice is dispensed to those who endanger the tranquility of State and Church.”

  He turned back to the table for a moment, noting the level of the wine in Markorik’s cup, then beckoned to a page before returning his attention to Markorik.

  “These Duernians,” he remarked, “have given trouble for long?” Markorik frowned portentiously. “Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, they have been a menace to all right-thinking people of the realm for some years. But we’re watching them now. And we’re pulling them from their hideaways, one by one.”

  “A praiseworthy work.” Dorolik nodded understandingly. “And I have no doubt they’ll soon be eliminated.” He paused. “I noted your captain said this man was posing as a wandering peddler. Perhaps he had come from the lowlands to the south?” He sighed.

  “We get so many criminals from them. I wish they would take care of their own trials, rather than leaving it up to us here in this peaceful, law-abiding land of ours.”

  “And this is the Earldom of Dorolik?” Klion Meinora looked into the viewsphere.

  He picked out details in the peaceful scene below. Men and animals moved about the fields and through several small villages, evidently engrossed in the day’s work. A sawmill straddled the stream which wound through fields and woods, sparkling in the sun and showing occasional white flecks as it sped over rocks. And a single road crossed the stream, to wind through the villages before it climbed a steep hill to enter a medium-sized town, where it lost its identity.

  The streets of the town wandered in seeming aimlessness among the houses and buildings which clustered about, to completely surround the hill. A faint suggestion of a spiral pattern still remained, to tell of the time when a lone road had twisted about the hill, to lead to the castle at its top.

  “This is it.” Kerola waved a hand. “It’s a rather small fief, dependent on the duchy of Minaronik. And the earl is constantly trying to improve his standing a little. He’s got a sort of running feud with the Marquis of Kiranik, down in the valley. They take turns knifing each other in the back. He’s tried several nasty little schemes to get something on the duke, himself. He’s really a nice guy—”

  “But not an unusual type here?” Meinora laughed.

  “No, sir. Not too unusual.”

  “You were investigating the earl’s household, you said?”

  “Yes. You see, we’d completed the main duchy and the March of Kiranik. Weroaen had been working on the commoners and their reactions right along, and he said he didn’t think he’d need any direct help. Said he had his own classification system worked up and all he had to do was fill in a little more data to get a full picture.

  “Besides, he thought he had a line on this cult that’s been giving the emperor and his religious hierarchy a bad time. You know, the Duernians. They’ve been pretty hard to trace, you know. But he thought he had a lead on one of their leaders. He’d traced a couple of couriers and he wanted to follow that one up.” Kerola pointed at his costume.

  “In the meantime, I was getting a fair integration on the upper classes. I’ve been posing as a traveling musician for some time, and have actually built up something of a reputation.” He laughed amusedly. “In fact, if I got stranded, I think I could make a pretty good living that way. In any event, I shifted to Dorolik’s castle and started putting on performances. He pointed to the hilltop with its walls and towers.

  “It looked as though Weroaen and

  I were going to pick up convergent lines when this inquisitor, Markorik, came in. Seems Markorik had some information on the same moderator Weroaen had been tracing. I was picking up quite a bit from that inquisitor when his captain came in and announced they’d picked up a peddler on a charge of heresy. Then, they got through questioning, Weroaen and tossed him into a cell.” He grimaced.

  “Weroaen had his mentacom sewed into his cap, and, like all peddlers, he wore that cap all the time. But he’s not a full telepath by any means and when they got that cap, he was in a bad way. When they chucked him in for the rest of the night, someone threw his stuff into the cell. Then, he got into contact with me right away.” He grinned reminiscently.

  “He was all for tearing the place apart. Seems they kicked him around a good bit. And they tried their mental coercion on him. It didn’t work very well of course, but he was pretty well shaken up and wild as they come. I told him to hold still and wait for me. Then, I got out of the castle and streaked for the ship.”

  Meinora turned away from the viewsphere. “Best thing you could do,” he remarked. “We’ll get him out somehow.” He walked toward t
he control room exit.

  “Well, let’s get down to that castle. I want to be there when Markorik starts his questioning.” He slid the panel aside, then turned.

  “Nerieda,” he said, “better come along. And, Krenall, you take charge of the ship. Call in some of the others. I hope the three of us can handle this one, but it won’t hurt a thing to have help available.”

  He went to the debarkation platform. It looked touchy, he thought. Somehow, Agent Weroaen must be removed from that castle down there. And the crowd of Jorikan nobles, men-at-arms, servitors, and church investigators must have no suspicion that there had been anything supernatural about the escape. Meinora shook his head.

  How would a native of the planet escape from his guards and from that castle? Especially, how would he escape when he was the center of interest and attention?

  He shook his head and stepped aside. “Go ahead, Kerola,” he ordered. “You can guide us to the chapel.”

  Weroaen followed his guards into the chapel. Behind him, two more guards followed, alert to prevent any attempt at escape. The small procession filed up the aisle to the dais, other men-at-arms making way for them through the crowd. Finally, the leading guards separated and stopped, to face their prisoner.

  “We will wait here,” said a guard. “Do you kneel, prisoner.”

  Weroaen was aware of a reassuring thought.

  “Go along with their ceremony, Weroaen. We’ll see what develops and try to create a diversion. Where is your mentacom?”

  Weroaen knelt and bowed his head submissively.

  “It’s out in the anteroom, sir, along with some of the other caps.”

  “Good. Get it, Nerieda. We’re going to need it later. Besides, we don’t want that thing floating around. Some idiot might try it on.”

  Markorik paced to the dais, flanked by two of his men-at-arms, who carried his symbols of office—a large book and a rod, surmounted with a jewellike lens. A young assistant followed, carrying regalia. The inquisitor stepped up to the dais and accepted the book from its bearer. He spread it out on the book rest and looked at it for a moment.

  The assistant respectfully helped him with his heavy, jeweled collar and his headdress, straightened out his robes, and stepped away.

  Markorik stood for a few seconds, looking over the crowd in the chapel, then accepted his rod of office. Finally, he looked down at Weroaen, his face set in stern disapproval.

  “Arise, prisoner, and stand before this tribunal.”

  He waited, watching coldly as Weroaen gained his feet and stepped close to the lectern.

  “What is your name, prisoner?”

  “Men call me Walur, the—”

  Markorik slapped his hand down on the book rest.

  “Never mind what men call you. Give me your name—your real name, mind? And don’t try your silly evasions with me.”

  “I am Walur, the peddler, my lord.”

  “And you know, of course, why you have been brought here?”

  “No, my lord. Men seized me. They mistreated me. And then they called me by names with which I am unfamiliar. I should be glad—”

  Again, Markorik’s hand came down on the book rest. It made a loud report, which echoed through the chapel.

  “You have been warned, Heretic. I will brook no evasion. You are an unbeliever in the things held sacred by all good and loyal men of the realm. In short, you are an heretic. You are a follower of the heretical dogs who call themselves the Duernians. Now, are you not?”

  Weroaen hesitated and a commanding thought was directed at him, completely overriding the efforts of the inquisitor to impose pressure.

  “Follow my lead. There are certain answers he expects. And we’ll give ’em to him, right out of the hook. I’m getting an idea.”

  Weroaen shook his head. “I am no unbeliever, my lord.”

  “What, then, do you believe?”

  “I believe in whatever you and other good lords tell me to believe.” For a brief instant, Markorik’s glance was almost affectionate. This man was behaving precisely according to pattern. Here, most certainly, was a perfect subject for inquisition. And he’d break down and give names. Oh, most surely, he would break down. His gaze hardened to sternness again.

  “And you will swear, then, that you have never learned anything contrary to the teachings of the Great Church of Jorik?”

  “If you tell me I should swear, lord, then I shall swear.”

  “I tell you nothing. You are the accused. You, and you alone, are the one who must clear himself of the stain of accusation. Will you swear?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Weroaen dropped his eyes submissively.

  “And you will swear oaths without number, hoping thereby to escape the just fate meted out to heretics?”

  “Oaths without number, my lord?”

  “Without number,” said Markorik threateningly. “For know, Heretic, that we have witnesses to your perfidy. And so many oaths as you shall swear, then so many more will we demand of you. And you shall swear until, according to your twisted belief, you shall swear yourself into the punishment eternal.” He frowned and pointed with his rod of office.

  “Now, will you swear?”

  “He’s booked. Now, haul him in!”

  Weroaen clasped his hands in a gesture of hopeless resignation.

  “My lord,” he said pleadingly, “I perceive I cannot deceive you further. You know I may not continuously swear oaths without condemning myself to the eternal nothing. I shall, then, confess my belief.” He bowed his head.

  “Yes, my lord, I have been of the followers of Duern, the Deliverer.”

  “Ah,” cried Markorik. “And having thrown yourself on the mercy of this tribunal, and by your own confession, then you are further willing to name your accomplices, that they may be purged of their heresy?”

  “My lord, I must. Having confessed in one, I shall have to confess in all.” Weroaen looked up, then glanced about the chapel.

  “My moderator and teacher,” he said distinctly, “is Karonu, Earl of Dorolik. And his captain, Odurnis, is my companion in our order.”

  Markorik looked over the chapel, then made a tiny motion with his hand. His men-at-arms straightened, suddenly alert.

  “And there are others in this household?”

  “Yes, my lord. Many others. Too many to name here.” Weroaen looked around.

  Dorolik came to his feet, his face flaming.

  “This man lies,” he shouted furiously. “By wild accusation, he tries to throw confusion and to discredit this inquisition.”

  Markorik looked at him coldly. “It is not the inquisition he discredits,” he remarked. “And what would he gain thus?”

  “Why, he—” Dorolik looked about the chapel. What, he wondered, did the man expect to gain? He was well guarded both by his own and by the inquisitor’s men. He could have no hope of escape. The earl’s face slowly drained of blood.

  Anyone, he knew, even a condemned heretic, could make accusation to an inquisitor. This man was confessing and naming him, Dorolik, as his teacher in that confession. And who, when accused, had ever been held blameless?

  Markorik raised an arm. “This,” he announced, “brings a new aspect to our inquisition. I shall withhold further action until I have notified my superiors.” He nodded to Weroaen’s guards.

  “Take this man away. We shall hold him as a witness.”

  “Nerieda! Kerola!”

  One of the earl’s men-at-arms suddenly pitched forward. He thrust his arms out to preserve his balance and grabbed one of Weroaen’s guards, who thrust him back and drew his sword, only to be struck again by another man-at-arms, who came from a new direction. As he went down, still another inquisition guard found himself assaulted. He dodged lightly away, swinging his sword in an accurate arc, which ended at the nape of his assailant’s neck.

  Someone shouted, “To the earl! Up, Dorolik!”

  Inquisitorial men-at-arms, weapons drawn, surrounded Markorik, who raised his lensed rod
and held it in readiness. A tight group, the inquisitor’s party started hacking their way toward the chapel door, careless of who they struck. The earl’s men-at-arms moved to cut off their retreat, shouting angrily.

  Weroaen ducked behind the lectern, then looked quickly around. His mentacom suddenly materialized in front of him and he slapped it on his head then pressed firmly on his belt. And he was no longer visible.

  Activating his flight modulator, he guided himself up to the ceiling, then took a straight path out the door.

  Once in the open, he stopped to look down at the scene of battle.

  It was developing into a first-class brawl and he watched for a few minutes, with interest. Some of those men-at-arms, he thought, had spent some time learning to handle their heavy weapons. And they could have given valuable pointers to good swordsmen of any planet. Now, they were engaged in giving proof positive of their ability.

  Markorik came through the throng, pointing his short rod about at would-be assailants. Meri clutched at their bodies and dropped to the ground, twisting in agony before they became still. The inquisitor made his way toward the stables.

  “Come on,” ordered Meinora. “Make certain that inquisitor escapes. He might become very useful.”

  Laduro, the moneylender, sat silently in the corner of the guest room. Since the furor due to the trial of the earl of Dorolik, he had dared make little contact with other Duernians. He looked unhappily at the tankard before him.

  Of course, he thought, it had been an unbelievable bit of luck that the drunken man-at-arms had picked that peddler for a victim. It could have just as easily been a moneylender. And his fortune might not have been as good as the peddler’s had been. He stirred uneasily in his seat.

  The peddler, he thought, had been a resourceful man. He, himself, would never have thought of the device of accusing a noble and thus creating confusion. But how had the man made good his escape? Of course, his accusation of the earl had converted his inquisition into a complete chaos. But it had been blind, good fortune that had caused the men-at-arms to lose their heads. And where had the peddler gone? Certainly, thought Laduro, he had not contacted the followers of Duern.