“Dom Peralt roused himself as if he had dozed while studying her. With a nod, he said, ‘This one. I want her.’ Then he turned to Growt, and his smile was resumed. ‘Hear you, slaver? I want this one.’
“Growt grinned and glowered because he had triumphed—and did not like the taste of Dom Peralt’s manner, which deprived this triumph of the salt Growt preferred. Sourly, he named his price again. It was twice what he had already demanded.
“Still in all the sum was a trifle to a man with Dom Peralt’s properties. From his purse he fumbled out coins which approximated the amount of Growt’s price and tossed them to the slaver. So unsteady was young Sen now that Growt could not claim insult in the way the coins were thrown so that he could not catch them all. Anger corded his neck as he retrieved his earnings from the mud, but he had no choice left. Even the Templemen would not smile on him if he harmed a purchaser of his wares. Snarling and vicious, he went to unlock Dom Peralt’s selection from the chains.
“When the clasp was undone and the chain dropped from the manacles, a peculiar shudder ran through the woman, as if a weight had been lifted from her soul. Perhaps there were tears amid the grime on her cheeks. Stepping forward, she raised her ironbound wrists to Dom Peralt, dumbly asking that he have those fetters removed as well.
“Whenever he met her gaze, his smile failed him. ‘Free her wrists,’ he commanded Growt. ‘I want her arms free.’ A sharp edge had entered his voice. To disguise it, he pretended a jest. ‘Have no fear that she will escape me.’
Cursing continuously under his breath, Growt complied. From a pouch at his belt, he took a chisel of hardened iron—from among his tools, a hammer and a rude anvil. He was not gentle, but he did nothing which might be protested—nothing which would require even the justice of the Templemen to compel the return of some portion of the price for damaged merchandise—as he set first one wrist and then the other against the anvil and struck away the manacles. The task finished, however, he could not resist thrusting the slave so that she stumbled at Dom Peralt, staining his clothes with her filth. She trembled against him as though the removal of the iron had made her feverish.
“‘There,’ growled the slaver. ‘She is yours. Another rape or two, and she will be well suited to you.’
“‘No,’ replied Dom Peralt. His smile was restored, and his eyes laughed as his game ended. Setting the woman away from him, he turned to Growt and gave the slaver a mocking bow. ‘She is free. I want no slaves. I have purchased her, and now I set her free. It is my right. Hear you?’ he demanded of the crowd, his witnesses—a shout perhaps of pleasure, perhaps of concealed outrage. ‘I set her free!’
“That was his triumph over Growt the slaver. Heed me well, you louts—and learn. Thus passes the romance of the world. To the dismay of his cohorts—and the great glee of the crowd—his eyes roiled back in his head, and he toppled Into the mud.
“When anyone thought to look toward the woman he had freed—well, she was gone. Before so many onlookers, she disappeared as if she were merely mist and drew. No sign of her remained but her fetters lying at Dom Peralt’s feet.
“Are you blind? My flagon is empty.”
Abashed by our negligence, we stamped our feet, shoveled coins from our purses. This time, the keeper saw fit to bring us a wine which God had intended to be malmsey but which man had reduced to something approaching vinegar. Ser Visal, however, quaffed it without protest. Sweat poured from him so profusely that the collar of his outer robe had turned dark and the shoulders were spotted. He, too, had a look of fever about him. While he drank, we held our breath and prayed in silence that he would not cease his tale.
For a moment, his pale, plump hands trembled on the flagon. Wine dribbled from the corners of his mouth to diversify the stains on his robe. But slowly the drink— rank though it was—appeared to ease or mask his discomfort. He refilled his flagon and drank again, spilling less. When at last he looked around at us once more, his bulging eyes had a whetted aspect, a sharpness which might have been mockery or cunning.
“So much”—he snapped his fingers, a fat, popping sound—”for the gallantry of Dom Sen Peralt. A grand figure, is he not? Face down and drunken in the mud, having risked himself in sport with a man who might have taken a hammer to his thick skull—altogether worthy of your emulation. I am pleased to see that I have your attention. Perhaps you will learn something which will do you credit. Have I spoken to you concerning witches?”
We nodded, hoping to deflect him from a digression. But he ignored us. “It is said,” he mused, “in the stories that goodwomen tell around their hearths of a winter’s evening that iron is the bane of all witches. A witch’s power is over flesh and plant, and with both she works many things which the Templemen abominate—but iron blocks her strength, reducing her to mortal helplessness. This, my puppies, chances to be true. Every witch brought before the judica comes with her wrists bound in iron, and none escape. Escape would surely be without difficulty for a woman capable of turning the minds of the men around her, causing them to see in her place the goodwoman who mothered them or married them, the daughter of their loins—Or perhaps to see no woman at all, but only a chamber full of men gathered about a cauldron of molten metal to no purpose. But that does not transpire, though the women haled before the judica are never innocent. Their wrists are manacled, and so they are seen to be what they are, witches deprived of power. Thus the efficacy of iron is proven.”
Ser Visal drank again, then looked at us and smiled. “When Dom Sen Peralt awakened from his stupor, he found himself in a windowless cell on a pallet of foul straw. The walls were of blocked granite—the door, barred iron. He was alone except for the light of one small tallow candle and the scurrying sound of rats.
“This was no little surprise to him, as you may perhaps imagine”—Ser Visal grinned sardonically—”and in his fuddled state he was slow to comprehend it. He was afire with thirst, and his first thought was for wine to quench the burning—his second, for water if he could not have wine. Lurching up from the pallet, he blundered from wall the cell as though it were the public room of an inn and shouted for the keeper to attend him until the young and hale, and when he had rested a few moments he became conscious that it was cold stone to which his face was pressed, rather than honest planking. Still he did not understand. Slowly, however, he mastered himself enough to grasp the meaning of the single candle left burning in the center of the earthen floor—and of the barred door.
“His head hurt horridly. His tongue was a dry sponge in his mouth, and the back of his throat was hot with acid. Rats came sniffing about his boots, but he ignored the vermin. He stood with his back to the stone while his mind turned like a rusted and squalling millwheel. Then he went back to the pallet, seated himself there, folded his arms about his knees, and strove to will the pain from his head.
“Much time passed, but he endured it as though he were stoic, sitting upon the pallet and moving only to fend away the rats. I have said—have I not?—that he had wit. Despite his debauched state, he employed that wit to some purpose. Rather than ranting about the cell and howling from the door and expending himself wildly, he attempted instead to clear his mind and conserve his strength.
“Gradually, his hurt eased. But his thirst did not. At last, he left the pallet and searched the dark corners of the cell, hoping to find that his captors possessed humanity enough to have left him some water. They had not. Outwardly calm—and inwardly raging, both with thirst and with other passions—he resumed his seat and his waiting.
“Without a window, he had no measure for the time. The hourbells were not audible. But he was familiar enough with drink to estimate the duration of his unconsciousness. Eventually, he judged that vespers and compline had rung and passed. Despite his thirst, which grew upon him like a fury, he set himself to endure the night as well as he was able.
“But his captors were accustomed to darkness, and they came for him when he did not expect them. He heard the striding of boots ou
tside his cell.. In such cases, men hope unreasonably. It was with great difficulty that he refrained from springing to the door and croaking for help. He possessed himself upon the pallet, however, and shortly a key groaned in the lock of his cell. Armed guards entered. They bore with them a writing desk lit by several candles and a chair, which they set facing their prisoner. Then they withdrew to the walls on either side of the door, so that Dom Peralt would be prevented from either violence or escape.
“Into the cell came Templeman Knarll himself, highest of all servants of the Temple of God in this region.
“He wore his formal robes, which were customarily reserved for the pulpit of the Temple. Resplendent in white surplice and gold chasuble, symbolizing Heavenly purity and worldly power, he would have appeared impressive if—Well, Templeman Knarll is known to you. He is a devout and searching man, worthy of admiration.” Ser Visal employed his pious tone to good effect. “He is not to be mocked for his appearance. That he has the form of a toad and the face of a hedgehog is the will of the Almighty—surely not of Templeman Knarll. Nevertheless, it is not to be wondered at that he has little patience for those better made by their Creator than he.
“Without a glance at Dom Peralt, he seated himself at the desk, produced parchment, quill, and ink, and began to write.
“As he listened to the scratching of Templeman Knarll’s pen, Dom Peralt had opportunity to inquire what he had done to expose himself to the Temple’s anger—and the King’s justice. He was surely imprisoned in the Temporal Office of the Temple of God, where crimes both physical and spiritual were perse—that is to say, prosecuted since good King Traktus joined hands with High Templeman Crossus Hught. But for what reason? Doubtless any of you would have asked that question, were you brave enough to address Templeman Knarll before gaining his permission to speak. Dom Peralt was formed in another mould. He allowed his spiritual father a few moments’ silence. Then he said as clearly as his parched throat permitted, ‘Templeman, I thirst. I must have water.’
‘Templeman Knarll raised his head and scowled—no comforting sight. Releasing his pen, he began to read aloud what he had written. ‘Dom Sen Peralt, son of’—and so on, on such-and-such date, in the following place—’by authority of the Temple of God, and of His Royal Highness’—as you might imagine”—Ser Visal waggled his plump fingers as though conducting music—”‘you are adjured on your soul, and in the sight of God, to answer the questions put to you herewith.’
“But young Sen had not given Templeman Knarll the courtesy of rising to his feet, and his reply was similarly respectful. ‘Have done, Templeman,’ he interposed. ‘I will answer your questions. I will pay whatever price you require for absolution. But I must have water. Slake my thirst, and I will give you no cause to complain of me.’ He was a fool, as I have said.
“‘You misunderstand your plight,’ replied Templeman Knarll. He was angered, but too certain of his power to give way to vexation. ‘First you will satisfy me. Then perhaps I will grant you water—or vinegar, if I see fit. For the sake of your soul, I will have no pity on your poor flesh.’ Glancing at the parchment before him, he said formally, ‘Dom Sen Peralt, you are a carouser and a wastrel, a source of sin and shame to the Temple of God and the community of believers. But such faults may be forgiven, if they are fully and abjectly repented. The crime of which you are accused knows no absolution. It is an offense against Heaven and must be cleansed with blood. That blood will be yours rather than another’s, if you fail to answer me truthfully and contritely.
“‘Dom Peralt, for how long have you been in consort with the witch Thamala?’
“During his wait, Dom Peralt had readied himself for many things—but he was not prepared for that accusation. In astonishment, he demanded, ‘Who?’
“‘For how long,’ Templeman Knarll repeated heavily, ‘have you been in consort with the witch Thamala?’
“‘No,’ muttered young Sen. ‘No.’ He now had some glimmering of his true plight—and yet he could not understand it at all. In something akin to panic, he stumbled to his feet and steadied himself against the wall, swallowing at the taste of brimstone in his dry mouth. ‘I know nothing of witches.’ Fervidly, he gathered his strength. ‘I do not consort with witches. I have never met one. If I did, I would shun her. You err with me, Templeman.’
“Templeman Knarll’s regard did not waver. ‘Denial is foolish—and dangerous’ he replied. ‘Innumerable witnesses will attest that you freed her of your own will, when she was ironbound and helpless. That was not the act of one who knows nothing of witches. It was the act of a man who saw his debauched lover in peril and sought to free her, so that he would not be deprived of the evil for which he had bartered his soul.’
“Hungry, thirst-ravaged, and frightened, Dom Peralt could not stifle his trembling. Yet he held his gaze firm.
‘I repeat. I do not consort with witches. I have never met one. You have been gulled with lies, Templeman.’
“‘Lies!’ snorted Templeman Knarll. ‘You are glib, Dom Peralt. Do you deny that of all the slaves proffered by the slaver Growt you chose none other than the witch Thamala? Do you deny that you willingly paid an exorbitant price for her? Do you deny that you commanded the iron struck from her wrists? Do you deny,’ concluded the Templeman, chewing upon each word, ‘that you set her free?’
“Dom Peralt stared at his interrogator and for a moment had no answer. He had wit, as I have said—he was… Oh, he was young and strong and cocksure, not much prone to the fears which bedevil those of weaker flesh. But he was not faulty of mind. So he did not protest that he had purchased and freed that woman merely upon a whim, to mock Growt. Instead, he said carefully, ‘It appears that I must make some defense. Questions occur to me, Templeman.’
“‘Do not think to play with me,’ snapped Templeman Knarll. ‘I am not come here to answer your questions. You will answer mine—and feel gratitude that I deign to ask them.’
“‘If this Thamala was a witch,’ insisted Dom Peralt, ‘why was she not haled before the judica rather than granted to Growt for sale? Is it the custom of Templemen to sell proven witches as merchandise, in order to trap and damn the innocent man who makes purchase?’
“Young whelps, it is well that the Temple of God is served by able men such as Templeman Knarll rather than by ignorant louts such as yourselves. He also is not blind. He saw that this question was one which he must answer. It would be asked again before the judica, when Dom Peralt was brought for judgment—and the men of land and station and power there would not look kindly upon an affirmative reply. Restraining his ire, Templeman Knarll responded, ‘Thamala was not known to be a witch. She was merely a finding of Growt’s, nothing more. And he took her asleep in a camp of gypsies, where she was in hiding from the justice of the Temple. His iron blocked her wiles before she had opportunity to employ them. Therefore he was unaware of her—and did not report her. Had she been known to us, we would have taken her from him at once, to protect the innocent.’
“At this, Dom Peralt bowed. ‘Your integrity relieves me greatly,’ he said. ‘It does, however, inspire another question. By what means have you now determined that this Thamala was indeed a witch? Have you taken her captive? Has the judica already pronounced judgment upon her?’
“From this unseemly inquiry Templeman Knarll stepped back. Dom Peralt’s second question did not appear as dangerous as his first. ‘I caution you,’ said the Templeman. ‘I will have no more of your insolence. It is in my power to deprive you of water until your flesh screams for it, if I choose. For how long have you been in consort—?’
“Dom Peralt made no movement which might attract the force of the guards. He stood against the stone, his hands still at his sides—no threat in him. Yet he interrupted Templeman Knarll in a voice which caused that worthy to flinch as though he had been struck. ‘Have you named this Thamala a witch merely because I set her free?’
“Provoked to fury, the Templeman pounded a fist on the top of his writing des
k, so that the candle flames wavered and danced and his eyes echoed the fires of damnation. ‘She vanished!’ he roared. ‘No Godly goodwoman simply disappears before townspeople and Templemen— but your consort did! With her foul power, she veiled her flight from all around her. And that was witnessed! It was witnessed by Templemen!’ By degrees, he regained his composure. ‘You freed her,’ he said in a tone at once soft and venomous. ‘You. Of all the slaves offered you, you chose her and freed her—her and no other. I notice you do not protest your innocence. Why her, Dom Peralt? Why her and no other?’
“Dom Peralt smiled as well as the growing anguish of his thirst permitted. ‘You say that she has vanished, and you have not recaptured her. Therefore you cannot present her as evidence of my wrong-doing to the judica. You have no case against me, Templeman.’
“Templeman Knarll did not blink or turn aside. Why should he permit this degraded youth to anger him? His power was sure. More softly still, he repeated, ‘Why her and no other?’
“But Dom Peralt also did not turn aside. His smile in no way softened the hardness in his eyes. ‘When I looked at her,’ he answered, ‘I saw that her spirit was greater than her fear. Though she was enslaved—and enslaved by Growt’—she was not cowed. For that reason, I chose her.’ Then he said again, ‘Templeman, you have no case against me.’
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