Daughter of Regals (45 page)

Ser Quest Visal was
indeed a fat old man—as
fat as a porker, with eyes squeezed almost to
popping in the heavy flesh of his face, arms that appeared to stuff his sleeves
like sausages, and fingers as thick and pale as pastries. His grizzled hair
straggled like a beldame’s. Careless shaving left his jowls speckled with
whiskers. Though he sat in the-corner of the hearth—the warmest spot in the
Hound and Whip—he wore two robes over his clothing, with the result that sweat
ran from his brows as from an over-lathered horse. Yet every gesture of his
hands beyond his frilled cuffs held us, and every word he uttered was
remembered. We were familiar with his storytelling.

He had returned to town
after an absence of some days. In fact, it was rumored that he had fled to his
estates immediately following the unprecedented—and unexplained—turmoil which
had resulted from the most recent sitting of the judica. It was known to all
that the judica had assembled to pass judgment upon a suspected witch, but no
judgment had been announced. The disruption of the sitting had been followed by
a rough and bitter search of the town, such as only the Templemen had the power
and determination to pursue. Since then, the mood had been one of anger. Men
who did not like the implied distrust of the search were further irked by the
righteous frustration of the searchers. And finally—a development piquant to us
all—no accounts of the judica, no high condemnations of witchcraft, no
exhortations to shun for our souls the fires of damnation had been issued from
the pulpits of the Temple. Instead, we had heard read out for the first time in
our lives a writ of excommunication.

Its object had been Dom
Sen Peralt.

You are cut
off,
the Templemen had thundered or crowed, according to their natures,
cut off
root and trunk, branch and leaf cut off from God and
Temple
,
Heaven and hope. You are shunned by all men, blighted by all love. The sun will
not warm your face. Shade will not cool your brow. Water and food will give you
no sustenance. You are cursed in your mind and in your heart, in your blood
and in your loins. Your loves will die, and your offspring will wither, and all
that you have touched will be destroyed. This is the will of God.

We knew that Ser
Visal—like every other man of his rank—had attended the judica. And we prayed
that he would reveal what had happened.

“Disorderly louts,” he
repeated, wiping wine from his chins. “Impious lovers of freedom and romance,
which seduce souls to perdition.” If his words were to be believed, he had
always been one of the staunchest supporters of the Templemen. And surely none
of us had ever heard him accused of courage. Yet we did not take his
admonitions seriously. His voice had a special quaver which he used only to
protest his devotion, and his eyes appeared to bulge with astonishment at what
he heard himself say. “Well, attend me for your hope of Heaven. I will instruct
you.”

We settled ourselves on
the long wooden benches of the Hound and Whip, hunched over the wide, planked
tables, and listened.

“Boys are fools all,” he
began, and his fat fingers waggled at us. “I include you, every one. Fools! Lovers
of dreams and freedom. And I count every man who has not set aside such toys a
boy, whatever his age. You will learn better from me. I will lesson you in
order and justice, in the folly of human passion against God’s Temple and God’s
judgment. Your fathers will thank me for it.” Without looking at any of us in
particular, he remarked. “My flagon is empty.”

Several of us stamped
our feet. The son of Dom Tahl scattered coins onto the table. In response, the
keeper brought a small cask of an unusually drinkable canary wine and left it
for us to deal with as we saw fit.

Refreshed by a long
draught, Ser Visal set down his flagon-and sighed. “Boys and fools,” he said, “surely
none will deny that life has been much improved since good King Traktus became
concerned for his salvation and turned to the Temple of God—and to High
Templeman Crossus Hught—for spiritual assistance. The Templemen have become the
right hand of the King as wd as of God, and our lives are cleansed and
straitened and made wiser thereby. Consider our prior state. Young whelp. such
as yourselves, Domsons and Sersons all, spent their lives riotously while their
sires plotted for advantage or land. Farmers priced their produce as they chose
and grew fat. Merchants wandered from town to town, spreading gossip and
dissension with their wares. Gypsies and carnivals flourished upon credulity
wherever it was found. The poor lined the streets as beggars, and when they
died they were not left in the mud
as
they deserved, but were rather
buried at public expense. Minstrels purveyed lies of heroism and great deeds,
of thrones to be won in faraway lands, of adventures and dreams. Goodwomen who
should have tended hearths and spinning left their homes to command shops and
crops and men. And there were witches— “The Temple has taught us that there are
witches. We have learned to see the evil of a flashing glance”—Ser Visal rolled
his eyes in mimicry—”the touch of a white hand; the smile of an unveiled face.
We have learned that some women possess power to disorder men’s minds as they
disorder life, doing things which cannot be done and imposing their wills on
those around them, weaving damnation and all foul perversion. For this reason
we have the judica, to hunt that evil and root it out. So, good louts, you will
hardly credit that there was once a time when some men and perhaps a few
goodwomen did not believe in witches.

“Yet witches there were.”
He rubbed his hands through the sweat on his brow, then flicked his fingers
negligently, as though aping a holy sign for our silent amusement. “This is excellent
canary.” The candles of the inn were new and bright because there were no
windows, and the dancing flames made his eyes appear to stare from his face. “Witches,
indeed. They lived quietly among the dark woods, or secretly in barrows which
few could find beneath the hedgerows, or openly with the gypsies and the
minstrels. And woe to any man who went near them with his heart unguarded by
righteousness, for they were strange and powerful and lovely as only evil can
be, and that man would never again look upon his own goodwoman or his promised
maid with quite the same—shall we say, quite the same enthusiasm?”

On the word, his plump
lips twisted into a sardonic expression. But before we could laugh, he raised
his
gaze
to the smoke-stained ceiling and went on devoutly, “Praise the Temple
of God that the danger is no longer what it was! Oh, sonic witches yet live.
Some have fled where men cannot follow. And some have learned to pass in covert
among us, concealing their powers. But forewarned is forearmed. And most
witches have gone to judgment and the hot iron of the judica, destroyed by Temple
zealotry. Many of them, you puppies—more than you imagine. So many, it is
astonishing that we are able to live without them—gone to feed the cauldron
with their bones and their sins and their terrible cries. And”—he lowered his
voice portentously—”not one of them innocent. Not
one.
The judica has
condemned every creature with a slim leg and a pert breast which the Templemen
have brought for judgment.”

He paused to refill his
flagon and toss off another draught, then said, “Of course, I have not
mentioned the many other amendments which good King Traktus has imposed upon
our lives at the counsel of the High Templeman. Prices and merchants have been
wisely regulated. Carnivals where such louts as you are were led into folly
have been banned, on pain of slavery. And slavery itself—!

“It is an admirable
institution, is it not? At one stroke, we are rid of all miscreants—the poor,
the idle, the wicked—We are provided with cheap service which any honest
tradesman or farmer or man of station may afford, and the coffers of the Temple
of God are enriched, to the benefit of our immortal souls, for by the King’s
edict all the fees of the slavers are shared with the Templemen. An
admirable
institution.

“So you see, my eager
young gallants, it is not surprising that the tale of Dom Peralt began with a
slave and ended with a witch.”

At that, we all
stiffened. Our attention grew even sharper, if that were possible. The sound of
excommunication was in our ears. This story was precisely the one we most
wished to hear.

Ser Visal smiled at the
effect of his announcement. Then—perhaps recollecting that it was unwise to
smile on any subject associated with the disfavor of the Temple—he frowned and
slapped a fat hand to the table. “Be warned, whelps! This is not the tale of
daring and passion you expect. It is sordid and foolish, and I tell it to
caution you, so that you will be wiser than mad Dom Peralt, who was nothing
more than a boy some few years older than yourselves.”

But we were not daunted.
We watched Ser Visal brightly, our breathing thick with anticipation in our
chests. And slowly his face appeared to refold itself to lines of sadness. His
gaze receded, as though he were now seeing the past rather than the public room
of the Hound and Whip. We knew that look. If we did not interrupt him now, he
would tell his story.

“Dom Sen Peralt,” he
sighed. “I knew his father. The old Dom was a goodly man, as all agreed—perhaps
somewhat too little concerned for the state of the public weal, somewhat too
much immersed in the private affairs of his estates and dependents, but hale of
heart and whole of mind nonetheless. And grown like a tree!” The memory made
Ser Visal chuckle voluminously within his robes.
“An
oak of a man. He
bore no weapons; the threat of his fist was as good as a broadsword.” Then he
relapsed to sadness. “And many folk flourished under the shade of his care. He
was more interested in the commonest babe born in the farthest cottage on his
lands than in all the affairs of kings and counselors. A goodly man, greatly
grieved in his passing.

By ill chance, however,
young Sen Peralt’s mother died during his babyhood, and the old Dom was too occupied
elsewhere to attend closely to the rearing of his son. He trusted, I believe,
that a decent heart would be inherited—and that his example would supply what
his attention did not. In young Sen’s early youth, his father had no cause to
complain. But as the boy came toward manhood, he fell among ill companions”—Ser
Visal gave us a glare—”shiftless whelps and roisterers such as yourselves,
Serson Nason Lew and Domson Bean Frane chief among them, and he discovered the
pleasures of folly.. The old Dom was not a man to enforce his will upon others,
and he knew not how to intervene. To his sorrow, his son become a tremendous
gallant, dedicated to wine and minstrelsy and compliant women. Sen Peralt’s
brawls became matters of legend. I shudder to think of the inns he wrecked, the
virgins he—”

Abruptly, Ser Visal stopped.
“You are too young to understand virgins,” he said severely. “Refill my flagon.”

But when he had replaced
some of the fluid he sweated away, he resumed his tale. “Unfortunately, the old
Dom died while helping one of his farmers clear a field of boulders. In his
mourning, the new Dom was consoled as he had been entertained by his boon
companions, Serson Lew and Domson Franc. I will say of him that he gave fit
respect to his father. But when he had taken upon himself his father’s station,
he showed no inclination to follow his father’s path. He did not altogether
neglect his duties. And he took no slaves, as his father had taken none. But
the greater part of his time was spent in carouse, defying both the advice of
his father’s friends”—Ser Visal’s expression suggested that he had given Dom
Peralt hogsheads of good advice—and had helped him drink them—”and the strict
attention of the Templemen. He was a scandal in the region, though doubtless
you louts admired him. Templeman Knarll himself let it be known that sermons
would soon be preached against Dom Peralt from every pulpit within a day’s
ride, if young Sen did not begin to take better care of his salvation. It was,
said Templeman Knarll, precisely to protect good people from such sins that the
Temple of God had become so rigorous.”

Ser Visal shrugged his
round shoulders. “And it was precisely in this state of ill grace that Dom
Peralt came to town on slaving day.

“You are familiar with
slaving day. It is most instructive—most instructive. A lesson to us all.
There in the marketplace gather the slavers to sell their wares—and the
Templemen to collect their fees. The streets are thick with mud, as rank as
sewers, and pickpockets work happily among the crowds, and merchants hawk all
manner of commodities, and every townsman comes to consider what may be bought.
It is as near to festivity as the Temple of God permits. Goodwomen remain in
their homes, but jades wear their brightest colors, and gallants preen, and
money seeps everywhere from hand to hand, more subtle than the mud but not less
tainted.” Perhaps we saw anger in Ser Visal’s eyes—or perhaps he was simply
spinning the mood of his story. “And amid it all are the new slaves for
purchase.

“They are chained to
each other like cattle, hardly able to lift their fetters for exhaustion or
hunger, and dressed as much in muck as in rags. In their eyes—when their eyes
are open and their heads raised—are every kind of hate and fear and despair,
but no love. I have seen children of no more than four summers manacled to
known molesters of children—and the parents bound elsewhere for their debts,
helpless. I have seen the sons of impoverished farmers coupled by iron to
desperate whores. I have seen innocent travelers pleading for release from the
slavers’ quotas. Their filth and degradation exemplify all the evils which
have brought slavery among us. The Templemen accompany them, garnering fees
from the slavers—and so the world is cleansed.
Most
instructive. Learn
its lesson well, puppies.