Daughter of Regals (47 page)

“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 outside 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?’