Ravenheart (52 page)

His face crimson, the bishop rose to his feet. “I find your comments discourteous to this court,” he said. “And I sentence you to twenty lashes, this sentence to be carried out
when the trial is over. Any more outbursts and I will add to that sentence. Do you understand that, Mr. Shaddler?”

“I do, my lord.” Alterith sat down and began to leaf through the Book of Holy Law. Arlin Bedver continued with his petition, bringing forward Sir Gayan Kay to explain the nature of the tests he would use to get the truth from Maev Ring. Alterith made no move to interrupt but continued to study the tome before him.

Sir Gayan Kay, in full ornamental armor of silver plate, his broadsword by his side, told the court that witches were always demon-possessed and that the only way to reach the truth was to drive the demon—albeit temporarily—from the body. That was done by the application of pain. Demons, being cowardly by nature, could not tolerate such pain, which left the human host able to answer questions with honesty.

Alterith tried to shut his ears to the nonsense as he scanned page after page of the Book of Holy Law. Finally he found the section he needed. It came under the heading “Trials by Ordeal.” He read it swiftly.

Sir Gayan concluded his statement and stepped back. The bishop conferred with the two abbots. Then he spoke. “We will allow Sir Gayan to conduct his examination this afternoon,” he said.

Alterith rose. “May it please the court, I refer once more to Holy Law. Questioning under ordeal can take place only with the consent of the civilian authorities. Therefore, no questioning under physical duress can take place without the permission of the Moidart. Any such questioning undertaken without permission would be in breach of the law, with the results voided.”

“With the court’s permission,” said Arlin Bedver, “I could petition the Moidart for approval.”

Alterith watched the bishop intently. The Moidart had already found Maev Ring innocent of all charges. The bishop knew that. An application to the Moidart would almost certainly be refused.

“That will not be necessary, Master Bedver,” he said at
last. “We will delay no longer. Are your witnesses ready to give evidence?”

“They are, my lord.”

“Then let us move on.”

By the evening recess Alterith’s early jubilation at his successes had been severely dented. Five witnesses had so far given evidence against Maev Ring, their testimony—at least to Alterith Shaddler—appearing ludicrous in the extreme. One man had spoken of dreaming of a white goat that spoke to him following the afternoon when Maev Ring had become his partner. After that, he said, he had felt compelled to abstain from church and was filled with the desire to frequent brothels.

What surprised Alterith, who felt like laughing out loud, was that no one in the galleries seemed to find the evidence amusing. The audience sat in grim silence, listening intently to the evidence.

“How many dreams did you have of this white goat?” asked Alterith.

“Several,” replied the witness, a thin man named Nade Holder, a carpet maker from the northern quarter.

“And at what point did you begin to believe that the goat dream was a direct result of your partnership with Maev Ring?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Shall I speak more slowly?”

“I was bewitched by her,” said Holder. “She cast a spell to steal my business.”

“Would it surprise you, Mr. Holder, were I to tell you that I have statements claiming you have been visiting whorehouses for years?”

The man blinked and licked his lips. “But not as often as I have done since the spell was cast,” he said.

“So it was not a spell that first sent you to prostitutes?”

“It was the devil tempting me,” said Holder. He pointed at Maev Ring. “She is a servant of the Devil.”

“When did this become apparent to you? Two years ago
when first she supplied you with capital to expand your business? A year ago when you began making handsome profits? When exactly?”

Holder looked uncomfortable. “I suppose it was when Parsis Feld died. Yes, around that time.”

“After you had spoken to Jorain Feld?”

“About the same time, yes.”

“I see. So it was not when you dreamed of goats, or when you were rutting with whores, or when you were counting the large profits you had made from Maev Ring’s business acumen. How very revealing, Master Holder. How much do you expect to profit by this prosecution? Will it be worth ten pounds to you? A hundred? How much?”

“I never gave it a moment’s thought,” said Holder. “I am only here to do my civic duty.”

Alterith laughed scornfully. “You are scum, Holder. Of the worst kind. You are an ingrate and a liar, a whorer and a villain.”

“Here, he can’t talk to me like that!” said the outraged Holder.

“Indeed he cannot,” said the bishop. “You will apologize for that outburst, Mr. Shaddler.”

“I would sooner dine on dog’s vomit,” Shaddler told him.

“Another twenty lashes will be your reward, you impudent rascal!”

“Thank you, my lord. I have no more questions for this witness. He may now crawl back under the rock whence he came.”

“And another twenty!” shouted the bishop.

The following morning Arlin Bedver called Jorain Feld to the stand. Feld was a sallow-faced individual in his late twenties. Tall and stooping, he stood in the witness box, his long thin hands clasped together as if in prayer. His voice was deep and sepulchral. Under Bedver’s questioning he told how his father, Parsis, had become a changed man in the years after he had been partnered with Maev Ring. He had taken to
strong drink and to visiting houses of low repute. His language had coarsened, and he had begun to gamble heavily. Once, while drunk, he had told Jorain that he had “sold his soul for the sake of his business.”

In cross-examination Alterith asked him at what point he had begun to believe that witchcraft was responsible for his father’s condition.

“As soon as we discovered he had given half of his business to an ill-bred highlander,” he answered.

“I see. Why was it, then, that when you petitioned the Moidart, you said nothing about witchcraft? You asked the Moidart to rule on the legality of the business dealings. You suggested that Maev Ring might be guilty of owning pistols. But not sorcery, Master Feld. Why was that?”

“I don’t have to answer to you,” Feld told him.

“You do, Master Feld. That is the beauty of the Varlish legal system. While you stand in that box, you will answer to me, and to Mr. Bedver, and to the bishop and his panel. Later you will answer to a higher authority. One day, Master Feld, you will stand before the Source of All, and you will answer him, too.”

“My conscience is clear. The woman bewitched my father. She will pay for it.”

“Do you support the church, Master Feld?”

“I do.”

“Have you made donations to it?”

“Yes.”

“When was the most recent, and for how much?”

“I do not see what that has to do with anything,” answered Feld, transferring his gaze to the bishop.

“Nor do I,” said the bishop. “Where is this leading, Master Shaddler?”

“It is my understanding that Master Feld made a donation of five hundred pounds on the day that Maev Ring was arrested, my lord. I find the timing interesting and wished to see that it was placed on record.”

The bishop sat very quietly, and a silence fell over the courtroom. “Are you suggesting,” the bishop said at last, “that Maev Ring’s arrest was bought for five hundred pounds? Are you accusing me of corruption?”

“What I am doing, my lord, is ensuring that
all
relevant information is being recorded. I have no doubts as to the initial outcome of this abominable action. I also have great faith in the Varlish system, which despite what many in this area believe to be iniquitous and cruel, is based on principles of justice and truth. Truth has a habit of making itself known no matter how well it is hidden within an army of falsehood and deceit. The truth will come out, my lord.”

“You sanctimonious wretch!” shouted the bishop. “I’ve had my fill of you.” He signaled to the guards at the rear of the building. “Take this man out and administer twenty lashes to his back. By heaven, I want to see blood on him when he returns!”

Alterith was removed from the Holy Court and taken to the rear of the building. He was allowed to remove his coat and shirt, then his hands were tied to a stake. A guard appeared alongside, holding a small strip of leather. “Put this between your teeth, sir,” he whispered. “It will stop you from biting your tongue.” Alterith bit down on the leather. The guard put his mouth close to Alterith’s ear. “I am sorry for this, sir. I’ll go as easy as I can. You’re a good man.”

Alterith tried to count the strokes, but searing pain made him lose all sense of reason. Somewhere during the lashing the leather fell from his mouth, and he began to scream with each stroke. At the end he was hanging by his thin wrists and sobbing like a child.

The guards helped him to his feet. One sponged his back. “Steady yourself now, sir,” the guard said gently. “We’ll not let the air get to the wounds. I’ve sent for some wine and honey. We’ll dab that on.”

Alterith felt humiliated by his screams and tears. “I am not a brave man,” he said. “I’m not good with pain.”

“Don’t you worry about it, sir. There’s all kinds of bravery.
I haven’t the balls to stand in front of the bishop and speak like you have. Don’t talk yourself down.”

The second guard returned and bathed Alterith’s back. The mixture of wine and honey stung at first, but then the pain eased. The first guard helped him put on his shirt and coat.

The sounds of hammering filtered through from beyond the cathedral.

“What is that noise?” asked Alterith.

“They’re building the scaffold and pyre to burn Maev Ring,” said the guard. “We’re told it will be the day after tomorrow at noon.”

Alterith’s head dropped, and he felt close to tears once more. “We’d best be getting back, sir,” said the guard.

“I am so ashamed,” said Alterith.

“No need to be, sir. Most men cry out when the lash strikes.”

“You misunderstand me. I am ashamed of being Varlish.”

Despite the pain from his raw back, Alterith cross-examined each of the prosecution witnesses during the long afternoon and early evening, asking each of them the current state of his businesses and the condition it enjoyed before the arrival of Maev Ring. When faced with prevarication, he produced figures showing the level of tax paid before and after Maev Ring’s involvement.

It was dark, the night wind cold, as he walked back to the lodgings he had taken during the trial. As he had told the doomed Gillam Pearce, there was little chance that his advocacy would sway the judgment panel. Its decision had been made before the first words had been spoken at the trial itself. Even so he had retained the faintest of hopes that decency would prevail. He knew now that this was not so.

There was, he saw now, an institutional evil at work, the might of which could not be overcome. The fat bishop was a corrupt lecher, the abbots at his side career clerics borne upon whichever wind would carry them to comfort and riches. The dread knights of the Sacrifice were killers who hid
behind a shield of apparent sanctity. Yet by far the most depressing aspect for Alterith was the evidence offered by the many witnesses. These were ordinary men fueled only by greed. Where, he wondered, in all of this could he find any indications of Varlish nobility of spirit?

The face of Gillam Pearce appeared in his mind. Yes, he thought. One good man.

He trudged on through the dingy alleyways. His back was a sea of fire, and it was lucky, he thought, that he had no intention of sleeping this night. There was too much to do. He had only one witness on the morrow, but after that he would give his summation. It was mostly written out already in his mind, but he felt it needed more power. He could not sway the panel, but his words, when they reached the authorities in Varingas, must be coherent and compelling.

It was while thinking this that he crossed the last road before the lodging house.

As he did so, two figures emerged from the shadows. One grabbed his arm, and the other cracked a fist into his face. Half-stunned, Alterith Shaddler was hauled from the road and into an alley. The side door of his lodging house was within sight, but there was no light shining above it.

In the moonlight he looked upon the faces of two of the knights of the Sacrifice. The men were not wearing armor now but were dressed in black clothes, more suited, he found himself thinking, to the dark deed they planned.

Alterith was thrown against a wall. Strangely, this dulled the pain from the lashing. Both men had drawn knives.

“You were warned about the evil of your ways,” said the first. “You did not heed the warning. Your fate was in your own hands, and you chose death. Now you will pay for the corruption of your soul.”

“How can you use those words?” asked Alterith, amazed that his voice did not quaver. “Can you really believe that the Source favors murder in alleyways? That he smiles down upon those who kill innocent bootmakers and teachers?”

The man smiled. “The demons may have blessed you with a silver tongue, schoolteacher, but it will avail you nothing. If you speak words of repentance, however, then you will not burn in lakes of hellfire but will be welcomed in paradise.”

“If paradise is filled with the likes of you, then give me hellfire,” said Alterith Shaddler.

The second man sheathed his dagger and pulled an oddly shaped implement from his belt. It looked to Alterith like a pair of tongs except that the ends were curved and sharp. “What is that?” he asked, fear in his voice.

“I promised Sir Gayan I’d bring him your foul tongue,” the man told him. “I would have drawn it out once you were dead, but you need punishing for your insults.”

Alterith felt his legs giving way. The first knight stepped in, grabbing him by the throat and hauling him upright.

“My, my,” came a deep voice, “but you are an unpleasant pair.”

The knight with the tongs spun around. Alterith saw a huge figure standing in the alleyway. He was cloaked and hooded but appeared to be carrying no weapon. “Begone, rascal,” said the knight. “This is no business of yours.”