He turned to the other old man, handed him back the papers, and said, “She is now yours, Master Lokos.”
At this, Djoy broke her long silence, speaking out in her fractured Ehleeneekos, “Now just a dang minit, Jedge Gahbros. I’m out a hunderd silver thrahkmehs for her, not to mention what them clothes she’s wearing costed. It ain’ right I be robbed thisaway.”
The hunter growled audibly and grasped the hilt of his hanger, but the tall jurist waved him to keep his place.
Glowering at the fat woman, Gahbros snapped, “Mistress, you were well advised to hold your peace. I have a statement here that you bought a free woman. That statement is witnessed by the Komees Pehtros and by a respected craftsman, Master Lokos. Now, before those witnesses, you have just admitted to that crime.”
“Mistress, do you know the penalties for buying or selling free men and women within this Confederation? The very minimum sentence you might expect on such charges would be ten years of hard labor—in the mines, perhaps, or building fortresses in the mountains on the frontier—plus forfeiture of all lands and possessions. If you are guilty, as I suspect, of more than one purchase of free women, then the sentence would be death by impalement … on a short, thick stake, at that.”
Djoy shuddered, her gross rolls of flesh rippling with the involuntary movement. She was unable to wrest her eyes from the piercing black ones of the grave, old judge, but it was not those eyes her mind saw. She had seen impalements before. The long stake—sometimes of a tough hardwood, sometimes of iron, dully pointed, five or six feet long and usually about two inches wide below the point—was a gruesome death, with the point jammed forcefully into the rectum and the body’s own weight pulling it down the tapering, blood-slimy shaft until the point burst the screaming victim’s heart; sometimes the point missed the heart and the suffering wretch choked to death on the blood gushing up from torn lungs.
The more bloodthirsty Middle Kingdoms burk lords occasionally used the long stake to execute rebellious peasants or bandits. But the short stake was reserved for only the most heinous of crimes—high treason or crimes against the Sword Council. Short stakes were invariably of wood and were made to order, no higher than the victim’s navel, and the point was rounded and sanded smooth so as to slowly rend and tear rather than quickly pierce guts and organs; from the usual two inches below the tip, short stakes tapered to six inches or more at ground level. Sometimes the victim’s wrists were chained to a ring about his neck or waist, his legs wrenched apart and he was jammed down onto the stake. Djoy had seen strong men live for an hour or more in shrieking torment, first on their tiptoes, then on their heels, before agony and loss of blood made them too weak to stand, and even then, immediate death and surcease from pain were not certain, for the falling body might tip backward and the point of the stake tear up through the belly and out below the ribs.
At a brief hearing a few days later, Neeka was officially declared blameless in the death of Guardsman Loo Fahlkop, since the deceased had kidnapped her, robbed her and injured her and was attempting to ravish her when his fatal injuries were sustained. Her Ehleen attorney immediately demanded return of her silver ring, the value of her clothing and the sum of five hundred silver thrahkmehee as suffering price, the last to be collected from the estate of the dead guardsman and from his two living accomplices.
“That will be, counselor, from two estates and one living guardsman,” remarked Judge Gahbros, dryly. “Guards Corporal Lyl Ahnyel showed the discourtesy of dying while being … ahhh, questioned about his part in the incident. But this court feels that it is unreasonable to expect that all the worldly possessions of any six guardsmen, much less a mere three, would total a value of five hundred thrahkmehee. So let us be realistic and set suffering price at half that figure, eh?”
Eventually, Neeka received one hundred and eighty-seven thrahkmehee and her silver ring.
At her worktable, Neeka chose a stone mortar and began to compound an herbal decoction to relieve the cramps and usual discomforts of Treena Sanderz’s moon-sickness. Since she habitually kept her equipment and ingredients in meticulous order, she moved quickly and surely.
“Order,” dear Lokos had told her so many times. “Order and neatness are the elements of success in our craft, and they are the salvation of those sufferers for whom we labor.”
She recalled how the quick, spry old man would take a pinch of crushed, dried herbs between thumb and forefinger of each hand and extend them for inspection by a new apprentice, prospective client or casual visitor. “Observe, two pinches of herbs. They appear identical, eh? If you steep this pinch in a brandy-cup measure of boiling water until the water colors, then strain it, stir in a dollop of honey and drink it down, it will cure your headache. Yet do the same thing with this other pinch … and you’ll be dead in an hour!”
“How?” She put her weight on the pestle and ground viciously. “How did I, carefully and so patiently trained by Lokos to heal the sick and ease the sufferings of the hurt, get myself into this nasty business of killing old men with slow poison and young ones with quick poison?”
Her line of thought was interrupted by a forceful knock upon her door. Since her present task was in no way dishonorable to her mind or harmful to anyone, she said loudly, “Ehrkohmai.” Then she completed her compounding before she turned.
Expecting her visitor to be the Thoheekeesa Mehleena, a servant or, perhaps, Lady Treena in a hurry for her medicine as she was in a hurry for most things, Neeka was taken aback to see the richly robed Zahrtohgan physician, Master Fahreed, standing just inside the closed door. From his dark fingers dangled a slender golden chain, from which depended a lovely crystal prism. The prism caught the light, threw off shafts of it. Neeka thought it the most beautiful thing she ever had seen … and she could not seem to take her eyes from off it.
She did not see any movement of those night-dark fingers, but suddenly the prism was moving, spinning, spinning, faster, faster, and her eyes could only follow the spinning light. And she was so tired, so very tired and sleepy. Her eyelids weighed so heavily, so heavily …
12
Arhkeethoheeks Sir Bili Morguhn of Morguhn strode out of the main entry of Morguhn New Hall; his three-quarter plate clashed and clanked as he descended the broad steps to the stone-paved courtyard. Softly nickering a greeting, the black warhorse, Mahvros IV, paced to greet his brother, Bili. After patting the big horse’s mailed cheek, the old nobleman buckled his cased axe in its place on the off withers, then came back to the near side and mounted.
To flourishing trumpets, Sir Bili led his two-score Freefighter dragoons down the hill toward the ford and the road to Vawn. At the foot of the hill, two noble officers joined the head of the column and another standard bearer—this one bearing a sky-blue standard on which was embroidered, in white and gold, the White Hawk of Vawn-Sanderz took his place beside him who bore the famous Red Eagle of Morguhn. Behind the Morguhn Freefighters, one hundred Ruby Company lancers joined the column, their long, deep-red pennons fluttering on a stiff breeze, the steel points of the polished ash shafts glittering in the sun.
From atop the gatehouse tower, Djehf Morguhn watched the departing column until the dust and the rolling landscape had swallowed them up. Then he turned his attention to the camp at the base of the hill, now a howling chaos as the remainder of the Ruby Company struck tents, loaded wagons, hitched teams and otherwise prepared to set out on the trail heading to Vawn.