After a further wait, three rangers on horses cantered out from between the trees. After talk between them and the one on the elephant, the latter spoke to his mahout, and the elephant started off into the forest. Jorian could hear the ranger's voice, fading with distance:
"… the unicorn is an animal of solitary habits, keeping company with another of its kind only at the mating season…"
Of the three newly arrived rangers, two bore crossbows. The third, who appeared to be in command, said: "Come down now, poachers. But think not to run off through the woods, unless you crave a bolt in the brisket."
"May we gather our belongings, pray?" said Jorian, reaching the ground.
"Aye, but be quick about it!"
Half an hour later, Jorian and Karadur arrived at the park entrance. Some of their belongings, such as Jorian's set of small cooking utensils, had been smashed beyond repair. The rest were rolled up in blankets, which they bore on their backs like refugees.
Another elephant was being prepared for a sightseeing trip. It lay on its belly, and the next batch of sightseers was climbing a ladder placed against its side to take their places on its back. Several more of the animals were tethered to stakes in a row, rhythmically swaying and stuffing greenery into their mouths.
The two travelers were surrounded by rangers, disarmed, and hustled into a small detention room. "Here you shall wait, poachers," a ranger said, "until Ranger Ferrex returns from his tour."
The door was slammed and bolted on the outside. A bench was the only furniture; the only light came from a little window high up, about a handspan square.
"Now I know how your King Fusinian felt when none would listen to his rational explanation," said Karadur. "Could you open the door with your picklocks?"
"If it were closed by a proper lock, yea; but my little teasers were useless against bolts."
During the wait, Jorian relieved his boredom by composing a poem on their latest misadventure. The first stanza ran:
Jorian had reached the fifth stanza when the door opened. Ranger Ferrex beckoned. "Come, poachers!"
They were handcuffed together, taken to a wagon with seats, and loaded aboard with their gear. Ranger Ferrex got in and sat facing them. The driver whipped up the horses. The wagon rattled over the dirt road for an hour, passing fields and villages, until Othomae City appeared on the horizon.
On the way, Jorian and Karadur conversed in Mulvanian. This made Ferrex scowl, but he did not try to stop them. They agreed that Jorian might as well give his true name, since he wanted to get in touch with people he knew.
At the jailhouse, the ranger told his story to the magistrate, Judge Flollo, and Jorian repeated the tale he had told the ranger. The magistrate said:
"I cannot let you out on bail, since as foreigners you have no local ties to assure your appearance for trial. You profess to have used sorcery to come hither; but if you be sorcerers, you could summon another demon or work a spell with your sorcerous implements and escape."
"But Your Honor!" protested Jorian. "If we be sorcerers, then our tale is proven true. Hence we cannot be poachers."
"Nought hinders a sorcerer from trying his hand at poaching, if that be his bent." The magistrate hefted Jorian's purse and poured out its load of coins. "A veritable fortune! Whence got you this money? Have you robbed a royal treasury?"
"Not robbed, Your Honor. It's a long story. As you see, the coins are of the Kingdom of Penembei, where I was employed to repair the clocks in the tower—"
"Never mind. The money shall be sequestered and returned to you, minus the cost of your prison victuals, when and if you are acquitted of the charge of poaching."
"But, Your Honor, if I be so well provided, I had no need to sit out in the rain all night in hope of snaring a hare. Let me tell you how—"
"I cannot take time to hear your tale, prisoner; I have many more cases to decide. Your presence unescorted in the park is prima facie evidence of wrongdoing; so whether your story be true or false will be for the trial judge to decide. Take them away, bailiff."
"Come, you two," said a heavyset, scar-faced man in a shabby black uniform. Jorian and Karadur were led down a corridor to another cell. This, Jorian found, had a single, heavily barred window, high up. As the bailiff closed the door, he said: "Did I hear you give your name as Jorian of Ardamai?"
"Aye. What about it?"
"Do ye not recall a fellow soldier named Malgo?"
"Yea, now that you mention it." Jorian looked sharply at the bailiff. "By Imbal's iron yard, methinks I see my old comrade-in-arms!"
"Comrade, hell!" snorted Malgo. "Ye be the bastard who gave me a beating. And now I have you where I want you! Ye'll be sorry ye ever laid a finger on me!"
"But that was seven years ago—" began Jorian. Malgo walked heavily away, paying no attention.
"What was all that?" asked Karadur.
"When Malgo and I were recruits in the Grand Bastard's army, Malgo was the company bully. He made life especially hard for one lad who, whatever he was good for, was not cut out for a soldier. He was a spindly little whelp and awkward, forever stepping off on the wrong foot or dropping his pike. So Malgo took delight in tormenting him.
"One day I found the lad backed into a corner, while Malgo poked, pinched, and otherwise mistreated him, all the while telling him how worthless he was. I suspected that Malgo had made certain demands of the youth and had been denied. Thinking it time for Malgo to receive a dose of his own physic, I hauled him round and gave him a drubbing. I got a bloody nose and a black eye, but you should have seen him!"
"All very gallant," said Karadur, "but it redounds not to our advantage now. Would we had used one of your pseudonyms, such as—what did you call yourself when you first fled hither from Xylar?"
"Nikko of Kortoli. You may be right, but it's too late now."
During the following days, Bailiff Malgo, while careful to keep out of Jorian's reach, found ingenious ways to torment the prisoners. He made sure that their food ration was but half that of the other prisoners, and consisted of the least edible parts of the day's serving. The food was delivered by Malgo's assistant, a huge, half-witted youth with a vacant smile.
When Jorian demanded to see the magistrate to complain, Malgo said he would carry the message. Soon he came back, saying that the magistrate refused. Jorian suspected that the message had never been delivered.
When Jorian asked for water, Malgo fetched a cup, then poured it on the floor outside the cell, laughing.
Jorian asked for writing materials, to send a note to Doctor Gwiderius and another to the wizardess Goania. Malgo furnished paper and pen. When Jorian had written the notes and handed them through the bars, Malgo tore them up, laughing.
Malgo refused to let his helper take out and empty the commode, so that the cell came to stink. The stench attracted swarms of flies. Malgo sometimes stood in the hall outside, laughing at the prisoners' efforts to slap the pests. "Let's hope this lasts not till next summer's heat," grumbled Jorian.
At last Jorian said: "Holy Father, can't you work up a spell to get us out of here?" •
"Nay, my son. The little spells I could perform without my paraphernalia would accomplish nought. Besides, I sense that a contraspell has already been laid about this edifice, so that none of my spells would succeed. How about your picklocks? The locks on these cells, meseems, are of the sort for which they are suited."