Triplet (39 page)

As it was no doubt meant to be. Scanning the huge room as his flanking guards brought him forward, Ravagin noted with a sinking feeling that what appeared to be the full senior court were also present, including advisors, minor nobles of the protectorate, and even commoner observers. Clearly, Simrahi was determined to start his investigation with all the psychological weight on his side.

Making Ravagin and Danae sweat in the cells beneath the manor house for four hours while the event was being staged hadn't hurt, either.

The stir that had accompanied Ravagin's appearance had died down by the time he finished the long walk to the bar set a few meters before the castle-lord's chair.
Probably staged that, too,
he decided, giving the faces an unobtrusive once-over. The faces stared back, either blankly or with carefully measured hostility. A rubber-stamp crowd, almost certainly—here to applaud the castle-lord's decision.

Which was to be expected from a Shamsheer protectorate, of course; and to some extent it actually made Ravagin's task easier. It meant there was only one man in this entire forbidding crowd whom he had to convince of his innocence.

A bearded advisor type standing beside Simrahi took a pace forward. “The court of Castle-Lord Simrahi is now seated,” he intoned. “The prisoner will first state his name and home.”

So Simrahi wasn't much for flowery pronouncements, despite his fondness for the other trappings of office.
Doesn't want his time wasted unnecessarily?
Ravagin wondered. “I am called Ravagin,” he said, keeping his voice respectful yet firm. “I call no land but Shamsheer my home.”

The advisor wasn't to be put off. “Then state the land and village of your birth,” he said.

“I was born somewhere inside the borders of the Trassp Protectorate, to parents who were also wanderers,” Ravagin replied evenly. It was a story he'd used more than once before, and while a bit unusual it was also almost impossible to disprove. “Whether or not my parents registered my birth I do not know.”

“A convenient tale,” the bearded man said with barely hidden scorn. “And your companion?—does she also have no home?”

“She is a citizen of a small village named Arcadia in the depths of Darcane Forest,” Ravagin said, working hard to keep his voice and expression steady. This one wasn't nearly as safe, but there was little he could do about it. If Simrahi bothered to cross-check with the soldiers who'd stopped them in Ordarl Protectorate he wanted the stories to mesh. At least this one would take time to disprove.

That thought was apparently on the advisor's mind, too. “A forest village far from any place with a crystal eye, ay?” He snorted. “How very convenient.”

“Do you wish convenience or truth?” Ravagin countered. “Convenience would have all justice done away with.”

“You speak of justice, do you?” the other spat. “You, who used black sorcery to defy the laws of magic and of the Castle-Lord Simrahi's realm?”

“I've already told the guards and the cell-wardens that the behavior of that sky-plane was no doing of mine,” Ravagin said, letting some heat creep into his voice.

“A story as totally without proof as that of your origin,” the other said.

“But equally true,” Ravagin shot back. “If you prefer another explanation, perhaps you can explain to the castle-lord and the assembled court why I chose to use these alleged powers to enter his manor house in the clear light of day. And why I would exhibit such power and cleverness and yet fail to damage either him or his household.”

“The burden of proof is not upon the castle-lord—”

“Enough,” Simrahi said quietly.

The other bowed and stepped back into his place in line, where he glowered silently. Ravagin shifted his attention to the castle-lord, found him staring thoughtfully back. “You speak as one accustomed to courts and the presence of the lords of Shamsheer,” he said, his voice smooth and cultured. “That by itself sets you apart from the common man of Shamsheer. And I will further admit your tale has much to commend it. Tell me, would it stand equally well against the scrutiny of my crystal eye?”

Ravagin felt his stomach muscles tighten. No, it damn well wouldn't, at least not if Simrahi was willing to put forth enough effort to really dig into it. “Of course it would, my lord. My companion and I have nothing to hide.”

The other's thoughtful expression didn't change. “Of course not. Tell me, Ravagin, what is your profession?”

“I deliver private messages,” Ravagin told him. “Those who wish to send such communications may hire me to travel the long distances—”

“Such as between traitors among my kitchen servitors and their allies outside?” Simrahi barked.

Ravagin blinked, thrown off balance by both the question and Simrahi's sudden change. “No, of course not, my lord.”

“Then tell me why you used your black arts to bring your sky-plane into my house!” he thundered.

“My lord—” Ravagin spread his hands out helplessly. “I tell you again, it was none of my doing.”

Beside the castle-lord, a hard-looking man in the tunic of a guard officer cleared his throat. “My lord,” he said quietly, “even if there was such a message, he could hardly have drawn more attention to himself this way. Would he not have done better to wait until the day was fully born and then to arrive by horse or sky-plane in a lawful manner?”

“Perhaps.” Simrahi's voice was controlled again, but his eyes still smoldered. “Perhaps this was simply part of the plot, though. Perhaps the black sorcerer's arrival was the signal to act—and what better way for the news to be spread quickly to any and all conspirators throughout the protectorate?” He glared up at the guard officer, then turned his eyes back to Ravagin. “You see, my innocent traveler, there is much about yourself you have failed to mention,” he said, his voice calm but with an edge of iron to it. “I have spent part of the past few hours in the Shrine of Knowledge, seeking information of you through the crystal eye. Shall I tell the court that you were detained in Ordarl Protectorate less than a month ago on suspicion of being a black sorcerer?—and with the same companion that you travel with now, who claimed then to be on her way home? Or that you and this same companion attacked three men in Kelaine City shortly before that with weapons that bordered on the black arts? Or that the sky-plane you
claim
you were innocently riding had in fact come directly from the Dark Tower near Missia City?—which no normal person has ever entered?”

Ravagin had to work to get moisture back into his mouth. “My lord … all of those seemingly bizarre events can indeed be explained. The incident in Kelaine City—”

“Enough.”

Ravagin swallowed hard. Simrahi's voice, barely louder than a purr, was infinitely more frightening than even his earlier shouting had been. It was the voice of a man who had already made his decision.

“You are accused of being a black sorcerer,” Simrahi continued in the same soft voice, “possibly in league with forces attempting to overthrow my rule. In any case, you are a threat and a danger to the Numant Protectorate, and indeed all of Shamsheer, and you will remain in the cells of Castle Numanteal until I decide how to deal with you.”

He rose to his feet, the signal that the hearing was over. The guards on either side of him took Ravagin's arms—“My lord!” he called over the buzz of conversation that had begun. “What about my companion? Surely she is blameless and can be released—”

“Your companion will remain in the cells with you,” Simrahi said. “She who has shared in your activities will surely share in their consequences.”

“But—”

“For that matter, I have not yet determined which of you is the actual wielder of the black sorcery.” Simrahi shifted his eyes to Ravagin's guards. “Remove him.”

They did so, none too gently. Apparently, Ravagin realized dimly as the blows began to fall about his face, speaking to a castle-lord out of turn was frowned upon.

“T
HERE,” DANAE SAID, WRINGING
out her cloth one final time into the cell's small washbasin. “How does that feel?”

“Probably about like it looks,” Ravagin grunted, giving his fingertips a gingerly tour of his face. The largest cuts were still oozing blood; the bruises felt like they would like to.

“That bad, huh?” An attempt at a smile played briefly around Danae's lips as she came over and knelt down in front of the cot where he was half lying, half slouching. But even a show of humor was clearly too much of an effort, and the smile vanished quickly into the fear and tension lines that had been there since his unceremonious arrival back at the cell. “You
don't
look very good,” she admitted. “I wish there was some way we could get you into the House of Healing and let a Dreya's Womb check you over.”

“Fat chance,” Ravagin said, peering at the traces of blood on his fingers before wiping them on his pants. “Unless you can convince someone that I'm going to die of infection before they get the chance to execute me.”

“I wish you wouldn't talk like that,” she said, her voice trembling. “It scares me.”

He sighed; but she was right. There was no point in tearing down what little morale they had left. “Sorry,” he apologized. “Look, my natural pessimism notwithstanding, there really
is
a chance that Simrahi will eventually let us go. Provided I can prove we are not involved either in black sorcery or any conspiracy his fevered mind has cooked up.”

Danae licked her lips, her eyes flicking toward the massive door. “Perhaps you shouldn't, uh …”

“Insult the castle-lord in the hearing of his faithful cell-wardens?” Ravagin snorted. She was right, of course—the only reason for them to have been put into a common cell was in hopes that hidden listeners would glean something useful from their conversation. But for the moment he didn't give a damn about what anyone heard—or even what they made of it. Keeping Danae where he could watch over her was the all-important consideration now, and as long as they kept talking chances were fair that the cell-wardens would leave them together. “I don't care what they think, frankly. If he really believes someone's out to overthrow him he ought to be locked up in a Dreya's Womb under heavy sedation. Period.”

“Why is it so hard to believe?” Danae demanded, eyes glinting with a spark of her old fire. “Palace revolutions are a great human tradition.”

“Sure, but seldom work unless you can subvert or outfight the castle-lord's personal bodyguard. In this case, you can't.”

“Why—? Oh. Trolls?”

“You got it. A special cadre of them, programmed directly to the castle-lord's personal defense.”

“Yes, but … there has to be a way to reprogram them. When the old castle-lord turns over control to his successor, for instance.”

Ravagin shrugged, wincing as the movement sent a flash of pain up his side where one of the guards had kicked him. “I'm sure there is,” he said, rubbing the spot carefully. “But I can practically guarantee that however it works you have to either
be
the outgoing castle-lord or else have free access to the castle-lord's private rooms to do it. There would be a whole layer cake of safeguards built in to keep anyone else from doing it.”

“Like the safeguards built into sky-planes that keep them out of buildings?” Danae asked pointedly.

Ravagin gritted his teeth. “Damn. Yeah, just about exactly like that.”

For a long moment there was silence. Then Danae stirred, looking down at the wet cloth still in her hand as if seeing it for the first time. Standing up again, she laid the cloth carefully over the edge of the sink. “Do you suppose,” she said slowly, “that that's how they're planning to go about it? To cause or help with revolutions?”

Ravagin pursed his lips. “No, I don't think so. It would require them to work through people again—conspirators or whoever. Aside from the obvious difficulties they'd have in recruiting such a group, I doubt they really want to bother with people more than they absolutely have to. No, I think they came up with this sky-plane trick solely to get us in trouble with a castle-lord and just happened to find one who was certifiably paranoid already. An extra bonus.” He shook his head. “The really frightening thing is how fast they're learning how to do combat on this side of the Tunnel. The head-on approach—with the bewitched trolls—didn't work, and they immediately switched to using the technology in a more indirect way, to try to burn us to death. When that one sank, too, they did an almost complete about-face and decided that the best ones to deal with humans were other humans. Ergo, they drop us in Castle Numanteal in a way guaranteed to scare the bejabbers out of the locals.”

“You can call it intelligence if you want; I call it dumb luck,” Danae said. Turning away from the basin, she stepped back over to him. Her eyes met his for a second, and with just the barest hesitation she lay down on the cot beside him, facing into his chest and pillowing her head on his left upper arm. “It seems to me that they're just flailing around and happened to get lucky.”

Ravagin eased his left arm around her shoulder, pulling her comfortably against him. “Why do you say that?” he asked.
Keep her talking,
a small voice whispered inside his brain.
Keep her arguing; it'll help distract her from the mess you're in. …

“Because they continue to do stupid things. Look at the trolls—they lost control of the things in a simple fight and couldn't figure out how to get it back. And at the way house they never even got around to shutting off the water to the shower.”

Ravagin frowned. Now that she mentioned it, that
did
seem rather odd. The climate control electronics the spirits had overloaded
were
supposed to handle the water system, too. “You're sure that wasn't just so you would stay in the shower until the fire got going?”