“On your feet,” Sharryn said, and Nestor perforce was on his feet. “Place your hand again on the staff.”
He cringed. “No, Seer, no, please, no, anything but that.”
Sharryn’s voice cracked like a whip. “Place your hand upon the staff!”
One hand, long-fingered, large-knuckled, heavy, roped with muscle, trembling, reached out and touched wood.
“Why did you kill Nella?” Sharryn said.
He hung his head, less in shame than in remembered pain. “I wanted her.”
Agathi cried out. “No!” Her friend restrained her, but it wasn’t easy. “No, it isn’t true, it can’t be true!”
“I wanted her, and she knew it, and she teased me with her knowledge. She raised her skirt for any young buck in town-”
“NO!” Agathi shrieked.
“Oh, it isn’t true!” Delphine cried.
Elias shook his head violently. Even Deon left off nursing his hand to cry out a denial.
“-why not for me?” Nestor said. “Always in the house, parading around in her underdress, taunting me, tempting me.”
Why does the staff not correct him?
It’s the truth, as he sees it.
“I took her, I admit it. There was no bearing it any longer, she was off to gawk at the young men in the town square that evening. Why them and not me?”
“How did she die?” Sharryn said.
“She fought me,” he said, and bared his chest, revealing a series of dark red scratches and one welt that looked inflicted by teeth. “Look here! She provoked me, she scratched me, she made me bleed! She screamed the whole time, I was afraid someone would hear! I just wanted her to be quiet!” He looked at his hand on the staff. “I just wanted her to be quiet,” he repeated.
There was dead silence in the square.
Sharryn broke it by rising to her feet. She took a deep breath and shook Nestor free of the staff as if she were shaking off a fly. “In the matter before the sitting of this Assideres-”
The Sword began to hum.
“-in the city of Daean on the day of the solstice, this second New Year in the reign of King Loukas the Just, I, Sharryn the Seer, find Nestor the baker of Daean in the province of Kleonea guilty of the wanton rape and murder of his stepdaughter, Nella, by confession out of his own mouth, as attested to by the Staff of Truth.” She stepped back. “Let the Sword of Justice come forth and render judgment.”
Crow moved forward, holding the Sword before her like a banner, as indeed it was, the ensign of her command.
It began to hum.
Nestor scrabbled awkwardly backward on his hands and feet. “No! Keep it away from me! Stop it, stop it, I tell you! She made me do it! I shouldn’t be punished, she made me!” A kick from the crowd sent him back into the circle.
Crow halted at the edge of the platform, the Sword brightening to a silver that seemed almost transparent, the blade reflecting the glitter of the stars and the glow of the torches, the stones on the hilt bright with right and rage. The hum rose to a cold, clear tone that went up and up in pitch and volume. People cried out and covered their eyes and ears. Nestor cowered on the ground, one arm raised in pitiful defense, afraid to look, afraid not to. Zeno and Elias crouched nearby, white-faced and staring. Sharryn and Crowfoot alone remained outwardly unmoved.
When Crowfoot spoke, her voice was as cold as Sharryn’s and as clear as the song of the Sword. “In the name of the Great Charter of Mnemosynea, by the power vested in me by King and mage, let justice be done.”
The glow of the blade increased to a blinding ray of light, spilling out over the heads of the crowd. The song increased in volume to the point of pain, reverberating in ears, teeth, bones, blood.
And then it was gone, and the light with it, and the blade returned to the sheath, a long slide of metal against metal, the hilt meeting the scabbard with a satisfied clank.
“The Sword has spoken,” said Crow. Sharryn moved to stand beside her.
People stood erect again, shaken. They looked at Nestor, still sitting in the dirt. “Oh the gods,” someone said, shock in his voice.
The Sword of Justice had taken Nestor’s hands above the wrists. The stumps of his arms had been neatly sealed, no blood dripping, no bone showing, the skin healed cleanly across. The hands that had strangled the life from the young woman had been the price of their crime. The girl was dead, and her Talent with her. Nestor’s Talent had been in his hands, and now it, too, was gone.
Magic destroyed was a debt owed. And debts to magic must always be paid. It was the First Law, and the most binding of them all.
Nestor stared at the stumps where his hands had been, unbelieving. He would be unable to practice his trade. Never to knead another batch of dough, never to slice fruit for a tart, never to ice cakes, none of it, ever again.
More, he would be unable to wash himself, to clothe himself, to feed himself. Unless he could find someone to perform those tasks for him, banishment and slow starvation were his fate. And with the mark of the Sword burned into his forehead proclaiming his offense for all to see, there would be no succor for him anywhere.
In that moment Nestor himself seemed to realize the depth and breadth of his punishment, and turned mute, pleading eyes to his wife.
Agathi spat in his face, turned her back, and walked away.
So did everyone else.
The square emptied out in groups of five and six. Nestor hunched over his maimed arms and scrabbled away.
“We never do this in moonlight again,” Sharryn said, descending from the platform.
“Agreed,” Crowfoot said, following. “They did warn us.”
“They did. Gods, I need a drink.”
“I know where to find one,” Crow replied.
There was a shy touch at her elbow, and she looked round to see Zeno, awe and gratitude warring for primacy on his young face. “Thank you, Sword. Thank you for saving my friend.” Behind him, Elias bowed.
She managed a brief nod, a rough tousle of Zeno’s hair, and turned for the inn and bed, and no one tried to stay their path.
At least not that night.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Donna Andrews writes two mystery series. You’ve Got Murder (Berkley), featuring artificial intelligence personality Turing Hopper, won the Agatha for best mystery of 2002 and is followed by Click Here for Murder. We’ll Always Have Parrots is the fifth in her multiple-award-winning series from St. Martin ’s, featuring blacksmith Meg Langslow. Visit her website at www.donnaandrews.com.
Michael Armstrong is the author of three science fiction novels, After the Zap, Agviq, and The Hidden War. A staff writer for the Homer News, he has lived in Homer since 1994. When not writing, he hangs around on the beaches of Kachemak Bay. He lives with his wife, Jenny, on Diamond Ridge on the hills above Homer.
Anne Bishop is the award-winning author of the Black Jewels Trilogy, as well as The Invisible Ring, The Pillars of the World, Shadows and Light, and The House of Gaian. Her latest book is a four-story collection set in the Black Jewels world. Visit her website at www.annebishop.com.
Jay Caselberg is an Australian writer based in London whose short fiction has appeared in multiple venues around the world. His first novel, Wyrmhole, came out from Roc Books in October 2003, and the second, Metal Sky, in 2004. Visit his website at www.sff.net/people/jaycaselberg.
Mike Doogan is a columnist for the Anchorage Daily News. His first mystery story, which appeared in The Mysterious North, won the 2003 Robert L. Fish Award from the Mystery Writers of America.