"But I'm the only one who can see these sights! I'm hallucinating." Rod spooned up the stew, held it to his lips, then shook his head at the notion. "No, that's impossible, Granny Ban! Hallucinations that other people can see, too? How could that be?"
"Art thou not a warlock, sir? Canst thou not send thy thoughts into others' minds?"
"Well, yeah, but… No, doggone it! My wife and kids would have picked up on it, and they didn't see anything!"
"Well, belike 'tis some other work of thine enemies," Granny Ban soothed; but Rod froze at the first-taste of the stew. She had almost managed it, had almost distracted him enough for him to eat the stew without noticing the oddness, the strange quality of its flavor…
Paranoia, the objective part of his mind said, so he knew he should hold off, should insist on proof…
But she was watching him closely, much too closely, too intently, so he said, "Your stew certainly has a unique taste, Granny Ban. Is there some secret herb you use?"
She smiled as though she were flattered, but her eyes were wary—or was that just his imagination, now? "Scarcely secret, sir—only herbs that any wife may find in the forest. Though I will own, not many have my trick of blending them."
It was the word "trick" that really sent the alarm bells clanging in Rod's head. "Odd word for it. Certainly a secret blend, wouldn't you say?"
"Well… aye…"
"And a secret blend of herbs betokens a lot of experience with them." Rod lurched to his feet, bumping the table out of the way. He could have sworn that the mere aroma of the stew was making him light-headed. "That door, Granny—this is a very small cottage. What's so important that you'd go to the trouble of putting up an inside wall, even putting in a door?"
"Naught, sir!" She caught at his arm, trying to hold him back. " 'Tis naught but my storeroom, my pantry! Oh, sir, wherefore waste the fire's heat on those things that are only stored away?"
She ended in a wail, as Rod thrust the door open.
For a moment, the objects inside seemed to flux and flow; then his eyes adjusted, and the light from the fire behind him showed bunches of dried grasses and plants hanging from the rafters. Below them stood row upon row of earthenware jars, each with its pictograph, characters whose meanings he was sure were known only to Granny Ban—and, below them, a long worktable, cluttered with a mortar and pestle, a small brazier and tripod, breakers, bowls, and a pint-sized cauldron; even—yes, primitive, but definitely there—an alembic and a distilling tube.
"A stillery," he said. "A complete, thorough, very well equipped stillery."
" Tis but for aid of the poor village folk, sir," she wailed. "Oh, have pity! I know not the brewing of any potions that might bring harm!"
Rod gave her a look that had been stored in dry ice. "There, you lie—for no one can learn many medicines that will help people, without learning a few that will cure in small doses, and kill in large doses."
"Oh, never would I abuse such knowledge, sir! Never have I given man or woman any dose that might bring harm!"
But a glint caught Rod's eye. "You haven't, hm?" He stepped over to the corner, wishing for light—and a torch was there in his left hand, glittering on the gold coins visible through the open top of the bag. He pulled at it, letting the coins run through his fingers, then looked up and saw the small chest, lid open, showing pearls and rubies among more gold and silver. Odd that he hadn't noticed it before. "Doing rather well for yourself, aren't you, Granny?"
"Nay, sir! I only hold these goods in trust for a traveler, whose donkey hath taken ill!"
"The traveler took ill, you mean—very ill, once he'd tasted your stew. How often have you pulled that trick with the oak tree, Granny? How did you work it—witch-moss? Telekinesis? How many gallant young men have you murdered, for no worse sin than seeking to help an old lady?"
"None, sir! Oh, none! Nay, never have I slain! Only robbed, sir, that is all—only taken their purses!"
"And those of their wives, to judge by this haul. What was in the stew, Granny? Belladonna? Angel-of-Death? Deadly nightshade?"
"Poppy, sir! Only the juice of the poppy! Ah, sir, never did I seek to slay!"
"No? Then why didn't your victims come back for their valuables once the drug had worn off?" He whirled, drawing his sword. "Here's a quicker death, Granny, and a cleaner!"
"Nay, thou wouldst not!" she howled, shrinking away from the point—but the wall was at her back, and she dared not move, staring fascinated at the blade. "Not a poor widow-woman, sir, with none to defend her! Thou couldst not lack honor so!"
"Honor doesn't mean that much to me. Justice does."
No, Rod!
It was Fess's voice, inside his head—and Granny Ban, staring in horror over the sword at him, couldn't hear a whisper. Rod frowned. "You're the sort that FESSters in this wood."
Thank you for responding. I confess to eavesdropping, Rod. I have been concerned for you.
"Concern is a good thing. Betrayal is not."
"I have never betrayed any, sir!" Granny Ban wailed.
Nor have I, Rod. But think—justice requires proof.
"Gold coins in a peasant hut? That pile of loot is all the proof I need!"
"Sir, 'twas only a fee," she howled, "a fee for a task I shunned, yet had no choice in!"
Gold coins might indeed be proof of something, Rod—if they are truly there.
Rod hesitated. Had he really seen gold coins? Or had his mind manufactured them, out of a few pennies?
For that matter, was this stillery really here? Was this cottage? For all he knew, he might be talking to a crazed old lady in a hovel, guilty of nothing but talking too much.
He lowered his sword. "No, I won't kill you, Granny."
The old woman sagged with relief, and Fess's voice said, / commend the wisdom of your decision, Rod.
"Oh, bless thee, sir!" Granny Ban blubbered.
"Don't bother—because I am going to leave you bound hand and foot. Go lie down on your bed."
The old woman stiffened, appalled. "Nay, sir! Slay me, rather—for I'd liefer a quick death than die of starvation and thirst!"
"You won't starve, though you might get a little chilly— I'll send word to the shire-reeve, at the next village I come to. Tell him how saintly you are! Go on, now, lie down— and you'd better pull up your blankets, too. I'll leave more wood on the fire, but it might take the reeve's men a while to get here."
A few minutes later, he stepped out the cottage door, closed it firmly behind him, and wrapped his cloak about him again. "Fess?"
"Here, Rod." A darker shape detached itself from the shadows among the trees.
"Thanks for interfering," Rod said grudgingly. "You may have just saved me from committing a heinous crime."
"It is ever my honor to serve you, Rod. Still, may I suggest that you do indeed summon the authorities as quickly as possible? I have seen a keeper's cottage not far from here."
Rod nodded. "Yeah, good idea. He'll know Granny Ban personally, I'll bet, and will know whether she's a candidate for the stocks, or for the gallows."
"An excellent point. Shall we seek him, then?"
Rod frowned up at the horse, weighing trust against suspicion.
Then he nodded again, and slogged through the snow to mount the steel steed. "Sorry I doubted you, old retainer. Things don't always seem what they are any more."
"Yes, Rod. Trust is difficult when you cannot be sure of the validity of your perceptions."
"True. But that's what logic is for, isn't it? To discover which perceptions are real, and which aren't."