"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.
Chapter 37
"There," 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."