Part 8 (1/2)

”Why, you know that, sir. Ten years, ever since I----”

”Yes, yes, I remember. And you know how hopeless it is to try to deceive the Baron?”

”Yes, sir.” Gerda swallowed painfully.

”But you still insist you had nothing to do with the disappearance of this money?”

Gerda spread his hands. ”I can't understand it, sir. But I had nothing to do with it myself. As I told you, we collected it, listed it, counted it, and I put it in the chest and locked it up.” He shook his head again. ”It's witchcraft, sir.”

The steward leaned back, a slight smile playing about his lips.

”Witchcraft is good enough for serfs,” he said smoothly, ”but you and I are intelligent men. We have had collection money disappear before, many times. Almost always, there has been the cry, 'It's witchcraft!' And always there has been a more simple, worldly explanation.” He snapped his lingers and a page hurried forward.

”A cup of wine,” ordered the steward. ”This questioning is thirsty work.” He faced back to Gerda.

”Always,” he repeated, ”some explanation has been forthcoming. Usually, I have discovered the errant one--with the help of my guards, of course.

And the criminal has been duly punished. But there have been some few occasions when the malefactor was so clever as to force the Baron's intervention.” He paused, leaning forward a little.

”And do you know what happened then?”

Gerda's throat was becoming dry. His mouth opened, but he closed it again.

The page returned, bearing a large cup and a flagon of wine. Carefully, he filled the cup, then set it before the steward, who lifted it to his lips, drank, and set it down with a satisfied sigh.

”Thank you, boy. Here is one thing we can produce well in these mountains.” He wiped his lips and turned his gaze to Gerda again. He shook his head slowly.

”The Baron can detect guilt or innocence in a moment. For a short time, he questioned the persons brought before him. He soon determined the guilty ones, and wrung confessions from their wretched lips. We then took them away, and turned them over to the torturers.” He raised the cup again.

”You know,” he added, ”I'm told that some of them lasted as long as ten full days.” He shook his head. ”I could never understand how the executioners can put up with such noise for so long. But then, I suppose one gets used to most anything.”

He looked toward the door. ”Strange,” he murmured, ”I wonder what's keeping Maro so long.” He clapped his hands sharply once more, and waited.

The page dashed to a door and disappeared within. At last, he came back, holding the door for the leader of the castle guard detachment, who came forward to salute his superior.

”Have you found anything yet?”

”Nothing, sir. We have stripped them, but they have no unusual things about them. And we have questioned them. None will admit to seeing or doing anything other than normal duties.”

The steward sighed. ”Very well. Secure them, then. I'll call for them later.” He stood.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

”Come, Nal Gerda,” he ordered, ”unless you have something further to tell me of this, we must have an audience with the Baron.”

Florel, Baron Bel Menstal, sat at his ease. Before him was a dish of good cakes, beside him, a cup and flagon of good wine. He looked contentedly around the apartment.

For fourteen years now, he had been lord of this castle. And for fourteen years, he had busied himself building his forces and increasing his power and influence in the duchy. He had made himself feared and respected.

During the past several years, his word had been of great weight in the Duke's councils. He was now one of the great barons of the realm. He smiled to himself.