THE MERIT OF ONE GOLD PIECE

THE MERIT ONE GOLD PIECE, by Dave D’Alessio

 

He was an old man of perhaps fifty years, and his four teeth stank of cardamom. “Beatricsh iss me daughter,” he said. “She’ss not a witch.”

“She failed the test, old man.” The sheriff pushed her in the millpond and she rose to the top, all the proof the law required. They were to burn her on the morrow, as Mother Sulin’s Eye rose above the foothills to the east, a day less two hours from now.

The old man looked at the wood-plank floor of the inn. He fumbled with a gray cap in his hands, as though I was his landlord and not a penniless sell-sword. “She’ss just me little gel,” he muttered. “I kin pay thee.”

My hand felt my purse. It had felt better, but so long ago I could scarce remember it. The two coppers at the bottom had rubbed together for weeks but not born children. “One gold piece, proof or none, is my price,” I said.

The knuckles of his gnarled hands grew white as he clutched his poor cap. “A gold if ye bring the proof in time. Two shilverss if ye do not.”

I weighed the costs. “Aye.”

 

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Two silvers. I could drink down my coppers today, say I had found nought, and be enriched on the morrow. But two things stayed me. There was the fact that a gold piece was worth a dozen of silver. And there was the look on the maid’s face when she was pronounced a witch. She knew nought of it, ‘less she was a finer actor than any as had graced our town.

In all the worlds, Upper, Lower, and Middle, there were but two who knew of certain who was a witch and who was not. There was the maid herself, but her word was no proof.

The other was Bruha Heks, the demon Prince of Lies. It was Bruha Heks who kept the list of True Names, and on it the maid’s name was written or not.

 

###

 

In my hut I draped mail, battered and badly mended, across my shoulders. It would not stop a bodkin arrow, but it was good iron and proof against some magics, at least. I drew gauntlets over my hands and a coif over my head.

Around my neck I hung the amulet I took from the body of the Traveler’s Kin. If it was no more than a shapeless chunk of bronze anointed with bird droppings, I was no worse off with it than without.

I strapped my sword to my side. It was short and blunt, its edge much notched. It was a killing weapon, fit for back alleys and duels with cutpurses, not the stinking glory of battlefields. My pouch I had, and my boots as well. It was what I had and so must do.

Outside was the sheriff, Bertram Hartshorn he was called. He was short and dark, the sable stole across his shoulders worth thrice the old man’s gold piece, his fine sword ten of mine. “I heard you are taking up for the witch,” he said. “Go back inside, John Lack-Linen. She’s no business of yours.”

“It is business that calls me forth,” I said. “I want the old man’s gold and I will have it.”

I made to push past him, for I had miles to walk that day, but he put his hard hand on my shoulder. “The wench goes to the pyre on the morrow. Justice must be final, John.”

I hated the sheriff and he I, but for all that he would be fair, which I grant freely. “The morrow brings as it does,” I said and pushed past him.

“Go, then,” he called after me. “Waste your time. She’s a witch, fool.”

 

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If I meant to face the demon prince on his throne below and yet return to our Middle world, I had but two paths open, and of the two I chose the slower but least dire.

To walk that course I needed to see a man about an elf. The man was called Young Rulf and had been for all my life. He was a charcoal burner, and where the forests were darkest his living was easiest.

It was for that reason I sought him. In the darks and the deeps he knew the fell creatures, the elves, the trolls, the ogres, and worse. I will not say he befriended them, for they would have no friends among men. But he was known to them, and they to he.

He would not wish to tell me how to find the hall of the elves. His silence was part of their compact, would keep men from hunting them down and warring on them. I, too, would keep their secrets, for the elves served the demons. The Elf King would know the way of finding of Prince Bruha Heks, and he would tell me nought if I was not vowed to silence.

Lady Sulin’s Eye was already two hands past when I found I found Rulf’s kiln. It stood as high as a man, circled eight strides or more, and was covered with sod and chinked with mud to keep the wind out. Freshly hewn stumps surround it, for the burner comes to the wood and not the wood to the burner. Young Rulf’s kiln smoked clean and blue, for he knew his business well. He scowled at me, eyes red from smoke and hollow with sleeplessness.

“I’ll not waste your time,” I said. “Show me to the elves of the deep wood, and I’ll be away.”

He spat, spittle black as soot. “I know not of such as those. Be off,” he lied.

Time for untruths I did not have. I chose not to argue, for words are feeble reeds. I drew my sword and thrust it into the kiln, twisting it to open a hole the size of my fist.

“Here, now!” He pulled at my arm.

I pushed him away and stabbed again. Too much air inside would burn the wood fully to ash, and Young Rulf would lose all value from it. “The elves,” I said and thrust once more.

Smoke from the kiln darkened as the wood inside began to burn rather than char. Young Rulf tried to patch the holes with handfuls of sod, but I shoved him back again. “The elves,” I said.

The smith would pay a dozen pennies for a cart of charcoal. Young Rulf looked as though he could see those pennies burning along with his kiln. “North,” he shouted. “North below the great hollow.”

I let him at his kiln and he scrambled to fill the holes in it. He swore at me and called curses down onto my soul, but they did not concern me, for one cannot blacken that which is already ebon.

The great hollow. I knew where it was. It would be another long hike, I was already weary, and Mother Sulin’s Eye was sinking lower by the hour.

 

###

 

I was a sell-sword, no woodsman, no, but it took no woodsman to know Young Rulf had answered me with treachery. In the great hollow I heard a rustle in the underbrush and whiffed rotten meat. I drew my sword and backed slowly into a tree’s trunk, to have it guard my back.

A boar, red-eyed and snorting, broke from the brush and stared at me, eyes ablaze with fury. He looked to weigh ten stone or more, and if his toothed snout reached my thighs or groin I would not leave these woods again.

The boar charged, head down to bring his tusks to the fore.

I stood my ground, both hands on the hilt of my sword. The point needed stay between the boar and my body, or it would be the end of me, and my soul would fly off to its foul end.

At the last moment he veered, wise to my trick, but I was wise to his as well. As he tried to circle me, to find my tendons with his tusks, I stabbed deep into his side, driving the sword forward with all my weight as I tried to cut through muscle and rib and into vitals.

He screamed as only pigs and their kin can, and twisted, maddened by pain, striving to reach me as the steel sank deeper into his body. I held tight, for if he wrenched the sword from my hand, he would finish me before his wound finished him.

Blood sprayed from his wound, fountained across the brush and spattered my mail as the life ran out of him. Still, I did not withdraw my sword until I could see his breath stopped and the mad gleam in his eye gone.

I cursed Young Rulf, his parents, and their parents before them. But I meant to curse myself. I had thought to choose the path of safety and chosen poorly. No doubt Young Rulf had seen the boar and thought to be rid of me and perhaps the boar as well. It was a betrayal I would not forget, but I had much to do ‘ere I saw him next.

With the walking and the fighting Mother Sulin’s eye was less than a hand above the hilltops.

I should have gone back. I should have spent my coppers on ale or winter wine and taken the farmer’s silver. I should have if I possessed all my wits.

I thought on it, long minutes I did not have.

I did not go back.

There was yet the second way to find the elves. It would be a cast of the die, would leave me facing my next test with no strength left. But find the elves I must, and to find the elves I needed the eyes and feet of another, or perhaps eyes and wings.

I followed my ear toward the sound of a grackle’s whistle. I moved silently, to not startle the bird.

When I had drawn near I set a snare, baited it with parched corn, and hid in the underbrush. I waited for the bird. To wait, watching shadows growing long, was a burden to bear, but waiting was needed and so I did.

A grackle lit, large and male. He whistled shrilly, and I could hear an answer from further uphill. He hopped toward the corn.

The snare tightened around his claw, and he shrieked and thrashed.

I chewed a sorrel leaf and muttered words of power. I was no mage, no scholar with a nose full of the dust of old books. But I was also no fool, so I learnt spells of minor magic, of the starting of fire, and the finding of tricks and traps. And I learnt the way of having speech with beasts, for if I was to gain answers I must ask questions.

I disliked to do it. Yes, the making of the spell was known to me, but magic was not an art I held much skill with, and the doing of it would leave me weak-kneed.

As the spell took hold, it drew from my strength. My shoulders drooped under my mail and my legs grew tired, but the grackle’s whistling came to me as speech. “My foot! My foot!” he cried. “I’ll have the balls of whosoever has done this for my breakfast and dine on his eyes at noon!”

“I shall release you once I have had words with you, Master Grackle.” I pushed the brush aside, sword in hand.

Master Grackle lunged at me, pulling against the snare. “Fight me a fair fight!” he said. “Beak and talon against your blade! Bah!” He hopped in a circle, raging. “Bah! Thou art no more than a coward!”

“I shall have words with you and then you shall be freed. Answer me well, and I will release you and leave you the corn as my thanks. Answer badly …” I let the Eye’s dying light glint off my blade.

He cocked his head, his cold, haughty eyes meeting mine. “Say on.”

I spoke to him of elves. “All these woods are your domain. Where have you seen them?”

“In the shadow of the split oak on Old Man’s Breast,” he croaked. “Pound on it thrice.”

His words rang true to my ensorcelled ears. I slashed him free with my sword. “The corn is yours,” I said.

“I’d have it not,” he squawked, and took wing.

 

###

 

Elves, those that dwelt in the deep in the forests, were smaller than men folk and fairer of hair and skin. They knew the lore of forests and trees better than any man and skulked about silently, their deadly bows ready. Wise men stayed out of the forests, where arrows might fly forth from archers invisible in the brush.

Mother Sulin’s Eye was below the hilltops as I climbed the Old Man’s Breast. Worse, my legs felt as two wooden stumps, heavy and dead, and my sword hung in my scabbard as an anchor hangs from a coracle.

Even exhausted I sang and laughed as I marched, yes, and cursed as well, as loudly as I dared. Elves are treacherous enough of themselves; I wished none of them to feel startled at my coming. If I were to feel an elfin arrow through my gullet, I preferred it be done of malice and not misadventure.

The split oak stood alone atop the hill. I was told a high wind sent by Father Aeilor, the master of the winds, to celebrate the overthrow of the Usurper caught the then-great oak and tore one side away, but I was not born yet and could not say it was true. But the remnant was stark against the final rays of the Eye, dark as shadow, a grave marker for its dead better half.

There were elves in the underbrush. I could feel their eyes through the mail that guarded the back of my neck. But they would do as they would and there was nought else for me save to press on.

“Pound on it thrice,” Master Grackle said and I hammered my mailed fist against the split oak. It rang, its tone deeper than the largest bell of the grandest cathedral in the land, its song singing, “Doom.”

I struck again, and once more, and each time the tree rang and the ground shook beneath my feet. I stood back to wait, for death, or for nothing, or for the King of the Elves.

A darker dark opened in the side of the split oak. As I peered into the nothing I was struck a blow across my shoulders and fell forward into the dark.

A dozen rough hands grappled with me, and the command, “Kneel before our king,” was enforced by blows to the backs of my legs.

Torches, their light hidden from the outside by some magic, flickered and threw deep, jagged shadows on the earthen walls. The King of the Elves, for it could be none other with an ermine mantle across his shoulders sweeping down to his feet, stood legs spread wide and fists on his hips. He was surrounded by his court, a dozen elves in the circle of light and more beyond that I could not count, in rough leather tunics with belts of woven silver around their waists.

Their king looked down at me. I strove to stand – he was neither a man nor my king and I would not kneel before him willingly – but many hands pressed down on my shoulders, forcing me to the earth. “Human,” he said. “You are in our court, the court of Samolain of Achelswold. Do you come to swear fealty to us?” His voice was course and rough, and his tone was mocking, and around him his courtiers capered and sneered.

“I do not,” I said. “I am already sworn to King Cadwain and his liege Lord Holwain. If I swear to you as well, my word is worth nothing, for it means I will swear to anyone as convenient.”

He held out his hand, the hand small but gnarled. “Then you have come to bring us a gift,” he said. “Give it to me.”

“I have nothing,” I said.

His hand slashed a signal, and suddenly the elves holding me explored my being. My sword was inspected and cast aside, my pouch emptied of its two coppers and the spell makings in it. “That is all,” said one of the elves.

That was not all. They had not found the amulet, or else they had, and judged it worthless.

“Take those.” The Elf King pointed to the coppers, and a small hand swept them up. “That is your tax, human, for setting foot upon our hill. Now, tell us why.”

I told him of the maid who might be a witch, and her father, who would give me a gold piece if I could prove she were not. I told him I had come to them because it was known that the elves were sworn to the Dark King and his prince Bruha Heks as well. “Prince Bruha Heks alone knows the truth, and I would ask it of him.”

Elf King Samolain looked down at me, nought but contempt in his eye. “So you would come to us, in your ragged clothes and rusted mail, because you desire one gold piece? You are a fool, and doubly a fool for asking our aid.”

If they meant to slay me, this would be the time. But no knife pressed into my neck. It seemed this night I was not so much a nuisance as to be worth killing.

Throat uncut, I said, “What would you have of me?”

A fist cuffed my ear and a voice hissed, “Your highness,” but the King took no note. “You are a sell-sword, fool. We shall buy your sword with the knowledge you seek.”

Elves around me smiled crooked smiles and laughed coarse laughs, and in the pit of my stomach I felt a cold knot grow, and wished I had drunk the night away instead of chasing this errand. But I had not. I pulled my arm free and picked up my sword. “As you will,” I said.

“Indeed. It is what it means to be king, after all.” King Samolain waved a hand and his followers parted behind him. “The path to the Lower world lies there,” he said. A stair spiraled deeper into the Old Man’s Breast, carved into the depths of the land itself. “It is blocked for the moment. If you clear it for us, you clear it for yourself. What say you?”

It was as much as I could expect from elves and more. “Agreed,” I said.

 

###

 

I climbed down. It was wholly dark, and I felt with a foot for each tread, one at a time, and trod slowly and lightly. There were many stairs, and after the long day my thighs and calves first ached and then burned as I descended. I held my sword in my hand, and let it probe the dank air in front of me as I climbed, knowing that anyone below would have the inside of the stair on his left, and the advantage in a fight.

I could hear nothing except the rattle of my mail and the breath hissing in and out of my chest. I tasted blood in my mouth from the handling of the elves.

I could smell rot rising from below. It stank of brimstone and smoke, corruption and death, a foul, foul stench that boded ill, or worse than ill.

There in the dark I thought long and hard of climbing back, of paying the price of being mocked and jeered by King Samolain and his court. If I went back, I could claim the old man’s two silver coins. I need not go further, need not face what frightened even a kingdom of elves, need not meet what made my stomach sink in fear.

But I had not come so far to leave without an answer. Was the maid a witch or no? Only Bruha Heks knew, he reigned in the Lower world, and so I gripped my sword more closely and followed that stink down and down.

Underneath my mail, I could feel the amulet growing warm. It had never done that before. I did not stop to wonder.

Before I saw it I smelled it, the stink of dung and death and rotten meat. I could feel the stench wafting up to me, and I followed it, around and around that endless stair.

The amulet grew yet warmer, warm enough that I wondered what it foretold. Death, perhaps, but for who or what?

I placed my feet most gently, holding arms and shoulders still so my mail would not clatter. Below I could hear cracking, like that of bones being split for their marrow. I crept down.

The cracking ceased. Below, a snuffling, three quick sniffs and then a long breath drawn, and then another, drawing closer. It had taken my scent.

I felt through my pouch. Still stuck to the bottom was a small ball of candle wax, and I scraped a tiny scrap under my thumbnail and rehearsed the spell to bring me light. It would take much of the energy that remained to me, but I was a creature of day and whatever lay below a beast of night, and so light would advantage me, if only briefly.

I closed my eyes and muttered the spell. I could feel the strength drain from my arms, but wax under the nail of my thumb blazed into light. I felt the heat of it on my face, saw it through my closed eyes. I heard the beast bellow in surprise.

I looked, but not into the light.

It was like a man, but no man I had seen, two feet taller than I, and thrice my girth or more. Matted hair descended from head to ankles, and his manhood dangled free, nearly to his knees. He threw his arms up to shield his eyes, and I leapt down to strike.

I wished to stab low, at gut unprotected by bone, but coming from above I had no such stroke. I slashed my sword down, into the meat of his shoulder, to cut the muscle and tendon and render it useless.

Underneath my mail the amulet burned red hot.

He bellowed in rage and slapped my blade aside, barely wounded. I thrust my left hand, light still burning from the thumb, toward his face.

He was no longer blinded. A mighty hand, as large as a ham’s hock, slapped across my head, spinning me around. I spun back, crouched low so his blows would fall on my mailed shoulders.

The beast bellowed in rage, and flew at me, arms flailing. One giant fist fell on my coif, driving me to my knees, and as I staggered back to my feet a second knocked me sprawling.

I rolled, body aching, and scrambled to get my feet under me once more. I stepped in the beast’s dung and my foot slid.

It was what the beast needed. He brought both hands down on my head, and I fell forward, face to the hard stone floor. A second blow fell across my back, and I gasped, barely able to breathe.

I rolled onto my back. One great leg stood in front of me, and I slashed my sword at the ankle. The blade cut deep, deep into a tendon, and the beast bellowed in pain. His leg gave way and he toppled toward me, his great bulk falling directly where I lay. I braced myself, sword upward, as he collapsed.

The beast’s own great weight pushed him down onto my sword. He screamed and a gush of hot blood ran down my arm. The beast fell across me, driving all wind from my lungs.

I struggled free of the stinking corpse and dragged myself up. I could still turn back, claim whatever reward King Samolain would grant, but I saw no reason. The way to the Lower world lay open. I took a step forward. I trod on nothing.

I fell.

I fell.

I struck bottom. Lights in my head flashed white.

 

###

 

I smelled wildflowers blooming, heard the breeze rustling leaves, felt Mother Sulin’s Eye shining on my face, warm and gentle. I felt Mother Sulin’s Eye shining on my face and knew it was past dawn and they had burned the girl for a witch.

I opened my eyes on a hell, the court of Bruha Heks, Prince of Lies.

No bright sky arched above my head, no grass lay at my back. It was a foul cathedral of ebon columns and gilt accents; tapestries along the walls told a story I did not know but as old as man and woman, or man and man, or woman and woman. A fresco stretched the length and breadth of the ceiling, showing all the tribes of men and beasts of the forests paying homage to His Royal Beatitude Bruha Heks, keeper of the list of True Names.

There was a throne, also ebon, also gilt, at the far end of the hall. A figure sat there, swathed in brightly-colored silks. Demons with cloven hooves and forked tongues danced around him, laughing and singing. Maids of great beauty took turns feeding their prince on his throne, their long hair doing nothing to ward their modesty. Guards stood beside him, great curved swords at their sides. He beckoned me forward. “Speak your name and mode of address, mortal,” he said, his voice booming across his court.

I pushed myself up. My injuries weighed on me, my arms and legs bruised and battered. Each breath I took stabbed with pain, and my chest felt as though a hot coal had been placed on the spot where the amulet glowed. I was tired unto death, and too late it was for the maid, but I had come to have words with the Prince of Lies, and words I would have. “I am called John, of no family name. I would have words with Your Royal Beatitude, and then I will begone.”

The demon prince waved his hand. “Speak.”

“I have come to ask of Beatrix, the farmer’s daughter.” Too late it might be, but I had come to ask. “Was she truly a witch?”

The demon prince on his throne laughed, and his court laughed with him, their voices filling the great hall with false mirth and mocking gaiety.

Bruha Heks leant over to look down at me. “And what will you give me for my answer, John-of-no-family-name?” He gestured at the hall around him, inviting me to see his wealth. “What have you that I might value?”

He knew I had no soul. My pouch was empty of coin, my sword old and notched, my armor rent and rusted. I took the amulet from beneath my mail coat and held it out. It had burned into the flesh of my chest, and I winced as I pulled it free, felt blood trickle down my breast.

Bruha Heks took the bloody amulet and cast it aside as though it was a bone for his hounds. “That is the price of your return to the Middle world,” he said.

Return? I lived still? Prince of Lies, Prince of Lies! “I can offer you my sword in battle,” I said.

The court laughed and even the great armed guards showed their contempt. It was intended as a humiliation, and humiliated I was. I was no great warrior, but I was willing to stand in battle next to any man. I would not run away and it would take a long time to kill me, and I had not earned their mockery.

I held my tongue as their contempt rained down upon me, and once they had their fill I spoke out of turn. “What would have of me, then, your highness?”

The prince had as fair a face as I had seen, and he was as well-made as any hero of the Middle world. “I want something of short supply, John-of-no-family name, of short supply and thus of great value. The truth,” he said. He took a scroll and quill from one of his court, scribbled on the scroll, held it out for his doxy to dry with her breath. “The answer to your question, John-of-no-family-name, if first you answer mine.” He proffered the scroll toward me. “You may have it, if you but speak the truth. Here is my question: Why do you care if the girl is a witch?”

“I will have the old man’s gold piece if she is not,” I said.

He waved a hand around the room. “Louder. Prouder. Speak to my whole court. Why do you care?”

“I want the old man’s gold piece,” I said.

“Liar!” He pulled the scroll out of my reach. “I am the Prince of Lies and I brand you liar, John-of-no-family-name.”

He spoke rightly. Had it been about money, I would have taken the silver.

The truth? The truth was that I was a fool, and a fool I would remain, for it seemed to me that the world was in need of fools. I spoke, my voice carrying to the corners of the court of Bruha Heks. “Because justice demanded the question be asked, your Royal Beatitude, and none other dared ask it.”

He smiled, a smile of such great benevolence I nearly fell to my knees. “That is the truth, John-of-no-family-name. Someday your breath will leave your body, and that day I shall meet you again.” He gave me the scroll and ordered, “Begone.”

A flash blinded me and a peal of thunder deafened me. A whirlwind of smoke swirled around me and I fell through it into a swoon.

 

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I awoke in the dark, in my hut. I had remained aswoon throughout the entire day. Poor Beatrix was burned already. The question needed asking and I had asked it, but the answer, the answer had come too late.

My arms and legs still ached and each breath stabbed into my side, but the wounds would heal or they would not, and I would learn which across the next fortnight. I had a scroll worth nothing, and a scar on my breast instead of the amulet, and that was all.

No, not all. My purse was empty now, but the farmer had promised me two silvers.

I was splashing cold water over my head when there was a rap at my door. It was the farmer, and when he greeted me his breath still reeked. “Pleashe, sshir, what have ye learnt? They’ll be burning my Beatricsh at cockcrow.”

Be burning? I fought the beast at night, I swooned, and I awoke to bright day in the court of Bruha Heks, too late for the maid.

When I awoke in the court of the Prince of Lies.

“I have it.” I snatched up the scroll, unrolled it for him. “I have the truth of it here.”

He shook his head. “’Twill do me no good. I cannot read.”

Nor could I. The writing of the finest scribes in the land, or even the demons themselves, were just the scratchings of chickens to me. “The sheriff,” I said.

While the girl was unburnt she was in our chapel, prayed over by our priest. We hastened thence, for while Mother Sulin’s Eye had not yet crept to the hilltops, her rays were lighting the skies to the east.

We found the girl at the chapel, kneeling with head bowed and hands clasped together. Her unbound hair shrouded her face but tears stained her tunic.

Bertram Hartshorn waited there with two of his men, and he greeted me coldly. “John Lack-Linen. Still at your meddling, are you?”

I held up the scroll. “A statement, your honor, attesting to the innocence of the girl.”

Beatrix looked up. Her tears streaked her face, but there was hope in her eyes.

The sheriff raised one eyebrow. “Is it? From whom? For she has already been judged and found guilty.”

I related the tale so recently told.

“Have you proof of this fantasy?” He would not take the scroll without proof, and in that he had the right of it, for I was not sworn to the truth and could spin whatever yarn I saw fit.

But proof I had. “Here, lend me a hand,” I told the farmer, and together we lifted the mail coat over my head. And there, burnt into my chest, was the mark of the amulet.

The sheriff touched the mark, and I winced as his finger probed the burn. “I see that it is not inked or dyed, and likewise smell the burnt flesh,” he declared formally, as he did whilst taking testimony. “I accept your story, John-of-no-family-name. I accept your scroll into evidence.”

I stood bare-chested as he unrolled it. “I see also it bears the mark belonging to the demon prince Bruha Heks, and I accept that as well.” The priest hissed at the name, but the sheriff took no heed. “It says, ‘I attest that the girl known as Beatrix is a witch.’”

“A witch?” I shouted.

Beatrix bawled aloud like a calf with a broken leg.

“Nay,” the farmer muttered. “Nay. Nay. Nay.”

“It is time and past. Take her,” Hartshorn told his men. They dragged her to her feet as she wailed and fought. It was time and past. The first rays of Mother Sulin’s Eye glowed through the stained glass of the chapel and cast crimson shadows around us.

The farmer begged, “Please.” He pulled at my arm. “Please!”

I jerked my arm away. “Please, nothing. Bruha Heks hath said it himself …”

There was a silence in the chapel, broken only by the sobbing of the maid, as the others looked to me.

“Say it,” the sheriff said. “Say it, John Lack-Linen.”

I said it. “It is the testimony of the Prince of Lies that the girl is a witch, m’lord, and as he speaks lies, she is in truth not a witch.”

“Release her,” he said, and then turned to me. “Do not make a habit of this, John Lack-Linen. Justice must be final.”

Justice must also be just, I thought, but I did not say.

 

###

 

The farmer gave me his gold piece. It was old and worn and well-clipped, and so its value was much spent already, but it was a coin and it was gold and it was what he promised. “We have musch to thank you for,” he said, wringing his gray cap in his hands.

“It was as we bargained,” I said.

It was always as bargained. There was truth and there was right and they were there to be found if one swore to find them.

One gold piece would last me through winter.

 

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Dave D’Alessio is an ex-industrial chemist, ex-TV engineer and ex-award-winning animator currently masquerading as a social scientist. His work has appeared in venues including Daily Science Fiction, Phobos, and Broadswords and Blasters, as well as numerous anthologies. His story Twenty-Year Reich  was a finalist for the Sidewise Award for Alternative History fiction.