The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [193]
Near the back door of the dun stood a little clot of servants: two lasses, a groom, and a kitchen lad. The lad abruptly covered his mouth with one grubby hand, as if stifling a curse or scream; one of the lasses turned pale; the groom took two steps backward as if he were going to ease himself out of the hall. Unfortunately for him, three fort guards blocked the way. The lad darted forward, only to be collared by another guard. Here and there in the crowd, more guards were laying heavy hands on some of the listeners. Noise erupted—people whispering, then talking louder to be heard, moving, turning, straining to see. The dogs began barking in reflected excitement.
“Clear the hall!” Oth called out. “Later, good folk, you’ll understand. For now, all those free to leave, leave. Guards, bring the rest forward.”
In a flood of talk the crowd began flowing though out the doors. One of the lasses, caught in a guard’s strong grip, screamed. Oth clambered down from the table as the guards began hauling their captives forward.
“Um, Lord Oth?” Drwmigga said. “What, pray tell, is happening?”
“One of your husband’s advisors came up with a clever way of rooting out traitors,” Oth said. “The gerthddyn Salamander told us that the Alshandra cult thinks those two dragons are some sort of supernatural apparition, demons or suchlike, rather than ordinary wild animals. Silly, I know, but apparently they believe the dragons to be their bloodsworn enemies. So when I read the bit about them, some of our people here had a rather strange reaction. It’s suspicious if naught else.”
The people in question were being dragged forward by the guards. One by one they were forced to their knees in a line in front of the dragon hearth—some eleven culprits in all. One lass and the little kitchen lad were weeping, but the rest were putting on a good show of defiance, crossing their arms over their chests, scowling up at Oth, or merely watching him without a trace of feeling showing on their faces.
Lady Galla stood up from her chair and glanced Branna’s way. “I feel rather ill,” she said, “thinking about our Adranna, shut up with these people. I’m going to retire to my chamber.”
“I’ll come with you,” Solla said. “If Lady Drwmigga will give us leave?”
“We’ll all go to the women’s hall.” Drwmigga stood and collected her serving women with the wave of a pale hand. “I’m sure Lord Oth can handle this matter.”
Branna was planning on going with them, but some thought or feeling caught at her mind. She was hard-pressed to put it into words, but she knew that she needed to hear what the prisoners had to say for themselves. She slid down a few inches in her chair and shrank into herself, or so she called it, a particular trick she’d developed as a child when she didn’t want to be noticed.
Oth stood looking at the line of prisoners until the great hall had emptied behind him. Varn joined him and counted up the prisoners.
“This is the lot, my lord,” Varn said. “As far as we can tell, anyway.”
“Well and good, then,” Oth said and turned back to the prisoners. “So! You’re all suspected of worshipping the false goddess Alshandra. I want to—”
“Not a false goddess.” The groom’s voice rang clear with defiance. “She’s the one true goddess, and I shan’t deny her now.”
“No more will I,” cried a serving lass. “If you kill us, we’ll go to her country, and there’s naught you can do about that. We shall die as witnesses to her truth.”
One by one they all joined in agreement, even the kitchen lad, though Branna noticed that his young voice wavered in terror. He was about Matto’s age, she decided, and seeing his tears made her wonder if her nephew would live to see another summer. Oth listened, stared gape-mouthed, took a step back, and stared some more. The captain swore under his breath in amazement, and his men shook their heads in stunned disbelief.
“Don’t you realize,” Oth said at last, “that the gwerbret will