The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

the judgement of those he has wronged, and then the punishment for all the pain and death he has caused us will be our choice, and ours alone. As Frankel and I are the only ones left in the castle who are able to make decisions, we have chosen the midday hour for the murderer to speak and for him to hear our voices. Then what must be done will be done, may the stars above guide us in what is right.
    “I am a biased judge, as I believe the scribe must die for us to be free and able to live again. But I know, and my husband would be quick to tell me if I denied it, that the judgement is not mine alone, but it belongs to all of us. Please, Madred, will you help me to search for those who can cleanse our land from the curse which hangs so heavy in our skies and takes the food from our mouths as we search for it?”
    When she’d finished speaking, the baker at first said nothing. Jemelda’s heart pounded and she wondered whether her plans would in the end come to nothing. If the people she met were as near to the end of hope as Madred, then perhaps even their desire for the land to be cleansed of the crimes committed within it had faded away. She did not think she could bear it if the murderer lived, and did not pay for what he had done. By the gods, if this was likely to happen, she would knock him down and tear him apart slowly herself. No matter what the cane and the raven might do to her to protect him.
    Finally, Madred stepped forward and lifted up his head as if this were the last thing he was likely to say and he would therefore say it bravely. Jemelda admired courage in any form, a preference which would explain even further her hatred of the scribe who had always been a coward.
    “Prove to me who you are,” Madred said, his voice still sounding hoarse. “Then I might help you do this act you say will give us hope, and food. For there are rumours of creatures who can deceive the mind so what they seem to be is what they are not. When we fall into the trap, they kill us. How do I know you are not one of these?”
    Jemelda had not heard such whisperings, but then again she and Frankel had seen nobody but the Lammas Lord since the wars. She did not believe such foolishness herself, but in the times they lived through, who could tell what was true and what was a lie? She closed her eyes to try to think of what would convince the baker and his daughter.
    “Because I remember the first time you came to the castle to ply your trade,” she said, opening her eyes again. “Caitlin must have been about six months old. You were carrying her in one hand and pulling a cart filled with grain and a baking oven behind you. Caitlin was dressed in yellow and you told me it was a remnant from your dead wife’s favourite gown. She’d died in childbirth. You never told me her name and, later, it seemed too intrusive to ask. You looked almost as you do now: beaten down by life and wondering if there would be a future anything like the past you’d known. I ran and brought you a cup of wheat-broth from the Lammas Master’s meal and some milk for your daughter. You were trembling so much you spilled the broth and I had to run to fetch another. Frankel and some of the off-duty soldiers helped you find a booth, and the armourer’s wife took care of Caitlin while you set out your bakery. The first loaf you ever baked in the cast you gave to me, and the second to the armourer. It was the most delicious bread I’d ever tasted. Apart from my own, that is.”
    She stopped, unsure what else she could say to convince the man. If he believed in strange creatures who altered their appearance to deceive others, would he not also believe the very thoughts of the people might be stolen also? The mind-cane was in the land, though it had not been here for long. Jemelda did not know what influence it might have.
    Unexpectedly, Madred smiled, and coughed. Caitlin appeared from behind him as he spoke and gazed up at Jemelda.
    “All these things are true,” the baker said. “Yet the truth that tells me it is indeed yourself is your assumption your bread is better than mine. For I tell you it is not.”
    With that, the man’s face folded in on itself as if he might cry, but Jemelda did not think he had tears enough to do so. She hugged him, gently, fearing he might break, and then she gathered his daughter into her arms also and kissed her.
    “Will you help me?” she asked again.
    “Yes,” he replied.
    For the next two hour-cycles,