upon one of his knees. 'The magistrate has in his sphere of learning all the accumulated knowledge of English law,' he said. 'Some of that knowledge is built on a framework of medieval belief. As I am a lowly clerk and have not yet been immersed in such knowledge, I do not hold so strongly to its conceptions. You should realize, however, that Magistrate Woodward is indeed a liberal jurist. If he were entirely of the medieval mind, you would be burnt by now.'
'What's he waiting for, then? If I'm going to burn anyway, why hear these witnesses?'
'The magistrate wants to give you an opportunity to answer all the charges. It's the proper way of procedure.'
'Damn the procedure!' Rachel snapped, and she stood up. 'Damn the charges! They're all lies!'
'Profanity will not help your position,' Matthew said calmly. 'I'd suggest you refrain from it.'
'What will help my position?' she demanded, approaching the bars. 'Shall I fall on my knees and beg mercy for crimes I haven't committed? Shall I sign over my husband's land and all my possessions and swear upon the Bible that I shall never bewitch the citizens of Fount Royal again? Tell me! What can I possibly do to save my life?'
It was a good question. So good, in fact, that Matthew was unable to supply an answer. The best he could manage was: 'There is some hope.'
'Ah, hope!' Rachel said bitterly. Her hands curled around the bars. 'Perhaps you're not a spy, but you're a liar and you know you are. There is no hope for me. There never was any hope, not since that morning I was dragged from my house. I am going to be executed for crimes I have not committed, and the murderer of my husband will go free. Where's the hope in that?'
'Hey, there! Quiet down!' It was Hannibal Green, thundering from the entrance. He came into the gaol, bearing a lantern, and behind him trudged the filthy, ragged figure Matthew had last seen by the light of a burning house. Gwinett Linch had his ratsack at his side, a cowhide bag over his shoulder, and his sticker in his hand.
'Brought you some company,' Green rumbled. 'Gonna clean this hole up a bit.'
Rachel didn't respond. Tight-lipped, she returned to her bench and sat down, then she covered her head and face with her cowl again.
'Which one'll do ye?' Green asked of the ratcatcher, and Linch motioned toward the cage opposite Matthew's. Linch entered the cell and used his foot to brush aside the layer of dirty straw from the floor in a small circle. Then he reached into a pocket of his breeches and his hand emerged to throw a few dozen dried kernels of corn into the circle. Again his hand went into his pocket, and then a number of small pieces of potato joined the corn kernels. He produced a wooden jar from the cowhide bag, out of which he shook a brown powdery substance around the circle's perimeter. The same brown powder was shaken here and there in the straw, and applied at the base of the cell's walls.
'You gonna need me?' Green asked.
Linch shook his head. 'I mi' be a while.'
'Here, I'll give you the keys. You can lock up when you're done. Remember to put out the lantern.'
The exchange of the keys was made, after which Green hurried out. Linch shook more of the brown powder into the straw, making trails between the corners of the walls and the circle.
'What is that?' Matthew inquired. 'Some kind of poison?'
'It's most ground sugar,' Linch answered. 'With a teech of opium mixed to it. Got to get them rats drowsy, slow 'em down some.' He returned the lid to the wooden jar and put it back in the cowhide bag. 'Why? You thinkin' of robbin' my job?'
'I think not.'
Linch grinned. He was listening to the squeakings and squealings of the rats, which had obviously caught scent of the feast that was being offered to them. Linch put on his deerskin gloves and then with smooth familiarity removed the piece of wood that secured the single blade at the end of his sticker. From his bag he brought out a fearsome appliance that had five curved blades, much like small scythes, and this he twisted into position on the sticker's tip. Two metal clips were forced into grooves to lock the ugly implement, and then Linch regarded it with obvious pride. 'Ever see such a thing, boy?' he asked. 'I can strike two or three at a time with this. Thought it up myself.'
'An artful device, I'm sure.'
'A useful device,' Linch corrected. 'Hazelton fashioned it for me. He's an inventor, once he puts his mind to a task.' He cocked his head toward a rustling in the corner.
'Ah, listen to 'em! Fightin' to eat their last meal!' His grin widened. 'Hey, witch!' he called to Rachel. 'You gonna give me a tumble 'fore you burn?'
She didn't dignify his request with a reply or even a movement.
'You get over close to her, boy, and stick out your cock,' Linch said. 'She mi' suck it for you.' He laughed as Matthew's face bloomed red, and then he pulled the cell's bench next to the cleared-off circle. When it was situated as he pleased, Linch left the cell to pluck the lantern from its hook and he brought it into the cage with him. He put it down on the floor a few feet away from the circle, then he sat upon the bench with his legs crossed beneath him and the five-bladed sticker held in a two-handed grip. 'Won't be long now,' he announced. 'They're gettin' 'em- selves a taste of that sweet stupidity.'
Matthew saw the ratcatcher's luminous pale gray eyes glitter in the dim candlelight. They might have been the icy eyes of a specter rather than those of a human being. Linch spoke again, in a low, soft, almost singsong cadence: 'Come out, come out, my dames and dandies. Come out, come out, and taste my candies.' He repeated it twice more, each time becoming softer and more song than speech.
And then, indeed, a large black rat did enter the deadly circle. It sniffed at a piece of potato, its tail twitching; then it grabbed up a corn kernel between its teeth and fled for the darkness again.
'Come out, come out,' Linch sang, all but whispering. He stared at the circle, waiting for the rodents to appear in his field of vision. 'Come out, come out, and taste my candies.'
Another rat appeared, grabbed up a corn kernel, and fled. But the third rat that entered the circle moved more sluggishly, and Matthew knew it must be feeling the effects of Linch's sugared opium. This benumbed rodent chewed on one of the potatoes for a moment, then stood up on its hind legs to stare at the candleflame as if it were a celestial light.
Linch was very fast. The sticker whipped down in a blur of motion and there was a high-pitched squeal as the rat was impaled. At once Linch snapped the small beast's neck, then plucked the carcass from its blade and made a deposit in his sack. All of this had taken only a very few seconds, and now Linch held the sticker ready again and he was softly singing. 'Come out, come out, my dames and dandies. Come out, come out, and taste my candies ...'
Within a minute, Matthew had witnessed two more executions and a near-miss. Linch might be disgusting, Matthew thought, but he was certainly proficient at his task.
The rats that were entering the circle now showed signs of lethargy. Feasting on the sugar and opium had clearly robbed them of much of their survival instinct. A few of them still had the speed to escape Linch's blades, but most perished before they could turn tail. Several died so bewildered they didn't even squeal as they were pierced.
After twenty or more executions there was quite a lot of rodent blood in the circle, yet the rats kept coming, too drug-fogged to be daunted from the promise of such treats. Every once in a while Linch would repeat in that soft, singsong tone his little ditty about dandies and candies, but it was such an easy massacre that it seemed a waste of breath. Down came the sticker, and rarely did Linch misjudge his aim. Soon the ratcatcher was killing them two at a time.
In forty minutes or so, the number of rodents began to subside. Matthew presumed that either Linch had killed the majority of gaolhouse rats, or that at last the odors of blood and carnage were strong enough to warn them away even through the numbing effects of the—as Linch had put it—'sweet stupidity.' The ratcatcher, too, seemed thoroughly fatigued by the slaughter, which had bloodied his gloves and bulged his sack.
One small gray specimen, weaving around like a drunken lord, entered the circle. As Matthew watched, intrigued not by the grisly spectacle but by Linch's speed and surety of dispatch, the little rat nibbled at a kernel of corn and then began to chase its tail with ferocious intent. Around and around it went in a mad spin, with Linch's sticker poised above it waiting to strike. At last the rat gave up the chase and lay on its belly as if exhausted. Matthew expected the sticker to flash down and a blade to bite deep, but Linch stayed his hand.
