He thought he should know the voices, too.
The grinding returned. It came from beyond the silent watchers. Grumbling, the whole band surged that way, into the darkness.
'I don't understand,' Hecht breathed to Osa. 'I don't like this.'
'They have a prisoner. It keeps trying to get away. They're waiting for instructions. They've sent two messengers. There's been no answer. The argument is over whether to send another.'
'You understand them?'
'They're speaking a Creveldian dialect. Hard to follow but what they're saying is pretty basic. They can't go but they're afraid of what will happen if they stay.'
Another heavy groan of terra-cotta.
Osa finished, 'They're Witchfinders. And they've caught something that won't let them go.'
The two who entertained themselves arguing returned to the light. Which was like none Hecht had seen before. It was not just the dust that made the lamps burn an odd color.
They must do the same work as Principate Delari's lanterns.
And the more so when one Witchnnder removed his face covering to clear his nose by blocking one nostril while blowing through the other.
He was the man who had given Hecht dispatches for Sonsa when he and Ghort were about to sneak out of Brothe.
Osa squeezed his left arm fiercely, cautioning him against sudden movement.
Time passed.
The argument resumed. The whiners became more involved. They were all tired and thirsty and hungry. And nothing useful was happening.
Hecht did not need to speak the language. He had been a soldier all his life.
What to do? There was no obvious way to bypass this bottleneck. This was a fool's errand. They had no plan and no intelligence. Pure storyteller's heroic nonsense.
The argument peaked in a furious exchange.
One of the silent pair threw his hands up, frustrated, then stamped away into the darkness. The others did not catch on immediately. Then the argument became much more heated.
Osa breathed, 'These five believe that six Witchfinders is the minimum needed to control it.'
'It?'
Stile shrugged. 'Or him. Those two want to get out of here while they still can without being recognized.'
Hecht now caught the occasional phrase. He could not disagree with the catamite's interpretation.
He did not like being at the mercy of someone he trusted so little.
He smiled. Chances were, Osa did not like being at the mercy of Piper Hecht, either.
Earthenware ground against stone. The Witchfinders shut up. The one Hecht had identified took charge.
The sound grew louder and more malignant. The Witchfinders reacted with the speed of those who knew they had just one desperate chance. To the sound. Fearfully. As a babble of Old Brothen echoed all round.
For an instant Hecht thought his left hand was being ripped off his wrist.
'What?' Osa asked, startled.
'Smacked my knuckles against a rock.' He had, in fact, done just that, responding to the sudden pain.
'That was dumb.'
The pain faded to a throb, like a wound an hour old. Hecht had lived with that before.
Shouts of anger and fear. Groan of terra-cotta ground against stone. Shouts of triumph. Hecht's pain faded.
Osa had been about to cross the lighted area when the self-congratulations started. He dove back into shadow just in time. Two Witchfinders supported a third who was unable to work his legs. They settled in the center of the light.
The injured man passed out as soon as his associates set him down. One said something like, 'We've got to get out of here! We just used up our luck.'
The last two men stumbled into the light.
The Witchfinder in charge gave orders. Three men hurried back into the darkness. They began making noise.
The senior Witchfinder opened his unconscious associate's robe. The man wore little underneath. Hecht saw no obvious wounds or traumas.
'They're piling stones onto something so it can't move,' Osa said.
One of the three leapt back into the light, babbling.
Osa translated: 'The other two just ran away. He wants this guy to haul ass with him. This guy says they can't leave their buddy behind.'
Hecht breathed, 'Maybe we shouldn't be here, either.'
Nobody got the chance to run.
The terra-cotta grind had a triumphant ring. The Witchfinders grabbed their unconscious comrade…
Stone flew.
Hecht and Stile embraced the cracked tile floor. Stones up to the size of a fist hurtled around, smashing into rubble and pillars. All three Witchfinders got hit.
The air filled with dust. Hecht's eyes began drying out. He fought down a sneeze. Osa did sneeze, then blew his nose desperately, but only Hecht noticed. The Witchfinders had been pounded into unconsciousness.
A little voice called, 'Help.' It seemed familiar.
None of the lamps suffered till the final moment of the stone storm. Then one shattered, scattering burning oil in a spray eight feet long. One Witchfinder caught fire. He leapt up and took off blindly, screaming.
'Help!' A little louder. Followed by a weak terra-cotta grind and a rattle of disturbed rubble.
Osa blurted, 'That sounded like the Principate!'
Hecht thought so, too, but was suspicious of anything that happened easily.
'This is easy?' Stile asked.
'We'll check it out.' Easy or not. 'But there're men out there that we don't want to see us.'
'Cut their throats.'
'Let's see if we can't find something less savage and final.'
'They're Brotherhood of War. Special Office. The worst of the worst.'
'We aren't in the Holy Lands. Our work isn't tactical. Let the Principate decide what to do. If we find him.'
'Help!' Louder, now.
'He knows we're here.'
'Get busy.'
Stile produced a wicked little knife with a slight bend at its end. He sliced strips from the cassock of the man who had handed Hecht that courier wallet, back when.
'Yes. Him first. He's the dangerous one.'
Both men recovered during the binding. Hecht was not pleased. But he stuck to his decision to leave them to the mercy of Principate Delari.
His left wrist ached.
A half-dozen grain jars had been set into the floor.
Three were occupied by corpses. They had not been dead long. Another held Principate Muniero Delari. Its lid lay at an angle in the opening. Tumbled blocks lay scattered all round. The lid made that characteristic groan as they dragged it aside.
The old man was weak but in good spirits and game.
'Looks like there's been some sorcery here,' Osa said. 'They used no sorcery themselves, though. They just tried to keep the lid on.'
Hecht hoisted the old man. 'Thank you,' Delari breathed. 'I thought I'd made a fatal mistake this time. How did you find me?'
