Previous Post Here's a "stealth story fragment" from a dusty corner of my hard drive that I do intend to continue one day. I'm dropping it in reply to your story because there are certain elements in it that I estimate to hit your interest zones. Unfortunately there are no ponies in there, although you are at liberty to imagine all the characters are equine if you so wish. ***     The dungeon cell had three large iron bolts, and the prisoner shuddered as each one was scraped back. She shied away from the torchlight when the guards threw the door open. She huddled in the corner, afraid they would hurt her again.     â€œHere she is, sir,” said the sergeant. “This is the witch.”     The justiciar’s clerk stooped under the low door and entered the tiny cell. The rough floor was scattered with filthy straw and there was a ring drilled into one wall to hold the prisoner’s manacles; nothing else.     â€œThank you,” said the newcomer. “I’ll need to examine her.”     â€œVery good sir,” approved the sergeant. “Shall we hold her down for you?”     The clerk was a young man. He looked disconcerted at the guards’ knowing leers. “I want to talk with her.”     â€œAh. Right sir. But if you want to inspect her properly later sir, we’re all ready to help. The lads have been waiting their turn till the justice comes, but…”     â€œLeave the torch. I’ll call when I want you.”     The sergeant bit back whatever he was going to say. The clerk was young but he had a powerful master. Better not to get on the wrong side of the king’s justiciar. Not if one didn’t want to be burning next to the witch.     He kicked the cowering girl. “Right, you. Here’s Master Aivry come from Edinburgh all the way to test you. Best be confessing everything or it’s the thumbscrews and the winkle for you.”     â€œThat’ll do, sergeant,” said the clerk firmly. “Leave us.”     The sergeant looked from the young scholar to the chained naked girl and tapped his nose knowingly. He departed, slamming the bolts closed as he went.     The girl peered at Master Aivry over her shoulder, biting her lip.     The clerk squatted down by the door. “Hello?” he ventured.     The girl didn’t reply. Her flesh was pale beneath the dirt, with smears of blood where they’d pushed in the pins to check for the devil’s spot. Her shoulder-length hair was knotted into sweaty rat-tails. She’d have been pretty under other circumstances. The soldiers had certainly enjoyed searching her.     â€œI’m the justiciar’s clerk,” the young man tried again. “I’m only here to establish the facts. I’m not here to hurt you. I don’t even know what a winkle is.”     The girl tried to push herself further into the corner. The heavy chains on her wrists and ankles chinked.     Master Aivry scratched his head. “This isn’t working. Let’s try again.” He held out his hand, then pulled it back as the witch flinched. “Sorry. Look, I’m only here to talk to you. Just to talk. My name’s Sion.”     Wide, wary eyes stared at him.     â€œAlright, my actual name is Blow-Ye-The-Trumpets-In-Sion.”     There was a tiny flicker of those parched lips. “Blow-Ye…?” the girl asked, bemused.     â€œBlow-Ye-The-Trumpets-In-Sion. From the Book of Joel. My parents were big fans of the minor prophets.”     â€œThey must have been.”     Things were going a little bit better now. Sion slipped off his coat. The witch froze up again.     â€œI think you need it more than me right now,” the clerk said. “What happened to your clothes?”     â€œThe soldiers tore them off. When the priest examined me.”     â€œSorry. Look, take the coat. I think you’re owed one.”     The girl couldn’t get the coat on over her manacles so she pulled it to cover herself like a blanket. “What now?” she asked warily.     â€œNow we chat.” The clerk looked down at the notes he’d been given. “You’re Black Helen.”     â€œNo.”     â€œNo?” Sion checked the paperwork. “It says here…”     â€œI’m Helen. Black Helen’s what vicious ignorant folk call me.”     â€œRight. Sorry again. Helen. Not Black Helen.”     â€œNot Black Helen. Although even Black Helen’s better than Blow-Ye-The-Trumpets-In-Sion. How did you even survive childhood?”     â€œI learned to run fast and to duck,” confessed the clerk. “So, not-Black Helen, it says here you confessed to being a witch.”     â€œYes.”     â€œYou’re a witch?”     â€œI confessed to it. That doesn’t make me a witch. It just makes me somebody who doesn’t want to be burned with pokers any more.”     Sion checked the priest’s spidery handwriting. “So you didn’t have congress with the devil?”     â€œNo. And I didn’t have congress with Ned the Weaver, either, which might be why he gave testimony against me.”     â€œThe midwife examined you. You’re no maid.”     â€œI had a lover. He’s long gone. That makes me a slut not a witch.”     â€œIf you were a slut wouldn’t you have had congress with Ned the Weaver?”     â€œMaybe I’m a slut with a sense of smell?”     Sion snorted. “A sense of humour, anyway. I’m glad they haven’t scared it out of you quite yet.”     Helen’s smiled faded. “They’ve surely tried,” she said in a small voice. She looked away to the wall. “I’m very frightened, Master Sion.”     â€œYou don’t need to be frightened of me, Mistress Helen.”     The witch glanced back at the young clerk. “No…” she decided. “I don’t think I do. I don’t know why but…”     â€œI’m just here to see you get a fair hearing,” Sion told her. “I have to assess all the facts and then report to the justiciar, my master. Then he’ll conduct a hearing and pass judgement.”     â€œSo if you tell him to let me free then he’ll release me?”     â€œUm… in theory that could happen, yes. My notes tend to be more advisories.”     â€œHow many times has the justiciar let someone free because you recommended it?”     Sion looked uncomfortable. “It could happen,” he offered lamely.     Helen dropped her head back down between her arms.     â€œDon’t despair,” Sion pleaded. “Look, let me establish a few facts. Without the pokers.”     â€œWhat’s the point? They’ll burn me anyway.”     â€œPlease. Humour me.”     â€œWhy should I? Those guards have already told me what they’re going to do to me once sentence is passed. It’s a perk of the job, evidently.”     â€œHumour me because I’m called Blow-Ye-The-Trumpets-In-Sion. You don’t have to face that fate. Not if I can just establish the facts well enough.”     Helen sighed. “Well, it’s better than sitting in the dark waiting for the next torture,” she decided. “Go on.”     Sion dipped his quill into his inkpot and took a fresh sheet of vellum. “Right then. Let’s start with the easy one. Are you actually a witch?”     â€œYes,” said Helen.     â€œNo, you don’t have to confess,” the clerk told her. “I won’t hurt you. I’m not going to winkle you or whatever. I just want to know the truth. So are you a witch?”     â€œYes. I’m a witch.”     Sion put his pen down again. “Ah.”     Helen felt almost sorry for the hapless clerk. “I didn’t have congress with the devil, if that helps,” she offered.     â€œMaybe you just know old folklore,” Sion suggested. “You know which herbs to give animals and people to make them well again, and the secrets of midwifery.”     â€œI do,” agreed Helen.     â€œAnd that’s why folks are suspicious of you, living alone in your cottage outside the village with your cat and your cauldron. Superstition gone mad.”     â€œYes. And also I can do magic.”     Sion blinked. “Magic. You do magic?”     â€œYes. Sorry, but I can. That’s why I’m a witch.”     The clerk shook his head. “If you can do magic then do some now. Show me.”     Helen shook her shackles. “I’m bound in iron. That stops the magic working. Otherwise I could conjure up all kinds of visions for you. Illusions of flowers and animals, showers of butterflies, rainbows and treasures and all kinds of wonders.”     Sion was about to refute that when he saw the girl’s face. As she spoke of her creations her eyes lit up and she looked far beyond the walls of her dungeon cell. Her face was radiant.     Sion’s heart turned over.     â€œYou think I’m mad,” Helen told him.     â€œI think… I don’t know what to think, to be honest. You’ve confessed to witchcraft, both in this statement and to me. You seem sane – saner than I’d be in your position – but you speak of making things from thin air.”     â€œOnly images,” the witch clarified. “My sculptures have no substance. I can make them move but they can’t be touched. They can’t harm.”     â€œHow did you get these gifts?”     â€œI don’t know. I’ve had them as long as I can remember.” Helen shifted uncomfortably under Sion’s coat. “Look, I’ve never harmed anyone. I’ve always tried to help the people of the village, with remedies and knowledge. I’ve never signed a pact with Satan, or blighted cattle, or ridden men to death in their sleep, or any of that. I am a witch but… does that make me bad enough to burn?”     â€œExodus 22. 18 seems to think so,” admitted Sion.     Helen wasn’t impressed. “The Hebrew word m'khashepah doesn’t mean witch. It means a woman who speaks spells to harm others. The language of Deuteronomy 18 is equally specific about the kinds of magic it condemns, mostly divinations and necromancy.”     The clerk’s eyes widened. “How do you know that stuff?”     â€œI’ve no idea. I just do. I know things sometimes, like the right healing plants or what medical symptoms mean.” Helen cupped her head in her hands. “Why am I talking to you? I might as well light the bonfire myself!”     She started to cry, softly.     Sion found himself moving forward to hold her. She tensed at his touch and looked up.     â€œIs that it, then?” she asked, blinking back tears. “Is that what I have to do to escape?”     Sion pulled his hands away and shied back. “No. No, not at all. Absolutely not. I wasn’t… You don’t… No.”     Helen looked at the young man thoughtfully. “No, you didn’t mean that, did you? I was hurting and you just wanted to help. I’m not… People aren’t usually kind to me. They come to me quickly enough when they want help, but behind my back the call me names. Black Helen. Soldier’s Tart. Greenhag. And a lot worse. They don’t think I’m fit to be one of God’s children.”     Sion wiped a tear from her cheek. “You don’t deserve to burn,” he told her.     â€œAnd your master will listen to you, will he?” Helen asked, without hope.     â€œWell, he might,” the clerk said. “Besides, I’m going to order your release now.”     â€œDo you have the authority?” wondered the witch. “I mean, you’re a clerk, right? Not a real justiciar? You can’t really help me, can you?” She huddled miserably under the scholar’s yellow coat.     â€œI’m real,” declared Sion Aivry. “Dammit! And somehow I’m getting you out of here.” *** Continued in "The Da Visionary Code" Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2016 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2016 to their creators. This is a work of parody. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works are in fair-use parody and do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. Any proceeds from this work are distributed to charity. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

Nice stealth story.