Conan the Savage by Leonard Carpenter Page B

to mock him with!” He gathered breath for a fuller denunciation, yet stopped when Tamsin spoke once again in her own voice, soft and clear, but with an oddly compelling tone.
    “We had best talk.” The gill’s eyes flicked to the bright red canopy that hung behind altar and priest, swaying slightly in the draft that blew in off the moor. “Alone,” I she added, “just the three of us—” and folded her grotesque fetish back into the crook of her arm.
    On further reflection, Epiminophas saw the value of a parley. It might serve to intimidate this precocious child, who, as mad as she seemed, did not entirely lack sense. Or, else-wise, it might tempt her into further heresies and defilements that would justify a swift, spectacular punishment before the throng. At the very least, it would make him appear in control—a useful step after his authority had been so evidently shaken. a
    Even so, the notion of granting the wench and her doll a solitary audience was an outrage. When Epiminophas led her behind the canopy, he was accompanied by four of his officers, including the scribe. As the girl departed, her unlucky relative Amulf the Good prostrated himself before the altar, quaking in obvious apprehension.
    “Now see here, you young charlatan,” Epiminophas began, “you must render all due fealty to Amalias.” The priest spoke openly, trusting his acolytes to prevent anyone beyond the curtain from eavesdropping. “You can conduct a rich magical trade here in the provinces without paying a heavy tithe to the temple. We let the peasants follow their local heresies, within limits. ’Tis not as if you were setting up shop in Yervash, working in direct competition with the state church. That would be something else again.”
    Epiminophas settled onto his folding stool, lowering himself to the maid’s level to give an appearance of reasonableness. “All we ask of you is superficial obedience and decent respect. Understand, child, we cannot grant the authority of the church to sustain your conjure tricks and illusions, such as naming that doll of yours in our sacred rolls—” He waved impatiently at the effigy still nestled under the girl’s arm. “That would be putting the plough before the horse, so to speak, making the servants of mighty Amalias subservient to you.”
    The girl Tamsin regarded him as if in naive surprise. “You speak as one who lacks faith... not just in your own church law, but in all magic and holiness as it springs from the earth and air all around you.” The words themselves, Epiminophas thought, sprang amazingly glib and fluent from one who had been believed mute.
    “Come, child,” the priest laughed. “Do you mean to tell me you believe in your own tricks and foolery—the mumbles and smoke-puffs you use to bedazzle the local bumpkins?—such as that doll, or your own supposed lack of speech?” He shook his head sagely. “If so, you are more innocent than I would guess.” His stare into her unblinking eyes bore an insinuation as well as a threat.
    “Nay, think not to trick a trickster, child, nor mock those wiser and more cynical than yourself. The result could be most... painful. The benefits of respect, on the other hand, and proper submissiveness, could be great.” Leaving the hilt of his ceremonial knife, which hung sheathed on its copper chain around his waist, the priest’s beringed hand moved forward to caress young Tamsin’s green-robed shoulder.
    “So,” came the sudden, rasping, rattling doll-voice in return, “you think our magic as false as your own?” Epiminophas, in spite of himself, recoiled from the leering witch-doll that was thrust up into his face. “Let us try a test!”
    After Tamsin and the priests passed out of sight behind the vestry curtain, Amulf the Good prayed and grovelled before the altar. He feared the wrath of Amalias and the shame and harsh penances Tamsin and her peculiar ways might bring down on all their heads. Yet a part of him feared