purer

" she demanded in a loud whisper. "Wait." "Simon, there are Fire Dancers in there! Didn't you see them?!" He raised his hand to stay her, then wheeled to face the interior. The two large Fire Dancers were forcing the man and woman up from their bench, dragging the woman across the rough wood when her legs would not support her. She was crying in earnest now; her companion, pinioned, could only stare at the ground and murmur miserably. Simon felt anger flame within him. Why didn't anyone in this place help them? There must be two dozen seated here and only three Fire Dancers. Miriamele tugged at his sleeve. "Is there trouble? Come, Simon, let's go!" "I can't," he said, quietly but urgently. "They're taking those two people somewhere." "We can't afford to be caught, Simon. This is not a time for heroes." "I can't just let them take those people, Miriamele." He prayed that someone else in the crowded room would stand up, that some general movement of resistance would begin. Miriamele was right: they couldn’t afford to do anything foolish. But no one did more than whisper and watch. Cursing himself for his stupidity, and God or Fate for putting him in this position, Simon pulled his sleeve from Miriamele's grasp and took a step back into the common room. He carefully set the supper parcel and jug down beside the wall, then curled his hand around the hilt of the sword Josua had given him. "Stop!" he said loudly.

"Simon!" Now all heads did turn toward him. The last to swivel around was that of the leader. Although he was only a little shorter than an average man, there was something curiously dwarflike in his large, cleft-chinned head. His tiny eyes flicked Simon up and down. This time there was no amusement. "What? Stop, you say? Stop what?" "I don't think those people want to go with you." Simon addressed the male captive, who was struggling weakly in the grip of one of the large Fire Dancers. "Do you?" The man's eyes flicked back and forth between Simon and his chief captor. At last. miserably, he shook his head. Simon knew then that what the man feared must be truly terrible, that he would risk making this situation worse in the desperate—and unlikely—hope that Simon could save him from it. "You see?" Simon tried, with mixed results, to keep his voice firm and calm. "They do not wish to accompany you. Set them free." His heart was pounding. His own words sounded curiously formal, even deliberately high-flown, as if this were a Tallistro story or some other chronicle of imaginary heroism. The bald man looked around the room as if to judge how many might be prepared to join Simon in resistance. No one else was moving; the entire room seemed to share a single held breath. The Fire Dancer turned back to Simon, a grin curling his thick lips. "These folk betrayed their oath to the Master. This is no concern of yours." Simon felt an immense fury wash over him. He had seen all the bullying he had the stomach for, from the countrywide misdeeds of the king to the precisely pointed cruelties of Pryrates. He tightened his grip on the hilt. "I am making it my concern. Take your hands from them and get out." Wthout further argument, the leader spat out a word and the follower who held the woman let her go—she slumped against the table, knocking a bowl onto the floor—and leaped toward Simon, his blunt-headed staff swinging in a wide arc. A few people shouted in fear or excitement. Simon was frozen for an instant, his sword only halfway out of his scabbard. Idiot! Mooncalf! He dropped to the floor and the staff whistled over his head, knocking several cloaks from the wall and becoming entangled in one of them.