Malcolm and Kit took the traders through Vespers before consenting to sit down to the evening meal. Dark looks and angry words between several of the men convinced Malcolm to put a plan of his own into action. If Kit wanted these men off-balance, he saw a golden opportunity to set them at one another. So at dinnertime, which the entire community had begun taking together at Kit's insistence, he lifted his hands and launched into a sermon on the evils of witchcraft in his Basqueaccented Portuguese.

"Know you that the Evil One has demons to sniff out all your grievous sins and tempt you to even greater evil. You must be on your guard against anything that entices you to stray from God's path. If you see your neighbor shirking his duty, be assured Satan is working within that man, leading him down the path of damnation. Be harsh with your neighbor. Correct his behavior that you might guard his soul. You must help one another to find the narrow path again. If your neighbor indulges that cardinal sin of greed, you must help him to resist the error of his ways. If you stand guard at night and see the Evil One and his minions prowling about the town, looking for ways of creating mischief, you must charge him to be gone!"

Several of the soldiers lost color. Clearly, they'd seen something prowling the night. Monkeys, Malcolm was willing to bet, intent on raiding the garbage middens, possibly even leopards after the livestock. Tonight's watch ought to prove interesting.

"Does your fellow man swell with insufferable pride? Teach him humility, that he might rescue his soul from damnation. Avarice, pride, gluttony. Watch for these deadly sins. You must root them out!"

He delivered a final benediction. The whole cadre of soldiers, artisans, farmers, and landlocked sailors sat speechless, eyeing one another with growing suspicion and fear. The governor crossed himself and began to eat but slowly, to avoid the impression that he had fallen prey to the sin of gluttony. The other men followed his example, eyeing one another uneasily while they ate. Which of you, Malcolm could practically read their thoughts, summoned the Evil One with his wickedness

Later, alone, Kit eyed him coldly. "Hope to hell you know what you're doing."

"You wanted them off balance. Next couple of days ought to be interesting."

Kit just grunted and stomped off to bed. Kit's plan to keep the men unsettled and tired was certainly working on Malcolm. He was numb with exhaustion.

"Good night," Malcolm said quietly.

Kit's only reply was a brusque, "Hope you sleep like hell, buddy."

Malcolm held his tongue: He'd take Kit's anger and swallow it raw. Consider it penance, Father Xabat. Malcolm did manage to fall asleep eventually; but his dreams were violent, waking him well before midnight. He rolled over in the darkness and stared at the invisible wooden ceiling.

How could he ever patch his friendship with Kit? Malcolm owed the retired scout more favors than he could ever repay, not the least of which was the trust Kit had placed in him to guard Margo. The knowledge that she huddled in the darkness, locked into a filthy cell with nothing more than a coarse shirt and a flea ridden blanket to cover her, when she needed medical treatment... He closed his fists in his own coarse blanket. Those wretched traders could have given her venereal diseases, could've gotten her pregnant

Malcolm turned onto his side and clenched his teeth. He could have gotten her pregnant. He couldn't blame Kit one jot for the cold, murderous looks. Malcolm couldn't help the way he felt about Margo, but he could've restrained that wild, drunken impulse on a street in Rome. That, he could have prevented it make it up somehow, he promised. Somehow. He hadn't yet figured out how when a wild scream and gunshots shattered the silence. Another man screamed in mortal agony.

Then the alarm bell clanged wildly.

Kit rolled out of bed, one hand going for the push daggers in his ATLS bag. Then he blinked and said, "What the hell?"

"My plans coming to fruition, I think," Malcolm said dryly.

Thudding footsteps ran toward their door. Then a frantic knock shook it on its hinges. Malcolm struggled to his feet and threw the door wide. "What is it?" he asked worriedly. "We heard the shots and the bell-"

"Oh, Father, come quickly, please ..." It was Francisco, one of the soldiers. His voice shook.

Malcolm followed, with Kit hurrying in his wake. They found Zadornin, the Basque sailor, lying in the mud near the fort wall. He'd been shot through the chest. Clearly, the man was dying.

"I did see a demon, Father," the sailor gasped, "atop the wall. I screamed and the watch fired ..."

"It was a misshapen beast," Peli, one of the soldiers quavered. "It had the likeness of a man and it cried out with Zadornin's voice. We fired and it vanished with a screech, leaving poor Zadornin to die in its place."

The sailor was fainting from shock and blood loss. The hole in his chest was at least eighty caliber. Malcolm took his hand and spoke last rites while he died. The sailor's death shook him badly, but Malcolm steeled himself with the thought that these men had permitted Koot van Beek to die and planned to kill Margo and Kynan using the hideous methods reserved for witches. He crossed himself in time to hear a fight break out among the soldiers of the watch.

"If you hadn't been asleep, God curse you"

"If you could shoot an arquebus as well as you shirk your duty-"

The fist fight was brutal and short. Malcolm and Kit watched wordlessly. Malcolm, at any rate, had no intention of soothing the shaken soldiers. When it was over, Amaro sported a broken nose and Lorenco spat out a couple of teeth.

"I suggest," Kit said coldly, "that you bury the man you have murdered. Do so at once. When you have finished, we will begin Matins."

The soldiers grumbled into the stubble of their beards and went in search of shovels to dig the grave.

Margo sat in her prison until nearly mid-morning, overhearing the sound of violent quarrels between her captors. Whatever Kit and Malcolm were doing, it was creating havoc. Good! The gunshots the previous night had jolted her out of nightmares. She had no idea what had happened, but hoped neither Malcolm nor Kit had been directly involved. Her greatest terror was that Kit would die before they could make good their escape, leaving Malcolm alone in a hostile camp of abruptly suspicious Portuguese.

The soldiers came for her shortly before mid-morning. She was clad only in a rough shirt that covered her to her thighs. Margo snatched the blanket and wrapped it around her waist as a skirt. When that hideous Sergeant Braz seized her wrists, Margo spat in his face. He backhanded her into the wall. She slid to the floor, weeping and holding her face. Dimly, she heard Kit's voice, speaking angrily in Portuguese.

Then Malcolm appeared out of the blur. She retained just enough sense not to throw her arms around him. He helped her to her feet, then escorted her outside. A table and chairs had been set up in the fort's open courtyard. The military governor-Margo shuddered at the memory--sat in the front row of seats. His soldiers stood guard, looking like they'd been in a fist fight half the night. Other men squatted on the ground or stood in uneasy clusters, watching the proceedings.

Kit seated himself behind the table and dipped a quill pen into an inkwell, writing something meticulous on thick sheets of parchment. He glanced up and gestured Malcolm to the front of the table. Malcolm led Margo to the open space between table and audience. Kit sat back and looked up at her. Margo felt a chill. If she hadn't known he was playing a part, she would have despaired.

He spoke in Portuguese. Malcolm said in English, "You are on trial for witchcraft, girl. What is your name?"