e guards. The bald one had brought his
meals every day, but the black-haired one was the man who checked his
cell at night. For once, Jonas thought, he was lucky; the bald man
appeared, after some fifteen minutes of screaming and cursing. Jonas was
not at all sure whether the black-haired man understood language: there
was little trace of it in his mind, and virtually nothing that might be
called intelligence. With the bald man, at least, he could communicate.

"What's wanted?" the guard said sourly, staring through the bars.

Jonas smiled softly. "You know why I'm here, don't you?" he said in a
voice as close to silky as he could make it.

"You?" the bald man said. "You're here. In a cell."

"That's right," Jonas said patiently. He rubbed at his face. "Do you
know why I was put here?"

"You--cast spells. You make things happen."

"That's right," Jonas said, smiling again. "I'm a wizard. A warlock.
That's what they say, isn't it?"

"You--make things happen," the bald man said.

But he had the basic idea; Jonas checked that in his mind. "Very well,"
he said. "Now, I wish to see Herr Knupf."

"The Inquisitor calls you when he wants you," the bald man said.

"Now," Jonas said.

"When he wants--"

"If I am a wizard," Jonas said, "I have powers. Strange powers. I could
make you--" He reflected for a minute. "I could make you into a beetle,
and squash you underfoot. As a matter of fact, I think I will." He gazed
reflectively at the bald man, who gulped and turned a little pale.

"You ... you are in a cell," he said at last. "Locked up."

"Do you think that will stop me?" Jonas said. He came to the barred
door, still smiling.

"You would not dare--"

"Why not?" Jonas asked. "What have I got to lose?"

He raised one hand, clawing the fingers slightly. He took a deep breath,
as if he were about to spit out an incantation. His eyes glittered. The
smile broadened.

A long second passed.

"I will tell the Inquisitor you wish to see him," the bald guard said.

Jonas relaxed and stepped back. "I shall be most grateful," he said
formally. The guard turned and started to walk away. Five paces down the
corridor, the walk turned into a run. Jonas watched him go, and then sat
down on his louse-infested cot to await developments.

The minutes ticked by endlessly. He thought of trying to reach Claerten,
but decided, not entirely with regret, that the contact would use up too
much energy. And he needed all the energ