"Why? How is it going to seem?"

  "The judge is John Adams. I've been reading his writings and his court cases, both as lawyer and as judge, since I first began the study of law. The man is decent to the core. I had no knowledge of his ever doing a witch trial, though, and so I had no idea of his position on them. But when I came out of jail this morning, I was met by a fellow who lives here--"

  "No need for names," said Alvin.

  Verily smiled. "A fellow, I say, who's made some study of witch law-- in fact that's his name, Study-- and he tells me that Adams has never actually rendered a verdict in a witchery case."

  "What does that mean?"

  "There's always been some defect in the witchers' presentation and he's thrown the whole thing out."

  "Then that's good," said Alvin.

  "No," said Verily. "That's bad."

  "I'd go free, wouldn't l?"

  "But the law would still stand."

  Alvin rolled his eyes. "Verily, I didn't come back here to try to reform New England, I came in order to--"

  "We came to help Purity," said Verily. "And all the others. Do you know what it would mean, if the law itself were found defective? Adams is a man of weighty reputation. Even from the circuit bench of Boston, his decisions would be looked at carefully and carry much precedence in England as well as in America. The right decision might mean the end of witch trials, here as well as there."

  Alvin smiled thinly. "You got too high an opinion of human nature."

  "Do I?"

  "The law didn't make witch trials happen. It was the hunger for witch trials that got them to make up the law."

  "But if we do away with the legal basis--"

  "Listen, Verily, do you think men like Quill will flat-out disappear just cause witchery ain't there to give them what they want? No, they'll just find another way to do the same job."

  "You don't know that."

  "If it ain't witchcraft, they'll find new crimes that work just the way witchcraft does, so you can take ordinary folks making ordinary mistakes or not even mistakes, just going about their business, but suddenly the witcher, he finds some wickedness in it, and turns everything they say into proof that they're guilty of causing every bad thing that's been going wrong."

  "There's no other law that works that way."

  "That's because we got witch laws, Very. Get rid of them, and people will find a way take all the sins of the world and put them onto the heads of some fellow who's attracted their attention and then destroy him and all his friends."

  "Purity isn't evil, Alvin."

  "Quill is," said Alvin.

  The sheriff leaned down. "I'm trying not to listen, boys, but you know it's a crime to speak ill of a witcher. This Quill, he takes it as evidence that Satan's got you by the short hairs, begging your pardon."

  "Thank you for the reminder, sir," said Verily. "My client didn't mean it quite the way it sounded."

  The sheriff rolled his eyes. "From what I've seen, it doesn't matter much how it sounds when you say it. What matters is how it sounds when Quill repeats it."

  Verily grinned at the sheriff and then at Alvin.

  "What are you smiling at?" asked Alvin.

  "I just got all the proof I need that you're wrong. People don't like the way the witch trials work. People don't like injustice. Strike down these laws and no one will miss them."

  Alvin shook his head. "Good people won't miss them. But it wasn't good people as set them up in the first place. It was scared people. The world ain't steady. Bad things happen even when you been careful and done no wrong. Good people, strong people, they take that in stride, but them as is scared and weak, they want somebody to blame. The good people will think they've stamped out witch trials, but the next generation they'll turn around and there they'll be again, wearing a different hat, going by a different name, but witch trials all the same, where they care more about getting somebody punished than whether they're actually guilty of anything."

  "Then we'll stamp them out again," said Verily.

  Alvin shrugged. "Of course we will, once we figure out what's what and who's who. Maybe next time the witchers will go after folks with opinions they don't like, or folks who pray the wrong way or in the wrong place, or folks who look ugly or talk funny, or folks who aren't polite enough, or folks who wear the wrong clothes. Someday they may hold witch trials to condemn people for being Puritans."

  Verily leaned over and whispered into Alvin's ear. "Meaning no disrespect, Al, it's your wife who can see into the future, not you."

  "No whispering," said the sheriff. "You might be giving me the pox." He chuckled, but there was just a little bit of genuine worry in his voice.

  Alvin answered Verily out loud. "Meaning no disrespect, Very, it don't take a knack to know that human nature ain't going to change anytime soon."

  Verily stood up. "It's time for the arraignment, Alvin. There's no point in our talking philosophy before a trial. I never knew till now that you were so cynical about human nature."

  "I know the power of the Unmaker," said Alvin. "It never lets up. It never gives in. It just moves on to other ground."

  Shaking his head, Verily led the way out of the room. The sheriff, tightly holding the end of Alvin's chain, escorted him right after. "I got to say, I never seen a prisoner who cared so little about whether he got convicted or not."

  Alvin reached up his hand and scratched the side of his nose. "I'm not all that worried, I got to admit." Then he put his hand back down.

  It wasn't till they were almost in the courtroom that the sheriff realized that there was no way the prisoner could have got his hand up to his face with those manacles on, chained to his ankle braces the way they were. But by then he couldn't be sure he'd actually seen the young fellow scratch his nose. He just thought he remembered that. Just his mind playing tricks on him. After all, if this Alvin Smith could take his hands out of iron manacles, just like that, why didn't he walk out of jail last night?

  Chapter 12 -- Slaves

  "You must take care of him," said Balzac.

  "In a boardinghouse for ladies?" asked Margaret.

  Calvin stood there, his unblinking gaze focused on nothing.

  "They have servants, no? He is your brother-in-law, he is sick, they will not refuse you."

  Margaret did not have to ask him what had precipitated his decision. At the French embassy today Balzac received a letter from a Paris publisher. One of his essays on his American travels had already appeared in a weekly, and was so popular that the publisher was going to serialize the rest of them and then bring them out as a book. A letter of credit was included. It was enough for a passage home.

  "Just when you start earning money from your writing about America, you're going to leave?"

  "Writing about America will pay for leaving America," said Balzac. "I am a novelist. It is about the human soul that I write, not the odd customs of this barbaric country." He grinned. "Besides, when they read what I have written about the practice of slavery in Camelot, this will be a very good place for me to be far away."

  Margaret dipped into his futures. "Will you do me one kindness, then?" she asked. "Will you write in such a way that when war comes between the armies of slavery and of liberty, no government of France will be able to justify joining the war on the side of the slaveholders?"

  "You imagine my writing to have more authority than it will ever have."

  But already she saw that he would honor her request, and that it would work. "You are the one who underestimates yourself," said Margaret. "The decision you made in your heart just now has already changed the world."

  Tears came to Balzac's eyes. "Madame, you have give me this unspeakable gift which no writer ever get: You tell me that my imaginary stories are not frivolous, they make life better in reality."

  "Go home, Monsieur de Balzac. America is better because you came, and France will be better when you return."

  "It is a shame you are married so completely," said Balzac. "I have never loved any woman the way I love you in this moment."

  "Nonsense," said Margaret. "It is yourself you love. I merely brought you a good report of your loved one." She smiled. "God bless you."

  Balzac took Calvin's hand. "It does me no good to speak to him. Tell him I did my best but I must to go home."

  "I will tell him that you remain his true friend."

  "Do not go too far in this!" said Balzac in mock horror. "I do not wish him to visit me."

  Margaret shrugged. "If he does, you'll deal with him."

  Balzac bowed over her hand and kissed it. Then he took off at a jaunty pace along the sidewalk.

  Margaret turned to Calvin. She could see that he was pale, his skin white and patchy-looking. He stank. "This won't do," she said. "It's time to find where they've put you."

  She led the docile shell of a man into the boardinghouse. She toyed with the idea of leaving him in the public room, but imagined what would happen if he started breaking wind or worse. So she led him up the stairs. He climbed them readily enough, but with each step she had to pull him on to the next, or he'd just stand there. The idea of completing the whole flight of stairs in one sweep was more than his distracted attention could deal with.

  Fishy was in the hall when Margaret reached her floor. Margaret was gratified to see that as soon as Fishy recognized who it was, she shed the bowed posture of slavery and looked her full in the eye. "Ma'am, you can't bring no gentleman to this floor."

  Margaret calmly unlocked her door and pushed Calvin inside as she answered. "I can assure you, he's not a gentleman."

  Moments later, Fishy slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. "Ma'am, it's a scandal. She throw you out." Only then did she look at Calvin. "What's wrong with this one?"

  "Fishy, I need your help. To bring this man back to himself." As briefly as she could, she told Fishy what had happened with Calvin.

  "He the one send my name back to me?"

  "I'm sure he didn't realize what he was doing. He's frightened and desperate."

  "I don't know if I be hating him," said Fishy. "I hurt all the time now. But I know I be hurting."

  "You're a whole woman now," said Margaret. "That makes you free, even in your slavery."

  "This one, he gots the power to put all the names back?"

  "I don't know."

  "The Black man who take the names, I don't know his name. Be maybe I know his face, iffen I see him."

  "And you have no idea where they take the names?"

  "Nobody know. Nobody wants to. Can't tell what you don't know."

  "Will you help me find him? From what Balzac said, he lurks by the docks."

  "Oh, it be easy a-find him. But how you going a-stop him from killing you and me and the White man, all three?"

  "Do you think he would?"

  "A White woman and a White man who know that he gots the names? He going a-think I be the one a-tell you." She drew a finger across her throat. "My neck, he cut that. Stab you in the heart. Tear him open by the belly. That's what happen to the ones who tell."

  "Fishy, I can't explain it to you, but I can assure you of this-- we will not be taken by surprise."

  "I druther be surprise iffen he kill us," said Fishy. She mimed slitting her own throat again. "Let him sneak up behind."

  "He won't kill us at all. We'll stand at a distance."

  "What good that going a-do us?"

  "There's much I can learn about a man from a distance, once I know who he is."

  "I still gots a room to finish cleaning."

  "I'll help you," said Margaret.

  Fishy almost laughed out loud. "You the strangest White lady."

  "Oh, I suppose that would cause comment."

  "You just set here," said Fishy. "I be back soon. Then I be on your half-day. They have to let me go out with you."

  ***

  Denmark spent a fruitless morning asking around about a White man who suddenly went empty. He'd knock on a door, pretending to be asking for work for a non-existent White master-- just so the slave who talked to him had a story to tell when somebody asked them who was at the door. The slaves all knew who Denmark was, of course-- nobody was more famous among the Blacks of Camelot than the taker of names. Unless it was Gullah Joe, the bird man who flew out to the slaveships. So there wasn't a soul who didn't try to help. Trouble was, all these people with no name, they had no sharp edge to them. They vaguely remembered hearing this or that about a White man who was sick or a White man who couldn't walk, but in each case it turned out to be some old cripple or a man who'd already died of some disease. Not till afternoon did he finally hear a story that sounded like it might be what he needed.

  He followed the rumor to a cheap boardinghouse where yes, indeed, two White men had shared a room, and one of them, the Northerner, had taken sick with a strange malady. "He eat, he drink, he pee, he do all them thing," said the valet who had cared for their room. "I change him trouser three times a day, wash everything twice a day." But they had left just that morning. "French man, he gots a letter, he pack up all, take away that empty man, now they be both all gone."

  "Did he say where he taking the sick man?" asked Denmark.

  "He don't say nothing to me," said the valet.

  "Does anybody know?"

  "You want me to get in trouble, asking question from the White boss?"

  Denmark sighed. "You tell him that Frenchman and that Northerner, they owe my master money."

  The valet looked puzzled. "Your master dumb enough a-lend them money?"

  Denmark leaned in close. "It's a lie," he said. "You say they owe my master money, then the White boss tell you where they gone off to."

  It took a moment, but finally the valet understood and retreated into the house. When he came back, he had some information. "Calvin, he the sick man, he gots a sister-in-law here. At a boardinghouse."

  "What's the address?"

  "White boss don't know."

  "White boss hoping for a bribe," said Denmark.

  The valet shook his head. "No, he don't know, that the truth."

  "How'm I going to find her with no address?"

  The valet shrugged. "Be maybe you best ask around."

  "Ask what? 'There's a woman with a sick brother-in-law named Calvin and she living in a boardinghouse somewhere.' That get me a lot of results."

  The valet looked at him like he was crazy. "I don't think you get much that way. I bet you do better, you tell them her name."

  "I don't know her name."

  "Why not? I do."

  Denmark closed his eyes. "That's good. How about you tell me that name?"

  "Margaret."

  "She got her a last name? White folks has a last name every time."

  "Smith," said the valet. "But she don't look big enough for smith work."

  "You've seen her?" asked Denmark.

  "Lots of times."

  "When would you see her?"

  "I run messages to her and back a couple of times."

  Denmark sighed, keeping anger out of his voice. "Well now, my friend, don't that mean you know where she lives?"

  "I do," said the valet.

  "Why couldn't you just tell me that?"

  "You didn't be asking where she live, you ask for the address. I don't know no number or letter."

  "Could you lead me there?"

  The valet rolled his eyes. "Sixpence to the White boss and he let me take you."

  Denmark looked at him suspiciously. "You sure it ain't tuppence to the White boss and the rest to you?"

  The valet looked aggrieved. "I be a Christian."

  "So be all the White folks," said Denmark.

  The valet, all anger having been stripped from him long ago, had no chance of understanding pointed irony. "Of course they be Christian. How else I learn about Jesus 'cept from them?"

  Denmark dug a sixpence out of his pocket and gave it to the valet. In moments he was back, grinning. "I gots ten minutes."

  "That time enough?"

  "Two blocks over, one block down."

  When they got to the door of Margaret Smith's boardinghouse, the valet just stood there.

  "Step aside so I can knock," said Denmark.

  "I can if you want," said the valet. "But I don't see why."

  "Well if I don't knock, how'm I going to find out if she be in?"

  "She ain't in," said the valet.

  "How you know that?"

  "Cause she over there, looking at you."

  Denmark turned around casually. A White woman, a White man, and a Black servant girl were across the street, walking away.

  "Who's looking at me?"

  "They was looking," said the valet. "And I know she can tell you about that Calvin man."

  "How do you know that?"

  "That be him."

  Denmark looked again. The White man was shuffling along like an old man. Empty.

  Denmark grinned and gave another tuppence to the valet. "Good job, when you finally got around to telling me."

  The valet took the tuppence, looked at it, and offered it back. "No, it be sixpence the White boss want."

  "I already paid the sixpence," said Denmark.

  The valet looked at him like he had lost his mind. "If you done that, why you be giving me more? This tuppence not enough anyway." Huffily, he handed the coin back. "You crazy." Then he was gone.

  Denmark sauntered along, keeping them in sight. A couple of times the slave girl looked back and gazed at him. But he wasn't worried. She'd know who he was, and there was no chance of a Black girl telling this White lady anything about the taker of names.

  ***

  "That him," said Fishy. "He take the names."

  Margaret saw at once in Denmark's mind that he could not be trusted for a moment. She had been looking for him, and he had been looking for her. But he had a knife and meant to use it. That was hardly the way to restore Calvin's heartfire.

  "Let's go down to the battery. There are always plenty of people there. He won't dare harm a White man in such a crowd. He doesn't want to die."