“What’s wrong with you?” the policeman howled. “Is it some drug?”
“No, it’s sleeping on an empty stomach,” I said—except that it came out as “Nah, nah, empsa.”
“He must be foreign,” decided the second policeman.
“Yeh, yeh, yeh,” I said, because that was true. “I’ve been a foreigner three times since yesterday,” I added—or rather, “I’m before threems stay.”
The second policeman, who was clearly the important one—he smelled importantly of some vile aftershave, like peaches boiled in burned plastic—said fretfully, “I’ve never heard of this place Threems. Have you?”
“No,” said the other one. “Do I write it down?”
“Name first,” said Important. And he shouted at me, “Name!”
For some reason, I can always say my name. I said, “Nick Mallory,” and it only came out a little slurred.
“Enter that, and then search him,” said Important. “Enter any ID or stolen property.” I heard heavy footsteps and a creaking as Important paced away and sat down somewhere in front of me, and a pen scratching as the other policeman wrote. Then I felt him dig in my pockets. There were chinkings and exasperated noises. As far as I could tell, they’d found fifty-six p, my two tenners, and my door key. I hoped they’d give the key back because Dad is always losing his.
“Foreign money,” said the ordinary policeman, “and this flat metal thing. Could be a key.”
“Keep it for analysis,” said Important. “It might be a talisman.”
“Wommy key,” I said.
“But he can’t have stolen this money here,” Important went on, ignoring me, “because the revered Prayermaster was only carrying normal Loggia City currency.”
“These notes are written in Loggian, though,” the other policeman said, puzzled.
“He probably stole them in some other world. Not a problem,” Important said. “We’ll deal with the serious charge here now. You!” he bawled at me. “Open your eyes!”
“Car do tha yeh,” I explained.
“Write down obstructing the law,” Important said. “And you, listen carefully.” Because he thought I was foreign, he spoke very loudly to me and got louder and louder as he went on. “You have been accused of raising witchlight in a public place …”
So that’s what the angry pink lady was on about! I thought.
“… and this is a very serious crime,” Important boomed. ?
??If proved, it means prison for life without option. The prison here is down under the railway lines. You won’t enjoy it. So think very carefully before you answer my questions and tell me the exact truth. Are you a witch?”
“No,” I said.
“But you know how to raise witchlight, don’t you?” he yelled cunningly. “And that—”
“No, I don’t,” I said.
“—automatically makes you a witch. What did you say?” he howled.
“Don’t. Can’t. Never knew how,” I said. By this time I was trying with all my might to speak properly. “Silly wom’n. Eyes bad. No glasses.”
There was a bit of a silence at that. The ordinary policeman said, “This is the fourth charge of witchcraft Mizz Jocelyn has laid this year. None of the others—”
“I know, I know,” Important said irritably, “but the Prayermasters are after us to make our quota. What am I supposed to do?”
“Arress Mizz Jocelyn,” I suggested.
“Shut up!” they both howled at me.
There was another silence. I could hear the pen scratching again and Important tapping away irritably on something. I supposed he was drumming his fingers while he thought how to prove I was a witch. By this time my eyes were beginning to unstick. A very strong sense of self-preservation caused me to force my eyelids apart just a crack. I could see Important as a blur of yellow, lit sideways by distant sunlight. “Bellving field normal,” he was murmuring. “Telepathic field up a bit—not much on its own. Power almost zero …”