Free Swords: 06 - The Third Book of Lost Swords - Stonecutter's Story by Fred Saberhagen

figure was dressed in baggy peasant blouse and trousers, both garments dirty and torn. He had an arresting face—people who didn’t know a man might elect him their leader on the strength of a face like that—and he was paying no more attention to the modest crowds around him than he was to those orgiastic statues looming across the square. His eyes instead appeared to be fixed upon some unattainable object in the distance.
           A placard had been fastened to the front of the cart, but one corner of the paper had been torn loose; it was sagging in a deep curl, and Kasimir could not read it. Turning to a respectable-looking man who stood nearby, he asked what was going on.
           The sturdy citizen shook his head. The corners of his mouth were turned down in disapproval. He said: “I have heard something of the case. The man is called Benjamin of the Steppe, and they bring him out of his cell every few days for a little parade like this. I believe he was engaged in some treasonable activities in the far west, at the very edge of the Hetman’s territory. Something to do with organizing the small farmers there over water rights and taxes.”
           “Organizing them?”
           “To form local legislative councils. To vote, and govern themselves.” The citizen made a gesture expressing irritation. He obviously didn’t know, couldn’t remember, exactly how those farmers had intended to organize themselves, but it was an activity which he opposed in general. “They’re going to hang him on the first day of the Festival; it’s traditional in Eylau, you know, to execute one prisoner then, and set another free. It’s hanging, drawing, and quartering, of course.” The prospect of that extremely gory spectacle didn’t please the townsman either.
           The cart had rumbled past; Kasimir cast one more glance after it. Then he thanked his informant and turned away, reflecting that such public executions were probably rather routine events in a city of this size, even though, as far as he knew, the Hetman had no particular reputation for ferocity. Kasimir supposed that very few rulers would be willing to let people, even remote farmers, start governing themselves. Once started, where would that end?
           Still walking at a moderate pace, he now turned his steps again in the direction of the main entrance of the Red Temple.
           He approached the establishment with mixed feelings. In general Kasimir considered the White Temple, devoted as it was to healing and the worship of beneficent Ardneh, morally superior to any other, particularly to either the Blue or the Red. But in his opinion other forms of religion, including both Red and Blue Temples, had their places in society too. The Blue, at best, served the rest of the world as bankers, offering—for a price, of course—investments that were sometimes sound, and a secure depository. As for the Red—well, Kasimir liked to think that he enjoyed sex, food, and drink as much as the next man. Perhaps even a turn of the gambling wheel now and then. But he had grave doubts about the wisdom of worshipping the gods of those engrossing activities—or any other gods, for that matter. And as a physician he knew too much about the drugs that were so popular among Red Temple worshippers to feel any temptation along that line himself.
           The main entrance archway of the temple was draped in red, with scarlet curtains hanging in long folds over the duller masonry. Through the gap between those curtains there came out of the dim interior a hint of crimson light, along with a taste in the air of some exotic incense. The pulse beat of a drum was throbbing somewhere deep inside that doorway. As Kasimir delayed outside, making his last mental preparations, another man hurried past him and inside. And then a second customer. Business was not bad, even this early in the morning.
           Having done his best to put on a