Free the wind's twelve quarters by Ursula K. Le Guin

the heresies of Invention and Computation. You were this man’s friend?”  
    “We were Co-Masters—”  
    “Yes. Did he ever speak to you of measurements made without Comparing Sticks?”  
    “No.”  
    “Of black numbers?”  
    “No.”  
    “Of the black arts?”  
    “No.”  
    “Master Ganil, you’ve answered No three times. Do you know the Order of the Priest-Masters of the Mystery of the Law concerning suspects in heresy?”  
    “No, I don’t—”  
    “The Order says: ‘If the suspect shall deny the questions four times, the questions may be repeated with use of the handpress until answered.’ I shall now repeat, unless you wish to retract one of your denials.”  
    “No,” Ganil said, confused, looking round him at the crowded blank faces, the high walls. When they had brought out a squat wooden machine of some kind and had locked his right hand into it, he was still more confused than scared. What was all this mumbo-jumbo? It was like his initiation, when they had worked so hard to frighten him; that time they had succeeded.  
    “As a Mechanic,” the golden priest was saying, “you know the use of the lever, Master Ganil. Will you retract?”  
    “No,” Ganil said, frowning a little. He had noticed that his right arm now seemed to end at the wrist, like Yin’s.  
    “Very well.” One of the guards put his hand on the lever sticking out of the wooden box, and the golden priest said, “Were you a friend of Mede Fairman?”  
    “No,” Ganil said. He said No to each question even after he had ceased to hear the priest’s voice; he went on saying No till he heard his own voice mixed with the clapping echo from the walls above the courtyard. No, no, no, no.  
    The light came and went, the rain fell cold on his face and ceased, somebody kept trying to help him stand up. His grey cloak stank, he had been sick with pain. At the thought, he was sick again. “Take it easy, now,” a guard was whispering to him. The motionless white and yellow ranks were still crowded there, the faces set, the eyes staring... but not at him now.  
    “Heretic, do you know this man?”  
    “He is my Co-Master.”  
    “Did you speak to him of the black arts?”  
    “Yes.”  
    “Did you teach him the black arts?”  
    “No. I tried to.” The voice cracked a little; even in the silence of the courtyard, over only the whisper of the rain, it was hard to hear Mede speak. “He was too stupid. He dared not and could not learn. He’ll make a fine Shopmaster.” The cold blue eyes looked straight at Ganil without pity or appeal.  
    The golden priest turned to face the court again. “There is no evidence against the suspect Ganil. You may go, suspect. Come here at noon tomorrow to witness the execution of judgment. Failure to come will be taken as proof of your guilt.” Before he understood, the guards had led Ganil out of the courtyard. They left him at a side door of the College, barring the door behind him with a clang. He stood there a while, then crouched down on the pavement, pressing his blackened, blood-caked hand against his side under his cloak. Rain whispered around him. No one passed. It was not till dusk that he pulled himself up and walked, street by street, house by house, step by step, across the city to Yin’s house.  
    In the shadows of the doorway a shadow moved, spoke: “Ganil!” He stopped. “Ganil, I don’t care if you’re suspect. It’s all right. Come back home with me. My father will take you back into the shop. He will if I ask him.”  
    Ganil was silent.  
    “Come with me. I waited for you, I knew you’d come here, I’ve followed you before.” Her nervous, jubilant laugh died away.  
    “Let me by, Lani.”  
    “No. Why do you come to old Yin’s house? Who lives here? Who is she? Come back with me, you have to, my father won’t take a suspect back into his shop, unless I—”  
    Yin’s door was never locked. Ganil brushed past her and went in,