AT THE CHIEF’S pronouncement, a roar of excitement and approval had arisen from the audience that was listening just outside. The guards pulled the three back to their feet and marched them out of the tent through the crowd, which parted as they passed. They were quickly led back to the cage and lashed inside. Various villagers passed by in twos and threes, peering at them with curious faces, as everyone started gathering in the central plaza of the encampment, just below the rise of rock on which the chief’s tent stood. The same two guards took up positions on either side of the cage.
“Trial by fire,” said Gideon, sinking to the sand, head in his hands. “Oh God. First a beheading—and now this.”
“It’s actually an ancient Bedouin tradition,” said Imogen. “They use it to tell if someone is lying.”
Gideon looked up. “You know about it?”
“Yes.”
“So what do they do? Make me walk over a bed of coals?”
“No. They heat up a rock, or a piece of metal, until it’s red-hot. Then they place it on your tongue. If it burns your tongue, you’re lying. If not, you’re telling the truth.”
Gideon stared at her. “How does it not burn your tongue?”
“My understanding is that everyone is found a liar.”
“Great. And then what?”
“The liar is beheaded.”
“Of course!” He groaned. “What if I say no?”
“If you refuse to undergo the trial, you’re presumed a liar and are beheaded.”
Suddenly Garza said: “Here we go.”
Gideon followed his gaze. A fire was being built in the middle of the plaza, and the assembled crowd was chattering excitedly, faces reflected in the flickering light, clearly awaiting this fresh spectacle. Nearby, Blackbeard oversaw the activity, holding the sword. Beside him was a wooden chopping block.
As Gideon stared, two of the priests brought over a small basket and set it down by the fire, removed a dozen or so round white stones, and—chanting loudly—carefully dropped several of them, one by one, into the center of the flames.
Now the chieftain came striding out of his tent, still decked in his finery, with the crone hobbling behind him. He descended the path with great dignity and entered the center of the encampment, the crowd once again parting for him; there he turned and gave a loud command. The two guards at their cage undid the lashings and hauled Gideon out, leaving the others inside.
“I’m sorry, Gideon,” said Imogen.
Gideon couldn’t bring himself to answer. He was manhandled into the center of the plaza and held by the guards near the fire, one on each side. The chieftain now gave yet another long speech, with much gesturing, pointing first at the fire and then at Gideon. Blackbeard stood next to the beheading block, grinning with anticipation.
There has to be a way out of this, Gideon thought. But he couldn’t seem to gather his wits. Things were too strange, and they were all happening too fast. Now—under the watchful gaze of the crone—one of the white-bearded, yellow-robed priests was bending over the fire, clearing away the burning logs to expose a bed of coals, mingled with pebbles that were already glowing from the heat. The other, with a crude bellows, blew on the coals, heating them up to a bright red. The sun had long since set, the valley was dark, and a scattering of sparks rose into a black, star-filled sky.
Gideon’s guards pushed him forward. The first priest leaned over with a pair of tongs and plucked a pebble from the fire—the hottest one—and held it in front of Gideon. He indicated with a series of gestures that Gideon was to take it and put it in his mouth.
“No!” said Gideon, wrenching free from the guards’ grasp, knocking the tongs aside in his struggle. One of the guards elbowed him in the face and he fell to the ground, sprawling in the dirt, dazed. The guard gave him a vicious kick before hauling him back to his feet. The crowd whistled and yelled their disapproval. Blackbeard readied his sword.
The chieftain shouted for silence.
Now a priest applied the bellows again, blowing until the bed of coals went from red to orange. The thick smell of smoke filled the air. Again, with persnickety care the first priest selected the hottest pebble with his tongs and held it out, gesturing for Gideon to take it and put it in his mouth. After a moment, Gideon held out his hand. The priest dropped the glowing rock into it and—after a grunt of pain and a brief, dreadful hesitation—Gideon popped the pebble into his mouth.
A long silence ensued. The crowd was transfixed. Every pair of eyes was on him. Gideon remained unmoving, mouth closed, fists clenched, eyes staring straight ahead. A murmur of admiration at his stoicism rose from the crowd. A minute passed, then two, and then three. Finally the priest said something and held out his hand. Gideon leaned over and spat the pebble into the outstretched palm. The priest stared at it for a moment. Then he held it up for the crowd to see: proof that Gideon had indeed kept it in his mouth until it was cool. Meanwhile the chieftain came over and gave an order. The priest pantomimed that Gideon was to open his mouth for inspection.
He complied. The chieftain leaned closer and stared, shoving his fingers into Gideon’s mouth, grasping his tongue and moving it roughly from side to side, inspecting it for burns.
The lengthening silence turned into a growing murmur of wonder. There were no scorch marks, no blisters—no signs of burning anywhere on his tongue or in his mouth.
The chief, clearly astonished, spoke loudly to the crowd, eliciting a collective gasp. He stared at Gideon with something close to admiration, then made a brief pronouncement.
The crone said: “The Father decree you telling truth!”
Gideon caught a glimpse of Blackbeard at his chopping block, face dark with discontent.
So glad to disappoint you again, asshole, he thought with satisfaction as he was led back to the cage.
He staggered in and sank down onto the sandy floor of the cell. Garza and Imogen bent over him.
“How in the world did you do it?” Imogen asked.
Gideon lay back, legs stretched out, exhausted and in pain. Both of his fists had been clenched throughout the ordeal, and they remained clenched now. He looked outside the cage for a moment and then, keeping one hand obscured at his side, he slowly opened it. The smell of burnt flesh rose up: and there was a pebble, blackened and bloody, enclosed in the charred palm of his hand. He dropped the pebble, then balled his hand once again into a fist.
“How did—?” Imogen began.
“When I fell to the ground I palmed a fresh pebble from the basket and concealed it between thumb and palm. When they dropped the hot pebble in my hand, I left it there and put the cold one in my mouth instead.”
“That must’ve hurt like hell,” Garza said.
“It burned the shit out of my hand, but when I thought of that bastard waiting with his sword…well, let’s just say it made the pain more bearable.”
“Let me see your hand,” Imogen said. “I should tend to that burn.”
“No,” Gideon said, pulling his hand away. “We’ve got to keep it out of sight. Get rid of that pebble, too.”
“How did you pull it off with everyone watching?” Garza asked, tossing the small stone into the darkness.
“A simple combination of legerdemain and misdirection,” said Gideon. “As you well know, I used to be a magician.”