Chapter Fifteen

BALLOONS, BLOOD & BLIGHT

The simplest of things can often be the most precious, so say the intellects. I would agree. As of that moment, my favourite items were a combination of a rag and a belt tied tight around my waist to keep me from leaking my precious blood all over the street. Voldo’s knife must have been poisoned or cursed by an Augur spell for how deeply it had cut me and how difficult it was to staunch. Any normal person would have slung some shells to a healer or surgeon, but as I might have mentioned, I’m stubborn as fuck.

Other simplicities please me. I’ve already mentioned the feel of a good blade and the smell of leather, or lurking on a fine rooftop. An empty kitchen, also. Trees, now that I’d travelled through the forest. But one of my favourites, if you must know, was rain.

The rain was a sparse affair in Canarva, usually only falling when one of the mountains decided to blow its top. It always brought the city folk out from their houses and factories for a spell to feel something other than ash on their faces.

The Shrewners – as I’d taken to calling them – looked utterly bored by the rain, just as they were by the droning aircraft. Tasparil spread his wings as I did my hands and let the rain drum on my skin. A free bath, Ma Mattox once called it, and it was likely the only thing we ever agreed on.

The sting and throb of my wound kept me from dallying. The horns and drums of a large departing cargo cruiser hurried my feet, as if they would run out of aircraft.

‘Next!’ called the cleric, once he’d noticed a figure standing in his empty line. It was the same hairless chap who had cast me out of line only hours before. Just as I’d hoped.

I waited in the glow of the booth’s blightlamps, my smile sheathed. The cleric fiddled with something under the window, and by the fleck of wet carrot clinging to his hand as he reached to wipe his mouth, I guessed he was in the middle of a bowl of stew.

‘Destination?’ he said before finally looking up. The cleric’s head and shoulders promptly sagged as if his sigh deflated him. ‘You again? Look, I told you that if you don’t have the shells, you can’t buy a ticket. What about that didn’t you understand, fool?’

The pouch of shells slammed onto the windowsill with a thud. I let loose my grin. ‘I understood the assignment perfectly, thank you. Two-hundred and twenty shells. Next passage to Bashkar, please.’

‘Great Watcher’s tits,’ muttered the cleric, thinking himself a lot quieter than he actually was. Several scrolls were unfurled and boards checked before he found the answer.

‘The soonest I have is a seat on a cheese freighter. Leaves at three bells, so you’ll have to hurry it along so you don’t put them behind.’

‘Sorry, did you say a—’

‘A cheese freighter, yes.’

‘And by that, you mean…?’

The cleric put his elbows on the sill and his hands on the pouch of shells. I hadn’t yet let go. ‘A freighter full of cheese from surrounding farms. Finest in Beléga, don’t you know. Riper than a devil’s arsehole.’

‘Good,’ I said, holding onto my grin. ‘Very good.’

The pouch was swiped away. The man tilted his head. ‘Are you well, child? You look kind of pale and, dare I say, slanted.’

Even though I could feel the throb of my injured side through my entire body, I shook my head. The wet rag was not keeping the wound as closed as I had planned. I stood straighter despite the pain. ‘Thank you for your concern, but I am fine.’

‘You’re not sick, are you? Plagued? Blighted?’ snapped the cleric.

‘None of those. Just a small cut, is all. I was robbed.’

The man’s face screamed suspicion, and there was no care for my injury or the crime.

‘Travelling alone?’

‘All apart from my drake here.’

‘Pity. He’ll be another twenty.’

Tasparil hissed at the cleric while I counted out the extra shells.

‘Luggage?’ he asked with a smug and expectant look. ‘It’s also extra.’

I put away my remaining shells. ‘None.’

The cleric tutted. ‘Family name or birthplace?’

My mind moved quickly and, as usual, to mischievous places. ‘A small family. Strange name. Niddiott. N for the north. Two d’s, two t’s.’

‘Hmph. Surprised you know your letters. First name?’

‘Eyema.’

Even despite my trick, the smile was getting harder to keep up. The pain was honing its edge. ‘Again, thank you,’ I whispered through it.

A circle of parchment was shoved to me. ‘Up those stairs and keep going. Dock twenty-one. And like I said, you better hurry,’ instructed the cleric.

I intended to, thanking the gone gods I didn’t have to do any climbing besides tackling stairs. There were far too many of them for my liking, but all I had to do was keep moving, one step at a time. That was easy, no?

Ten, said a sign. The walkway was flooded with a crowd of Drola in pink robes. One accidentally barged me in their commotion and the pain took my breath away. I went on staggering, breathing hard to keep my eyes focused. Curse that bard, I thought to myself. I hoped Voldo had collided with a chimney after all. Or better yet, one of those sharp trees.

Fifteen. Almost there. I pulled the belt tighter around my waist with a growl. Tasparil seemed to sense my pain and try to pull me upwards with a few meagre flaps.

Eighteen. Between the stink of engine grease and overwhelming spices wafting from a bright yellow ship, I caught my first whiff of the aforementioned cheese.

Twenty. Gone gods, was it pungent, and I liked a morsel or two of cheese. This was like having it forcibly shoved up my nostrils. I swallowed some of the sharp rum I’d bought, wincing at the fire in my throat but glad for the distraction.

It felt as if I had climbed a mountain by the time I sagged against a wooden bulkhead. A small queue of people wearing thin and threadbare cloth gathered before a prosecutor lounging in a chair. If she had been any more horizontal, she would have fallen into a heap.

With a deep breath, I readjusted my shirt, pulled down the shawl that I had kept, and arranged my sack of scant belongings over my wound. A thrill ran through my insides. I couldn’t tell if it was trepidation of being caught moments before escape, relief at leaving Shrewn and the north behind, or even the humble excitement of boarding a cruiser for the very first time. I was still human, don’t you know.

‘Ticket,’ sighed the prosecutor. She didn’t meet my eyes. Only the circular scrap of parchment was of importance to her. By the way she kept a kerchief to her nose, she looked highly bothered by the stink of cheese emanating from the vessel and the last few crates being loaded. I didn’t blame her. It already made my nose itch.

The cruiser had been painted a sky-blue, and by its fade and the swathes of rust poking through, it had been some time ago. Wing engines protruded from its hull on both the bow and stern. The Third Moon was its name, and it had three envelopes beneath the wood and iron scaffolding that formed her bulbous shape. A row of portholes for us lucky passengers sat above the cargo holds.

The prosecutor’s whistle made me jump. ‘Stop gawping and keep moving. Bloody nether. Captain wants to move off sharpish and he won’t be waiting for the likes of you. Sooner the better, if you ask me. Shrewn stinks enough without this shitty old hulk making it worse.’

I did as I was told, too busy holding my breath against the pain to offer any usual cheek. I didn’t want to test the luck that had brought me this far.

The lights of the long platform were blurry, playing pests and swaying about. Moths fluttered about them. The rain drummed on my shoulders, heavier than before. One of the crew, a woman in a short orange coat, was waving impatiently to me.

‘Hurry yourself up, I said!’ she yelled.

I did little of the sort, but I still reached the small gangplank before she shut the heavy door, one studded with cogs. I heard the first of three bells as I stepped over the threshold, and the cruiser was sealed with a clank and a rattle.

If I thought the smell of cheese was strong outside the Third Moon, I was not prepared for the stench within. Even if Voldo hadn’t wounded me, I would have still swayed on the wooden deck. I understood the cleric’s smirk. The other passengers crammed into the low-ceiling box of a room seemed to agree: either holding kerchiefs over their faces or wincing through it.

Rows of simple seats faced a blank wall. Half of them were filled. The only light came from the dozen or so portholes, and I chose one to slump next to. The seat looked to have been repurposed from an old scarecrow, with protruding straw and worn cloth, but I wouldn’t have cared even if it was stone. With a sigh, I took the weight off my feet and pressed my sweat and rain-soaked head against the quivering metal of the porthole’s frame. The thumping of the rain on the hull was shortly drowned out by the clatter of engines starting. Amidst the raindrops streaking the dirty glass, I looked north. A moment of lightning lit the dark shape of the Great Watcher, and I scowled while I clutched the godgear shard through my shirt. A low and repetitive whump whump settled into my bones when the wings of the engines began to crank up and down.

I was asleep before the last anchor ropes had been untied, with Tasparil curled protectively around my neck.

*

I’m told that the sedate journey of a cruiser through the heavens boggles the simple mind. That seeing the Realms spread out beneath you like a stained tablecloth was a sight that will never leave your mind. I also hear that the route from Shrewn to Bashkar took the Third Moon over the rainbow plains of the south of Beléga. There were mountains to behold, too: snow-dusted, cloud-wrapped, and poking through rugs of more forest. Crystal waterfalls tumbled from precipice to precipice. Condors and vultures and winged lizards with long beaks came to soar alongside the cruiser. And beyond the mountains, fields of amber wheat and vineyards stretched all the way to Bashkar. Lakes captured the sky and rivers ran silver, dotted with riverboats and floating villages. Wild horses galloped amidst colossal scaly beasts with tall necks and legs like tree trunks. Flocks of birds with useless wings snuffled at the dirt with tentacled faces. Black monoliths protruded from stony outcrops. They say that on a clear day, you could even see the towers of Bashkar glowing red in dawn’s light.

I, however, saw absolutely fuck-all of any of it.

Instead, I awoke drenched in sweat and with a fire in my side. Most perturbingly, a small child was hovering over me. Most of his head had been shaved back to the skin, all apart from a long, thin strip that had been braided around his neck like a scarf. His skin was milkier than an Ashlander. I thought he was a figment of a dream until he poked me again with what looked like a paintbrush, and the pain cleared the haze from my eyes.

‘What in the nether are you doing?’ I snapped at him. Tasparil was doing fine job of guarding me, I tell you that. He sat on the back of the chair, calm as a statue.

The boy recoiled only slightly. He pointed at me and pulled a sad face, then pointed at the brush and dragged his cheeks into a smile.

‘You’re helping me?’ I guessed.

Two times, his finger tapped the seat between us.

‘Not trying to poison me? Or rob me? Or kidnap me?’

I was answered with one tap.

‘I hope that means no,’ I muttered, drifting into another bout of dizziness. Even the smell of Beléga’s finest cheese couldn’t help me stay awake. ‘Are you alone?’ I asked. ‘Who are you?’

One tap came, and the boy pointed to a mother that sat very closeby, watching everything from beneath a cowl. Her amber eyes were sharp and unblinking.

I gave her a slow nod but she failed to move. ‘Are we there yet?’

One tap. My little healer showed me a distance with his hands and then halved it.

‘Halfway, I imagine. How long?’

A single finger was raised.

‘One day?’

The boy dabbed me twice more with the paintbrush. It swore he wielded a lump of ice instead of some mystery paste. It smelled like cloves and vaguely medicinal. I suffered the child to put more on me until the paste had dried. The pain had lessened, but my eyes had grown heavy on me once again. With one hand around my makeshift sack and my godgear shard still clamped in my other fist, I fell back into a deep slumber. The last I saw, the mute boy was reaching for me with fingertips painted red. His cold touch drew shapes on my cheek.

‘What is that?’ I asked, as unconsciousness called to me again.

‘Blessing,’ muttered his mother, so distant I could barely hear her.

*

My dreams were filled with green lightning and flying daggers. I will not bore you with more, but all I remember is waking over and over in a feverish sweat, with different figures of shadow standing over me in that cramped cabin. Lectra. Riveno. Baron Wrekham. Even my brother Aberan, staring at me critically with his good eye. His judgemental ghost bothered me so much, I wondered if he was in fact dead, and blaming me wholeheartedly for it.

‘Fuck off, Aberan,’ I murmured.

A heavy cuff around my face woke me up blinking.

There was no shaved-head boy. No scrutinising mother. No clouds beyond my window. Instead, two Venerance prosecutors stood over me. A woman and a man, neither older than forty. The man was hefty and shrouded in beard, the woman skinny and bald, with a welt of a scar running cheek to collar. They each had a blue stripe on their stiff, bleached coat collars. The silver chainmail beneath shimmered as they breathed. Both wore the sour faces my dreams had sported, and for a moment, I tried to shut my eyes and sleep them away.

A poke with something that felt like a stick brought me upright. With the blur rubbed from my eyes, I realised the cabin was empty apart from me and my inquisitors, and a third figure in the threadbare uniform of aircraft crew. He was currently pointing at me.

‘She’s bled all over the seat, see?’ he was saying. ‘That ain’t right.’

‘Got blood all over her face, too. Looks highly suspicious to me, don’t you think, Prosecutor Gurt?’ said the man.

‘That by the Watcher it does, Prosecutor Crabluck!’ crowed the woman, slapping a club into an open hand.

‘I was robbed,’ I said with the rasping tone of somebody that hadn’t spoken in two days.

The prosecutor called Crabluck looked at his manifest, raised his eyebrow, and showed me yellow teeth. ‘Even more suspicious! By order of the Venerance and the Watcher, you’ll be coming with us and answering some questions.’

A panic took me. The prosecutors had finally caught me, and here was I, defenceless and wounded. What an ignoble end to my dreams this was. What an atrocious end to my grand adventure. Caught like a moth in a cupped hand.

‘But I haven’t done anything wrong,’ I blurted, perhaps the biggest lie I had yet told.

‘We’ll see about that,’ muttered the woman in my ear as she hauled me onto my feet. The pain in my side didn’t screech like it did before. It was more of a muted grumble. I blessed the strange boy before they put shackles on my wrists. Tasparil made such a commotion they put him in a sack.

‘You can’t just arrest me for bleeding,’ I complained.

Prosecutor Crabluck whipped the cleaver from my belt. I struggled as hard as I could, but they were stronger than me by a long shot.

‘By the Watcher’s name, we can do anything we want when sin creeps into our city by any means, even when it’s bleeding and claiming innocent!’ he announced, seizing my cheeks between his finger and thumb. ‘You Ashlanders. Always as fiery as your mountains.’

The bald woman tutted, putting spittle in my eye. ‘Always good for nothing,’ she replied.

‘I’m a traveller! Here to see family!’ Excuses and explanations tumbled from my lips, but the prosecutors had already made up their minds. Perhaps their days had been uninteresting and they were bored, or perhaps bleeding in a cruiser was a crime wherever I was. Whatever the case, I was muscled from the door of the stinking cruiser and onto a walkway of marble, not wood. A quick glimpse over my shoulder showed me spires of gold and black stone. I glimpsed white marble, blue flags and hordes of kites, but all else was snatched away when I was pushed into a black wooden box. The prosecutors wound handles, and I felt the box tumbling deeper into its own abyss.

‘Where in the nether are we?’ I asked, my brain bleary.

The two prosecutors swapped a mocking look before the one called Crabluck answered me. ‘You’re in Bashkar, troublemaker, and a fine morning it is for some Watcher’s justice,’ he said. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of you, no doubt about it!’

Well, I had arrived in Bashkar, but not in the style I had assumed. Quite the opposite, if you ask me. It enraged me to my core.

*

The intellects also tell us that the world is shaped by two things: pressure and time. With enough of both, even the mountains can be broken. The Venerance lackeys that arrested me played by the same rules.

For what felt like an entire day, I was left in a sweaty and windowless box of a room, bound to a chair and staring at a dubious red stain on the plaster wall. The dragging hours of silence, the grip of the shackles around my wrists, and the impending presence of the prosecutors filled me with trepidation. Had word from Canarva snuck this far south? Had another messenger crow snuck past Tasparil and I? Had I walked right into Lectra’s filthy hands?

I wagered even if you were unlike me and completely innocent, such a place and situation would make you think twice. I’d heard stories of the Venerance coaxing confessions out of even the purest of hearts. I hadn’t understood how that was possible until now. After Witchfell and Shrewn, I had thought myself forged stronger. But locked in the clutches of the prosecutors, facing gods knew what, my resolve was tested, and tested hard.

Whatever the peculiar child on the Third Moon had done to me, it had worked its healing charm while I slept, and continued while I sat shackled. I could still prod at my side. The pain remained but was lesser than before. The sweat still dripped down my cheek and neck, and I waded through exhaustion, but I no longer felt as if I duelled with death itself. I had almost cheered when I found the godgear shard was thankfully still around my neck. I imagined it looked too much like scrap to be of use. And in the corner, Tasparil had been locked up with a single manacle around his neck. He had much to squawk about when we had first been locked up. Now he slept curled up, one of his three eyes open and fixed on me.

At long last, my new friends Crabluck and Gurt decided I had suffered enough and came to pay me a visit. The snapping of bolts and crunching of locks sat the drake and me upright.

‘I need water, curse it,’ I gasped at them when they strode through the room’s only door, armed with swords at their belts.

Crabluck waved his meaty hand to somebody unseen behind the door, and a metal jug of water was brought, but with only two cups. They were placed in front of me, both out of reach of my shackled hands. For the first time since staring into the mires of the marshes, I saw my reflection in the scratched metal of the jug. Warped as it was by the jug’s shape, I could still see how pale I had become, even for an Ashlander. My dark hair hung in sweaty strands across my face. Red lines and swirls covered my cheeks and jawline.

Prosecutors Crabluck and Gurt both took a seat on the opposite side of the table. ‘Water is for those who tell the truth, isn’t it, Gurt?’ said Crabluck. ‘Not for those who lie and sin and spit in the eye of our Great Watcher.’

It was a mean and petty tactic, and I scowled. ‘I was robbed, like I told you. A bard in Shrewn did this to me,’ I said again. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong except bleed on a seat.’

‘A bard, you say?’ Gurt sucked at her teeth. ‘Don’t sound much like bard behaviour to me.’

‘Why would I lie?’

‘You tell us, girl.’

I stared between the two inane specimens, trying to figure what secrets hid behind their eyes and exactly how much trouble I was in. Like most prosecutors, I imagined what they wanted was me in a noose, or at very least a cell.

‘Tell you what? That’s all there is,’ I asked with a shrug. ‘I’m merely a traveller with bad luck here to find long-lost family.’

Prosecutor Crabluck shook his head. ‘Let’s start easy. Tell us your name.’

Forgetfulness strikes at the most inopportune times, dear reader. Think of the last time somebody accosted you in the street. You know how somehow the right words vanish until several hours after, when the perfect argument strikes you? That was my problem in that very moment. I had absolutely no recollection of the name I’d given the cleric in Shrewn, despite how smug I had been with it at the time.

‘I…’

Crabluck was not impressed. ‘How very interesting, wouldn’t you say, Prosecutor Gurt?’

The woman blew a sigh that sent more spittle across the table in my direction. ‘Very odd for somebody to forget their own name, I’d say, Prosecutor Crabluck.’

‘Perhaps she needs reminding,’ Crabluck replied.

The prosecutor took out a wooden board and parchments similar to what I had seen in Shrewn. In his other hand was my ticket. ‘This ticket here has the name of Eyema Niddiott, if I read that right.’

Had I known my petty joke would backfire this bad, I would have curbed my tongue for once. Curse my impetuousness. And curse my humour too, for that matter. The more Gurt said it aloud, the funnier it sounded.

‘Eyema Niddiott. You think that’s funny, Ashlander?’ she huffed. ‘You think that’s clever?’

Immensely, I thought. ‘I mean… a little?’ I replied. I couldn’t help myself.

Crabluck slammed his fist on the table, making the board rattle. ‘Those who travel under false names are not only breaking the Venerance’s laws, but are, in my opinion, usually brigands, thieves, and ingrates.’

‘I thought it was a harmless jest.’

‘Harmless?’ Gurt said, with a tilt of her bald head.

Clearly these prosecutors lacked a funny bone. ‘I thought it would be,’ I said.

‘Making fun of the Venerance?’ Crabluck shook his jowls. ‘Does that sound harmless to you? Because it sounds like the work of a sinner to us.’

‘Looks like we got a jester here, Crabluck,’ said Gurt. Crabluck nodded as if trying to work a kink out of his spine. ‘And we don’t look kindly on jesters, do we?’

‘That we do not, Gurt. Enough of such types in this city as there is, ruining the peace. Bashkar is a place of beauty and holy power. Of chosen ones and arts and trade. Jesters get in the way, cause mischief, and mischief is one step away from crime. Crime is sinful,’ Crabluck replied. ‘Do you know the scriptures, miscreant?’

My neck hurt with how deeply I nodded. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Then you should know we follow them to the letter here in Bashkar.’

I saw my way out of this was apologies, and not more snark. Let me tell you: if you’re ever in trouble with the law, an apology can go a long way. Not admission, mind you, but an apology.

‘I’m sorry. It was a poor attempt at humour. I mean, you should have met this cleric. An innocent and stupid joke,’ I urged them. ‘I’m no criminal. Just a traveller like I said.’

Gurt tilted her head even more than I thought possible, almost putting an ear to her shoulder. ‘That so?’

‘Yes,’ I replied immediately.

Crabluck drummed his nails on the table. ‘Well, sadly, that is not how it appears to us.’

‘No?’ I asked.

Their demeanours turned stony. ‘No.’

My mind raced, thinking of all kinds of ways I could have been noticed, followed, and reported on. I was a criminal and a thief of giant proportions, after all. I knew Lectra was loitering behind the closed door, just waiting to swagger in and crush me with her victorious smile. Aberan had probably come to gloat as well. I could almost see the noise stretching to swallow me.

Crabluck ended my hope with a simple shift of his hand. A glass vial half full of green blightpowder moved from his pocket to clank on the table.

‘Ah,’ I said, pointing my clasped hands at the vial. ‘About that. That’s not mine.’

The questions came thick and heavy. Crabluck banged his fist with every query he fired off. Gurt slapped a lanky foot against the floor with every one of hers.

‘Then why was it on your person?’

‘Are you Blighted, girl?’

‘Do you take the powder?’

‘Are you a hawker, hmm?’

‘Who do you work for?’

‘Who are you delivering this to?’

When it became evident that all I could do was stare between them, aghast and answerless, they at last leaned back in their chairs and tutted.

‘A deal gone bad, is what I’ll bet,’ Gurt gave us her opinion. ‘That’s what got you stabbed and what’s getting you in a while filthy heap of trouble’

I could see through their mock disappointment and heavy hearts. They were loving every moment of their torrid theatre piece. That’s what authority does to you, my friends. There’s a pleasure in wielding it on those without.

Crabluck was not convinced. He reached into the crate he had put below the table and dumped my purse of shells on the table. Next came my cleaver. ‘Fine steel here. More than two-hundred shells in the purse. Far too many for a waif like her. Perhaps she is a thief instead of a victim. You know how the Blighted like to rob and pilfer for their powder.’

‘That sounds rather… general,’ I said, finding my voice. ‘And you’re wrong on both guesses. I’m not Blighted, I didn’t steal it, and I’m telling you I was robbed. I’m a victim here, not a criminal. All I’d like to do is put this whole journey behind me and be on my way.’

The two prosecutors shared a look before breaking into guffawing laughter. Once Crabluck had wiped an imaginary tear from his eye, he held the blightpowder up to the flickering blightlamp in the ceiling.

‘Having this in your pockets is worth a few months in a cell, I will have you know,’ he said. ‘As is the law of the Venerance.’

Gurt nodded her bulbous, shining head solemnly. ‘Smuggling, maybe six to a year.’

‘Thievery as well? Maybe it’s the noose for you. Unless you start telling the truth.’

I shook my head, focusing my mind on a lie of craft and sureness, as if I were a challenger advancing before the prosecutors’ swords. ‘My name is Yver Brokenshell. I told you I’m here on a journey to find my real family, after being brought up in an Esfer home. I made the mistake of giving a rogue named Voldo a lift on my way to Shrewn. He tried to rob me, but a patrol spooked him. He ran, dropping the blightpowder in the meantime. I don’t know why I picked it up, but I was late, and half my Esfer father’s shells were gone. By the glory of the Great Watcher, I survived,’ I said, making sure to shudder my breathing as if relieved. I held their stares with blank eyes.

Gurt sucked at her teeth. ‘You believe her, Prosecutor Crabluck?’

The man measured me with a glare as he tugged at his beard. He took his sweet time thinking. ‘Not enough as I would like, Prosecutor Gurt.’

‘What?’ I blurted along to a similar squawk from Tasparil. ‘But I—’

‘A month for possession of the Blight.’ Another slam of Crabluck’s palm seemed to seal my sentence.

I got to my feet. I had too much to learn and too much to do. Fine, I didn’t know what, but it was more important than the amusement of these Venerance rats. ‘I’m telling the truth!’

Gurt shoved me back down with her crane-like arms. ‘Oh! I think we’d better make that two months.’

‘I am bloody innocent, curse you!’

‘Curses now? That is three months, I think, Gurt!’ Crabluck clapped his hands. ‘By the Watcher’s holy breath, will she go for six?’

‘You can’t do this to me,’ I fumed.

Gurt snorted again. ‘And why not? We are the hands of the Venerance, and you are a

My fingernails dug into my chair as I seethed with all the rage of the sun and watched Crabluck pining for me to speak. I had not felt this helpless since my back was to a Canarva wall and Forince’s claws around my neck. The power was in their filthy Venerance hands, and just like in Canarva, it was wielded by minds unfit and unfair to be in such positions. I was bound to their laws and scriptures without my say, and the noose or the nether were my only alternatives. It was loathsome. I swam in hatred.

‘I am sorry for anything I’ve done to offend the Venerance, Prosecutors,’ I said quietly through clenched teeth, trying a last apology. ‘I do, but I say again: I am innocent of any crime or sin. I can’t sit in a cell for three months. There are people waiting for me here in Bashkar. Let me be on my way, and you will never see me again, I promise—’

Gurt rubbed her bony hands as if trying to start a fire. ‘Aaaand that’s six months for trying to bribe on officer!’

‘Watcher’s justice be served,’ said Prosecutor Crabluck with a grin and a quick drum session on the table.

It was pointless at this point to argue anymore. Any sane or rational person would have agreed now was the time to stay silent. To suck down the emotion and deal with the Watcher’s whims. Even Tasparil seemed to agree with a bow of the head. But sadly, you’re dealing with me, reader.

Crabluck was fast for a big lad in his middle years, I’ll give him that. He had his sword from his belt as soon as I had grabbed my cleaver from the table in both shackled hands. Gurt dashed a cup of water in my face, and before I could start swinging blindly, I felt white Venerance steel at my neck. Crabluck wrenched my wrists in an unholy angle, forcing my head onto the table and the cleaver clattering on the stone. The fire was relit in my ribs as I felt my wound tear.

Gurt pawed my face. ‘Dear me. Wrong again. I think a year might teach you some humility and calm, don’t you, Prosecutor Crabluck?’

‘I have said it before and I’ll say it again, Prosecutor Gurt: nothing better for the atonement of a sinful soul than a stint in Catacrone.’

My eyes burned as I stared. ‘I don’t care if this sounds cliched, but mark my words; you’ll regret this. One day, you’ll look up at me, think back to this moment, and you’ll wish you’d let me go.’

Crabluck twisted my wrist some more to make me yelp. ‘Quintessi! Get in here, you slackjaw!’ he hollered.

An Esfer prosecutor came bustling into the room with several other white-clad Venerance fuckwits. I gave each of them a glare as they came to seize me. I fought as much as I could, kicking at shins and faces until I was pinned. I could hear Tasparil screeching as they seized him too.

‘Throw that beast in her cell,’ ordered Gurt. ‘Maybe it’ll grow bored of the slop and eat this degenerate.’

Crabluck’s shit-eating grin somehow grew wider. Hungrier. ‘My thinking precisely, Prosecutor Gurt!’

‘Fuck you both very much,’ I hissed.

‘And welcome to Bashkar!’ the two bastards had the cheek to shout after me as I was hauled into a bland brick corridor. I took the only route of rebellion available to anyone in that situation, and that was to bite the nearest prosecutor on the arm. You can’t deny a good excuse to bite somebody.

I was rewarded with two things: one, a glorious yelp of pain that was far too high-pitched, and two, a thump around the back of the head that knocked me into a daze.