by Rachel Ford
A perfect day – except that it might be Jack’s last. And it’s not even real.
The town bustled with activity as they approached. Dirt-clad figures tramped out, toward fields – probably heading back to work after lunch. Jack saw mud crusted to old boots, and tattered clothes plastered in dirt and worse looking – and smelling – things. Weary men and tired women passed. A few kids scrambled by chasing each other. A boy who looked older than the rest seemed to be calling for order, while his younger charges – siblings, perhaps? – ignored him. They screamed and laughed and scampered away, chased by a peppy mid-sized dog. They were the only creatures Jack passed, though, who seemed to be energetic and full of life.
“This place is not faring well without the mayor,” Ceinwen observed. “These people seem to be weary of life itself.”
“There is a cloud over them,” Karag agreed. “I can feel it all around us.”
Arath shook his head. “I don’t know what they’re whining about. We’re the ones out there risking our lives.”
“Mayor Ashford is a hero of the people,” Andrew said. “Without him, who knows what will befall Fox’s Crossing.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, kid. Either we stop old Kalbidor and rescue your mayor – and, let’s be honest, that’s not looking likely – or we’re all dead anyway.”
“Hardly comforting, Mr. Arath,” Er’c said.
But the ranger shrugged. “Point is, we’ve got more pressing problems than this little armpit of a town.”
It was at this precise moment that a voice sounded behind them. “Jack?”
Jack froze in his tracks and turned. He found himself face to face with a burly man in dark purple livery emblazoned with the town’s coat of arms. “Uh…can I help you?”
“You are Jack?”
“That’s right. Who are you?”
But he got no answer. Instead, the other man brandished a blade. “You are under arrest, you and all your compatriots.”
Jack blinked. “Under arrest? For what?”
Again, though, he got no answer. Instead, a second voice asked, “Do you surrender?”
Jack glanced toward the speaker. A similarly liveried man of like frame and build had appeared, from nowhere it seemed. And he wasn’t alone. Three others had materialized around them – all dressed in matching uniforms, and all brandishing weapons. He realized that this must be the town’s guard or militia. But he didn’t have the chance to inquire, because the game had given him two possible responses:
I surrender [hand over weapons and items, and enter custody]
And,
Over my dead body, cur [fight]
Jack couldn’t imagine why these men wanted to arrest him. He’d committed no crime. Hell, he’d gone and rescued one of their own citizens. But fighting would do nothing to answer his questions or bolster his case. So he picked the first option and surrendered.
The guards took his goods. An alert told him so. Then they slapped him in irons and marched him through town. Citizens stopped to stare. One or two unwashed vagrants tossed old vegetables their way. A rotting, stinking tomato exploded on the side of Jack’s face.
It was a medieval version of a perp walk – humiliating, and not immune from violence.
He started to reconsider his surrender, though of course it was too late to do anything about it. Not weaponless and with bound arms. So he protested this outrage, insisting that he had done nothing wrong. He demanded to know the charges, and who had brought them. And when the guards made no response, he demanded to speak to someone – someone who could give him an answer. He was a free citizen, and he had rights, dammit! Or, dagnabbit, as the profanity filter translated it.
But his captors remained unmoved. They carted him toward the great house in the center of town. They didn’t reach it. Instead, they diverted at a shabby stone building with a patched wooden roof. It looked like it had been built a century or two ago and neglected ever since.
The door creaked as it opened. The shutters sagged. The roof sagged. Jack had the uneasy feeling that the entire building might collapse on top of him if someone slammed a door. Would he survive that?
He didn’t know, and his captors weren’t interested in his protestations to that effect. They just hauled him inside – into a dark, dank and smokey interior. Jack choked as the smell of woodfire, human sweat, and old urine assailed his nostrils. And he balked at the sight of filthy cages with old straw over a dirty stone floor.
One of the guards smacked him between the shoulder blades, and ordered, “Move.”
Jack hadn’t even realized that he’d stopped moving. But he had, at the sheer horror of this place. “Look,” he tried again, “you have got the wrong guy. I didn’t do anything. We’re just travelers – adventurers, trying to stop the apocalypse.”
“Tell it to the magistrate,” the guard growled. “In the meantime, move: get in the cell. You make me put you in there, so help me, you’re going to need help to get out again. Because you don’t walk in, you won’t be walking out.”
Jack didn’t need any further persuasions. Not with the knowledge floating around at the periphery of his thoughts that whatever this guard did, he was going to feel it just like it had happened to his real body. He didn’t need to experience broken legs, or anything else of the kind.
So he hurried forward to the cell indicated – a larger than average space, with a big iron-bar door opened to admit them. Jack didn’t at first understand the preferential treatment compared to the other prisoners. Not until he got inside and turned around in time to watch Karag grunt and groan and force himself into the space. What had seemed enormous to him looked child-sized now.
Jack wasn’t certain the giant could make it through. But, with a guard prodding him with a spear all the way, Karag did. Then, the guards slammed the door. It clanged with a terrible sound that echoed through the dank building.
The horde of men turned on their heels and marched away, leaving them none the wiser as to the reason for their confinement. Karag muttered something about making one of the guards eat that spear.
Jack raised his bound arms heavenward in a gesture of confusion and frustration. “What the heather is going on?”
His companions had no solid ideas.
“Maybe that Wellington woman sold us out,” Karag speculated. “Maybe she’s working with Kalbidor and William the Wanderer.”
“Marsha?” Andrew said, aghast. “Never. Mayor Ashford trusts her with his life.”
Arath snorted. “And we all know how that’s going.”
“Why would she have tipped us off to Ashford’s disappearance, if she was setting us up?” Ceinwen wondered. “It doesn’t make sense to send us after him if she’s working for Kalbidor. If she was going to throw us in prison, she would have done it right away – not risk us escaping first.”
“Unless she thought she was sending us to our deaths. Maybe she figured we’d run into the Wanderer, or Kalbidor himself. This might have been her backup plan, in case we didn’t die en route.”
Ceinwen didn’t have a response to that. She just nodded, and frowned – like she didn’t quite buy it, but couldn’t think of a better explanation either.
Andrew remained convinced that Wellington had nothing to do with it. She was a good woman, and a trusted ally of the mayor’s. She would never cross her boss. He’d stake his life on it.
Er’c said nothing. He heard the positions and frowned thoughtfully. But he didn’t speak.
Neither did Migli. Which, once he picked up on the fact, struck Jack as peculiar. If there was anything Migli could be counted on for, it was talking. Or singing at least. And right now, he was doing neither. He paced by the bars, looking uncomfortable.
Which, combined with the silence, set off alarm bells in Jack’s head. “What’s going on, Migli?”
The dwarf started at the sound of his name, and glanced Jack’s way. “What?”
“What the heather’s going on here?”
The dwarf roll
ed his shoulders in a shrug that – almost – looked sincere. “How should I know, Sir Jack? Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Oh no. I don’t think so. I think you have an idea. What is it? Did you do something? You didn’t – you didn’t say anything awful when you were talking to her, did you?”
Arath shook his head. “I really don’t think you should be blaming your own, Jack. It’s pretty obvious who the culprit is: that wretched woman.”
“Indeed,” Migli said. “I’m only sorry I once deemed her attractive. If you must know, Sir Jack, I was wondering how my judgment could have erred so catastrophically.”
Jack wasn’t sure he believed that. But Migli stuck to his story, and Arath insisted that he’d known from the first. “Beauty and character, you’ll not find a better judge of either than me. And she’s got neither, the tired old wench.”
Still, it was the tired old wench who showed up not half an hour into their confinement, escorted by one of the guards. “The provisional magistrate is here: Marsha Wellington.”
“We’ve met,” Jack said with a scowl. “Unfortunately.”
“Yes we have,” she shot back. “And I have to admit, Jack, you took me in with your heroic adventurer routine.
“I suppose you must do that wherever you go? You look for a mark, and play the generous and heroic stranger? Put everyone at ease?”
Jack blinked at her. “What?”
“Did you really think you could skip out on a bill like that, and show your face back here again?”
Migli made a nervous sound in the back of his throat, and Arath studied his shoes. Jack had been about to throw Karag’s theory out – that Wellington was working with Kalbidor. But his companions’ reactions gave him pause. “Wait a minute…what are we being charged with here?”
She snorted. “As if you don’t know.”
“Humor me,” he demanded. “What’s going on, Marsha?”
She eyed him with contempt but obliged anyway. “You owe the Red Fox Inn and Tavern fourteen hundred gold pieces for food and drink you consumed before skipping out of town.”
Chapter Fourteen
Just like that, light dawned on marble. Migli laughed nervously. Arath studied the bars of their cell. Jack groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I wish I was. But here we are.”
Jack stared daggers at the dwarf and the ranger, repeating, “Here we are. Why don’t you explain what’s going on here, Migli? Or how about you, Arath?”
“I think it’s a misunderstanding,” the former said.
“Indeed,” the latter agreed.
“Not according to the Red Fox. Your party ate and drank their way through some fourteen hundred gold pieces worth of food and ale. And tea. I have an itemized receipt.” She drew out a long scroll, and started to read off it: several rounds of ale, multiple trays of food, a pot of tea, a bottle of the finest whiskey, and so on. Now, she stared at Jack. “Do you deny your party ordered that?”
“No,” Jack admitted. “I don’t.”
She nodded. “Smart move.”
“Marsha, you’ve got to believe me: I didn’t skip out on that bill.”
She laughed. “The publican of the Fox is the most honest man I’ve ever met, so if that’s your play, you –”
“I’m not accusing him of lying. I mean, I didn’t skip out on the bill because I didn’t know it hadn’t been paid. Did I, Arath? Did I, Migli?”
The ranger licked his lips. “Miss Wellington, what my friend means is there was a – miscommunication about who was going to pay.”
“Oh no,” Jack said. “There was no miscommunication. There were lies: blatant lies from a pair of thieves.” Wellington frowned at him, and he explained, “They told me they were paying for it – all of it. They told me they were treating the party.”
“They did,” Ceinwen said.
Karag nodded. “He bought me a bottle of whiskey.”
“And a pot of tea for me and Ceinwen,” Er’c added.
“You’re saying your own party – what? Set you up? Stole from you?”
“A miscommunication,” Arath repeated.
“A misunderstanding,” Migli said. “Sir Jack had lost a bet. He had promised to get –”
“The first round. I said the first round, you miserable thieves.”
Ceinwen, Karag and Er’c agreed. Andrew protested that he knew nothing of any of this, and that he was innocent of it all, and had been far from town at the time it happened. Migli and Arath insisted it had been nothing more than a misunderstanding. “We took that to mean it was Jack’s treat. And he thought we were paying.
“You see, Madam Magistrate?” Migli smiled his biggest, smarmiest grin. If he’d gone for charming, he clearly missed the mark, because Marsha shivered at the sight. But he didn’t let that stop him. He went on grinning and talking. “A simple misunderstanding. Nothing we can’t remedy.”
She considered, glancing from person to person. Finally, she nodded. “Normally, I’d press charges. But – well, maybe I’m a fool. But I’m inclined to believe you, Jack. Not least of all because you have brought Andrew back.
“And as for these two…” She gestured to the ranger and dwarf. “I have no desire to add the feed and board of these two paltry thieves to my city’s budget.”
Arath and Migli sputtered their indignation at being thus characterized – or, mischaracterized, according to them. Marsha ignored the pair. “So, as long as you are willing to settle your debt, I will release you without charges.”
Jack breathed a sigh of relief. “Of course. What do I owe?”
She glanced at the end of her ledger. “Fourteen hundred and thirteen gold pieces.”
Which was about three hundred gold more than Jack had. He told her so, apologizing as he did so. She frowned at him. “I’m willing to overlook the circumstances, Jack; but I’m not going to make the Red Fox take the loss, whatever the reason for all of this. You and your team consumed the food. You need to pay for it.”
This presented a dilemma to Jack and his party. Marsha would not be budged: if they didn’t pay the bill, in full, they would remain in prison, and she would press charges against everyone involved.
As for Andrew, she happily released him. The boy explained what had happened, and Jack and his party’s role in his rescue. Despite that, though, she maintained her position: payment must be made. “I will return in half an hour, once I have returned Andrew to his parents’ house. And – I am told you have foxes in your possession?”
Jack acknowledged that this was the case and explained that peculiar circumstance.
“Very good. I will see to them and return within half an hour. Better yet, within the hour. I expect you to have figured this out by then, Jack.”
They watched the woman leave with the boy, talking about what had happened in the wilderness.
“Unbelievable cheek,” Migli declared after they’d gone, “to treat a band of heroes like this – to take the boy we rescued, and throw us in a cell.”
“Despicable,” Arath agreed.
Everyone else watched them, staring daggers. “Well,” Ceinwen said, “it’s clear that Migli and Arath are at fault here. They – not you, Jack – must pay.”
The pair started to protest, and Karag growled, “They will be made to pay, if they don’t choose to.”
Er’c conjured a fireball, and it hovered above his fingertips. The entire cell danced in reddish orange light and flickering shadows. “I agree. You robbed Sir Jack, and lied to all of us, and then got us locked in prison.
“You have endangered our cause, and the safety of the entire world.”
Jack stared, at once surprised and impressed. Then, he nodded. “That’s right. Pony up, boys, or get charbroiled.”
Arath and Migli surveyed the party, then exchanged glances. The dwarf started to protest that he was only following Arath’s lead. “I didn’t know he was lying, Sir Jack.”
The ranger protested that Migli had led him astray. “I
heard him charge it to your account. I thought – well, I thought he knew what he was doing.”
Jack raised a hand, declaring that he didn’t care who started it. “You both spent the money. So pay up.”
“Or else…” Karag said, a low, threatening growl in his tone.
This gave rise to a new objection, and a new admission. “The truth is – well, if you must know, Jack; if you must shame me publicly…I haven’t a cent to my name.”
“Biscuits,” Jack returned, which made approximately no sense in this context. His companions stared at him. “Bollocks,” he tried again – at which point, Karag, Ceinwen and Er’c nodded. “You have to have money.”
“He does,” Migli volunteered. “He keeps a coin purse tucked into his trousers.”
“What do you mean? He doesn’t have pockets.”
“No. He stuffs it inside his under trousers. I’ve seen him do it.”
“Ugh.” Jack grimaced, and the party recoiled as of one mind.
Arath sneered. “That’s right, I do.” With a wicked scowl Migli’s direction, he added, “Traitor. And you’re welcome to take it from me, any of you who wants to go fishing. Come on: see what you find. Anyone? How about you, Ceinwen? I won’t even mind being robbed by you, in the circumstance.”
No one volunteered. They all just stood there, looking equal parts scandalized and disgusted.
Arath shrugged. “But Migli – his purse is right there in the open. No surprises involved.”
The dwarf threw up his hands in protest. “You forget, Arath, that I am but a humble bard: a poor man who sings for his supper.”
Jack snorted. “Bollocks. You’re a prince, Migli. You’re Delling’s son. I don’t for a second believe you have nothing in that purse.”
The dwarf protested that he was as broke as a church mouse. “Not a copper to my name.”
“Then you won’t mind handing over your purse,” Jack shot back.
The dwarf did, though. “It’s the principle of the thing. I’m not a liar or a thief, and I’ll not be treated like one.”