Chapter I: A Change of Clothes

Syr listened to the darkness.

And the darkness sang its song: the slow drip, drip, drip of greasy moisture seeping from cracks in the ceiling. A bump from something heavy being dumped on a table upstairs. The gentle clink of the prisoner two cells down rolling over in his sleep.

The song of the crickets outside.

Syr made no movement, disturbed the song with no sound. It was the only thing she could do here to feel at home, and trying to feel at home was the only thing worth doing at the moment. She could be here for a while, so best be comfortable.

Drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip.


CREAK.

Syr was keenly aware of the iron gate’s awful complaint but lay motionless, falling back on old habits: pretend you’re still asleep; why let them know you’re awake? It wasn’t until the heavy footfalls rumbled down to her own cell that she raised herself up on her elbows to peer at the cell door.

A gruff voice emerged from the din of feet and equipment. “I told you, there’s no room!”

The reply bore the exacting polish and deep annoyance of someone much higher up the chain. “And what do you think we should do with him, then?”

“I’s hoping you had an idea for that.”

“Fah. Who’s in this cell?”

Syr blinked as the gaoler raised his lantern to the little barred window carved out of the door. There was a pause.

“And what,” continued the man who sounded as though he was going to begin giving orders, “is this teenage girl in for?”

“Loitering,” answered the gruff gaoler.

“Toss her out. Now.”

There was a pause, a crotchet in the song of the darkness, just long enough for Syr to make its meaning. Indignance.

“…Yes, sir. You, girl. Get up.”

Syr scrambled to her feet wordlessly and dusted off… well, the stained prison rags. She felt pretty silly when she realized it.

The door crashed open and the gaoler, a truly enormous, bearded man wearing the most chainmail Syr had ever seen in one place, hauled in a man wearing similar prison rags to her own and a hood tied around his head by a rope. He pushed the man straight past Syr and into the back wall with force that would threaten to break bones and wasted no time clapping him into the irons.

“Get out. You don’t want to share a cell with this one.”

Syr was feeling lucky. “And why’s that?”

“GET OUT” bellowed the gaoler, into the face of the new prisoner but clearly at Syr.

Syr did not press said luck. She made for the door. The polished man—now in the light of the doorway as an aristocrat of some sort, wearing a fine doublet and an even finer cloak—watched her leave with an icy stare. She made eye contact to try to pry some details from him, but realized quickly that his bloodshot eyes were tracking her hands.

Smart.

He watched her disappear all the way up the staircase as it wound up to the ground floor.

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