by Power, P. S.
The Lament: Book Two
Off
Center
P.S. Power
Orange Cat Publishing
Chapter one
The cell was too dark inside to be comfortable, and it reeked, like urine and less savory things. Desperation. Pran didn't want to admit it to the others with her, but she was all too familiar with the odor they were hit with. It was a thing from her own past that she tried to forget about even as things hit her. The huddled form at the back of the stone structure shuddered as the door opened, wincing away from them, clutching his arms to his body.
The right one had clearly been badly broken and was hanging at a strange angle. To say that the man, the town butcher if she had it right, had been beaten was an understatement. He was still bleeding from it, if slowly, his face swollen and blue, even in the darkness of the space. Yes, he'd been hit and harmed, but it went beyond just that into being an attempt to kill him. That he wasn't truly dead yet was some kind of miracle.
Guardian Clark loomed in the doorway, blocking her view, but after a second he stepped back, not moving toward the huddled shape.
"Pran, if you'd take this one? He might be a bit more accepting of help from you. Doctor?" The old man with his leather bag and slightly prissy looking glasses started to move to treat the man, only to have Clark stop him with a hand. "Let Pran go first."
The Doctor smiled, and nodded, if a bit darkly.
"Of course I will. Bard Pran, if you'd let our patient know that he's safe? I'm sure that I'd be greatly assured by that, were I the one that had been abused by the guards here. Taking the law into their own hands... Savages." He sounded slightly angry about it, but moved out of the doorway, which meant that the sixteen year old girl was supposed to move into place.
Because that made sense.
She wasn't really afraid though, reeking dark hole or not. This man wasn't going to fight with her after all. He'd just cry. That or moan. It was hard to know which yet. At the Grange most of the kids had been hard enough that by the time they were being beaten and locked in the cells that they only cried when they were in severe pain. This man was inured enough to his wounds that he wasn't sobbing either though, so maybe he was tougher than she thought?
Pran was about to try speaking, using her soft stage voice, which was the one she would have used with a child in the same situation, when the man snorted. Softly.
It sounded pained and choked off half way through.
"Bard? You don't look old enough to be an Apprentice even. Why send in a Bard?"
She got that one. The man, Will Butcher, had been accused of touching a young girl from the village, Hadis. If that was true he should have been off to a camp, to work for years at hard labor for his crime. Not beaten by the family of the girl, and then the guards, who hadn't even hidden that they'd done it. That part was foolish of them, since they'd probably see one of the work camps too, for what they'd done. They knew it even and just thought it was worth the hardship, to have a chance to hurt the man in front of her.
They'd been told all of this by the head jailer.
"I know, who'd send me in here, right? But Clark, the huge Guardian out there, needs to be ready to protect us from the townspeople if it comes to it and the Doctor is more important than I am. I just got my Apprentice position two days ago, and happened to be traveling with them on The Lament when the message came in to stop here." It was all true, even if it left most of her recent story out of things.
She'd already been with The Lament before that, as an Apprentice Guardian, of all things. Then she'd had a bit of an adventure, fighting a group of techno-cultist attackers. By herself. That she'd managed it was so wild that she wasn't going to tell this man about it. He wouldn't believe her. No one should, really. It was too big of a story for one small girl.
She let a soft smile come to her lips. One thing was certain, the man in front of her wasn't going to hop up and hurt anyone. He was hurt enough that even the small bit of sharp metal he had in his left hand probably wasn't going to do much for him.
She winked, which was over the top. After all, the man wasn't up to being a good audience. Sitting there in pain like he was.
"Here's the plan. Doctor Millis is going to come in and treat you, which will probably hurt a bit, but not as much as the beating did. Then we'll take you out of here, back to the ship. The Lament. It's an airship, attached to the council. Is that all right? After that, well, I don't know. The only thing I can promise you is that, if you're innocent, you'll be found that way. Even if you aren't, I like your odds better if you come with us." Not that the man had a choice, but she was more than willing to lie, if it made him feel better. She let her smile grow, projecting confidence she didn't feel totally. Her body language spread outward, and opened, which would have been dangerous if the man was going to attack. "First I'm going to have to take the weapon you have. I promise, we won't beat you. If anyone tries I'll fight them."
She knew what was coming, and Clark did too, but it was clear from the way that he moved forward that the Doctor wasn't. The man was not going to just give up his only protection. Not willingly. He tightened his hand on it, looking scared, even as Pran threw her right hand out hard enough that she hit the thin old Doctor's chest with a thump that got a dirty look from the man.
"Sorry, Doc. Let me secure the weapon first? I know this is scary, but Will here will get the idea, after a bit. I'm a little girl. Barely an Apprentice, and just a Bard. Not a threat. I couldn't hurt him if I wanted." Her voice was a bit sing-song and light sounding, even as the acrid odor of the space assaulted her again. The man was still sitting in a puddle of his own fluids after all. She could see the glint of liquid on the floor. Having done the same herself, more than once, she could forgive him the failure.
Moving in she tried to not seem menacing in her all black outfit. The clothing was borrowed, and all she had really, except for her old school uniform. It wasn't exactly bright and cheery Bard clothing, that was for certain. The man didn't seem to notice that however, and when she reached out to take the bit of metal, which wasn't even sharpened yet, though it had a point to it, he just passed it over.
"Thanks. I need to search you too, but I'll try not to hurt you." She'd checked people before, but not an innocent person. True, this man might not be that either, which meant he was possibly dangerous. Then again, everyone was, weren't they? Even she was a lot more than she seemed, especially when pushed.
It was a lot ickier than touching a grown man that had been an upstanding citizen two weeks before should have been. He wasn't just covered with filth, but gore and gross things. It was sickening, really. Even having been in nearly the same condition that he was before, she didn't like it. Once upon a time it had been her sitting in a similar place, if with less reason. She'd been accused of taking extra bread at the table. She hadn't, that had been a lie, but the Keepers at the Orphanage, the sisters, they didn't care about that.
They never did.
The man was clear though, and she moved back, her face pleasant, she hoped. It was what she was going for, and no one had ever claimed her acting skills were low end or anything.
"Doctor Millis? He seems ready for you." Pran didn't leave the cell however, trying to empty her mind and hold her place, off to the left hand side. Not that she'd be a big help if a real fight came, but Clark really was going to be more useful out in the hall than in the small space with the Doc. He was too big to use his full fighting skills in there. She wasn't.
Now, if only she had real fighting skills.
The older man wasn't tentative, even when he caused pain. Since that was every few seconds, it wasn't probably for the best.
The man grunted, and the Doctor spoke softly.
"Yeah, I think. I'll do it." His beard was matted on the right hand side, and Pran assumed that would be due to dried blood. What color it was she didn't know yet, since there wasn't enough light in the stone space to tell. Something dark, she figured.
The Doc was a fussy man, when not treating a patient, and while he was a good soul, working the ship as his retirement project, so that he could travel without doing too much work day to day, he could also be hard when needed. That meant he was old enough not to feel bad about gesturing for her to help the man move. The butcher was heavy enough that she had to struggle to hold him upright, holding him to her body for support, and she might just have to burn the clothing she was wearing as soon as she got back. Or at least scrub them for a few hours.
It was decently petty of her to think that, since the man had no control over it, but she still did it. The trip out of the jail was slow, and frightening. The three guards that were probably looking at their own incarceration for the beating were standing back and sneering at the man she was holding up. She was under his right arm, and he looked like he might just be sick from the pain. If that happened she had no illusion that it wouldn't end up all over her. The man, Will, kept going anyway. When hope arrived, you went with it, no matter how awful things hurt.
Clark was in the front, and the Doctor behind them. For her part Pran was trying to keep herself in a clear mental state, aware of what was going on, in case an attack came from the men. Not that they'd make it to her, not with Clark there, but just in case they had friends outside, she needed to be ready.
That wasn't a bad thought, she saw, since the wagon with Apprentice Roy in it was surrounded by townspeople. Mainly men, but a few women too. All armed with various things. It was kind of interesting to see what they all had. Mainly farm tools, like hoes and heavy hammers with big metal heads on them, but the ladies had iron cooking pans and wooden rolling pins. They were things that Pran only recognized as props from some of the plays she'd been in, having never learned to cook, herself.
"There he is, get him!" This came from a woman, who had a frying pan in her right hand, and her drab blue and tan dress tied up, in what was probably an attempt to get it out of the way for the fight she expected. She also was on the side, away from Clark, who simply turned toward the lean framed lady that looked about twenty-five or so, and shook his head once, making her freeze.
"No." His voice was flat and even. Hard, of course, but not threatening. She hadn't committed a crime yet after all. There was time for that kind of thing later still. "We don't punish people like this. We take them in front of a Judge, and then, if they're guilty, we try to teach them not to commit further crimes. To beat a person without need is barbaric. I expect better of you." He fixed the woman coolly, the scar on his right cheek shining softly in the cloudy mid-day sunlight.
The woman looked away and let the pan droop a bit, but spoke angrily.
"That... Beast, he touched little Hadis. He had no right! She's only six..." She didn't reset to fight though, and no one moved in, realizing that Guardian Clark probably wasn't going to let that really happen, and being beaten by a Guardian could well be fatal, everyone knew that from the stories and legends. It didn't hurt that Clark was the largest person there by half a head and had more muscle than any two of the upset looking men standing there put together.
It didn't help anything, but the butcher clenched his jaw and then spoke, if not very loud.
"Lies. This bitch is blaming me for what the girl's own father, Kevin, done. She knows it too. I never touched no little girl. That's on him." He tried to gesture at the man, but winced, having let go of his broken arm briefly. That was clearly a mistake.
"Liar!" The man that spoke, clearly Kevin, turned out to be one of the guards.
Because that made him look innocent.
Of course in a place this small, they wouldn't have real jailers, would they? Just people from the village that took the position as needed. Still, if he were being accused too, then beating the man into not talking could have been part of his plan.
Pran let her body straighten a bit, which took work and got a pained grunt from the man next to her. He'd live however, in pain or not.
Pran fixed the father with a glare.
"Stow it! The Judges will deal with this, not angry relatives. Now, you people clear out. There will be questions for many of you, so don't leave town. Move!" She made herself sound older, firm and like she, personally, was going to kick their collective behinds, if they didn't do what she said. For once it worked and the people actually pulled back enough for them to load the man into the back of the wagon. The two horses at the front, the older gray, and the light tan mare, both shifted uneasily.
Clark moved to the front, his form rippling a bit, moving without rhythm throwing off the eye of the watchers, even hers. Guardian magic, after a fashion. The large man pulled an air rifle from under the front seat, by Roy, who wasn't much older than she was, and tossed it to her as the Doctor moved into the back of the wooden wagon with the man.
"Walking guard. I'll take the rear, but watch for ambush. I do not trust this situation." He was watching the street, which was just mud here, so closely that Pran shrugged.
A walking guard was hard to do, moving without pattern, in a trance state. It was a thing that was pretty close to impossible for someone not raised to the practice to do, at all. She'd been told how to do it, certainly, but her brain just didn't work the same way. Worse, Pran had been trained as a Bard, which was almost the exact opposite really. All music, and even stories, used regular patterns and beats. She tried though, and worked to make it look good, dashing forward and then making a half turn right, walking for a step and stopping before dipping back.
It hurt, but there was a soft gasp from the woman with the tied up skirt, whose eyes went wide.
"That girl... vanished..."
It wasn't true, but it was a good trick, and a sense of pride tickled her mind for half a second. She'd pulled it off. Sort of. It wasn't good enough though, and she knew it. That was why it was a great thing that she'd gotten back into being a Bard instead of a Guardian. She wouldn't have lasted too long doing that, after all. No regular person could.
She tried anyway and even though it was hard and she started gasping about ten seconds later, Pran kept going, her heart racing, and the weapon feeling heavier in her now sweating hands.
There was a trick to moving like she was, and she didn't have it, so the key would be watching the surroundings closely as she huffed and puffed along the slightly muddy path. It was one of the worst roads she'd ever seen, but Clark had mentioned on the way out that a lot of the more rural areas didn't do a lot of work that way. They were technically supposed to, but laying stone was a lot of work, and most people had other things to get done first. Farming, or milling grains. Surviving the winter to come. That sort of thing.
If you had to pick between making the council happy and putting in an improved road, or getting enough wood to last the cold season, you did the one that worked for you. Not some bigheaded fool thousands of miles away.
It was funny, but Clark, who was normally pretty pro-council, had said the words exactly like that. Of course he'd met a lot more of those bigheaded leaders than she had, over the years, so he was probably talking from experience. The Guardians were supposed to protect them, after all. The Judges too. That, and the environment. For the most part that last one was both the real job and the one that no one understood. They didn't have to. Because the government did it for them, the vast majority of people didn't understand how much others were looking out for them.
Pran knew her mind was wandering, and was surprised when her air-rifle, which wasn't that big of a thing at all, me
ant for killing rabbits, not men, fired into the brush to the left of the road, just before the bend that was coming up. She didn't see anything at all, but there was a short scream.
"Damn it!" It was a deep voice, and three men popped out, all with sticks, which should have been menacing, except that they were nearly twenty feet away, and all stopped when Pran re-aimed and hit the man next to the bearded one that she'd hit first. They mainly all had facial hair, of one kind or another. There were four of them in all, and only the youngest lacked a beard. He had a wispy mustache though. Otherwise he was sort of cute.
Pran pointed her rifle at him, her motion stopping, even though she should have rushed them. She wasn't a real Guardian, so decided to keep the extra distance. Her strength was in playing make believe and lying, so she went with it.
"Morons." She managed to sound bored, rather than anything else. "Now you're in trouble too. Okay then, line up, behind the wagon. You two wounded men will need to be treated. Thank all your luck that you didn't actually do anything yet. I highly suggest you don't start now. Interfering with a prisoner transport is worth, I don't know, years in a camp. Let the Judge handle this. It really isn't that hard to understand." Pran was lying really.
She wasn't a Guardian and didn't know those kinds of rules at all. Even pretending to was probably illegal, but she didn't want to fight the four men if she didn't have too. On the good side she didn't have to tell them to drop the sticks, because the old hurt man did it for her, and Clark's chuckle got them to line up, two of them limping into place.
They didn't moan or carry on though. Even the one that was hit in the middle. He was older and clearly in pain, but he just glared at her a bit. On the way past he spoke, his voice calm, however.
"Hadis is my granddaughter." Then he moved to the back, where Clark had Doctor Millis check the wounds. The men still had to walk though, since they weren't going to let them access the injured man in the wagon directly. They might kill him, even if it meant going to a camp forever.
