Rogue Dungeon: Troll Nation (Chapters 13 - 15)

Chapter 13

Legion of Sticklers

Frostrime was a port city locked in perpetual winter. 

Its buildings ran right up to the frozen docks and traced along the waterfront in both directions. Even as it swept inland from the sea, the squat wooden structures were covered in layers of salty ice, as if the ocean spray could reach each and every one, no matter how land-locked. Massive crystalline stalactites hung from eaves, glistening in the pale yellow light of the moon. Some of these had reached the ground and formed huge, hazy columns of solid water. It was the enormous jagged icicles which didn’t touch earth that made Roark a tad nervous. These looked as if they could crush even a Jotnar of Azibek’s size flat if they happened to break off. He made certain to pass well out of their path as he slipped through the shadows, just in case.

Now and then, between the businesses and houses, Roark caught sight of the wide open ocean to the north stretching off to the horizon. The Sea of Specters. A dark, jagged shape floated miles off shore, well above the choppy black waves. Chillend Prison.

From this distance, Roark couldn’t gauge the island’s size, but it must have been massive. The self-taught mage in him was intrigued. His primary mission was to infiltrate the prison and jailbreak their merchant, but he would have been lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he was equally as excited to get close enough to inspect whatever spells or enchantments kept the huge chunk of permanent ice high above the surface of the water. There were untold applications for something like that. He couldn’t help but envision launching an attack against Lowen and the Vault of the Radiant Shield from a floating chunk of rock the size of a small town and armed to the teeth with earth-work fortifications and enchanted siege weapons. 

The sound of heavy boots on wood and the loud groan of the trodden frozen boardwalk brought Roark’s attention back to his first order of business. Ahead, a pair of olm Legionnaires rounded a corner and started toward him. They were odd looking creatures, olms, a strangely salamander like folk with slimy slick heads, slightly bulbous eyes, and paddlelike tails nearly scrapping the frozen ground. In some ways, they reminded Roark of Mac, albeit in his Stone Salamander form—as though, perhaps, they’d shared a common ancestor at some point in the far distant past. 

The Legion of Order’s presence was heavy in the port city, patrols walking nearly every street Roark had come to so far. They were easy to identify, both because they of their racial alignment and because of the blue and gold tabards they all wore over their armor or robes, emblazoned with a spiked crown and a heavy-headed scepter. Roark kept his head down, the hood of his cloak obscuring his face in shadow much like Zyra’s, and skirted the pair, letting them pass. When they were far enough away, Roark doubled back and tailed the pair.

A dusting of snow began to drift down from above, swirling and eddying on the wintry breeze like currents in a river. Passersby pulled their cloaks a little tighter or hugged themselves and cursed the weather. To Roark, however, the snow felt like home. If the air had smelled a little more like pine and stream than salt and fish, it would have been perfect. He could almost picture Korvo, his home city. Ghostly moon light glimmering on the peaked rooves of the village. Women in brightly colored dresses decorated with shiny tin coins and men in dark jerkins over vibrant shirts making their way down neat, snow-blown streets. 

When the Tyrant King, Marek Konig Ustar, had come to power, Korvo’s streets had filled with beggars, street urchins—of which Roark had been one—and never-ending patrols of Ustar soldiers in their snake-jawed helmets and woolen cloaks, sporting the Tyrant King’s seal, a winged serpent. Now, ghosting through the streets and alleys of Frostrime, doing all he could to avoid drawing the patrol’s notice felt brutally familiar. Though it felt like eons ago, it had been little more than a month since he had slipped through the streets of his home city avoiding the Ustars.

Of course, this time the plan was to find the most opportune time to get arrested without drawing undue suspicion rather than circumvent a group of heavily armed and armored soldiers out for his blood. And there was the matter of Kaz and Zyra elsewhere in the city tonight, working at the same objective. Still, the feeling of having been in this exact situation before was hard to shake.

The pair of olm Legionnaires Roark had attached himself to, wore gleaming silver plate mail beneath their tabards, gold-threaded cloaks billowing behind them in the wind. 

From what Roark could piece together from the scenes of Hearthworld history he saw whenever he died, and what Mai, Griff, Zyra, and Kaz had told him, the Legion of Order had started out as the olms’ attempt to bring order to the chaos left behind by the great war between the Infernali and the Malaika. This was why nearly all Legionnaires in the Order were olms. As the only race who hadn’t chosen a side in what they believed to be a nonsense war, the humanoid salamanders trusted no one but themselves to govern Hearthworld with logic and intelligence. And so, they subjugated the rogs, humans, and elves of the world, killing any who wouldn’t submit while allowing those who would to remain on their thrones as puppet dictators. Apparently, there was some olm Emperor out there whom all these sovereigns answered to.

“Oy, you!”

Roark froze, certain he’d been made. A dozen excuses for following the patrol sprang to mind while he searched for escape routes and readied defensive spells. He managed to quell the flight instincts, reminding himself that his goal was to be arrested, not avoid it, and put on the startled expression they would expect.

But the Legionnaires weren’t looking his way. The larger of the two, a muscle-bound male with a shining ivory buckler hanging over his shoulder, pointed into the darkened niche where two walls and an ice column formed a small windbreak. A huddled mass in rags, too lumpy and bent for Roark to discern and age, sex, or race stumbled out of the shadows.

“According to Frostrime bylaws,” the larger Legionnaire began, “section eighteen, paragraph six, line two, no living being is allowed to loiter on residential or commercial property overnight.”

“Oh no,” the mass said, waving rag-wrapped hands. “No, no, I wasn’t staying, your tidiness. I was on my way to my roosting spot, not stopping here, that’s the truth.”

“Get going,” the smaller Legionnaire snapped, raising a gauntleted fist glowing with orange magic. “Find a legal place to stay tonight, or we’ll find you a spot in the prison ferry.”

The mass nodded and bowed and backed away. “Yes, yes, of course, your very orderlinesses.”

They watched the homeless beggar go, then returned to their patrol. The foot traffic was growing heavier the farther inland they traveled. Roark followed behind the Legionnaires, watching them check the clothing and weapons of passersby as if the fate of the world depended on each and every one. Their inspections either ended in an approving nod or an order to “Get that rusty excuse for a sai refurbished, woman,” or “Faceplates independent of helmets are required by section four, subsection B, paragraph five to cover no more than one-third of the face or be removed while within Frostrime city limits, pal.” They stopped and cited an innkeeper for having a sign in disrepair—which as far as Roark could see, had little more wrong with it than a scrap of peeling paint about to chip off—and a few minutes later, a tavern musician for exceeding the local noise limit.

They even inspected the many other pairs of Legion soldiers patrolling as they crossed paths.

“Get that rivet repaired, Legionnaire!” the shorter Legionnaire snapped at one of his comrades. “If I see it hanging again, I will report you for negligence as defined under OLO uniform regulations.”

The reprimanded soldier scowled and pointed at the accusing Legionnaire’s mail. “You call that ‘polished to a shine befitting the face of progress and civilization’? Have that blemish gleaming by morning or I’ll write you up.”

Both returned to their route, amphibian noses in the air.

“He’d better have it affixed by morning,” the larger Legionnaire said. “If he doesn’t, his partner will make sure he does … or she’ll be guilty of failure to report an egregious wardrobe malfunction.”

“She would have to have been blind not to see it in the first place,” the shorter one said. “I’m writing them both up with the Praetor when I get back.”

The larger one nodded his oblong head sharply. “Can’t have standards falling amongst the troops. We are the example for the barbarians, after all.”

Roark had seen authority corrupt otherwise normal men to executing their neighbors in the streets for speaking out against a tyrant, but he had never seen it wielded against a man who dropped a bit of trash on the boardwalk and didn’t pick it up. While the chastised hero scuttled away, muttering curses under his breath and shoving the potion cork he had failed to proplerly discard into his Inventory, Roark chuckled to himself. Each silent puff of breath was betrayed by a white plume of steam.

The Legionnaires had already moved on to measuring the distance between a frozen-over rain barrel and the wall of a nearby tavern with a shining golden ruler.

“Perfect,” the larger one announced, straightening back to his full height.

The shorter one nodded with satisfaction. “You can always count on Willam to keep the Ocarina in order.”

In the distance, a ship’s bell began to chime the hour.

“There’s eight bells. Care for a regulation-sized mid-shift cup and tavern inspection?”

“Always.”

The shorter one opened the door for the larger, inspecting the screws in the handle plate as his partner passed. A welcoming rectangle of light fell across the trampled snow, and a soft thread of airy music drifted out into the night. Both disappeared as the Legionnaire closed the door behind his swaying tail. Lucky for the musician it did, Roark thought, or she would have been cited for exceeding the noise limit.

Roark waited a few moments before sidling up to the door himself—though not long enough to draw the attention of other patrols. The Legionnaires he’d been following might seem like nothing more than fussy wankers obsessed with enforcing every letter of the law, but it wouldn’t do to forget that this was the same Legion of Order that had imprisoned and left Mai’s husband to die for nothing more than a drunken brawl. As harmless as they looked, he would need to stay alert and be smart.

He cast Glamour Cloak, slipped off his hood, and stomped the snow from his boots. Then he opened the door. It was time to get arrested.

 

Chapter 14

Misdirection

A wall of heat and the smoky scent of meat roasting over a woodfire engulfed Roark as he stepped into the Frosty Ocarina. He hadn’t paid much attention to the cold while he was out in it, a side effect of growing up in a similarly harsh environment and his own single-minded focus on the mission at hand, but he was grateful for the warmth. A massive firepit had been built into the floor of the tavern and lined with river stones big enough to crush a hound. The long bed of embers in it radiated bright light and heat and doubled as a cookfire. At the far end of the pit, an iron spit slowly twirled, roasting the immense shank of some unknown colossal beast. The pit was lined on each side by benches where patrons could warm themselves, share a drink, a smoke, and a story, and listen to the musician playing her ocarina.

Surrounding the benches and the firepit, was a strata of tables, many of them occupied even this late at night. These weren’t the crude, rough-hewn long tables of the Citadel or their grimy alternative in the Sulky Selkie and One-Eyed Unicorn. Here each table was smoothed and polished to a high shine, the chairs of the same lofty quality. There were no elaborate carvings or inlay, simply an inconspicuous tastefulness that seemed to emanate comfort and quality. Though not a carpenter himself, Roark had known enough woodsmiths to spot the telltale signs of a master crafter even at a distance.

The clientele, too, seemed to be a cut above the rabble Roark had seen in the Averi City establishments. Wealthy, refined, and reserved. The few heroes sitting in on games of cards or warming themselves on the firepit benches looked balefully out of place among the well-dressed Hearthworld natives.

Careful not to linger overlong in the doorway, Roark shook the quickly melting snow from his cloak and headed for the empty bench with the best view of his Legionnaire friends. At his full Jotnar height, he had to duck to avoid knocking into the exposed beams of the ceiling, but with the Glamour Cloak in place, none of the tavern’s inhabitants could see his true form. Once again, he looked to the rest of the world like the Roark von Graf of Traisbin—noble, rakish, perhaps just a touch down on his luck if the leathers and untailored cloak were anything to judge by.

He took a seat on the bench just in front of one of the wide timbers supporting the Ocarina’s second floor and leaned his invisible leathery wings against the wooden post where no one would trip over them and call his disguise into question.

An elderly olm glided over dressed in breeches and shirtsleeves as fine yet understated as anything his patrons were wearing. The tavern’s owner, no doubt.

“What might I bring you on this winter’s night, traveler?”

“Spiced wine, if you’ve got it.” In truth, Roark would have preferred an ale, but it wouldn’t do to be seen with a commoner’s drink in an establishment like this. The wealthier customers would notice immediately and dismiss him as beneath them, hampering his chances of pulling off this next bit in his scheme.

The olm nodded elegantly and glided away to the kitchen, his fat-padded salamander tail swishing behind him.

Roark leaned in toward the firepit, stretching out his hands and rubbing them vigorously, playing his part while he checked in on the Legionnaires he had followed. Both were at the bar, sipping from clay mugs and eyeing the patrons for anyone who might be thinking of raising their voice or setting their goblet a bit too close to the edge of the table. To all appearances, they had settled in for a while. 

Good. Getting arrested without making it look as if he wanted to get arrested would probably take most of that while.

Roark turned his attention to the other occupants of the tavern. Three of the six occupied tables were deeply involved in genteel games of cards.

“Your spiced wine,” a grave voice at his right said, nearly making him jump. Roark hadn’t seen the olm returning from the kitchen. Perhaps the elderly salamander had some sort of shadow stealth ability like Zyra’s.

“Thank you.” Roark took the proffered mug, steam curling up from its wide clay mouth, and held out a pair of gold pieces in return.

The olm raised one hairless brow at the money, then met Roark’s eyes with a condescending frown. “If the young master is so much in need, consider the drink a gift.”

Roark smirked and added another three pieces of gold. “If the tavern’s in such dire straits, I’m happy to contribute more.”

The elderly salamander’s eyes flattened, clearly unamused, and he snatched the payment from Roark’s hand before returning to the bar.

Alone again, Roark held the warm mug in both hands, taking a moment to savor the dizzyingly rich aroma of blueberries and spices rising on the steam. The first sip was stronger than he’d been expecting. Obviously the wealthy of Frostrime liked their wine fortified.

He studied the card play for a few hands, sipping the warm drink. The game looked similar to Riot, a staple of his mother’s summer card parties for peers and dignitaries visiting the von Graf Manor. Of course, being only a child, Roark hadn’t been allowed to play then. He’d perfected his Riot skills later on in life, bluffing tavern regulars out of drinks and coins while he listened to the local gossip and gleaned what news he could of the Tyrant King’s movements.

The table closest the wall had the fewest players—only three—and was playing for the highest stakes. Over the course of the last hand, the gold had piled up, and when the regal-looking dark elfess had laid her handful of roses on the table—every one a high card—the heavyset nobleman in the feathered cap let loose a string of profanity. 

“Come now, Henri,” the elfess said, scraping her winnings into her lap. “Didn’t you pay attention to the first run? No red to be seen at all.”

“I knew they were out of reach,” the nobleman grumbled. “But I had hoped the roses would be spread a little more evenly betwixt you both.” He craned his neck and called over his shoulder, “Another drink over here, Willam! I can’t break Madera’s blasted winning streak without being decently crocked.”

The Legionnaires perked up when Henri shouted, but the feather-capped nobleman apparently hadn’t quite broken the noise limit. When he slumped back into his seat and snappishly bought into the next hand without further shouting, the Legionnaires relaxed, a shadow of disappointment in their eyes.

Roark smiled into his mug. If anyone in this tavern could be goaded into a fight, it would be Henri. He watched them play another round, this one going to the elfess as well. Henri turned a red nearly as dark as the egg-sized ruby in his ring, then put the blame on their silent third, a rog with the finest silks stretched across his muscular frame, for taking all the best cards in the leaf suit.

When he felt certain he could keep up with the game, Roark ordered another spiced wine, then made his way to the table by the wall. This drink was merely for show. The last one had numbed his skull and extremities a good deal, which would be an unexpected advantage should Henri prove a scrapper. And the vague sensation of invincibility the wine had generated did wonders for his lordly posture as he swaggered over.

“How much to buy in?” Roark asked.

The quiet rog and dark elfess eyed him shrewdly, but Henri was too far in his cups and anger to take Roark’s measure.

“Ten gold and whatever dignity you brought with you,” the feather-capped nobleman growled. 

“I have no dignity when it comes to cards,” Roark said, tossing the coins on the table carelessly as if he had more than he could ever spend. He fumbled a little as he took a seat—not entirely on purpose, thanks to the wine—but the elfess and rog exchanged pleased glances, clearly thinking they smelled blood in the water. “It gets me into the odd row with my father, but only because the old blowhard can’t understand that I can’t win back what I’ve lost if I don’t play.”

This drew a chuckle from Henri. “A young man after my own heart.”

“You’re a hero?” the elfess asked, her piercing aquamarine eyes focused on a point above Roark’s head, likely reading his nameplate. “Have you played Lush before, Rebel_of_Korvo?”

“Never, but I think I can muddle along with you.” 

Her face stretched into a toothy smile that she quickly corrected into something friendlier and less predatory.

“You’ll catch on quickly,” she said, patting his hand.

The rest of the players bought in, then the rog dealt five cards to each of them. Roark got an assortment of rubbish, but matched the others bet for bet. When they laid hands, the elfess tried desperately not to look too pleased.

Henri cackled openly, clapping Roark on the shoulder. The nobleman was obviously happy not to be the worst player at the table anymore. 

When, in the next hand, Roark staked a small fortune on a pair of twos, the whole table had a much harder time containing their glee. Even the rog rumbled with laughter.

“Oh my dear, sweet summer child!” Henri wheezed between gales of mirth. “A hundred thirty gold on nothing more than twos! Twos! Get this boy a house in town, Madera, we’ve got to make him a regular at the table!”

Roark ducked his head in false humiliation. “I didn’t think anyone could beat them.”

“Twos!” howled the nobleman.

Over at the bar, the Legionnaires were focused once more on the boisterous Henri. 

“Lower your voice, Henri,” the elfess cautioned him, though she, too, was grinning. “Those Orderlies at the bar have the look of a pair who haven’t made their nightly quota yet.”

Henri quieted, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.

“Ah,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Twos.”

Roark scowled, playing up the guise of irresponsible young lord desperate to regain his losses. It was his turn to deal, which meant the time had come.

He tossed out cards to his fellow players, sneakily sleeving three emperors and a pair of princes. The motions weren’t terribly deft as the wine’s warm buzz was still well-entrenched in his limbs. The dark elfess’s brow creased, and her aquamarine eyes narrowed. It looked as if she’d spotted his sleight of hand, and Roark waited for her to call him out, but she gave the slightest shake of her head and returned to her own hand.

Roark staked another small fortune on this round, driving up the bidding each time it came around. The elfess’s suspicion would serve him well in these next few moments.

“That’s it,” Henri said, tossing out his last handful of coins. “Flash us your unmentionables, folks.”

While the other three fanned out their hands on the table, Roark sat back a bit and fumbled with his.

“Oops.” His cards fluttered to the floor. “Just a moment.”

Roark scrabbled his chair back and leaned down, scooping them together with one hand while he pulled the winning hand out of his sleeve with the other.

A fat pink hand wrapped around Roark’s wrist.

“Here now, what’s this?” Henri demanded. He hauled Roark up and slammed his arm on the table, scattering the high cards. “You little cheat!”

“Of course,” the elfess said, her aquamarine eyes chilling to the shade of ocean ice. “I thought so.”

Roark wrenched his hand from the nobleman’s grasp and stumbled over his chair in an apparent rush to get away. Henri lunged for him, but Roark pulled a low-level rapier and brandished it, ready for the coming brawl. For his part, Henri looked ready to leap at him, armed or not.

But before the ruddy-faced nobleman could attack, the rog stood and snapped his huge fingers.

“This trash just tried to cheat us,” he rumbled, addressing the Legionnaires evenly. “And as you can see, he’s pulled a weapon in a public tavern without provocation. I believe that’s a direct violation of bylaw nine-five B, subsection eighteen.”

“It’s subsection twelve,” the shorter Legionnaire corrected the rog with obvious relish. He slid down from his stool and leaned forward on the balls of his feet.

Roark backed up against the wall. Both soldiers were already on the move, closing in from both sides.

“If you think I’m going peaceably, you’re delusional,” he warned them, adding a dagger enchanted with a Larval Pox Curse.

“Threatening a Legionnaire, too?” The larger one chuckled, then pulled a massive cleaver with one hand and his ivory buckler with the other. “In the Holy Name of Order, I hereby place you under arrest for the breaking of numerous Frostrime and Imperial laws. Surrender now.”

“Not bloody likely,” Roark said.

The Legionnaire grinned, showing needlelike teeth, then feinted, the firelight glinting off the sharp edge of his cleaver. Roark saw it for the ploy it was, but lunged an extraordinary step in return and made an off-balance thrust for the olm’s center. Forcing himself to execute the sloppy maneuver wasn’t easy. The years of swordsmanship ingrained in his muscles screamed for him to move his body out of line and forward, executing a girata, and deliver a series of sweeping squalembrato slashes to back the Legionnaire away. He doubted whether he could sustain the clumsy moves for any length of fight without giving himself away, but it turned out not to matter.

In the midst of his first lunge, his entire body froze, icy numbness sweeping through him from head to foot like leaping into a spring swollen with fresh mountain snowmelt. A gray-green aura had enveloped him.

He had been Paralyzed.

“Threat contained,” the smaller Legionnaire said, hands enveloped by that same gray-green aura, palms aimed at Roark. “A good bit of misdirection, as always, partner.”

“And a fast cast from you, partner,” the larger one said, stowing his weapon and buckler. “To the docks?”

“Gladly.” The smaller Legionnaire nodded. He swung his body around, dragging Roark’s paralyzed form across the polished floorboards. “If you’ll just get the door…”

“Of course. Have a good night, Willam.”

It was the most maddeningly civilized way Roark had ever been arrested. The part of him that had geared up for a scrap before giving in was disappointed.

Across the room, the elfess, rog, and nobleman returned to their game as if they’d already forgotten the incident.

But just before the door closed behind Roark and the Legionnaires, cutting them off from the warmth and light of the tavern, Henri shouted over his shoulder, “Enjoy frozen hell, lad!”

Inside, Roark grinned. He intended to.

Chapter 15

A Barge of Scoundrels

Either the spellcaster of the Legionnaires didn’t have the required strength to lift Roark’s Jotnar body higher than an inch or so off the ground, or the olm enjoyed bouncing Roark’s feet and ankles off every obstacle and rock between the tavern and the waterfront.

The Legionnaires dragged him down the docks, the salt-worn planks clunking beneath their boots. With the paralyzation holding strong, Roark didn’t have to attempt to hide his interest in the massive shadows lining the docks on either side. The moon had risen nearly to the highest point overhead, throwing shadows from the masts and ratlines of the dozen carracks, clippers, and junks moored there. Roark had never spent much time on the ocean in Traisbin—there was only the single known continent, and the tyrant he wanted to kill never strayed from it—but he’d always had a passing fascination with seafaring vessels. The smell of fish and salt in the air, the constant creaking of wood and rope, and endless slapping of waves on hull were enchanting.

At the farthest end of the dock sat a bulky, unwieldly looking hulk without a single mast. A row of open portholes lurked just above the waterline, and Roark could see hands poking out of more than a few. In the moonlight reflected off the water, they looked like corpse hands grasping for living flesh from beyond the grave.

The Legionnaires brought him up a wide gangplank to a desk where another of their comrades sat making notes in an enormous ledger. 

“Name?” the notetaker asked.

“Rebel_of_Korvo,” the spellcaster read from Roark’s illusory nameplate. “Hero, level 15.”

“Place of arrest?”

“The Frosty Ocarina, Frostrime Main Street, Frostrime.”

“Crime?”

The larger Legionnaire with the cleaver launched into the exhaustive list of Roark’s crimes by way of the number, section, and subsection of each law he’d broken while the notetaker recorded each one. It took a full five minutes to recount his illegal exploits, the scritch-scratch of quill on parchment never ceasing. That done, they emptied weapons and armor from his Inventory, cataloguing each piece Roark had brought along, which amounted to nothing he wanted to lose. The dagger and rapier, a few changes of leathers. Nothing unusual for a level 15 hero. 

They left his assortment of magical items, modest Health potions, and scrolls.

“Don’t get your hopes up, prisoner,” the spellcasting Legionnaire said. “Magical items don’t work in the ferry or Chillend. Though you might need the Health potions.”

Everything taken was painstakingly recorded, and in return, Roark was given a set of Threadbare Breeches and Footwraps. The paralyzation came off long enough for Roark to put on the meagre protection against the icy clime, then went back on while the notetaker launched into a bored litany he’d clearly gone through hundreds of times.

“Prisoner, you will be detained in the Frostrime harbor until first light, at which time the ferry will depart for Chillend Prison. Your total fine is eight thousand gold pieces. If you have someone in the mainland willing to pay your fine, a messenger will be provided to you. Please note that payments are accepted through alternate characters. If you are caught attempting to escape, your fine will be doubled. If you are caught damaging prison property, ferry included, your fine will be doubled. If you attempt to incite a mutiny, either in the prison or on the ferry, via a rousing freedom speech, you will be gagged indefinitely, and your fine will be doubled. Do you have anyone you can contact for payment?”

The paralyzation spell cut off again, the gray-green aura and icy numbness going with it. 

Roark shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“Very well.” The notetaker aimed the nib of his quill at a dark spot on the deck. “Deposit our prisoner in the holding cell, Legionnaires.”

They snapped off a sharp salute, heels clicking together in attention. A moment later, Roark found himself Paralyzed again. The dark spot on the deck glowed bright pink, illuminating a thick iron grate. It swung open and the spellcaster Legionnaire floated Roark out over the black void and dropped him unceremoniously into hold. Roark landed in a splash of stinking bilge water several yards below, hitting wood hull hard enough to knock a handful of red from his filigreed Health vial. With a groan, he unfolded himself and limped to a standing position.

Huge arms engulfed him, lifting him from his feet.

“Roark made it!” Kaz squeezed Roark until ribs creaked.

“Quiet down, big guy,” Zyra’s low whisper drifted through the darkness. “And remember, he’s Rebel_of_Korvo until we’re home again.”

“Kaz feared Roa—er, Rebel was harmed or killed during his arrest,” the Mighty Gourmet said, his grip only tightening. 

“But now you can clearly see that I’m fine,” Roark winced. “Put me down, Kaz, before you kill me.”

Kaz dropped him. “What took Rebel so long?”

“I had to throw a few hands of cards before I could reveal that I was cheating, or it would’ve looked suspicious,” Roark said. “How did you both get here so quickly?”

A choppy wave hit the hulk, sending it listing to one side and gushing seawater through the portholes on the far side.

Roark stumbled and nearly fell, but Zyra caught him by the elbow.

“Takes a while to get your sea legs,” she said. “We’ve got a dry spot over here. Come on.”

She led him up a steep curve in the hull to a place where it flattened out beside a porthole, then let go. The porthole let in a bright circle of moonlight, but she folded her legs and sat just outside its touch, in the shadows. Kaz sat squarely on the light, a wall of muscle blocking them off from the other prisoners.

Of which there were quite a few, Roark realized. Now that his eyes were adjusting to the darkness, he could see at least fifty bodies clustered around the portholes on either side of the massive hold, many of whom had just been drenched by that rogue wave. Countless other shadows skulked in the darker places. Enough to make him wish the Legion hadn’t taken his blades.

“Don’t mind them,” Zyra said, noting the drift of his attention. “They won’t dare come close again.”

“Again?” Roark asked.

“Kaz and Zyra had one run-in with a group of ruffians sent by a local chef,” the Behemoth explained. “But Kaz had a cinnamon stick the Legion didn’t confiscate.” He pulled out a jagged brown stick. “Kaz snapped it in half and cut two of the ruffians before they could descend on him and Zyra.”

“It was downright brilliant,” Zyra said, flashing a smile at Kaz.

“Kaz got the idea from when he was trying to mull some mead and cut himself on a cinnamon stick. Cinnamon sticks can be very sharp. If Kaz ever writes a book like Gry Feliri or Jordan Bamsey, Kaz’s will detail the dangers of cinnamon sticks.”

“Hang on.” Roark lifted one hand. “Did you say a chef sent them after you?”

Kaz nodded his massive head. “It is how Kaz was arrested. He suggested that the chef used too little salt in his stew, and that was the reason it tasted flavorless and flat, and the chef attacked Kaz in front of all his customers. Kaz only defended himself, but he was arrested as well for participating in a brawl in a public space and exceeding local noise limits.” The Behemoth glanced over his shoulder, then pointed a finger the size of a plantain across the ship toward a distant porthole. “That is the chef. Kaz thinks he may be holding a grudge.”

Roark sized up the hefty man in the stained white jacket and flattened chef’s toque. Even from this distance, it was clear the chef was glaring at Kaz.

“I’d say you’re right, mate.” Roark made a mental note to keep an eye on the disgruntled chef until they were safely away from him.

“I beat you both here,” Zyra said smugly. “Arrested less than an hour after we parted ways.”

Kaz frowned. “It was not a race.”

“I would say that, too, if I’d lost,” Zyra said. There was a sharp smile in her voice.

Roark turned to the Reaver’s shadowy form, intending to ask her how she’d gotten thrown in the prison ferry so fast, but when his eyes fell on her, the words lodged in his throat.

The Legion must have confiscated her armor as well, because she was dressed in a pair of Threadbare Breeches and a Threadbare Tunic. No hood. Snowy white ringlets spilled down around her heart shaped face and over her midnight blue shoulders. His eyes traced the lines of her delicate throat, the bow of her lips, her pixielike nose, and the hint of green and purple in her mismatched eyes before rising to the pair of small recurved horns poking up from the top of her head.

Zyra caught him staring.

“They wouldn’t let me keep the hood,” she muttered. “Kaz promised not to spread the secret around.”

The Mighty Gourmet nodded solemnly. “Kaz swore it on every barrel of salt he’ll ever have.”

“Good,” Roark said, though he still doubted Zyra would have any trouble pushing around the other Trolls if they found out what she really looked like beneath her hood. Actually, now that he thought about it, she might have an easier time with the males. Roark realized he was scowling and gave himself a mental shake. He returned his attention to the now hoodless Reaver. “How did you manage to get thrown in here so quickly?”

“I followed a pair of Legionnaires for a while, nicking random bits and pieces from their Inventories until one of them noticed,” she said. “I was starting to think I’d pick their pockets empty before they caught on, but the softskulls finally realized it when I tried to lift one of their helmets off while he had it equipped.”

The memory of Danella’s body swaying from a noose flashed bright in Roark’s mind, and his scowl returned.

“What were you doing taking a chance like that?” he snapped. Then realizing what he was doing, he hurried to cover his concern. “You could’ve ruined the mission before it even started.”

Zyra laughed. “How? By being too good at pickpocketing and not getting arrested? I would’ve found another way down here if I had to stab someone.”

“Are you trying to get killed?”

“If I do, I’ll end up right back in the Citadel,” she said.

“Not if you keep up this attitude once we get into the prison,” he insisted. “You heard Mai, there are no respawns for mobs inside those walls. Once we leave port, forever death is on the line and it’s crucial that we all remember that.”

“We were in more danger from roving gangs of chef’s minions,” Zyra said, gesturing with one claw-tipped hand at the glowering chef across the ship. “But I don’t see you lashing out at Kaz.”

“Kaz wasn’t directly targeting the soldiers. If they’d decided to kill you in the street—”

“They wouldn’t. It’s against their regulations, and a member of the Legion of Order lives for regulations.”

Roark ground his teeth, unable to make her understand the gravity of what she’d done.

Finally he said, “Before I came to Hearthworld, my…friend was hung for pickpocketing a captain of the guard.”

Zyra smirked. “Your friend must not have been as good a pickpocket as I am.”

“She was the best,” Roark snapped.

“Then I doubt they truly hung her for pickpocketing,” Zyra said, tipping one shoulder in a shrug. “Males are apt to do anything when their advances are rejected, especially males with the authority to declare that someone committed a crime.”

Roark opened his mouth to retort, but found himself at a loss as Zyra’s words sank in.

“But… but I asked the… The local jailor said…”

“Well, that settles it then, doesn’t it? Jailors never tell fibs,” Zyra said. Then with brutal clarity, she added, “Either your friend wasn’t the best pickpocket in your world, and she paid the price, or she was and they hung her for something else.”

Roark dropped back against the bulkhead, his mind reeling. If he hadn’t been sitting, he might’ve toppled over. It felt like the ground beneath his feet was shifting. He had to admit that it was possible Danella had humiliated the captain and been hung on trumped-up charges. The golden-haired thief had had a tongue sharper than a razor, capable of slicing open even the thickest of skin. More than once while they were together it had lashed out at Roark, and only his own rapier-fast wit had saved him. He could easily imagine a man with too much pride and power and too little intelligence taking offense to a harsh rejection.

“You can solve that mystery when you go back to your homeworld,” Zyra said in an overly glib voice. “It’ll be much easier without the rest of us getting in your way.”