Someone's foot thinned his slumber. A jolt fully woke him. Perdid immediately recognized the restrictive sensation of rope binding his wrists together. He sat up and saw that cheap rope had also been used to tether his ankles together, leaving sufficient slack to perhaps waddle.
This is not a fortunate situation, he realized. His eyes, now accustomed to being open in the dim setting, swung around to analyze his predicament. He was in a wooden carriage; it was a featureless box except for a miniscule window, the sole light source. He assumed it was early morning, judging by the soft daylight. Across from Perdid sat an elf, identically bound. The elf's foot nudged him again, just as it had when it disrupted Perdid's sleep.
"You're awake and alive?" he said without vitality, "I was just making sure." His foot retreated slowly to him and he curled into a feeble, tired position. Another jolt, with equal lack of warning, sent Perdid onto his side. This called his attention to the turbulence of the ride; aside from the two major bumps, the ride felt generally choppy.
Regaining his balance and depending on the wall for support, Perdid stood. He stumbled to the small window and pressed his face against it. His eyes and nose protruded from it, witnessing the exterior scene. Three horses drew the carriage over unmarked ground. Two Guards, probably the Guards that had chased Perdid, rode on the left and right horses, exchanging words. The middle horse was occupied by luggage. Other than miscellaneous sacks of daily supplies, there was a peculiar box. A hilt was visible, extending from the receptacle. Perdid, having not seen his weapon within the carriage, knew the sword was his. Seeing it carelessly stored between two Guards made him tense, his fingers curling into fists.
"I thought so, as well," the right Guard responded to whatever Perdid had not heard.
"I've heard a few things about him in the barracks, yeah, but you can't be certain," his cohort said.
"The decree stated that he should be killed," the right Guard reasoned, "but you're right. We can't be sure it's him."
"If it is, we can kill him after we confirm it."
"And I'm sure Atolocus wouldn't mind if he lived a few extra days in the Keep. A dead man is a dead man, regardless of how long his life was."
"True," the left Guard nodded. "We were lucky that courier reached us before we left Tremthik."
"Yeah, I was about to spur when he called us," his companion agreed.
"That decree he gave us... it makes Perdid seem important, since Atolocus wants him dead," the left Guard continued. "The description matches the boy, but how could that kid be such a large issue?"
"We'll find out who he is somehow," the right Guard concluded the issue. There were no words for some time until the left Guard spoke again.
"I'm glad we encountered that Bayknen patrol." The right Guard looked at him, probably with an interrogative expression. "I was uneasy about going to the Keep with just this one kid. Then that patrol gave us the elf they found. It seems inefficient to ride all the way to the Keep only to drop off one prisoner... especially if he actually isn't Perdid."
"I like dropping off prisoners at the Keep," the right Guard differed. "Some of my old friends are stationed there."
Perdid stepped away from the wall. He had heard enough about the situation to be generally informed. Another notable bump in the road caused him to return to a seated position. The elf's eyes were upon him. Perdid felt less inclined to socialization than usual, which he noted as a remarkable feat. His mouth was dry, his body sore from the recent abuse, and his stomach was pained with hunger. He retired to a corner of the turbulent box. He moped there until unconsciousness, alongside despair, reclaimed him.
Wylyn squinted at the sunset. Candrian, a practically incapacitated Herntuk, and she had been waiting for Perdid at the designated rendezvous for the entirety of the day. Her stomach emitted a bubbling growl. She suddenly turned to face Candrian, her blond bob whipping around furiously.
"I know you said you didn't want to leave without him, but could one of us at least find something to eat?" she asked. Her tone suggested that she harbored more patience than she really did.
"I don't know," Candrian indecisively muttered, slouching further against a forsaken crate that had been serving as her backrest. "What if he arrives when we're away looking for dinner?"
"Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, actually," Herntuk mumbled from his supine position under a roadside building's awning. It was one of the few full and comprehendible sentences he had uttered during the whole day.
"Sir Moats-of-Ale over there is right—" Herntuk attempted a retort in his defense, but it was inaudible—"I'm not sure how your lifestyles were before this, but I'm not accustomed to daily starvation."
"Before Herntuk and Perdid came along, I wasn't starving," Candrian kept her focus on her boot, which she was absentmindedly picking at, "but I probably didn't eat as much as the daughter of a Geonavian nobleman." Once she had said the words, Candrian realized that she was touching a sore topic for Wylyn. The girl opened her mouth to say something, perhaps a perturbed reply about her father or simply another complaint about Perdid, but abandoned the thought. Candrian felt obligated to make amends for her blunder. "I apologize for—I didn't mean to say anything about your—"
"Don't worry about it," Wylyn cut her off. Herntuk groaned, mumbling something about procuring water being a higher priority than food. His stomach had been supposedly upset throughout the day, and his interest in food was consequently lessened. Candrian got to her feet.
"You're right, Wylyn," she said, "but how're we going to get any food or w—"
"We steal it," the Geonavian immediately stated. The other two stared at her. Wylyn elaborated, saying, "Perdid has all of our money. It's impossible to honorably earn enough currency in an hour or so. This country apparently is lenient with laws on theft. I see stealing as a logical option."
Candrian instinctively meant to argue against this course of action, but she did not. Perdid himself was a known thief. Candrian failed to conjure any qualms about the morality of stealing.
"Let's do it," she gave in. She began a stroll in search of a market, where a myriad of goods would be waiting to be taken. The others followed. "We could pickpocket some coins, then buy whatever we need, or somehow swipe the goods right from the shop shelves."
"Taking things from the shops might be difficult. I'd rather purchase them; there's not too much stealth involved in a fair purchase," Wylyn replied.
Herntuk, through a brief window of humor in his otherwise agitated mood, added, "That depends what you're purchasing." Wylyn did not hesitate to tell him to shut his mouth. As they approached a busy area of Tremthik, Candrian came to a realization. The dirt street was filled with people possessing varying amounts of currency, waiting to be purloined. Perdid made stealing look like a simple necessity of life—which it probably was for him, at times. However, discussing theft differed from performing theft.
She would find a potential victim, their coin purse jingling naively at their waist. Candrian would awkwardly close the distance between her and her target, and her hand would flicker about, caught in the equilibrium between the desire of funds and fear of possible consequences. Then, she would abandon the effort to steal, earning her many exasperated looks from Wylyn. Finally, after one of many forfeited attempts by Candrian, Wylyn grabbed the girl's arm and yanked her so that the two nearly collided at the nose.
"Candrian," she whispered heatedly, "my tolerance for both starving and watching you flounder about is gone. If you can't get us some coins, I will."
"I'm sorry; it's difficult sometimes to..." Candrian began her defense, but Wylyn's undyingly aflame eyes discouraged any rebuttal.
Wylyn released Candrian and spun off to find a victim. In her angry haste, she discarded caution and mentally designated her target without care. Tailing a woman, Wylyn increased her gait as to casually pass her. As she went by, Wylyn swiped for the woman's coin purse. The nimble and forceful tug on the purse failed to detach it from the woman's belt. The targeted woman immediately swung her elbow into Wylyn's stomach, knocking the breath from her lungs. A knee arrived at Wylyn's abdomen soon after the elbow, knocking her to staggering backward.
She was able to glance at her assailant before a kick to the chest sent her to the ground. The only aspect Wylyn could ascertain via the interrupted glance was that the woman was dressed completely in black. From the dirt, Wylyn saw Candrian rush towards the situation, hand ready on her dagger. The darkly dressed woman traced her betraying eyes to Candrian. Before her dagger could be drawn, Candrian was forced to tumble sideways to avoid a sharp kick. Herntuk was visible away from the action, obviously not suited for combat.
They were invested in this situation now. There was no way to leave peacefully, the Geonavian decided as she recovered. On her feet, Wylyn ran at the woman from behind, fist reared back. She was prepared, though, and spun, her arms already in a defensive position. Wylyn's punch was easily deflected. She threw another fist, also parried. Hoping to find success in variety, she tried to kick the woman, but she sidestepped. Candrian's footfalls alerted the woman to her desperate approach from behind, and, with barely a glance, she ducked beneath a sloppy dagger swing. Candrian's dagger-use prompted her to draw her own blade.
Wylyn stepped back. Something had changed. This woman simply brushed aside her punches and evaded her kick and Candrian's strike. As she observed, the girl noticed that she parried each of Candrian's swings and jabs, yet did not take any opportunities to attack. Her eyes were perusing Candrian's face. It was as if she recognized her.
Interrupting her train of thought, Herntuk mustered his strength to throw himself into the fray. He lowered his shoulder, preparing for a collision. He rammed in between the two fighters. His size alone allowed him to break the woman's composure. Stumbling backwards, the woman analyzed Herntuk's appearance with the same interest. As Herntuk unsheathed his greatsword, the woman relinquished her combative stance.
"You know me," she said, enunciating carefully, "I know you. Am I wrong?"
The three hesitated. Wylyn, who had had the most time to ponder the woman, answered.
"I don't think so," she agreed. Candrian, skeptical, turned to Wylyn.
"Where do we know her from?"
"Look at her, Candrian," Wylyn answered, "Her face... I've definitely seen her face before."
"That dark clothing, too..." Herntuk added. He understood.
"Do you know Perdid Unam?" Wylyn asked, trying not to reveal too much while searching for answers.
"I do," the woman answered. She took a step towards them. "Have you been to Nerksbire recently?"
This confirmed Herntuk's assumption. He sheathed his weapon.
"Denkin?" he guessed, fishing from his memory. The woman sighed, breaking into a smile.
"I knew you all were familiar; you've been traveling with Unam," she grinned at them. "He brought you all to the Guild headquarters." Once their acquaintance had been assured, the four relaxed and drew into a closer circle to talk. "Did he leave you behind here?" she teased.
"Actually, Denkin," Candrian rubbed her hungry stomach, "he did."
The Rogue sensed there was a problem from their demeanor.
"Did he leave you behind here... without notice?" she inquired.
"Yeah," Candrian affirmed, "he set up a meeting point and never showed."
Wylyn quickly interjected, "And now we're very hungry."
Denkin rolled her eyes before saying, "That doesn't surprise me. He can be impulsive sometimes. But I figured he wouldn't abandon you without reason."
"Should we be worried about him?" Herntuk questioned the group. "Maybe he's not simply being rude. He might have gotten caught up in something."
An apprehensive crowd had formed to spectate the curtailed combat. Now, with the action unexpectedly concluded, the people loitered, their puzzled whispers creating a gentle bombination. Denkin noted this.
"Walk with me; we'll talk more about this," she told the three as she broke off from the conversation.
Perdid ate like an animal. Fortunately, the first thing the Guards did after bringing Perdid and the elf to their cell was serve them each a meal. The boy's hunger had only evolved since the ride. He collapsed to the ground to meet the rotting wooden slab that served as a plate, sloppily siphoning the miscellaneous array of foodstuffs into his mouth. The elf took note of his enthusiasm.
"You were quite hungry, weren't you?" he jested as he took a calmer approach to his own dish. Perdid paused the demolition of his meal to glare at the fellow prisoner. The elf strolled to his plate and picked it up. He grinned half-heartedly at Perdid before taking his first delicate bite.
This elf is in surprisingly good spirits for a prisoner, Perdid thought to himself as he resumed eating.
"I don't know why you're locked in here," the young elf said, "but I know why I'm here. Are you from here—this country, I mean?"
Perdid finished his meal before acknowledging the question. Shifting into a cross-legged sitting position, he nodded. The elf took another bite, chewed it while deliberating how to phrase his next sentence.
"Then you would, er—" he swallowed "—you would be familiar with Franternis's general policy on the imprisonment of disease carriers, correct?"
Shock instantly overtook Perdid's expression. His eyes hectically perused his cellmate for signs of plague. Regardless of finding none, he decided it was safest to create cautionary distance.
"It's just this rash of sorts," he explained, suddenly self-conscious, as the Franternisian boy slid himself backwards, "It doesn't travel on the breeze; you don't have to worry about catching it simply by sharing this cell's air with me. Also, I've been told that the disease feeds off the magica of the infected person. Unless you practice magic, it won't affect you too potently."
Remaining at his new distance, Perdid asked, "Rash?"
"Oh, you don't see it." The diseased elf took account of his own body. "I tried to cover it with some shawls and wraps, but I lost those along the way. Luckily most of it is covered by what clothes I still have." He drew down his collar to reveal a considerable area of his neck and chest covered by a red blemish.
The Franternisian leaned forward, intrigued by the abnormality. The elf grinned at this lack of repulsion.
"Remember how I mentioned it feeds on magica?" he reminded him. "Watch this..."
The elf rolled up his sleeves past his elbows to reveal the rash's erratic conquest of his forearms. Then, using a spell, he conjured a miniature ball of light from his palm. With a gentle flick of his wrist, the elf commanded the ball to glide to his pointed finger. As the orb obediently hovered by his finger, the rash on his arms began to glow, creating its own irregularly pulsing light.
"That glow," the elf explained, his voice quieter as if to assist his concentration on the spell, "that's what happens when it consumes magica." The orb of light flickered. Seeing this, the elf forfeited the effort and ceased the spell. "Basically, my magic's stamina is sapped whenever I use it." His lips drew themselves tight in a displeased silence. He pulled his sleeves over his forearms.
The atmosphere of the cell, though originally damp in the literal sense, was diminished. This restriction of magical endurance clearly bothered the elf. In order to inspirit the room, he jerked his focus away from his disease and directed it to another subject.
"Why're you here, then?" he asked.
Perdid produced a curt, jarring snort of amusement. He knew the answer. He was not arrested for stealing from the marketplace; that was the cause of his encounter with the Guards. He was apprehended for theft, but he was condemned to a dank cell for his record. His entire lifestyle violated the principles of the Guards—he had done many things throughout his years to earn their malice—so they imprisoned him. Oddly, this was the very thing Perdid was supporting. He planned to oppose the incoming democratic movement from Geonavia in order to preserve the Guild-based way of life. With the Guilds holding dominion, the Guards were free to arrest Perdid as they pleased.
Anarchy has its benefits and its hindrances, he mentally concluded.
"Reputation," he grinned.
"Oh?" the elf reciprocated the grin, "Will I get an explanation?"
Perdid pondered. He brushed his dirty maroon hair from his eyes to look at his cellmate clearly before saying, "The Guards don't agree with my methods."
"Marvelously vague," the elf chuckled. He took another bite of his meal and tossed a chunk of an edible substance to Perdid. "You're probably still hungry."
Perdid considered the food in his palm. I think this elf might be a better cellmate than I first thought.... His optimism was overshadowed as he noticed a flyer through the cell's barred door. On the wall opposite to their confinement, a poster with a crude illustration was nailed to a wooden bulletin board. There were various criminal offenses listed below the drawing of a boy's head. After the list's end, in larger, emphasized lettering, "To be killed" was visible. Two words in equally prominent style ringed the portrait's head: "Perdid Unam".
As Perdid examined the poster, he realized the artist's rendition of his face was not as drastically inaccurate as he initially thought. The Guards could match his face to it. Even if they failed to recognize him by his appearance, the two Guards who escorted him to the prison mentioned they could inevitably confirm his identity. One sentence crept into his mind: "A dead man is a dead man, regardless of how long his life was."
The door of the Tremthik eatery opened to release four patrons onto the street. Denkin led the three forsaken travelers.
"Does a noble official of a guild, as you are, often deign to proletarian duties like fieldwork?" Wylyn asked, smearing her question with sarcasm. A full stomach heralds pleasant dispositions. Denkin smiled, as she frequently did; her willpower to repress a grin was as thin as a diaphanous veil. That mirthful facial metamorphosis brings her to a more natural state.
"Administrative work bores anyone who immerses themself in it for too long," she replied. "Plus, being out in the world myself is the best way to stay informed on current events—such as Perdid's disappearance."
The group's merriment changed into seriousness.
"You were saying that it's unlike Perdid to lie about a rendezvous," Candrian said, "so maybe he wasn't lying."
"Then where is he? He wasn't at the gate," Herntuk asked.
"Do you think he got involved in something?" Wylyn suggested. Denkin let out a snort of droll amusement.
"Honestly, it would surprise me if he didn't find trouble somehow." This comment stimulated thoughts of concern in everyone's mind. "That's the most logical explanation," she admitted gravely.
"What variety of trouble did he find in the past?" Candrian asked, her eyes staying on her shoes as they carried her down the dirt street. Denkin brushed back her hair as she reminisced about Perdid's misadventures. Her grin began to reappear, but the severity of the situation smothered it.
"Guards, mostly," she answered finally. "We actually broke him out of jail once. The whole operation didn't unfold well, though. It was at this one prison..."
Her tale faded from her mouth once she saw the eager faces of the other three. The jailbreak concept caught their attention.
"Well," Herntuk spoke, "it sounds like you may have a chance to try that operation again."