Sir Dante rattles his cuffs on the bars of his cell, but they echo uselessly down the sterile hallway. Nausea racks him. All night the mattress hugged him weightlessly, massaging out the deep bags under his eyes. The cistern keeps refilling with drinking water so disgustingly clear as to be invisible. And the food? The woman, Fatima, assaults him regularly with fluffy potato parcels and chocolate confections, fattening him up so his belly bulges and his eyes droop.

It's a campaign of mistreatment.

"I know you're listening. Bring me to Jorge!" Dante bellows at the swivelling eye in the corner. "Return my unicorn!"

The glossy wall bleeds out a picture of a family eating chalk pebbles and smiling. No matter how many times Dante shouts at it, it keeps trying to sell him things.

"SINTECH PEACE OF MIND," purrs the voice of the dragon. "NOW MORE THAN EVER, THE PILL THAT HELPS YOU COPE WITH CURRENT AFFAIRS."

Dante heaves up the bed and rams it violently against the wall, the springs in the mattress shuddering. The picture shatters and cascades to the floor inert. It gives way to rough plaster. He picks up a shard and, running his fingers over it, finds it's made of smooth glass scales.

"Egad, some sorcery is afoot," says the knight. "The dragon remains unslain."

There's a loud click as the door at the end of the hallway slams open, and then he hears the familiar clacking of Fatima's shoes on the mopped floor. She's wearing her funny triangular hat again, tapping away at a small pocket mirror — the screen casts her face in a teal sickliness. Suddenly she bursts into a fit of giggling.

"I will no longer tolerate this mockery," says Dante. "I must speak to the regent!"

Fatima shoves the mirror in his face and says, "Here he is, guys. Sir Dante, knight of the round table..."

The mirror's got one of those eyes on it, just like the ceiling. Instinctively Dante grabs his food tray, toppling over all the potato parcels, and shields his face. This prompts a burst of laughter from the mirror, a hundred-fold chorus of voices.

She flips the screen so he can see. Somehow, she's trapped hundreds of people in there, all partitioned just like Dante in cells, a grinning little circus show. He sees himself, blushing.

"You alright there, Dan?" she giggles. "Don't you wanna say hello to my viewers?"

Dante studies Fatima closer, and then it clicks — her aquiline nose suggest a witch's heritage, and those studs in her ears must amplify her hexes.

"Release these people at once," he growls, adjusting his feet into a battle stance. "Or I will cut thee down, wench!"

"Okay, okay, you guys have seen enough. Catch you later."

Fatima taps on the mirror and the laughter, which is rising to a crescendo, cuts off. Dante exhales sharply. His heart's pumping so hard he can feel his eyes pulsating. Wind's rushing through his ears, and, resolving not to get sucked into her device, he flips up the floorbound mattress for use as a barricade.

She says, "Sorry, Dan, but this ain't a good time for a nap. You're up."

A horn sounds, and the door to Dante's cell sails open with a clang. Dante turns, furrowing his eyebrows. She beckons. In an instant he's striding through imperiously, boots crunching over glass, head held high.

"I'm glad our little misunderstanding is all cleared up," he snarls, presenting his wrists for uncuffing. "I shall always resent the hospitality you've displayed. Indeed I bid you never dine at Chateau Allegro, lest you find yourself on the spit roast."

"Mmm-hmm," says Fatima, grabbing him and leading him through the heavy door at the end of the hallway. "It's time for your trial."

Dante wrenches himself away, rooting himself firmly on the spot, his eyes darting around for any hope of an exit, but it's all just cells and cells and cells. He's a mountain when he wants to be — no matter how much Fatima tugs, she can't get him to move. He's two heads above her in height. One punch can knock her out, but where would he run? The dragon's watching from every ceiling.

"Why, yes," he cries, as much to the camera as his jailor, "I certainly think there has been a misunderstanding! I'm breathless from repeating it, so listen well — I am Sir Dante Allegro, knight of the round table. You cannot simply imprison one of my rank. It is I who toils day and night to keep your realm safe!"

She nods, relaxing into a smirk. Checks her pocket mirror absentmindedly, as though addicted, and into her palm she slips the paralytic trinket.

Dante leaps back. If that thing touches him, he's eating dirt. The cuffs bite deep red lines into his wrists. He's not sure he can block her.

Fatima swaps the trinket from hand to hand, saying, "Sorry, Dan. You want me to take you to the... who was it you wanted? The regent?"

Dante's back hits the wall. "You must understand. It's not that I despise the fairer sex, but at this minute I very much need to speak to someone who knows how the world works."

"Course," she snickers. "Right this way."

And just like that, Fatima turns, leaving herself fully open — Chivalry forbids he strike. She leads him to an ornate set of double doors, gilded twists running along their length, and they're twice as big as he is.

"He's pretty important." She glances sideways at him confidentially. "Sure you wanna bug him?"

In reply, Dante barrels through the doors, near lifting them off their hinges, into a pit with tiers of seats rising all around him, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with gentry who are peering down. It's a colosseum. High above on a pillar sits a judge. He scrabbles uselessly to climb up to her, limbs slipping off lacquered wood.

Stolen novel; please report.

"A fiendish trick!" shouts Dante, wheeling around. Fatima grins and shuts the doors with a boom. Clouds of silence brew in the courtroom, a collective holding of breath, before the judge throws down her gavel.

"Okay, we're in session," says the judge, folding over her mop-like wig. "The charges: vandalism of a Sintech Turbine, depriving thousands of a clean source of energy; destruction of 75 Sintech Peacekeepers; destruction of a prison television; wastage of perfectly good chips. How does the accused plead?"

The jury bow their heads, leaning forward, studying him from every angle. Dante recognises a few from Fatima's mirror. He inhales deeply. He vacuums all the stress into his gut and squashes it down. They have to understand! Throwing his voice out so that it ripples proudly up the sheer walls, in the same tone that he once pledged allegiance to King Arthur, he speaks:

"Madame Regent, I will withhold my judgement as to whether you came to your station by proficiency or marriage, but before proceedings continue, I would say my piece."

The judge motions to give him the floor, a little distractedly.

Dante puffs out his chest, stretches his spine — embodies chivalry.

"This society has no right to put a noble knight on trial when its tourists throw the societies of others into disorder. Seven suns and moons now have they harassed me for an "orthograph" during picnics, baths and dinners. They lie naked on the king's beaches, fornicate with no intention of marriage, and gorge like locusts through fields of potatoes! Finally I send my Squire Jorge with their requested "orthograph" — a mere inscription of my own name — and he does not return. They chose that night to return to their land, and they took my Jorge with them, leaving metal guardians in their wake. I dispatched the guardians and followed through their lightning curtain to this realm, only to find it blighted by a dragon whose very name is sin! Chivalry demanded I slay it. You must release me post-haste, along with my mount and squire. I fear the dragon has already twisted your land so cruelly around its talons that extracting it may prove impossible... but I swear on my polearm that I shall accomplish this feat!"

The crowd's stunned into solemn silence. His words ring true. Then a man by the judge's side stands and slowly claps. Dante has to crane his neck to see. White hair flows onto the man's shoulders. His skin's sickly pale, shining out from under a drab funeral suit, and Dante can only gasp— it's M. Bayard Larghetto, the double-crossing albino, who should be marching on the French with King Arthur and selling out the weaknesses of his homeland! How did that Frenchman get here?

"An excellent speech," says Larghetto, fastening a blood-red tie. "Your honour. It is clear to me, and everybody present, that the accused is living in a reality far removed from the concepts of 'guilt' and 'innocence'. The man is clearly insane."

A nod rises and falls across the seats like a wave on the sea.

"Accursed Larghetto!", shouts Dante, throwing down his glove and spitting on it. "You'll see your end for this treason! A duel! A duel, on grounds of betrayal!"

The judge throws down her gavel, the resulting thud rattling across the wooden structure.

She says, "You've said your piece, accused. If you keep raising your voice like that, you'll be muted. It's the prosecutor's turn to speak."

M. Larghetto snaps his fingers. "I call the first witness to the stand."

Up comes a familiar pink feathered cap, and it's Jorge, clutching his hands sheepishly in front of him. He's shaven his goatee, and he's wearing a thin shirt cut off at his shoulders, wrapped in bandages.

"A miracle," cries Dante. "Thank the heavens you're alive."

Jorge shoots Dante an imperceptible nod, then continues shivering nervously in front of the court.

Larghetto says, "Would the witness please identify himself?"

"My name's George Smith, sir," says Jorge. "I'm a... I'm a warehouse operativo."

"An operative?" says Larghetto.

Jorge gulps, his Adam’s apple plummeting down his neck like a guillotine.

"That's right, sir."

"And what is your relation to the accused?"

Jorge's crumbling. He has to steady himself on the desk. His palms glisten. "If I knew him, I'd be standing trial with him, wouldn't I? So I'm free to go back home to see my friends if I want to, aren't I, sir? Because I said what you wanted?"

Larghetto kisses his hand and sweeps it out as if he's dusting the whole room with his love.

"It's as just as Mr. Smith says. The accused's claim that he knows Mr. Smith are the raving dreams of a madman, just like his obsession with tourists. Only, Mr. Smith... eheh, the thing is, you're not quite free to go..."

Two masked soldiers grab Jorge by the arms, and no matter how much he kicks, he can't get free. They drag him away off the podium.

"You promised, sir!" the squire says. "You promised!"

Larghetto waves at him. "Certain medical procedures can be very expensive, you know, George... but an operative of your skill can pay off his debt at the Eastern Warehouse in, why, as little as ten years."

"Bastard," screams Dante, but his words barely echo. It's like there are thick windows between him and the court. He hammers great blows upon the slick wood but only blunts the skin off his knuckles. He has to get out of here.

There's a whinny.

"Here is further evidence to the accused's lack of sanity," says Larghetto, stroking Dante's unicorn. "His cruelty to animals knows no bounds. See how he's fused a horn to the skull of this beautiful stallion!"

The disgust from the jury is audible, and they erupt into tutting, shaking their heads, or covering each other's eyes. Soon they throw boos at Dante like rotten tomatoes. Stamp their feet against the stalls. Whispered calls for justice spread like wildfire.

"Ridiculous slander," cries Dante, struggling to be heard over the jeering. "My unicorn is the proof of my station! Show them, Winnie! Show them how your horn glows!"

But the unicorn just looks blankly at Dante and whinnies alarmingly. It bows its head and freezes up as Larghetto runs his fingernails through its mane. Everybody's shouting at the top of their lungs.

Larghetto holds up his hand for silence. The crowd hang on his every word. "Don't worry, we've arranged for the horse to be sent to a sanctuary run by the National Trust, where it can retire and try to... forgive me, I'm tearing up... try to forget the horrors inflicted on it by the accused."

Dante flushes red with rage as a rider coaxes his unicorn away with a trail of sugar cubes. "I won't stand for this farce any longer, Bayard! Why don't you tell everyone of your true origins? You're from King Arthur's realm yourself!"

"Silence!" says the judge, slams her gavel down with the full weight of an exclamation mark.

Larghetto's hand falls on her shoulder. "Esme, there's no need. It's very easy to prove the accused is not the historical figure he says he is. I ask the jury: how was an everyday madman able to cut down a gigantic windmill? The answer is simple. You may add theft to his list of charges."

He struggles to lift Dante's polearm above his desk, and, veins popping out of his forehead, waterfalls of sweat torrenting down his face, cuts the desk clean in two. Then, overcome by the strain, he drops the weapon, dabbing himself down with a handkerchief.

"You'll all be expected to sign non-disclosure agreements," he pants. "But somehow, the accused has come into possession of a Sintech prototype — the Cut-All, we call it. This one's going straight back to the vaults, where it won't cause anybody any harm."

The man's too dangerous. Dante still has a shard of glass from the screen. He twists his body, strung back like a trebuchet, trying to get as much force behind a throw as possible, and then he pitches it straight at Larghetto's throat. But rather than sailing true, the shard sticks in mid-air. A crack spreads out in front of Dante, and then, raining static, the entire courtroom cuts off, revealing the room to be a tiny closet.

"A ruse!" he bellows. "That underhanded Frenchman!"

"Guess you're headed to the asylum," says Fatima. "I'm kinda jell."

Out of the darkness, Dante can see her trinket sparking. She lunges, but this time he's ready. He catches her hand. Shoves her back. She stumbles, head cracking against the wall in a spatter of blood. He has to go, now, or they'll take everything from him! He turns to run— and she jams the trinket straight into him, no hint of chivalry, no warning.

He falls into the gloom.