The journey hadn’t felt like a couple of days; in truth, it had felt more like a couple of weeks. Still, on no more than the twelfth day of Dunalorn, their cart creaked up the old road that hugged the cliff and led to the gates of Tressa.

For the past hour or so — ever since they had emerged from the dense forest, Holsley and Merhim had been watching Tressa come into view under the early morning light. Over the battlements, they gawked at the hundreds of huddled buildings that teetered on the edge of a cliffside that had seriously eroded beneath the city over time.

It was just as Holsley remembered it — horrible. Every inch of the city was covered in crude scaffolding, and it seemed that the only thing that had changed in the three years since he’d been gone was that now the scaffolding required its own.

Despite the dystopian vibes, however, one thing did put a short smile on his face. Below the city, with its hands perched on either side of the cliff, stood Kashiern the Giant — a colossal, three-hundred-foot-tall moss-ridden statue that stoically held Tressa aloft on its back. The giant was about the only thing worth seeing in Tressa, but he could only catch half of Kashiern’s profile from this view.

He knew the best view was on the way in from the sea — a view he’d never witnessed but had heard a great deal about.

‘You nervous?’ It almost didn’t sound like a question to Holsley. It sounded more like the gnome was stating a fact. If it was a question, the answer was that he didn’t know. All he knew was that his stomach was cramping up from the number of emotions he’d been feeding it that morning.

The young bard was upset that he had to come back to Tressa, worried about his friend’s impending death, anxious about what he was going to do about it, and angry that it appeared nothing had changed in the derelict city. So, he thought the best answer was not to answer at all and continued staring out at a sprawling metropolis that, by rights, should have been abandoned decades ago.

A minute passed in silence.

‘Be on your toes, kid,’ Merhim whispered.

Holsley looked up from his daydreaming just in time to witness the approach of the South Gates. The large stone archway cut through the wall that sealed off the parts of the city that weren’t inaccessible by steep cliffside. Holsley spied several tubheads watching them carefully along the top, and several more strolled out of the gates to stop them.

Merhim pulled on the reigns and brought the cart to a crawl, then eventually stopped at the gesture of the tubheads. Like the ones Holsley had caught sight of in Petty’s Nest, each guard wore half as much plate armour as they should and steel caps emblazoned with the badges of their authority.

‘Greetings.’ The one who moved in towards Merhim’s side of the cart was older, his hair growing grey around his ears, and he spoke with the grizzled accent of a bear just out of hibernation. ‘First Constable Higgins. Are you here for business or pleasure?’

‘Business,’ Merhim replied promptly. ‘I’m buying some of the city’s ale to transport to neighbouring towns.’

‘Good business that,’ he muttered.

Holsley ducked down a little in the passenger seat, hoping not to be addressed personally. Another tubhead had come alongside this constable, a younger one with a propensity to stare and an itchy mace hilt that only his hand could scratch.

The older guard coughed, spat out something rotten, and continued as if nothing had happened. ‘Do you have signed permission from the Alcohol Distribution and Brewing Guild for your business endeavours, sir?’

Merhim didn’t say a word beyond a grumble as he fished into his jacket and pulled out a small scrap of paper, which he handed to the constable. Higgins inspected it, nodding as he went, and handed it back without barely looking at it.

‘All in order,’ he grunted. ‘Now, I have to ask the both of you a couple of questions before you can be on your way. Answer them honestly, or else there’ll be trouble waiting for you in Tressa proper.’

‘We’re open books, eh.’ Merhim gave Holsley a nudge.

‘Are you carrying any magical items on your person?’ First Constable Higgins poised his feathered pen on his clipboard.

‘No,’ said Merhim rigidly. ‘We are not.’

‘Just to let you know, if you are found to be carrying magical items that haven’t been declared, and to which you do not have a license for, they are likely to be confiscated and land you with a hefty fine determined by the rarity and power of such items.’

Merhim nodded his head. ‘Of course.’

‘Last question, are either of you spellcasters?’ Higgins took in both of them. He lingered a little longer on Holsley than the bard would’ve liked but soon retreated back to the clipboard to read the next bit. ‘Spellcaster here is defined as any person who can utilise magic and cast spells of any level or rank. This includes, but is not limited to, the Arcane, the Green, and the Divine methods of spellology.’

‘No,’ Merhim said flatly.

Holsley couldn’t remember spellcasters being a significant thought for tubheads when he’d been in the city last. Then again, he supposed he hadn’t been a spellcaster back then and thus wasn’t under their watchful eye. The city certainly seemed jumpy about the idea of wayward spells and magic items.

Of course, maybe they had a good reason to be jumpy, as the last magic item he’d held was a wand that had exploded. Wait, was he still carrying the wand?! Holsley’s eyes widened in terror, and he shifted his weight a little to take suspicion off his bag.

Higgins took from his satchel a parchment. Unrolling it revealed a contract, which he encouraged the pair to sign. From what the young bard could see, it was a list of the city rules alongside a declaration at the bottom that declared they had been presented with the current laws on magic upon their entrance into the city.

Merhim signed it first, then Holsley reluctantly signed it with the offered quill.

The guard passed Merhim the contract. ‘Failure to present this document when asked to by a city guard is punishable by imprisonment or a fine.’

Then they were gone without so much as a farewell.

‘It gets worse each time I come through,’ said Merhim as they passed beneath the gate and into the city proper. ‘Right paranoid about magic this far north, eh.’

‘Yeah,’ Holsley replied, half-listening. ‘Why, though?’

‘Higher-ups don’t like the idea of commoners with access to magic,’ replied Merhim with a sniff. ‘Especially after that business with the gangs getting their hands on potions a couple of years ago.’

The cart ambled along the cobblestones onto Attilan Road. Holsley straightened when he saw the signpost. This was the main road that cut through the city and passed by each ward. Visitors and merchants followed it to the markets, but people of importance allowed it to take them all the way into the city’s prestigious Golden Penny ward, where the city’s nobles dwelled.

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Nostalgia hit Holsley like a punch to the head. Suddenly, things he hadn’t thought about in years came back to him like he needed to continue the thoughts he had left behind. Memories of every alley, shop window, and crooked building assailed him without mercy. They added to the already heavy pile of emotions he was carrying.

The cart creaked into the hustle and bustle of a city that wasn’t pretty to look at but was teaming with life nonetheless. The distinctive thrum of the masses eagerly moved alongside them on the sidewalk while other carts and vehicles slowly moved ahead on the main road at a snail’s pace.

The young bard smiled. On days like this, he and Roland would set their minds to causing mischief.

‘I’m going to take us to the Fetch Inn.’ Merhim’s voice had to rise above the sudden din all around them. ‘I owe them an apology for the ale I promised.’

Holsley barely heard him, not because of the din but because of just how much there was to see.

On his right, two men, one a dragonborn and the other a sickly-looking human, argued over the last basket of grapes on an indifferent merchant’s trolley. A little ahead of them, two fair-haired boys no older than eight were weaving between the stalled traffic while playing a silly game where they jumped up and tried to slap the drivers. Behind, he saw a half-elven woman at the reigns of a measly cart, desperately trying to touch up her makeup.

Everywhere he looked, another unique life was experiencing the city for themselves. He’d almost forgotten how crowded Tressa could be. It was nothing like the town he’d left behind.

As expected, the scaffolding was everywhere and was worth mentioning twice. It had been here so long that the city civilians barely noticed it. They stepped around it, under it, and, in some cases, over it without even breaking their strides.

It was hard to ignore the buildings, however. Most were in a sorrier-than-sorry state, especially around here in the poorer wards. They sat, leaning heavily against the wooden supports that had been placed to bolster them. In some places, a few had already collapsed into piles of rubble. Very few were occupied; Holsley could see as much through the boarded-up windows.

Then he noticed the posters.

It set his mind and heart racing in equal measure. Tressa hadn’t changed much since he’d been gone, but it sure had been busy. The faces of hundreds of criminals convicted of all sorts of crimes were set on display along the once-bare walls of abandoned houses. They stared back at him with that same stern face — the one that said it didn’t matter if they’d done it. They were dead men now.

Holsley only recognised one of them — the most recent addition, pasted over all the other posters. Roland’s. It was the same as the one they had put up in Petty’s Nest. The hanging was still set for the sixteenth, and he still looked just about how Holsley would’ve imagined him three years on from their last meeting.

‘That him then?’ Merhim spat.

‘Yeah,’ came a meek reply, but Holsley was too concerned with what he was going to do next to carry the conversation forward. The gnome must have sensed this because he didn’t press Holsley on the matter, for which the bard was grateful.

The cart turned off the main road at about fifteen minutes of the hour later, cruising along a much narrower but quieter street. The houses weren’t very different here, still leaning, crooked, and supported only by swiftly assembled wooden beams from ground to wall.

The tavern was a different story.

The horse whinnied its reluctance to stop as Merhim pulled back on the reigns. They had come to a ratty old tavern that, thankfully, seemed able to stand on its own. It looked like a list of chores come to life; the paint had been stripped and worn by the weather, the shutters were moss-ridden and hanging low, and many of the windows were cracked or boarded up.

On first impression, it didn’t seem like a very hospitable tavern, but despite its appearance, it had a certain charm.

‘Nice to be somewhere after a long journey.’ Merhim stretched out his arms, shaking off the days of cart wobbling that had undoubtedly stiffened his joints. ‘I come here every time I’m in the city. Acceptable rooms for acceptable rates, kid…say, have you put any thought into where you’re going to be staying?’

Holsley hadn’t.

It was yet another thing the young bard would need to consider. Exactly how long would it take to get Roland out of the noose? A day? More? In his head, he saw himself rushing the stage of his execution with his lute in hand. He could even attempt the sleeping song if he could master it, but if that’s how he wanted to do it, he’d need room and board for at least four days.

‘I suppose I could stay here,’ replied Holsley as they entered a shabby tavern with curling carpets covered in cigar burns. At least he could afford a room for a few nights, thanks to the goblin side quest.

‘I’ll introduce you to the owner,’ Merhim said proudly.

***

Gannamane was a beautiful, orange-furred catfolk with a pleasant way of speaking that momentarily distracted Holsley from his dour thoughts. He’d heard of catfolks before but had never seen one up close. They came from the Jungle Isle of Tess’Ax’Ax —a place farther south than he ever planned on going— and, apparently, they were very agile creatures capable of great feats of dexterity.

This one owned the Fetch Inn and, after Merhim had regaled her with the exploits of their journey through the Longwalk Woods, had even given them a couple of free drinks for their trouble.

Seeing as the tavern was mostly empty, they had their pick of seats and chose a bench in the corner where everything was nice and quiet. Merhim sipped at his bitter, while Holsley drank down his milky rose — a concoction of cherries, blueberries, and strawberries blended together in full milk and topped with ice.

‘Right.’ Merhim clapped his hands together. ‘What’s your plan then, young bard?’

Holsley was a little caught off by the question.

‘Uh,’ he gulped. ‘Plan?’

‘About your friend facing the noose,’ replied Merhim. ‘What is it exactly that you intend on doing about it, eh?’

The young bard considered his idea to rush the stage and save Roland a second before he was about to drop by putting the guards to sleep with his lute, but it seemed a bit silly now that he was being forced to voice his plan out loud.

Instead, he shrugged and took a long draw of his drink. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, finally. ‘I need to see him first, though.’

‘Not much chance of that.’ Merhim shook his head. ‘Criminals sentenced to death in Tressa aren’t allowed to have visitors.’

‘Oh.’ It was hard for Holsley to hide his disappointment. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘You’d need to get permission from the Lower Warden at the very least,’ Merhim said. ‘Do you know who the Ravenpeaks are?’

Of course, he did. After all, he had grown up here. The Ravenpeaks were a family of tieflings that controlled the various securities of Tressa. Holsley only knew about them because everyone was endlessly complaining about a new rule or law they were enforcing upon the city. He didn’t know much more than that, just that they were responsible for law and order in Tressa.

Oh, and he had spent most of his youth giving one of them the right runaround.

‘Apart from the Lower Warden,’ mused Merhim. ‘A member of the Ravenpeaks could give you permission.’ Then, he waved the idea off. ‘That’s for later, though. Right now, what you need to do is seek out an appeal.’

That’s right. Holsley had almost forgotten what Darynell had told him back in Petty’s Nest. The Law of Appeal could save Roland’s life, reducing his death sentence to a simple life imprisonment instead.

‘How does that work?’ Holsley leaned forward. ‘What would I need to do?’

‘As I understand it, you appeal for a criminal by providing a testimony for their character.’ Merhim stroked his sharp chin in contemplation. ‘If you can prove your friend has done more good than bad in his life, then he’ll be spared the noose.’

‘How do I prove that, though?’

‘Well, you know him,’ said Merhim. ‘You’ve come a long way to see this Roland. You must have plenty of examples of him doing good. I’m sure you could vouch for his character.’

‘He’s a good person,’ Holsley said confidently, but not many examples of Roland being altruistic came to mind. It was hard to separate his best friend from a skilled thief. Perhaps he could just make up a couple of examples? After all, he knew Roland. ‘I can come up with a few things.’

‘You can start with that then.’ Merhim drained the last of his bitter from his wooden tankard. ‘Think up as many examples as you can. The Lower Warden would’ve been gathering as much testimony from as many people as possible. There’s no court in Tressa, and there hasn’t been since the war. Guilt is decided by the Ravenpeaks alone, so you’ll need to get through to them, and I warn you, I’ve never heard of anyone getting a hanging reversed.’

‘Where would I need to go to make this appeal?’

‘The Old Stone Keep, I reckon, eh,’ said Merhim. ‘If you go to the Named Offices, they’ll guide you to where you need going.’

‘I’ll go now!’ Holsley stood up, sliding his chair out from under him. ‘I can catch a dray up to the keep.’

‘Don’t you want a bit of a rest?’ Merhim urged him to sit down again. ‘You’ve got four days, Holsley, and we’ve come a long way. You might think clearer on a good night’s sleep?’

‘My friend is probably lying in some rotten cell right now, and I don’t want him to be there a moment longer than he needs to be.’ Holsley went for his lute but frowned immediately. He had almost forgotten it was less of a lute now and more like two pieces of well-varnished firewood. He picked it up anyway. The goblin gold could pay for it to be repaired.

The lute was, after all, and quite literally, instrumental to his secret plan of saving Roland.

‘Listen.’ Merhim grabbed Holsley’s attention before he sauntered off. ‘I’m going to stay in the city for another couple of days. You saved my life, Holsley, and that ain’t nothing a gnome forgets. Please come and see me before you doing anything rash, yeah kid. I’ll always be here to lend a wise ear, eh.’

Holsley gave him a quick and what he hoped was an appreciative-looking nod, but he didn’t turn to leave right away. From the look on Merhim’s face, it was clear that the gnome had a little more to say.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

Merhim sucked at his gums. ‘Don’t worry about it, kid.’