An hour passed, and people went, only to be replaced by more people.

A never-ending queue of victims with a seemingly endless parade of criminal complaints. Holsley had heard it all and was still shocked when he heard a little more. Genuinely, he had never even known there were this many crimes to commit. All the while, all he could do was sit, listen, and twiddle his thumbs.

A part of him wished that the instrument he still carried in his satchel was whole. At least then he could while away the time by practicing. Thinking it over, though, Holsley supposed he wouldn’t do that even if the instrument were in perfect condition. Not with all these strangers here around him to observe and judge.

‘I have so many scarves.’

For a moment, he hadn’t realised the pile of scarves beside him was talking to him. When Holsley turned, he found an old, sweet face staring back at him expectantly from within the knitted bundle alongside two rakish hands holding up a well-crafted blue piece of winter wear.

‘Would you like one?’ the pile asked.

‘Oh, uh…’ The autumn chill was upon them. Summer had been weeks ago, and he just couldn’t imagine himself saying no to this sweet old thing — especially since he had to sit next to her for an undetermined amount of time. Holsley dug into his pockets for some copper peasants before handing them over. ‘I’ll take one.’

‘Bless you.’ The woman took it in two shaking hands before handing him a well-crafted blue scarf. ‘They’re saying I can’t sell my scarves no more on account of my license. It’s such a shame, I bought so much wool and knitted them all myself.’

Holsley’s stomach lurched. He had never been good at this kind of thing, which was really two kinds of things. The first was talking to strangers, and the second was trying to comfort them. It’s not like he had any answers. Still, he ploughed on, determined to at least say something that sounded sympathetic. ‘Uh, I bet good tidings are just around the corner.’

The young bard sighed — that was a Tressan saying. Oh no, he thought, that meant the city was already getting its teeth into him, drawing him back inside the almost inescapable labyrinth of unending alleys and lacklustre politics. Holsley refused. As soon as he was sure Roland was safe, he would leave Tressa as quickly as it was convenient.

‘You’re a sweet boy.’ The old woman gave his cheek a pull and threw in a sweet smile for free. ‘Wrap it tightly around you now. There ain’t half of a freeze coming, but you’ll be fine. I can tell you’re lucky.’

Holsley wasn’t given the chance to reply and enquire into that wording. A bell rang out, and when he turned to check, he saw Shray pointing towards the stone steps. He suddenly felt nervous as he stood up to leave. Strangely, it occurred to him then that he was about to argue someone’s life. To prove that they should continue living.

Wouldn’t that be extremely difficult?

He gave the pile of scarves a quick goodbye, and the pile waved back.

If this went well, he might have a good shot at saving Roland. If this went half as well, he’d at least see him. If it went badly, then Roland might have some company on that noose of his.

***

The gnomish receptionist had given him the barest of instructions. Essentially, all he had to do was go up. He still got turned around. Holsley wondered if it was clever architecture or simple magic that made it hard to recall the lengths of passages he’d already marched through. Why was everything in Tressa modelled after a maze?

After twenty minutes of rushing corners, Holsley only knew he was finally heading the right way when he saw two tubheads standing on either side of a corridor. As promised by Shray, these men were standing watch over the Lower Warden’s office while the officer was in residence. He moved closer, and they didn’t flinch, which he took to mean he could pass without explaining himself.

The corridor led to a door just around a tight corner. It was a great oaken door, very sturdy looking, and kept strong with iron ornaments and hinges. With a sense of unease, Holsley rapped on the door three times but didn’t hear anything close to an answer on the other side. Was the warden in there?

‘Use the knocker,’ a tubhead called to him from the end of the corridor. ‘The door’s thick and blocks all sound, just how the warden likes it.’

‘Oh, uh, thanks,’ Holsley called back.

Holsley took hold of the big iron knocker in the centre of the door and used it like a hammer to bang on the wood. He only went for the handle after he’d given it three sturdy thuds and moved inside without permission.

Almost immediately, he stumbled over the haphazardly stacked pile of papers directly behind the door. The office was an absolute pigsty. Loose parchments of every shape and size flitted about every space of the room. Wayward books, stacked vertically, graced the shelves, the floor, and the desk despite the abundance of space. Dead plants clung to life on the windowsill, and the rotting aroma rising from tens of decaying plates of food hung sordidly in the air.

Holsley cringed at the smell and stepped in far enough to close the door behind him. In the centre of this chaotic disorder sat a blue-skinned tiefling approaching fifty.

The warden shifted a little in his obviously cumbersome armour but didn’t look up to welcome Holsley, and that was just about the luckiest thing that could’ve happened to the young bard today.

Holsley wasn’t staring at the Lower Warden of Tressa, nor was he looking at a tiefling, a guard, tubhead, or anything that could be attached to a simple label. No, this was Kythos Ravenpeak. The nightmarish figure that had terrorised his youth and haunted his every step. Fate, exceptionally cruel, had placed Roland’s life in the hands of a man who had once sworn an oath to strangle the life out of him.

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Kythos dug his hand into a bowl of popcorn to his left, devouring the bits and licking the salt from his fingers — all while not giving Holsley the time of day. This gave the young bard a few seconds to act.

Thinking on his feet, Holsley swiftly wrapped the scarf about his lower face, hoping it would be enough to disguise him. Kythos let out a burp and gestured to the seat opposite. Holsley took in more of the warden as he sat down. The old tubhead was covered in stains from old meals; his armour was greasy with it, and he wasn’t shy about wiping his salty fingers off on his thighs.

‘Another to give evidence against Roland Darrow, is it?’ Holsley made sure to keep his face and eyes down to the floor. ‘Well, let’s have it then! What did he do to you?’

‘N-Nothing,’ Holsley replied, then lowered the octave of his voice a little. ‘I mean, nothing.’

‘Then what are you doing here?’

‘I’m here to appeal for Roland Darrow,’ said Holsley. ‘I want to make the case that he should live.’

‘Well, that’s a first.’ Kythos rummaged around in the desk drawer and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from it before finally looking up. ‘Seems I may have found the only person in the North with something good to say about the scoundrel. Go on then, what’s so good about him?’

‘Uh, he saved my life,’ said Holsley.

‘Saved. Your. Life.’ Kythos wrote the words down dutifully. After a moment of silence, he added to his stern gaze. ‘Is that it? He saved your life. Anything else?’

‘Uh.’ Holsley was a bit lost for words. What more did anyone need beyond that? ‘Well, he’s a good person, and I don’t think he deserves the noose.’

‘That so?’ Kythos lowered the quill. ‘That good person was involved in over ten recorded raids on innocent villages along the Crossing, including three within Tressa’s territory. According to witnesses, of which there are many, he and other members of the Gleeful Goat terrorised, stole, and even killed people in those villages.’

‘You’re mistaken,’ said Holsley, who knew Roland like the back of his hand. He was a thief, yes, but he wasn’t a killer — especially not to innocent people. As a boy, Roland had insisted on only stealing from those who could afford it, and, to Holsley’s mind, that wasn’t a person capable of harming another person on purpose. It was utter nonsense.

Kythos clearly didn’t see it that way from how he creased his brows.

‘You what!?’ the tiefling demanded, spitting flecks of half-crunched popcorn towards Holsley. ‘You think all of these people are lying?’

‘Uh, well…’ Holsley tried to swallow but found his throat suddenly dry. It was as clear as freshly wiped glass that his appeal wouldn’t work here. Not with Kythos, who was still slobbish and hard-hearted. This tiefling was the proof that people didn’t change much in three years. Instead of arguing further, he gathered up what saliva he had left and asked, meekly, ‘May I see him? Please?’

‘Roland Darrow is dangerous.’ Kythos leaned in to emphasise his point. ‘No one is allowed to see a prisoner destined for execution without the written consent of myself or—’

‘A member of the Ravenpeak Family, I know,’ said Holsley, growing tired of it. ‘You can permit me, though. Just five minutes? What would I have to do to get that?’

Kythos leaned back. ‘What do you want to see him so bad for?’

‘I’m a friend,’ replied Holsley. ‘I just want to say, uh, goodbye if I can?’

‘Well, tough.’ Kythos slammed a hand down on the table, causing Holsley to involuntarily jerk in his seat. ‘Get to the execution early if you want to speak to him. You can shout out your reconciliations from the front of the crowd.’ Kythos grinned. ‘Better yet, I’ll even throw you the head when it’s all done.’

He’s so stupid, Holsley thought. Roland’s being hung, not beheaded — even I know that.

Once, when Holsley had been studying under the tutelage of the elves, he had read a fairy tale about fate. The story was boring, simple elven fantasy, but there was a line in it that stuck with him — “Fate doesn’t deal in cruel irony; she deals in appropriate obstacles.” That’s what this was. Kythos was an obstacle, and he had to figure out a way to overcome him.

As he often did, he asked himself what Marlin Mandrovi would do.

Then, he grinned.

‘Sorry.’ Holsley leaned in, leading with his left ear. ‘I didn’t quite catch that last part. Could you say it again, please?’

‘I said I’ll even—’

‘Enunciate.’

‘I’ll. Even. Throw. You. The. Head.’ Kythos said slowly. ‘Get it now?’

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.’ Holsley stood at that and gathered up the satchel with his broken lute. There was no need to stay any longer. Kythos wouldn’t change his mind about executing Roland, but maybe Holsley didn’t need him to. ‘Thank you, uh, Mr. Warden? I do hope that my appeal will be considered carefully in your final decision to hang Roland.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it counting for much,’ replied Kythos. ‘One saved life against a reported sixteen lives taken. Pretty clear cut to me.’

‘Then I guess I’ll—’

‘Have we met before?’ Kythos’s eyebrow suddenly went up. ‘Who are you? For some reason, you seem quite familiar to me. Have we met before?’

‘Uh, no,’ replied Holsley. ‘I’m…Langden.’

‘Langden who?’

Langden was a farm dog Holsley had met some time ago on the road. A fat, bloated thing that was too old to move. Kythos reminded him of that dog, which could hardly roll over to retrieve a slither of bacon. He quickly looked about the room for a last name and found it by combining two items.

‘Bookplant.’ Holsley cleared his throat. ‘Langden Bookplant.’

Kythos eyed him suspiciously, and for a moment, Holsley honestly thought he would stand up and rush the bard. Then the tiefling returned to his paperwork, bored with the whole situation. ‘Close my door quietly on your way out.’

Despite his anger, Holsley did close the door quietly. After all, he had to if he wanted his quickly dreamed-up plan to work. As soon as the lock clicked into place, a wicked grin sprawled across his face. He moved away from it, further down the corridor, and then turned his attention to the two guards with their backs to him, who were still diligently watching for signs of trouble.

Holsley whistled a short but quiet tune and watched his fingers come to life with magic. Pressing the digits against his neck, he experimentally said a few random words and was pleased to hear them come out in Kythos’s voice.

‘You two!’ he barked up the corridor. The men stood to rigid attention but didn’t turn around. ‘Don’t bother moving. I want you to take Mr. Bookplant to the dungeons to visit Roland Darrow. Take him there and leave him alone in the room with the prisoner.’

‘But, sir, shouldn’t we—’

‘Are you backtalking me!?’ Holsley said louder, hoping that the real Kythos hadn’t heard. ‘Gods, do as I say or….or, or you’ll be demoted down so far people will think you’re the janitor that does guard work on the side.’

‘Sir, do you—’

‘Now, get to it!’

Holsley removed the fingers from his throat and strode forward confidently, pulling the scarf from his half-hidden facial features. ‘Are you going to take me to see Roland?’ he asked, ‘I sure hope so. That guy did not seem to be in the best of moods.’

‘Follow us.’

The tubheads were suspicious — that much was evident from the look they gave one another, but neither one went to challenge Kythos. They were convinced just enough to believe what Holsley had wanted them to believe. It meant that, with only gentle tugging, Holsley’s lie would unravel like a scarf made of yarn, but for now, he was getting what he wanted. He was going to see Roland without all of the paperwork.

The tubheads led the way, taking him lower and lower into the tower. Even lower than the room he had been waiting inside for this past hour or so. That made sense, as the dungeons were beneath the Warden’s Tower. Roland had been stowed somewhere deep below.

As the stone steps ran long below him, he couldn’t help but consider what he might find in that dank cell. Would it be the Roland he could remember from his youth? The young and daring thief who thought he could get away with anything.

Or would it be a different Roland, one that, instead, thought he could get away with murder?