Duke Elford held up his hand, stopping the guards as they began taking up stations around the group of prisoners.

“This will be a private discussion,” he commanded, and pointed at the door. “You may leave.”

The guards exchanged glances, then eyed the prisoners doubtfully. “Are you sure, m'lord?” asked one, the acting-sergeant, and nodded slightly in the direction of the still-chained Stitcher. “The men in charge at the Tower sent specific instructions regarding that one.”

The Duke's expression hardened and the guards got the hint. With reluctant bows, the four men backed out of the room, leaving the prisoners and their Judge alone.

Daerth spoke up immediately, getting right to what he considered the heart of the matter.

“My lord, there has been an enormous mistake. I don't know who these people are, but I'm just an innocent huntsman from Woodedge. If this is some rebel-trial, I swear, I don't belong here.”

“Yes, you do,” corrected the Judge sternly. “And this is your trial, so watch your tongue, poacher. As for who the others are, well, that should be corrected. If I have my way, you five will need to get to know one another very well.” He briefly listed out names and the charges against each of them, though Metcenzerin tried to correct him the moment the word assassin crossed his lips.

“I didn't go there to kill anyone, I was defending myself!” the musician protested. “They were throwing knives at me.” No one seemed convinced.

“And,” the Judge said as he reached the end of his more-or-less accurate introductions, gesturing at the chained cityman, “I believe you prefer to be called doctor, not Stitcher?”

The small man attempted to shrug, or perhaps twitched involuntary in a way that appeared shrug-like, then rasped in a weak voice clearly badly damaged, “I stitch. I'm a doctor. Stitchdoctor is good.”

Daerth wasn't encouraged by what he'd heard, and he wasn't done trying to plead his case. He held up his shackled hands, open-palm as if in surrender, and tried again. “Alright, now I know who they are, and they're all murderers. That's... that's fine. But I haven't killed anyone, my lord, and I had nothing to do with any rebellion in Woodedge. It was all just a mistake people wrongly attached to me and my actions.”

“I don't make mistakes.” The Judge held up his hand again to forestall Daerth's continued protest. “I am not judging you for perceived rebellion, poacher, or for stealing, nor am I judging the others for the blood on their hands. What is happening here is far greater then any of your various crimes – even yours, Duke-killer. You're all here because I've recruited you for a task. The judgment is whether or not you are capable.”

A low and gurgling laugh interrupted the stern silence that followed. Kwanai the marshman bent his head, chin-to-breast, and chuckled his strange chuckle, and it almost sounded to the others like there were drawn-out and mangled words mixed among it.

“You find that amusing, southerner?” asked the Judge, and Kwanai raised his gleaming pits of eyes again.

“Capable?” he asked, his thick accent making even familiar words strange with foreign emphasis. “Here I stand, and these your killers, and you well know. Pretend if you will, but waste not my time, Kingdomer. What is it you want dead?”

All eyes returned to Duke Elford. He was silent for a moment, taken aback by the backwards swamper's perception, then regathered his thoughts.

“I want you to kill Teru.”

This time, it was Metcenzerin who broke. He threw back his head, shoulders slumping in relief, and cackled, some mad mixture of full-lunged laughter and childish giggle.

“I'm surrounded by crazy men,” Daerth muttered under his breath.

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“My word and song, that's funny,” the musician finally gasped between fits of giggles. “Who needs jesters when it turns out stuffy lords can play the part just as well? Ah, I thank you, Judge man. I'd thought I was done, doomed to die sad and grim, but now my spirit has wings again.”

“That wasn't a joke.”

Metcenzerin's smile widened. “Oh, of course not. Five mortals are just going to waltz up to the god of chance and kill him with--” He broke again and bent double, clasping his hands to his mouth to try and stifle his chortles.

Duke Elford hadn't fully recovered in the hours since his meeting with the other Dukes, and now the already-sever headache was getting worse. He rose sharply, glowering down at the disrespectful prisoners vengefully.

“Continue to mock, and I will have you beheaded within the hour,” he snapped, pounding the wooden desk with his fist. It wasn't nearly as satisfying as the chalice-on-marble, but the marble had been too heavy to have hauled into the empty audience hall on short notice. “Listen carefully, and you may yet earn your lives!”

None of the prisoners spoke. Metcenzerin, his hands still raised to hide his smile, put one foot before the other and dropped neatly into a comfortable cross-legged sitting position like he was ready for storytime.

Time to tell a story, then, thought the Duke.

“Three weeks ago, Teru issued a challenge to the world.”

At first, they almost hadn't noticed. It was just a wayward notation on a map. Two maps, when the scholars under the King looked into it, and every map. Then the news began trickling in, every day, of strange things happening.

“Three days after the maps changed, our explorers found the door. Stone, set between pillars, and ancient... except it wasn't there a month ago.”

The Dungeon of Teru.

“The challenge, such as it was, was written over the door, but it didn't give us much to go on. 'Survive, defeat, and win, and the Dice stop rolling.' It wasn't for a few more days that we finally realized the completely random occurrences happening around the Kingdom were connected.”

Heroes had lined up the moment the word got out. From tavern-keeper to mysterious stranger, everyone who knew how to contact the right people spread word of the new Quest. But...

“They either didn't come back, or they came back in shambles. We lost so many good heroes in so short a time... it became clear there was something wrong with our methodology.”

So the one who'd set the rules sent clarification.

“The Cathedral of Rahena in King's Circle received a... well, a prophet, of a sort. A local bard, known for gambling and drinking himself into mad stupors, wandered into the middle of the morning-gathering, made a statement without context, then threw himself off a tower less then an hour later.”

A sharp clap startled everyone out of the solemn mood the Judge's grim story had put them in. Mencenzerin repeated his clap, then flipped invisible coins into the air with both thumbs and touched his chest in a lazy sort of salute.

"Sing of life from beyond it all, brother."

The Judge's glare fixed on the flippant musician for a long moment, then he raised his eyes again over all their heads and went on, telling his tale to the middle-distance as if the interruption had not occurred.

"'A group of goody-two-shoes will never see me fall. Send someone more fun, or send no one at all.' Those have been the only verbal words from a god of the Circle for the last hundred years, and so we took it very seriously. The best scholars of the Academy, the University, and the Rahenian Church combined finally determined the core mistake that we had all made was in sending actual heroes to answer Teru's challenge, and that the prophecy--"

"We get it," Mencenzerin interrupted again, twiddling his fingers as if to hurry things along. "We're all what you'd think of as the opposite of good, virtuous Knights and Monks, so you're hoping we'll pass the Great Gambler's first test. But what's in it for us, Mister Judge? What do we get out for putting our lives on the table?"

Duke Elford's glowering gaze returned to the musician pitilessly. "A stay of execution, and official pardon for your heinous crimes.”

"Not enough."

"You are in no position to bargain."

"Nah, I think we are. I'm guessing you already emptied your local jails sending common crooks on this mission, and they've either died or run off, and you're desperate. Here's the thing – I know Teru. Iylihe is my patron, but I've run with Teru's type my whole life and I know how they think. How he thinks. It won't be simple, and when a quest gets complicated, you need people dedicated to see it through to the end.

“The stakes are high, or the southern wouldn't be here. So, I ask again, what are we going to get for this that's worth staying on track to go toe-to-toe with a god?"

The Judge was silent. For a long time. None of the prisoners gave him an out.

Finally, “We'll... discuss your demands.”