The Thief and Prince

Chapter 19: Easiest Job I've Ever Had

With my back leaning against the cool bars of the cell, I reexamine my arm, looking at the raised burgundy flesh which still throbbed with every heartbeat even though an hour has passed. My lips turn down into a frown as I study the mark, realizing that infection is the least of my problems.

Where ever I go, people who are aware of the slaving business will assume that I'm an escaped slave—someone's property. I'll either be shunned, as having affiliations with a runaway can prove to be highly dangerous, recaptured in hopes of collecting a bounty, or continuously asked where I got the scar from by those who are unaware. It will also serve as a constant reminder of the events that have led up to it—both good and bad.

"Looking at it won't make it heal faster," a raspy voice says coming from the cell across from me. "I would know." Looking up, one of the older slaves mirrors my position as he leans against the iron bars of his cell. "The pain will go away after a week or so, then the itching will set in."

My eyes tighten, unsure as to why he has chosen to speak up as the other three slaves have all but ignored us. "I'll keep that in mind," I mutter, looking away.

"So, where did the four of you come from?" he asks, tilting his head. His grey beard brushes against his dirty skin and I wonder when he last bathed. He's old, perhaps in his late sixties, but his mind seems spry.

"Don't speak to him, Cora," Amiri says from a few cells down, "Or any of them for that matter. He's just looking for any information that might put him in good favor with the slaver in hopes to get a few extra crumbs."

The man shrugs and gives a grin, his teeth black with rot and I feel my nose wrinkle up in disgust.

"Just being friendly is all," he says.

"We aren't your friends," Crispin interjects, standing in the cell to my right. His tunic reaches just above his knees, revealing the toned legs that are usually hidden under his trousers. The sleeves are cut off at the shoulder and as he folds his arm, I can see the definition of his biceps in the dim light. "How is it possible for someone to wear rags like that and still manage to look attractive?" I ask myself.

"Oh knock it off you two. We need to stay focused," Laria states, drawing me out of my thoughts. I see her rise to her feet in the cell to my left. She grips the bars and rests her forehead against the iron, staring at the floor.

"Stay focused for what? You lot trying to escape?" another man asks before letting out a series of coughs. From the way his left foot curls in, I can tell he is a cripple. "Don't think I haven't noticed you four looking at every nook and cranny of this place," he says, hacking up phlegm and spitting the green glob onto the floor. "Well let me tell you somethin'. There ain't no escape. Not from here and not from Rorik. Last fellow who tried only made it a few steps out o' the front door and ended up with his head on a spike while the crows plucked out 'is eyeballs," he says, making his eyes grow wide and round by pushing them open with his fingers.

The last man at the end begins to cackle loudly and sporadically for minuets on end before suddenly stopping without a notice. He then begins to hum an unknown song and stares at his dirty palms, studying them intensely as if searching for something. It was clear he was mentally unfit in ways; perhaps living in his cell for who knows how long drove him to madness.

Laria and I share a glance and she shakes her head, shifting her weight to the other foot. "So what if we were trying to escape. Makes no difference to you," she states, looking over at the crippled man.

"Does too. Now that I knows yous tryin' to make a run for it, I have no choice but to report you," he says simply.

"You do such a thing and I swear the first thing I do is mess up your other foot old man," Amiri threatens, "Then I'll move onto those eyes of yours and save the crows some trouble." Sneering, he turns back to the older man, glad to have quieted the cripple for a few moments.