"Step forward prisoner," the nasaly voice of the clerk whinnied. The voice grated on Inez’ aching head, but she suspected it would grate less than a blow to the back of the head from one of her jailors. Perhaps a grate deal less. The pun made her smile as she obediently she shuffled forward, the chains that bound her to a line of prisoners, every one of them as miserable looking as she felt, rattled as she did so. The clerk looked at her from behind his desk. It was a nice desk, of a dark wood that had been hand tooled with scenes of mythology that Inze didn't recognize, least whiles through the headache that pounded behind her dark eyes. Bloody potato merchants and their bloody wood. It was a jarringly nice desk for the chilly, dank, prison and the clerk seemed to think himself a great man despite his apparently menial post. He was a sour faced man with an outsized nose and pock marks on his cheeks. Inez decided that his name was Weaselface.

 

"What is her crime?" the Weaselface demanded of one of the jailors, a pudgy man with a lazy eye and an apparent itch in his crotch that he seemed perfectly happy to scratch in public. The guard scowled, as though he hadn't been asked exactly this same question for each of the thirteen unwashed prisoners who had proceeded her and glanced down at his own parchment.

 

"Assault of one of the Leagues excisemen, drunk and disorderly conduct, assault of a League guardsman, arson, property damage, lewd acts in public, defacement of League property, assault of a Guilded Merchant, carrying an illegal weapon, besmirtching the name of..." The clerk waved him to silence and Inez intially low opinion of the quill pusher raised a notch. That still kept him somewhere between the dung one couldn't get of one’s boot and the slime that accumulated at the corner of your mouth when you were really thirsty, but it was SOME improvement.

 

"Lets just mark it as assault shall we?" he simpered. Scritch scratch. Twitch Twitch. Inez felt her pulse in her temples. Just a few drinks Ruiz had said, it would be fun he said. Well in the unlike event the old Calaverdian pirate wasn’t dead with a knife in his back in some alley, Inez swore she would kill him. Even if he was dead she would kill him, just see if she wouldn’t!

“What is the damage?” Weaselface demanded of the guard. Crotch-itch scratched himself as he peered at the parchment, clearly at the limits of his ability to read.

“Well she burned half of Genavan’s tavern, drove a magistrates coach into a…”

 

“In coin, if you please,” the clerk demanded wearily. Crotch-itch frowned and peered harder.

“One thousand marks yer honors,” he replied sarcastically. The clerk sucked his lips against his teeth, evidently impressed by the bender in spite of his own best efforts to remain non-chalant. Had there been a carriage? The wine fumes in her head clung like mist of a summer glacier over her memories of the previous night. She seemed to recall tumbling off something tall and further evidence was provided by bruises on her rump. There had been something about burning down the Burgermiesters hall to show the potato eaters the proper respect for the south. Evidently she hadn’t succeeded, which, given the situation, was probably to the good.

 

“Well?” demanded the clerk, leaning forward to peer down his beakish nose at her. Inez was of the blood of old Estania had fought many great battles in her time, some for gold, some for honor, still others for love, she was too proud to vomit on her boots infront of this cretin. Just.

 

“Well what?” she demanded attempting to put her hands on her hips only to be snugged up by the chains that manacled her.

 

“Do. You. Have. A. thousand. Marks,” the clerk responded, speaking very slowly the way one might speak to a child.

 

“I appear to have left my coin purse in my other pants,” Inez responded with sarcasm enough to transcend the cultural divide. Several of the prisoners snickered and even Crotch-itch smiled. Hawknose, however, did not seem amused. In the manner of minor bureaucrats everywhere, he considered himself an important man, and while he was happy to indulge in mockery when it was at the expense of others, he was unable to tolerate it when it was aimed at his own august personage. His beedy eyes harden and his lips curled in a sneer of contempt.

 

“Then you will be relieved to learn the council of Alderman allows the payment of such debts by a period of indentured labor,” he snapped, biting off the syllables like winter soured apples.

 

“Rather a long period to pay off such a sum I fear,” he sneered, clearly relishing the prospect of passing sentence on a woman who had dared to mouth off to him.  Inez stifled a groan that she felt reasonably confident would end in her puking up a gallon of terrible northern wine.

 

“There are several brothels that I’m sure would be happy to have you, once we scrub off the grime,” Weaselface leered, “probably the quickest way to clear your debts.” Inez drew herself up to her full, if somewhat unimpressive height of five feet and six inches, tossing her dark hair back in a defiant gesture that held all the pride of Estania. She was a lithe woman, all trim muscle and wiry strength. She had the build of a very athletic dancer, and if there were any fat on her it wouldn’t have filled a milliners thimble. In retrospect that probably hadn’t helped with the drinking.

“I piss on your brothel shop keeper!” she snapped in her clipped Estanian accent. Weaselface’s eyes bulged in outrage and he pounded his fist on his desk like a judge in a courtroom.

“How dare you?!” Weasleface demanded, veins standing out on the side of his neck and eyes bugging out like he was about to scumb to the apoplexy.

 

“How dare I?” Inez demanded, her firey temper, always willing to pick a foolish fight, flaring to full life.

“How dare I? I am Inez y Carmen de Calavria! I was first through the breach at Validia, I drove the Duke of Pyra from the field with only five hundred men, I cut my way free of the siege at Aratino and….”

“She burned down half of Meadrow and feel drunk on her ass,” Crotch-itch put in helpfully. Laughter rolled up and down the line of prisoners but it didn’t touch Weaselface’s eyes. Scritch scratch scratch went his quill as he made some note on the parchment before him.

“You are a fighter then?” Weaselface asked, a hard and ugly look coming to his eyes. Inez nodded defiantly, the adrenaline pumped into her system doing more than an icebath to clear away the hangover. She tried to lounge dangerously but the effect was, admittedly, spoiled by the chains.

“Take her to the trials,” Weaselface declared with a snap of his fingers, after she is given a proper thrashing, give her a couple of years in a quarry to teach her some respect. Two malodorous guards stepped forward and began removing her shackles with quick deft hammer blows. Then, seizing her by both arms began to drag her out of the line and up some stairs towards the surface.

“I piss on your quarry, and I piss on you inkfucker!” she shouted back, earning snickers from the guards even as they hauled her away.