The Choice of Magic - Michael G. Manning Page 0,111
against the wall. The small cell was crammed full when the rest of the guards entered. “What happened?”
One of them called out, “He’s just unconscious.”
“That guy attacked us,” said Will. “The big man was just defending himself.”
“Let’s go, John,” said the lead guard, addressing the giant. “You know the rules about fighting.”
“That other guy is the one that started it,” protested Will.
One of the constables laughed. “Looks like he already got what he deserved then.” They led the big man out of the cell and shut the door again. A few minutes later he heard the crack of a whip and the sound of a man grunting in pain. Will couldn’t help but flinch as it the punishment continued. Fortunately, the whipping stopped after three strokes.
The big man’s shirt was bloody when he returned a short while later, and he sank into his corner to lean sideways against the wall. The sight of his obvious pain filled Will with a helpless anger at the injustice of it. When the cutpurse began to rouse, groaning and rolling his eyes, Will walked over to address him.
“Hey,” said Will, suppressing the urge to kick the dazed thief.
The cutpurse focused bleary eyes on him. “Fuck off,” he replied reflexively.
“What’s your name?” asked Will, fighting to keep his voice even.
The slender man’s eyes finally focused, and he seemed to take note of the crazed look in Will’s eyes. “Dave,” he said finally.
“The next time you decide to make an ass of yourself, Dave, I’m going to break something. And next time there won’t be anyone screaming for the guards to save your stupid ass.” Will glanced at the drunk in the other corner. “Right?”
The drunkard looked uneasy, but he nodded. “Sure.”
The thief glared up at Will. “You don’t scare me. I’ve already kicked your ass once.”
“Catch me off-guard and maybe you will. But you won’t manage both of us, and the big man here has already proved he can wring your scrawny neck as easily as a chicken’s before a holiday dinner.”
Dave’s eyes burned with hate, giving Will ample warning this time. The man surged up from the floor, only to catch Will’s boot in his chest. He fell back, and his head slammed into the stone wall so hard he lost his bearings for a moment. Then Will felt something heavy on his shoulder. Turning his head, he saw the big man behind him, a hand on his shoulder.
Dave stared at the two of them for a moment as he recovered, and then his tone changed. “Hey, kid, I was just testing you. No reason we can’t be friends. Right?”
Will ignored him and walked back to the other corner before asking the big man, “What did they say your name was?”
The big man answered slowly in a deep baritone, “John, but my friends call me Tiny.”
“Mind if I look at your back, John?” said Will. “I know a thing or two about cuts and bruises.”
John hesitated, then nodded, resuming his place beside the wall and turning his back toward Will. “Call me Tiny.”
Tiny’s back was better than Will had expected. Two of the strikes had only left angry red welts, but one had broken the skin. It might leave a scar, but it would probably heal on its own. He would have liked to clean it, but without water or clean cloth, anything he did would just make it worse. He pulled Tiny’s shirt back down.
“If they bring us some water later, we can wash it, but I think it will be all right,” he told the man. “My name is Will, by the way. William Cartwright.”
“I’m Sven,” said the now mostly sober drunkard from the other side of the room. “If anybody cares.”
“Nice to meet you, Sven,” said Will.
The next morning was a disappointment, since it turned out the town magister wouldn’t be seeing anyone until the next day. Aside from being allowed out briefly to empty the chamber pot, the only thing to break the monotony was the two meals they were served.
Calling the stuff in the bowls they received a ‘meal’ was being generous. Grandfather would have been fine until now, then he’d have probably burned the place down, thought Will. He almost gagged on the first bite. Whoever the cook was, he seemed to think that the best way to cook oats was to boil them until they disintegrated into a gelatinous goo. The cook also probably didn’t know about salt or any other seasonings.