Chapter 2: For Love & Justice
She was tall and thin. Long brown hair framed a face that had my heart jumping out of my chest for a reason other than fear. The aforementioned green eyes seemed to search me, as if she was trying to figure me out. She seemed to be wearing linen work clothes of some kind padded with leather, like something you'd see in a museum in my world. She filled them out very well. There were smudges of dirt from something other than the cell, black and burnt.
A little bit awestruck, I looked up at her for a moment, appreciating the sight. I hadn't seen a woman in this way for quite a while.
"Well?" she said impatiently, expecting a reaction beyond gawking.
I lifted myself onto my feet, and rubbed my throbbing head, turning towards her. Her eyes turned from concerned curiosity to fearful hostility in the space of a blink.
"By Andraste, you are a big one," the woman said, taking a boxing stance, "Right then! Let's get this over with." She wasn't much smaller than I was, but I doubted there were too many people over six foot in this world anyway.
By now, the idea I was in prison had settled in. Getting into it with your cellmate was not the best way to start. Trying to stop a conflict, I opened my mouth to speak. She took a rather impressive swing at me. The punch landed on my left cheek, and I took it fully, unable to react in my surprise. I staggered backwards against the iron bars separating the cell from the corridor.
Very much to her credit, she pressed her advantage, moving forwards and throwing a low blow with all the exertion she could muster. She was damned fast too. She would have had me with a solid gutshot, if I hadn't been wearing my world's armour. The gaoler wanted me to have every advantage, it seemed.
Her fist impacted against the ceramic and metal plates underneath the protective fabric. Naturally, she recoiled in pain at once. I stood up straight again, with a hand to my face, feeling if anything was broken. She shook her hand in the air, resolving to keep me in sight and resumed her stance, not giving an inch.
Worried about where this was going, and frankly having no desire to try to harm such an impressively spirited person, I tried to lower tensions. "Can we stop this, please?" I asked, "I don't want to hurt you."
"They want you to hurt me, or else you wouldn't be here," she replied, "That's what the bald one wants especially."
I frowned. So much for the justice of a country that could build marvels. Her words didn't make much sense to me. If a gaoler wanted to break a prisoner, why not just do it themselves? It didn't seem like there was a lot of oversight going on.
"I don't understand, why aren't those two thugs of his in here instead of me?" I asked, "What's the point?"
"I have information they want, but if I injure any of them, it's proof they attacked me," she replied, not moving an inch from her fighting stance, "They aren't nobles, they do not have the right. They told me they were going to put someone dangerous in here to teach me a lesson instead. Implied I was going to be used badly until I gave it up."
I still didn't get the idea completely, but I knew the laws of where I was were entirely alien from how absurdly I had been charged. I bought her story, simply because it clicked with what facts I could gather. She thought I was put in here to beat and abuse her, it was little wonder she was ready to pounce.
My impression of the new world dropped further. Pissed off at my circumstances, I leaned back against the bars and rubbed my temples. What a mess.
"I will not hurt you," I said firmly, "These guys have screwed me too, there's no chance I'm going to be their attack dog. If I can do something to prove that, please tell me." I held my hands up.
She looked me over again from head to toe, and lowered her fists. She had no small amount of power behind her arms, and I really didn't want to be hit again. I wasn't going to hit her regardless.
"Your boots," she said finally.
"Huh?" I asked, not sure what she meant exactly.
"Give me your boots, and we'll call it even," she stated boldly, pointing at them, "Can't hurt me without them." Toes would be pretty vulnerable if the shoe was on the other foot, literally.
I looked at my feet for a second, and then back at her. That was when I noticed her own feet were bare. No problem guessing why she really wanted them.
My contempt for my captors increased another notch, closing in on "murder them all" territory at a rapid pace. I went to the wooden bench passing for bed in the cell and sat down at the end closest to the bars. She backed off a little as I moved, but I nodded my assent to her proposal, and she resumed her place. I untied my boots and pulled them off, and set them down together at the other end.
She picked them both up from the top between her thumb and fingers, turning them around as she examined them at eye level. She gave me a weird look, like she was confused about what exactly she was holding. Eventually, she seemed satisfied enough to wear them, sitting down at the other end of the bench to try them out.
Satisfied I had bought a little trust, I tucked my feet under me, to avoid soaking my socks in whatever the hell was on the floor, and leaned on the wall. As she fiddled with the laces, I couldn't help but comment on one thing. "Sorry they're not your size," I said.
"Better than nothing," she replied with a smile, "What are they made of?"
"Gore-Tex," I said, matter-of-factly, "Doubt you know what that is." Hell, I don't know what it is, except that it isn't a natural material.
"You would be right," she said, putting her feet back to the ground, "Seems sturdy, though the guards might steal them like my first pair."
"There are more where those came from," I said, truthfully enough. Though another pair were in the storage room, it would require escaping and marching back to where I landed to get true replacements. Which might not fit me.
The two of us sat on the bench, watching the wall in silence. Me and my dirty, desert-pattern uniform, bootless. Her and her dirty workclothes, swinging her feet in the boots to see if they'd come off, and tying the laces tighter. I resisted the temptation to stare at her as she did this. Creeping her out would not have been good for maintaining the trust I had already built.
After a few minutes, it was her creeping me out a little.
She ceased her adjustments to her new footwear, and stared at me herself. It got worse. She slid over to sit right beside me, and began touching my uniform. The patches with the symbols of my old world, the fabric of my sleeve and armour. Poked my blue beret, still tucked into the shoulder strap. She even rapped her knuckles off the armour covering my torso.
Evidently a whimsical person, so I let her continue the examination without a word. It wasn't an unpleasant experience, though I will admit to being smitten.
Once this was complete, she tugged at my sleeve. I turned my head, and found her leaning in to whisper.
"You're not from around here, are you?" she said with no small degree of certainty.
A thin but wide smile broke out on my face, despite my attempt to control it. It was the understatement of the entire age, I think. I stopped myself and looked at her again, to make sure I hadn't insulted her by that response. She just seemed interested, so I told her the truth.
"I don't even know where here is," I replied, "The town, region, country... nothing."
She got up quickly and stood in front of me, hands on her hips.
"Well then, it is my solemn pleasure to welcome you to Halamshiral, winter capital of the Empire of Orlais!" she declared in an accent that Goldie The Noble Prick would have appreciated, a far cry from her own more restrained Orlesian tones. She then bowed low, pulling at the sides of her work tunic like it was the folds of a ball dress. I laughed, captivated by the woman entirely.
Definitely my type.
"What do they call you?" I asked, as she returned to her place. She glanced at me for a second.
"Julie Marteau," she said, "You?"
"Sam Hunt," I replied, "At your service."
We shook hands warmly, as if we were meeting at a dinner party and not in a prison. Her hands were rough, as expected. She was no court lady in those days.
"Well Sam, what are you in for?" Julie asked jokingly, "No, let me guess... You molested some sheep, bit the head off of a nug, and then killed the farmer who tried to stop you!"
I put my head in my hands, trying to contain myself. I was crying with laughter. The conversation was just so crazy, particularly with everything that had happened. And what the hell was a nug?
"Close enough. Killed a dragon, and spat on a noble that came to arrest me," I chuckled.
Miss Marteau's brow furrowed. "As if that happened," she said, "What are you charged with?"
"Oh, nothing much. Murder, apostasy, insulting the dignity of a noble," I said, "Except I didn't kill anyone, I don't know anything about the religion here, and... well, I did insult the noble."
He was worth insulting, after all.
"You don't seem like the type to kill people for no reason, at least once you open your mouth. And apostasy? Sounds like you annoyed the wrong noble," Julie said seriously, "You'll get executed, if you're found guilty. Are you even a mage?"
I snorted, amused at the question. Magic too? Really? Dragons I had seen with my own eyes, but magic? I didn't buy it, for a host of reasons.
For one, I had no reason to believe the dragon itself had been anything other than a natural phenomenon. From the acrid, sulphuric smell of its fire-breath, it had clearly sprayed some form of fuel, rather than summoning flames from nowhere. I didn't know anything about biology and why such a large creature could not exist.
For another, I doubted that Goldie would have been using an ordinary albeit expensive sword if magic was real. Even if he wasn't a mage himself, magical weapons and the like were something his sort should have been able to afford.
I now understand that magic exists, of course, but people have tried to kill me with it since. Many times. I have to admit, I was happy that she didn't recoil in horror at the murder charge too.
"No, I am not a mage," I said, incredulous that she had even asked, "What about you?"
Her lip curled, like she was offended by the question.
"I can work magic," she replied flatly, "But not that kind."
"I meant, why is someone like you in a place like this?" I continued.
Her smile disappeared. "Non-payment of taxes, two counts of assaulting a chevalier," she said, lowering her head, "I hit them. They caught me half-asleep and I reacted without thinking. It was a stupid thing to do, I could have given them the extra money."
I didn't like the sound of the scenario she was painting... and remembered my own experiences.
"No, you did the right thing," I said immediately, "The man who put me here was also a chevalier, I think. To hell with them all."
She looked at me like I was mad. Or a stupid foreigner, which I was. I sighed, and thought how best to explain myself.
"If you don't have a say in how things are, so why should you pay?" I continued, "What makes them so noble?"
"What makes them noble is that they have armies that can kill us if we disobey," Julie replied immediately, "They claim it's blood, of course, but I have eyes and ears. Gold and steel matter more."
I inclined my head, conceding the point. It's not like popular rule was a natural thing in my world either. It took real effort and a whole heap of bloodshed to establish, and the same again to maintain. The history of government on Earth is no less tyrannical than that of Thedas, but by the time I was born, there was genuine hope, even if money still talked.
"If you don't resist, nothing changes," I said, "Where I'm from, we don't have nobles. People choose their leaders, and they're free to do anything they please, as long as it doesn't harm anyone else. For the most part."
Julie regarded me through narrowed eyes, leaning in again. I guessed that she didn't believe me, but then, I had told her a story that probably sounded too far-fetched. I was underestimating her, though. She not only agreed with what I was saying, she knew it herself already.
"I'm sure," she said, her tone indicating the opposite, "Where are you from?"
My eyes flickered upwards, as I decided what to tell her. I wanted to say that I was from another world, that I was brought here with others, and that they were all dead now except me. But it wasn't the right time. I received an elbow to the side for my delay in answering, and I returned my attention to its owner.
"No lying," she said firmly, "You're going to die, and I'm going to prison for the rest of my short life. Be honest."
I winced at her sharp perception, not to mention her sharp foresight. I really wanted to tell her, the first friendly face I'd seen since arriving in this freakish place, but still wasn't ready to confess.
"I can't tell you, you wouldn't believe me," I said, finally.
Julie threw her hands up in frustration, before slapping them down on her thighs.
"Bah, you're no fun at all!" she said, "Does it really matter if I don't believe?" She spoke as if I was going to make it up anyway and it was the quality of the lie she wanted to hear.
"Yes, it does matter," I replied instantly. As much as I liked her, I felt didn't know her well enough yet to trust such a secret to her. Maybe she could sell the interesting tale to the authorities for a pardon. Or she could be accused of lying about it if she tried, resulting in greater punishment. Either outcome would have been undesirable.
Besides, her thinking I was crazy wasn't the best way to keep her trust. I was alone and wouldn't survive like that, and she was someone in as similarly an unjust predicament as my own. So I wanted to protect her for those reasons. I know how that sounds, but it is a simple truth.
I watched as she shook her head. We kept quiet again for a while after that, as she processed what I had said and I thought about what a big fool I was for saying it. It seemed pointless, as either I would escape or I would be tried and executed. My mental fatigue hadn't yet passed. She moved along the bench again to lean in against the corner, and closed her eyes.
I wasn't sure if she was pretending to sleep or not, but I left her to it.
For a couple of hours, I thought about what I would say to the judge. I constructed a fiction about my purpose, based on what I knew and what I had guessed about the new world. It probably wouldn't hold up under any serious scrutiny, but I needed to say something to buy time. Once that was figured out, I called it Plan B and I decided to work on Plan A.
I looked around the cell for weaknesses.
The rock seemed solid, but the mortar looked like it could be scratched away with a bit of persistence. I rubbed some of it off with my hand, my fingers covered in ground concrete dust as I did so. The outer walls might have been solid as a castle's own, but the inside was a lot more shoddy. It was better than nothing, but I doubted I would have the time to dig my way out.
I might be kept in the cell for a few days at most, and I would probably be moved to a separate cell once the gaoler realised that I wasn't abusing Julie for him. Not to mention that my weapons and equipment were across the corridor behind a locked door, and escaping without them would probably see me returned to a cell quickly.
My searching moved to the window. It was an arrowslit, a long but thin gap in the wall that allowed only the barest amount of light into the cell. From that, I guessed that the prison was an old castle of some kind. It was located on the bottom half of the back wall, undoubtedly doubling as a privy. We were not on the ground floor of the building and I was definitely not thin enough. So, no squeezing through and leaping to safety. A plan that still would have left me without weapons or food in the middle of a city in a country I didn't know.
Lastly, I checked out the metal bars of the cell itself. They made up the entire fourth wall of the room, and seemed more solidly placed than the brickwork. I couldn't identify the metal, the colour was off somehow, brighter than it should have been and not rusting. A crossbar ran through the lot, so there was no chance of tying two of the bars together and using my belt to bend one. The door itself was a frame with similar bars on it, on pin hinges, with a large lock mechanism. At a glance, I could tell that with time I could have probably gotten it open, but I didn't have time.
Frustrated, seeing no way out, I got up and tried to lift the door off its hinges. The door moved, but I couldn't get a good grip on the metal. The bars were square shaped, so the edges bit into my skin as I put all of my strength into it, drawing a little blood. In the end, I was overwhelmed and the door slammed down onto its hinges again.
I rubbed my bloody hands, and stepped away from the door.
"It's no use," said Julie, approaching from behind, "It's silverite-sheathed iron, expensive but the very best thing to keep prisoners in one place. Too heavy to lift and too strong to break or bend." She seemed knowledgeable on the subject, so I took her word for it.
"Had to try," I said, "Being stuck in this place will make me go crazy."
Julie pat me on the shoulder in mock consolation, with a quiet sigh to herself. She went to return to her spot in the corner, but stopped dead when she was interrupted. The sound of keys moving locks down the hall echoed through the chamber. The time of judgment had come, I guessed.
"Here, take back your boots," she said, sitting down and quickly removing them, "And play along."
I had no idea what she was talking about. The padding of feet were approaching rapidly. I stuck my head out of our cage to see. It was Baldy and the two tall stooges, the former swinging his keys around and beginning to whistle. I frowned, guessing that he was looking forward to see my handiwork. The punishment for disappointing him would be severe, I suspected, but I wasn't going to visit harm on someone just to avoid it myself. I guess that is my problem generally, I'm a masochist like that.
I wouldn't have to find out what he had in store for me, though.
When I turned back to Julie, I found her curled up on the bench, clutching her knees. Her hair was messed up, covering her face in a tangle. Her clothes were pulled half off of her, revealing her shoulders and belly. She was barefoot again too, my boots hidden underneath the bench. She rocked slightly in her seat, and mumbled to herself. My eyes widened at the sight, in shock. I wondered what she was playing at, but it soon clicked.
She was pretending I had done what I had been brought into that cell to do. I had no idea why she had bothered as I watched her, but the temptation to applaud the performance was almost total. I often said she should have been an actor, rather than what she actually did for a living, but that's neither here nor there.
Baldy arrived, and a big toothy smile broke over his face at the sight of her.
"Well well, look at this!" he said gleefully, "Had lots of fun. You did a real job on her, didn't you?"
"You could say that," I replied, containing the urge to grab him through the bars and twist his head off his neck.
"I see it cost you a little, not too much I hope," he continued. I looked at him funny, not sure what he meant until he pointed at his own cheek. He was referring to where Julie had hit me, and I later discovered there was a fairly substantial red mark.
"Nothing I couldn't handle," I said, shaking my head.
Baldy turned to the other occupant of the cell, licking his lips.
"You ready to talk yet?" he said, "Or do I have to let you stew with this one overnight?"
Julie turned her head and gave him a dark look through her hair, her eyes screaming defiance. She stuck out her tongue, looked at the wall again, resuming her mumbling. The gaoler just shook his head with a smile on their face, and his minions were equally amused.
"By the Maker, she is a stubborn one, eh?" he said, addressing the statement to me, "But you'll deal with her, am I right mon ami?"
I was thrown off a little, as this was the second time someone had spoken yet another language I recognised. But the man was watching me closely, and I had no intention of asking him about it. Instead, I held both my arms out to either side of me. "How can I refuse such a generous offer," I joked.
Baldy laughed some more, unaware that the joke was on him. He had the cell opened, and rattled the the chains again. Knowing what he wanted, I walked towards him and held out my arms, as the other two guards stared at Julie as a warning. I swear, they could have been twins, though it's hard to remember that sort of detail after all these years.
"Sorry, friend, need to keep up appearances," he said, as he slapped the irons on me once again, "I've put in a good word for you though, so you won't be gagged. You'll be allowed to speak, though I wouldn't advise it."
Not speaking sounded like inviting an early death, so I wondered what the hell his advice meant.
"Very kind of you," I replied, as the cell door was closed again.
"Way I figure it, you're a dead man using his last hours to help me with a problem," Baldy continued, as Julie gave him an obscene gesture using her thumb, "That deserves certain considerations."
I nodded, containing my disgust at the man's friendliness.
"You're a man of principle," I stated flatly, almost letting sarcasm into my tone.
"I like to think so," chuckled Baldy, as I was led away.
I gave Julie a wink for luck as I passed, and began memorising the layout of the prison as we passed through it. The lack of a black bag over my head was another consideration that my captors had deemed to give me, and I intended to abuse the privilege with enthusiasm. I took in every detail as we left the prison.
I was brought out into the courtyard and saw the Winter Palace again, this time much more clearly in the better light conditions. It was colder and there were more clouds, but the sun still illuminated the white stone of the structure as I passed.
Whereas before I felt only awe at the sight, now I was filled with contempt. It was then obvious to me that it had been bought and paid for through theft and extortion, diminishing its beauty in my eyes. My otherworldly sensibilities were clashing with the new reality of the society I found myself in already.
Across from the prison was a marble building that you could have described as the Winter Palace's baby brother. It was a white marble building with buttresses, with blue banners hanging off of them and golden lions sitting beside giant bronze scales lined the path to its doorway. There seemed to be a lot of people moving in and out of it, their faces hidden with masks ranging from simple grey metal to the gold I had seen before, every design being different.
Goldie's mask had confused me, but I was getting the impression that it was an aristocratic tradition of some sort. One that I still find bizarre, and no one in Orlais has ever been able to convince me as to its merits.
Baldy brought me past the golden lions and into a side door, where two men-at-arms in plate armour were waiting, masks and all. It was not just the aristocrats who covered their faces, but anyone at all.
"This is Eastwood," said Baldy, "For the haut-cours trial."
For a moment I forgot that was the name I had given, and I laughed when I realised it. Minion Number One gave me another slap on the head for my trouble. Baldy handed over a document, which was read and stamped, before we walked on. The next corridor was definitely a waiting room of some kind, with ornate seating the whole way along opposite sets of double doors.
More men and women in masks, wearing deep blue robes that seemed to be too big for them, sat studying documents. Lawyers. I was unimpressed with the display. You can dress a show trial up as much as you want, but at the end of the day, it's still a show trial. Of course, Orlais is all about the show.
We strode down along to a set of doors with lion-shaped reliefs cut into the dark wood. Baldy was careful to position me in the centre. He nodded to an attendant, and the doors opened.
It was a courtroom.
The floors, tables and the judge's bench were gleaming marble, the latter framed with a golden portrait of a woman with a crown and sunbeams coming out of her shoulders. The judge himself peered over it, his golden mask shining in the light of the day coming down from a roof opening. Scribes scribbled away in rows of seats.
A woman in a red mask stood in the middle of the space between the judge's podium and the tables. Baldy put me right in the middle of the room under the sun, and attached my chains to a link on the ground. That was probably wise, given how pessimistic I had become.
The trial proceeded in Orlesian, which I could understand partially, as it was very close to another language called French that I spoke passingly well. My job required that I speak two languages, and I can only thank my mother for it. She had insisted I learned that particular language so many years before. I didn't catch all of the meaning, as there was a great deal of legal babble, but I remember what I understood very clearly.
A gong rang out, calling the room to silence and causing the doors to be closed. When the shuffling and whispering stopped, a clear voice rang out,
"In the name of the Empress of Orlais, Celene the First of the House of Valmont, the grand-parlement of the Dales is now in session," intoned the judge from above in a deep timbre, "Now hearing the case of the Empire versus Eastwood, a criminal complaint of the highest seriousness. Who stands for the Empire?"
The red-masked woman stepped forward beside me, making a sweeping bow from the waist with a hand held to the side. "I, Cecile des Arbes, stand for Orlais," she said, "I bring charges of murder, apostasy, and insulting the dignity of a noble, on the word of François de Montfort, a Chevalier of the Dales."
The judge nodded, and there was much scribbling of notes for a half minute. I rolled my eyes. This was ridiculous. If anyone brags to you about the glories of old-style Orlesian justice, please send them my way. I looked for my defence counsel, and found I didn't have one. I had been accused and it was now presumed that I was guilty, as far as I could tell. I didn't like my odds, so I decided to have my fun.
"Who stands to defend their honour?" the judge asked, keeping to Orlesian.
I looked around, and saw that all eyes had turned to me. Smiling, I walked forwards towards the judge as far as I could, my chains clanking when they reached their limit.
"Clint Eastwood, officer of the glorious and mighty army of the United Nations," I joked back, "And I am innocent." My French must have been up to scratch, because they understood me perfectly... And they took what I had to say seriously.
There was some turmoil in the audience as I walked back to my starting point, kicking my chains about as I did so. I threw a deadly glare at Red Mask to express my discontent. She didn't so much as flinch, being just outside my range to get at and knowing it.
"Your plea is accepted. I warn you... If you speak out of turn, I shall have you whipped," said the judge, quieting the court with his declaration, "Being a foreigner is no excuse for failing to know your place, even if you are who you claim to be. Madame Des Arbes, read the facts."
I sat down and listened casually to what I knew was going to be a load of nonsense, as I didn't think interrupting was going to do much. Except get me whipped. If they didn't let me defend myself, I intended to risk the lash to do so, but it turned out I didn't need to.
"On the forth day of Solace, the honourless before us disturbed a dragon's nest in the hopes of obtaining its fangs. In doing so, he caused the deaths of his companions, a crime for which he has shown no remorse."
There were mumbles of disapproval at this.
"In order to slay the beast, he resorted to magic and has shown no reverence for our Holy Chantry, proving his danger to the realm as an apostate."
The mumbles turned to a collective outraged shout, with calls for my head thrown in. I barely registered it, because I was too busy being surprised that apostasy actually meant the use of magic. Magic was illegal according to their religion. I adjusted my plan accordingly.
"Finally, when confronted by the brave Chevalier DeMontfort, he insulted the noble defender of Orlais by spitting at and threatening him, after which he was detained and sent here for trial."
The scribes behind me erupted in a chant, banging their fists on their tables in a rhythmic pattern.
La mort, la mort, la mort!
Death, death, death!
As if any of them could have taken me in a fair fight. I simply snorted to myself and shook my chains in front of me, to drown them out.
Red Mask signalled someone behind me, catching my attention. A pair of masked guards dragged forward the chest with my weapons and equipment, with some difficulty. They set it down by her and opened it. The scribe from the crash site also stepped forward, now wearing a dark green mask but still recognisable from his clothes and gait. He handed her a large pile of notes, which she held up.
"As evidence, I have sworn statements from a huntsman who saw the honourless escaping with another from the nest, describing his clothes as 'bulky, the colour of wet river sand, with a rounded hat covering the entire top of his head."
Red Mask held up Patel's helmet, which had rested on top of his grave before it was taken, and pointed at me. I was wearing everything else she described, and I could tell she was smiling underneath the lacquered visage, as she made a tour of the front benches so everyone could see the item. They took a keen interest, or pretended to.
The helmet went back in the box, and to my shock, my firelance came out next. I couldn't see if the safety catch was on or not, or even if the thing had been readied to shoot, but there was definitely ammunition in it. Red Mask held it backwards, and I winced, not sure if it would be a good or bad thing if it discharged right about then. She raised it up like she had with the helmet, and continued speaking.
"Then, as the dragon and its young closed in on his companions, he summoned molten metal with this staff and killed it, but only after his companions were dead," she declared, "As evidence, I submit the effects of the accused and the sworn testimony of DeMontfort's scribe, who examined the dragon's wounds and found cooled metal into them. The dragon's fangs were found beside the criminal, removed from its skull and jaw. The scribe also witnessed the honourless insult his lord, without regard for the chevalier's nobility and with utmost malice."
People started throwing things at me, a collection of crushed paper and inkwells peppering me as loud boos echoed through the chamber. I turned towards the crowd of supposed trainee lawyers, as they moshed like a gang to denounce me. They seemed genuinely angry, even with all that gibberish about magic. I frowned, unsure if they meant my technology or something else.
"In light of recent uprisings and troubles, I ask the court for a full trial, and following a guilty verdict, the execution of this criminal at the earliest opportunity," Red Mask concluded, bowing again as she did so, "He is a danger to us all."
She was right in ways neither of us could have possibly imagined.
The judge held up his hand, silencing the riot behind me instantly. The scribes quickly returned to their seats, and at last, his mask swivelled towards me.
"Do you have any arguments against these charges going to trial?" he said, "There seems to be a strong case against you."
I stood up again, and took a breath. I decided to begin from the start and go from there.
"I did not cause the murders of my companions. The men your witness described were called Miller and Patel, they found the dragon's nest by accident and they both paid with their lives along with all their comrades. I took the fangs in revenge, not for my own benefit but as proof of their fate. Where I am from, we have no dragons. Our countrymen would not believe me without evidence."
No one said anything for a moment, waiting for me to continue. I looked around in surprise, half expecting the scribes to have shouted or interrupted me. I had not given them anything to use, I guess. But the next part was more tricky, as I had to improvise some way of convincing them that I had killed the dragon without magic while not giving away the secret of my weapons.
But I had an idea.
"As for magic, I am not a mage. I do not know anyone who is. We killed the dragon with a machine, I'm sure that scribe over there wrote about it. The dragon was gravely wounded by it before destroying it, and then died of its wounds," I said, in the most conciliatory tone I could fathom in my contempt for the proceeding, "We were explorers, not thieves or dragonhunters, I beg your mercy in this as the last survivor."
The judge's mask didn't move for some time, and it felt like a statue was watching me. I simply stared back, not moving a muscle, like it was a contest. I knew I had made a good argument, because it was not immediately rejected.
The judge blinked first, and called out to the scribe to hand him the documents. The man did so quickly, practically running to hand over the paper. They were received without thanks, and the judge flicked through the pages carefully. It took a few minutes before he rose again, papers in one hand.
"It appears there was some sort of destroyed machine, with large blades attached to it. Your story is plausible," he said, his gaze returning to me, "The charge of apostasy is suspended, pending review by the Templar Order and the Chantry. As for the murder charge, you have not presented anything to prove that you were not out for your own gain."
I opened my mouth to refute that, but he continued.
"Do you have any defence for the charge of insulting a noble?" he intoned gravely, "In Orlais, one does not act towards one's betters in the way described here." He held up the wad of notes with one hand and slapped them with the outside of his other.
There was an easy way out of this.
"I outrank the man who arrested me," I lied, "If that will do." This was an easy lie; I felt myself superior to Goldie in every respect, and that was no self-deception. And my own belief in that helped my case.
"Can you prove that?" said the judge, not seeming to doubt me outright, "Know that impersonating a noble will result in a harsher punishment than even murder can bring, foreign or not."
I thought of things that nobles could do that others couldn't, off the top of my head. I knew a decent amount about the era of my world's history when such things were prevalent, given my education, but I was not an expert. I had to hope my knowledge would apply.
"I can't prove my exact rank, our system is different, but I have skills and duties that no commoner should. I can read and write in three languages, I help govern cities and I lead troops in battle," I said, exaggerating both my skills and duties a little, "If a chevalier is a professional warrior, then I am ranked above that, as I command professional warriors. You would probably call me a captain. "
It wasn't exactly true, but I assumed that Orlais was like old kingdoms back home. There would be a hierarchy of nobles between knights and royalty that controlled territories. It made sense, as without an arrangement like that, it would be impossible to control the country. Julie practically said as much.
Thankfully, I was dead right. The judge seemed to nod, sending a ripple of consternation throughout the courtroom.
"These records state you speak Common, and here you are speaking in Orlesian," said the judge, "I assume the third language is your mother tongue. How did you come to speak our language?"
"I was selected to lead the expedition to these lands, after we saved a man from a shipwreck near our lands. He was from somewhere on this continent, and he taught me Orlesian. The Common tongue was already known to us from trade," I said, having anticipated the question long before it was asked, "He refused to say what exactly town he was from, I am under the impression he was fleeing for one reason or another."
Complete bullshit, of course, but it had the added benefits of presenting me as an explorer, which would explain my complete lack of knowledge about Thedas, and as a diplomat as well, which I hoped would make them hesitate to simply chop my head off.
"And your country is in the West, you say?" asked the judge. I wasn't completely sure if Orlais had discovered the entirety of the world, but from Goldie's reactions and the level of technology, I was pretty sure they hadn't. So I took the gamble.
"Through a desert and over an ocean, yes," I said, "That's why we dressed in this colour, to disguise ourselves in the sand if we needed to. We did not anticipate greenery as you can find around here."
I had reached the end of my Plan B, the final detail about my uniform an added bonus. I waited to see if the judge would dig deeper. If he did, I was as good as dead. If he didn't, I was fairly sure I'd be free. What I would do after that, I don't know.
I walked around the room, my chain rattling, as Red Mask watched me. I was getting impatient, as the minutes rolled by, the judge consulting in whispers with various other barristers. The room was otherwise held in rapt silence for the word on it.
Finally, his decision came down.
"I dismiss the charge of insulting a noble, your strange dress and education make it obvious that you are no Orlesian peasant or Fereldan bandit," he said, "However, as we have evidence of you taking dragon teeth, I cannot dismiss the murder charge. They are a very valuable commodity. You say you were in command, you may be responsible for the death of your men and the endangerment of Orlesian subjects."
"I'm a designated ambassador of my country!" I objected, "I have immunity from prosecution! Are your diplomats dragged through the courts in other lands?!"
"As you have no other leverage, your trial for murder will commence tomorrow, at a time to be determined at first light," the judge continued, "Any objection on the basis of the immunity of diplomats will be tested then. This session is dismissed."
"Glory to Orlais!" chanted the room together in response.
My response was a little more rude, and much more quiet.
I don't remember going back to the prison, I suppose I was just so engrossed in how close I had come to getting free of the whole thing.
Taking the dragon's fangs had really screwed me. If I was questioned on my origins further, which had to happen if they weren't completely stupid, I wouldn't be able to sustain the fiction. Worse, they'd probably examine my weapon again, in detail. Probably blow someone's head off with it by accident too, I thought. The real joys would start, and I'd probably end up burnt alive or drawn and quartered.
If I could go back in time and change things, I still would have taken those fangs. It needed to be done, although I say that with the benefit of decades' worth of hindsight.
The next thing I remember is being jeered at as I re-entered the dungeon in the prison. The other cells were occupied, and the occupants were awake. The first three were individuals so shady, you really wouldn't want to meet them in public in daylight, never mind in an alley at night. Hoods, gloves with no fingers, haunched over and beady eyes staring out as they yipped and yelled.
The fourth was a huge person turned away from me, a ragged blanket over their shoulders, wearing what I thought was a horned helmet. I remember thinking to myself why Baldy would have allowed that. A very new addition, maybe?
Finally, I reached the fifth cell, the one I had been stuck in before. Madamoiselle Marteau was still there, still in her state of deliberate and false disarray, though she was standing in the corner rather than sitting on the bench. I was pleased to see that the arrangement hadn't been changed, as it was crucial to what I planned to do next.
Baldy took the chains off me, and I walked into the cell, sullen as can be.
"That was entertaining, Eastwood," he said, "You wiggled your way out of two of the charges just by talking. Can't remember anyone who's done that before. You ought to go into theatre." He had assumed I had lied through my teeth, which was a little uncomfortable, because I was lying to him to.
"You're too kind," I replied, meaning it. Lie too much to this guy and he'd catch on out of sheer cyncism, as opposed to out of any intelligence on his part.
"I expect her to be spilling her guts tomorrow morning," Baldy continued loudly, pointing at Julie, "Or else she gets sent to a less dainty facility, where the nobles don't care about protecting their honour so much."
"Don't worry, by tomorrow, she won't be your problem," I said truthfully, "Call it a favour to a man of principle."
"Heh, I like you Ambassador," snorted Baldy, "I hope you don't get executed, you're a real funny piece of work."
The gaoler signalled Minions One and Two as they locked the door after depositing my belongings in the storage room again. They left, Baldy shouting at some of the other prisoners to shut their gobs or he'd ram a baton down their throats. He briefly stopped at the cell next door with the big guy in it, but he continued on his way soon after. I watched him through the cage, as he dragged the baton along the bars making a repeated metallic banging as he went. They left and closed the door to the cell-block.
I sat down again and sighed. Julie sat too, and leaned back against the wall as I hunched over.
"You're making friends," she said.
"My skin is crawling just standing next to him," I replied, "He is the most repulsive person I've ever met, and I've met warlords before."
"Another thing. Eastwood? Ambassador?" she asked, "Why'd he call you that?"
"I gave my name as Clint Eastwood when I got here," I explained, "It's the name of a famous actor in my country. He plays hardass characters. Plus I've claimed to be an ambassador to try and stop them killing me."
Julie giggled again, amused that I had managed to deceive them. Admittedly, I found it pretty amusing too. I still wonder if I could have pulled it all off if I had went with Marty McFly as my cover name instead. A character in a fiction about a guy who travels through time, for future reference.
"I guess you haven't been found guilty yet, if you're still here," Julie said, as she began returning her clothes to their proper state.
"Managed to convince the judge I am not a mage, so not an apostate," I replied, "And that I'm higher ranked than the knight who arrested me, so no more insulting a noble charge either."
"But not the murder charge?" Julie asked.
"Took some fangs off the dragon," I said, "They say it's evidence that I was looking to kill dragons for money, so I'm responsible for the deaths of the people I was travelling with."
"So you weren't joking about that?" Julie said, a little sceptical, "What now?"
"Tomorrow," I said, a lump in my throat, "They'll get me tomorrow." They were going to dive a whole lot deeper into my story, and there was not a chance in hell it would stand up.
So it wasn't looking good. Trying to distract myself, I suddenly remembered the deal I had struck with my cellmate and took off my boots, handing them over.
Julie pulled on them again, and tied them up. At least she was pleased, for the moment. My new companion stood up, and walked around, trying them out again. I was having a little fun watching her march up and down the tiny space, or jumping up and down on the spot.
"These really are amazingly well designed," she muttered, "Your country must be quite something."
Suddenly wanting nothing more than to go back home, I couldn't help but speak about it.
"The boots are nothing," I said, lying down on my back now that the bench was unoccupied, "We have carriages that don't need horses, flying machines, boxes that let you talk to people hundreds of miles away, buildings as tall as mountains, all the types of food you could possibly ever want to eat. Let's not forget ice cream and weapons of mass destruction. No wonder these morons think I'm magic, this place is primitive."
I immediately regretted the rant. Julie stared at me. I couldn't read her expression, but I felt I had offended her in some way.
"I don't mean you, it's hardly your fault that your country is the way it is," I said quickly, "I can't take much credit for my country's achievements either, and it's not exactly paradise for all. It's just frustrating to be called an apostate and threatened with death because of it is all."
"I can't tell if you're telling the truth or lying to me because you're crazy," she said, her eyes narrowed, "But I think you believe it's the truth."
"That's because it is the truth, not that it's any good to me now," I replied, with a wave of my hand, "Not behind those bars."
"I think I'd like to visit your country," Julie said, "It sounds better than here, at least."
"Land of the free, home of the brave," I sung off-key, half-joking.
"What was that?" she asked, "A song?"
"The song of my nation," I replied, not sure she would get the concept, "Sort of like a royal salute, I guess, except for the whole country, not just the leader." She looked at me funny. As I suspected, 'national' anthems weren't a thing. The concept of a territory and people as a 'nation' itself didn't really exist, with one or two notable exceptions.
I hummed the first few bars of the song, called The Star Spangled Banner, rather than singing it. Julie listened quietly, looking at the boots. When it was over, she looked thoughtful, but said nothing. I doubted that I had impressed her with my rendition of the song. I was getting homesick to the point of actually feeling nausea, more than I ever had during my military career. The situation was getting too strange.
It was at that moment that I made my decision.
"Screw this, we're getting out of here. Tonight."