Guild Wars_ Ghosts of Ascalon - Matt Forbeck [17]
“Dougal …” repeated Killeen.
“So you can fast-talk your way past your human friends and leave us here to be caught?” snarled Clagg.
“We can’t go out together!” said Dougal hotly. “They will get all of us!”
“Dougal Keane!” said Killeen firmly.
“What?” snapped Dougal, turning toward her again. This time she didn’t shrink back.
“We have company,” said Killeen.
Dougal turned back and looked down the drawn blade of a Seraph lieutenant. Two other Seraph stood behind her, their blades drawn as well.
“Dougal Keane—I believe she called you that,” said the lieutenant. “You and your friends are under arrest, Dougal Keane. Come along now.”
The manacles, Dougal felt, were an unnecessary insult. His cell was carved out of living rock, without mortar or purchase. The bars that bisected the room were old and stout and as thick as his thumb. The only light was from a thin chimney far overhead, also barred. The door to his partitioned cell was secured by a heavy padlock, which Dougal could pick with the proper tools, but those tools were now denied him. Beyond the barred partition was a small hall leading to an ironbound door to the rest of the jail. If Dougal had a norn, he could get past that as well, but that luxury was also denied him.
Given the security, the heavy iron leggings and wrist cuffs—all held together by a single loop of chain and set into a ring in the center of the room—were simply overkill.
It had been four days since his arrest, and except for a bored, grunting servant who brought porridge in the morning and stew in the evening, he had not had any visitors. That changed on the afternoon of the fourth day.
The outer door opened and a heavyset, mustached Seraph guard entered, followed by a young clerk carrying a writing desk. The heavyset guard stared at Dougal through the bars while the clerk positioned the small desk, then left the room. The clerk returned with a stool, set it before the writing desk, uncorked a small vial of ink, set it in the appropriate hole in the desk, opened the desk, selected a quill, sharpened it, removed a small sheaf of paper, peeled off the topmost sheet, sat down on the stool, dipped the quill in the vial, and waited for the guard to speak.
“Dougal Keane—” began the officer.
“Present,” said Dougal, interrupting him.
The officer scowled, then started again. “Dougal Keane, you are accused of grave-robbing in the crypts beneath Divinity’s Reach. How do you plead?”
“Did you find any grave goods on myself or my companions?” asked Dougal.
“No,” said the officer, who seemed unbothered by the admission.
“And did you find much in the way of weapons on the three of us?”
“No,” repeated the officer.
“Then,” said Dougal, “If we are tomb robbers, we are extremely ineffective ones.”
“Your effectiveness is not the issue,” said the officer. “Your intent is.”
“Then I will go with ‘Innocent’ as a response,” said Dougal to the clerk, who dutifully noted it.
“You were found at the Skull Gate, injured and coated with bone dust. You lack the proper exploration permissions. Your answers have been less than satisfactory.” Here the guard smiled. “And one of your compatriots has already confessed that you were seeking the Tomb of Blimm and the Golem’s Eye.”
Clagg, thought Dougal, and all the air went out of him for the moment. “So, why are we having this discussion?” he said.
“Formality,” said the officer, his teeth showing white beneath his mustache. He walked over to the writing desk and motioned to the clerk, who opened it and produced another sheaf of paper. The Seraph guard read the form.
“Dougal Keane,” he said.
“Still present,” said Dougal, his heart sinking.
“Born in Divinity’s Reach, but emigrated to Ebonhawke as a child. Served in the Ebon Vanguard. You are listed as missing, presumed dead. Deserter?” His teeth flashed.
“We were caught behind charr lines on an extended patrol,” said Dougal, choosing his words carefully.
“You disappeared