Bolstered, Renna strode up the rickety wooden stairs to the stone façade of the jail. There was no latch on the outside of the door, and she did not deign to knock. She laid her left hand against the smooth, painted planks of the door, her pale skin glimmering faintly green in the lamplight, and furrowed her brow, concentrating on the feel of the wood. In a bare moment she heard and felt the latch plank on the inner side of the door slide free of its berth in the stone, and the door swung open on its weak leather hinges. She gave a grim, satisfied smile and stepped through. Bryophyta she might be, but she strove to understand and commune with all of Gaia’s domain – unlike some of her small-minded sisters that said she ought to stick to her mosses. If only they knew!
The jail was not large. A single glowpod lamp hung on from the ceiling on braided vines to illuminate the room. There was a desk to her right, behind which a guard of the Watch sat slumped with his head resting on a paper blotter, snoring faintly. A waiting area with rough benches was to her left, and the back half of the room was given over to four small cells. The bars of the cells were obviously of Weaver make – interwoven graniteoak branches grown together at each joint and smoothly fused into the stone at floor, wall, and ceiling, hardened black against intrusion by fire or stone saw. The doors were secured in four locations with grabber vines grown and keyed to recognize the touch of the guards assigned to this duty. They would only release when touched in the proper sequence by the proper hands. It would take a determined group of men hours to free even a single inmate. A young woman lay athwart the simple cot that adorned the cell in the furthest corner. She was not asleep, but after a disinterested glance at the newcomer, she went back to staring at the ceiling.
Renna stalked over to the desk and cleared her throat loudly. The young man at the desk did not respond. His sandy hair was tousled in that careless way that she liked, but he was far too old, at least twenty. He was drooling on the desk and sported a thick stubble. Disgusting. His hand was wrapped around a wooden cup with several fingers of clear liquor left in it. They favored a liquor made of tubers in these parts, and all the bars down by the docks sold the same cheap swill, or so she heard.
She plucked the cup from his grasp and tilted it over him, sending a thin stream of the foul stuff trickling over his head. That did it. He jerked awake with a muttered curse, sitting bolt upright. He looked up at her with bleary indignation as he swiped at the wetness in his hair. “I beg your pardon –” he began in angry tones. Then the alcohol found his eyes, and he cried out in surprised pain, clutching at his face and tipping over backwards in his chair, spilling himself onto the floor. He stumbled to his feet, scrubbing at his reddening eyes, confusion giving way to embarrassment, quickly masked in rage. “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?!” His voice was throaty and had a nice tenor timbre to it. It really was a shame he wasn’t younger. He blushed quite prettily, and she did so love ineffectual male posturing. She smoothed the smile from her face and gave him her stoniest ecclesiastical stare.
It took him a moment to notice, as he was still blinking the booze from his eyes. Then he saw the look, taking it in simultaneously with her uniform of office and the greening cast of her skin. The sobering look of shock on his face, the slight swallowing of his fear – it sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine. That’s right. He stammered and shifted and dropped his gaze to the floor. “I… I… forgive me, your Honor. I was, I… should have been more alert. I’m so sorry I spoke unkindly. Please don’t – I mean, this week has been… I’m so sorry.” His chagrin shifted to fear and pleading as he spoke. As his head cleared, he realized just the kind of trouble one of Gaia’s Hands could make for him if he were caught drunk and sleeping on the job.
She said nothing for a long, pregnant moment. Then she said nothing some more. She just looked at him. He finally dared a glance up at her and was caught by her gaze like a faun before koira. Subtle tremors moved through his shoulders and his hands, but his eyes were locked on hers. The green motes of chlorophyll were dancing lazily in the sclera of her eyes, she knew, and most men found that deeply disturbing. “Honored Mistress,” he pleaded, “how can I serve you?” Ahh, there it is. Broken pride was such an attractive trait.
“I require an interview with your prisoner,” she said, maintaining a severe, clipped tone. “Bring her out here.” She examined her fingernails. She really shouldn’t have touched the door. Who knew what filth others had deposited on it? She glanced over and saw the prisoner girl watching the exchange, so she resisted the undignified urge to wipe her hands on her breeches.
“As Your Honor desires,” the guard boy said, wringing his hands. He nearly ran for the cell door. She could practically see the thoughts turning in his head: be efficient, please her… but wait, let her see you be good at your job, too. Who knows who she might report to? He slowed and turned to her. “Your Honor, mightn’t it be better to speak with her through the bars? She came in on a
