It took Holsley a few minutes to piece together the jumble of thoughts and questions assailing his mind. Had Roland become a pirate? Apparently. What, exactly, had he done to deserve a death sentence? Stolen something, presumably. What was Holsley going to do now? That was an excellent question.
He decided that he had to speak to Roland at the very least. Any further plans would have to be placed on his mind's already overburdened back burner. This meant he needed to get to Tressa. That meant he needed to find a way there. Could he do that alone? Of course not — he had the navigational aptitude of a duck frozen in the winter.
Holsley had been content to simply drift these past six months. Roaming from town to town, following the safety of travelling caravans as they traversed the old roads in between destinations. That's how he had managed to get to Petty's Nest. He couldn't take a more casual approach now, though. Not with only eight days until the execution.
The young bard needed to know the way, and he needed a way of keeping himself protected from the bandits, monsters, and other untold dangers that awaited any foolish traveller who dared to go alone.
What he needed was a guide.
With a moment to consider the thought, he rushed through the midday thrum of the town, barging through the crowds and stubbornly knocking people out of the way in his adrenaline-fueled rush. When they turned to yell, nothing was left but a cartoonish dust cloud to argue with. There was one person in Petty's Nest who could take him to Tressa, and he knew exactly where to find them.
Without a consideration for whomever might be on the other side, Holsley threw the door open and rushed into the guard's station. It ricocheted off the wall and snapped a few lackadaisical guards to attention. Those same guards gave him a muted, yet shocked expression as he shot by like a blur.
A few called to him, but he ignored them. Instead, he continued through the building he knew like the back of his hand, until he arrived at the cells.
They were empty.
'No!' Holsley slammed his head against the bars. 'Where is he!?'
'Holsley!' Darynell once again roared his name. 'What's the meaning of—'
'I need to find that gnome.' Holsley pointed into the cell as if that mere gesture explained everything. 'Where did he go? Do you know where he is, Darynell?'
The old captain approached and settled a gentle hand on Holsley's shoulder. 'Calm down, lad. Let's start at the beginning, shall we?'
'It's Roland,' replied Holsley breathlessly. 'They're going to hang him on the sixteenth.'
Darynell clicked his tongue. 'Alright, get into my office, Holsley. Let's have a chat.'
'I don't have—'
'Holsley!' Darynell barked, pointing towards the back. 'In my office. Now.'
This time, Holsley led the way. When they arrived in Darynell's office, he took up residence in the same seat as before. Nothing had changed. The stacks of paperwork had become no thinner. Of course, it had only been an hour or two.
It was only when Darynell was sitting comfortably that he addressed Holsley again. 'Okay,' he started and cleared his throat. 'Take a few deep breaths, then tell me what's happening.'
Holsley slowly let the air in and out of his lungs a few times. It annoyed him how much that trick had worked. He felt his mind turning slower, processing things differently, and most importantly, starting to think rationally.
'A good friend of mine is going to be hanged in Tressa next week,' he started. 'I know the gnome is heading there, and I want to find him before he leaves so I can convince him to give me a lift.'
'This is about that new poster the judicator put up, isn't it?' Darynell replied.
'Yes,' said Holsley calmly. 'It is.'
'What exactly do you intend to do in Tressa?'
Darynell leaned back. He eyed Holsley up and down in much the same way he might have done for a criminal. Perhaps he was trying to figure out what he was capable of. It may have crossed his mind that Holsley would do something reckless, and the young man wasn't entirely sure he was wrong either.
'I, uh, well, I just need to see him at least,' replied Holsley. 'I need to get to Tressa before…' he trailed off. He couldn't even muster the strength needed to whisper it. He didn't want to think that far into the future. Holsley had lost friends before, and it was never easy to think about.
'Do you know about the Law of Appeal in Tressa?' Darynell sighed, leaning forward again. Holsley's quizzical look told him all he needed to know. 'It's a Tressan law that gives a person at least ten days of life before they are hung. It states that if it can be proved in that time that a person given the death penalty has done more good than bad in their life, then their sentence will be reduced.'
'That's great!' Holsley sat up a little straighter. 'How can I prove that?'
'You can speak on his behalf to the Lower Warden of Tressa,' replied Darynell. 'That's usually how it works anyway. Travelling to Tressa from here takes about two days, as long as you don't get lost. That would leave you six days to sort out an appeal. Now, there's a caravan moving through the town tomorrow that you could—'
'I'm not waiting until tomorrow!' Holsley stood up. 'Where's the gnome?'
'He's probably gone already, Holsey.'
'Just tell me where. Please.'
Darynell sucked at his gums. 'Merhim went to hire some security for his trip to Tressa. Can you remember Hanson? Mutton chops, face like a dead fish, sings like a cat fighting for its life. I recommended him. If Merhim's still in Petty's Nest, you can find him on the End Row at Hanson's house, most likely.'
'Who's Merhim?' Holsley raised an eyebrow.
'The gnome you're after.'
'Oh, right!' Holsley slapped his head.
He chose not to waste any more time. Holsley turned to leave and run out of the door, but found that a hand had caught his arm before he could. Holsley tried to shake the old captain off, but his efforts were only met with a melancholy gaze, and an even tighter grip.
'Before you go, I need to tell you…' Darynell drew in a deep breath. 'In my lifetime, I've never heard of someone's sentence being reduced by the Law of Appeal. In fact, I've never heard of someone's sentence being reduced ever. When Tressa decides to hang you, that's it. The choice can't be undone. Do you understand that Holsley? I don't want you to get your hopes up.'
Holsley shrugged him off. 'I guess Roland will be the first you've heard of then.'
'Do you believe he's a good person?' said Darynell. 'The appeal won't stand a chance if there's any doubt.'
'I do,' said Holsley. 'He can't have changed that much in three years.'
'Hmmmm,' the old captain hummed. 'Also, about the gnome, I don't think—'
Holsley didn't stay long enough to hear it. Before Darynell could finish his sentence, he was out of the door.
The End Row was the street that marked the edge of the town to the north. It was the last road you needed to move through in order to reach the Longwalk Woods. He didn't know much about geography, but he knew Tressa was in that general direction. If Merhim hurried, he could hire some muscle and be on the road before an hour was up.
Holsley had to be quicker.
—
The further out you went in Petty's Nest, the more the town repeated itself. Stacks of quaint one-storey houses followed him along the road like a never-ending pattern. Over and over again, with only minor details between them changing, like the colour of the curtains, the state of the gardens, or whether or not their chimney was smoking.
It was impossible to tell which house belonged to Hanson.
Holsley stopped, a stitch decisively getting the better of him, and leaned against one of the garden walls. He took a few moments to breathe. This is the kind of place he'd hate to end up in, he thought oddly. Stuck in one place forever. Never leaving. Rather like a tree whose roots deepened the longer it stayed put —like every tree, then.
Minutes passed, and his body caught up with his determination. Holsley pushed off the wall a renewed man and set about on his search for Merhim. It was here that an opportunity presented itself.
Along the road, about the beaten path, someone had parked a cart with four large barrels outside of one of the houses. Someone had affixed a bumper sticker on the back of the cart, which read Beer on Board.
'That has to be his,' Holsley thought aloud.
He crept closer. It quickly became apparent there was no one on the cart. The seats were empty, and the old plough horse seemed indifferent. A few scenarios rushed through Holsley's head. If he were to ask the gnome to take him north, it seemed more likely than not that he would say no. Holsley had no money, had only just met him, and he might not want any more company in the first place. However, if Holsley were to sneak aboard undetected, then the gnome couldn't be allowed to disagree.
There was a long chest hanging from the back between the wheels. Most likely, it contained clothes and the like for the gnome's trip. It was quite a large case; big enough, perhaps, to fit a person inside. Holsley could climb in, get comfortable, and spend the next few days travelling to Tressa for free with no one the wiser.
He'd come up with this idea in the space of a few seconds but already knew it was the right decision.
With a silly smile plastered on his face, Holsley reached towards the cart, leaving an ear out for danger. When he was close enough to touch the wooden planks of it, the horse let out a little whinny to let him know that she knew he was there. It didn't perturb him. The bard slunk right up to the back and wrapped his fingers around the chest's lid. With a firm but easy pull, he lifted the cover to take a look.
Initially, he was just trying to examine how much space was inside. What he found instead, though, shocked him to his core. There weren't any clothes or other belongings that a gnome might carry with him on long journeys. There were paintings. About a dozen of them, all stacked neatly in a row. It was only when Holsley lifted one up, however, that the shock quickly set in.
'By the Gods!!'
It was a painting of the gnome. A seductive painting. The gnome lay on a couch while eating grapes. Fully nude. With only a silk blanket to cover his shame. Dark curtains framed the whole sordid scene, and when Holsley could rip his eyes away, he saw that the background looked remarkably similar to the upstairs rooms of the Second-Hand Boot.
Maybe he did a little more than repaint his room, Holsley thought then.
Reluctantly, urged on by pure curiosity, he sifted through more paintings. They were each tasteful nudes that they grew more and more…scintillating. Each one depicted the gnome Holsley had met in the cell, painted in a whole host of compromising and seductive positions.
By the fifth painting, he wanted to retch. He wanted to wash his hands, his eyes, and his brains out with soap made out of barbed wire. Instead, he'd have to settle for just getting rid of the displeasing paintings and pretending he had never seen them in the first place. There wasn't enough room in the chest for him and the gnome's peculiar art pursuits anyway.
Holsley threw them in the nearest hedge. He took each painting, one at a time, and buried them in the bushes. Then, he stamped them in to ensure none were peeking out. He hoped no one else would be cursed with seeing them, but stifled a giggle at imagining the reaction of some poor homeowner who did.
He heard a sudden jangle then from just ahead. The kind of jangle you get when you're wearing a great deal of jewellery. Holsley had run out of time and instinctively crouched behind the cart. Merhim came into view, leading a stranger towards him. Holsley did recognise him, as it turned out. Hanson had been the guard who threw him into the cells after his first bad performance.
The man really did have a face like a dead fish, complete with rubbery lips, tanned skin, and beady eyes.
The cart wobbled as they climbed aboard, and Holsley, thinking fast, dove underneath it so he couldn't be seen. This would make things difficult, he realised. If his plan was to be successful, he needed to get into that chest before the cart set off.
'Are you ready?' he heard Merhim's voice above him.
'I'd just like to make sure the ale's belted down properly,' a gruff voice replied. 'I'd hate to lose something on the road and find my pay reduced.'
'See to it then!' the gnome snapped. 'Quickly please, eh. I want to be in Tressa before the tenth.'
'Yeah, yeah.'
The cart wobbled again as Hanson stepped off it. A pair of legs came into view, along with a dangling sword. The boots looked new, fancy even, and Holsley couldn't help feeling slightly envious when he compared them to his worn pair. The legs moved to the back of the cart and clambered on board.
'What's it looking like?' Merhim called.
'Looks good,' replied Hanson. 'Oh, hang on a minute. I think we've got a loose strap here.'
There was a tugging on a leather belt to Holsley's left. Each strap ran around the cart, moving underneath and over the top of the barrels to keep them secure. Evidently, this strap was unfastened. His stomach dropped. The fastening device — a little metal lever you pulled to make it taut — was just beside his head.
Hanson would need to inspect it to correct it, and there was no way he wouldn't spot the scrawny bard hiding beneath the cart. That would probably lead to a few difficult questions that Holsley couldn't answer, questions like: who are you, what are you doing underneath the cart, and why are all my paintings crushed into a hedge?
'Just leave it!' Merhim insisted. 'I'm eager to get going. The barrel is trapped by the others. It won't get loose.'
'You sure?' asked Hanson. 'Won't take a moment?'
Holsley grabbed a hold of the fastening lever as they talked. Then he tugged on it. Hard. The strap became taut in a moment and wouldn't be coming loose again any time soon. Quickly after, he backed away, keeping an ear out and hoping he wouldn't get caught.
'Oh, hang on.' Boots thudded above him. 'That's strange? It appears to be tight now?'
'Would you get up here now, please?' Merhim snapped again. 'Blimey, it's lucky I didn't hire you for your speed, eh? You best be better with a sword than you are with inspecting straps.'
'I'm already regretting signing the contract with this bloody gnome.' Holsley heard Hanson mumble as he stepped off the cart. 'Should've stuck to my music career.'
When the bard was sure he wouldn't be seen, he scurried out from underneath and carefully watched the pair. If he jumped up now, they would surely notice the sudden motion. So, he'd have to wait.
'HYA!' Merhim shouted, whipping the reins into action. The plough horse whinnied, and the cart rolled forward. It's now or never Holsley thought as the cart began to pick up speed along the trodden road.
Holsley grabbed a hold of the side and hopped onto the back. If either of the pair had noticed the sudden wobble, neither had mentioned it. He supposed it was only fortunate that Petty's Nest didn't put too much care into road maintenance. From there, he kept himself low and hidden, using the barrels as a cloak against his presence. Once he was sure he was in the clear, he pulled open the chest.
There was a rather large crossbow inside of it now.
Had it been there before, Holsley wondered, or had Hanson placed it inside when he was inspecting the straps? It didn't matter. He knew he'd never get comfortable sharing the space with it. Gently, he removed the weapon and threw it onto the road. There was a grumble from the front of the cart. The pair didn't move, however. Holsley continued.
He placed his lute in first before climbing in himself. Always, he kept an eye out for any sudden movement or glances from ahead. Holsley was beginning to think he could shout murder, and the pair wouldn't react. With less care, he climbed inside the box chest and allowed the lid to come down on top of him.
Click.
Holsley paused. With both palms, he pressed at the lid and found it stuck. It was locked. Somehow, through a queer coincidence of fortune and misfortune, when Holsley had looked in the chest for the first time, it hadn't been locked. The lid must not have been replaced properly. Now it was, and he was locked inside.
The young bard pushed again. It became quite clear, quite quickly, that he wasn't getting out any time soon. Panic set in. What if he never got out? What if Tressa was far enough away that he would starve to death? He held a breath and reminded himself that he was doing this to save an old friend.
That made things a little easier.
It didn't help, however, that he had severely misjudged the space at first glance. It was much smaller than he had originally thought. His leg was forced to sit awkwardly while the rest of his body was twisted into a position that wasn't exactly comfortable. Also, the lute he had put in first was now contending with him for the space.
He was beginning to wish that he'd grabbed some food, too. Any food. Even the hard tack biscuits back in his little alleyway home. Holsley still had the two silver nobles Darynell had given him. That would have done for some road snacks — little point in wishing for it now, though.
Holsley was trapped, and short of screaming for help, would simply have to try to ignore the cramped darkness and make the most of the trip to Tressa. Perhaps he could sleep the whole way there?
As if on cue, Hanson started to sing.