The cell was a cube of damp stone and silence. Time stretched, measured only by the drip of water somewhere in the corridor and the slow rotation of the single, barred window's shadow across the floor. Tryn used the solitude to pick apart the fragments of his dream.
The betting slip was mundane. He'd placed wagers on Mech-Boxing a dozen times; the "Iron Monk" was a reliable, if unexciting, fighter. It was a memory, perhaps, trying to surface from his three lost days. But the pen... that was the anomaly. A pen that wrote with its own, instantly-drying ink, with a tip finer than any mechanician's tool. He couldn't even conceptualize the craftsmanship required. It felt less like a memory and more like a message, one written in a language of objects he didn't understand.
His musings were interrupted by a commotion at the end of the hall. He recognized Crawler's gravelly voice, clipped and angry, arguing with a guard.
"...just for a moment, you iron-plated oaf!"
"No visitors, orders of Enforcer Arterz."
A grunt of frustration, then retreating footsteps. Later, when a guard slid a wooden plate with a single, hard roll of bread through the slot, a small, crumpled scrap of paper was tucked beneath it.
Tryn smoothed it open. One word, scrawled in Crawler's furious hand:
Scoundrel!
A genuine smile touched Tryn's lips for the first time since his arrest. In a way, it was the highest compliment Crawler could pay him. He was a scoundrel. It was a professional necessity.
Night had firmly settled when the lock clanked again. Arterz stood in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted by the torchlight in the hall. He looked as immaculate as he had that morning, his green eyes cool and assessing.
"You are settling well, I see, White Hair," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the small space.
Tryn, who was sitting against the wall with his manacled hands behind his back, offered a theatrical bow of his head. "All credit to your responsive and mannered hospitality."
Arterz stepped inside, letting the door swing shut. He didn't offer a chair; this was not to be a conversation between equals. "Why did you intoxicate Abneizer Dfoul?"
"A joke between friends," Tryn said lightly, his mind racing. This was the first test. How much had Abneizer actually revealed? Did he mention the Pinewood House? Sir Nigel?
"The Guild takes a dim view of jokes that involve Guild-officiated personnel being magically compelled."
"A failing of the Guild's sense of humor, then," Tryn shrugged. "I'll be sure to stick to puns next time."
Arterz's jaw tightened. He paced a short line in front of the cell. "What did you ask him?"
"Oh, this and that. The price of milk. Whether his wife approves of him running a pub. The meaning of life. The usual." Tryn watched him carefully. Arterz's frustration was genuine, but it was the frustration of a man who lacked a key piece of information, not one who was closing a trap. He doesn't know about Pinewood. Abneizer had confessed to the serum, but not the subject of the interrogation. Hope, cold and sharp, began to prickle in Tryn's chest.
"You are trying my patience," Arterz said, his voice dropping to a dangerous low.
"And you are trying my back. This floor is dreadfully cold."
Arterz stopped pacing. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small vial filled with a transparent liquid. "Then let's warm you up with the truth."
In two swift strides, he was on Tryn. He grabbed a handful of Tryn's hair, wrenching his head back, and forced the vial to his lips. Tryn didn't resist. He let the liquid pour down his throat, swallowing convulsively. It was bitter, with a floral aftertaste—cheaply made.
When Arterz released him, Tryn coughed, then smiled, a wide, manic grin. "You are manly enough to force your way with little boys."
Arterz's fist clenched, his knuckles white. He took a slow, visible breath, mastering his fury. "What is your name, White Hair?"
Tryn looked him dead in the eye, his expression utterly serious. "Arterz Arterzie." Then, a subtle, mocking smile returned. "Pleased to meet you."
Arterz stared, astonished. The serum should have had him babbling his life story. He gestured to the Guild Alchemist waiting nervously by the door. "Another."
The second vial went down just as easily. Tryn gulped it and smacked his lips. "A little bit of sugar and mother's love is missing. Your brewer lacks a delicate touch."
Still, nothing. No glazed eyes, no compulsion to speak. As Arterz reached for a third vial, the Guild Alchemist finally intervened, his voice trembling. "Sir! Two vials of truth serum in the body is fatal already. A third will stop his heart."
Arterz froze, his hand hovering. He looked at Tryn, who was sitting perfectly calmly, as if he'd just drunk water. The enforcer's calm demeanor finally cracked, replaced by sheer, unadulterated confusion. "How?" he breathed. "How are you immune?"
Tryn's smile was a sly thing. "It's a secret... but I am willing to share, for a right price."
"And what is it?"
"Freedom for my hands. A blanket—the floor here is too cold. And a hot caramel beer. I find truth tastes better with a warm drink."
A standoff. Arterz's curiosity warred with his protocol. Curiosity won. With a sharp gesture, he ordered the nullifier cuffs removed. A blanket and a chair were brought in, followed by a steaming tankard of beer. Tryn rubbed his wrists, wrapped the rough wool around his shoulders, and took a long, appreciative sip.
"Now," Arterz said, his arms crossed. "Explain."
"Truth serums," Tryn began, as if lecturing a junior student, "are, in fact, a toxin. And any toxin can be built resistance against, if it is taken in a marginal amount daily. For months, I took a diluted serum and told lies for hours. A tedious but effective exercise."
"But why?" Arterz asked, his brow furrowed. "Why would you take this precaution?"
Tryn shrugged, taking another sip. "For this day, I guess. I keep my weaknesses to a minimum."
"What did you want to know from Abneizer?" Arterz pressed, leaning forward.
The air in the cell shifted. The game was over. Tryn's gaze lost its mocking glint and turned hard. "I will answer that," he said quietly, "only to an honest officer. Which you are not."
Arterz's eyes flashed with anger, but also something else—a flicker of insulted pride. He stared at Tryn for a long moment, then turned to the guards and the alchemist. "Out. All of you. Leave us."
The cell door clanged shut, leaving the two of them alone. Arterz picked up one of the remaining vials of truth serum from the small table. He uncorked it, held Tryn's gaze, and drank half of it in one swift gulp.
He shuddered as it went down, his body stiffening for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice ringing with a new, forced clarity. "My name is Arterz Arterz. I am of the blood of Lions. And the blood of lions does not speak a lie, does not mix with dishonesty."
Tryn was taken aback. The man had just voluntarily shackled himself with his own weapon to prove a point. The sheer, audacious integrity of it was staggering.
Tryn set his tankard down and leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. "Are you trustworthy? Are you honest? Are you a defender of the innocents?"
"I swear it on the blood of my ancestors," Arterz said, the words seeming to be pulled from him. "But I am also the destroyer of the evil."
Tryn sat in silence for a minute. The man had consumed his own truth serum. It was an act of such profound, stupid integrity that it short-circuited Tryn's usual calculus of cynicism. This wasn't a man who operated in shadows; he was a blade, clean and direct. A blade could be turned.
A way to get more time, his mind raced. And a way to get to Sir Nigel.
The intoxication charge was a dead end. But the Pinewood House was a mystery, and mysteries had value. If he could make Arterz see the mystery, the enforcer's relentless pursuit would shift from Tryn to a bigger target. He could buy not just time, but an ally. A dangerously blunt ally, but an ally nonetheless. And with the Guild officially investigating Sir Nigel, the pressure would force the mage's hand. A cornered Nigel would be far more likely to deal, to trade a clue to the Diary of Rown for his own safety.
It was a monstrous gamble. He was betting his life on the honor of a man he'd known for less than a day.
"Then listen," Tryn said. "There was necromancy in the Pinewood House. And Sir Nigel of the Arcane Order is involved. Abneizer knows a little. He was part of the cleanup crew. But something happened in that house that was wrong and dark. That is what I asked him."
Arterz absorbed this, his green eyes wide. The implications were tectonic—a Royal Adviser, necromancy, a cover-up using the city sanitation department.
Then Tryn did something unexpected. He stood up, the blanket falling from his shoulders. He walked right up to the seated Arterz, who was now beginning to feel the full, un-countered effects of the serum he had ingested.
Tryn looked down at him, his expression unreadable. "Why do you tell a lie, Arterz Arterz?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He stepped around the frozen enforcer, pushed open the cell door, and walked into the corridor where the guards were waiting.
"He let me go," Tryn announced, his voice calm and matter-of-fact.
The guards stared in confusion, then pushed past him into the cell. Arterz was still in the chair, his body rigid, his muscles locked. His eyes were wide with a furious, helpless clarity. He could barely move his lips, a low, strained mutter escaping them.
"I… did not… lie!"