Two Crows Watch from the Gallows Tree (cont'd)

(Sweet!)

Pratik wrinkled his nose as he thumbed through the pages. In any other circumstance, he might have enjoyed happening upon this cursed booklet. As it was, he wanted as little to do with it as possible.

He read the note on the last page. Then slow blinked.

Was this… from…?

No option is mind filled in made sense.

In any other context, he might have assumed it came from Tarr’s father. Seemed to be an appropriately toxic level of masculinity to suit the two of them. But he wouldn’t have given his son material like this…. Would he? That was an unpleasant thought.

He doubted Lyra would have the courage to write a spicy note like that. And it was an even more unpleasant thought, thinking of a pre pubescent girl being involved in anything having to do with this.

But the only other option his mind conjured was: Tarr was a furry.

That was the worst thought of all.

He decided he was done with the book and let it fall closed, trying to focus on finding a false bottom or secret compartment and pretending that he hadn’t just found…. That.

This drawer did have a false bottom, and there was a single sheet of paper inside detailing the selling and buying of Tarr's own subjects. At the bottom was his father's signature.

(Do you mean like slaves or like bribes to his counts?)

Pratik furrowed his brow slightly as he looked at it. He held the false bottom with both hands, being sure nothing on top slid around, but bent down to peer at the paper closer. It was fascinating to see the intersection of the Lords — father to son.

(Slaves)

A grinding sound came from the wall behind the desk, on the side where Pratik was. A group of the stones began to turn and slide.

( plot twist)

Shit!

Pratik hastily put the drawer back together exactly how it had been before and pushed it back in.

Shit, shit, shit, shit

Pratik glanced back at the wall as he silently sprinted around the desk, making a split-second decision between door and window. He decided to risk door. And made a bee-line towards it.

The stones parted, and General Utrid entered the room. He stopped dead as he saw Pratik at the door and put a hand on his sword. "What are you doing here, slave?" he demanded.

Pratik had managed to get the door opened, barely, before getting accosted. He took a deep breath, stomach lurching. Of all the people who could have caught him, Utrid was the worst. He was nearly as powerful as Tarr, and actually intelligent.

“I was told his Lordship required me,” he murmured, dropping his gaze as he backed out of the room. “I-I assumed he was here… do you know where he is, sir?”

"He's hunting," Utrid replied, stepping forward carefully. "He rode out early this morning and will not return until this evening." His eyes flicked over Pratik. "Who told you Lord Tarr had need of you, boy?"

Fuuuuuck.

He didn’t want to throw anyone else under the bus. He didn’t even want to imagine what would happen to that poor sod. But he’d do it if it meant saving his own skin.

“I-I don’t know, sir.” Pratik shuffled backward another step, hoping with everything within him that he’d get the door slammed in his face and that be the end of it. “I’m new here. I don’t know who everyone is. I just do as I’m told, sir. Apologies, sir.”

"What did he look like?" Utrid continued to advance slowly. "Did he tell you what Tarr supposedly wanted?"

Suddenly, Pratik very much wished Utrid was like Tarr and refused to speak to slaves. He didn’t like this attention.

“I— he said something about—“ Pratik didn’t know Tarr well enough to know what he’d be likely to request. “His lordship wishing for a strong drink, but not knowing what exactly. I’d come to ask.”

"What did he look like?" Utrid repeated. He was almost upon Pratik now, though his hand only hovered over his sword rather than being clamped onto the hilt.

Pratik took a deep breath, assessing his options in an instant. He wanted to talk his way out of this mess. He needed to talk his way out of this mess. He was pretty confident in his ability to out fight Utrid if he needed to. But escaping the Keep in a rush rather than sneaking away was going to prove difficult, he was sure. Not to mention trying to make a two week journey on foot with no supplies, wearing the telltale slave collar.

He’d get fired for sure.

He’d get out of this horrible living situation.

But fired for sure. And he wanted to ensure Ash would compensate him and also give him his shit back when he returned.

“I-I didn’t pay him much mind, sir.” Pratik shuffled backward further, genuinely wanting to stay out of the general’s arm reach. He tried to think up some generic descriptors that would be believable enough to keep him out of trouble, but vague enough that it didn’t single any one person out. “He was about my height, I think.”

"Your height." Utrid looked him up and down. "You realize how this all looks, don't you?" He looked back at the passage still open behind him. A cool draft was coming from within. "And I'm not very fond of witnesses." He paused, taking his hand away from his sword and leaning forward slightly. "Tell me the truth, now, and I might let you live."

“I didn’t see anything,” Pratik murmured, keeping his gaze lowered. He was intently watching the sword in case Utrid decided to do something they’d both come to regret, but he wasn’t stupid enough to glance at the tunnel. He couldn’t tell if Utrid was more concerned about finding Pratik in Tarr’s study, or if the man was keeping a secret from Tarr himself. “All I saw was that Lord Tarr’s not in his study. Nothing else.”