[DAY EIGHT…]

  Sam

  Sam tried to open painful, grainy eyelids, feeling as though someone had swept a liberal dusting of sand down them. For that matter, she felt like she'd swallowed a spadeful or two. Her throat was dry and raspy, her gut bloated and gurgly.

  "What the fuck…?" she muttered, her own voice sounding strange, sort of tinny in her ears.

  Finally managing to wring some of the grit from her eyes with the heels of clumsy hands, she blinked up at the world from a cold floor. She was in a room. A room she didn't recognize. She sat up to get a better look, groaning at the sour, heavy stomach contents that sloshed around in her with the movement. She wormed herself into a semi-seated position, came to rest against something unyielding behind her. She looked out over an empty room, no furnishments at all except a slop bucket in one corner and a thin gray cot squished into the opposite corner, a woman sprawled out atop it. The walls were all badly hammered sheet metal.

  Did I black out?

  It took Sam a moment to recognize that it was the woman she had met yesterday, Mags, who was snoring over there. She lay spread-eagle on her back; dirty bare feet, a battered leather hat over her face, a steel collar around her neck, her rumpled tunic twisted and pulled in her sleep so that her breasts were dangerously close to popping free. Sam hadn't really paid any attention to it earlier, but based on the woman's sheet it seemed that she was a Level 15 Artisan-Entertainer.

  The previous night came back to Sam in chaotic snippets. None of it made much sense. She tried to call out to Mags, hoping maybe she had some answers, but the woman was out cold, and Sam quickly gave up when the sound of her own voice set her skull ringing like a bell.

  After giving herself a few minutes for the rocking floor to even out, Sam spun herself around to investigate behind her. She found that what she had been leaning against was in fact a row of iron bars separating her from the other half of the room, where the walls were of wood rather than metal. The opposite wall had a single window set into it, far out of her reach, which let in a beam of pale morning light thick with slow-moving dust motes.

  Sam looked down between her feet. The floor was also metal.

  She hadn't wanted to recognize the fact, but she was forced to admit it now. She was in a cell.

  "What the hell did I do yesterday?" she muttered. "What did I do?"

  "Yeah, it got a bit interesting there at the end," came a hoarse woman's voice, accompanied by a husky laugh.

  Sam spun back around and saw Mags levering herself up the back corner with both arms like a very clumsy spider to get into a sitting position. The hat fell off her face and went rolling across the floor on its rim until it bumped against another wall and fell flat with a soft bwump.

  Mags, bleary-eyed and messy-haired, did not look the least bit displeased to be starting her morning in a prison cell. She spat at a strand of hair caught in the corner of her mouth, worked her tongue, then when that didn't do the trick finally settled for fishing the bit of black hair out with two fingers.

  "Good morning, little Darling," she said, flashing white teeth.

  "Just how much did we drink last night?" Sam asked.

  Mags shrugged. "About average, I'd say. Probably a lot for you though, it being your first time getting proper drunk and all."

  "I blacked out."

  "You and me both."

  "That shouldn't have happened. I've got a passive that—"

  "Tenacious."

  "Yes. That."

  Mags twisted a chain around her neck the right way around, dropping a silver star amulet into her cleavage. "Tenacious keeps you from falling unconscious as long as you're willing it not to happen. Seemed to me like you were doing your best to drink yourself into oblivion last night." The middle-aged woman grinned wide, a fine creasing of crow's feet around her cold blue eyes. "Can't count on an ability to protect you from yourself, little Darling."

  Sam tried to poke at the soft spot on her skull, but discovered after digging around her scalp a bit that she couldn't find it anymore. It had finally healed all the way.

  "What happened?" she asked, hoping the other woman knew more than she did. "I was supposed to meet with someone. Vadim."

  "Oh, you met him all right," Mags replied with a snort of laughter, clapping the heels of her bare feet together in a strange sort of applause.

  "Okay…? Mind elaborating? Where is he now? Why are we in a fucking prison cell?"

  "An excellent question, my dear. You see, what happened was—"

  A door on the far side of the room, beyond the bars, swung open, drawing their attention. A man entered, a Level 17 Explorer in a crisp blue button-up, wearing a full beard and a dark expression.

  "Good morning, ladies," he said, stepping close so his boot tips nearly touched the bars. "I trust you know who I am?"

  "Uh, no, actually," Sam admitted, and stood up so that she wouldn't have to keep looking up at the man. She found that her splitting hangover headache was already beginning to clear. She guessed that was her new and improved Healing Factor pulling its weight.

  "I'm Nick Tawney, sheriff of Talltop," the bearded man said and motioned to a silver star on his breast, eight points on it just like the one Mags was wearing around her neck.

  "Sheriff!" Sam lit up at that, tottering against the bars. "I was told you're a good man. That you're the one responsible for saving the lives of my friends."

  "I wasn't alone in that," the sheriff replied, taking a step back from her. He had his thumbs hooked through his belt, one hand edging close to a big, shiny revolver holstered on his hip. "We all pitched in."

  "That's not what I heard. I heard the others would've robbed my friends and left them for dead if you hadn't intervened."

  "I'm starting to wish I'd listened."

  "What?" Sam was taken aback, stunned into silence for a moment. "I… Do you mind telling me what's going on, sir? I'm sure whatever this is, there's been a misunderstanding. I'm not a criminal."

  Mags let out a loud bark of a laugh at that.

  The sheriff gave a snort himself. "Original. That's on the list of excuses I've never heard before right behind 'I didn't do it' and 'I don't belong here'."

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "But I'm not! And I didn't! And I don't!" Sam didn't find any of this particularly funny. "Whatever I'm supposed to have done, I'm sure there's a good explanation for it."

  "You're in for murder," Sheriff Tawney said, meeting her gaze evenly.

  Sam's eyes went so wide it hurt. "What? Who? No, that's… That's impossible! Sure, I was a bit drunk, but I'd never kill anyone! I'm one hundred percent sure of that!"

  At least, she felt that she should be sure of that. Only, recent events had somewhat skewed her view of her own moral compass. She still remembered the feeling of killing those grumplings; blood running between her fingers, bones splintering under her knuckles, screams cut off beneath her bootheel.

  She had been very drunk. But no, she couldn't have killed someone. Could she? She didn't remember anything like that, no matter how many times she went over her sparse memories of the previous night. Why couldn't she remember? Surely, murdering a man in cold blood was something that would stick with her regardless of how drunk she was at the time. Then again, she didn't really have any idea of how alcohol worked. Was it really possible to forget something that big? Was it possible for alcohol to alter her personality to that extent? Surely, there was no way she'd ever do something like that normally. She couldn't even contemplate the idea. Why would she ever kill someone? She'd never had that urge in her life. Well, almost never. She could only think of two instances. But that was a long time ago, and she'd been a different person then, and…

  Sam was broken out of her racing thoughts as she finally realized that someone was calling out to her. She realized that she was hyperventilating, breaths coming shallow and fast like she was having some kind of fit, hands gripping the iron bars so tight they had begun to distort in her grip.

  "Stop that, Darling," Sheriff Tawney repeated, his hand having migrated all the way onto the lacquered wood grip of his revolver. "Let go, or by the goddess, I'll shoot you dead where you stand."

  Sam's hands sprung open, and she raised them in a shaky gesture of peace, blinking at the deep prints she had left in the rough iron. "Sorry. I didn't mean… Look, can we just…?" She took a moment to catch her breath, supporting herself against the wall, other hand tugging at a thick collar around her neck that suddenly seemed to be constricting her throat. "I didn't kill anyone, I promise."

  "Yeah, well, someone did," the sheriff replied calmly, removing his hand from his weapon and crossing his arms. "Vadim Komarov was found brutally murdered yesterday—decapitated—and folk say it was you two who did it."

  "Vadim…?" Sam mumbled. "No… That…"

  Everything had turned into such a mess on her. She'd lost another day when she was behind schedule already, she'd landed herself in a cell, and now she apparently had no one to take her to Freetown even if she somehow managed to wriggle her way free of this disaster.

  "Goddamn, take a breath, will you?" Mags said, suddenly at Sam's shoulder, one oversized sweaty breast pressing into her shoulder. "Look, I'll clear this up right now. I killed that fella, whatever his name was."

  "Vadim."

  Mags gestured dismissively. "Yeah, Vadim, whatever. I blew his head off all right. This sweet innocent thing here didn't lay a finger on him." To punctuate her statement, Mags planted a wet kiss on Sam's temple, leaving a waft of sour alcohol behind as she leaned away.

  An immediate wave of relief threatened to knock Sam off her feet. She let out a long, shaky breath. Her vision doubled. Her knees trembled.

  She wasn't a killer.

  Thank god. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.

  Although, that thought inevitably led to the next. If Sam wasn't a killer, the trashy drunk clinging to her had to be. She'd just admitted as much, after all. Sam wasn't too sure what to do with that information.

  "So you admit to murder?" Sheriff Tawney asked, eyebrow cocked.

  "Murder? Nonono. It was self-defense, see."

  "Of course it was." The sheriff did not sound impressed.

  "Glad you agree!" Mags cracked a lazy grin. Then she gave a slight half-shrug. "But seriously though. That whatever-whatever was a rotten customer, so I set him straight, that's all. Permanent like, you know?"

  "What are you saying? Explain yourself, Magpie."

  "All right, you're not convinced, so I'll give you what happened from the start." Mags finally released Sam, leaving a warm wet spot on her shoulder where her sweat had soaked in, and teetered over to the cot to tumble gracelessly back down into a cross-legged sit. "So me and little Darling here were getting fairly lit up at The Hole. You should have seen this girl. First time having more than a sip of alcohol, and she was drinking big burly men under the table until they were blubbering for mercy. Funniest shit ever."

  "Please get to the point," Sheriff Tawney urged with a low sigh.

  Mags made a vague, wide gesture with her hands. "Right, well, little Darling was waiting for this fella to show up. Vadim, you said his name was? Well, eventually he shows up, right? But the bar was pretty rowdy at this point, and she wanted to talk in private. Except she wasn't walking too straight at that point, so as the responsible friend I am, I agreed to help her get back to the doctor's clinic where she's been staying so she could have a nice quiet chat with this man and maybe get some sleep after.

  "We got maybe halfway through town, then, wouldn't you know it, this Vadim guy attacked us out of nowhere! Kicks me off a bridge, and tries to make off with the girl, guessing for some deviant act or another. I got pretty quick fingers though, so I managed to grab onto the edge and swing back up. Guy sees me and goes for his weapon. I didn't let him."

  Mags sketched out a seated bow, one raised palm upturned. "And that's why you have a body in your town that doesn't have a head on. Honest truth."

  Sheriff Tawney watched the woman for a moment, scraping his teeth across his bearded underlip. "That's a nice story. Really, full points for creativity. I don't buy it though."

  Mags laughed like that was really very funny, playing with a bracelet of black beads on her left wrist. "Whyever not? You calling me a liar?"

  The sheriff didn't blink. "Yeah, Magpie, I am. I'm calling you a liar. I've known Vadim for years. He's a good man. He wouldn't just attack someone unprovoked. He wouldn't do any of the things you're describing."

  "And yet it happened."

  "I don't have evidence to disprove your story. Then again, 'innocent until proven guilty' isn't really a thing in these parts. So we'll see what the people of Talltop think. Darling, you're clearly involved in this—I'm not letting you off the hook on the word of some lunatic. You'll both have the chance to speak in your defense at noon. Then I'll speak, then folk'll vote. If you're found guilty, you'll be hanged or exiled. That's all there is to it."

  "A courtroom scene sounds like it could be good fun," Mags mused. "But meh, I think I'll pass. I'd rather have the cowboy standoff scene."

  The sheriff frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means I want a trial by combat."

  "Seriously?"

  "Oh, I'm always serious," Mags said with a rather unserious grin, tongue between her teeth. "It's my right, isn't it?"

  "It… is your right," the man reluctantly agreed. "But really, I'd take my chances with Talltop's spirit of forgiveness if I were you."

  "Duly noted, sheriff. Now, I'll represent myself and my little Darling here. I'll duel anyone of your choosing, with the rule set of your choosing."

  "What do you have to say about this?" the sheriff asked, glancing in Sam's direction.

  Sam, who had been trying to melt into the scenery, flinched as attention was shifted onto her. She had no idea what to think about any of this. Her poor fried, overstimulated brain had given up some time ago, and her head was currently all full of mental static. "Uh…"

  "Don't you worry about a thing," Mags said, tucking her hands behind her head and leaning back against the wall. "You were a fucking standup drinking partner yesterday, letting me get sloshed on your dime, so I'll start paying you back by getting us out of this. You just say 'yes', little Darling, and stand back."

  "Uh…" Sam looked between the two of them, found both of them staring back at her, unblinking. This Mags woman seemed confident enough, and she was Level 15, but she also seemed more than half-crazy. How good of a combination was Artisan-Entertainer for fighting anyway? Ratcatcher had been an Artisan, and he'd done quite well for himself with his traps and trickery, but he'd definitely been fighting the odds in those bouts. Mags didn't strike her as the brainy type, either.

  "Today, Darling," Sheriff Tawney prompted, forefingers tapping his thighs.

  "Um, okay?" Sam said, mostly reflexively. "Yeah. Okay. Yes. Mags can represent us."

  Mags sprang up with a drunken cheer, teetering on one heel before tipping down onto both feet. "That's the spirit!"

  Sheriff Tawney brought a hand to his beard, ran his fingers through it as he let out a sharp breath through his nostrils. "So be it."

  "Got any ideas about who I'll be fighting?" Mags asked, a smug cockiness in her tone.

  "You'll be fighting me," he replied flatly. "Vadim was my friend. I can't think of anyone better than me to make sure justice is served."

  The woman's grin widened. "You know sheriff, that's exactly what I hoped you'd say."