He swore one of the guards laughed, but couldn't see well enough in the torchlight to be certain. As he'd predicted earlier, they clapped him in manacles—behind his back, instead of in front as was more typical, probably hoping it would keep him from doing additional harm to Ratti.
The only thing keeping Ratti alive was distance. The moment Berkant got close enough again, he wouldn't need his hands to kill the donkey-fucking bastard.
Unfortunately, the guards seemed well aware of this, and were careful to keep them separated as they were hauled away.
In the wrong direction. Berkant frowned. "Why are we headed for the palace? Last I checked, smuggling was a city problem."
"Not when it's child trafficking and you've been caught in a sting arranged on orders of His Majesty the King," replied one of the guards. "Now be quiet. Silence is your only friend right now."
Berkant grunted in acknowledgement and thanks. Certainly the city guards were never kind. They were barely human. They'd have beaten him in turn for his behavior, and he'd have been left in far worse shape than Ratti, who'd likely have bribed himself out of at least a few problems.
Though not all of them. Human trafficking wasn't something the throne took lightly. Even the laziest, most worthless kings in the history books did not tolerate it. Berkant had heard rumors that lately King Shafiq had been particularly ruthless about cracking down on the matter, but he hadn't really paid them much mind, assuming it was overblown nonsense spread by somebody who got caught by being stupid.
Perhaps he'd been mistaken.
They reached the palace as the city bells tolled the fourth hour. So much for kebabs and wine. He'd be lucky to get any food at all. Well, hardly his biggest problem at present.
His thoughts scattered as they were dragged into the palace. Hardly the finer parts of it, but still far and above anything he'd ever seen. They were also pleasantly cool, instead of insufferably hot or ball-shrinking cold. There were plantseverywhere, lending a fresh, almost sweet scent to the air. There were more varieties and colors than he'd ever seen; they were amazing. The colored tiles of the floor, the beautiful paintings and tapestries and murals. Parvaneh would have loved it, even though she would have been deeply ashamed of his reasons for being here.
Shoving thoughts of his dead wife back to the depths of his mind, Berkant focused on the present: Being dragged into a detainment center that was nicer than his rented room. Giving his name, address, occupation. He could see in the faces of many guards that they'd recognized him, and still more recognized his name, but Berkant ignored them. Who cared what he'd been?
Eventually, after they finally ran out of questions to ask for their precious papers, he was dragged off down the hall to a cell. The door clanged shut behind him, and the sound of the lock turning was ominously final.
Even his prison cell was nicer than his room. There was a rug here, threadbare though it was, and the bed had sheets and a suitable blanket. There was enough torchlight from the hallway that he could have read a book if he'd wanted. And there were no vermin or shit stains or puddles of piss anywhere.
Perhaps he should get arrested by the palace guards a bit more often.
Wasn't that a sad commentary on how far he'd fallen in life.
Sighing, he removed his dirty boots and left them by the door, then removed his outer layers, folded them, and placed them on the little shelf attached to the wall by the door. He crossed the room to his bed and sat down, leaning against the wall with a sigh. His hands were sore, still covered with blood and sand. He looked around, but there was nothing in the small cell that he could use to clean up.
The sound of footsteps drew his attention, and a guard he didn't like the looks of came into view. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, carrying a cheap clay bowl that he set on the small table at the end of Berkant's bed. "You really that fighter, then? Don't look like much."
"Looks don't win fights," Berkant replied. Great, a posturing guard eager to prove himself, just what he needed to end his night.
He held still as the man approached, even continued to hold still as the bastard touched him without permission. He was long used to people just helping themselves to his muscles, his chest, occasionally his ass. He only tended to lose his temper when they went for his dick.
"What's this?" the guard asked, hooking a finger into the silver chain around Berkant's neck and pulling it out from under his shirt to reveal a locket. A birthday gift from Parvaneh, the first one she'd given as his wife. It contained an image of her, a lock of her hair, and a tiny, delicate lock of hair taken from his stillborn daughter.
"Mine," Berkant said. "A gift from my late wife. Please leave it alone."
"Looks like contraband to me," the guard said, right before yanking it off his neck and stuffing it into his pocket.
Berkant launched from the bed, slammed a fist into the bastard's face, and watched him drop like a rock. He dragged the guard out of the cell, took back his necklace, locked himself back in and threw the keys through the bars and into the empty cell across from him, and settled in to rest until the inevitable mayhem descended.
Just moments later, the guard woke up, and had a brief, fumbling panic as he tried to figure out where he was and what was going on. His eyes landed on Berkant, and he froze.
Berkant said, "Try to take my necklace again, or anything else, and you won't be waking up the second time. Now run along and have fun explaining why the keys are locked inside the cell opposite me, little sand rat."
The man puffed up like a cat, but instead of trying anything, he had the sense to flee. There was a ruckus inthe main room, and after a few minutes, several guards came charging dramatically down the hallway. One helped the asshole guard fetch his keys, while another, a woman wearing the marks of the Captain of the Guard, eyed Berkant through the bars of his cell. "I might have known having the Jackal on the premises would not make for an easy morning."
"Tell your piss-drinking guards not to steal my stuff, and you won't have further trouble from me," Berkant said. "I also want him paying for the repairs, since he yanked it off my neck."
"What are you talking about?" the captain demanded.
Berkant explained his side of the story.
"That's not what happened!" the guard said, but the words had no force behind them, and with a curt jerk of the captain's head, he was being hauled away by his fellows, who were suddenly far less supportive of his being hit by a poorly behaved prisoner.
