Storytelling With Confidence

A Captive Audience, Episode 3.1

"Am I addressing Sparrow, the entertainer?" asked the uniformed man, with polished brass buttons running up the lapel of his dark blue, double-breasted coat.

I had actually been evaluating various avenues of escape ever since this officer and three of his friends had entered the Nightingale, the tavern where I spend almost every waking hour. Unfortunately, I hadn't committed to any exit strategy in time, and now I was in a conversation that I didn't know how to get out of. I cast my eyes furtively at the two exits, but the guards had them both well-covered. Realizing that my silence and shifting eyes were only making the situation worse, I sighed in resignation.

"I prefer to consider myself a raconteur," I answered, trying to inject some levity into the situation. The officer's eyes narrowed in suspicion, and I immediately regretted my demonstration of vocabulary. "Am I under arrest?" I asked. The tavern went silent, waiting for the answer. The bartender subtly reached under the counter, presumably for a concealed weapon of some kind. I smiled slightly at this demonstration of loyalty; I was not only the Nightingale's most consistent customer, but my frequent performances often caused patrons to drink more than usual. (This was not necessarily a compliment to my storytelling abilities.)

The officer was momentarily taken aback by having his prepared speech preempted by his suspect, and distracted by the hostile atmosphere that he suddenly found himself in. "Um, no, not technically," he stammered, trying to regain his composure and authority, "You are wanted for questioning in the disappearance of one..." He paused, briefly, to check a small notebook in his hand. "Madigan Price."

I glanced at the empty seat at the table, next to me. Now that I thought about it, that seat had been empty for at least a few weeks. I didn't usually question the occasional disappearances of my friend, but it wasn't unthinkable that others might get worried. Unlike me, Madigan had a rich and prominent family in this city. When rich and prominent members of society filed missing persons reports, the town guard was probably expected to conduct thorough investigations. I shot a meaningful glance at the bartender, signalling my cooperative intentions, and then brought my attention back to the officer and presented a superficial smile. "I would be happy to help, officer. Any chance that we can have this conversation here?"
A pair of manacles jangled in the officer's hand. "No chance at all."

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Surprisingly, this was the first time I had ever visited a guard house and seen the inside of a cell. In situations like this, a prisoner would usually find comfort in any familiar elements that might ease his anxious nerves - whether it is soothing smells, tranquil interior decoration, or the face of a known acquaintance.

The cell stank of rank body odor.

The walls and bars were barren and ugly.

But I recognized the grimy face in the cell next to my own.

"Step a little closer, little man, and let me wring your duplicated neck!" shouted Dirk Silversteel.

I sighed again as my guard led me into a cell and locked the door behind me. "The word you are looking for is 'duplicitous,' Silversteel. Remind me, when I leave here, to purchase you a dictionary. How did you ever get into the storytelling business?"

He growled back at me. "Every day that I've spent in this cell, I've been thinking about how to get even with you. I thought I'd have to wait until I got out, but I guess I only had to wait until you got in!" He chuckled in his dark, dusty cell, and then coughed and spat into the corner.

It turned out that Silversteel wasn't actually angry, but just hungry. About an hour later, the guard returned with dinner and his mood noticeably improved.

"This place isn't so bad, you know. Three meals a day, in here - I'm eating more regularly than I did when I was out there telling stories."

I snorted. "Stealing stories, you mean. And I don't plan to be here very long - they only brought me here for questioning."

It was Silversteel's turn to snort. "Better make yourself at home, then. The last guy who sat in that cell waited about three months for his 'questioning,' and when they didn't like his answers, he waited about three months more."

I twisted my lip in a thoughtful grimace. Hopefully Madigan would hear about my detainment and come to the station to clear things up sooner than that. Unless he really was missing or in trouble...

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