In all his ruminations on executions, Professor Lawson had somehow never once considered the tedium that came with imprisonment.

　　From the palace of Mahaut, he was escorted to Stonewell Prison some four miles from the palace, on the far side of the gardens. The hours of the day inched by, each slitted window in the great stone fortress a sundial counting out the sluggish minutes. The professor gave his name, rank, and gave both again and again as he was questioned by each subsequent warden who came to the prison that day.

　　It seemed that the prison had administrative woes. Professor Lawson recognized the thousand-yard stare and gritted teeth that came from too many names on too many pieces of paper to keep track of. He had to spell his name out each time that he gave it, and correct his birthdate twice as he matriculated

　　"Haley F. Lawson. Son of Reginald Lawson and spouse, born in the year of our Lord one thousand two hundred and ninety six. Professor of Diplomacy, Amwarren University, Doctorate of Government&"

　　"Oh, are you a doctor?" the third harried administrative assistant asked. "The prison`s assigned physician isn`t due for another two days, and we`ve got some broken bones and at least one suspected case of the ague&"

　　"Sadly, I`m not that kind of doctor," Professor Lawson said. He was not sad at all. "In my role, I provide guidance to government officials seeking to improve the health of diplomatic relations between sovereign nations."

　　"I see," said the administrative assistant. He wrote down a note in the long ream of paper he kept in front of him and reached for a large iron ring bristling with keys. Professor Lawson squinted at the paper—incensed when he thought that he made out the word Incompetent.

　　Professor Lawson was brought to the third floor of the prison. From here, the slitted windows of the fortress faced the outskirts of Mahaut, over the stone wall and over the road down toward the sea. The sun was just setting behind the low gray winter clouds when they opened his cell and pressed him inside to join four other prisoners.

　　The professor was shocked to discover Riccardo of Sanchia among them. "M`lord—hello! We have not been properly introduced. I am Professor Haley Lawson of Amwarren. I negotiated with your father the Duke for the marriage contract&"

　　"I ought to punch you in the mouth," Riccardo of Sanchia yelled at him in Sanchia`s native tongue. He continued in Ammarish, "Break the fucking hand that wrote me into this Hell."

　　"Fair enough," said the professor. He reconsidered the circumstances of their engagement and switched in Sanchian to put the young man more at ease: "I am sorry that matters have devolved to this sorry state. But do not despair, marquess. Yours is an esteemed position. You are entitled to gentle treatment even in custody, and can be assured of good legal counsel&"

　　Riccardo slashed the air around him with his arm, indicating the room. "Gentle treatment? I share this room with two drunks and a Hellion who hasn`t washed in a week."

　　"Oy!" one of the other prisoners said. "I heard that, ye fuckwit. Learn ye t`count—I be drunk too."

　　Professor Lawson recognized the faded blue paint on the gentleman`s cheeks as the festival markings common to the wedded men of Hellechrae. The professor linked his hands and bowed to the man in greeting. He spoke this man`s native language as well, "Greetings, and may God spare you hellfire."

　　One of the other drunks in the room groaned. "Keep it down. I am trying to sleep&"

　　Professor Lawson helped himself to a seat beside Riccardo of Sanchia. He spoke in a lower tone. "I had grave concerns for your safety yesterday. The King of Ammar has a famously tempestuous nature&"

　　"The Lightning King," Riccardo sneered. "He`s so old, he can hardly move all that fast, with those bent legs."This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

　　"In his youth, he spent nearly every moment in the saddle. That is why His Majesty is said to move as quickly as lightning. And also, incidentally, it is why he is bow-legged," Professor Lawson said. "Marchioness, I apologize. A grave mistake has been made, but do take heart. Prince Anryniel will set matters right. God will see justice done."

　　"How can you know?" Riccardo asked.

　　"Because Prince Anryniel is trained to intellectual rigor," the professor said. He shamed himself all over again that he had not had more faith in Anryn—that he had not done as the prince had asked, and sought out Maertyn Blackfire before the nuptials. Perhaps none of this would be happening now.

　　Professor Lawson set the white hot shame aside and tried to picture what his student would do now, left to his own devices. Out of habit, he lectured: "Right now, His Highness will be asking himself, with dispassionate academic analysis, what his brother-in-law could possibly stand to gain from an attempt on the prince`s life. He will plot out the course of events and reach a rational, sound conclusion that exonerates you."

　　Riccardo sighed and rubbed his eyes, exhausted. "They said he was scrawny, but they did also say that he was smart."

　　Professor Lawson allowed himself to feel a stab of pride.

　　Night fell at Stonewell Prison. Still more prisoners were brought. The professor could hear the guards at the end of the long stone hall arguing fiercely about which cells to put them in when all the cells were at capacity.

　　"Just shove one or two at a time, then go to the next," said one guard.

　　"They have to stop bringing them here," complained another. "Why can`t they lodge some of them in the debtor`s jail over by the bread lane?"

　　"We`re closest to the garden," said the first.

　　They brought two more men to the cell where Professor Lawson attempted to lie down on the floor to sleep. These weren`t foreigners, but Ammarish men with sullen, sober faces. Their clothes were rumpled as though they had fought with their captors before being subdued.

　　"God will give us justice," one of them barked at the guard as he closed the cell door. "Nature will not abandon us!"

　　"Save it for the pyre, flower baby," the overworked guard sighed.

　　"Oy!" the Hellechraen man shouted at them. "Keep it down, eh? This hangover ain`t sleepin` off itself."

　　The exchange repeated itself several more times throughout the night. When the ninth prisoner was crammed into the cell that was only meant for four, Professor Lawson took to sitting upright against a wall to try to doze, fitfully. The men crowded around him muttered to one another in whatever language they shared.

　　"They`re going to burn us, they`re going to burn us&"

　　"Shh! Don`t let them know that you are afraid. That`s a guilty conscience and we`ve done nothing wrong!"

　　"The Prince of Ammar is with us. He will fight for our honor. They said the duel is at dawn."

　　"A duel?" Professor Lawson stirred. He tested his voice, to make sure that he spoke the correct language when he addressed the most recent prisoners added to the cell. "What duel?"

　　"The Prince of Ammar will fight," one of the men, the accused witch, whispered. "They say he threw down the gauntlet at the King`s council&"

　　"No, it were Gruffydd," said one of the others. "He fights for us. He were at Java with the prince. And that other one they sing about. The Warts or somesuch&"

　　"Winze," Professor Lawson corrected.

　　The professor felt a cold dread slide down his throat. With limited room to move about, Professor Lawson settled for flapping his hands and rocking up on his heels as he did in long lectures. All throughout the night, his mind raced through the possibilities. What sort of duel was this? Judiciary? A trial by combat? Who were the combatants, the plaintiff?

　　In the early morning of his second day in prison, he got his answer. Fog blanketed Mahaut on that cold winter morning. It hid the gardens from the view of the window, but it had the curious effect of amplifying the echoes from voices in the street. There was a growing chatter there, an excitement.

　　Finally, over the fog rose a sharp cry, "The Prince fights! He will fight!"

　　Riccardo of Sanchia got up to join the professor at the window. The cries outside grew louder, as more people caught word. All was confusion, the echoes racing up and down the street. Behind them, out in the prison halls, Professor Lawson could hear the guards moving. Arming themselves.

　　"A touch! There is a touch for Gruffydd!"

　　"A touch for the prince!"

　　"It`s over! It`s over! The prince was slain!"

　　Professor Lawson was barely able to grasp it in the time between the first cry and now the most recent. A duel had been fought& but who won? What had happened?

　　"It`s a trick," Riccardo said to him. "It has to be. Like when they switched places?"

　　"I cannot say," Professor Lawson shook his head, bewildered. "Unless this is some elaborate ploy, I do believe both my students just earned themselves an expulsion for violating Amwarren University`s Code of Conduct."