In The Lair of the Draca (Book 2)

In the Lair of the Draca (Book 2) Chapter 47: Prison

Tuchek, whose three friends had been devoured by the Draca and still had yet to recover from their gruesome deaths, approached Ziuta's holding cell dressed in the maroon leggings and uniform of the common jailer. There was a six-inch dagger sheathed at his waist, and another small blade bound to the skin of his stomach beneath his tunic-- just in case. Upon hearing of Ziuta's imprisonment, he had begged his parents to be able to take the place of the lewd guardsman whom Luka had killed for indecency. Tuchek's mother, still grateful to the red-haired Star-Child for saving her son from the Draca, had agreed quickly after a brief conversation with Pomoq.

Tuchek liked Ziuta. He knew, like few others, that she did not deserve the crime she was being charged with. Why, he had been there: he remembered the grisly scene as though it were yesterday. Tangles of Ziuta's beautiful crimson hair had been caught in Malaraq's dirty grip while he had readied his knife, preparing to drain the life-blood out of her like a sacrificial pig-- and now all of a sudden these allegations that Ziuta had poisoned him with bread?

It did not make sense. First of all, Tuchek knew that Ziuta had not baked that loaf. Even a child could deduce that. Whatever poison had sickened Malaraq had not been Ziuta's doing (though the Twin Moons knew he deserved every retching stomach cramp), and Tuchek had vowed to do whatever it took to protect Ziuta from an unjust fate.

How would he do this? He was not certain.

Tuchek was smaller than most others, shorter, thin of bone, and with a perpetually worried-looking expression that left him fodder for pick-pockets and others who would steal the food shells right from his tunic. The boy was a follower, not a leader, and his father's words growing up-- meant to help Tuchek grow a backbone, rather than hiding from dragonflies as a toddler while other boys had trapped them eagerly in order to pluck the wings-- had had a debilitating effect.

Look at him, wife. Long hair, like a girl. No meat on his bones. Who is supposed to care for us when we're older?

What boy with a functioning penis runs and hides when the little girls look at him and smile?

Avoiding meat, picking at leaves and roots in peppery sauce like a mangy jackrabbit! Did I truly sire this sore mistake of a boy? How many others did you bed when I stepped out of Looks Thrice to earn my keep, woman?

Tuchek's mother, rushing to her son's defense and twining her fingers into his limp hair, had unwittingly made the situation even worse.

He is your son! she had protested vehemently, while a pair of grubby-faced twin girls clutched at her apron and stared first at one parent, then the other, each with a thumb poked into a pouty mouth. He is our child, Husband, ours! He is only different...that is all. The Twin Moons knew I desired a girl, but they had other plans. It is not Tuchek's fault he is like a female in almost every way. Leave him alone!

Tuchek crossed the courtyard, dodging between groups of jabbering women who had balked at collecting their cooking pots for the evening in order to discuss Ziuta's fate (which was much more interesting than the evening ritual of chores and water baskets), approaching the prison lodge with his heart nearly in his throat. The three remaining guardsmen were crouched on the ground in front of the prison door, exclaiming loudly over a pair of dice that had been fashioned from scallop shells and hooting triumphantly when one of them won at their little 'game'. Smooth coins exchanged hands, clinking delicately. One guard took a slice of jerky from his pocket and tore off a generous piece with his teeth; Tuchek, who did not eat meat because he could not bear the suffering of animals, nonetheless stared at the morsel and silently cursed his stomach for growling. He had not eaten in nearly two days.

As he grew nearer, they looked up, and Tuchek's heart lurched. He feared if he sneezed, it might come out entirely. He would stand there, looking down at the ground in dumb fascination as the spasming organ writhed in the dust, and his last thoughts might be somewhere along the line of "...is it really shaped like that?" before he collapsed, mute, into the dirt.