Chapter 3

It was shaky, high-pitched, and frantic. Payton and Dallin both turned back to Calder, manacled hands clenched atop the table now, the dull look of defeat forgotten in new panic. Dallin could hardly credit it. He knew his size was intimidating, but this man looked at him as though he'd done murder right in front of him--as though he knew him and had cause to fear him.

It was unnerving. Dallin didn't *get* unnerved.

"Out," Dallin said to Payton, and when Payton didn't move fast enough, Dallin let go of the door and let its weight swing it home. Payton didn't yelp, but his arms windmilled a bit as he pulled them hastily through the steadily narrowing doorway. Dallin allowed himself a small smirk before turning back to the... he kept wanting to think of this Calder as a prisoner and had to remind himself he was merely a witness, manacles notwithstanding.

Dallin shook his head and pulled in a long steadying breath, then pushed it out slowly. Calmly, moving deliberately so as not to alarm again, he lowered himself into the empty chair, took up the folio, and splayed it open.

"These papers name you Wilfred Calder. Do you hold to the claim?"

Calder's green eyes narrowed in confusion and suspicion. A slow nod was all Dallin got by way of answer. Dallin sighed. This would go hard--he could tell already. He mentally waved good-bye to another cup of coffee, and probably his lunch, and prepared himself for a long morning.

"They further claim that you are from Lind." This time Dallin peered up, openly skeptical.

Calder's gaze dropped and shifted to the table. "I've done no wrong." His voice was soft again, but with threads of rebellious bravado. "Do you intend to keep me prisoner here, or...?"

"You are not a prisoner." Dallin pointedly didn't look when Calder's hands shifted on the table, deliberately dragging the small chain across the surface. "You were witness to foul murder, and a statement is needed."

"I've given my statement--twice. I saw a man who introduced himself as Orman beat another who introduced himself as Palmer to death. May I go now?"

Dallin nearly smirked, mildly amused at the cornered audacity. "I'm told they fought over who would keep company with you."

Calder's mouth screwed up in an uneasy scowl. "I encouraged no such contest. Nor did I want it."

First hit.

"So, they did quarrel over you."

Calder's eyes closed, and his head sank lower. Dallin could almost hear the inner 'shit, shit, shit' at the accidental confession.

"Did they argue over price, one trying to outbid the other?"

A clench of the teeth this time. "I am no doxy."

Another hit.

"A witch, then?"

Calder snorted as though he'd expected the accusation. "Magic is illegal, but for those registered and sanctioned to practice by the Commonwealth."

"I know the law, thank you."

"As do I."

"Then you know that failing to register is a minor infraction, and you'd not be likely to spend even a fortnight in gaol--if you confess."

It wasn't a lie. Failure to register was a small violation. Practicing magic without license, however, was decidedly not. And magicking with criminal intent was another matter altogether. Dallin had every intention of sharing those bits of information--after he got whatever confession there was to be had.

Calder's head was still down, so Dallin couldn't see his face, but he saw the jaw set rigid. "Men would see witchery where there is only vice. I cannot be blamed for another's lack of control."

"Vice, then, as you will. So, you accepted attentions from one and not the other."

"I accepted nothing!"

Dallin let the slight roll of his eyes speak his doubt. "Do you say you didn't intend to sleep with either man, or that you didn't intend to charge them for it?"

Calder's long fingers curled in, fisted, knuckles turning yellow-white. Heavy, pinioned silence.

"Prostitution has not been a hanging offense for decades," Dallin ventured quietly. "A fine the first time, nothing more. If you cooperate, I can see there's not even that, but I must--"

"I do not sleep with men for money." It was almost a hiss.

Dallin lifted an eyebrow. The same mark, and hit harder this time. He went for a third. "What do you sleep with them for?"

"Why?" The sudden smile was coy and cold. "Interested?"

Not at all the wrath and loss of control he'd hoped for. "And if I were?"

The smile slid away. Calder looked down again. "You like to play with people, don't you, Guardian? Makes you feel powerful, I expect." He lifted his hands, chain jinking and jangling. "You already have all the power. Why do you prolong this? Can we just get on and have an end?"

Dallin resisted a puzzled frown. "All right--tell me who you really are, and I'll see what I can do."

The defeat was back again, real this time--Dallin could read it in the slope of the shoulders, the desperate grasping of the hands as Calder pushed his fingers into his hair and groaned, small and helpless. The body language was speaking volumes, but actual information was apparently going to have to be dug out from between verbal feints and weaves.

A livid scar drew his gaze, jagging around Calder's left wrist and over the back of his hand to the knuckles, lumping the skin into tight pink puckers. Dallin noted it but put it aside.

"Just do it and get it over," Calder whispered. "I'm tired and I can't do this anymore. Stop playing, Gniomhaire, and just do it."

"Why do you call me that?"

"Because it is what you are. We should call things by their proper names, shouldn't we, you and I? Now, of all times."

Annoyed now, Dallin allowed a tolerant sigh. "I am Brayden, First Constable of the Province of Putnam." He dipped his head in a small, ironic imitation of a respectful bow. "I suppose 'guardian' is a more delicate term than some would choose, but what is the other? Are you swearing at me? Or are you speaking in tongues? That in itself is enough cause for an accusation of magicking."

Slowly, Calder lifted his head. Eyes that too obviously held back tears blinked across the table--curiosity, disbelief, and... something Dallin couldn't name. Hope?

"You don't...." Whisper-quiet, but not as shaky. Calder's eyes narrowed again, and he tilted his head. "Guardian?"

"Brayden," Dallin repeated patiently. "*Constable* Brayden." He leaned in, a bit of concern now leaching through the irritation. Calder was far too pale beneath his unfortunate overdose of sun, and his eyes looked unfocused. "Are you well? Do you need rest, water?"

"Am I... well?" Calder stared like he was looking for something, trying to dig into Dallin's head and pick apart what he found there.

Dallin stared back, wondering why he'd thought this man beautiful. Handsome, surely, in an angular sort of way, but nothing to stop one's breath, nothing to merit a fight to the death for the honor of his company. The green eyes weren't even all that spectacular, now that Dallin really looked up close--they were fine, certainly, clear and deep as forest pine, and unusual in one with hair dark enough to be called black--but still merely green. Perhaps there *had* been some kind of enchantment involved.

Abruptly, Calder shook his head, squared his shoulders, and leaned into the table. "Stable help."

Dallin blinked. "Sorry?"

"I work in the stables of Ramsford's inn--*with* my back and not on it."

It was said with conviction and an earnest gaze. Dallin noted it and once again curved smoothly along with the sudden turn in conversation.

"You don't look like you'd be much help in a stable."

It wasn't meant as an insult--Calder was nothing like to the sort. Not broad enough by half, for one, and not rough enough about the edges.

"I've no doubt I don't look like I can do a lot of the things I can do. Looks can deceive."

"No doubt," Dallin muttered. "For instance, you don't look like you're from Lind."

That brought a slight twitch, quickly covered. "Oh? And what do those from Lind look like, then?"

"Fair-haired, for one. Without exception." Dallin noted the aborted reach toward dark hair. His smirk was entirely inward. "Like me, for two. I am from Lind. They grow them a bit bigger there." He waited a moment for a reaction; when he didn't get one, he went on, "Hill folk. Clannish. They don't breed outside their own, and I'd venture to say that if there was a black-haired child born among them, he'd be strangled for a witch with his own cord before he'd drawn his first breath. The green eyes wouldn't've helped. Superstitious lot, Linders."

"Another man might seize upon the opportunity to point out the dangers of choosing constables from such inbreeders," Calder observed mildly. He peered sideways at Dallin, looking for reaction.

Dallin didn't give him one. He shrugged. "And your accent isn't right. Oh, it's very good, understand, but it's off around the edges. Too flat on the vowels and not enough roll in the hard consonants."

A moment of quiet as Calder looked down with a flush, then shifted a steady look back up at Dallin. "Perhaps I am a bastard, a shameful get on my poor mother by a black-haired brigand, and so we were forced to move about, never staying in one place very long for fear we'd be harried, possibly even stoned for witches by ignorant, inbred villagers."

Dallin hid a smile at the bold diversion, and he mentally conceded the point. Very clever. And not a little bit twisty.

"Perhaps," Dallin agreed. "And perhaps you are not who you say you are, and these papers are forgeries."

Calder didn't answer, instead asking, "Would you take these off, please?" He held up his hands. "You see I pose no threat."

The manacles all too obviously bothered him--even more than being questioned about complicity in a murder, even more than being here, alone, for all intents and purposes locked in a room with a man twice his size, despite his controlled panic when he'd practically begged Payton to stay. Dallin indeed saw no threat from this man, but the advantage in keeping Calder on edge was becoming more and more apparent. Anyway, there was the matter of those suppression spells, and considering what had happened when he'd arrived, Dallin didn't mind admitting he'd just as soon leave the cuffs right where they were.

"You seemed to pose no threat when I walked in, until...." Dallin opened his hand.

"A mistake." Calder dipped his head, once again the picture of meek submission. "A foolish error. I thought.... I apologize."

"That rather stuck in your throat, didn't it?" Dallin tilted his head. "You thought what?"

Calder shrugged. "You are a very large man. You frightened me." He smiled, tentative, then bent his neck again. Shrewd surrender, sweet and treacherous--a bullet in the soft, pulpy belly of a berry.

All right, so far they'd gone through anger and outrage, and now it had moved on to seduction. Resignation and weary surrender should be next.

It was slightly repulsive, watching Calder work his way through the routine like an actor in a play, and Dallin wasn't sure he knew why he was almost disappointed. Not as challenging as he'd thought, perhaps, or....

'You were impressed for a little while there. You thought he was above it, somehow. Why would you think that? This man is neck-deep in lies, trying to use his eyes and clumsy wiles to dig himself out from beneath them. Why do you hesitate to beat him at the game he chose?'