The Mad Frank's Dreams: Post 6 Chue’s Con 2 of 2 parts

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“How much do they pay you?” Chue asked. Her voice was still hoarse, but her words were clear, the #volume steady.

“What’s it to ya?” the elder said.

“Because whatever it is, it’s not enough,” Chue said. “Take us out of here, and you can claim a reward for the lady over there. Then take your money, go to another city, and live like nobles for the rest of your life.”

“Ya turn us in and get the whole reward. Hah! Serpents, that’s what Prophet calls ya jeses,” Cudgel said.

“You can collect it all. Once we get out of here, I’ll vanish if you want. The Moon Prince will pay you a fortune to get her back. Why settle for a few spilled grains when you can have the whole harvest?”

“Juda Prince,” the first man laughed. “He’ll pay, oh, he’ll pay—pay in lamb’s blood, that’s what the pilgrim said. Fire and brimstone, aye, he’ll bring it down. Burn out the serpents, the dogs, all of ’em. Prophet says so—us clean ones take what’s left.”

He pulled a wooden crucifix with a crude iron nail hammered into it from under his robes. The tip was bloody where it had gouged its bearer. His brother produced a similar one.

Since she couldn’t convince these two zealots to help, she decided to gather what information she could. “This prophet, he wouldn’t be The Frank?” She omitted the word “mad.” It wouldn’t do to antagonize them.

“God speaks to that one. Promised to bring down fire on the land,” Cudgel said while the elder nodded.

“Been here too long,” said the one with the tray, putting it down on the floor. “Ya be feeding the jese princess when she awakes.”

With that, the two departed, while Chue slumped against the wall.

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The Mad Frank's Dreams: Post 6 Chue’s Con 1 of 2 parts

#FanFic #TheApothecaryDiaries
#Wss366 Rack #MastoPrompt Volume

Since it was pointless #racking her brains for an escape plan, Chue went to sleep.

She awoke to the sound of the door scraping open. Her head still hurt, but when she opened her eyes a slit, the room didn’t spin. In the doorway stood two burly men, brothers by the look of them. The elder held a tray in his hands, two steaming bowls balanced on it. Bile rose in her throat as the sour smell of boiled millet reached her.

The other man had a cudgel by his side, but Chue didn’t think she could wrestle it away from him in time to use it. She might take one down, but the other would easily defeat her in the process. So she would have to out-talk them.

The first man spoke, “Told ya you hit the yese too hard. Prophet wants her alive.” He nodded toward the bed. Chue didn’t recognize the term “yese,” but it sounded like a foreign slur.

Her thoughts were still slow, but she worked on understanding, knowing that any clue might be important. The Mad Frank sometimes called the courtesans “yesebel” when he was in a foul mood. But even if they were the same, that didn’t help her.

The second man toed her. “Wake up, honey child. The prophet says, to eat.”

She opened her eyes fully. “Water.” The words came out as a raspy whisper. Food sounded revolting, but she thought she could manage a drink.

The water from a gourd she had been given tasted wonderful. She sipped it while examining the two men. Their worn clothes marked them as poor. Hard muscles indicated individuals who did manual labor. Scars made by fists, not edged weapons, marred their faces, so they weren’t mercenaries. Ears in good shape meant they weren’t professional brawlers either. However, they held themselves with the assurance of men accustomed to getting their way through brute force: enforcers, perhaps, mercenaries of a different type, hired from the underworld.

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