Quincy Randall was his prisoner; his brother was dead, murdered before his eyes; his father lay invalid, waiting to die; and he... he sat behind his desk, with his face in his hands, dreading Quincy's trial, Joryll's funeral, and his first meeting with his father in seven years. He could feel the twisting scars press rigid against his palms, and he laughed softly. "Prince Gareth Rayin Taliaferro," he said, so quietly he might not have spoken at all. The irony of it almost killed him. He pulled one hand away, to trace the patterns on his cheek, and dropped both hands slowly to his desk.
He could hear footsteps in the hall. Lt. Duvall, no doubt. His most trusted lieutenants, Duvall and Kilborn. He wondered, idly, if they'd miss him when he was gone. He straightened, as the door swung open, and reflexively drug a hand through his hap-hazard hair, succeeding only in mussing it more.
"Captain," Duvall said, with a half-bow, as he swung the door shut behind him. The temptation to tell the Captain that he looked like **** dangled on his tongue, and with admirable restraint, he resisted. "You needed me for something?"
The Captain nodded, and reached for a pile of smooth parchments that sat on his desk. "I need you to deliver this," he tapped an envelope, sealed with a blob of dark blue wax, pressed with the symbol of the Order of Straka, "Deliver it to the Governor, please." He paused. "And take Quincy her lunch, would you? I hate to see her eating that gruel." Hated, for all he could do little about it, beyond sending real meals to her as often as Duvall or Kilborn were awake. It was a bit too dangerous a task to give to any guard, this watching over Quincy.
Duvall nodded, and stepped forward, to pick up the pile of parchments. He paused, and when the Captain looked at him expectantly, he said, "I've arrested the streetfighter, Captain. Victory. She held a knife to my throat, and I.. took a bit of offense." He grinned a little, apologetically. "I was wondering what you wanted to do with her. I put her in the cell across from Miss Randall, so that I might keep an eye on both of 'em."
The Captain slowly lofted his unscarred brow, and eyed Duvall with a mildly amused expression. He wondered if she'd called him 'Pup' yet. "Let her sit in the gaol for a few days. Make sure she eats the coldest gruel. Then bring her to me, and I'll... speak with her, about the wisdom of threatening to knife my men."
Duvall nodded. He hadn't expected the Captain to give the girl anything harsher, for all he wished he would. He respected his Captain, but the man was a little soft-hearted at times... He bowed, and lifted the parchments in his hand, in salute. "Right on it, Captain." He paused, at the doorway, to turn and say, "Oh, and Captain... Take a break. You look like you could use it. None of this," the tapped his finger against the parchments, "Is going to go anywhere while you're sleeping."
"Thank you for your concern, Duvall." He didn't, however, declare whether not he'd be taking this break. It was sorely tempting. Duvall nodded, and stepped into the hallway, closing the door on his Captain. Rayin sat there for a moment, mulling. He dreaded this trial, dreaded taking this trial to Gad Phuri. The fat governor would hold no sympathy for Quincy. He rubbed his temple, and considered whether or not there were other magistrates who could preside. Perhaps he might bring someone from New Dauntless. It was, after all, the trial of the murderer of their Prince. They might even insist.
He groaned quietly. If only he could just get it over with. Let Quincy go legally free. He'd free her now, if he thought she'd care to live in hiding. But there had been too many witnesses to identify her... and a part of him honestly wanted, at the very least, -his- people to know that Joryll had not been murdered by some political regime. He hated to admit it, and it sat heavy on his heart... but Joryll had deserved it.
He pushed himself slowly to his feet, and walked to the mantlepiece. To pour himself a cup of tea, and sink gratefully into the forgiving cushions of the fireside armchair. No one would begrudge him a little break... Except for himself.