Free Brute by Kim Fielding

nodded. So Brute filled the tin cup from the jar and held it to the other man’s lips. “Th-th-th-thanks,” Leynham rasped when he was through.
    Brute relocked the cell door and pulled on his trousers and shirt. He didn’t bother lacing up the trousers—too much trouble—instead he clutched the waistband in his fist so the trousers wouldn’t fall down. The tower corridor was completely dark. He kept his elbow against the wall to help him find his way. At the very end, he used his stump to bang against the door. The stump was good for that much, at least.
    After a moment, the door inched open. “What?” demanded the guard. He was backlit by bright moonlight. Brute couldn’t make out his features, but he thought it was a different man than the guard he’d encountered earlier.
    “The, um, prisoner. He had a dream.”
    The guard hissed with displeasure. “Fuck. All right. What did he say?”
    Brute repeated the morbid statement about Gigo Blackwater, whoever that was. If the guard knew the meaning of the message, he gave no indication. He only swore again, more softly, and then nodded. “Fine.” Then he slammed the door in Brute’s face, and the lock thunked into place.
    That left Brute to return to his chambers in the darkness. Leynham was silent, perhaps sleeping again, and Brute was tired. He removed his clothing for the second time that night and again climbed into bed. The sheets were soft against his skin and smelled slightly of lavender; the quilts were old but clean and warm. Nothing whatsoever like a cold stone floor. He tossed and turned for a long time, his missing hand aching fiercely. Finally, when he couldn’t stand it any longer, he stood and yanked one of the blankets off the bed. He crossed the room, unlocked the cell door, and tossed the quilt onto the prisoner’s legs. He locked the door again before returning to bed, where sleep came swiftly.
     
     
    I T WAS Brute’s full bladder and empty stomach that finally woke him, the bright sun shining through the slitted window and revealing that he’d slept much later than usual. He stretched luxuriously—that mattress truly was a wonder—and glanced inside the cell. He smiled to himself when he saw that Leynham had spread his old blanket on the floor to provide a bit of padding. He was covered so completely by the quilt Brute had given him that only the top of his matted hair was showing. Perhaps Brute would get in trouble for granting that small mercy, but nobody had specifically ordered him not to share his bedding with the prisoner, and he might use ignorance as an excuse. People always assumed he was stupid anyway.
    After using his chamber pot and putting his clothing back on, he unlocked the cell. “I’m going to empty your bucket. Do you need to use it first?”
    Leynham sat up and, using the wall as support, slowly stood. He let the quilt fall to the floor and trailed his fingers along the wall as he hobbled the few steps to the bucket. He was naked, his body emaciated and dirty. Brute supposed he should turn his back and give the man a little privacy, but Leynham couldn’t see him anyway, and Brute was shocked at the condition of the prisoner’s body: bruised and scraped, covered in dried blood and other filth he didn’t want to identify. The iron bands around Leynham’s neck, wrists, and ankles seemed to weigh him down. Brute guessed he would have been a fairly tall man if he stood upright. Not as tall as Brute, of course—not even close—but taller than average.
    Despite the nightmare and the bits of information Warin had divulged, there seemed to be nothing sinister about the prisoner. He was wretched, pitiable. It could be a ploy, Brute reminded himself. An effort to make the new jailer relax his guard so that the traitorous witch could—what? Cast evil spells? That didn’t seem very likely.
    After the cell was locked up again and Brute had emptied his own chamber pot into Leynham’s bucket, he ventured back down the