It's surprising what I've gotten used to.  Like this:

  In a matter of seconds, I went from enjoying the near-nightfall bustle of people around me, the cobblestone in such good repair I could take my eyes from the road, to getting shoved against a wall while passing by an alleyway.  Knife pressed against my throat.
It happened fast, but I've gone through this enough times that I reacted purely on reflex.  Like a swordsman falling back on old drills.

  "Coin purse is at my belt," I said, my breath halting.  "Got some money stashed in my shoe as well.  Left shoe."

  Think I'm a coward?  Trust me, it's better to part with money than fight for it.

  And getting robbed isn't the worse thing that could happen.  Trust me on that one too.

  Thank the gods, I called it right.  All they wanted was money.  It wasn't really my money, anyway.

  There were two of them: the one with the knife had thin, sunken-in cheeks and a rather large forehead, free from hair.  Held the knife firm against me, without hesitation; he's done this before.  Kept a sharp eye on me and the alley, ready to vanish should trouble show up.

  The other one was either less experienced or just a more jumpy man in general.  I glanced at him as he took not only the purse, but my belt along with it.  He had a slash across his face.  Nose ending in a huge knob.  I returned my attention to the knife-wielder, remembering them.

  After my belt went my shoes, both of them.  A harrowing moment when I almost lost my balance, fighting away from the knife's edge ready to catch me.

  See, not so bad.  Even though my feet curled away from the ground.  Which was cold.  And slimy, something I didn't want to think about.

The second man shook out the coins in my left shoe, searched the right…then tucked both under his arm.

Right then, I knew things had changed. This was going to get worse.

Knife-wielder gave a little grin when he said, "Them's some dandy clothes."

"Piss off!" I snapped.  "You got copper enough to buy your own gods-damned boutique!"

Some things were worth the fight.  

The jumpy man pulled his own dagger.  Placed it between my legs with a firmness that was totally unnecessary.  

They didn't need to ask twice.  I started unbuttoning my waistcoat at a speed that astonished me, what with the fact that I was frozen solid and didn't dare to breathe.

The waistcoat I threw on the ground in pure mean-spiritedness.  Which I regretted when the dagger rose an inch, forcing me to leap to my toes with a yelp.

"The rest'll be folded nice-like," said the little shit.  "And given over like a gentleman."

"Got it," I panted.  "Won't happen again."

Which was exactly what he got.  I made a wild, helpless prayer they'd be happy with the shirt and waistcoat and fashionably cut dining jacket.  And sagged with relief indescribable when the dagger moved away from my groin.  Only to be pressed against my belly.

They wanted all of it.  Every stitch of clothing I had on me, even the underthings when they saw the silk.  I knew I was asking for trouble when I stole them.  Just never this kind.

And like that, the jumpy man sheathed his dagger, tucked all of the clothes into his coat and, looking rather misshapen, slipped out into the street.  Taking everything I owned with him.

The knife-wielder waited until his partner had gone, too far for me to chase after him.  "Now, not a word," he muttered, close to my ear, filling me with a thrill of terror.  I expected to be knifed, but he whirled down the alley in the opposite direction.

I breathed rapidly, leaning against the brick wall of the alley as I watched him go.  As tempting as it'd be, I'd gain nothing if I went after him, except a stab wound.
And now, alone and far too conscious of the air on my bare skin, I took stock of my situation.

Well, I wasn't bleeding.

Just completely naked in the middle of a city I don't know.

Okay, I was wrong.  Some things I'll never get used to.

As I stood there, my feet – oh, all right, other bits of me too – freezing, I couldn't stop thinking: shit, not again.

Not to say I've ever had my clothes stolen from me, especially not while I still wore them.  But this was a new low in a string of bad luck that's been plaguing me since…forever.

Before we get too far along, I need to explain a few things.  

I've got a mark on my back; some god's idea of a joke.  It's been a blight on my existence for as long as I can remember, which isn't saying much: I can push my memories back a year before hitting the pitch black wall of amnesia.  The worse part is that I don't know why it lets trouble find me so easily, if I'd been born with that mark, if it was responsible for my memory loss.  

Or which god I pissed off enough to deserve this; prayers of mine get answered with a god's sense of humor, which is to say: badly.

See, my mark works on people like it's a carcass tempting humanity's wolves and vultures.  In the months since waking up, I've learned a few healthy precautions.  Mainly to keep away from others.  Even animals don't like me.  And while most times I get robbed, harassed, shouted at, pushed around, chased by yokels with pitchforks and on a few interesting occasions arrested for no good reason – you know, stuff I can handle – occasionally things get out of hand; I've got bruises to prove it.

So I wasn't eager to find out this city's stance on public indecency.  Some prisons have these nice, modern (private) cells for you to sit alone in and dwell on your misdeeds.  Knowing my luck, however, this city – Camden, if I remembered it right – would be behind the times.  I'd get landed in one of those enormous rooms where all of the criminals mingle together.

Panic launched a prickly feeling in my gut.  Somehow I had to find something to cover myself.  As quick as possible.  

Okay, a tavern.  Either I could sneak into the stables for a horse blanket until I could find something better or…or I wait by the privy and knock out a reasonably drunk patron.
And yes, I'm aware I've started a clothes-snatching spree.

Skin tingling, agonized at the thought of eyes on me, I tip-toed down the alleyway, every sense hyper-alert; nakedness turned the world into a much more terrifying place.

A signboard had pointed this as the way to Market Square.  It was dark outside, past sundown.  All of the trade houses, with their lawyers and butchers and tailors home for the night, would be closed.  At least I hoped so.  I didn't have any other options.  Going back the way I came would bring me to one of the main streets; crowded by the time I left it only minutes ago.

Not that I was sure what I'd do if someone did decide to walk down this same alley.  There were no helpful crates or heaps of rubbish for me to hide behind.  And I couldn't explain that my clothes were stolen.  No doubt, the man I lifted them from had already given a detailed description to the police force.

Gulping, I reached the end of the alley.  I didn't gaze at the massive trade houses on all sides or the ridiculously gilded statute of Roland the Liberator, who waged a war against magic and won, that stood in the middle of the square.  Leaning against the wall right next to me was a figure, pants tucked into tall boots, a cloak fluttering heavily in a wind I'd grown to hate.

Could I get by him?

Or better yet, could I get my hands on his cloak?

But that meant I'd have to…

My face burned hot.

"Hey," I whispered, coughed at the weakness in my voice, and tried again.  "You there!"
Tempted to throw in a 'you're not a constable, are you?'

He turned.  I watched as his curious smile whisked off his face in a flash.  His eyes widened, mouth agape.  

And then he screamed, a high, shrill shriek that echoed off of every trade house in the square.

Which was when I realized he was a woman.  Wearing pants, which is why I say females should stick to dresses.

When she stopped screeching in one wordless howl, she switched to, "Pervert!  Help, police!  Flasher!!  I'm getting molested by a naked man!!!"

Would you believe it, but a policeman had been patrolling his beat at the other end of the square; already running towards us at the sound of a woman's scream.

Just my luck.


*******


I've got this to say about Camden Prison: at least it was warm.  

But that did little to mask the overbearing smell of sweat and fear or the way every member of the law force – from the over-eager deputies to the constables who really should have shown some restraint – laughed to the point of tears at the state I was in.  

"Less staring please," I begged, knowing they wouldn't listen.  Glanced down, made sure my hands were hiding everything.

At the very least, they believed I had no bad intentions planned for that woman, but even my shoulders felt hot from the blush on my face.

It didn't help that, after enduring their loud, uncomfortable presence for more minutes that I cared to, they proceeded to enter my physical description for their record books.  Out loud.

"That's a Sekor boy if I've ever seen one!" was the final assessment after a brash dictation of (if you don't mind me skipping the rude parts) my bronze coloring, grey-brown hair and blue eyes.  Nothing at all like the paleness and reddish hair common among the people of Ladamay.

Oh, Ladamay: If you're as bad at geography as I am, that's the island-country I'm at right now.  Small and totally isolated, with black seas all around.  

I sincerely hoped they would think I've gone native.

See, it didn't help my case that Ladamay went through such a messy, bloody business of outlawing magic when Sekor still had a thriving community of the same.  Though if I had a drop of magic in me, it has yet to come to my rescue.  

But I spoke the Ladamayan language as fluently as anyone; even my accent matched that of the locals.  So had some grandparent in my ancestry arrived to this country decades ago, making me more Ladamayan than anything…or had I left Sekor on my own, with enough time to adapt?

Ah, memory loss.

In any event, the Camdenian law force took greater pleasure in my red-faced humiliation than worrying themselves over my lineage.  And while I should have danced with joy that none of them had a personal vendetta against magic, I was desperate enough to escape their jeering to risk a rush for the door.

Please, to whichever one of you gods who's making a joke of my life, put an end to this!

Just then, the door to the constabulary flew open, a jolt of coldness that made me flinch.  I whipped around, disbelief and hope battling for emotional supremacy.

By the yellow sash tied across his body, he was an officer; an immensely large man made savage by a beard that hid most of his face.  "We've recovered Mr. Blancmange's suit, thanks to the gods," he said.  "That pompous little fop just about – "

Ah, he's noticed me now.

Looked me square in the eye before letting his gaze travel up and down my painfully unclothed body.  He said, "Whatever in the name of holy Aron is going on here?"

Holy Aron, indeed!  He sounded offended!  And the policemen…why, they looked embarrassed!
Thank you, holy Aron, for sending him, I prayed quickly to the patron god of the law, a god I have sadly neglected in my prayers.  I vow, first temple I get to, I'll –

As I made promises to my benefactor, it was explained to the officer that they had arrested a nudist.  They felt it only proper to convince me to take up another hobby.

"Oh, I say!" the officer said; I think somewhere in his beard was a smile, "I say, good show!  Ha ha!  Show the little bastard what-for, eh?  Oh, I must ring up the captain!  He's just the man who needs a laugh!"

See what I mean?  Prayers are dangerous business.

And I don't mind saying the gods' sense of justice rankled, punishing me for something I can't remember.

First thing once this is over, I'm going to the Records Office.  Whatever I've done to anger the gods had to have been sacrilegious on a cosmic scale.  My efforts to discover what that could've been so far had gone nowhere.  

Camden, thankfully, is renowned for maintaining not only records concerning their city, but for all the big events in Ladamay.

After the constables and detectives and deputies and the officer and the captain and a few prisoners brought through hurt themselves laughing, whimpering about aching jaws and cramped stomachs – to the point where I felt blood would burst from my nose and ears if they didn't stop soon – they turned me over to a pair of burly guards to take me away.
I exhaled, my face prickly, my knees wobbly as I was escorted off.

Well…that could've been worse.  I just hoped I'd never go through that again.

Careful not to turn that thought into a prayer.

However, my relief was short-lived.

Those guards, with a bruising grip on my forearms, escorted me down several flights of stone stairs.

Heh.  So I wasn't getting released, then.

An alarmingly raucous noise greeted us at the bottom, coming from behind a stout wooden door.  

All at once, I broke into a sweat.

There was no possible way I was being taken to those nice, private cells I mentioned previously.  No, this sounded like a nightmarish tavern, filled with a throng of drunken, murderous lawbreakers.  Getting thrown in there would be…

Oh gods.

"Wait!" I said, throwing myself backwards; unfortunately, the prison guards were used to handling more robust men than myself. Unable to wriggle myself free, I said, "Listen, just wait a minute, I learned my lesson, all right?!  All I need is some castoff clothes – anything – and I'll be off!  A law-abiding civilian once again!"

Holding me with a single hand, one of the guards deftly took a ring of keys from its hook on his belt and inserted a gleaming silver one into the lock.

Opened the door…

I could see inside the dungeon.  I tried simultaneously to keep myself covered and squirm out of the guards' clutches.  Which, I might add, is impossible.

"Oh, bloody hell, at least give me something to wear!"

Instead, both of the guardsmen swung me inside.  I stumbled, stepping wildly: it was so hard to keep my balance without moving my hands away.

Behind me, the door slammed closed.  Effectively ending thoughts of whirling around and trying to escape.

Blood rushed to my face; I looked up.

My theatrical entrance had drawn the attention of every single man in the place.  

Gods…thirty, maybe forty pairs of eyes.

All riveted on me.

And I've got a mark on my back that brings out the worse in people.

I can't remember how long I stood there, not moving a muscle, hoping that somehow the prisoners would forget I was there: a slender, tan-skinned fellow without a stitch of clothing.

Yeah, sometimes I don't know where my optimism comes from either.

Then the prisoners – all of them – burst into raucous bouts of laughter.  Some even pointed, doubled up, tears in their eyes, slapping each other on the shoulders.
Didn't think my face could get any hotter, but it did.

Gods, what next?

If they tried getting their hands on me…

I'd run.  Around and around the room if I had to; praying all the while that the prisoners would follow behind me in a line, like actors do in a pantomime.

I'd run all night if I had to.  Hours on end.  I'd be completely done in by the time we're released in the morning, but the gods' would like that, now wouldn't they?

Okay you shitheads, I prayed as the laughter started to ebb and the gazes they shot me were decidedly less pleasant, if you've got to punish me, let it happen like that.

The room went instantly silent.

A chill rushed through me.  The prisoners had parted to let one man to the front.  He stood, hands on his hips, weight jauntily on one foot as he looked at me.  Before he tossed his head back and positively crowed with laughter.

"Sweet mercy of the gods, you've had a night of it, haven't you?," he said, grinning as the other prisoners joined in.  "Don't you know, they toss you out on your arse if you can't pay?"

Oh.  So he thought I'd tried shortchanging a brothel?

I swallowed hard, needing to get my throat in good working order.  With the other men giving him looks as respectful as a horde of criminals could, I had him pegged as their ringleader.  Trying to get a (hopefully gracious) smile on my face, I said, "Ah, next time I'll – "

"Here!" he said.  "Let me lend you my cape.  You need it more than I.  Ha, ha, of course!"  I could've done without the added laugh, which got the other men started again, but it didn't stop him from unclasping the cape and throwing it over my shoulders.  A little too personal, that; not that I'd know how to take it if he just handed it over.
Finally able to move my hands, I wrapped it snug around myself, clinched tight at my waist.  Relief cascading over me.

He was a head taller than I was; his cape left too much of my legs bare for politeness.  But I've learned to accept what fate gave me.

Speaking of which…why did he help me out?

It knocked me off balance, to be sure.

"You must have quite the story to tell," he said.  "Come, I'm dying of boredom in here."  He turned and headed back where he came from: a sagging wooden bench against the wall.  Out of the way.

Sure, I hesitated.  Knew at any moment my mark could influence him into beating the ever-living crap out of me.  But what other choice did I have?

It wasn't like I wanted to stand there, center of attention, all night.

Hunched up to make the most of the cape, I crept after him, keeping as far away from the other prisoners as the path they made for him would allow.  I was edgy, nervous as all hell, but made it to the bench, incredulously, without incident.

I wasn't used to this sort of goodwill.  Not to worry; I didn't drop my guard.  Just knowing the gods were cooking up a grand finale for what was turning out to be a night for the record books.

It wasn't until I sat down next to him – and I'm sure you won't blame me – that I really took a good look at my rescuer.  Someone my own age, which is to say, a young man.  He had weight to match his stature.  Face unshaven and smudged with dirt.  Wavy hair – the darkest red I've ever seen on a Ladamayan – tied back with a grubby black ribbon.

He had limped.  Pretty badly.  A blackened eye and a cut lip gave me a good idea how he ended up here.

I scooted well out of swinging range.

It wasn't far enough.  He leaned towards me, too close than I liked (I would've punched him in the nose if my hands weren't occupied with keeping the cape close to myself) and muttered, "Can you fight?"

Not the thing I wanted to hear.

"Not me," he added, before tilting his chin.  "Them."

I stared.  Those brutish, hard-muscled, feral-eyed men?

"Ha ha.  Ah, no," I said.  No use shying from the fact.  I can't fight.  I don't try.  Like bears, I've found some people leave you alone if you act like you're unconscious.  Some, not all.  Which is why I go for running.  I'm pretty fast, too…if I get a head start and don't trip over anything.

"Well, damn it all," he said, sounding far too carefree.  "If it comes to it, we'll just have to find out if I can take them all on at once."

I gave his bruises a worried glance.  I bet he had experience in that kind of thing.  But why did he offer to…

Well, why not say it?

Defend me.

I'm thankful, don't get me wrong.  I just wasn't eager to find out the price for services rendered, especially as the gods had yet to deliver their punch line.

And would you believe it, but his next words alarmed me more than that thought.
"It's the spell that's on you.  One nasty piece of work, isn't that right?"

A jolt went through me.  

First, How much of me did he see?!

Then a burst of anxiety that surpassed anything I had felt so far today.  He saw my mark…  

Oh, well played, you holy bastards…

I've said it before: my mark works on people.  But actually seeing it is like waving the proverbial red flag in front of the proverbial bull.  So when I say I tensed up, fighting off the shudder that threatened to reveal my panic, I hope you won't think of me as a gutless pansy.

With another shock, I realized he had done nothing for several seconds.  Neither have I.  Which I tried to recover from by smirking and tossing one shoulder in a shrug.  "You mean the, ah, tattoo – "

He shot back with, "A glowing tattoo?"

The thing was, he didn't seem upset or suspicious.  Just went on saying, "Look, I know it's a spell, because I've seen it before.  It's unmistakable, really, that ironwork design.  You haven't come across any magicians lately, have you?"

A cold shock; then a strange, strangling sort of hope.

He called it a spell.

From a magician.

This guy has just given me information as intoxicating as the sight of dry land to a drowning man.

Because the gods have never listened to my prayers.  You can attest to that.

But spells can be broken.

He started laughing in that head-thrown-back sort of way.  I flinched, but the sound wasn't the breath of wind disastrous for house of cards and men thinking cruel thoughts.
"Unless a magician's escaped the Ward, that is.  Holy gods, I was right: you do have a story to tell!"

"Exactly," I said, keeping him in the corner of my eye.  When was my mark going to work on him?  "A damn good story."

Only I couldn't remember it.

"Oh, it's got to be if you're this shy about it," he chuckled when several seconds passed.  After which he elbowed me in the ribs; I nearly jumped out of my seat.  "Come on, what'd you do?  Those bad luck curses need a great deal of emotion behind them to stick."

A bad luck curse?!

…that explained a whole hell of a lot.

"You know my mark – ah, curse?" I managed to say, skipping around the question I couldn't answer.

Now he turned and looked at me: fully, perplexed and just a little bit curious.  "You are not from Camden, are you?" he asked.

A feeling of dread slid down my back.  That was a weird way of responding.  "Just got here," I said.  Trying for casual indifference.  Although I was literally on the edge of my seat.

My rescuer drew himself up.  That cocky smirk back on his face.  "Then allow me to make my introductions.  I'm Leopold Warder, son of Briant Warder, the Honored Baron of Camden."

My jaw dropped.

And not just because I've been sitting next to a filthy, roughed-up nobleman.  Whilst half-naked, at that.

I knew that name.  Hell, everyone knew that name.

Because after Roland the Liberator triumphed in his war on magic, after he pushed all things magical into the Ward in the far north of Ladamay, the King gave him lands, titles and a new name.

Roland Warder.

"You can call me Leo," he added helpfully.

It didn't help.  Thinking about everything his grandparent had done to thoroughly crush magic out of a place.  That of all people, I got landed in prison the same night as – Leo, I guess I should call him – went on his violent gallivanting.  Before wondering why a baron's son was imprisoned in the same pen as common thugs.

On the bright end of things, he didn't appear to have any hard feelings towards Sekor.  Or Sekorians.  Or me.

"So," he went on, leaning back against the wall and crossing one ankle over the other, "I've had a bit of education in the matter of curses, spells, that sort of thing.  And of magicians making nuisances of themselves."  Now an apologetic smile.  "Not that I paid much attention.  Though I swear I've seen a picture of that same curse of yours in father's library, in a reference book of the magic era.  I remember it being towards the back, where the interest-…ah, powerful spells were listed, but, well, that's that."
With the tone he used, I got the impression he wasn't very welcomed in the baron's library nowadays.

Great.

Because that book had its claws in me.

"What I can tell you, though," he went on, "is part of the peace treaty allowed Roland to get an enchantment in his blood, to protect the Warder family."  Leo had one eyebrow raised, a certain confidence to his smile.  "So you can relax.  Influencing spells don't work with us."

Stopped and glanced at me.  This time, he didn't start up a new conversation when the seconds ticked by.  

I must've disappointed him.  Because I didn't know what to say.  Sure as hell knew what I felt, though.

My pulse had gone off racing; my palms clammy.  Dear holy gods, it was a damned lot to take in: that someone out there wasn't a danger to my general well-being.  
The events of tonight, already off to a bad start (even with my low standards), proved the truth of his claims better than anything else could.  I'd been in this Leo's company for, what, five, ten minutes and he had given me something to wear, a spot away from the other men, then chatted with me.  He was friendly, the first time I've encountered that in…oh, an alarmingly long time.  

I didn't know what to do with kindness.  Not from other people, not even from the gods.

Which reminded me…Thank you, holy Aron, for allowing Leo to get arrested tonight!   Before adding, Oh, and I'm really sorry I called all the rest of you gods shitheads.  And bastards.  And have been blaming you for all my problems for the past year.

Unfair of me, really.   

I paused, on the alert.  But when the prison didn't burst into flames I let go of my breath.

Cheers to the forgiveness of gods.

Which was when I turned my attention to other things.  First, our fellow inmates, who had, unaccountably, gone about their business.  Ignoring me; something else I wasn't used to.  Safe from that quarter, I turned then to Leo, who seemed all set to wait out the night for me.

But I was done rearranging my wits.

"I'm Treve," I said.