This post was inspired by a writing prompt in the Worldbuilding Community - Worldbuilding Prompt #811 - Sick days

This post welcomes back one of my favourite (and unluckiest) characters; Marv the Magnificent. Enjoy !

Image created by AI in NightCafe Studio

Keys rattled in the lock of the cell door, and the creaking as it opened momentarily drowned out the endless, relentless sound of water dripping from the ceiling.

The design was deliberate. This cell didn't reside in the depths of some underground dungeon. It was set into the stone in the busy main courtyard of Magoran's Citadel.

It's ceiling was a complex grating of wrought iron. During the city's short, hot summer, those below would roast in the sunlight, cooled only by passers-by who would would spit or urinate on them.

But if you thought that was bad, winter was far worse. Magoran was a city in the far north of Argull, and winters were long, cold and harsh. The iron grating was cleverly constructed to catch most of the snow that fell. Then it would melt, sucking the body heat out of the unfortunates below. The worst part was the incessant dripping of meltwater, making the cell cold and wet, with occupants frequently driven insane by the soft, never ending 24-hours a day sound.

So having a visitor after several weeks of this was almost a relief. Almost. Marv could feel a warm puddle gathering at his feet. His last visitors had been a trio of guards a fortnight ago. Held firm by a complex arrangement of chains, Marv had been unable to move as they kicked and beat him for several hours. He didn't think he could face that again.

But these visitors were different. Yes, there were guards with them, but they didn't matter right now. The visitors were a small posse of sumptuously dressed nobles.

At their centre was the ruler of the city, Count Traymor Ledbrock himself. He was in his late forties, or maybe early fifties, distinguished by a royal blue fur-lined cloak and thin gold circlet. His frame was that of someone who had trained hard and lived an active life, but was expanding around the middle as a result of too much fine wine and rich food.

The one who really grabbed the eye was the woman on Count Traymor's arm. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with heavy makeup that did nothing to diminish a face that was stunningly beautiful. Her dark hair was artfully curled, falling below her shoulders to frame that face.

But for all her beauty, she clung to Count Traymor like a street-walker afraid to lose her rich mark, and she was dressed just as trashily. Her red velvet gown was split from floor to waist on the right to reveal an indecent amount of pink leg, and her long fur cape looked like the cheapest market junk. She was Lady Merielle. Possibly the most beautiful woman in the world, and even more likely the richest.

Image created by AI in NightCafe Studio - it's fairly close to the image I had in my mind of Merielle, although I envisaged her to be somewhat more curvy.

Count Traymor looked at Marv's bedraggled chained form and his lips curled in a cruel smile.

"Well, well. The great inventor. The gnome who has been thrown out of almost every northern realm and left a trail of devastation."

He raised a hand and, leaning down to reach, slapped Marv hard around the face. The cell echoed to the sound, and the courtiers behind the Count murmured in sycophantic appreciation.

"How dare you come to Magoran and infect us with your schemes. What in all the gods' names did you think you were trying to do ?"

Shaking his head to reduce the effects of the stunning blow, Marv tried to compose himself.

"My Lord, I saw the Valtrak and knew I had the talent to improve it, to speed it up."

Traymor raised his hand again, then thought better of it. "Speed it up ? You incompetent little rascal ! Our most vital trade route, and you put it out of commission for weeks."

"But my Lord," Marv interrupted him, "I knew I could make the whale-dirigibles fly down the tracks far faster than they do now. It could have doubled the volume of trade ! How was I to know your agents had filled the whales with hydrogen instead of methane and skimmed off the difference for themselves ! If they'd been filled with methane as they should have been, then the propulsion device I attached to their ...ummm. rear orifice... would have burned and pushed them forward at great speed."

Traymor grew red in the face. "Burned ? Burned, you say ? The fucking things exploded ! We had whale hide everywhere. We've had to send hunters up onto the glacier to kill and skin more ice-whales and re-make the dirigibles from scratch !"

"I might have an idea to help with tha..."

"NO !" Count Traymor clearly didn't want to hear the idea Marv had been thinking up during the boring weeks of being chained up alone in this cell.

"I came here to tell you, gnome, that your fate is already decided. We held a closed court at the start of the week, and the sentence was for you to be put to death. Slowly, and with extreme torment, as befits someone bringing harm to Magoran's vital trade interests."

The Count's cruel smile returned. "You're going to take a month to die, as my Court Torturer Sigismund the Pitiless dismantles you piece by piece."

He turned to the guards, using his most imperious tone to give the order, "Fetch Sigismund !"

One of the guards scurried off to obey.

Five minutes later he returned with a heavy step, and a look of dead on his face.

"My Lord, I bring grim news. Sigismund the Pitiless has sent a messenger-boy to call in sick on his behalf. Terrible flux, ague and vomiting, he says. Unable to even hold a scalpel, brand or flesh-ripper, he says. He sends his apologies, must be something he ate, he says."

At this point, Merielle piped up. Her voice was soft, high and multi-tonal. But it's beauty was spoiled by the accent and mannerisms of the lowest gutter-dwelling whore.

"Spoiled my fun you have, Traymor. Was lookin' forward to a good torturing. Got all dressed up special like, in red an'all, to hide the blood splatters."

The Count looked shame-faced. "I'm really very sorry, my dear. I have no-one else as talented as Sigismund, the others would all have him dead within a week. We can come back as soon as Sigismund is better."

Merielle shook her head with disgust. "Now you know that ain't true. Ya can't break yer own law, not even for me. I knows the rules, it says if you can't do a crook in on the appointed day it's the will of the gods or summat. They think he didn't do it and you has to let him off."

This turned the Count's expression to one of extreme frustration.

"Damn. You're right as always, my dear. Guards, free him and escort him from the Citadel."

The guards moved with alacrity, and in just thirty seconds all the padlocks were opened and the chains removed. As Marv started to move off, slightly confused by the rapid turn of events, Merielle nudged his top hat over a little, put a hand on his shoulder, and murmured in his ear without a trace of an accent.

"You did me a huge favour in Werchen, even if unwittingly. I like you, and you amuse me. That makes you my friend. It's amazing what a little potion will do. I don't forget my friends. Ever."

A couple of notes;

The Werchen episode was from this post: Worldbuilding Prompt #786 - Marv's Water Purification Project

The Valtrak is a transport route running south from Magoran to the terminus of Valtraksalt on the northern edge of the Isvar Mountains some 140 miles to the south, linking it to the River Driva and all the trade opportunities it brings.

The best way to think of it is like a very primitive railway. Wagons like large mine carts run up and down on it, pulled by whaleskin dirigibles filled with gas (and the help of a few spells !). The wheels run against either upper or lower rails depending on the situation, and the upper rail stops the whaleskins escaping. The whales themselves are land whales that live on the Northern ice sheets, their flippers strengthened by evolution so they can use them like skis, and the hunters of Magoran make the dirigibles from whole skins. They look a bit like bloated zombie whales in the sky....

The Valtrak may be slow and primitive by our standards and vulnerable to cross winds, but it's cost-effective, faster and better than most other bulk transport systems on Argull. The city of Magoran considers it a civic achievement to be proud of, and it's a vital part of the city's trade network.

Map created by me in Wonderdraft