Cole
The guard opened the door, and Cole stepped inside. The stench hit him first—unwashed bodies, urine, and damp stone. The small cell contained a wooden table with two benches.
Sitting across from him was Crispen West.
Cole had been a child last time he saw his uncle, but there was no mistaking him. Uncle Crispen’s once-blond hair hung in greasy brown tangles. His pale, freckled skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, and a stringy beard draped off his chin like witch’s-hair lichen. His clothes swallowed an emaciated frame, and those green eyes were a window to the past.
“Who are you?” Uncle Crispen rasped.
His weak, broken voice made Cole’s throat tighten. “It’s me. Cole.”
Crispen stared, unblinking, then his face lit with recognition. “Coley, m-m-my son? Is it…is it r-really?” He gasped in a shaky breath. “You…you look g-good. Well-fed.”
Cole stiffened at the word son. Had the years in prison scrambled the man’s mind? “You don’t look good at all.”
Crispen chuckled and fell into a hacking cough. “I-I suppose…not. How did you…find out I was here?”
“Drustan told me,” Cole lied, his stomach twisting as the words left his mouth. “He said you killed someone.”
“Yes, yes.” Uncle Crispen dismissed this with a frail wave.
A strange reaction. “Who did you kill?”
“Does it m-m-matter?”
“Of course.” Cole hesitated, then added, “A guard said you’re innocent.”
Uncle Crispen let out a bitter laugh. “Innocent? Wh-what’s that even m-m-mean here?”
“They said someone wanted to silence you.” Cole leaned in. “Is it true?”
Uncle Crispen’s expression remained blank. “Wh-what would it m-m-matter?”
“Who wanted to silence you, Uncle?”
Uncle Crispen blinked slowly. “Uncle?”
Mistel paced by the door, slowing to peek inside. Uncle Crispen saw her, and his lips curled up.
“Wh-who’s that?”
“That’s Mistel,” Cole said. “She sings with me in our band. I play the lute. Um…Who tried to silence you?”
Uncle Crispen’s smile grew. “That’s your g-girl, is it? She’s a…a pretty one.”
“We’re a good band,” Cole said, seeking a way back on topic. “We’ve played several taverns in town, including the Black Boar. Drustan Fawst runs it for Nash Erlichman.”
“Wish I could hear you…hear you play.”
Cole had left his lute out with Kurtz, and he didn’t see how playing anything would help him get information from his uncle. “We also performed at the Ice House.”
Uncle Crispen sobered. “No. Stay away from…Thusk. The Ice House too. You’ll only find…trouble.”
So his uncle knew Thusk. “Did you find trouble there? Were you working for him?”
Uncle Crispen’s gaze flicked to the open doorway. “You keep…keep that g-girl of yours…keep her away from Thusk. You hear m-m-me?”
A chill ran down Cole’s spine. “I heard some prisoners disappeared. Does that have anything to do with Thusk?”
