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For now.
If I ever manage to escape this situation, I’m going to make him pay dearly for this.
I watch the passing scenery as we leave the auction blocks, making our way into the quainter and more obscure parts of the city. I’ve done what little I can to drive us away from scrutiny, farther away from my dark, inhumane cell.
When I see a passing civilian, I try to subtly provoke them without Zathex noticing.
All the while, I try to make my movements more erratic.
“Hey, Zathex?”
He sighs. “Yes?”
I look at the derelict buildings, a rare sight in New Solas, ensuring that we’re as far away from civility as possible.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
He turns around, and for an instant, I swear he might hit me upside the head. It wouldn’t be out of character, and I even wince in anticipation of the strike.
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” he asks. “Didn’t you just go before we left?”
“No,” I lie.
He shakes his head in disbelief and continues walking, clearly unfazed by my request.
“Well, you’re just going to have to hold it,” he says. “I’ll turn us around in a second.”
“But I have been holding it,” I insist, trying to play the role he expects me to play. “Do you want me to make a mess in the middle of the street?”
My stomach turns at my own words. I’m not usually so crude.
He chuckles.
“I don’t know if it would look out-of-place, to be honest.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I whisper, gritting my teeth. “Please just take me to an alley or something. I know you’re no gentleman.”
I watch his face study me, hoping he’ll take the bait.
“‘No gentleman?’” Zathex repeats. “Fucking fine, Hanna. I’ll stop at a tavern.”
As he turns around, I smirk quietly to myself.
The tavern he leads me to is a shithole, by all accounts. The stools are overturned, and mugs are broken carelessly on the floor. Mere hours ago, I can imagine the tavern brawl that took place here.
Clearly, the owner has stopped caring. He nods at us as we enter.
Zathex turns to the counter, tugging me along as I try to avoid the broken glass on the hardwood floor.
“You got a lavatory?” Zathex asks the owner, whose patchy white beard embarrasses the few hairs left on his head, which he’s combed over. His wings sag lamely behind him.
He grunts, nodding toward the back of the bar.
Okay. I have to play this very carefully.
As Zathex leads me forward by the neck, I feel around my collar, looking for the slightest exploitable imperfection. The raw iron is somewhat crudely and carelessly fashioned, so if I found a blunt object, I could theoretically bang up against the areas where the metal is thinnest.
But I might cut my own throat if I’m not careful.
