“Language, knave.” She nudged his forehead with the toe of her boot, tilting his face up. Tears streaked his dirt-smudged cheeks. “The Baron’s scepter. In my hand. Now.”
“Scepter,” Rigo squeaked, pointing weakly. “It’s… by the rain barrel.” knave ballbust
Vex’s hand closed around his leather-clad ankle. She dragged him two feet, then stopped. Her other hand hovered over his groin, fingers spread like a spider. “Language, knave
Rigo lay on the cold stones for an hour, breathing in shallow, careful waves. Eventually, he crawled to the gate. A street urchin watched him pass. In my hand
He tried to stand. His legs said no . His testicles, currently trying to retreat into his lower intestine, also said no .
“A stern talking-to? A night in the stocks? I’ve brought my own bread for the rats.” He winked.
Rigo had stolen the Baron’s ceremonial scepter—not for coin, but because the Baron laughed at his boots during the harvest feast. Petty? Absolutely. Satisfying? Immeasurably.