"What Was Mine" 5

Peyd kept a casual pace out of sympathy for my still-sluggish muscles, but I could tell from the awkwardness of his movements that he was more comfortable with a brisk march.  We passed through a short hallway with walls and floor identical to my room, with a couple doorways opening into offices that had an administrative feeling to them, and then it opened into a main foyer, which was as small, unimpressive and rough-hewn as everything else.  There were other men in here, in their brown-and-grey uniforms matching Peyd’s, but significantly more wrinkled and sweat-stained.  They were all looking at me with curiosity, and I suspected that quite a few of them weren’t really supposed to be here.  “Return to your duties,” Peyd snapped at them, confirming my thoughts.  “You’ve all seen a prisoner before!”

With a surly grumbling that spoke volumes about their true feelings for their boss, the bulk of the men slowly sulked away through various doorways, leaving only Peyd, the two guards accompanying us, a boy of maybe 15 in an oversized uniform who must have served as some sort of front greeter, and a filthy, heavyset man in a linen workshirt, vest, dungarees and shit-stained boots.  “Wrangler Bison,” said Peyd, gesturing toward the grubby man, and Bison came over to us.  He had a beard that was the product of neglect rather than intentional grooming, and he smiled at me through a wad of chewing tobacco.

“Mr. Gunniver, sir,” he said, pumping my arm enthusiastically.  “I had a feeling, when we locked you up, that it wouldn’t hold you.”

Peyd somehow communicated a sigh with nothing more than the mild scuff of a boot.  “Your…reputation, Mr. Gunniver, preceded you.  Personally, I’d never heard of you before you were delivered, but several of the men had, such as the Wrangler, here.  He’s still intolerably gushing, as you can see.  Bison!”  The Wrangler dropped my hand at the sharp utterance of his name.  “Perhaps you’d like to take Mr. Gunniver to the stables and explain a few things?”

Bison nodded.  “Right enough, sir,” he said, suddenly all abashment and subservience.  “Mr. Gunniver, follow me.  This prison isn’t like others that maybe you’re familiar with.  Come on.”  He waved me after him as he started walking for a heavy set of metal doors.  “Out the front, then around to the back.  You’re about to see something that’ll make you drop your breakfast in your drawers.”