Ojo pulled out a platter with a silver dome, both of them knowing she received the finest accommodations in the entire prison. Dr. Devi wore a dark, full skirt that brushed the floor when she walked, with a fitted, button-up bodice, and a velvet waist-coat. Delicate lace peeked out from the sleeves of the coat and along her neckline. Her hair was pulled up into a loose bun, a curl of dark hair escaping near her temple. Her room was furnished with plush rugs, an oak desk, a sitting area, cupboards, every flat surface cluttered with her inventions, even the edge of her canopied bed. Canopied. Of all the cells on any level, she was the only one with any privacy.
Ojo had been overwhelmed by the vast universe of Literary Worlds available from Rogue Destiny, but settled into a few favorites, including Sherlock Holmes; he imagined Dr. Devi would've fit in nicely there. Perhaps she had been there, but was flagged as potentially dangerous and yanked out by a Raconteur, making her an ageless thirty-five year old woman, give or take a few years.
She waited politely by her gramophone as Ojo pressed his hand to the bars, a portion of them disappearing as he cleared away her last domed platter. The bars had been recalibrated to only leave a sliver of air around the serving dishes. His hands squished down, the bars constricting his flesh, his rubber-like body pressed nearly flat to fit through the space, then rebounding back to its usual size. Lady Absinth watched him with cool curiosity from across the room. His elastic DNA was the reason the Council hired him above the other candidates, touting another layer of security with Ojo delivering the food. When he had pushed in her new tray and stepped back, Absinth moved to a side table, and twisted the knob on some kind of steaming contraption before fetching the fresh platter of food. Ojo had seen it before, but her inventions always amazed him. Soon a kettle atop of it was burbling, and she poured herself a cup of tea.
Setting her tea aside, she moved to a cupboard on the wall, relocating sketches, her compass, coils and metal scraps. Finally, she spoke, "Ah, here it is."
On the desk behind her, the usual piles of paperwork had been shoved to the side in favor of a thick, worn book. Her table light was still on, the green cover casting the room in a sickly hew.
"Circus boy, you really must learn to school your mind," Lady Absinth chastised as she plopped something yellow into a sack. "I might have just the thing."
The cyber soldier's warning rang in the back of Ojo's mind. He shoved the cart forward, determined to get the rest of his route finished quickly. "No, thank you."
"Another time, perhaps," she said without raising her voice.
Ojo grunted, his mind wandering to the evening he had planned. Could he turn the horror of feeding a ferret to the snake into a humorous tale? With a bit of embellishment, perhaps. His job was terrifying, but the pay was decent. And Ojo enjoyed his new acceptance at Rogue Destiny's most popular establishments, including the Obtuse Turtle. Even Racs were often spotted there when they were on world. With the upcoming trial, more and more of the infamous literary protectors arrived each day. His acceptance at the Turtle couldn't have come at a more opportune time. He'd even made a friend or two. Not bad for a chapter-book clown. Though Ojo was under oath not to divulge anything about the security, unless he wanted to end up in Lazaranth himself. He'd had himself be-spelled to twist his tongue into nonsense if he ever got drunk, or slept. No sleep talking was going to land him behind bars.
Despite his newfound acceptance, Ojo's nerves wound tighter with each passing day. A few weeks had gone by since his first day alone in the dungeon, and it seemed that the prisoners were getting more interested in him, not more bored by his presence. His skin itched, and the back of his neck pricked. He'd even tried flattening his body a bit and stretching taller. But all it did was draw even more attention to him. Not good.
"Are you sure you don't want my help with the prisoners?" Dr. Devi didn't look up from her notes as her quill scratched across a paper. "I'm not a savage, you know. Just someone who likes to test the limits of science. Let me help you."
Something brushed over his toe, tiny claws sending a flood of adrenaline through Ojo's body. Ojo jumped and let out a pitiful, strangled cry. In the same moment, the vermin squeaked. Only a rat. Ojo internally cursed as the critter skittered further down the hall, hugging a wall. The rat inadvertently crossed a red line. A furry, clawed paw shot out, lighting fast, trapping the rat in a cage against the floor. The claws slowly scrapped across the stone before disappearing back inside its barred cell.
Ojo clenched his jaw, his gaze fixed on the spot where the rat had just been. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he vaguely recognized he was standing in front of a high security prisoner, with only a few bars between them, but no red line. He ignored her, his shoulders hunched, as he delivered the remaining trays.
It'd been a month since Ojo had first fed Maquna. Ojo placed a box with haphazard air holes on the top of his trolley. He ran a hand down his stubbly chin. All night he'd dreamed he was a ferret, running for his life down a never-ending corridor. He stood rooted to the steps, his stomach in knots. As much as he didn't want to give up his newfound popularity, he worried his comrades were right: a clown wasn't meant for serious work.
He frowned, forcing himself forward. He wondered what it would be like to have his memory of this place erased. He knew that was the Council's rules for any guards with higher security clearance. And he'd heard rumors about how erasure wasn't an exact science. What else would he forget? He shook off his feeling and grit his teeth, determined to overcome his paranoia.
He dragged his feet to the one-way glass, staring at his boots, wondering if there was anything else acceptable to feed the snake.
"If you don't do it, Maquna will make a fuss," Lady Absinth remarked in her crisp English accent. "And the next guard on duty will know you didn't do your job. Do you want that?"
Ojo inwardly groaned. He shoved the box up to the glass wall, slamming his palm against the glass. He closed his eyes, but he could hear the crunch of bones before he could get the feeding gate closed again. He'd hear that sound over and over again in his sleep. How long could he bear the weight of this repugnant job?
Ojo was running out of options. What harm would it do to hear the doctor's suggestion? "What did you have in mind?"
"There is a toy, a rather silly thing, actually. But Maquna adores it. Most everyone here knows it belongs to him. They all recognize it by sight, or by smell. If you give it to Maquna, he'll back off. And he'll signal to everyone else to leave you be as well."
The idea was preposterous. A deadly snake with a childish attachment? The doctor must want something desperately. Ojo wasn't a fool. "What do you want for it?"
"Something simple. Information is all." She sat on the edge of her desk, her eyes glittering in the greenish light. "When is the Raconteur's trial?"
Ojo paused, wondering at such a mundane question. "In a week. Why?"
"Only a week. That doesn't give me much time." She glanced at the snake and then jotted something in her journal. "And all the Raconteurs are coming for the trial, I presume?"
Ojo nodded. "The ones who can, I'm guessing. Why?"
"Seven days, then." She turned and pulled open her top desk drawer, procuring a yellow object nearly swallowed by her palm. She placed it under the food dome and left it for Ojo to retrieve.
Ojo tugged the tray toward him, lifting the lid. "A rubber duckie?" He raised an eyebrow. "The snake adores this thing?"
His first impulse was to chuck it back at her. Was she mocking him? But even he knew it was tempting fate to spurn one of the prisoners, behind bars or not. He slunk forward, wanting to forget the whole exchange. At least the doctor had only asked how many days it was until the trial. That wasn't much at all.