The morning came slowly and painfully, and one by one the ever present noises of the city leaked into the comfortable darkness of Jonanthan’s sleep until there was only pain. It started with a hammering pain deep behind his eyes that banged in time with the distant forges, and then it was joined by a slow aching throb in his temples that felt like the train yard had installed a new track right through his skull. There were others though too. It was a symphony of grating and rasping, all underlined by deep nausea. It was a new sort of awful experience in a month where he’d already dealt with several types of agony, whose existence he hadn’t even suspected until he’d been assaulted by them. This one at least had a name though. He’d heard Marcus use it before on bad mornings when he was out too late with his friends the night before. Hangover. 

There weren’t many cures for it beyond sleeping and suffering, though his brother had sworn by the hair of the dog. Drinking more poison to counteract the effects of already being poisoned seemed a little backward to Jonathan though, so he crawled out of bed for a long drink from his pitcher of water before once again fleeing to the flimsy shelter of his sheets. For once he was grateful for just how dark this stuffy building was. He’d long since gotten used to the heat, but right now what little light there was seemed to pierce his eyes and lance straight into his brain, so he did the only sensible thing he could think of. He shut his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. 

It wouldn’t come though. That would have been too easy. Instead he lay there, tossing and turning giving him plenty of time to examine every ache and pain that his body had to offer. Even those that had nothing to do with his head like his ribs seemed to hurt more under the magnifying effect of the hangover. The burns throbbed in time with the beating in his skull too, though there didn’t seem to be any blisters, so at least they hadn’t gotten any worse over night. For a few hours last night nothing had hurt - not even the fresh burns he’d gotten saving Kaspov and some of his crew, but no pain last night for a few hours only to experience amplified pain like this for who knew how long, hardly seemed like a worthwhile trade off to Jonathan. He was sure he’d never understand why people chose to do this on a nightly basis, and swore he’d never drink again. 

Sleep didn’t come, even after Jonathan had tried to pull some of the fire out of his body to see if that would help with the pain. Just trying was agony though, and he quickly gave it up. It turned out that attempting even the most basic magic was a terrible idea if you couldn’t concentrate. So he gave up and laid there waiting to die. By the time sleep was finally threatening to take him once more, the door to the warehouse flew open. He cringed from the light and sound, and his whole body tensed in frustration as he turned away from the sudden source of pain. Of course Maxom would pick today of all days to move an early load, he cursed. He might charge him every week for this scrap of floorspace, but the rest of the warehouse still did just what it was supposed to: holding crates until whoever owned them wanted them somewhere else. Jonathan lay there willing whoever was going to move them to do it quietly, but after a short delay there was still none of the clatter of wood or tromping of feet that Jonathan would have expected. Instead there was a long silence before a voice that was almost as unfamiliar to Wenlish as the voice was to Jonathan said, “Jonathan Shaw. Get dressed and come with me.” 

Jonathan rolled over and looked at the blurry silhouette until it resolved into the shape of a dwarf. Just the act of looking and understanding hurt, but a few seconds later the details became clear - it was a fully armed and armored stranger, standing five feet from the foot of his bed. “What’s going on?” Jonathan asked, sitting up. It was the armor that got his attention. Plenty of dwarves carried axes or brands on them at all times, but armor was rare, and a full suit of shiny platemail like this - well, that had to mean official business. 

“Yer bein’ summoned by the magistrate,” the dwarf answered simply. “Either ye come with me peacefully or I drag ye back. Makes no difference to me.” It was that indifference that scared Jonathan enough to slice through his painfully fogged brain. Instead of asking another question or two as he’d originally intended, he reached for his pants. It had to mean more business with the law of this city, but for the life of him, Jonathan couldn’t think of anything he’d done wrong recently. He’d only just recovered from his beating, and saved the train, he… That had to be it, he thought, his mind only slowly discovering this morning what would have been blindingly obvious on any other day. Perhaps he was being officially recognized for the service he’d done Khagrumer or thanked by an official. That would be just like Kaspov too, he decided - telling him to sleep in before organizing some kind of ceremony or award to honor him for what he did. 

Jonathan got up and ready as fast as possible, which wasn’t terribly quickly considering the way his head throbbed, and followed the dwarf. Together they made a beeline toward the Temple of Law. It was a route Jonathan was starting too get too familiar with, he decided as the imposing building came into view. He never wanted to give the dwarves cause to bring him here again, for good or ill. If he had to stay in this damn city, with its narrow streets and constant heat then he at least wanted to be left alone. From now on he decided he would do nothing that would draw the attention of anyone. He’d just keep his head down - enjoy his time with Kaspov’s crew, and try very hard to stay out of trouble. 

Inside he was left in a sort of waiting room, and after a quick look around the room at the fact that most of the other people in here were in manacles, his stomach began to sink. There was no good reason to be in a room like this. It was made out of white stone just like the rest of the building, but lined with benches for people like him to wait for their case. At least that was what he thought until he noticed the brackets at regular intervals on the walls and floors. This was a room for criminals that needed to be restrained - not citizens with legal business. He’d clearly done something wrong, as far as the dwarves were concerned, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of what. After a few minutes he didn’t even bother trying - he just leaned back and tried to take a nap while he waited for whatever was going to happen next. 

It turned out that Jonathan didn’t have to wait long. Another guard came to take him to a courtroom soon enough. This one was no gentler than the first, but as long as Jonathan followed his gruff orders, he didn’t seem inclined to hurt him, which was about the only bright side he could find just now. Many of the other dwarves in the waiting room looked much worse for wear, and Jonathan wondered what sort of crime a city like this dealt with on a daily basis when it wasn’t busy tormenting and persecuting men like this. 

Jonathan took in the courtroom as best he could with his throbbing skull, but even before the proceedings started, he spied Fedon, and knew that it wasn’t a good sign. That further confirmed that this was about the train at least. Jonathan couldn’t think of anything else the scarred dwarf would be able to come running to the court for. He met the other dwarf’s stare, and took some consolation in the fact that at least Fedon’s new beard was growing in thin and patchy. It would be months or years before it covered up the fresh pink scars that Jonathan had given him. 

Jonathan stood there while the proceedings started in dwarvish. This time he could pick out a stray word here and there. Man. Railyard. Train. Steam. Law. Nothing that helped to explain the proceedings though. Most of the words Jonathan knew at this point were for tools, food, or insults. Anything practical was still entirely beyond him. 

Eventually one of the dwarves standing near the magistrate addressed him in his own tongue though, “The court charges ye as guilty of using magic. How do ye plead?” 

“Magic? I admit that I channeled fire to save—” Jonathan tried to explain. 

“Let the record show that the defendant pleads guilty to using magic inside the city of Khaghrumer,” the dwarf said in Wenlish, before presumably repeating it for all parties that couldn’t speak his language in dwarven again. 

“Wait - that’s not what I said,” Jonathan said, disputing the way he’d phrased that, but they ignored him. 

After that there was a short but heated discussion as a number of robed dwarves spoke to each other and reviewed a few pages in  one of the books that were open before them before pronouncing “By his own admission the defendant is found guilty and will be sentenced to death.” 

“Guilty!?” Jonathan asked, confused and horrified at the very mention of the word death. It was the same sentence they’d pronounced for his brother Marcus in this room months before, and now they were declaring that he would meet the same fate. “How can I be guilty of breaking any law? I was only saving dwarves from being killed when the boiler failed. I was—”

“The defendant will be silent,” the robed dwarf admonished him while the magistrate merely glared. 

“I will be silent when I know what law I’ve been accused of breaking,” Jonathan insisted. “Don’t I have the right to at least know that much?” 

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse for breaking it,” the robed dwarf said, louder this time, almost at the verge of yelling. “The defendant will be silent or he will be restrained.” The guards were now moving towards him, but Jonathan wasn’t going to back down. Even if they were going to restrain him, or beat him, - even if his head was going to explode from the pain caused by all this noise, he wasn’t about to meekly roll over and let them kill him when he’d done nothing wrong. Doing the right thing on the surface had gotten him exiled to the awful place, and he would be damned if he was going to let them kill him for doing it again without putting up a fight.

“I am innocent,” Jonathan yelled, even as a pair of dwarven guards flanked him and one of them produced a length of rope.  Whether they meant to bind him with it or gag him, he didn’t know, but he would keep saying his peace until they stopped him. “I’ve broken no laws, and demand to speak with my foreman! You hear that? I won’t—” That was as far as he got. As he stood up to continue his point, one of the guards gave him a rabbit punch to the gut, doubling him over in pain. While he struggled to catch his breath the other gagged him tightly with the rope before he was dragged from the room, kicking and struggling against their iron grip even though it hurt like hell to do it.