Faustben, Skandra decided, was not the sort of place where one took their ease.

Since he'd come here - ostensibly to see his old friend Ithacles - he'd been punched, nearly stabbed, clubbed, and dragged. His head ached like a thousand soldier's feet after the hard desert march. His hands were sore from laying about him like hammers. And his purse was empty. The worst of it was, he'd known for a fact that he could have diced with those idiots all night and never lost a round, but there'd been that fellow with a cigar chomped between his teeth. Smelled like four-day old cheese curd and looked like it, too. To amuse himself Skandra was spinning the tin cup he'd been given on his finger, twirling it forward and backward, listening to the odd whistle that it generated while he glared through the bars at his jailer. This fellow, too, could have smelled like something more pleasant. Then again prisoners would not appreciate it it. What occupied his thoughts, and the reason for his tension, was simple. He was fairly certain one of the men he'd been gambling with was a soldier in the palace of the king. And he was fairly certain that fellow had been talking about selling himself to the highest bidder.

( His memory was so good, after a beating like that. )