DRAKENFELL — MAXIMUS SOUTH TRANSPORT ROAD
The prison carriage was an insult to engineering, to craftsmanship, and to the concept of prisoner transport as a discipline.
Guinevere Ashford sat on a wooden bench that had been designed by a person who had never sat on anything and hated the people who did. Iron bars surrounded her on all four sides. The wheels beneath the carriage hit every rock on the road with the precision of a driver who was doing it on purpose, and the jolting was rhythmic enough to constitute a pattern and violent enough to constitute assault.
Her manacles were silver-lined. Her wrists were raw. Her hair, which she had managed to maintain at a presentable standard throughout her trial, her sentencing, and her dramatic execution interruption, was losing the war against humidity and incarceration.
She had been yelling at the guards for forty-five minutes.
"I DEMAND A CUSHION."
