After a few days of imprisonment, Gord had completely overcome his initial shock and horror, and he began to think: If actual escape was not possible, then how could he better his condition? The others confined with him were a mixed bag indeed. Old women, children, even an ancient gnome seemingly near death. In the time he had been in the workhouse, only one sickly boy had died in the cell, and some stringy-haired girl had been incautious and was killed by a fall into an acid vat. That wasn’t exactly encouraging to Gord, no matter how he turned it over in his mind. Gord wasn’t robust, and who knew when fatigue would make him careless? Something had to be done, fast!

He considered his world-fellow prisoners, the cell room, the guard. Only one prospect seemed to offer any possibility. If he could somehow be assigned to a still weaker group, the one composed of the nearly feeble and the maimed, then he thought his work would be lighter and certainly not dangerous. Gord had seen the line of shuffling, hopping, crutch-supported workers from the floor beneath his cell being led to and from a workroom within the prison itself. This idea offered promise!

Gord did not seriously consider maiming himself to get into the group, but his aversion to pain and infirmity was not the main reason. He had heard that self-inflicted disability brought a whipping and consignment to a dungeon cell for the condemned, where neither food nor water were to be had. Supposedly, the rat-gnawed bones of the former tenant were removed by the newcomer as part of the final lesson to be learned. Gord shuddered at the thought of slow death by thirst and starvation, while rats nibbled off toes and fingers. So, injury was out. Likewise, weakness couldn’t be feigned, and neither could age. That left only sickness. But in the workhouse there was no care for the ill-no cleric, no physician, no medicine, nothing. Prisoners either got better or died. Those unable to work were not fed, although a companion might share water and a morsel of food-a stupid thing to do, thought Gord, for it only increased the benefactor’s chance of being the next to go.