Ravnica

by Cory Herndon

  Some of the guards nodded to Borca and Kos, including a few reptilian viashino. Most wojeks were humans—always had been, probably because of all the species on Ravnica, humans seemed to be the best at dealing with others not of their own kind. Humans had the shortest life spans on the plane but made up for it through fruitful multiplication. There were just a lot of them, and over ten thousand years of peace, the human population had surpassed all others on the plane. But there was certainly no “humans only” clause hidden in the Wojek Officer’s Manual, and many nonhumans served in the ranks. Kos, despite having picked a fight with a minotaur and a goblin only a couple of hours earlier ostensibly because of their species, was not a prejudiced man. His job, his upbringing, and a 110 years in the cultural potpourri of the city meant such thoughts never crossed his mind.

  No, Kos bore no arbitrary hatred for any race or species. He did arbitrarily hate the Rakdos Guild, necessary evil or not, and with good reason. And occasionally, for reasons not quite as good, he drank too much bumbat and picked a fight with anyone or anything that reminded him of a Rakdos cultist.

  The long hall ended in a wide set of gold-plated double doors. Another pair of guards, both human, flanked the entrance to the central meeting chamber of the wojek high commanders—the brass. The door bore a scene of familiar fiery battle between an axe-wielding cyclops and a stone titan, another take on the legendary Clash of Two Champions Kos had seen reenacted in part at the theater earlier that day.

  The creak of opening doors broke Kos’s train of thought. The titan granted the cyclops a reprieve, and the massive doors swung inward to reveal a cavernous hall Kos hadn’t seen since he’d graduated from the Wojek Academy and served his own guard time here. A breeze followed the two ’jeks into the hall and set a few of the carved dragons and golden angels moving just enough to make their looming shadows writhe on the domed ceiling as though they were both sinister and alive.

  The brass’s faces were lit from below by spheres set into the long, wide table before them, elevated above the rest of the hall. The small, incomplete assembly sat patiently—the brass rarely met all at once, for reasons ranging from safety to sheer logistics—in a silence that Kos tried not to find ominous. Rows of benches lined either side of the wide passage that led to the commanders at the other end.

  It reminded Kos of a courtroom or a temple, a feeling reinforced by two unexpected figures that stood at the rear on either side of the brass. On the left, a blue-eyed, blue-skinned vedalken in the robes of the Azorius Senate stood testing the extreme limits of impassivity. And not a junior senator, either, the scarlet stripes that cut diagonally across the sigil of the High Judges marked this vedalken as both a legislator and a prosecutorial lawmage. The lawmage Kos could understand, but he could not fathom the presence of the second figure that stood opposite the vedalken. The tallish being had the shape of a lanky human male but was encased from head to toe in a single contiguous garment of white cloth that also covered face, hands, and body. The garment ended in a robe that extended beyond whatever feet there might have been, and it floated just above the floor. It was a quietman, one of the interchangeable servants of the Selesnya Conclave. If a quietman was here, the holy collective was watching. He guessed he shouldn’t be too surprised. With the convocation so close, the quietmen seemed to be everywhere.

  Something about it all didn’t seem right. Kos’s stomach churned, and he wiped cold sweat from his brow. He tried not to cough. He probably should have stopped at the fourth mug of bumbat.

  The guard on the right turned on one heel and stepped in ahead of Kos and Borca to herald their arrival. “Lieutenant Agrus Kos and Sergeant Bell Borca!” echoed in the chamber as he led them in. The herald marched to the end of the track, turned, and stood at rapt attention.

  No, not just commanders, Kos corrected himself. Shift Captain Phaskin sat closest to the Selesnya Conclave representative on Kos’s right, next to Jebun Kirescu, section commander of the Tenth. On Kirescu’s right, Ninth Section Commander Sulli Valenco grinned and shot him a wink.

  Sulli looked good. She’d earned her rank and at fifty was the youngest of the assembled brass. True, her rise through the ranks and the work it took to get to that dais before Kos hadn’t helped their failed marriage, but he couldn’t blame her for having ambition. Who didn’t?

  On Sulli’s right was a bald, dark man with two white shocks of curly hair over each softly pointed ear. That had to be Forenzad of the Third, another former street-patrolling lieutenant who had risen to a command post and had been named for his single elf ancestor. Kos had only met him a few times before, at official functions, but had heard nothing but good about the work he was doing in a difficult section—the Rakdos and Gruul were most common there, and interclan violence erupted almost every other day. Between Forenzad and two other human commanders that Kos guessed were Gerava of the Second and Helsk of the Fifth by their insignia, sat the commander-general himself.

  Commander-General Vict Gharti had held his position for the last twenty-seven years. Kos had seen four commanders-general come and go before him. Under Gharti, the wojeks had for the first time in millennia actually seen a reduction in the district crime rate for ten years running. Even Borca never had an unkind word to say about “Iron Vict,” which was the commander-general’s not-terribly-original nickname among the wojek rank and file. He’d earned the moniker in his first year as supreme commander of the League when he personally led a raid on a rogue Rakdos enclave that turned into a near disaster when the home team summoned a band of fire elementals too close to their stash of mana grenades. The commander-general had used his own body to block a gap in the squad’s impromptu junk-pile shelter and saved everyone inside. Somehow in the process he only received light burns and a few scratches. Gharti then personally fought his way to the furious Rakdos head priest and defeated the troll in unarmed combat, saving the lives of his remaining squad and forcing the enclave to leave the district peacefully. Over the years, Iron Vict continued to take charge of key high-profile investigations. Kos didn’t impress easily, but Gharti impressed him.

  Kos didn’t like where this was going. He’d walked out of one theater and straight into another, except this one was going to make him pay somehow.

  “Sergeant,” Gharti said, “please have a seat.”

  “Yes sir,” Borca said, bluster gone and replaced with a sudden attack of nerves as he scuttled like a crab to sit on the inside edge of the third row of benches.

  “Lieutenant Kos,” the commander-general said, “thank you for joining us. I trust you have recuperated from your injuries?” Gharti’s face was serious and commanding, but Kos saw a glimmer of humor in the old lawman’s eye. Kos realized he hadn’t even looked in a mirror since leaving the bar. His uniform was open, his useless belt still hung over one shoulder, and he had to have at least one black eye by now. Kos coughed, then composed himself and stood ramrod straight.

  “I have recuperated, Commander-General. My apologies if I kept you waiting. We had an interesting bust this morning.” “Interesting” was wojek code for the chaos that ensued when unplanned events turned a simple operation into a dangerous mess. “It’s an honor to stand before this assemblage, sir. How may I serve?”

  “At ease, Lieutenant,” Gharti said. “I’m not your drill sergeant, and you’re not a guard anymore. It’s safe to say no one here is.” This observation elicited chuckles from all but the two visitors, who remained aloof and silent. The commander-general sat back a bit in his high-backed chair. “Lieutenant, I don’t have to tell you we do not have an easy job, the League. In fact, it’s the toughest service in the whole Boros Legion. Why? Because we’re not soldiers, who make war. We’re protectors of the peace. We’re public servants. We’re here to guard the people of this city and the guilds that make it work. We’re not serving a single guild or nation. We serve all of them. We serve the city. It’s not just an axiom, Agrus, it’s the truth. And someone who can competently and courageously carry out that duty ind
ependently is unfortunately rare. Especially in this unique time in our history, we find the leadership stretched thin and our streets packed to the gills with decamillennial visitors. We need ’jeks like that to step forward.”

  “Kos, sir,” Kos finally said when the commander-general’s pause had dragged on long enough to convince him he should respond. “That is, I prefer—People call me Kos, if they call me anything. Only Mrs. Molliya and my ex-wives called me Agrus. Sir.”

  The commander-general smirked, and both Phaskin and Kirescu looked like they wanted to leap over the conference table and strangle the lieutenant. From the way Phaskin had scrunched up his sharp nose, Kos figured they could also smell the bumbat on him, but he didn’t care.

  “Relax, Agrus,” said Valenco, who actually was one of his ex-wives. “This isn’t an inquiry. In fact, if you can’t guess why you’re here, I’m not sure you’re the ’jek I told them you were.”

  “I can just imagine what you told them I was,” Kos said.

  “Please, enlighten us,” said Helsk, speaking for the first time in a gruff, throaty voice charred by soot from the foundries that dotted his section of Ravnica.

  “You’re kicking me upstairs.”

  “What makes you say that?” Gharti asked.

  “A few things. In order of likely importance, I’m guessing that you, Commander-General, are planning on retiring soon. I’m guessing that Section Commander Valenco has been nominated to replace you and accepted, with the blessing of the brass, since she’s had at least two glasses of the vintage she saves for special occasions.”

  “How did you know that?” Valenco blurted.

  “There’s a glass there in front of you, Sulli,” Kos said. “And your cheeks are red.”

  “Please continue, Lieutenant,” Valenco said. Her face was red, but with embarrassment, not anger. He hoped.

  “That leaves a vacuum in the ranks of section commanders, and at a time when we’re seeing crime on the street rise with the approach of the decamillennial, as you pointed out, sir,” Kos said.

  “Section commanders sometimes switch sections, but it’s more common for them to stay put. The League values local experience. It’s why I’ve never left the Tenth,” he continued. It wasn’t the only reason, but a half-truth was better than lying to the brass. “A shift captain like Phaskin, now he might step up to the challenge, especially if the section in question is one close to his own, and the Ninth and Tenth share a border. He’s a natural for Commander Valenco’s current post. Besides, Phaskin looked just a bit more annoyed with me when I was stumbling over my own name a minute ago than anyone else, and that tells me whatever is happening is really important to him. Add in the fact that I still haven’t heard a peep about that retirement refusal I submitted a month ago, and I get the distinct impression you’re about to offer me a promotion.”

  “Not bad,” Gharti said. “You did leave a few things out.”

  “I’m not done, Commander-General,” Kos said. He turned and nodded to the vedalken. “Senator Nhillosh, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Lieutenant,” the vedalken replied, nodding in kind.

  “Promotions at this level require a witness from the Azorius Senate. I’m honored that you have elected to be that witness.” Kos turned and jerked a thumb to the fat wojek seated behind him. “And since Borca’s here, I’m guessing you’re going to give him my stretch when you put me behind Phaskin’s desk. Finally, there’s the fact that you felt the need to bring half the brass into assembly just to meet with me, which is supposed to impress me. And that way there are more of you to tell me how this is some kind of destiny I’m fated to follow, in between reminders of how much I’ve accomplished. Past tense.” Kos crossed his arms. “Am I close?”

  “Eerily,” Valenco said.

  “The one thing I can’t figure out is our silent friend here.”

  “I was wondering when you were going to ask. The Church has asked us all to join in the spirit of joyous cooperation as we near the decamillennial and the celebratory convocation,” Gharti said. “This representative is here to observe and record our preparations for the historical record.” The commander-general nodded to the quietman, who did not respond in any visible or audible way.

  “Historical? What’s so historical about a promotion?” Kos asked.

  “They are interested in all history as we approach the convocation, and the League welcomes the Selesnya Conclave’s presence,” Gharti said.

  “Right,” Kos said.

  “You’ve got field experience, Lieutenant,” Gharti said, bluntly changing the subject, “but you’re untried in administration. Your promotion—all of the promotions and events you described, for that matter—will be effective in five days, at which time you will accept the reins from Shift Captain Phaskin. The last day of this millennium will be your first in your new position. You have the interim to train your replacement.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Kos said, “no.”

  “Your directness is appreciated,” the commander-general said with mild, controlled impatience. “You doubt our judgment in this promotion?”

  “Of course not, sir,” Kos said. “That’s not my call to make. But if you insist on promoting me to captain, I will have to regretfully accept retirement. That is my call. If you ask me to take a desk, that’s my answer.”

  “Excuse me?” Phaskin blurted. Gharti looked genuinely shocked, an expression worn to varying degrees by everyone in the chamber except Kos himself and Sulli Valenco, who knew him better than the rest of them.

  “I’m a wojek investigating lieutenant. That’s where I believe I can best serve the League,” Kos said, barely able to believe the sound of his own voice, but the situation had driven him to make a decision he’d hoped to avoid—and had for the last two decades. “You’re right, I know next to nothing about administration. I’m an investigator, and I think I’m good at it. I mentioned my arrest record before, and I’m not boasting when I say it’s the best in the Tenth.”

  “One wonders what you could accomplish if you stayed away from the Backwater,” Kirescu said, but Kos ignored him.

  “Sir, to be confined to a desk while others go out into the field and do the real work—no offense—that’s not a life I want. I’ve been up for retirement for years now, and if this is your final decision, I don’t know what else I can do.”

  Kos felt one of his knees begin to buckle, and he fought to maintain physical discipline. Earlier that day, he’d almost been killed by a phony cyclops and had, frankly, enjoyed it, broken bones and all. Now sweat poured down the hollow of Kos’s back and he had a powerful urge to turn, walk out the door, and force Gharti to pry him from his barstool. He fought it as best he could.

  “That’s too bad,” the commander-general said, all trace of humor gone. “Because I’m not letting you retire, Kos.”

  “Sir?” Kos said. “With all due respect, that’s not your decision.”

  “With all due respect, Lieutenant, it is completely my decision,” Gharti said, and unfolded a piece of paper Kos recognized immediately. “I’m granting this request, a request you filed, to refuse retirement. Furthermore, since you long ago exceeded the limit on retirement refusals, the appropriate parties will ignore all further requests. At the risk of sounding juvenile about this, you can’t retire until we say so. The senator, who despite what you guessed, is here as a personal favor to me and has witnessed this order. He can save you the trouble of trying to get the Judges to hear an appeal. They won’t.”

  “But that limit is to make people retire, not keep them from retiring! Uh, sir,” Kos said, frustration finally opening a crack in his composure.

  “Technically, that’s not how the Officer’s Manual is worded,” the commander-general replied. “I admit it’s a loophole worthy of an Orzhov, but I didn’t get where I am by not using the advantages available. We’re drafting you, Kos.” Leaning forward, he added, “And I’m afraid we won’t take no for an answer.” The vedalken, who had not
spoken, turned to regard Kos, and the senator’s blue eyes flashed. It was a common sign of irritation among his people.

  “I’ve got cases. Open cases. Important ones. There’s unsolved ’jek killings going back—” Kos began.

  “Those cases aren’t going away, Kos,” Gharti said. “But younger ’jeks will take care of them.”

  “Sir, that’s … unwise,” Kos said.

  “So is flirting with insubordination, Lieutenant,” Phaskin growled.

  “All right, fine,” Kos said. “But I assume there’s no prohibition on captains taking on field work?”

  “With the number of newcomers the city has seen in the advent of the decamillennial, I imagine it would be not only prudent, but necessary,” Valenco cut in.

  “I agree,” Gharti said. “As time allows. It also goes without saying that you will oversee the shift that gets those remaining open cases. I have faith in you, Lieutenant. The next time we meet, I’d like to call you ‘Captain.’ What do you say?”

  Ever since the day a wojek had single-handedly kept a gang of Gruul raiders from burning down the orphanage that was Kos’s childhood home, all he had ever wanted to be was one of Ravnica’s watchful guardians. If he turned this promotion down, where would he go? He’d never had a family, never been able to keep a wife. He’d be a civilian. A citizen.

  He would be no one.

  And with nothing to keep him from dwelling on the past, he’d be surprised if he lived out the year. A few too many fights at the Backwater could get a man dead, especially if he no longer carried a badge—but once had.

  He really had no choice. Kos should have been proud, but he felt defeated.

  “Sir,” he said, bowing his head, “I accept.”

  “As do I,” Borca said, stumbling as he hopped to Kos’s side and into his own quick bow.