by K. C. May
In light of the pardon of Jora Lanseri issued by King Yaphet, the actions of Korlan Rastorfer of Burnd pertaining to the events involving Boden Sayeg are not considered criminal in nature. I do hereby declare that the charge of treason against Korlan Rastorfer is dismissed and its sentence vacated. Furthermore, Korlan Rasterfor is excused for desertion of his duties within the Serocian Legion on the condition that he serves the remainder of his ten-year tour as an Enforcer within the Justice Bureau, with the option to reenlist.
Signed and witnessed this ninth day of Oktobar in the year 3514.
Isak Kyear
Captain of the Fourth Battalion
Serocian Legion
Korlan wiped his eyes and looked up at Milad. “Is this real?” Only then did he notice that neither of them wore mail atop their gray uniforms. They’d always worn mail before.
“It’s real. Get up. You’re one of us now, though you might wish you were dead in a month or two.” Milad laughed, a hollow sound.
Korlan climbed to his feet. Though he was weak from lack of sustenance, he wasn’t going to wait to be told a second time. Clutching the missive as if it were a lifeline to a drowning man, he followed the two enforcers out. As he mounted the stairs, the crumpled letter to his wife in one hand and the parchment in the other, his mind churned. The king had pardoned Jora. Had he also come to realize that the smuggling of godfruit was real? Korlan followed his former jailers through an open room and then outside to a waiting wagon.
“Trond here will show you to your room. After you bathe, he’ll take you to the dining hall.”
Korlan’s rumbling stomach agreed, his appetite now fully restored. “You don’t feed prisoners enough, you know.”
Milad looked at him as if he’d announced that the sun rose in the east.
When they arrived at the Justice Bureau and clambered out of the wagon, he followed Milad and Trond up the steps. Still in his prison blacks, the Truth Sayers they passed in the grand halls stared at him with a cagey look in their eyes, probably wondering why he wasn’t in chains.
“What’s happened to Jora since she was pardoned?”
“She has returned to her duties as a novice,” Milad said. “For now.”
Korlan exhaled in relief. “What do you mean ‘for now?’”
“Her pardon is conditional, but I doubt she’ll honor the terms. We were instructed by Elder Tornal to keep an eye on her if she leaves the grounds. As soon as we have proof she’s meddling in forbidden affairs...” Milad made a rough cutting sound in the back of his throat as he pulled one finger across his neck.
He opened a door at the end of one long corridor and stepped onto the top landing of a brick staircase. The only light was a candle flickering in a sconce. The stairs disappeared into darkness. The justice captain lit another candle, one of several hanging in a basket below the sconce, and started down the stairs. The walls were no longer smooth wood and plaster but rough stone. They walked through an underground tunnel, hard stone beneath their boots and above their heads. Such a narrow walkway, lit only by the flickering candlelight, made Korlan’s heart thump harder and faster. If the way ahead hadn’t been pitch dark, he might have run ahead to reach the end of the tunnel more quickly. He felt the sweat drip down his temples and under his arms, and his hands began to tremble. Milad was talking, but his voice bounced off the stone walls again and again, warping his words into alien sounds that Korlan couldn’t understand. The tunnel seemed to narrow with every step. The ceiling pressed down harder and heavier. It pressed on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. He couldn’t breathe, and he began to gulp at the air, unable to get his fill. At last, a dim glow ahead signaled the end of his torment. They passed a dark recess where it seemed another tunnel converged, and Korlan was grateful they kept going straight, toward the light. His legs quivered as if they would break into a run of their own volition.
He expected another staircase, but instead there was a door at the end of the tunnel. Though there was a basket of unlit candles, Milad kept the one he had. He opened the door and ushered Korlan through, into another hallway. This one was different. The walls were wood and painted plaster, the floors wooden. Not as beautiful as the justice building, but certainly better than the tunnel between them. His heartbeat began to slow, and the crushing weight rolled off his chest. He took a few deep, steadying breaths.
“This is the dormitory,” Milad said as he proceeded down the hallway, seemingly oblivious to the danger they’d just survived. “Elders reside on the first floor, adepts on the second, and so on. The fourth floor has both disciples and novices, but the fifth and sixth floors have only novices. The dining hall is on the ground floor. Elders and adepts eat at the first bell. Disciples and novices eat at the second bell. Enforcers eat at the third bell. Don’t try to enter the dining hall before the third bell, or you’ll answer to me.”
“Enforcers enter and leave only from the tunnel,” Trond said. “Try to stay out of the Sayers’ way as much as possible.”
Challenger’s fists, Korlan thought. He’d already planned to find another way between the buildings. If he had to brave the tunnel by himself, at least he could run.
Milad stopped at a door with the number sixteen painted on it in black, flicked the latch, and pushed it open. “Your room.” He used the candle to light a pair of oil lamps affixed in sconces.
Without windows, the room was dim and stark inside but many times more pleasant than the jail cell or even the tent he’d lived in on the Isle of Shess. Four beds, stacked two high, were dressed neatly in white, a folded gray blanket at the foot of each. Atop the blanket of the upper bunk on the left was a bundle of folded gray cloth. On the far wall was dressing table with a mirror and a metal basin. A stool sat beneath the table.
“You share with Ferth, Minton, and Taster,” Trond said.
“Taster? Is that his name?”
“Naw, we call him that ’cause he likes to taste the blood of the condemned.”
Korlan’s lip curled.
“Get him oriented, dressed, and fed,” Milad said, “then come see me in my office.”
“Yes, sir,” Trond said. He snapped a salute. Milad looked at Korlan expectantly. When Korlan raised his hand to his brow, the justice captain returned the salute, spun on his heel, and left.
“Bathing room is down the hall to the left, last door on the left. If there’s no one there, pull the bell cord. Hot water is delivered to your door at six o’clock every morning and evening. Linens are washed on the fifteenth of the month. Miss it and you sleep on dirty bedclothes for another month. The dining hall is on the ground floor. Third bell, remember. You’ll have some time to bathe and dress. If the uniform doesn’t fit, let me know.” Trond looked down at Korlan’s feet. “Give me one of your boots. I’ll take it to the supply manager to match it while you’re bathing.”
Korlan balanced on one foot and tugged his boot off the other, then handed it to Trond. “Can’t I wear my own boots?”
“No.” Trond turned to leave but then paused. “One more thing. The staff members here dress in white. If you need something, ask one of them, but they’re not whores, in case you were wondering.”
I wasn’t, he thought.
“In other words, keep your hands to yourself. You’ll have two nights free to visit the brothel.”
“I understand.”
After Trond left, Korlan tugged off his other boot, grabbed the uniform, and headed down the hall to the bathing room. It was empty but for an elderly woman arranging stacks of towels in a cupboard.
She turned when he entered, and her eyes went round. She took a step backwards, her hand shooting to her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Just got here and need a bath.”
“But the blacks...” she said, her voice warbling.
He looked down at his clothing. “Yah, just a misunderstanding.” He showed her the clean uniform. “See?”
She visibly relaxed but still looked at h
im warily as she pointed to the opposite corner. “There’s clean water in the last one. Soap’s in the basket. Leave the damp towel on the floor.” She tossed him a clean towel and pointed to the bell cord in the corner. “Ring if you need anything.”
The heavy clang of a bell emanated from somewhere above. The first dinner bell. His stomach growled in response. “How long do I have before the third bell?”
“An hour,” she said and left.
The bathing room was roughly thirty feet square with three rows of four metal tubs each. Against one wall was a stove, but no water sat boiling on top. He went to the tub she’d indicated. It had about four inches of water in the bottom, clear when he got in and gray when he got out. Feeling more refreshed than he had in nearly two weeks, he dried himself and dressed, then padded back to his room, where he found his old boots by the bed and a pair of shiny black ones beside it. They weren’t new boots, he discovered when he slid his feet into them. The cynic in him wondered if the previous owner was one of the enforcers Jora killed in Three Waters. It didn’t matter. They fit well enough and would mold to his own feet in time.
The uniform shirt, on the other hand, was tight in the arms, and the trousers were loose in the waist. He didn’t know whether it was worth complaining about. His reflection in the mirror made him look fit and strong, the way an officer of the law was supposed to look.
The door opened without warning, and Trond stuck his head in. “Good. You’re dressed. Come with me. You need to take your oath.”
Korlan walked with Trond back up the hallway toward the door that led to the tunnel. Just thinking about it made him break out in a sweat. He breathed in and out steadily, huffing through his mouth and focusing on timing each breath with his right foot striking the hard ground as the two made their way through that awful, dark tunnel to the justice building.
“The justice building closes at nine o’clock every night and opens at sunrise,” Trond said. “You’ll be assigned to sit at the front door one night per month.”
“Is that the only way in?”
“No, there’s a gate on the side of the building. We lock and unlock it at the same time, but the public’s not allowed to use it.” Trond pointed to the darkened recess they’d passed earlier. “There’s a tunnel that leads out of the complex, but the door is blocked. Milad doesn’t want anyone going out at night to visit the brothels or taverns.” He winked with a sly grin.
Korlan wondered whether the wink was meaningful. Had this been his old Legion unit, there would have been a handful of men sneaking out every night, himself among them. The dark crampedness of the tunnel made him long for an ale.
“Say, you all right? Are you afraid of the dark?” Trond asked, looking him over.
“No, small spaces.”
The enforcer chuckled. “So is Gruesome. You wouldn’t know it to look at him or talk to him, but he gets all sweaty and quiet in here.”
“Who’s Gruesome?”
Trond was silent for a moment. “I forget his real name. He’s just... Gruesome. You’ll find out why we call him that once you’ve been here a while.”
Charming, he thought.
“I’ll never forget the first time he showed me how to pluck and serve a fellow. The gleam in his eyes made me just as queasy as the punishment itself.”
Korlan wasn’t sure he wanted to know what plucking and serving was, but he asked anyway.
“Friend, I suggest you wait a couple of weeks, steel your gut a bit before you ask me that, but if you really want to know, I’ll tell you.”
“Never mind,” Korlan said. “I’ll wait.”
“It changes you,” Trond said quietly, as if to himself. “Having to do something like that to another man.”
Finally, his torment came to an end at the top of the stairs, and he rolled his head and shoulders to loosen them. Trond led the way to a room not far from the door, where a slender, bald adept with a sharp nose sat behind a desk. She looked up but didn’t return Korlan’s smile.
“Korlan Rastorfer?” she asked. On his nod, she said, “You’ll need to take your oath as a justice officer. Can you read?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She handed him a worn sheet of paper. “State your name, and then read it aloud.”
“Korlan Rastorfer. I hereby promise to hold the truth in the highest regard, to dedicate the remaining years of my service to Serocia to upholding the law and executing the punishments of convicted criminals decided by the elders of the Justice Bureau in the name of the king. This I swear upon the honor of my family name, Serocia, and the god Retar.”
“I witnessed Korlan Rastorfer’s oath,” the registrar said. She looked at Trond, who repeated her words, giving witness.
“Welcome to hell,” Trond said, slapping his back.
Funny. That’s what Corporal Pharson said when I joined the Legion. He pushed a dim smile to his face and followed Trond back through the tunnel to the dormitory.
“How long have you been an enforcer?” he asked Trond, partly to keep his mind off the fact that the tunnel was collapsing and he would soon be crushed.
“Twelve years,” Trond said.
“Why so long? Did you reenlist?”
“No. My sentence was lifelong service. You got off easy with only having to serve the rest of your tour.”
“What was your crime?”
“Crimes,” Trond said. “And you don’t want to know. Let’s just say I’m grateful for the leniency the Legion showed me.”
Korlan focused on the candle flickering at the end of the tunnel. “Do you know what my first assignment’s going to be? I don’t have to whip Jora or anything, do I?”
Trond laughed. “Probably not.”
Two bells rang just as they reached the door. Only half an hour to go. Korlan’s stomach rumbled.
“You should shave your head before dinner,” Trond said. He opened a door, where a half-dozen men and women in white were folding sheets. “Can he get a pitcher of hot water?”
A scrawny man with short, black hair grabbed a metal pitcher, shuffled to the pair of stoves, and ladled steaming water into it. He added a couple of ladles of water from another tub and brought it to Korlan.
“Thanks.” The pitcher’s bottom was hot to the touch, and he carried it carefully by the handle to his room.
“See you in the dining hall at the next bell.” Trond left him to his business.
Korlan found a sharpened razor in the dressing table’s drawer, and a bar of soap was in the wash basin. He poured water in, lathered his head, and began to shave. He’d hated shaving his head at first but grew to appreciate the convenience of baldness after a few weeks. He had a good ten days’ growth on his head that he scraped off as carefully as his trembling arms could manage. He felt the sting of the razor a few times and blotted away the blood with the black prisoners’ shirt he’d left on the floor.
Finally, the dinner bell rang, and he ran upstairs, joining a stream of other enforcers. Most of them paid him little attention, but several eyed him up and down. Fewer still asked his name.
He loaded his bowl with food, as much as he could stuff in it, and took his tray to the large, open room that grew louder by the minute. Trond waved him over. Korlan shrugged to himself and joined Trond and four others at the table. He wouldn’t have chosen a man like Trond as his friend under most circumstances, but this was his life now. He welcomed every friend, every tip, every piece of advice he could get that would help him get through the next eight-and-a-half years.
Trond introduced him around the table and was greeted with a nod or begrudging “hello.” They certainly weren’t a friendly bunch, nor talkative. They shoveled food into their mouths as if they were every bit as hungry as Korlan was. Still, Korlan finished his meal before anyone else at the table.
“Is it all right to get seconds?” he asked.
His companions snorted. “You can try,” Trond said.
Justice Captain Milad paused behind one of the enforcers as he walked
past with an empty bowl. “If you’re finished, Rastorfer, let’s talk about your first assignment.”
Korlan got to his feet and clambered over the bench, then picked up his tray. “I’m ready. Where do I take this?”
“Over here.” Milad led the way to a table where dirty bowls were stacked. Korlan added his bowl to the stack, tossed his spoon into the nearby bin, and set the tray on another table. Then he joined Milad in the corridor. “Come with me.”
Korlan followed Milad back through the tunnel. Though the justice captain wasn’t one for idle chatter, Korlan needed to occupy his mind during the minutes it took to traverse the tunnel.
“What’s my first assignment?” he asked.
“You’ll be guarding a couple of convicts during their sentencing trial. It’s easy work. You just stand behind them and make sure they don’t try to flee or attack any of the Sayers.”
“Got it.” Korlan hadn’t expected such an easy assignment, but it made sense they would want to test him before trusting him with more difficult tasks, and that was fine with him.
Chapter 8
Disciple Bastin was seated on a bench by the door to the dormitory waiting when Jora arrived. Two textbooks were stacked beside her.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jora said. “First the dominee–”
“I’m not interested in your excuses,” Bastin said. “You’ve wasted enough of my time already. Tell me what you remember about the six types of law.”
Jora sat on the other end of the bench and patted her thighs. “Well, let’s see. There’s law of property, family, business, finance, body, and kingdom.”
“Corpora,” Bastin corrected. “If a man hits his wife, which law family is broken?”
“Both family and corpora,” Jora said. “I remember that stuff.”
“All right, what about a man who steals another man’s horse and sells it to a third?”
“He’s broken laws of property and finance.”
“Good. Which carries the harsher penalty?”
