by Sam Sykes
Steady, old man, he warned himself. We’re not here to daydream about girls. Remember, the others are counting on you. If you can request the Venarium for access to their divination methods, you could find Miron in a heartbeat. Less than a heartbeat, even. Focus on that. Not on the woman. What was her name again?
He tried to pretend he didn’t know.
“As it turns out,” a shrill voice, growing shriller, spoke up, “there was quite a bit of paperwork surrounding it.” Dreadaeleon looked back to the desk, where the clerk slammed a heavy sheaf of papers down. “Fortunately, it was thick enough to stand out.”
Dreadaeleon looked down at the papers with his name scrawled upon them. “That can’t be right. My home tower is Tower Ardent, in Muraska. I wouldn’t even get this much paper there.”
“All notations applying to one…”—the clerk adjusted his glasses, mispronounced the name—“‘Dreadaeleon Arethenes’ have been marked for worldwide report, justifying copies to be sent to every tower within reasonable traveling distance. Please acknowledge the receipt of each article of information as it is given to you.”
Dreadaeleon stared down at the sheaf, only later becoming aware that the clerk was looking at him. He blinked.
“What?”
“I’m waiting for you to acknowledge.”
“What, the introduction counts as an article?”
The clerk nodded. Dreadaeleon sighed. He would have cursed, but he doubted that would have counted as acknowledgment.
“Fine,” he said, waving a hand. “Go on.”
The clerk produced a long list, handed it over. “Policy update to Protocol Nine with regard to the handling of heretics of a non-flammable nature. Please acknowledge the receipt of this article.”
“I acknowledge the receipt of this article.”
Another paper, handed over. “Reminder as to contributions past due with summary penalties applied. Please acknowledge the receipt of this article.”
“I acknowledge.”
Another paper. “Reminder as to contributions past due with regard to proposal to study effects of Venarie use in the field. Please acknowledge the receipt of this article.”
“Uh-huh.”
Another. “Venarium newsletter. Please acknowledge the receipt of this article.”
“I thought I told you to stop sending me these things.”
Another. “Absentee vote for Arch Lector of Karnerian Outpost Tower Number Nine, alias ‘Defiant,’ please acknowledge…”
“Sure.”
Another.
And another.
And another still.
He wasn’t aware of the confirmations coming out of his mouth anymore. The clerk didn’t seem aware, either. Through the mechanical routine, Dreadaeleon found his thoughts drifting again.
You know, he thought, it might be possible to sell the idea of using the divinations to find out where she works. Liaja. Technically, divinations aren’t to be used for personal gain, true—it’ll be tough to persuade them that the Khovura are enough of a threat to Venarium sovereignty to let you use them to find Miron. But still, couldn’t you try?
Then again, maybe you should just ask. But what would that look like? A concomitant of the Venarium, scrounging for whores. He bit his lip. Stop that. She’s not a whore. She was just sold into it. It’s the city’s fault.
But it’s their culture, surely. It’s a sound economic theory, applied judiciously. Surely, it’s that not big of a sin, right? And even if it was, you don’t believe in sin because you don’t believe in Gods. And even if you did, what position are you in to judge what they do? What she did?
It’s all fine. Perfectly fine.
He tried to pretend he believed that.
He tried to pretend he was okay with the idea of her, naked and lounging in silks, some strange man’s fat fingers clumsily groping at her body like her breasts were oranges and her legs sausages. He tried to pretend he was all right with the idea of being stuck here in a lobby instead of out there trying to find her so he could tell her he should have done something. He tried to pretend he was perfectly calm and above this and that he wasn’t so boiling with rage at the thought of more tears staining her face that he might just set fire to these papers in his hand and the little mole of a man handing them to him.
He failed.
“… and warrant for summary execution.”
He snapped back to the waking world at that last part. He looked back down to the massive pile of papers in his hand, the topmost of which had several long, bold words printed across it.
Dreadaeleon Arethenes.
Heresy.
Wanted.
“What?” was all he could whisper.
“The notice, concomitant,” the clerk replied flatly, “for the summary trial and execution of one…” He cleared his throat, didn’t bother mispronouncing the name. “Well, you. On charges of heresy, misuse of Venarie, and association in the death of a Senior Librarian.”
He looked up, adjusted his glasses, and smiled.
“Please acknowledge receipt of this article.”
As wizards were considered—by everyone who mattered—to be the paragons of humanity, it stood to reason that their legal processes would be more efficient and logical than the typically murky and fear-based judiciary methods of the common man.
It would come as no surprise, then, that, in their infinite wisdom, the Venarium simply assumed that any charged party was guilty to begin with and placed the onus of proving one was innocent—or at least justified—solely on the accused.
The theory behind the practice was that any member in good standing who was not intelligent enough to execute his own defense was of no use to a profession that demanded the utmost brilliance. And even a member who had violated a law could prove himself innocent if he had enough value to the Venarium.
Dreadaeleon thought it had all sounded much, much more intelligent when he explained it to his companions.
Not so much when he was standing in the middle of an empty chamber at the top of Tower Resolute, three scowling, accusatory glares leveled down upon him from a ten-foot-high podium.
“Dreadaeleon Arethenes,” a voice was handed down to him from a ten-foot-high podium. “Aged twenty. Admitted to the Venarium at age seven. Trained non-communally under the tutelage of one Lector Vemire Rondash. Granted emancipation at age sixteen. Contributing member via field research, specializing in exploration, practical applications, and discovery.”
A silence followed.
Dreadaeleon admitted to being a little struck. He had never had his life so eloquently summarized before. It felt a little discouraging that it took less than fifteen breaths to do it.
“Currently charged with heresy, disregard of protocol, failure to contribute, association with undesirable elements, and implication in the death of a Senior Librarian.”
Ah, he thought, just saving the good parts for last.
“The assembled council of Lectors shall now hear the defense.”
The voice—and the tone that suggested this would be a short trial—belonged to the goateed man sitting at the center of the council. A mess of hard angles, from the sharp corners of his eyes to the hard line of his mouth, Lector Annis seemed very much a man of minimalisms.
Not a spare muscle was used unnecessarily to set his frown, not a single word was gratuitous in his threats, and, if either of those were any indication, not a single moment would be wasted in summarily deciding to execute the boy before him.
“You may begin,” he said.
And another silence followed.
Outside of Dreadaeleon’s head, anyway.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! To his credit, he thought he kept the fear off his face. What are they saying? What heresy? Which heresy? What’d you do? To whom? When? Are they talking about Bralston? Well, obviously. But what else? Netherlings? Dark magic? That time you tried to turn a pig into a woman? Think, old man, think! Wait! Not too hard! They might be able to hear your thoughts. Can they do
that?
The silence grew thick. Not so thick that he couldn’t see the expectant faces of Lector Shinka and Lector Palanis. The former regarded him coolly, her face pristine and unharried between a frame of meticulously trimmed hair. The latter seemed to have been saving every drop of suspicion and spite in him for this moment, coiled over wringed hands, mouth hidden behind knotted fingers, brows set in a deep furrow.
They’re all waiting for me to screw up, to confess, to say I’m irredeemable and should be harvested and buried in the tower to serve as an example for future students. I’m not going to do it. No. I’m not going to. Right. So what are you going to do? Cry for mercy? No, look at them, that won’t work. Just cry, then? That might.
He glanced to the tiny desk beside the three great podiums. The clerk sat there, attentively jotting down everything, even when no one was speaking. What was he writing?
“The accused looks guilty,” most likely. “Probably going to start crying any moment.”
Not for the first time, Dreadaeleon glanced back to the doors leading out of the chamber. They were unguarded, of course. Three Lectors of the Venarium didn’t need guards. If he tried anything, they would kill him with a thought.
“Let’s begin with the obvious,” Lector Shinka spoke, her voice soft and sharp. “You departed on independent field study barely over two years ago, according to the records of Tower Ardent. In that time, you’ve not reported to any tower nor offered any contribution to the Venarium, yet you’ve managed to accumulate an impressive list of charges.” A single brow rose. “Exactly what have you been doing?”
“Uh, if it pleases the, uh, council,” he stumbled over his reply, “I’ve been in the company of adventurers.”
Lector Shinka nodded, as though this explained everything. Lector Palanis muttered scornfully, as though this were some great sin. Lector Annis frowned deeper, as though this justified the use of the muscle.
“It should be considered a crime in and of itself,” Lector Palanis muttered behind his clenched fists. “All the power and responsibility Venarie imparts and you chose to waste it in pursuit of gold. Magic was intended for greater purposes than simple mercenary work.”
“With respect, Lector,” Dreadaeleon replied, struggling to find composure in his voice, “‘adventuring’ is not quite the same as mercenary work.”
It’s much less respectable.
He chose not to say that.
“Continue.” Lector Shinka inclined her head.
“First and foremost, I considered it a more ethical approach at the time,” Dreadaeleon said, clearing his throat. “My inquiries into the subject suggested that mercenary companies typically sold their loyalty to a nation, such as Karneria or Saine, while adventurers tended to accept work and coin from independent clients. As members of the Venarium are forsworn from pledging their loyalty to any country, I suspected there would be less of a conflict of interest in an adventurer’s company.”
“Logical,” she said, another brow risen.
“And yet, the Sovereignty Pact exists to prevent the irresponsible use of magic,” Lector Palanis muttered. “No king, emperor, or priest can be trusted with our power. I fail to see how placing it at the disposal of a profession only slightly more reputable than thieves and murderers could be considered more ethical.”
Dreadaeleon swallowed hard, looking at Lector Annis, who said nothing and did not move.
“It was that very reputation that drove me to seek their company,” the boy spoke swiftly. “I was certain that an adventurer’s knack for trouble would lead me to situations in which I could see the effects of all different schools and practices. I learned much about the practical limitations of magic use in the field.”
“So we heard.”
Lector Annis’s voice was quiet, his movement precise as he held aloft a single scrap of paper.
“Our information on you is limited, concomitant,” he said, “but what we gathered from the observations of a Senior Librarian is that the limits of your abilities have not progressed beyond basic evocations.”
“Mere channeling of fire and lightning is the work of an initiate, at best,” Palanis said, sneering.
“Even if we were to assume the Librarian’s information faulty,” Shinka said softly, “it would seem reasonable to conclude that, if an adventurer’s life is as haphazard as suggested, you would have pushed yourself well beyond the ability to escape unharmed. Surely, you would have contracted a disease like the Decay or Spontaneous Eruption.”
“The diseases that afflict us are not ones from which we recover with milk and tea,” Palanis growled. “And if your experiments produced acceptable results, we should have received the information long, long ago.”
“And, of course,” Annis spoke forcefully and pointedly, “the fact that you are standing here and our Librarian is not suggests that perhaps the experiments you undertook carried too high a cost. We must recoup our losses somehow.”
“I must protest,” Dreadaeleon replied, careful not to let his voice go too high. “Every concomitant is responsible exactly for his or her own self and no one other. Unless you have evidence that I was directly responsible for the disappearance of said Librarian…”
Annis exchanged a look—none too pleasant—with Shinka and Palanis. His eyes narrowed scantly.
“Protest accepted,” he said, “tentatively.”
“And yet,” Palanis offered, “protocol allows for a reasonable conclusion to be drawn under the auspices of precedent. If one can prove that the accused demonstrates a pattern of recklessness, one can conclude that said recklessness would doubtless be a contributing factor.”
“A fair point,” Shinka noted. “So, do tell us, concomitant. Why did you not report to Tower Resolute upon entering the city?”
“And why,” Annis added, leaning forward, “did you expend your power in a thieves’ war?”
Damn it, Dreadaeleon thought, they’ve got you now, old man. How do you justify this? How do you explain why you’re here? How do you explain the Souk?
And he looked up to the three Lectors. He looked from Shinka’s cool impassiveness to Annis’s iron stare to Palanis’s twitching glower.
Do they even care?
“There remains but one point of contention.”
Dreadaeleon would have missed it if he blinked. As Lector Annis spoke, there was a faint tug at his lips, a barely perceptible twitch at the corners of his eyes. What would be unnoticeable spasms in a normal human being were wild as seizures upon a man as composed and controlled as Lector Annis.
For a very brief, very fleeting, very significant moment, Dreadaeleon could tell that the Lector hated him very, very, very much.
“What happened to Librarian Bralston?”
Dreadaeleon had nothing to say that would not result in him being incinerated on the spot.
“You have nothing else to offer.”
Lector Annis stated, rather than asked. Lector Annis already knew the answer.
Yes. I was there when Bralston died. I could have saved him. I could have done a lot that I didn’t. I didn’t do it because I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to live. I want to live. I want to see Liaja. I want to see her—
“Very well.” Lector Annis’s voice was sharp enough to cut Dreadaeleon’s thought from his mind. “On all charges, henceforth, is the concomitant confirmed complicit. The Primary Lector overseeing the case suggests immediate termination.”
“The Secondary Lector suggests sparing the concomitant,” Lector Shinka spoke as a soft contrast. “While the concomitant’s results seem sound, it would seem an utter waste to disregard what he’s said and what he’s done in the outside world. The Secondary Lector adds, further, that we forward his methods as a means for future field research.”
“The Tertiary Lector concurs with the Primary Lector,” Lector Palanis muttered. “Any information that could be wrought from the concomitant would pale in comparison to the danger his recklessness and secrecy present. Immediate termination
is confirmed.”
Annis nodded, gesturing to the clerk.
“That our annals may be complete,” Annis said, “we may take the final statement from the concomitant.”
There’s a girl that works in a brothel somewhere. Her smile is big and bright. She has eyes that have smiles themselves. I’ve never felt more awful or more alive than when I think of her tears. Her name is not Liaja. Please go find her and tell her all this.
He chose not to say that.
“Proof by Ordeal.”
He should have chosen not to say that.
But by the time it had unconsciously come tumbling out of his mouth, it was too late to take it back. Perhaps it was a desperate need to survive, the animal part of him that would say anything just to live. Or maybe he really was that stupid.
The raised eyebrows on every Lector, including Annis, suggested that they seemed to think the latter.
“I formally request Proof by Ordeal.”
As the paragons of civilization, the Venarium were expected to portray a higher class of bloodthirstiness than the lowborn swine over whom they towered. As such, there was nothing they loved more than watching two people fight each other.
They just called it by a different name.
In truth, Proof by Ordeal was as good as any death sentence. In a last-ditch effort to prove that the accused still had worth to the Venarium, he could request to display his magical prowess. And always, this display was a magical duel of staggering odds against someone much older, wiser, and more experienced than he who could choose the stipulations and conditions. The chances of him dying terribly would still have been strong even if he weren’t staring up at three Lectors, two of which seemed eager to kill him and the third of which hadn’t seemed to hate the idea.
As they were quick to prove.
“The Primary Lector confirms the request,” Annis said, “and approves.”
“The Secondary Lector approves,” Shinka said.
“The Tertiary Lector approves and accepts the declaration of Ordeal on behalf of the assembly,” Palanis added.
“The Primary Lector approves.”
“The Secondary Lector approves.”
