The cold air of early autumn in the Ramparts only refreshed the hot heads of the Blessed Hundred (as those clerks were later known.) They poured across the tight gray cobblestone roads of Cold Garden, from pine clad bars to restaurants to brothels. They were invited into family homes for the warmth and comfort that could be found there. Some toasted the moon with wine, with tea, with cold water from a lightless well. They stood on the new rammed earth walls and their sandbagged gun pits. Faded, tired eyes looked across the plains at the campfires of wagons and bands of nomads who were the true masters of the flat lands.
The scribes tried to fill their eyes with wonder, and so many wept as they realized that they had forgotten how to feel wonder. All the wonder had dripped out of them, through their pens onto the endless white pages in the Scriptorum. Hour by empty, busy, hour. But tonight, this blessed night, they got some of those hours back. Twelve whole, uninterrupted hours, theirs forever. They wiped their tears and returned to the hard work of a good time.
As dawn approached, the parties grew more desperate. The joy became bittersweet. Tonight, scandal could be ignored. Come the dawn… they would not return to these bars. They would snub these new friends and wine cup companions. The scribes would have to look away if they ever saw the warm souls who invited them into their homes. They would become, once again, people of serious responsibility and high station. Scribes and clerks for the Old Man. The true elite of their field. Wealthy, revered, untouchable. They were the hope of their predecessors and foundation of the future generations of their families. The silent benefactors of the world. Such people were held to the highest standards. As free of stain as the endlessly white ledgers their gray heads bent over.
Inevitably, a few minds turned bloody. A long dreamed-of vengeance was taken, in the form of a punch to the face. Elsewhere, a shaking hand slipped a kitchen knife into a trusting back. Betrayal could be tolerated, but not forever. The body would be found, someday. They would likely hang for this, someday. Cold Garden was generally a safe place. But the satisfaction of watching them die, knowing that they couldn’t understand the “sudden betrayal?” That was immediate and forever and eternally worth it.
The night was ending. The Blessed Hundred returned to their homes, washing themselves with hot water from pitchers of ancient porcelain, warmed on gentle heat stones made for just that purpose. They polished themselves until they were clean and scentless. Their servants scrutinized their every inch, ensuring that their grooming was immaculate. The scribes and clerks pulled on their lustrous silver and crimson work robes, utterly free of dirt or stain, or even a loose thread. The thin cotton was prone to wrinkling and had to be carefully steamed and gently ironed every night. Even the slightest crease was unforgivable. Their shoes were brushed until the silvery threads seemed to glow. You had to be perfect.
They lined up, the Blessed Hundred, outside the Scriptorum door in order of seniority. At exactly six in the morning, they trooped in. The scribes silently stood by their desks, awaiting the arrival of the Old Man, Xiatamtai, Patriarch of the Cold Garden Xia. From the back of the hall, likewise at exactly six in the morning, the peaceful old man walked in. He looked around the room, and suddenly, they weren’t in a room any more, they were in the Scriptorum of Xiatamtai. They were the brains moving the body of the great Xia Clan in the Northwest, animated by the Patriarch’s spirit and genius.
“A remission of twelve hours each. One thousand, two hundred hours in total. I consulted the Clan records. Such a reward has never been granted by any Xia on the Greenfire continent this Epoch, and almost never in epochs past.” His voice, always calm and smooth, washed over them, reminding them how blessed they were to serve the Patriarch. How valued and treasured they were, far beyond the squalid, animal masses.
“You have earned it. A remission of twelve hours. I trust you all had a meaningful night?” The hundred bowed silently. “Meaningful, and you have not forgotten yourselves. You make this old man feel like his efforts are worthwhile. Now. Kneel by your desks. This will take some doing.”
They carefully knelt down, not hesitating to let their spotless robes rub against the many colored inlay floor. Every square cubit was worth more than ten years of a laborer’s sweat and pain, and they walked on it every day. The dignity of the Patriarch, the dignity of the Scriptorum, demanded no less. Xiatamtai walked up onto the dais at the back of the Scriptorum and sat at his desk. He looked down at his kneeling clerks, expressionless. His butler, the ever present shadow, stood behind and to his left. Xiatamtai breathed out, breathed in, held it, breathed out again. He breathed out all the unnecessary bits of himself. All the ragged bits of attention that dragged down his time.
Whatever was left, whatever being of protean power remained in the chair, looked out over the Scriptorum. It reached out with its will to the hundred minds below it.
A juddering stabbing broken vertigo feeling.
As though the world wasn’t
firmly set in its frame.
As though past
and future were only
two of the infinite directions one could walk in,
and always had been. They never
noticed.
The Old Man was back, the butler fussing over him with a dry towel and a warm cup of water. The scribes didn’t look at each other. They wouldn’t dare be so undisciplined. They just let their eyes rest on the brilliant tracery of the inlaid floor. They were kneeling in the Scriptorum, old knees starting to ache and twinge.
And they were standing on the table in the bar, leading the crowd in a song.
They finally had that threesome they had dreamed of since they were fourteen.
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They had a perfect moment, snuggling with their wife of forty years.
They were kneeling on the floor of the Scriptorum and each was perfectly reliving the moments of the last twelve hours, dipping in and out of them as they wished. The memories were eternally etched on infinite panes of glass, carried in their mind for them to live again at their leisure.
The Old Man coughed. He looked weaker. Thinner. This had cost him, and their hearts ached, knowing that their leader would sacrifice so much to reward their hard work.
“It is three minutes past six in the morning.” Xiatamtai had gotten his voice under control, even if it was a little quieter than usual. “We will have to work quickly to catch up.”
The scribes rose to their feet. One hand twitched, as though its owner was going to brush her knees. Everyone sat at their desks. They placed the day’s work in front of them. They picked up their copper nibbed pens, and began to shape the world in Xiatamtai’s image. An image of prosperity, health and comfort. To serve the Xia, to serve the Patriarch, meant knowing that you had made the world a better place.
The day slipped past. Papers reached the Old Man’s desk, causing his eyebrows to raise. A lesser person might have flipped the table. Xiatamtai simply made a few notes, and sent his orders down to the scribes below.
Xiatoktok was wedged firmly behind his desk. His office was smaller than old ’Lu’s, though his desk was no less exquisite. Where ’Lu preferred dozens of knicknacks over every surface, Xiatoktok had barely six pieces of art scattered around. And they changed frequently. Wise subordinates learned to read the room before they opened their mouths, the subtle unterspracht, the conversation about the conversation through implication, beginning before the conversation had formally begun. Today’s decorations featured mountains, the rising sun, and predators. He tapped the little bell on his desk, and the duty secretary appeared.
“Expert?”
“Any word back from the President?”
“No, Expert. According to his secretary, the President is in an extended meeting with a diverse range of stakeholders and community leaders, ensuring stability during this transition.”
Xiatoktok looked up from the memorandum in front of him.
“Really? With whom?”
“They couldn’t say.”
“Mmm. You checked his home?”
“Yes. His wife, concubines, personal servants and recorded cronies have all been reached, and no one has seen him since last night.”
“Except, apparently, his secretary.” Xiatoktok gently closed his eyes for a moment, before looking decisively over at the waiting secretary.
“Take the following letter. To the Most Honorable-”
An accountant burst through the door.
“Expert, Expert! It’s an emergency!”
Xiatoktok glared at the sweating man.
“We are investment bankers. NOTHING is that urgent. Compose yourself, man!”
“My apologies, Expert, but we have just discovered a massive theft. Millions of Quetzal were smuggled out of the treasury last night, in fact, most of our Quetzal cash reserves are gone.”
“What?” Xiatoktok shot to his feet. “Details.”
“We were inventorying the cash on hand and reconciling it with our books, in anticipation of the conversion to Rads. As you may know, we keep some foreign cash on hand to manage investment and trade in other cities…” the man was rambling. Xiatoktok frowned. He would have to be replaced.
“I do work here, Clerk-?”
“Xiapo, Expert. Sorry, Expert.” Ah, of the blood, but two generations from the main line. No generation name. He must have worked his ass off to make accountant. “Anyway, we had reached the section for Red Mountain and all the Quetzal, and it was pretty obvious that there was a problem. I mean, there were basically no chests there, and if there were no chests, where is the money, right? So we searched the whole treasury, and the money was gone. We checked the logs, and there is no record of the money being withdrawn. But the guards reported the President’s coachman pushing a trolly with a load of crates on it out of the treasury late last night. He had a work order and everything. But when we checked with accounts payable and the treasury office, no order had been issued!”
“And so you came to me.”
“Yes sir, you are the most senior Expert on duty.”
“Where is Vice-President Xiatokbui?”
“Indisposed, Expert.” The duty secretary chimed in.
“Dispose her.”
“Err… Expert. We did go looking for her when we went looking for the President. She is currently on day two of a three day sweat lodge retreat with some of the local Langpopo bands. She is currently…”
“So high, she is touring the cities on the Moon.” Nobody said it, but they all heard it anyway.
It really was all down to Xiatoktok. Who frowned.
“Sweat lodge retreat? She is supposed to be hosting a colloquium of haulage firms in the Supreme Gold conference room. It’s been on the calendar for a year now.”
“Canceled at the last minute due to a sudden spike in hostilities in the area around Muddy Waters. Apparently the Two Souled are… more aggressive than usual?”
Xiatoktok swore internally.
“Summon the department heads. We must investigate immediately and thoroughly. No one is above suspicion! Duty- draft me a memorial for Central House. The Patriarch must be informed. The Clan has been betrayed.”
At exactly six in the evening, the Blessed Hundred put down their pens. They stood as one, waiting by the side of their desks to be dismissed. The Patriarch looked across the room and nodded fractionally. He left as he came.
The scribes silently trooped out of the room, most to least senior. The twenty third most senior, a woman with wide eyes and spun silver hair, was stopped by two guards before she could leave the room. The rest of the scribes scattered back, fearful of being tainted by her.
“Scribe Xiarai, your services are no longer required in the Scriptorum. You are hereby transferred to the Astrology Department, to assume general secretarial duties as directed by your supervisor. You will surrender your uniform and all other badges of office at once. You will then crawl to your new station, in the hopes that you can take the opportunity to learn what is, and is not, a clean floor, and when your knees do, and do not, need cleaning. In recognition of your thirty years of service, you will not be stripped naked and flogged as you go.”
Xiarai collapsed, sprawled on hands and knees. She had just enough wit left to kneel up and start shakily removing her robe. It had been… the perfect night. She had been so happy. Thirty years, almost half her life. The other half was preparing to serve in the Scriptorum. Elevating her whole family for generations. Her hand had hardly moved, she was sure of it.
“My thanks,” She croaked, “To the Patriarch for his benevolence. I apologize for my failure, and am grateful for the opportunities provided.” Her voice broke a bit at the end. The staff of the Central House saw what was happening, and silently vanished. Every door was shut, every window was closed. Everyone she had come to know in thirty years of service, every polite smile, every awkward conversation at a banquet, every favor done, came to this- empty halls and echoing silence.
Her thin, papery hands pressed against the floor and face down, she crawled away from her life's work. She had to ask the guards for directions along the way.