Hon Jia and Tinbyc had made good time down to Peterson’s shop. As had been promised by the Yaznani separatist leader, the manuscript was there. Neatly stacked, if not a little dog-eared on some of the parchment pages. A light rain had begun to fall and luckily made the fire brigade’s job of extinguishing the Magister’s Theater’s fire much easier—so much so that by the time they returned to the plaza, any sign of flames from outside were gone. Hon hunched over the manuscript, shielding the parchment from what few drops made it past the umbrella Tinbyc held over him.
“Cursed fools,” Hon muttered to himself as he thumbed through the pages for the seventh time.
“You there,” a guard stationed in front of the theater doors said. He approached the pair, flanked with two other men in the King’s Guard regalia.
“Yes?” Hon Jia looked up at the pestering bother. “What is it?”
“You’re the playwright, Hon Jia, is this true?”
“It is.” Hon tapped his foot. “Look now, we’ve had a terrible tragedy befall us this night. If you are in search of an autograph, perhaps I can see if one of the playbills is floating around—”
The guard shook his head. “Sir Jia, this is no time for autographs—”
“Well, then what do you hold me up for? I have to take account of the property.”
“I have several witness accounts noting you had fled the theater shortly after the honorable King Williame—Tigarius rest his soul—was slain. We are searching for clues—”
“Is that an accusation, sir?” Hon Jia scoffed. “How dare you even thi—Why would I do this on the opening night of my own production? A night which should have been celebration. You insult me.”
“The associates must have had help from—”
“Not from me,” Hon snapped. “I know nothing about how they got it. I know nothing about how they knew where to escape from.”
“They exited from the tower’s bell house. Along a maintenance shaft.”
“And are maintenance shafts a rare form of escape for the underhanded in society? Quite surely as common a place for the dastardly of society, as much as servant and the … worker.”
“But surely, no man loves this—” the guard searched for his next words carefully. This twit was going to try and use language to impress Hon Jia? An absurd thought, “surely this house of arts is your most hallowed ground.”
“A home as any.” Hon Jia agreed.
“And you do not keep the back doors of your home locked when not in use?”
“Are you suggesting that men with the means to do what tragedy has befallen us wouldn’t have the knowledge or ability to break a lock or door?”
“Well, no.” The guard shrugged.
“And, assume I had left it unlocked, which I assure you I did not. But, play with me for a minute and imagine the idea that I may have simply forgotten to lock a door. Have you never done this in your own home?” Looking at you it is probably more a tool shed than an abode.
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“I don’t mean to offend Mr. Hon Jia.” The guard was struggling to find the advantage in the exchange now. Hon Jia savored the fleeting moment of joy that came from out maneuvering an opponent.
“None taken. Now, please,” Hon placed his hand gently on the guard’s shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Any help I can be in the investigation, let me know. The King and Queen were such great friends to the arts, that I would be deserving of death myself if I didn’t reward their patronage with as much dedication and zeal to finding their—”
“Master Jia,” Tinbyc offered.
“Not now.” Hon glared.
“Master Jia, I-I think I can help with the—”
“Not now.” Hon urged.
“What is it, gnome?” the guard shrugged off Hon’s hand.
“I—” Tinbyc looked at Hon, then continued, “I’m not sure if my master forgets this, but I would like us to be of as much help as possible. But it isn’t the same door you speak both speak of which you told me to leave unlock—”
“The bell house maintenance door you mean?” The guard asked, his eyes narrowed. The look of a man who’d just found his advantage.
“Tinbyc.” Hon’s throat tightened and his heart sunk. What is this stupid gnome doing? Surely the idiot gnome couldn’t be this stupid. Was he throwing him to the lion’s on purpose?
“Yes master guard, sir.” Tinbyc nodded eagerly.
“Seize him.”
“My manuscript!” Hon shouted as the two flanking guards grappled for control of either arm. The pages scattered across the wet cobblestone. Hon lunged for them, but after a moment of struggle he was thrown to the ground and his arms bound behind his back. He watched with growing despair as the first page of his manuscript soaked dark and the ink began to run.
***
The parade grounds before the palace were filled with onlookers. An audience that Hon Jia had only imagined ever achieving. Even still, his eyes adjusted to the bright midday sun as he was brought up onto the raised platform by his prison guard. It had been maybe two weeks since the King and Queen had been killed, Hon couldn’t be sure, as it was hard to track the passage of time in the stinking hole they called a cell. Above a jagged mountain peak miles away, Hon watched a sleek outline of an airship cutting silently across the sky.
Oh, how it would be lovely to be free, sailing across the winds now to destinations unknown. But never mind that… Hon thought.
A fresh regiment of soldiers had formed up in numerous ranks, maybe three hundred men in all at the center of the audience. For a few moments, Hon thought he saw the small figure of Tinbyc lurking among the onlookers. Squinting against the sunlight, he’d never know for sure.
All eyes were on him.
“Tigarius lays out an all-encompassing means of justice. A fair, and in his infinite wisdom, complete set of rules by which our King and Queen governed us for twenty-five years of prosperous rule. May Tigarius rest their souls.” A balding man, adorned in the church garbs befitting a man of the cloth, stepped into Hon’s view, and to the center of the stage. “As is befitting the justice, it is, for this reason, we have gathered here today to see off a fresh regiment of the realm’s finest to exact vengeance on the Yaznani wretches who have sought to bring us great harm—”
A rancorous cheer roared from the parade grounds below.
“We are also here to see the first ounce of justice measured out. After investigation, it was revealed that this man—Hon Jia—who had lived well and plump off the grace of our King, Queen, and other nobles, offered direct aid to the assassins. For not his hand, King Williame and Queen Jessimond may still be here. Tigarius rest their souls.” He made a hand motion across his shoulders of reverence and looked toward the sky.
Without a word, Hon’s legs were pushed in from behind and he was forced down to his knees, then bent over a wooden block. A thick executioner’s ax lingered at the outside of his vision.
“We sentence you to death.”
The ax disappeared from view. Hon let out a deep sigh. This had not been the end he had sought.
End, Hon thought. His lips twisted into a smile.
E-n-d. Three letters.
It was those three letters he had always known could have the power to change the world. He’d known it would only be a matter of time before he shaped history. As he heard the grunt of the executioner hefting the blade, Hon relaxed, assured in the knowledge that he had done just that.
He had changed the world.