Rolling black-outs struck portions of First- and Secondborough again this evening. That makes three times since the new year. Keep some candles around, folks; seems we’re rolling back to the stone age.
Spring 11 (night)
Thunder rolled from north of Fourthborough as Oliver slowed to a jog at the edge of the council hall.
According to the Conclave archives, Sevensborough sported a modern council hall at the junction of Thirteenth Street and Fourth Avenue. In this wonderful world of cartography, the stately aldersmen would take a left from Main and walk along avenues of shops to an august lodge surrounded by gardens.
In that figment, the fire department and the constable precinct were next door.
Oliver stepped into the wet muck of an untended field – the largest patch of bare earth in the borough – and squished through ten steps to the thin dirt path that marked the garden path. He approached a single building at the middle of the block: a squat bungalow, already beginning to crack from shallow foundations.
Imaginary streets lined with imaginary lights and home to imaginary businesses. A lie, and everyone knows it’s a lie. How many palms are greased between the Conclave and here? I hope I’m putting some kids through their education…
He paid for road maintenance; for a chief constable; for electric and water and…
And yet most the borough’s power is black market from the neighbors.
Sighing, he straightened his collar. His cheeks flush from the run, he stopped on the porch to take a few deep breaths before entering.
Inside, the empty hearth dominated the hall. Five chairs sat before the hearth, faced forward, and a small table held a pot of coffee from the kitchenette. A narrow hall led to council rooms, three devoted one a piece to the major religions of the borough and the fourth a broom closet.
Four of the chairs were already occupied, and Oliver took the last spot. Dropping nonchalantly into place, he asked, “Did anyone plan to inform me of the council tonight?”
He might be mayor, but Sevensborough actually operated on an older format.
Five aldersmen: the most powerful men of the borough. Each earned their seat in the same manner: if excluded, any of the five men here could bring the borough to ruin.
“It is your responsibility to maintain a point of contact at all times,” stated their eldest, hands on his heavy belly. Aldersman Lee grew haggard with the years, but he attended every council with the punctuality of the Lord he had once been.
“Funny. Last we talked, you voted against funding that.”
“What kind of mayor needs taxes to pay his errand boy?”
What kind of Lord needs an aldersman council? Oliver held his tongue on that. “What is our topic?”
Lee called down the hall, “Bailiff!”
A moment passed.
None of the aldersmen rushed to fulfill his demand.
“What is the delay? There has been an injustice upon my Household!” Lee spat. “Bailiff!”
Oliver resisted the urge to tell him, We’re not your servants, you old goat.
The broom closet kicked open. Lee’s hired muscle dragged out a disheveled and bloodied young man with one hand and a stocky chair with the other. Dragging both before the council, he shoved the youth into the chair and moved behind to hover in eager anticipation of rebellion.
The young man hit the chair hard, nursing his side.
“So we have gathered in accordance with our duty,” recited the man beside Oliver, a heavy-set businessman toying with an azure brooch. “Let this council come to session…and let Lee explain this injury that forces us from our beds on a chilly evening.”
Joseph Boucher had been born to Fire, but he had decided to follow the gods that answered calls for help over those invisible. For that sin, he had bled his fortune, though he remained wealthy by Sevensborough’s meager standards.
“I will take no lip from a heretic,” Lee groused. “Some of us still fear God.”
“Gunning for Keeper of the Flame?” Boucher wondered. “Suppose it is a step up from deluded commoner.”
The two remaining aldersmen ignored this familiar bickering.
Greenleaf, representing the Verdant jungle, dozed into his voluminous beard. Chin tucked, he feigned sleep.
Oliver had witnessed that gambit catch more than one fly. He knew by experience to watch for the faint glint of the Verdant alderman’s eyes.
The Jungle is patient and cunning.
Finally, last of their august council, Tommy chuckled under his breath. He slouched, playing with coins, fighting a smirk that marked trouble.
Tommy turned twenty-two this season. By the warren of south Sevensborough, that made him a wise wolf.
The bickering continued.
“This country will deserve a Keeper again when it steps back onto the righteous path, Boucher.”
“Soon as us Azure folk all vanish? Sorry, but we don’t die that easy. I know it’s a terrible inconvenience for you.”
These two will bite for hours. “Lee, you’re demanding honors. Take the right of first remarks.”
The eldest straightened in his seat, mollified. “Very well. The forms should be obeyed.”
When they suit you. Otherwise, the aldersman council is just a relic of a bygone age.
“This cur snuck onto my property with the evening deliveries. He stole through my halls, pilfering valuables left and right. This assassin snuck for my private quarters, armed with a cruel implement!”
“Everyone in Sevensborough carries a knife in their boot,” Boucher pointed out.
“Bailiff!” barked Lee.
The bailiff duly revealed a straight-edged combat knife, its handle stained with crude skulls.
Affiliation? wondered Oliver. Tattoos were the traditional signal of membership, but this youth was barely into his stubble. Perhaps a challenge of courage for his initiation?
Tommy snickered under his breath, obviously familiar with the design. Hardly shocking for someone grown in the gang-riven south side.
“His target was clear – he was apprehended no more than a dozen steps from my own personage! Given scant moments more, he would have driven that blade through my back!”
Oliver watched the accused as Lee spoke. The boy feigned indifference under his bruises, but his knuckles squeezed into his shirt with every word.
As Lee stopped for breath, the boy began to interject, but the bailiff drove meaty fingers into the boy’s shoulders to silence him.
Bloody unnecessary.
“Thankfully, my guard spotted and subdued the fiend at the door to my study.”
Boucher sighed. “I was enjoying an evening smoke, Lee. Please explain why a bit of thievery cannot wait until the morning before Greenleaf starts snoring.”
“Because I move that this assassin be sentenced to death!” Lee announced, smacking his knee.
Oliver choked on his breath. Had Lee lost what little remained of his wits?! Execution for a youth with sticky fingers?!
No, no, this is some other play. He scrambled to assemble the pieces. Lee hates the sight of common-born scum like us. He wouldn’t drag us together for idle vengeance.
Boucher shared Oliver’s shock. They were equally blind to this turn of events.
What of the others?
Greenleaf still slumped in his chair, disinterested but not surprised. Then again, with free access to Deepbloom sylphs, the aldersman knew more of the borough than he ever admitted.
Tommy shifted on his seat, smirking under his nose. For a moment, he caught eyes with the accused youth, and the gangster’s smirk burst into full bloom.
They already know each other. Oliver cleared his throat. “Bailiff, has the accused been checked for tattoos?”
“You see the knife before you!” Lee snapped.
“I’ve got one just like it at home. You can get one for attending a summer camp. Harder to forge a tattoo.”
The bailiff shook his head. “No, aldersman, the accused has no tattoos.”
“What is his identity then?”
“He has declined to identify himself.”
“Well, now’s his chance.” Oliver rose to his feet. “Lee has spoken. Next the accused may defend himself. Give us your account, young man. Take your time.”
While the youth assembled his thoughts, Oliver reviewed his leads. Tommy knows the boy. Lee might know him. The rest of us are outside the circle.
The old aristocrat, dreaming of a renewed House, and the street-rat emperor, hungry for more. Foes by any measure. They kept the peace only by distance: Lee in his northern castle and Tommy among the southern warren.
So why did Oliver nurse the sneaking suspicion that Lee and Tommy were playing from the same book?
I need to know which one initiated. Who suggested execution and why?
The young man deigned to speak. “What proof does this fat geezer have? His thugs beat me half to death for the crime of existing!”
Any aldersman could question, but the group were content to let Oliver lead.
“Beat you where?”
A quick flick of the boy’s eyes, down and to the left. “The alleyways.”
“And the knife?”
“He planted it after the beating!”
The mayor leaned back, rubbing his lower back. “Lee, did you bring any witnesses?”
“What do you take me for, Oshton?” the aldersman scoffed. “They await my word.”
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
“Then that’s your whole account, boy?” Oliver fished, hoping the boy would catch the hint. “A flat denial?”
“I was nowhere near the bastard’s manor!”
“Very well. We move to witnesses.”
Over the next half hour, Lee’s butler and two maids provided their accounts. Oliver and Boucher presented questions, but the stories matched on all the major details.
The young man snuck in with evening deliveries
Ducked away when the butler noticed something odd
The first maid passed as he raided the silverware
The second spied him darting across the second-floor halls
Then sounds of a fight from near the study as the guard apprehended the boy
The young man squirmed in his chair, muttering more with every retelling. That chip on his shoulder found no purchase here.
“That’s Lee’s witnesses,” Oliver said at last. “Ten-minute recess, and then witnesses for the accused. Adjourned!”
They broke to refill their drinks or piss in the field.
Oliver took a quick chug of coffee, grabbed his chair, and pulled up a seat across from the sulking young man.
“This is a farce!” the youth hissed. “How can you go along with this?!”
“Lee keeps most the paper records for the borough,” Oliver replied. “He has the blackmail and the grudge to send this borough aflame.”
“You know?!” he snapped.
His tone evidence enough – the boy knew as well.
Then he was heading for Lee’s study. Searching for all those deeds and documents? Most people go for the gold, but he knew the real riches were in the folders.
So who told him?
“Course, he’s not all powerful. Black mail and legal power are a slow-rolling squeeze, and we’ve got other players here.”
He took a moment to outline.
“Boucher – the one with the brooch? He’s the most connected Azure man in the country. Knows how to take a copper and spin a gold. Runs renumeration through the smugglers for money headed to or out of the south. Can turn off the entire borough’s productive labor force with a word. Lee can’t act against Boucher or his pocket book dries like a summer pond.”
“So?” The young man shrugged.
“Greenleaf? Well, there aren’t a ton of elemental beasts left after the Wyrm, and they don’t breed all that fast. If you want one, you go through him. Him and no one else or there’s blood to pay.” Now Oliver fixated his attention on the boy, watching for every little twitch. “And Tommy? He’s a bit of an odd one, isn’t he?”
“I guess,” the youth muttered, eyes down and to the left again.
“Two years ago, there were six gangs in south Sevensborough. Now? Now there’s one.” Oliver held up a finger for emphasis. “One, young and hungry.”
And the squeeze he put on the south borough drove away every factory and warehouse south of Main. He’s king of the castle – and he’s broke. He has to find a new wellspring – and fast! His boys don’t follow him for his looks.
“Lately, Tommy’s been running a classic scheme. The loan shark.”
The young man twitched guiltily.
And we have a hit.
“And what about you?” the youth deflected.
“I’m Erudite’s dog. Also, the only one dumb enough to accept the title of mayor.” Oliver leaned forward and lowered his voice. “So why don’t you tell me whether Tommy demanded you steal Lee’s deeds or merely hinted.”
“I didn’t steal his deeds!”
“No, you got caught first.”
“I…I want a lawyer.”
“What do you think I am? Or the equivalent, at least, from an older era.” Oliver shook his head. “Are you ready to take this seriously? What’s your name? Your real name, or I swear to Aure I’ll box your ears.”
The boy shivered, his eyes widening as the full weight of his predicament started to settle. “Conner. Conner Orland.”
Yawning, Boucher returned to his seat. Greenleaf followed.
“Alright, Conner,” the mayor nodded. “Time to get your head in the game. Sevensborough plays old school.”
“Send for Sixborough then!”
“Sixborough’s judge gets a kickback for every stout young man he sends to the ash-choked mines. Plus a bonus if they last a year.”
“I’m a hells-damned star player!” Conner hissed in response, nursing his ribs.
Rising, Oliver shrugged. “Nobody cares.”
“It is almost midnight,” Boucher noted. “Let us continue.”
Oliver dragged his chair back to the line and waved to Conner. “If you have witnesses in your defense, call them.”
The young man offered two boys, both street captains in Tommy’s gang.
“Street rats,” Lee sniffed. The eldest turned to Tommy. “Call your boys to account. Recompense must be paid.”
Money again. A temporary alliance to divide the borough between them?
“Sure thing,” the gangster hummed. “Let me step on that.”
The gangster slipped away, and the room sank into an icy silence.
Fighting a yawn, the mayor asked Lee, “What will be the wergild?”
“More than your little diner can afford,” rumbled the aldersman.
“You’d be surprised,” the mayor hummed with a hint of Mirielle.
“My statement stands.”
They lapsed into silence until Tommy returned with two lanky young gentlemen in rumpled suits.
Both proclaimed complete ignorance of this thief in the night. Never met him; never knew him.
Anguish flashed over Conner’s face, more painful than any beating.
The moment when a boy saw how little his comrades really valued him.
Tommy smirked. “Seems he acted on his own initiative.”
“Then let him die for it!” Lee snapped.
Conner surged up. “You son of a bitch, it was your idea!”
“I don’t recall ever telling you to rob the honorable aldersman,” Tommy thought, tapping his chin.
Greenleaf laughed into his beard. “The deed admitted, my fellows.”
What little color remained in Conner’s cheeks drained at the realization. “N-no, that’s not…look, these bastards were the ones telling me…”
His breath gave out as he clutched at his side.
“Is the form satisfied?” Lee bared his teeth. “Let us proceed to judgement.”
Oliver hastened to clarify. “On burglary, we have admission. Yet tell me truthfully, Conner, did you have any intent to harm Lee or his family?”
“No!”
“We have the knife and the testimony to consider. The accused has admitted to the lesser crime. We need only vote on the greater. Do we find him guilty of intent to kill?”
Five aldersmen stretched out their hand, palm down.
Life and death decided by simple majority.
Each signaled their choice. Oliver and Boucher offered open palms; Lee, Tommy and Greenleaf fists.
Hells below, three men willing to condemn a boy to sate one man’s pride!
The cruel logic self-evident. Lee would kill a maid for spoiling his lunch; Tommy cast Conner adrift for a greater alliance; and Greenleaf, lacking a strong stake, could accumulate easy favor with Lee.
Hells and high waters, we are no better than the Conclave.
Oliver had claimed the right to order proceedings – just like he had claimed the mayor’s seat. Both demanded he continue.
“Intent has been found. To the question of death.”
Conner slumped in his seat, head in his hands, curled against the callous march of fate.
“As a reminder, the old law calls for five witnesses before the blade, and we have only heard testimony from three.”
“My boys spoke!” Tommy interrupted.
“Only of ignorance!” Oliver snapped. “We vote.”
Five aldersmen stretched out their hand, palm down.
Lee and Tommy balled fists; Oliver, Boucher, and Greenleaf turned their palms up.
Greenleaf splitting the difference. He’ll let us gut each other on the table.
“We do not find cause for death,” the mayor announced, sighing under his breath.
“Cowards!” snarled Lee.
“Then the lesser charges change. We move to compensation. By the old law, I would offer–”
“Keep your dirty money!” Lee slapped his leg. “I will take my wergild from the cur’s hide!”
Boucher rolled his eyes. “What? Twenty lashes? This is dry land, you know.”
“Both hands at the wrist,” pronounced Lee. “The only suitable sign of a thief.”
Even the damned Plateau doesn’t take both!
Oliver quickly countered with the catechisms. “Make whole your body, a temple of great works.”
Lee surged to his feet, the meeting teetering on anarchy. “Mock God at your own peril, heathen!”
“Could always bump him over to Sixborough,” Tommy interrupted. “Price is good.”
Heart sinking, Oliver glanced at the accused. Conner quivered, reduced to an animal.
Tommy wants his example. ‘Pay up, or you’ll end up like Conner Orland.’
But what else was on offer? Maiming? How was that any better than the witch brand?
How’d that turn out with Charlotte Broadleaf?
Oliver pictured Conner huddled in the eternal lines before the Maiden’s temple, praying this this time he would make it through the gate before the Azure-blessed closed her doors from the day. He had heard that the line often coiled around the entire complex, and he knew enough of human nature to know that criminals would always be the last considered by the posted guards.
There has to be life after penance. There has to be hope.
“I would not maim a boy in this age of limited manpower,” Oliver stated. “I know an industry in need of strong backs. Service on the waters.”
“Of course you would–” Lee began.
“Five years on the sea. Renumeration to Lee for the wergild. He will learn a sailor’s trade and make his penance both.”
“Milksop,” Tommy muttered.
Boucher warmed to the idea. “There is no shame in a sailor’s trade.”
“Greenleaf?” Oliver asked. Tommy and Lee would oppose any bargain; the cruelty was the point. He needed the Jungle aldersman to take majority.
The man shrugged. “Quibbling all night is useless. Five year’s pay and a sign on bonus? Take the money, Lee.”
Lee curled his lips. “Pah!”
“Vote.”
They voted, three palms out.
“Then it is decided. Conner will atone on the waves; his consignment goes to Lee. The council has spoken. That is all.”
“That is all,” the others rumbled, signaling the end of formal discussions.
They broke ranks, but Oliver caught Boucher by the arm. “I beg you to assume bailiff. Set the boy right for the night.”
Boucher sighed. “I’ll have to go to ground with Lee on it.”
“Law still says the mayor decides.”
“You sure you want to play that card? He hates you enough already.”
“That boy won’t survive to the dawn under Lee’s ministrations. I’ll double any expenses you incur.”
“Very well,” the Azure aldersman relented. “I can tap an old sailor or two to speed him on his way. See he gets on a proper vessel.”
“Good. Thank you.” Oliver turned his attention to Conner, still curled in his chair. He approached gently – like approaching a wounded dog. “Hey.”
Conner wept into his arms. “I’m…I’m a star player…”
“You were,” Oliver agreed. “Not anymore.”
“W-what am I going to do?”
“Boucher is going to take custody for the night. You’re not going back with Lee. Tomorrow, Boucher will send you with some old sailors to sign papers.”
A choked wail of despair began in the boy’s throat.
“You sign those damn papers. You hear me? You serve your time. You try to run, or you try to fight, and Greenleaf will flip to Lee’s way of thinking.”
The only way out is through.
“It's five years. Not the rest of your life. Not your hands. You serve, and when you’re done, and your hands are hard as hide and your crime left to the depths, you return to me, and I will set you up with a brand new start.”
Boucher and Lee started a hellish argument across the room.
Conner raised his head a little. “A…new start?”
“You’re sixteen? Twenty-one ain’t over. This is your path forward.”
“I…I can’t do this…”
“You can. You will. If any monsters come nipping, swallow that national pride and scream for the Tempest. She will hear.”
The argument grew to shouts.
“Fine! Take the damned boy, and may you burn for eternity!” Lee roared, spinning for the door.
His bailiff shrugged and stepped away from the accused, following his master.
In his wake, Boucher rubbed at his brow. “Alright, boy. I hope you understand what we’re paying for you. So do me a favor and don’t go running.”
“Lee wants you to run,” Oliver whispered to the boy. “The excuse he needs to put you down.”
Conner swallowed a whimper.
“Boucher knows the good captains. You’ll be set up right. Three meals for a hard day. Off with you now.”
The boy rose on jelly-loose legs and shuffled to Boucher.
Godspeed, Oliver prayed.
Fighting the urge to sink into a chair and pound back a drink, the mayor instead stepped out onto the porch and stared into the night sky. Low, wispy clouds obscured the sky, reducing the moon to a silvery ambiance, and a single red star orbited in a lazy circle above the hall.
“Didn’t mean to worry you,” he whispered apologetically.
Unfortunately, Lee had waited, and the aldersman emerged from the shadows to growl, “Weak, Oshton.”
His bailiff bristling behind him.
Oliver ignored the muscle. “Five years hard labor. As fair a sentence as you’d find in any proper court.”
Despite you.
Lee scoffed. “Shame if he happens to end up on the worst barge in the fleet.”
Oliver shrugged. “Shame if the Tempest happens to show up and claim the vessel next week.”
Lee sucked air between his teeth. “I should hand you to the Inquisition, you blasphemous–”
“Don’t push me, Lee,” Oliver warned. “I like being nice. That doesn’t mean I always am.”
“Save your threats and save this insipid council. The next one to trespass on my domain, I bury!”
“In violation of both Ruhum and alderman’s law?”
“In accordance with my God-granted right to self-defense!”
Lee spun and marched away across the field.
Watching him cross the dirt field, Oliver sagged against the porch banister. “All we can do to hold this slum together…”
A moment later, Tommy stepped out for a smoke. He pulled out his cigarette and patted at his pockets for a light. “You look ragged, mayor man. Up past your bedtime?”
“Hello, Tommy,” Oliver replied evenly. “If you have something to discuss, we can find time tomorrow.”
When I am less likely to make rash decisions.
“Oh? You look like you’ve got something burning your tongue now, purse boy.”
The demon in his memory stirred, coloring his words with Mirielle’s accent. “Call me purse boy again, and I’ll feed you to my patrons with a side of fries.”
Every jungle has its pecking order, he mourned, remembering the decadence seen through Mirielle’s eyes. The blind hedonism of rulers, and the hungry, watchful eyes of the ruled. Shouldn’t we know better than beasts?
Tommy found his light and struck it against the banister. “You think I’m scared of some fat fry cook who can’t even–”
Oliver whistled sharply.
The braggart’s matchstick exploded in his fingers. The gangster tumbled backwards, stamping and swearing, but the fire nipped and bit at his sleeves like an angry adder.
Familiar heat washed across Oliver, puckering his burn scars across the knuckles. Keeping his conversational tone, he asked, “What was that, Tommy?”
The fire’s always hungry, Tommy. Hungry for you, hungry for me, hungry for this whole damned nation.
“Hells, hells, let it up!” the boy hollered, fighting the swelling fire to no avail. It crawled up his jacket towards his head, and the stink of burned cloth filled the night.
What must burn to sate Ruhum itself? he wondered. Will the ash aftermath finally be pure enough to call holy?
“I’m sorry, just let it up!”
Oliver whistled again, and the flaming serpent dissolved into harmless sparks across the young alderman’s ruined jacket.
Tommy slumped back, panting in animal panic.
The mayor took that opportunity to lean down, straddle the youth, and grab the thug’s jaw like a slack fish.
“Let me tell you a secret, Tommy.”
He squeezed.
“You are not as smart as you think.”
So very tempted to wrap his hands a little lower and squeeze a little harder.
“We all spotted your little play by the second verse. You sold Conner for a cheap thrill. The only reason you aren’t napping in the dirt tonight is because it would be troublesome to reign in your pack.”
Tommy squirmed, fishing for a hidden knife, and Oliver hissed low through his bared teeth – just enough to set the youngest alderman’s sleeves to smoking again.
“Do you understand me? An inconvenience to Sevensborough, and Sevensborough needs all the peace it can get.”
Slamming him into the boards, Oliver rose.
“Pull another little stunt like this, and I will boil your eyes out of their sockets. You understand me, boy?”
“Yes,” Tommy hissed, hatred smoldering in his eyes.
“Yes, what?” Oliver snarled.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then let this be the end of it.”
Not that Oliver expected that kind of lucky break.
He walked away, but he felt Tommy’s hateful gaze the whole way across the field.
We haven’t learned a goddamn thing since Lumia.
No better than the beasts after all.