You have done quite enough, my dear wife. The magistrate glanced back towards the mechanized spit as he turned and slipped the doll into his pocket next to the watch, hoping Elena didn't notice. You lit the fires again. You got the gears turning. You broke through all my cobwebs and you are a marvel.
Clean and refreshed after his bath, the magistrate straightened his robes and adjusted the wig on his head as he stepped into the street. He winced in the bright light and raised his arm to shade his face. His movements were crisp and certain again. Hot water and comely female bath house attendants restored vigor and vitality to long dormant muscles.
He shook his head, dispelling the recent memory of particular masseuse with skilled hands and long, brown hair. What are dormant muscles next to a dormant mind? That takes a wife's special touch. And she wanted me to go through the South District. Well if my wife wants me to dance among the rubble, then I shall dance.
The South District was rubble free. Men patrolled the lanes sweeping what little dust remained. The huge chunks of masonry, some taller than his head and previously knocked across the street like children’s blocks, had all been carefully lifted and fixed back into place. The magistrate could still smell the alkaline tang of fresh lime mortar and new plaster. Several workers were dismantling a massive crane with timbers made from stripping whole trees.
The unseen changes were even more disturbing. Sewer pipes, water mains, and gas lines, once bursting through the ground like crazy, metal tree roots, had been tamed, repaired, and reburied.
How long was I . . . indisposed? The magistrate mused, strolling down the street in the shadow of the crane and rubbing his fingers along the new walls. The Mason's Guild has been dithering for damn near two years. The City Council as soon as fainted every time I mentioned the cost. How did all this happen so quickly? They tossed all the boulders like tiny pebbles. And who approved the budget for that crane? Everything's glistening. I can't even smell the methane leaks. Dueling sharp, clean aromas lunged from the walls and leapt off the streets, fighting to see which one could stab his nose first. The old street wasn't this shiny the day they finished laying the pavement.
But the ridiculousness continued. The magistrate's stroll became a brisk walk as he passed the new construction and things kept changing. The public statues of past emperors no longer resembled melting candles dripping pigeon guano, but were restored to their youthful, smooth, marble lines. Graffiti marred street signs and faded plaques he fought for ages to fix had vanished, supplanted by larger, more opulent replacements. Even the kiosks were tidy. You could use the empty grid between the papers and notices nailed to the board as a straight edge.
The closer he got to the office, the more reality distorted. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled with the lingering sense that he was a stranger in his own city.
The redolence grew stronger, too, like his office was the epicenter of a fragrance explosion, if explosions were neat, orderly affairs. A blast of clean, floral smells descended over the lingering coal fires in the windows and the horse muck on the streets and the stench of ammonia and methane rising from the sewers. It smothered all the familiar city odors with scents of fields and farms and . . . what are those things dangling from the lamp posts? Fresh flowers? Little, white flowers in the wrought iron baskets? Is that jasmine? Village women wreathed it around their houses. The sharp, spicy scent brought to mind his wife's young, smiling face and bare feet dancing on tiles. Elena wore a crown of jasmine when we met . . .
The magistrate hauled up his robes and ran. The jasmine baskets had been one of his wife's little suggestions. Elena had been wrangling with the City Council for years over those flower pots. Her arguments were eloquent and passionate, even flowery, but she never convinced the council.
The council might have bent their backs for proper, somber bouquets of maroon roses or black violets, to proudly display the colors of the imperial flag, but jasmine was so plebeian. Peasants grew it to mask the smell of pig shit. After which Elena would launch into a condemnation of the city's grimy streets and sewers. The idea never sat well with the council. Apparently, someone else rammed the flowers home . . . in his name.
Jemmy has been meeting with Elena. Of course, she planted the suggestion in his head. And then he remembered that cloudy afternoon relaxing with the sergeant while thunder rattled the window panes. The magistrate had chugged his rum while Jemmy slurped coffee, discussing some minor training report and upgrading the guard's armor and weapons. Their conversation slanted like the rain blowing past the window towards the never ending budget brawl with the City Council. The magistrate mentioned his wife's flower pot crusade in passing, fantasizing about marching a company of Black Guards into the council chambers in full regalia to ram their swords and a few choice budget provisos up the councils' clenched, wrinkled assholes.
It was unprofessional, one of several slips of his rum-addled tongue which drove him from the office clinging to his last rags of dignity. The magistrate would have rescinded the entire conversation if he could. Jemmy had merely agreed and gripped the pommel of his broadsword.
Did Jemmy's eyes flash that day or was it just the lightning? The magistrate reached his office building. He nodded to the guards stationed outside the main door, turned, and bounded up the stairs. Throwing Captain Vice into the wilderness freed me to pursue the bottle. Just what did the good sergeant pursue with his freedom, and how just many people did he break doing it?
The magistrate smiled and saluted as his men welcomed him back all the way from the front door to his office. There were not as many men as he was expecting. The building was oddly empty, and the cells below were eerily quiet.
A curious tableau greeted the magistrate when he entered his office. His desk stood in the center of the room like a bare altar, his large chair waiting behind it like a vacant throne. Sergeant Jemmy sat huddled in the corner over a card table. His little folding chair hit the ground as he stood.
“Welcome back, sir. It's marvelous to see you.” Jemmy saluted.
“Thank you Sergeant.” The magistrate returned the salute. “While most superiors might enjoy hearing how marvelous they are, we will have no sycophants among the Black Guards.”
“No, sir,” Jemmy replied.
“I've heard more glowing reports about you, Sergeant.” The magistrate eased into his chair and looked over his desk at Jemmy. This clean, uncluttered desk looks so sterile. Time to clutter things up. “Unwritten, unfiled glowing reports, I might add. I suspect the City Councilmen are sitting on some unfiled reports as well.”
“Sir,” Jemmy replied, staring into the magistrate's eyes.
“Was that a 'Yes, sir' or a 'No, sir,' Sergeant?”
“I am unfamiliar with the filing habits of the council. They have as yet filed no reports on the conduct of my Black Guards.”
Oho, so they're 'my Black Guards' now are they? You have changed, Sergeant. The magistrate filed a mental apology he might one day deliver for ever doubting his wife. The thought of Sergeant Jemmy storming the bastions of city politics still took some getting used to. So, as usual, nobody filed reports about your conduct? Somehow, I doubt the council was motivated by love. “You have taken excellent care of the city in my absence, Sergeant Jemmy. I say this without threat of demotion or censure: whose arm did you twist to build that crane? How did the city's coffers open so wide as to embrace all these little projects I've been witnessing? What did you do, Jemmy?”
“You will recall advancing a plan to prod the City Council with an overwhelming show of main force?” Jemmy asked, clasping his hands behind his back. “Applying swords to certain orifices, sir?”
The magistrate put his head in his hands. “Tell me you didn't, Jemmy.” He really sent Black Guards into the council chamber, swords swinging? What else would I expect from a sergeant?
“I did not, sir. I have been perusing your library in my spare time, especially the military literature and mage histories.”
“Been raiding my b
ookshelves, have you, Sergeant?”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“No, no,” the magistrate held up his hands. “I'm not offended, just surprised. I never took you for the reading type.”
“I admit I have no books of my own, but I learned my letters at the academy. I know reading for leisure is more the province of proper officers and gentlemen like yourself. But I took inspiration from the mage Devin. All that power at his fingertips and his most precious possession was books? You appropriated a few of them, if you will recall, sir?” As if realizing this was not enough, he added: “I also took inspiration from your own steadfast devotion.”
Grouping me with the criminal mages, are you? The magistrate thought. I suppose I deserve that.
“If I may ask,” Jemmy said, laying his helmet on the desk. “How would you describe the duties of the City Council?”
“The Council? Their primary duty is to oversee the safety and welfare of this city,” the magistrate said, scowling. “A job they poorly execute and for which they are poorly qualified. Their secondary duties involve funding local government and public works projects as poorly as possible. Sadly, they are appointed by our glorious emperor, not by me.” Of course, the emperor considers provincial magistrates who control their own purse strings in dire conflict of interest.
“I concurred with your assessment, sir. The City Council was derelict in their duty. In the absence of you or Captain Vice . . .”
Was that a slight tone of reproach I detected, Sergeant? the magistrate thought. Good, you're learning. I abandoned my post. I don't deserve your respect.
“I took it upon myself to educate them, sir. Those men allowed the South District to languish in disrepair for two years while they argued over the imperial budget allotments. The lads would have me believe certain councilmen stuffed their pockets with funds earmarked for urban reconstruction, and I place great faith in my men, sir. I thought it prudent to discuss the nature of duty with the council and remind them who captures criminals in this city.”
Budget allotments? Urban reconstruction? He's been studying more than military histories. The sergeant is more subtle than I gave him credit for. A sense of pride warred with rising panic. I should have dealt with the council myself instead of crawling into that damn bottle. “What did you do, Jemmy?”
“I went to the council chambers alone without armor or weapons to put them at their ease. Then I threatened them, sir.”
“You threatened the City Council with violence?” the magistrate cried. “They have the ear of the emperor himself, Jemmy. Why are we not overrun with High Guards? I can't protect you from the attention of the capitol.”
“I threatened nobody with violence, sir.” Jemmy shook his head and smiled at the memory. “I merely slashed their pride, gutted their pocketbooks, and exposed their families to reality.”
“Sergeant. Jemmy.” The magistrate leaned over his desk and stared at his grinning subordinate. “What. Did. You. Do?”
“I talked. I never lifted a finger or raised my voice. Disciplining councilmen is different from yelling at common recruits, sir.”
“Indeed, Sergeant?” The magistrate leaned back in his chair and spread his arms. “Please share your secret. Regale me. I've been trying to discipline the City Council for years.”
“I realized they're just like noblemen’s sons, sir. We sometimes get those self-entitled twa . . . gentlemen hiding in the ranks. The straight path doesn't work with them. They grow up twisty. They connive; they manipulate; they curve the rules to suit themselves. You need to think twisty, too, sir, and wrap the . . . gentlemen in their own snares, pull the ropes tight, and straighten them out.”
“We have younger sons of the gentry in our ranks, Sergeant? I've never noticed.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Rich or poor, fat or thin: we are all Black Guards. They learn that lesson well or I pummel them in the practice field until they do. But I didn't pummel the council with my fists. I pummeled the council with streetology until they fell into a cunning trap weaved from their own personal horse bits.”
“I think the words you're searching for are 'strategy' and 'hubris,' Sergeant. I'm impressed. Please, share your plan.”
“I entered without sword or armor to put them at their ease, sir,” Jemmy repeated. “I wanted the . . . gentlemen to focus on my words, not my uniform. I expressed sorrow over the lax conditions in South District, which now attracted mages and other criminal elements like blowflies to rotten meat. I confessed that since a powerful mage we almost failed to subdue was the direct cause of that destruction, honor demanded the Black Guards devote all our attentions to cleaning up crime in that section of the city.”
“Oh? And how did the council react, Sergeant?”
“They commended me on my zeal. One said it was about damn time we did our proper duty, sir. Then another councilman asked how many Black Guards would be available to patrol the West and East Districts of the city.”
“So many government mansions in the west and the east,” the magistrate smiled. “The Council looking to their own narrow interests at the expense of the city's welfare? Shocking, Sergeant. How many guards were available?”
Jemmy shrugged. “None, sir. I regretfully informed the council since damage to city infrastructure was so extensive and the criminal population became so bloated in South District, it would require all our efforts to suppress and contain, lest the mayhem spread to other areas of the city. In fact, I requested budgetary approval to hire additional Black Guards from nearby provinces.”
“Nice touch,” the magistrate grinned. “Did you perhaps use the term 'mage menace' while you were persuading the council of this dire need for fresh troops in South District?”
“I did. I also found maps highlighting criminal expansions and medical reports on dismembered and gutted guards a more potent weapon than any fist, sir.”
“Are you telling me you cowed the City Council with old maps and grisly pictures?”
“I may have also mentioned the disgruntled city clerk we have languishing in our cells on embezzlement charges, sir. I admitted we did not know how deep the rot goes, but informed the council you would pursue a vigorous investigation when you returned from a well-deserved sabbatical. Sadly, I had no time table to give them. You might even return tomorrow.” Jemmy handed the magistrate a file. “We need your signature on the top form, sir.”
“What am I signing, Jemmy?”
“You just signed off on our embezzlement investigation, sir. The man was fired. Then that poor, disgruntled employee stole a box of government office supplies. Quills and parchment, mostly. Such a shame to find criminals lurking in our own bureaucracy.”
“I should go on sabbatical more often, Sergeant. You have accomplished in half a season what I could not do in two years. I dare say there's a promotion in your future.” The magistrate smiled. “I doubt the City Council would disapprove.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“However, Sergeant, I notice a distressing emptiness in this building. Not too many criminals in our cells aside from our lonely bureaucrat. I feel it incumbent to object on Captain Vice's behalf over the lack of mages. And half the Black Guards are missing?”
“We increased our presence on the streets, sir. Double shifts around the clock. The common criminals are getting craftier with the additional patrols,” Jemmy said.
Not just the criminals, Sergeant. “Yes,” the magistrate replied. “And the uncommon criminals? Where are all the mages, Jemmy? This isn't just an artificial problem you're exploiting here to smack over the council's heads. When I left this office, the mages were scampering from the walls like rodents.”
“We're not finding too many mages these days, sir,” Jemmy said, “and we execute those we catch on the spot.”
The magistrate rocked in his chair, dumbfounded. “Why?”
“It's incredulous, sir. Somehow, the mages all know when we're coming. They must have discovered some mystical way to detect
our watches, sir. Who knows how they do what they do? They're mages, and without the watches . . . ” Jemmy shrugged.
I think you meant to say 'incredible,' Sergeant. Oh, it's incredulous, all right. The magistrate nodded. That was either a very overt or very clever fabrication, or both. Either way, bravo! “Why not bring the mages we do capture back here for processing before sending them off to the capitol? I'm sure the paperwork is around here somewhere.” He rummaged through his desk.
“I regret to inform you we lost the paperwork to detain and prosecute mages while you were on sabbatical, sir. We have not sent any wizards to the capitol for some time. In the absence of proper protocols for this situation or new orders from the capitol, the Black Guards were forced to humanely execute all mages in the field cleanly and quickly once we captured or incapacitated them. My men have their orders. No mercy for the mages, sir.”
Oh, that statement is so snarly, it should be beaten to a pulp in the practice yard. Well done, Sergeant. You are granting those mages the greatest mercy of all and you know it. “And when did you notify the capitol of this horrible paperwork crisis, Sergeant?”
“It was not my place as a lowly officer to take such action on your behalf, sir. This is an internal province matter and as such the duty of the provincial magistrate to administer. I regret to inform you that you were absent, sir.”
“Due to the exigencies of the current mage situation and the regretful and protracted absence of Captain Vice, I concur with and fully support your actions, Sergeant. Get affidavits from some of those noble younger sons. Their surnames on the author byline will lend credence to your report. Write up your new Standard Operating Procedures for Aggressive Mage Hunting Contingencies–yes, they'll adore that in the capitol and sign off without bothering to read the details–and then have those protocols on my desk by tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir.” Jemmy picked up his helmet, but did not salute.
“Was there something else, Sergeant?” the magistrate asked.
The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 38