Commandment

by Daryl Chestney

  “There is one who might know,” Dumont mused.

  “Who?” Lakif virtually shouted.

  “You should inquire of the Bard.”

  “Pardon?”

  “An icon of Grimpkin the Bard is. You say I am an arch of this region?” She chuckled. “If I am an arch, the Bard is an edifice, as undying as any constructed of stone.”

  “Say you, would this Bard know of alchemists?”

  “If any, it is he. Part and parcel with Grimpkin he is. The Bard is the author of the gritty folio of Grimpkin’s past—both noble and ignoble. You could also say he is as much an element of that past as its dutiful chronicler. But only seek him if the situation is dire.”

  “Why so?”

  “It is said calamity follows his advice.”

  “Where can I find him?” Lakif dismissed the warning and stared at Dumont, breathless.

  “I don’t know where he haunts these days. But I do recall hearing that he was once employed at the law firm of Rhembald, Dulth, and Cawjul. Perhaps you could start there.”

  No sooner had the inn master finished explaining the details of the firm than the Acaanan was bolting up to Bael’s chamber. Lakif was surprised to find her friend already astir. He was busy sewing a torn sleeve. The Acaanan would never have the patience or motivation for such a domestic task.

  Lakif reiterated Dumont’s advice with gusto. At first, the Kulthean was skeptical about the lead, particularly since it involved a law firm. But after hearing of the source of the tip, his attitude flipped. Dumont was to be given the benefit of the doubt. He agreed that it was their best lead, and the two planned to set out for the law firm by mid-morning.

  XIX

  The Mount

  THE PAIR INITIALLY FEARED THAT THE LAW OFFICES OF RHEMBALD, DULTH, AND Cawjul would be challenging to track down. Lakif imagined the firm occupying but one office on one floor of one inconspicuous building indistinguishable from the surrounding municipality. They were happy to be corrected. Everyone they asked was ready to point out directions to the firm. It seemed everybody knew someone who worked there or, worse, had been summoned there. All this led the Acaanan to believe that the firm was not a crackpot hovel of screeching lawyers but a formidable, expansive institution.

  They were directed toward Mount Astraea. To Lakif’s delight, the place wasn’t distant from the Third Circle Station. As was the case with the Goblin Knight, they could hoof it, sparing them from a deliquescent ride in the Leviathan.

  There was little doubt that they were heading in the right direction. The general congestion increased in tune with their steps. Lakif suspected that the bulk of suited stiffs were either directly employed by the corporate goliath or by a subsidiary firm.

  The maze of towers parted to reveal Mount Astraea. While not an authentic mountain, the Mount certainly could have mimicked one, at least from a distance. It was, in sooth, a gigantic ziggurat. At first sight, Lakif faltered, transfixed before the gargantuan structure. The lowest tier was of eye-popping dimensions—several blocks square. A wide, elaborate entrance offered free access to the public at this level. Each subsequent tier was proportionally smaller. Even the upper tier, over half a dozen layers up, was nearly as large as the Goblin Knight in cross-section.

  As astounding as the edifice was in scope, its classical architecture was equally attractive. Countless statues dotted the perimeter of each tier. Mythological beasts abounded: griffins, their cousin the hippogriffs, manticores, drakes, and gargoyles. Lakif noted that all the creatures depicted were capable of flight. The painstaking detail of each work was impressive, even from street level. In fact, they were so intricate as to collectively resemble a standing army at bay, ready to defend the halls of justice within.

  A stair rose from the avenue to the lowest tier, where a virtual army of attorneys shuffled in and out with suited clients in tow. Lakif instinctively appraised the state of her own apparel, for one must don appropriate garb for Mount Astraea, Grimpkin’s pre-eminent court of law.

  Before the vestibule loomed the statue of a robed woman. She was blindfolded and bore a balance at arm’s length. Lakif heaved up a mouthful of saliva and fired it at the base. She took a dim view of legal proceedings, where only by accident did one encounter justice. Of course, she knew what the statue was supposed to represent. But to her it held special significance. Lady Justice was broadcasting that her judgment landed with the party who heaped more lucre on her balance. That she was blinded signified that this corrupt system was faithfully doled out regardless of race, sex, innocence, or guilt.

  The courthouse was carpeted with elegant flagstones. Several courtrooms branched off the vestibule. Lakif stole a peek in one as they passed. Some type of proceeding was underway. It was an open-door event, inviting the public in to gawk. But there were only a few spectators. Lakif paused just long enough to ascertain that it was a paternity dispute. A man on the stand was swearing no ties to the child in question, claiming that the estranged lover just wanted to garnish his wages out of spite. The air was thick with boredom. Even the judge struggled to maintain a facade of interest. Lakif was disappointed; she had hoped to glimpse a more titillating trial.

  The Acaanan wasn’t exactly sure what they were looking for. Mount Astraea, as a court of justice, was not expected to house private law offices. Bael asked a passerby for directions to the information counter. The attorney, clearly distressed at being late for his hearing, simply pointed off into the ziggurat’s cavernous interior.

  A legion of pettifoggers swarmed around the tier, racing from court to court. Lakif could only speculate at what contrived cases they were arguing. Other busybodies they approached for directions were of no help. She felt that the attorneys were so mercenary that they would have to pay one just to offer up the time of day. Lakif now suspected she understood the significance of the statues decorating Mount Astraea. They represented the lawyers—monstrous predators that swoop down to plunder unfortunate victims.

  Ahead, a dais occupied the center of an atrium. Happily, it supported the courthouse registry. A quick perusal revealed that her thirst for saucy trials would not be quenched. The more heinous cases were heard in the tiers above. Lakif would have loved to sit in on a murder case, but she was in no mood to climb up to the seventh floor. From this, Lakif suspected that the more severe the charge, the higher the hearing court. Curiously, cases governing outright fiscal fraud were located on an even higher court than murder! This alone spoke volumes of Grimpkin’s governing philosophy.

  Unfortunately, the law firm wasn’t on the registry. At that moment, a passing lawyer intervened.

  “You should have worn more comfortable shoes,” he advised Bael.

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s a sole-scathing climb to the eighth tier.”

  “I don’t understand.” Bael looked blankly.

  “And you’re dressed rather informally for court, no?” the lawyer snapped back, evaluating the Kulthean’s street garb. Those disapproving eyes then swung over to Lakif. “With an Acaanan for a client, you should have donned the royal vestments.”

  “I’m not a lawyer,” Bael replied.

  “And I’m not a defendant!” Lakif snapped.

  “That’s what they all say!” the attorney quipped. Lakif fumed at the insinuation. Could a Kulthean and an Acaanan ever enter the hall of justice and not spark such a reaction? Lakif wanted to spit on the smug attorney’s suit. Fortunately, Bael stepped in to defuse the situation.

  “We’re looking for the law offices of Rhembald, Dulth, and Cawjul. We were under the impression that they were to be found in Mount Astraea.”

  “Not in but under,” the attorney replied, clicking his heel on the slate floor.

  “Isn’t it odd that a firm would be located in Mount Astraea?” Lakif asked.

  “How so?”

  “It casts the impression that the firm is in bed with our system of justice. It doesn’t seem appropriate.”

  The lawyer laughed, as if the Acaanan’s
sentiment was preposterous.

  “Don’t worry, Acaanan. They may be in bed, but they’re not married. Justice is the firm’s whore.”

  The lawyer went on to explain that, like an iceberg, the bulk of Mount Astraea was below street level. That was where the lion’s share of the firm sprawled. The splendid courts above only acted as the firm’s public face.

  Lakif was genuinely offended by the news, having cherished the sophomoric view that justice was in fact the jurisdiction of public office. She was also incensed to discover that despite its impressive rubric, the esteemed Law Office was only marginally concerned with matters of jurisprudence. The lawyer informed them that the much touted courts of law were in fact but one arm of the firm. The company was a well-known megalith in Grimpkin’s business circle. As a whole, it was grounded in endless financial transactions. Their clutching hand was in nearly every facet of the district’s commerce.

  Afterward, they thanked the lawyer for his input. He belittled his assistance, saying that he had to kill time to see if his opponent’s client would show up. It appeared that he wouldn’t, and his client, a barrater, would win by forfeit. Easy money, he crooned.

  Fortunately, the lawyer left them with some useful information—the nearest access down to the firm proper. En route, they passed a stately legal library. Lakif peered into the solemn halls that burgeoned with sober legal tomes. A few lawyers lay fast asleep at desks, manuals of zoning ordinances or tax regulations serving as pillows. Lakif guessed that there must be magic sleeping dust suspended in the air.

  The duo bypassed a few other courts en route, and she paused briefly to look inside some. While there weren’t any distinguishing decorations, she did spy a caged owl near the judge’s bench in each. Somehow she knew the significance of this. The bird was popularly held to be Athena’s—the goddess of cities and wisdom—cherished bird.

  From another room came the banging of typewriters. Within were pasty court reporters, dictating the events of a case to a stenographer who hammered away at the keys. The legal parlance was truly baffling. She had no idea in what language the dictators were speaking.

  It wasn’t difficult finding the stairs, and the two descended from the sublime exterior to the firm’s beating heart below.

  Lakif was not prepared for what awaited them. From the firm’s exalted reputation as a legal titan, coupled with the inspiring architecture above, she had prepared herself for a formidable legal stadium.

  On the contrary, they stepped into an abysmal basement. A modest hall snaked off before them, lined with dodgy doors. The inner walls were constructed of an ochre brick while the ceiling and floor were made of the same stone as the Mount above. This suggested that bricking served as makeshift partitions set up to divide a much larger area into innumerable office cubes. These partitions seemed to have been constructed hastily based on the corrugated manner in which they wove into the distance.

  Lakif imagined they had entered a reception area, but there were no chairs on hand. A dried-up potted plant sat in the middle of the entryway. A moldy sapling gasped for life under the weight of accumulated debris.

  As there was no receptionist to offer general information, they turned their attention to a door in the procession.

  At their repeated rapping, the door cracked open and they were confronted with a tired, bloodshot eye. Lakif caught a brief glimpse into the area beyond, which was no larger than a prison cell. A cluttered desk threatened to spill its contents out into the hall. In tune with the claustrophobic atmosphere, there was only a single tiny wedge of a window near the ceiling from which feeble light crept in. On the desk was a cup of coffee. Several cigarette butts floated within. Lakif even thought she smelled urine as if the employee was so harassed to work that he resorted to urinating in jars stored in his office. There was also the unmistakable buzz of flies, suggesting that scraps of past meals were hoarded as well. It would be some time before Lakif could shed the image of the slatternly office from her mind.

  When asked about the Bard, the employee was curt with his denial and promptly closed the door in their face. They trudged on, trying door after door. Each repeated a similar motif—a harried employee drone too frazzled to offer much help. Other than the high-set holes, there were no sources of illumination in the whole place. Darkness was cheap and hoarded greedily by the firm.

  Their queries about the Bard were met with blank expressions. But a few employees were mildly helpful. Lakif had no doubt that it was Bael’s presence that won over their sympathies. Some of them seemed to think that the title was in fact a bona fide employee’s name and mused over the possibilities within the company. Others claimed he must be an ex-employee but offered nothing further. When asked about who may know, Lakif was surprised to find that none they spoke to even knew the name of the employee in the next office.

  This boded poorly for their mission. Soon a distraught employee directed them to another office, Central Processing, although he was unable to give them clear directions to the place. They never did discover that office for en route another drone, whom they had stopped for guidance, recommended they pay a visit to Personnel.

  They wandered down numerous identical corridors looking for Personnel. It wasn’t long before they realized that the basement of Mount Astraea was a massive complex that spanned a sizeable block of the Old City. Occasionally they heard distant doors open with a rusty screech, but they never witnessed any activity. Muffled shuffling of paperwork sounded like rats scurrying through rubbish. Faint sounds of dripping water could often be heard, and a dank stench permeated the thick air. Every aspect of the place resonated with the feel of a dreary dungeon. But even with incarceration, meals and basic healthcare came free. Lakif severely doubted the same perks were afforded these beleaguered employees.

  In their wanderings they passed by one door that bore a plaque, Department of Fines and Mulcts. In another hall, they passed the Department of Punitive Measures.

  Lakif soon became accustomed to the brass plaques announcing stuffy-sounding departments. But one such sign riveted her attention. It read Department of Regional Collections. Even the Acaanan, who was green to much of Grimpkin’s machinery, was aware of this infamous office. It was never mouthed with anything less than dread and often with dripping vitriol. This department was normally contacted by embittered collectors who had exhausted other, more humane, means to receive reparations on a debt. For an undisclosed fraction of the debt, the Department of Regional Collections yielded absolute authority to take whatever action was necessary to solve matters. This included the undisputed right to wreak havoc not only with one’s financial affairs, but with one’s personal life as well. Lakif had heard horror stories of the process. It was said their intervention precipitated the stringing up of debtors along the bridges of Grimpkin. Often, even the threat of summons from the department was enough to coerce the offending party into tidying up his financial affairs.

  After much ado, they succeeded in finding Personnel. A secretary was luckily at hand. She was a plain-looking, middle-aged woman wearing horned-rimmed glasses. To Lakif she was the spitting image of a librarian. A flicker of hope kindled when she actually offered to help them. She was their first lifeline of hope within the bureaucratic ocean. After they explained their unusual request, she surveyed a text as thick as a chest. It was apparently a ledger listing the surname of all current employees. She then slammed the tome closed, citing that no such employee existed on the payroll. When they explained that the Bard may be an ex-employee, or worse, an alias, the woman shooed them off, stating unequivocally that all obsolete files were incinerated.

  At her suggestion, they were directed to yet another department, Retirement Accounts. Again, they were forced to wind a hazardous route through the firm’s dismal underbelly. At length, and after much wasted time, they stumbled upon the office in a frontier wing. Once again, a small tarnished plaque revealed the department’s name.

  Lakif fidgeted uneasily on the sofa, which was so small that i
t barely managed to accommodate even her slim frame. The tattered furnishing was pigeonholed with small burns, discolorations, and frayed ends, testifying to a long history of abuse. An awry spring poked up from the cushion, inching into the Acaanan’s ass. Although an eyesore, the sofa was the only piece of furniture in the reception office and was marginally more appealing than the floor.

  Opposite her was Bael. Denied a seat, the High-man slumped against the wall, his hands sunk in his pockets. The ceiling was so low that he was forced to tilt his head to the side. Apart from the door they had entered by, there was only one other exit from the reception area. The cubby hole couldn’t possibly accommodate a third.

  Both eyed the opposing door anxiously. In the interminable period they had waited, the portal hadn’t once opened. A few times they had knocked, even pounded, but without avail. Lakif was beginning to wonder if the door actually led somewhere. She began to imagine that it was just a prop used to cover a structural defect in the wall. Several times she entertained the thought of opening the door and proving her suspicion, but resisted the temptation. In the event she was wrong, she was certain of earning the wrath of some miserable employee.

  After an eternity, the door opened, jolting the Acaanan out of a stupor. Bael had long since sunk to the floor and buried his head between his knees. At the commotion, he looked up with bags under his tired eyes.

  Out shuffled an odd figure. The form was dressed head to foot in a long black coat. A top hat sank down around his skull, eclipsing his beady eyes. In one bony hand he held a shiny cane. It seemed that he was prepared to lock up for the day, without even acknowledging the two waiting guests. From a giant side pocket he produced a single brass key. It trembled in his hand, but the trembling stopped as he inched it toward the lock. Two attempts to insert the key ended unsuccessfully, with it banging into the knob. On the third attempt, the key, charting a haphazard course, finally landed home. With a click, tumblers locked into place, securing the room for the night. Replacing his key into the vast coat, the old codger turned to leave. This simple effort took several steps to accomplish, suggesting his feet were magnetically glued to the floor. He then started forth, bent forward as if supporting some unseen weight on his back.