AotN: Chapter Five (Patreon)

In Which There Is an Inspector Constable

“Show us your status,” the Constable said as he marched through the door. He slammed it shut behind him, then slapped down a clean penknife and a sheet of crisp paper on the table. Florian picked it up, though since he’d cut his thumb only two hours ago, he barely needed any effort to re-open the wound.  

And it had been two hours. After the Constable had removed him from the cell, he’d been thrown into an integration room, an even smaller and more cramped room with only a softly burning oil lamp, a desk, and two wooden chairs. One of the chairs had cushioning, while the other had a set of darby cuffs linked to it. Florian had not been seated in the cushioned chair, but at least they’d kept the chain on the cuffs fairly long. Apparently Florian wasn’t enough of a threat to need stricter stuff.

He didn’t have long to simmer in his malaise, because the moment the blood touched the paper, something strange happened. The shifting letters seemed to burn themselves into the page, marking his status down in such a way so that even as his spirit settled fully back into his body, the words remained printed on the paper.  Upon seeing this, the Constable picked up the paper, and then levered himself into the chair. As he did, Florian noted that the man only had one leg. The replacement was a fancy thing, probably imported from Tisconal, and was made with machined parts of brass and steel, inset with a glowing sphere that reminded Florian of a grym light. Between the leg, the pistols, the uniform, and the truly impressive mustache, it certainly made this Constable an intimidating sight. 

“What is that paper?” Florian asked, before mentally cursing himself. He hadn’t been told to ask questions, and he’d heard more than one story about Constables who took any opportunity to exert their authority. Thankfully, while this one seemed a bit gruff when he responded, he didn’t strike Florian. 

“You’ve never seen preserving paper before?” the man asked. “That’s a good sign, I suppose. Well, now, Florian Heartstone. You may call me Inspector Constable Jenkins.”

He set the paper down on the desk and fixed Florian with an intense, stern gaze. The man was a Classman, but his eyes were so steely gray that they almost looked like the metallic eyes of a Fercewri. Florian considered asking for a Barrister to help argue his case, but there was no point. He couldn’t afford the rates of even a rank beginner, let alone one good enough to help him here. And it certainly wasn’t as if the government of Gaer Mynydd would simply cover the services of one of their Barristers, Legal Secretaries, or even a single measly Bookkeeper. The best thing he could do was try and make himself seem innocent to the Inspector. 

“Why don’t we start with you telling me what happened?” Inspector Jenkins said, rubbing at his mustache. “And let me be clear. At this point, your case is not about establishing guilt. You stole from a Witch in the employ Norwich Trading Company. The Mysticamacner Rhosyn Taft and the Swift Knight Harri Taft, two citizens of good repute, in the employ of the Norwich Trading Company, have vowed to this. The Constables found the stolen property in your inner jacket pocket. Do you deny having stolen the wand?” 

“No,” Florian admitted, hanging his head. “But I do believe that there are several mitigotting factors. It began two days ago, when…” 

Florian told the Inspector nearly everything, beginning with Gunnar finding him in the alehouse, up until the Constables pinned him in the alley. He left out only a few minor details, like specific words that Rhosyn had used and the fact he’d cut a laundry line.”

“Well, thank you for that, lad,” Jenkins said, pushing the penknife and the papers over to him, with a line underneath. “This is my writing down of your story. Read through it, and then sign if you feel I have taken an accurate statement of your recounting. If not, tell me what to change.” 

Florian read through the statement slowly, which seemed to annoy Inspector Jenkins somewhat, but the written account was accurate. He signed without complaint, and Jenkins took the papers up. 

“The standard punishment for a theft of valuables in excess of two hundred and fifty suns is to be sent to the gallows, after a trial that would be, frankly, rather short. There’s all the evidence in the world that you were the thief, after all. And that’s not even touching on your additional crimes, such as breaking and entering.” 

The man let the threat hang in the air, and Florian’s eyes flicked to the penknife, which was still on the table. If the Constable was going to recommend death, then he’d need to move quickly. 

“However, there are two major mitigating factors,” he finally continued, and Florian’s face burned as he realized his earlier mispronunciation. “The first is that the wand was returned successfully to its rightful owner, undamaged, and with no harm done to any bystander or their property.” 

That meant that the two caravaneers hadn’t told the Constables about him cutting the laundry line either. That was something, at least. Now that Florian was thinking of it, he felt bad about cutting the line, but at least a simple knot should make the repair easy enough.

“The second is that, per both your testimonial, and that of Mysticamacner Rhosyn Taft, you were under the influence of unwholesome magyks while you performed the theft, which would have removed your finger, and possibly your entire hand, had you failed to deliver. At least if the Mysticamancer had not removed the magyk.” 

“That’s correct, sir,” Florian agreed. “I am very grateful to Mrs. Taft for her mercy.” 

“Bearing those in mind, I’m not going to be recommending to the Judge that you be brought to the gallows,” the Inspector said, and Florian let out a breath of relief, though it was unfortunately short lived. 

“I am, however, going to recommend that you be reassigned to a workhouse for no less than three years. At least one year of which is to be punitive order work,” Jenkins continued. “It will be very similar to the work you did as a foundling. You will be clothed, fed, and housed, but will have all wages garnished for said punitive year, after which wages and living conditions are to be set by you and the workhouse. Once a week for all three years, you will report to the constabulary to swear you have committed no crime, and to demonstrate you have gained no levels as a Thief.” 

Florian’s mind was racing, and he considered reaching for the penknife again, but the Inspector's eyes were locked onto him. Jenkins was far too observant. Even if he somehow didn’t see Florian pocketing it, or hear Florian’s chains jingling, he would definitely notice the penknife’s absence.

“I expect the Judge to hold to my recommendation, though there is always a chance that she may decide otherwise. If you have any arguments, I believe it would be better for you to say them to me, rather than trying to argue before a Judge. They all handle a great deal of work, and none of them like having their time wasted.” 

Florian seized on the only thread he could think of. He didn’t want to go to a workhouse, especially not if he was getting paid nothing. Even as a fourteen year old foundling, he’d been given a silver moon for each workday. 

Then his mind seized onto the last condition that the Inspector had said: he would need to demonstrate that he’d gained no levels as a Thief. If he wasn’t to gain any levels at all for three years, and make no money for one… 

“What if I revoked my class?” Florian asked. “I know it’s deemed ‘unwholesome for society’, but it was the only class I was offered when I became of age.” 

The Inspector Constable’s eyes narrowed, as if he suspected Florian of some trick. 

“You would need to do it now, so I can add in my report to the Judge,” he said. “But removing an unwholesome class would go a long way toward showing that I was right not to recommend the gallows.” 

That wasn’t exactly a promise, but it was something. Florian was putting weight on Harri’s suggestion, that he could almost certainly become a Rogue and at least join a mercenary company like the Bluesteels. Maybe if he was lucky, he’d get something like Scout or Rifler right off the bat. They’d let him sign up with someone who wasn’t one step removed from a gang. 

But it would still mean turning his back on his class. Losing everything he’d done since he came of age. He wasn’t precisely proud of becoming a Thief; they were a haypenny for a dozen in the Narrows. But he’d still taken it in a different route than others, and he’d never done anything truly heinous with the class. It had even helped him improve some of his feats, like Dextrous Fingers, and he wasn’t sure if the advancements to that would remain if he revoked the class. 

“Sir, if I might ask, if I revoked my class in front of you, what would you recommend to the Judge?” Florian asked, and Jenkins leaned back, taking his eyes off of Florian for the first time since he’d entered the room. While Florian turned over his own thoughts of burning away seventeen – no, nineteen, he’d just advanced – levels, the Inspector thought as well. 

“A year in a workhouse. Some months of the year would be punitive order work, in order to repay your debt to society, but some not, so that you could pursue higher things in life for yourself. But it would all be contingent upon you selecting a class of good repute, after it is done. If you did not, then that would be proof you cannot fundamentally change. I think the time in the workhouse must be extended to at least three years.” 

Florian hardened his heart and took a deep breath. Then, he picked up the penknife. Jenkins twitched for an instant, eyes snapping back to Florian, but Florian simply poked at the cut on his finger until another drop of blood welled out. He put the pen knife down, and pressed his thumb onto a sheet of paper. This time, as his spirit began to resonate with the world, Florian spoke. 

“Death. Time. Structure. Chaos. Mind. In the name of the Five Divines, I seek a new path in life, and in so doing I hereby forsake my class. Let it be so.” 

He wasn’t certain that he had gotten the exact wording of the prayer of renewal correct, but the words were far less important than the intentions behind them. The status appeared on his sheet once again, but with a handful of minor changes. His Classman species' ability had been labeled as temporarily deactivated. None of his current feats vanished, and to Florian’s relief, Dexterous Fingers remained at rank four. A new feat, one that Florian had heard of in vague terms, but never seen the specifics of, appeared on the page. 

Fresh Start: You have reset your class and levels. For a year and a day following the reset, your ability to gain new feats and strengthen existing feats is increased. Temporary.

That was interesting. There wasn’t a specific percentage listed, so Florian wondered just how effective it was, though he suspected a great deal would depend on him. His eyes snapped up as he heard the Inspector take a breath. 

“Well, damnation lad. I didn’t think you’d actually have the balls to do it. I can’t promise the Judge will agree, but I’ll see if she’s willing to let you out for bail. Wait here a moment while I take these to my desk, and I’ll send along a Constable to bring you back to your cell.”