5
Footsteps fading down the hall as the door swings shut on spring controlled hinges and I can hear raised voices.
“Boss! Boss! Are you up, they’re taking Amm!” it’s Partum, the huge bear of a man who could hold a baby in his enormous hands with the utmost care and an hour later tear a man’s arm from its socket. I can hear the nervous edge to his voice and Flanders is trying to calm him. “They’re taking her, boss!”
Partum’s entry is like a watching the door birth a full grown man, he ducks low and squeezes through the frame sideways. Once inside his bald head comes close to the ceiling but he no longer ducks.
“Boss,” his baritone voice rumbles over me. “They took her; Flanders wouldn’t let me stop them. Ferns took her.” His eyes are filmed in a watery sheen.
“I know, Partum. We’ll get her back, stopping Ferns wouldn’t have helped anything.”
Flanders maneuvers into the room past Partum and Shank and Lister push their way in as well. Lister and Shank stand together emphasizing the ‘two sides of a coin’ personalities they have: Lister with his tightrope suicidal tendencies often rushing into danger hoping for the worst, and Shank, her boyish looks offsetting her wildfire evil temper willing to spark at any minute.
Lister looks at my arm and smiles thin lipped. “I think I can catch them before they reach the Sanctum. I’m betting I can drop all of his bodyguards before Ferns pisses his pants.”
“No,” I affirm as best I can in my weak condition to the Lister’s rolling eyes. “Flanders, go ahead of us and find the First Judge.”
“Boss?”
“You heard me. Go now and when I’m dressed I’ll be on my way.”
I push myself up on my good arm and swing my legs off the bed. My legs make odd shadows on the floor and the shadows grow wider, blacking out the details of the room and I feel hands on my chest and head –
8.48p.m.
I can feel my heartbeat in my arm. The bandages are an unhealthy bruised color; I tore my cuts open again when I fell. A nurse wearing white from head to toe, her hair blue with age and the soft eyes of a mother, feeds me chicken soup while telling me how much stronger it will make me.
I would give up a year’s pay to scratch my arm. Gritting my teeth against both the itching and the continuous drone of the nurse, I remain seated and doted on as I wait impatiently for Flanders to return with the First Judge.
Sighing, I accept another spoon of watery chicken soup and think of how long the string is that I have just pulled. This particular favor was very, very old indeed and though probably remembered, it might not be remembered it good light.
Rather than dwell on the specifics I continue to swallow and wait. The 20, swarming just outside the room and randomly entering to drop reports, were much more graceful in their patience but they were also able to stand on their own.
From what I’ve been able to gather from the reports of the 20 thus far, Amm purportedly killed at least seven people -4 men, 2 women, and a street urchin- before picking up my bleeding, unconscious body and carrying me to the closest hospital. From there we were both transported to Squad medical where I am now gathering reports.
No reports were made of the blond girl who had fought with Amm and from four reports she was not the street urchin killed at the scene. The nurse begins another rendition of how strong I will be and I sigh into my next spoon of soup.
Finally the rustle and scuffle of feet in the corridor where most of the 20 appear to be relaxing announce the arrival of the First Judge. From my viewpoint it seems that only Partum has gotten to his feet out of respect to the First Judge – I frown pointedly at no one in particular, I am going to have to knock heads when I get out of my chair. Most of the 20 sag against walls or sit cross-legged on the floor in midst of jaunty conversation but to the trained eye, any of the 20 were ready in a moment’s notice to kill any intruder that attempts to reach my room, including the First Judge and his two Magister bodyguards, should the need arise.
The First Judge is not a large man but the robes fill the doorway as he enters. He frowns momentarily before concluding my inability to stand but my nurse curtsies in my stead.
“Leave us, please,” the Judge intones quietly, almost in a whisper and the nurse nods and retrieves her spoon and bowl before dodging through the feet and empty smiles of the 20 in the corridor.
If the Judge signals his guards I do not see it but the Magister’s file out and take up a position on either side of the portal and the First Judge swings the heavy wooden door closed.
“You sure know how to call in a favor, Hank. I’ll be dodging rumors for the next fortnight.”
“Yeah, thanks for coming so soon, I know you’re busy,” I say, flashing a forced smile.
“Of course, whatever I can do. Does this concern the judgment on the young lady this afternoon? I hear it was a very quick decision based on the evidence of multiple murders,” his robes rock like a pendulum as the Judge walks the room.
I nod and swallow my worry and meet the Judges eyes, “Stephen, I would stand on the edge and take oath that those deaths were not by her hand.”
The Judge’s brow furrows and he cocks his head slightly in a canine expression of confusion, “Stand on the edge, Hank?”
I nod again and explain, “When we swore in the 20 each stood on the edge of the executioner’s blade. Except for me, had any of them refused to join the 20, a swift death on a block was their fate.”
Lips pressed into a thin line, the Judge’s silence is reply enough. Then he nods, his brown skin shining in the bright light of the candle enhancer. “I don’t know if I can get her out, Hank.”
“Don’t. I need to get in.”
“You want in? There is no telling how many convicts you and your 20 have put in the Sanctum, they would be thirsty for your blood.”
“Stephen, you have no idea what Amm is capable of and if I don’t go in there after her… Ferns doesn’t realize what he’s caged.” I meet his eyes once more and I feel the searching, exposed feeling that is inherent with the ability of the Judges.
After what feels like several minutes, the elusive feeling dissipates and the Judge squares his shoulders and opens the heavy door.
Over his shoulder, “Tell your men that we’ll be taking the Judges carriage.” And the Magister guards fall in to either side of him as he strides into the hallway.
9.26p.m.
Even for a carriage the ride was smooth and the clip-clop of the horses gait was soothing and muffled outside the padded carriage doors. Flanders knee bounces against mine to my left and the Judge sits quietly, his single guard looking menacing even while sitting. Partum, Lister and Shank ride the bumper ledge outside and out of sight.
Just as well, Lister and Shank had obvious issues with authority and there were few higher authorities than the First Judge himself.
I sit with my head against the padded window that is curtained with a thick rug-like fabric. Finally, Stephen, the Judge, breaks the edgy silence that shrouds our trek to the Sanctum of Guilt.
“Pardon, “the Judge begins, speaking to Flanders, “but where do I recognize you…”
“Flanders, your Honor. You read me and found me guilty of the murder of a street urchin and four bar-hands. The sentence was death but the 20 saved me from the chop.”
Stephen’s forehead wrinkles and his brow raises and he glances at me briefly. He sits back quietly and folds his hands in his lap.
Continuing without prompt, Flanders says, “And I was guilty, your Honor, you read me correctly. I didn’t want to kill that kid, but when the bar-hands jumped me the little rat tried to gut me from behind. Sometimes it’s hard to judge when you didn’t see what a man’s choices were.”
Silence stretches. The Magister bodyguard looks most uncomfortable, unsure whether or not to take offense to Flanders’ comment.
“Perhaps you are more right than you know, Mr. Flanders,” the First Judge speaks softly, the quickness of his words almost harsh in its suddenness.
Flanders smiles and I raise my head, my instincts screaming something I can’t quite grasp.
“Flanders, it’s quiet.”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“No, it’s absolutely quiet, the larks do not sing, the street talk has hushed. Flanders…” It happens every night, as if the air is being vacuumed from the sky. Even with the thick curtains and heavy padding the air whispers past my skin like a heavy breeze and I know of the smoke before I smell it.
“Let me out, your Honor. You need to turn back; this is not where you need to be. Come on, Flanders.”
The First Judge begins to raise questions and I turn back to him as Flanders opens the carriage door and the driver slows to a stop. “Stephen, Ferns doesn’t know what he’s done. I have to get up there and you have to get back to the Courts or away from here, at least.”
A black cloud is now blotting out the stars and the acrid smell of smoke hangs heavy in the air. I lift myself slowly, wary of my waning strength and it is good to have the ground under my feet again.
Very seriously, the First Judge searches my eyes and his gift delves deep within me and then, “On the edge?”
I nod and smile grimly, “On the edge.”
9.40p.m.