Counting the Uncounted

"Zeus. I'm coming for you."

…Damn it all.

Why am I here?

The door was enormous. I'd looked up at it until my neck ached, then given up and gone inside.

There were six pillars. The far end of the hall was out of sight.

The scribes passing by glanced my way.

"…That's the one."

"Which one?"

"No idea. There's been talk from upstairs."

I brushed off my sleeves a little. That was when a voice came from between the pillars.

"Ah! You've arrived."

A bright voice. Every scribe in earshot froze at once. I turned around, and there she was — that goddess.

"Your first day on the job, isn't it? Hehe."

So here's how this all came about.

One. A letter came from the temple.

…Rescinded?

All three of them. All three places. How do three temples rescind on the exact same day?

Two. The goddess came to the school.

…That story runs long, so let's skip it.

Three. There were two contracts.

Two tablets had been laid out on the desk. I hadn't even seen where she'd produced them from.

"One is a permanent commission. Your name goes into the ledger, and your post is maintained until the day an inspector dies."

The scribe beside her swallowed audibly.

"The pay isn't much, but it never stops. Old or sick, you're never struck from the ledger."

…Never stops?

…Wait, is that a good thing?

"The other is a one-year term. Fill out the year, and we review your performance. If you're worth keeping, we extend you. If not, it ends there."

She didn't push the second tablet across. Didn't so much as touch it.

"In exchange, the pay is three times the other."

…Oh.

…That's it. That's the one.

A fixed-term contract. And it wasn't even about the triple pay. It was the fact that it ended automatically after a year.

I wouldn't be quitting — the contract would simply be expiring.

Quitting is betrayal. Expiration is just expiration.

…Ah, this is perfect.

Fill out one year. After that, nobody can say a word to me.

…And then I bolt.

…Bolt where, exactly?

…Eh, I'll worry about that when it comes.

I looked back at the permanent commission. Lifelong. …Lifelong. In my past life, I'd died at my desk. That day had been overtime too; they'd found me the next morning.

…And they want me to do that again?

They said there was no night here.

…No. Absolutely not. That's the one thing I will not do.

My hand moved on its own and picked up the second tablet.

"..........?"

The goddess looked at my hand. Then at the desk. Then back at my hand. She picked up the remaining tablet, turned it over, examined it. The front read commission. The back was blank.

"This one is the commission, you know."

"I know."

"This is also the first time I've taken this one out in thirty years."

The goddess set it back down and pushed it half a hand-span toward me.

…Oh, so this one really was the big deal.

"That one is a single year. When the year is up, if I decide you're not worth keeping, that's the end of it — and nothing remains in the ledger."

"No one would even know an inspector had been here at all. And you'd still take that one?"

…How do I put this.

I plan to run away after a year.

Needless to say, I could not say that.

"…I'm… still lacking."

"Lacking."

"Yes. We've only just met today, and you don't yet know what I'm capable of, do you, Lady Goddess? And I don't know what sort of place this is either."

"…"

"Let me try for one year. If I'm worth keeping, extend me. If not, don't. Wouldn't that be more comfortable for us both?"

The scribe beside her looked at me. The goddess tilted her head, just slightly.

"…You know the measure of your own vessel."

…No, that's really not what this is.

"Very well. One year it is."

Something swept over the tablet with a hiss.

"We'll speak again in a year."

"…Yes. Of course."

I won't be here then.

…One year. Exactly one year, and not a day more.

Fill it, then bolt.

Four. And so, here I am.

The goddess tilted her head in front of me.

"What are you thinking about so hard?"

"…Nothing, my lady."

"Your desk is over there. The very back."

She pointed with one hand. "Take your time looking around. Hehe."

The goddess left. The air relaxed a half-beat too late.

"…I'll show you to your place."

The scribe led the way.

The very back. A spot in the pillars' shadow, where no lamp hung, and off the path where everyone else passed by.

…Oh? This is actually great.

A corner meant going unnoticed. Unnoticed meant nobody calling for you, and nobody calling meant no work coming in.

…Perfect for surviving one year, honestly.

But next to the desk there was a mountain of tablets. Stacked as tall as I was.

"…What is all that?"

"Unresolved cases."

I sat down in front of it. The chair creaked. I wiped the desktop once with my hand, and my palm came away grey.

…Has anyone actually worked here before?

"Settle your things, and call if you need anything."

The scribe turned to go, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠then stopped.

"…Ah. You needn't count those, by the way."

"…Pardon?"

"No one ever has. It'd take you half a day just counting, and I doubt anything changes by knowing."

The scribe left. I stared at the pile.

Back in my past life, when I inherited work like this, there was one thing you did first.

You counted. You couldn't start a job if you didn't know how many cases there were.

I pulled a tablet off the top. Counted ones on the left, uncounted on the right. One. Two.

Around thirty, I found a rhythm. Around a hundred, my arm began to ache.

Two passing scribes slowed their steps.

"…What's that man been doing all this while?"

"…Counting, it looks like."

"…Counting what?"

And two goddesses passing between the pillars stopped walking. They looked this way.

"…?"

Their eyes weren't the eyes of people watching a man count. They were the eyes of people watching something they had never seen before.

The pillar shadows slid across the desk. It took me half a day.

Four hundred thirty-two cases.

Next.

In my past life, when you received a list of unpaid money, you cracked the oldest ones open first.

How many years had they festered? The old ones are the dangerous ones.

I looked for dates. There were none.

…Right. This place doesn't write dates.

But there was an order to how the tablets had aged — different colors, different worn corners, different degrees of faded script. I re-sorted them oldest first. The oldest one was half-worn away.

…Just how many years has this been sitting here?

Next.

Group them. Same matter, same group.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Offerings with offerings, territories with territories, disappearances with—

…There are more disappearances than I expected.

…Set that aside for now.

But as I grouped them, strange things kept surfacing.

…That temple ceased to exist last year.

I'd memorized it at school — the list of closed temples.

…Doesn't this one say a settlement was reached, right at the bottom?

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

They'd gone all the way to an agreement. But there was no mark showing it had been closed — and so it sat here, in the unresolved pile.

…The first thing you do on an audit's first day is fix the population.

Keep only what's still alive.

I set aside everything that was dead. Matters where the parties involved had died. Temples that no longer existed. Matters that were finished but never closed.

And once I'd pulled all those out—

…This is the biggest pile of all.

Of the four hundred thirty-two, somewhere north of two hundred were these.

…These aren't unresolved. They were never recorded, is what this is.

…But — why didn't anyone close them?

I went through that pile a little more carefully.

Finished was finished. If they'd settled, they'd settled; if the temple was gone, it was gone.

…Oh. Nobody forgets, so there's no need to write it down.

No need to write it — everyone already knows.

…And because nobody wrote it, it all piled up here.

There was a sound from the door. The scribe was standing there. I had no idea how long he'd been there.

"…Did you, count them?"

"Yes. Four hundred thirty-two."

"…"

"And of those, some two hundred aren't unresolved at all."

"…Pardon?"

"They're finished. They ended, but they were never recorded — that's the only reason they're here."

The scribe looked at the biggest pile for a long moment.

"…Finished? All of that?"

"Yes. You write it down, and it's finished."

The scribe stared at the pile for a long while.

"…Nine inspectors have come to this post, up to now."

"You are the first, on their first day, to ever count that."

…Well, count it, then!

How are you supposed to do anything with a pile you've never even measured?

The scribe left. I looked at the pile that remained. Some two hundred cases.

I split open the top of it. Every single tablet bore the same words.

…How many of these are there?

I counted. …One hundred ninety-four.

Out of two hundred, a hundred ninety-four? That's nearly all of them.

Is there no note as to why they couldn't be confirmed?

I split the pile open again. There it was — one line at the bottom of each tablet.

I sorted them by reason. How many with no witnesses, how many with no evidence, how many out of jurisdiction.

And one last pile remained.

Presumed taken by a god.

I counted. …One hundred twelve.

…A hundred twelve out of a hundred ninety-four.

…That's more than half?

Then I looked back at the pile of disappearances I'd set aside earlier. It was the same height.

…Ah. These are the same thing, aren't they.

For the next two days, I finished sorting the pile. Offerings grouped on the left, territories on the right, urgent matters at the very front. And the finished ones, I closed one by one.

Writing those two words on two hundred-odd tablets took me two days.

…Honestly, this should have been done ages ago.

The dust had been dealt with on the first day. Passing footsteps had begun, little by little, to slow in front of my corner. By the morning of the third day, that back corner had become the most orderly spot in the whole courtroom. The pile was half gone.

That morning, the fragrance arrived first. The sweetness of figs.

…!

I stepped back half a pace. A goddess was standing in front of the pile. She'd arrived without a sound — I couldn't say when.

"Oh… this."

The goddess touched the piles, one by one.

"This is how you did it?"

"…Yes. More or less."

"…A change of perspective, truly."

…I just did what I always do.

"…Why has that one been halved?"

"…Because it's finished."

"…Pardon?"

"It had ended, but it was never written down. So I wrote it."

The goddess studied the pile for a moment.

"…Writing down that something has ended…"

That afternoon, the scribe came to me carrying a single tablet. An old one.

"Upstairs says you're to look at this."

"…Upstairs?"

"Yes."

I took it.

…Oh. This one.

This is the one I saved, isn't it.

"…This is the one from back th—"

"Yes. I was the one handling it."

The scribe stood there a moment.

"It was marked unconfirmed, and so it could never be ruled on. So it has to be looked at again — but upstairs says there is exactly one person who can weigh the evidence."

The scribe didn't leave right away. He stood a moment longer, and added one thing.

"…Please."

Then he left.

…Why did I have to go and say that.

I set the tablet at one corner of the desk — then pulled it back toward me.

A daughter has vanished. Sixteen. Spring.

…Spring, is it.

My hand stopped.

…Hold on.

I pulled the missing-person tablets out of the pile, and laid them down beside it, one after another.

One. Two. Three.

Every last one was spring. Every one with no witnesses, every one with no body.

…Oh?

…This could actually work, couldn't it?

Then I looked at those three lines again.

No body.

…It's not that there were no bodies.

…It's that no bodies were left behind, wasn't it.

I took out the chart. One sheet in twenty, with the gods' names written across the rows. I ran my fingertip down it — and stopped at one name.

…Ah.

…The one I'm after is a god.

There it was. That name.

Pan. God of the flocks.

…I could link them this way, I think.

You can drag a god before the court too, can't you.

With precedent, there's a link.

So first — the precedents.

I opened the chart again, and began running my finger down every column where Pan's name appeared, from the top.