Men Kneel and Beg Marhal
The men knelt before Marhal and begged for mercy. In exchange for overlooking their crime, Marhal ordered the three of them to haul the equivalent of ten wagonloads of cargo.
"Teacher, but the wagons are already almost full."
As the man said, the wagons were nearly packed. Even including the ones Bayola was rummaging through, the three of them wouldn't have more than two wagonloads left to move.
"If you want to fill them, you have to empty them first, right?"
"You mean unload everything already in the wagons and reload...?"
"Exactly. That's the only way it'll count as punishment, don't you think?"
"Hah, but if we do that, we won't make it in time!"
"It's fine. We're not in a rush anyway. I was actually worried we were moving too fast."
Strekl had just sent a letter to his contact in the duchy, the one who'd promised to arrange things. Even if they arrived in the duchy and the migrants weren't ready, they'd have to wait either way. No, waiting in the heart of the duchy would be worse. Leaving wagons full of food sitting around for long would invite trouble—from thieves eyeing the rations, or even the local lord coveting them. Once you clashed with nobles, the whole trip turned into a headache.
"They'll wait for us, so get started. Ten wagons. Empty them first, yeah?"
The wagons in front of them were loaded so heavily the horses could barely pull them. It had taken a dozen burly laborers heaving together just to pack them in the first place. Now these three had to do it twenty times over.
The men's faces turned ashen.
The punishment began.
The sight of the three men grunting as they dragged items out of the wagons drew stares. Workers who'd finished their own tasks gathered one by one to watch.
"What the hell are those crazy bastards doing?"
"Leave 'em. Heard they got caught skimming cargo. This is their punishment."
"They should be lucky they aren't getting their hands chopped off. Whoever's in charge is too soft."
One worker spoke up. "I just don't get it. They know they'll get fucked if they're caught—why steal? What, a bottle of booze more?"
"You think they don't know? But stuff just ends up in their pockets when they space out."
"Fucking idiots. They'll learn when their hands actually get cut off."
The young man clicked his tongue and shook his head. Then a slightly older man beside him chimed in.
"Think they'll wise up if they lose a hand? How long you been in the West, kid?"
"What's that got to do with it? Got a problem?"
"You know the fight pits? Go at night and count the one-handed or fingerless guys. See some double-amputee swinging his stumps like fists—you'll laugh till your gut splits."
"What kinda morons are those?"
"Morons, yeah. Point is, there's that many of 'em. You could be next."
The laughing man looked half-mad. The young man slunk away with a sour expression.
The punishment, started in the pre-dawn hours, dragged on past lunch into evening. The three thieves had barely finished unloading all ten wagons; now they had to reload them.
As evening fell, the crowd didn't thin—it grew. Folks who'd wrapped up their afternoon shifts heard rumors of the spectacle and flocked over.
The Border wasn't short on entertainment. Where there were people and growing cities, fun followed. But fun cost money. You could watch fights in the pits for free once or twice, but linger ten days without betting and you'd get slapped out.
Free entertainment was rare gold, and if it was actually good? Priceless. A freak show at Azenman Riantl's warehouse? They'd pay to see it—let alone free. Past evening, over a hundred souls watched the three thieves' ordeal.
Marhal supervised from right beside them, one hand clutching a bottle of liquor, the other jerky.
A man in a deeply hooded parasol approached, flanked by guards in fine black fabric. The crowd parted naturally.
In the Border, only one man dressed like that: Azenman Riantl, lord of the Border, owner of every warehouse in the district.
"Heard you were putting on quite the show, so I came. You always find novel ways to kill a man."
"Hey now, kill? I'm just giving thieves their due punishment."
"Of course you are."
Azenman adjusted his parasol's angle. It bore mentioning again: he hated the wart on his nose. Only a lunatic or a sage etched in history could embrace their flaws. Azenman loathed going out, but when forced into public, he hid behind a custom parasol. Crafted by a master on the cusp of legend, it let him peer out while shading his face.
Torchlight and the gathered throng came into view. The three young thieves sweated rivers, hauling cargo. Everyone here would remember their faces.
Foremen and warehouse bosses had likely already left, faces burned into memory. Labeled as light-fingered scum from Azenman's own stock.
That was that. If one man had ten connections, a hundred remembering your face meant a thousand indirectly. A thousand workers? No small number. They'd never snag jobs anywhere.
Best case, they starved. Worst? Some bootlicker eager for Azenman's favor brought their heads to his mansion.
Their only shot at a human life? Kneel before Marhal now, hack off a finger or hand. Forgiveness in Azenman's presence might snag them scraps to avoid starvation.
If they actually chopped their own wrists? Azenman might even hire them. Knowing and doing were worlds apart. Guts to read the winds and self-amputate? Valuable talent. Theft? Barely a blemish. In the Border's day-to-day grind, few hadn't pinched something. With resolve to lose a hand, it'd flip to bold audacity—stealing from Azenman himself.
"Oh ho."
One thief approached Marhal mid-haul. Azenman felt a thrill as the man prostrated.
A real character at last? A flower from the sewer?
The man spoke. "Teacher, please—can we at least eat, or drink water, then keep going?"
Azenman's mood plummeted. Right, no gems in this muck.
He turned to leave. Behind him, Marhal's voice granted the meal.
A meal was prepared. The three thieves ate like rare zoo beasts amid the crowd.
"How long will you drag this farce out?"
Marina had been absent daytime, rejoining now.
"Until they've paid their debt."
"I'll help."
Marina cast a spell—massive fireballs bloomed everywhere. Magical flames lit the night.
Onlookers cheered at real magic, the kind money couldn't always buy.
"You can just use magic like that?"
"It's fine for you to know. It makes history anyway. More eyes, the better."
"True. No word from Lord Gallia yet?"
"Th-that'll take a bit."
Marina stammered, regretting it late. Should've claimed ignorance. Too flustered for even a decent lie.
Marhal would've squeezed an answer out regardless.
Bayola emerged from the crowd, meal done. She pinched her nose near Marhal.
"How many bottles you downed?"
"This wouldn't get me buzzed. Just bored, so snacking."
"Gonna study like that?"
"Course. Review last lesson?"
Marhal studied ancient imperial tongue steadily with Bayola. Schedules clashed, but spare nights meant hours of lessons. Tedious repetition for him—everyone knew it—but investment for the future.
"What're you learning? Someone like you?"
Marina's eyes widened slightly.
"Insult or compliment?"
"Compliment."
"Good then."
"What is it? You look about my age—what's left to learn?"
"Rude, even for a Silanatiell mage."
Bayola narrowed her eyes at Marina. Inexperience jabs she could take—true enough. But scholarship? No. Especially ancient imperial, her decade-plus pride.
Silence hung between them.
"You—you were in the land race too. No guards? Allow me to reintroduce: Marina Silanatiell. If you know the name, no more needed."
"Bay. Rest ain't for you."
"I see. So, what're you teaching?"
"Ancient imperial."
"I could teach that. Top mages need it, and Silanatiell is the world's finest magical house."
Implying her fluency matched.
"You, better teacher than me?"
Bayola bristled. Teaching Marhal was her sole value-affirmer. Strip that? Nothing left. A sliver of superiority over this perfect being. Reflex reaction to the threat.
"Obviously. Noble or scholar stock, right? Predictable feats for your age."
"Fine. Let's see who's the better scholar?"
"I'm game. How? Simple grammar?"
"Who's judging? Got a dictionary?"
Basic translation forgave grammar slips if meaning held—but to prove superiority? Needed criteria. Irregularities best known by learners. One insisting error was right? No proof without impartial judge or proper dictionary.
Ancient imperial dictionaries? Rarer than imperial vaults.
"No. Got a method?"
"Handy book here."
Marhal said. "Picked it up in the West—important-looking. Translate that?"
Bayola and Marina agreed near-simultaneously.
"Sure."
"Fine."
Marhal's West-sourced important book, free peek? No refusing.