The Room behind the Chair
A Narina Cluell Story
Index
Chapter 1: DispatchChapter 2: Reveal
Chapter 3: Hunt
Chapter 4: Capture
Chapter 5: Convict
Chapter 1: Dispatch
It was precision butchery.
While less than around a tenth of Elisabeth Wight remained, she appeared calm and untouched through the fading, rippling light shining through the forest canopy.
Had we not known any better, we may have assumed she had lain down under this very tree but a moment ago to reflect on thoughts a bright girl of six years might reflect upon. Or not reflect upon, for that matter.
With my hands in white service gloves, I took out my service pen, an unscratched brass cylinder with the Constabulary's crest engraved upon it, and documented the scene in the blood-red ink it procured into my red service booklet, the ink permanently tarnishing the pure, fine paper.
The pen had been a gift from the academy upon my graduation, and this corpse here was quite a promising start to what I had expected to be a bland career.
"Stand aside, bystander!", barked Timeric Cleston, a footwatch, or more formally a Constable of the Foot, who had just arrived by horse and carriage, together with the medical sisters, investigatory alchemists and some other constables.
He was the kind of man who found it much easier to believe he was right than bother with considering alternate possibilities, and the idea of having a woman anywhere other than at home, as his mother, grandmother and great-grandmother before him had been, had never occurred to him.
His ignorance went so far as to have not noticed my uniform, with the tunic and trousers of imperial blue, the blue cloak that folded up to become a red cape when in a hurry and, most recognisable of all, my blue, reinforced top-hat with the golden crest.
Luckily his job was one of fending off onlookers, where his single-mindedness was of great use.
Had he been in forensics he would probably have seen the corpse and convinced himself it had been a heart-attack before returning home, feeling very pleased with himself.
Since there was little point in retorting, I gave him a wry smile and a curtly nod before swiftly striding toward the witnesses.
I would come back later to inspect the body more closely before reading the necrohistorical report.
The witnesses, visibly shaken, appeared to be a sturdy couple who had been out for an evening stroll, possibly nagging each other for being old fools, until they had met upon the victim.
Based on their appearance I conjectured they didn't live far from here, visited the baths regularly and had a moderate income for a working-class family.
District 25, perhaps.
"Dear citizens, as witnesses of this crime you have automatically been branded class 0 offenders.
As a representative of the Order of Imperial Custodians I, Constable of the Hunt Narina J. Cluell, am bound by vow to aid in all manners possible should it be in the interest of our people," I ramble mildly incomprehensibly before kneeling down before them, notebook in hand.
"Now, may I ask you some questions?"
No," I say, "that would never do.
Being all miserable and soppy on such a wonderful day?
The birds are chattering, the trees are swaying, the smog is being blown away, leaving the sun to shine upon my humble abode.
The wind could change this afternoon, so I'd better enjoy it with the little ones."
These are my thoughts as I look into the tall but simple mirror standing opposite the window in my room.
My squinting, dark eyes squint back at me from between my bushy eyebrows and rosy nose, my wide mouth framed by my bushy beard and rosy cheeks.
I can see streaks of silver bursting through the smooth, black hair of my head.
I'll have to find a new dye trader, I realise with a pang of dismay, but the impression quickly vanishes.
To finish off I hazard a glance at the rest of my old, short, stocky self and my worn-out clothes before bounding out of the room, though the hall and into the nursery.
The children are behaving wonderfully, the older ones helping the younger ones with their teeth and clothes, the youngsters staying still or finishing off their morsel of bread for the day.
Well, most of them, that is.
"Adam! Quit your messing about!" I bellow with mock sternness before charging in for a tickle.
I'm quickly overrun by children and, happily recognising my defeat, pull out my white handkerchief.
They all trundle back to what they were doing, some still giggly and others a little restless from the blood-rush.
Once they're all done, they stand, sit or are held in line as I walk past them, one by one, and check their condition.
It's a pity to see them all so frail and unfit for leading a normal life.
I glance through the hallway to the hidden door behind the large chair, and for a moment a lonesome tear escapes my eye.
What a cruel mistake to make.
Some of the smaller ones start howling and some others come to embrace me, their eyes glistening in the most beautiful colours in the morning sun.
Once again I'm pushed in on by all sides and together we mourn our predicament, our past, our present and our inevitable future.
I must stop such cruelty.
After what feels like a century of mourning, I gather up my courage, look up and start walking towards the front door.
The light streaming through it is so different to the foreboding shadow that lies behind the hidden door.
The children finish up and begin to follow me.
I spin around, a beaming smile on my face once again, and tell them of the wonderful things we'll be doing today.
And once again, at least for now, our pain is forgotten.
Elisabeth Wight had gone missing three months ago.
The last her parents had seen of her was when they wheeled her out into the garden one fine evening to gaze upon the stars.
Mr Marrice Wight, a wealthy astrologist, had turned off the gas lights to have the stars appear brighter.
Any attempt to turn the lights on again had failed however, which was not unusual, so Mr Wight had returned indoors to correct the fault.
Upon his return, his daughter was nowhere to be found.
It was assumed to be a case of abduction, since she had become bedridden.
It is possible she had feigned her infirmity, though what motive she may have to do so are beyond our reason, and therefore unlikely.
Her discovery has made it quite clear she is no longer in captivity, and that the path of justice must be taken.
To take the path of justice, we must determine the details of the crime.
To determine the details of the crime, one requires the Constables of the Hunt.
After having extracted the identity codes of the witnesses they told me their version of the tale.
They had planned to go for a walk in the pleasant weather following their afternoon tea, expecting to be back in time to prepare dinner.
Making their way toward Greene Lake, crossing through this forest in the Lymothy Estate Park district, they had come across the girl, believing her to be resting, at the same spot she was now lying.
The estate park districts are large patches of green land which had previously belonged to wealthy families before the Founding of the Empire and were originally of gargantuan size, but had gradually been surrounded and nibbled on by the ever expanding city.
They successfully reached the lake and, having achieved their goal, had started making their way back, possibly animatedly trying to remember what food they still had in the cupboard.
During the return home the weather had worsened to a moderate drizzle and they had began hastening to find shelter, expecting it to worsen.
Again they spotted the girl, and the madam being, as she put it, "o' the friendly sorts", decided to wake the girl.
I can but imagine what shock they must have experienced to find the girl not only dead, but hollowed out and carefully sown back together.
The cry of the lady had caught my attention, since I had been patrolling the quadrant, and after having found the corpse I had immediately punched out the appropriate form and sent Bubbie, my service pigeon, off to inform the Constabulary.
Having established the course of action up to this point and trying not to be distracted by the hustle of the medicals, I looked for any tracks or trails hinting at the direction from which the corpse may have come from.
The dying leaves of the season had been falling throughout the day and disturbances in the surrounding area, such as broken twigs, were so numerous that I hadn't the slightest chance of finding a trail.
The slight rain will have washed away the strongest scents, and our prey will have been smart enough to tread through the nearby river, so having a wolf and his handler catch a whiff will be pointless.
It appears our culprit intends to play the long game, and I know just the place to go.
Since the sun is shining and the people are too busy to notice us today, we'll go to the forest!", I announce before immediately being thrown on my back by a cheering mob.
Once again my padding protects me, physically, that is.
I wave my handkerchief and am helped up by some of the stronger children, before making my way to the disguise room.
"Now, you three are a family, as are you, you and you bunch.
Some of you who have trouble walking dress up old, but don't fight over the walking sticks!
You few'll go in your wheelchairs, any group without a senior has the eldest dress up as an adult.
Remember your speaking exercises, and don't be too loud or too quiet!
Make sure you aren't caught stealing food!
I'll go ahead with my velocipede, the rest of you start off after everyone's counted to the biggest number they know.
Make sure to avoid anyone as well as possible, but keep calm and in a hurry if you do meet someone.", I instruct them.
It was nothing new to them, but these things were always messy business.
No sooner had I said that did they start dressing up, and my had I taught them well!
I brought out my terralune with it's oddly-sized two wheels, hoisted myself up into the saddle and started pedaling along the paths through the fields after making sure no-one would spot me.
Along the way I came across a constable.
It wouldn't do to have the children explaining things, so I got off my terralune and invited him for a chat while strolling, which he accepted.
Luckily he didn't seem to recognise me.
But little did I know how my luck would soon run out.
Chapter 2: Reveal
Having finished a light breakfast I poured myself a cup of my favorite Tightish tea, added a spot of milk and picked up the happenings prepared for a calm and refreshed read of national gossip.
As I take my first sip for the day I glance the headlines and am forced to swallow a rather larger gulp than I had preferred, burning my throat and thoroughly souring my mood.
In my books, having your first tea of the day spoiled is a bad omen, tea leaves here or there.
I stare at the paper in disbelief: There between an article telling of small bottles of miracle-cure that had appeared on the front doors of the poor overnight and a commercial for Dr Vonkler's Warese mints (guaranteed opium-free) was the headline "Child-corpses all over Town".
The article detailed how a small graveyard of new corpses had been discovered in one of King Edward's royal wildlife preserves near St Bath's hot-spring.
A constable, nosy Miss Deadwick, no doubt, was patrolling the ground when she spotted an entirely trampled strip of ground leading through the grass to a great willow tree on the bank of St Bath's stream.
Behind the curtains of the willow she found a large patch of earth that had recently been excavated, an act that was quite clearly forbidden and would perhaps result in one to five years in the Hold, depending on the harm caused.
Further examination revealed the corpses of five orphans who had gone missing a year or so ago, all having met the same fate as our late Elisabeth Wight.
The corpses would have been entirely intact, had their innards not been entirely removed, their skeleton carefully replaced with a frame of wire and any blemish-free skin replaced with mortician's wax.
My examination of our first victim, as was later confirmed in the necrohistorical report, had shown the crime had been committed with unusual care.
The needlework was flawless, the wire bent to perfectly emulate even the slightest details of the child.
There was even some basic embalming, which all in all had led me to believe it must have been a highly skilled barber or other medical professional.
The only person I could think of with such a mysterious background and passion for precision was the famous Dr William Lilyheart.
Born in 48 EE, he quickly climbed the ladder of academic medicine, inventing ingenious new ways of fixing fellow humans and creating the most marvelous of concoctions.
Sadly his beloved wife died of a terrible malady, which led him to a place of unending grief and madness.
He became obsessed with creating a 'miracle cure', a medication capable of preventing all kinds of troubles, perhaps even reverting permanent damage.
Some say he wanted to resurrect his wife, others said he wanted to prevent such a thing from occurring to his fellow citizens, all agree he was absolutely mad.
He was stripped of his influential positions in the academic world and was retired to his town-house, where he continued his experiments on rats and other vermin.
The last that is most definitely known of him is that he went so far as to cut off his own ring-finger to test its curing properties, perhaps hoping the love of his marriage would help.
After that, he simply left, without a trace, and is currently considered to have found himself in a better place.
The ruling: Death in absentia.
I had mentioned that thought to one of my colleagues, but this kind of unfounded rambling should never make its way into the public.
It appears we will all have a wonderful time being interrogated by our colleagues in the Department of the Prevention of Espionage and Corruption.
Someone will lose their freedom today.
It was me!" cried a tear-stricken face up at me.
I try to calm the poor thing, but all my attempts appeared to hit upon deaf ears.
"I killed him! I stormed off in a huff and left him all on his own, and when I came back he was dead!"
There wasn't enough time for this.
He was still breathing, but only just.
We had to be quick.
"Mouser, with your help, we might be able to save him!
You two run off ahead and get the chair out of the way, then turn on the engine and the steriliser!
Jacy, you're in charge, take the terralune and look after the others.
Now you tie his hands and get him on my back!"
The wheelchair would only have slowed us down, being a slow, heavy thing that wouldn't have survived the jolts in the path at high speeds, so Mouser went and hid it before joining the others.
The frail little boy was as light as anything, and I ran home as fast as my little legs and old lungs could carry me while Mouser hid the wheelchair.
Arriving at the house drenched in sweat I saw the chair moved aside, the door open and the cold flicker of the lights from the cellar down the winding stairs, which should have comforted me.
Instead my mind went blank, and I saw the sobbing face of my dear, dear Elisabeth.
Just before I was about to faint, I remembered my training.
I became a vessel of ice, cold and clear and sharp, and suddenly there was no more Elisabeth, just that which must be done.
I rushed into the room, lay down the boy and quietly, but very clearly told the two children standing there "Leave."
With the building evacuated, all staff inspected by the corruption officials and the culprit sent off to the Hold, movement and noise begins to populate the light-filled halls once again.
It wasn't the first time I had entered the Queen's private chambers, but every visit is a breathtaking experience.
This particular hall was one of the dozen newly-built ones, their tall, narrow, arched windows supplementing the clouded light of the greenhouse-like glass roof.
The cheerful tinkling of bells, the angry chatter of thousands of rolls of paper running through the reading-box and printing-mill, the gentle cooing of the pigeons and the fierce hissing of the engines all drown out the distant calls of the engineers and the intimate typing of the scribes on their many terminals and interfaces.
Queen Victoria, you see, was not a ruler of blood and flesh as King Edward had been, but an Iron Ruler, a monarch destined to reign forever supreme and fair.
And what a job she did!
The entire Empire, from the Sheikans in the new western world to the Hotians in the old eastern world, from the Cannish up north and close to home to the Stiflians down south at the other end of the globe, were all lead according to her will: The will of the late King and his people.
Not all of the governing was up to the Tightish Queen of course, it would take weeks, perhaps even months to get any information from out there back to here.
Instead, there were multiple Queen Victorias spread throughout the globe, each a nigh identical replica of the Tightish Queen, who resided, right here, in the Palace of Penchester, the center of the world.
Pardon my patriotic remark, but we are objectively, based on overall technology, culture, quality of life and consumption of tea, the greatest nation on earth, and we have our late King and our dear Steam Queen to thank for it.
But I'm not here to marvel at our nation, I am here to hunt.
What better ways to find a trace than to take a look through all abduction victims under the age of thirteen over the last couple of years and follow it up by reading all the reports on traders of mortician's wax in and around the city?
I'd better get to work.
With a heavy heart I begin shoveling earth onto the boy in the freshly-dug grave.
Had I been able to afford it and had I been abe to have death certificates made for them, I would have done as is proper and have their ashes made into the most beautiful porcelain, with scenes of their short but oh so valuable lives glazed upon them, so that they could forever be cherished and passed on to the later generations for eternity.
But alas, I have no coice but to stoop to such pagan rituals, the demon and fool that I am.
I can't even bury him in a decent place, where all could see and marvel this young man's life, rather than hiding him here, under this here bridge in a dried-out stream, where not a soul will ever find him.
It brakes my heart, but I feel I have no choice.
Upon returning home I leave the children to their own devices, so long as they stay inside, fetch my large linen rucksack and the terralune and make my way out from the park district in which we live and into the bustling depths of Penchester.
Arriving in the slums, if you can still call this bright and lively place 'the slums', I start looking for the dye-seller.
After a while I spot his companion shuffling along in a side-street.
"Where's Raket? I really need some supplies," I ask in a hushed tone.
"Hot feet. Gone." replies the old woman with a face that looks as if it had been out in the sun too long and had started melting.
"Not another! Gone? For how long? Where to?", but she doesn't reply.
Chapter 3: Hunt
I'm not going anywhere!" shouts a young lady, who is quite clearly drunk, as the bouncer throws her out through the door onto the wet cobbles outside.
The cube-shaped knuckle-bones roll out onto the table.
"Har-har-har, baker's dozen an' a piece of eight, yer see?
I thinks I'll be taking me loot now", declares old sea-hound Skyle.
Back in his prime he was a dreaded force of nature, always out on the sea joined by all kinds of seedy people, looking for the next jackpot.
His times of sea-faring were cut short by the introduction of strict ship monitoring and trade protection acts, so naturally they hadn't a chance of surviving with all the marine patrols and the careful investigations in every dock of the Empire.
Somehow, although unfathomable to me, the black market, uncannily like a nasty weed, always finds a way to blossom.
I pass him a couple of Motions, the thick, brass coinage clanking oddly as it lands in his palm.
He had quite plainly been cheating, as was to be expected, but one must feed the lion before one is able to tame it.
"Oooh, a mint of the twenties!", he comments, his one good eye carefully reading the mint code, "Now let's see if yer worth yer salt, harhar!"
The man trusted me well enough, but he would never let it show.
He couldn't stand being ridiculed.
An odd-looking device appears from one of his many pockets and is held firmly in his fist.
It is around the size of a large rat, a spring-loaded grip, similar to that of a ticket punch, with a small chamber sitting between it and a short, hollow needle.
The coin of interest is carefully mounted onto the point and fastened before he starts rigorously squeezing and relaxing the handle with both hands, as if he were rather inelegantly attempting to master the art of rush-hour ticket-stamping.
Suddenly a shrill series of whistles startles the customers of The Kraken's Arms, the pub by the eastern docks of Penchester.
The coin, powered by the compressed air from the hand-pump, had begun whistling a merry tune.
Every Motion ever produced has such an anti-forgery mechanism, with symptoms varying from melodies such as this one to the engraving of the Queen on the side of the coin nodding her head.
I recently even saw a mint that sprouted legs and scuttled across the table!
A few of the patrons stood up enraged, but quickly settled down again as they spotted my companion and I.
It tickles me to think we have such a reputation for our ruthless efficiency, even in these parts.
"Well show me yer swashbucklin' an' blast me to smithereens, ain't she a beaut'?" Skyle muses, surprisingly quietly, before rumbling on, "A'ight, what'd it be fer yea?"
Confident that my little gift had pleased him, I lay out what my hunt had revealed so far.
"... and that's why I've come to you.
You wouldn't happen to know any means of getting hold of unauthorised disguises and mortician's wax, would you?"
He closed his eyes and began stroking his long, grimy beard, as if he were playing a beautiful ballad on it, enjoying the music filling his ears and letting it remind him of all the current affairs of the supposed secret market.
The black market was, of course, not truly hidden from the eyes and ears of the nation.
It is much better to spy on your enemy and learn all their ways than to blow your cover and have to start all over again, which is where Skyler comes in.
After having given up a life on the sea, he had used his reputation to become an informant for the Cosmopolitan Constabulary, gaining him a stable source of income and access to some very attractive perks.
Although he may appear like he'd slice you up on the spot, he has a flawless criminal record and successfully passed the psychological entry exams for informants, so as long as he doesn't get into trouble, he could have this job for a lifetime.
"Aye, there be an ol' landlubber I be thinking of," having completed the silent symphony of his beard.
"Become a nasty business lately, 'e be the last of 'em.
'e be known as the seller o' many faces, but 'is real name be..."
Kimm Louise Lampkin!" I exclaim startled, "Get down from there!"
Ever since I announced we were moving the children have been restless, but this was just ridiculous.
They were onto us, I was sure.
The happenings I had spotted in the stands while out on my errands, with all the headlines of dead children and such, had made me mildly paranoid.
Nothing would happen to my children so long as I could prevent it.
I had scouted out a new home for us in the heart of the city, near the great and wonderful Globe Theatre, which should help us blend into the crowd and stay safe.
A tiny, rundown townhouse had recently become abandoned, I'm not sure how and don't really care, but if we play our cards right, we can live there.
If anyone comes around to ask for the papers, I'll say they were still with the landlord, Lord Hournerton, who was known for his bad temper, and he had been very busy lately, but I'd be sure he would have it within the week.
I'd go ahead, some of the older children following me together with the lame ones.
The smaller children would gather too much attention, so I have to take the risk and hope a constable delivers them to the right addresses without causing too much trouble.
Luckily I could call in some favours, the children should be safe with them until I come and pick them up.
I just hope they don't get into the wrong hands and they aren't recognised.
Once in the city, Arthgarth Market will provide us with all we need until the children have all left their lives with me and move on to a better place.
Then I might become a bum-boozer, hooked on the thrill of the plays on the stage and trying to forget my sorrows until I become a slobbering vegetable and the theatre's leeched me of all I have, which is just what I deserve, before landing in the Embrace and being a nuisance to all mankind.
But no, I should die differently, I haven't deserved being pampered like that.
I can only hope the afterlife doesn't exist and my soul may be shattered to smithereens.
But now isn't the time to think of such things, fool!
I have a much more important task, and I shan't rest until these children are once again safe!
And with that, I lit the support from behind the hidden door and after but a short while the roof above the staircase came crashing down.
Together with the children we smoothed the ground and covered it with earth.
Once again I stood at the front door looking through the hall to the dark door.
But had I opened it, I would have found not my darkest memories, but a newly-tilled vegetable patch from the back garden looking back at me.
All that was now left of this place was the children, I and my memories.
That and the last crystal vial I possessed, hidden within the depths of my chest pocket.
The liquid, at first entirely colourless, became a light amber before its depths became ever darker and finally black.
It hadn't been so for long before I poured the liquid through a strainer and into a smaller vessel, wonderful cloud-like formations blooming out from the cup's depths as I added the milk.
This was just what I needed to celebrate my successful findings after a long day of hunting.
It was such an indescribable feeling, the feeling of having achieved something after having put so much time and effort into it.
I now knew the district in which the culprit was and, if all had gone to plan, he would now be somewhere near the Globe Theatre, where it was much easier to keep an eye on their actions and make sure there were no further incidents until the paperwork was ready.
The way the Constabulary worked, being the military organisation it was, was very similar to the rest of the Order of Imperial Custodians.
The Order was founded by King Edward upon the Founding of the Empire in the first year EE.
Being a pacifist, but needing his people protected, he reformed his personal guards to act in the protection of the nation, not just himself.
The members of the Order are all trained in a matter of subjects, from modern communication and historical military strategy to human manipulation and the use of weaponry for non-lethal use,
It is by far the largest military organisation in the world, but the only one that is committed to cause as little harm as possible to the human species and its heritage.
King Edward was deeply inspired by Warese and Venerese warfare, leading to a force of warriors somewhere between the Knights of before the Empire and the Samurai and Ninjas of the east.
One of the most important mantras of the Order goes as follows:
Know your enemy.
Avoid strength, make use of weakness.
Show what is expected, hide the truth.
Give reason to cause no harm.
Be prepared and surprise.
Show unbending mercy.
'Reason to cause no harm', that is, the constant crowds around the Theatre, has been taken care of, so I can now inform the Constables of the Night to set up watch.
Currently we only have suspected crimes and can only guess what atrocities they might have committed.
With not even a witness remaining, we must catch them red-handed to be able to arrest them.
Now it is simply a case of being prepared to spring on the criminal.
Although I never have understood what the last verse meant.
The wind has changed, the air is getting dark and heavy.
The days, at least for now, would be days of twilight, with only the glow of the gas lamps to guide the people through the narrow and winding streets of Penchester.
The nights, however, would be darker than the blackest pool of ink and would swallow anything to step into it.
It was these times where the nightly curfew made the most sense, since any crime, as long as it were silent, would not be discovered until morning.
And if it started raining, or even thundering, even the noise would no longer be an obstacle.
Somehow, I felt comforted by the weather, as if the heavens had decided to commiserate and join in on my sorrow.
I had hoped that moving here would alleviate my depressing circumstances, but some of the children hadn't turned up to what was supposed to be our new home.
The fact that they hadn't appeared and that none I could ask had seen them worried me sick.
Had I been one of the what must be hundreds of thousands of other people who had lost children they loved, I'd have gone to the Constabulary.
They would've immediately know what was to be done and would've comforted me, even if they knew they couldn't help.
But that was not an option, and my helplessness gnawed at me, only adding to the pain of losing them.
I should've been happy, for everyone else had arrived unharmed and had quickly accustomed themselves to living here, prospering even under these bleak conditions.
Instead I was possessed by this extreme discomfort.
I felt ill, hungry but without appetite, weak without wanting to become strong, cold without wanting to warm myself and I hated it.
Why had my life taken such a sudden twist?
Why did all my good intentions come back to haunt me in such an unforgiving way?
Why am I powerless to do anything?
Why do I regret everything I do?
Why am I so alone?
But then I turn my gaze and see the children merrily playing one of those silly games they come up with and remind myself I am not alone, which makes the pain ever so slightly more bearable.
"Right, I'm off to buy us some bread!
Don't do anything you regret!" I said lightheartedly, but I hope they will never have to realise how sincerely I meant it.
On my way towards the market I trundled past the newsstand and glanced at the headlines as I usually did.
No.
Please no.
This was bad.
Chapter 4: Capture
It really had started raining, and badly at that.
The barrage of raindrops deafened our ears and worsened our view significantly, we'd effectively have to walk into the culprit to know where they were.
Either that, or have Constables of the Night stationed at all likely crossings nearby.
We weren't taking any risks with a highly intelligent figure capable of serial infanticide, so we had more than doubled the count of nightwatch in the district.
The Constables of the Night, commonly called nightwatch, took on the duty of protecting the city at night, and many believe them to have the most varied job in the Empire.
At dusk they begin appearing, clothed without a cloak, in an imperial green tunic and sporting a bright lamp, encouraging everyone to turn in for the day.
But once the twilight gives in to the darkness of the night, they transform.
Their top-hats become shades for the lamp, hiding it's light to keep the eyes accustomed to the dark and prevent discovery.
Their trousers and tunic are cut to keep their movement unrestricted, their shoes are soft and silent.
Their faces, if not already dark, are covered in soot.
Only their hands remain in their clean, white service gloves, the palms specially modified for climbing.
They then scatter throughout the city, moving about on rooftops and trees, hiding on street-corners or under bridges, keeping their senses keen for danger.
Many a citizen will have visited the lavatory while unknowingly being observed by the nightwatch, they are as silent and omnipresent as the night itself.
Their function is twofold: Act as rapid response for any emergency that may occur and apprehend any offenders as required by the Constabulary.
If a known offender couldn't be apprehended during daylight for any reason, the nightwatch will find a way in and out of their place of hiding, successfully taking all required into custody, without anyone noticing a thing until dawn.
Only the best of the best can become fully-fledged nightwatch, not only requiring peak physical, but also mental, condition.
They must be able to overpower a fellow constable, since most offenders taken out at night are those too strong to apprehend in the day.
Becoming a constable on the run is one of the worst mistakes to make.
Being a person trained in all the ways used against criminals and being amongst the most combat-effective in the Empire, you are a serious threat and will be taken to the Hold at all costs.
You will be chased day and night, have no place to run to, face your own friends and have no friends where you need them.
Yes, once you become a constable, you must follow your vows, sacrifice your greed and hatred to your nation and never turn back.
Which is why I am now sitting here, in a shabby informant's inn in the dead of the night, waiting for my prey to come to me.
I will be waiting.
Finally, the time has come.
I have been waiting since dusk for the children to fall asleep, and now that they are slumbering sweetly I am torn.
This is my chance, perhaps my only one, but what if I don't make it?
What will happen to the children?
What will happen to me?
What will happen to my dear Chrystelle?
After not having seen her for so long, what will she think of me?
All these old and forgotten feelings well up inside me, only confusing me further.
If I stay here, I might live a peaceful life with the children until I grow old, and none would be the wiser.
But could I really carry on living, call myself a human, knowing that I could have prevented both her and her daughter's death?
Knowing I could've saved my first and only love, and my daughter?
There had been so much going on lately, I just wanted to lie back and forget it all, but it wouldn't go.
Like a nightmare of fever, it kept tossing in my head.
I knew, ever since I had begun on this path, that I would be making decisions of life or death, and I had told myself it was to be a decision of life, every time.
But I was now older and, hopefully, wiser, and saw how life was not always the right way to go.
Too many times had I let someone live and regretted it.
Too many times had I let someone die and regretted it.
There was no life or death for me, only regret.
And I hated it.
I couldn't stand it anymore, I wanted it to end.
And so I threw my trench-coat over my short self, put on my prosthetic finger, my white gloves and my bowler hat.
The crystal vial stowed away safely in my chest pocket, I looked through the window to make sure the weather was still in my favour.
And then, without looking back, I slipped into the night.
After having been outside for but a short while I decided to return back inside where I was sheltered from the rain.
This waiting business was incredibly mind-numbing, especially since there was absolutely nothing to occupy oneself with.
I had left Bubbie in the central aviary since he couldn't fly in this weather, and so I was left entirely to my own devices.
Many times I caught my attention slipping, noticing no difference at all between having my eyes open or closed.
I satisfied myself by going through all the crimes this criminal had committed and all sorts of resulting variables, such as probable sentence time, amount of paper required to print out their sentence and how long it would take until their case had been cleared up and would become educational material for the next members of the Constables of the Hunt.
Now, one thing that sets Tightish law, defined by the Book of the Crown's Justice, apart from all other law systems I have heard of is that there is only one kind of punishment: Time.
King Edward was a strong believer in second chances and equality between the classes, which cut out the possibility of disfiguring punishments such as amputation and execution, but also fines and similar deterrents.
Time is something that everyone has, but few know how much of it they have, making people want to avoid it out of their fear of the unknown and making the most of their time on Earth.
Every crime is punished based on how much time other people could have lost because of it.
For example, if I injured someone so they couldn't work for a month or two, I would stay behind bars until they had recovered.
If I stole a large sum of money, I would be kept away for the amount of time it would take for those I stole from to regain that money and so on and so forth.
Currently, our suspect is expected to have committed at least eight acts of murder, each victim between five and eleven years old with a life expectancy of between 49 and 67 years, which would result in a least 334 years behind bars excluding the mental trauma caused to friends and family, illegal purchase of items and obstruction of justice in all shapes and sizes, of which all sentences could only be calculated accurately by the Queen.
Either way, our dear friend will not make it out of their sentence alive, assuming no miracles occur, which is something I am quite confident in.
"Huntwatch Cluell, we have the suspect.
We found them attempting to escape toward district 14.
I, Master Constable of the Night Lan G. Beakes, request permission for my subordinates to return to ordinary function." spoke the nightwatch quietly, so as not to disturb those sleeping next-door.
As a constable of the lowest rank I savoured having power, even though it was of the most incredibly meaningless and formal kind, over a hero such as Beakes, who had suddenly appeared before me with the shackled and gagged suspect held between two other constables.
Her way of calling me a huntwatch slightly irritated me though.
"I, Constable of the Hunt Narina J. Cluell, hereby dismiss with gratitude Night-MC Beakes and their subordinates from the duties of the Constables of the Hunt." I reply to the emptiness of the room.
I make sure no light will leak from the room before lifting my top-hat off a lantern on the table.
"Dear citizen, you have been found guilty of acting against curfew, which is the obstruction of justice through the distraction of the Constables of the Night, which automatically sentences you to eight hours in the Hold, branding you as a class four offender.
As a representative of the Order of Imperial Custodians I, Constable of the Hunt Narina J. Cluell, am bound by vow to aid in all manners possible should it be in the interest of our people, as a non-zero offender, however, you are obliged to answer all questions asked truthfully and in the greatest detail possible to guarantee a just sentence.
Failure to comply will result in further allegations of obstruction of justice which may result in a branding as class one offender.
Now," I murmur after having rambled through the formalities I so enjoy, "allow me to go through this list I made while waiting for you.
Who are you?"
Chapter 5: Convict
I take a deep sigh.
I knew this would happen.
I suppose I have no choice but to tell the young lady all I can.
"My name is William James Lilyheart, citizen number 3111143, Doctor of Barbery and Surgery, Medicines and Alchemicals.
Mister Bards is another of my names" I mutter, holding back tears.
"Do you confess to the murder of Elisabeth Wight?" she starts, but that is all she can say before I burst into great mourning.
"Let me go to her mother!
Let me make right what I have done wrong!
Let me save her!" I bellow.
The young lady was quite clearly not expecting this and, after a brief moment of recovery, stepped into a different role.
She comes close to me, embraces me and very gently rests my head against her chest.
I knew this was part of their training, to make the suspect comfortable to have them confide in them, but I could pretend it was real.
It reminded me so much of the days past, and I was tired and wary, glad even to have someone play my mother, when I had played mother to so many of the children.
"Tell me," she says gently, "tell me everything."
"When my life had just begun, around 30 years or so ago, and I was filled with optimism and enthusiasm, and wanted to make the world a better place, as one does as a promising man at such an age.
I went to the finest academy I could afford and worked hard, but one day I met a young woman I was enamoured of.
She had the most beautiful smile and won my heart entirely, and somehow I had won hers.
We enjoyed passionate times together and I was the happiest being on earth, until one day she told me a secret that would change my life forever.
She was pregnant.
She wanted me to marry her, and so did I, but I had only just been invited abroad to work on an exciting new discovery with some of the most prominent doctors which, if successful, could have transformed our very understanding of human anatomy.
It was too tempting, and so one day, without even saying goodbye, I left.
What a foolish, selfish act it had been, for once I returned she was married to a rich astrologist, a certain Mister Wight.
Of course she had, she wouldn't have been able to raise a child by herself with what little money she had, so she used her beauty and intelligence to find someone who wouldn't be as despicable as I.
Imagine the sorrow, imagine the pain as our child was born dead.
All her searching had been in vain, and now we would never be together again.
And I was bitter."
He stops abruptly, possibly noticing I am no longer caressing him.
Instead, I am sitting a step or two away, my face hidden from the light, and I have almost finished transcribing his statement, the tip of my pen flitting from row to row, page to page and drawing elegant waves of writing it its wake.
Not a word would escape my pen, and not a word would escape the page.
What was noted, was noted.
If only I had a cup of tea.
The silence is broken as I gesture to him in my service gloves "Please, do go on."
He sullenly clears his throat before continuing: "Shame led me to try and forget her, my poor Chrystelle, and I found a wife for myself, who would never compare to her, but we understood each other very well and became a jolly couple.
We never wanted children, which allowed me to pursue my passion for the sciences, and I became a highly awarded surgeon and alchemist.
Once again, I lead a comfortable life, my profession not leaving enough room to dwell on things of the past.
But one day my wife became gravely ill, and I could not understand why, and so I was helpless to watch her die a long and painful death.
It tore open a wound that had lain dormant for so long, and month after month I waited for the pain to subside.
This time I had done all I could, and it had not been enough.
I had to occupy myself again, show myself the strength I had but seemed to have forgotten, and so I started work on a potion I had hoped would prove something to myself.
What precisely I couldn't tell, but it was invigorating, having something to sink one's teeth into.
I gradually became lost in my own little world, escaping from the greater world for as long as I could.
Other than to get supplies I never left the house, dedicating all my time to find that which would prove my worth.
My attempts became admittedly more and more exotic, and one day I decided to experiment with living matter, with life itself.
I had discovered that preparing living tissue, such as that of plants and rats, could have an extraordinary effect on healing processes, effectively repairing and replacing any damaged tissue, if done correctly.
Exhilarated by this discovery, I had to experiment on human tissue, but wouldn't stoop to involve anyone other than myself.
And so I sacrificed my left ring finger, the finger I needed the least out of all my digits but was easily accessible.
Whittling it down piece by piece, I began isolating certain symptoms towards infections and other conditions.
By rotating between experiments on myself and other creatures I had one day perfected the medication as far as I could.
I established the following variables for making the concoction: It must be alive, of the same species and young to have optimal effect.
Anesthetics had all sorts of horrible effects on the procedure.
I was about to publish my discoveries, but now that I had reached my goal my past came crashing down upon me again.
Was I making the right choice, making this knowledge public?
I began having the most terrifying of nightmares, where the big factories would haul off cartloads of poor children to make the rich and greedy live forever, their horrid, cruel faces laughing at me.
No, I couldn't do it.
I had to take matters into my own hands.
And so I left."
So far he hadn't mentioned any acts of violence, apart from the mutilation of plants, small animals and himself, which is not punishable.
He does seem willing enough to give up his secrets, though.
I have to dig deeper.
Again the young lady gestured calmly: "Please, continue."
Here I was, pouring out my heart and soul, and this was how she reacted?
But I wasn't really annoyed by it, in actual fact I found her calm and neutral behaviour strangely comforting.
Perhaps it was me letting loose all these things I had held in, perhaps I was giving up on myself.
It didn't matter, and so I continued: "I moved out to a small, abandoned house in one of the estate districts, bent upon building myself a new life.
At first all was calm, and I occupied myself with bringing the house up to scratch and getting used to living in disguise.
But the more I got used to this new lifestyle, the more I thought about my old life and this new concoction I had discovered, the more I felt I had to use it.
I began catching myself with hypothetical scenarios, wondering how to get access to the facilities and supplies I would need to craft the drug.
For years I planned and wrought with myself, building up a small laboratory in the cellar of the house.
And one day, when I had sorted it all out, I decided it was time for the first child.
I wanted to be as humane in my sourcing, I wanted to be able to say I had done all I could to make the child live a happy life.
I would take children with no future, and give their lives to children that could have a grand future, become the next generation of visionaries and leaders.
And so it had begun.
Trundling the streets of Penchester, I commenced looking for children who wouldn't live long enough to reach puberty with their current symptoms, and made notes of them.
I evaluated each and every one of them, whether I could look after them, what their character was, how they behaved, how they were treated by their parents, whether I could take them.
Out of the hundreds of children who would die, some unlucky few fulfilled the right criteria to become my trusted friends.
I would visit them regularly and inconspicuously, gaining their trust before one day inviting them to live with me.
They all came of their own accord, it taking days or even weeks for abductor and child to figure out a plan to seperate them from their parents.
Some of them were happier with me than they'd ever been in their lives, frolicking in the meadows, surrounded by friends.
And so I became Mister Bards, a friendly man in his late 50's who looked after a bunch of pseudo-orphans.
Life was once again wonderful, and I had almost forgotten why I had brought these children together, until the first of them died.
I was too shocked and slow with the first one, and their life was wasted.
But after that I became better and better, and soon I had perfected a method of extracting as much living matter as possible from the dying children.
It was painful to me, but only once it was done.
I made sure to keep the corpses as lifelike as possible, not least to lessen my guilt.
I hated doing it, but it had to be done.
The one thing that kept me from ending it all was seeing the families react to their gift of mine.
It was transformative, for never had I seen such unbelievable surprise once the children began to walk, to talk, to run, to sing!
Such a wondrous joy to behold, seeing your hard work pay off in the young, seeing them become filled with life where there was once only the faintest will of survival.
And so it went on, and it was harsh, but worth it.
But one day, dear Elisabeth White became ill and once again I began making mistakes.
I had always thought my dear Chrystelle to be one of the poor women that would never have a child, but she had given birth to a child, many years later than was usual.
I had spotted her and her father, unawares of who they were, and she landed on the unfortunate list.
She was a hapless little thing, so I brought her under my feathers.
Her malady worsened quickly, and soon she collapsed, close to death.
Quickly she was brought downstairs, and just as I had made the first incision, she reacted.
I had been wrong.
She was still very much conscious, but it was too late, it had started.
Being a surgeon, I knew how to finish what I had started, no matter what complications arose, and in that state of mind I was blind to her agony.
Suddenly, she began screaming for her mother and father.
It was then that I snapped out of my balance, realising with the purest horror what I had done."
I broke down into tears, and suddenly she was there again, softly wiping my tears away.
It helped, but it was still to painful to carry on.
I had enough to convict him of his crimes, I could stop now.
Why was it then that I wouldn't stop?
He was guilty, so much was clear, so why carry on?
There was more, I concluded, and my rational mind argued it would be a disservice to miss out any further crimes he may have committed.
But a much smaller voice in my head was trying to say something, but couldn't find the words.
I stepped back again, but this time I didn't say anything.
This time he carried on on his own.
My pen lay oddly quiet as he went on: "I imagined Elisabeth as my very own child, and the thought of killing it in such a horrendous way was simply too horrible for words to describe.
But the damage was done, and there was nothing I could do to reverse it.
And so, instead of burying her like the rest, I laid her down where she would be found, together with a letter of my condolences.
It did nothing, and my dear Chrystelle became ill with grief, as I discovered this morning.
I had had enough of making the wrong decisions and wanted to make it right again, and give her the last of her daughter I had.
But then you found me, and although I cannot believe how lucky I have been, having evaded the law all this time, my time has come.
I confess of all my sins and pledge guilty!" he screams in a bout of catharsis, before slumping exhausted in his chair again, having said all he had to say.
Now at last I understand the last verse of the mantra.
"Give unbending mercy." I mutter under my breath.
"You have not deserved this fate, you have made mistakes and you lament them.
I only wish I knew how to help."
I turn my back on him and glance on my watch, noticing that dawn will slowly be approaching.
Suddenly I have a flash of inspiration.
"Doctor, do you think you could make an ink solvent?
This is a highly resistant ink, but perhaps you would know a way of ... circumventing it?"
The man looks at me quizzically before glancing around the inn and exclaiming: "Why certainly! But why would we want to do that?"
"We have little time, instruct me." I order before untying him.
We begin rushing to and fro, gathering spirits, mixing vessels, soaps and what else we can find.
He begins measuring, mixing, tasting, heating and washing at a pace which I could only dream of achieving.
The informant will be back to open business soon.
I inspect my booklet and try to find the last point of the statement where no crimes are mentioned, and make a mental note of it before looking for something to apply the solvent with.
I bring my finger to my lips, looking around for something suitable before realising my soft service gloves to be perfect for the task.
The man brings forward what appears to be a glass of water, which I almost would've taken a swig from hadn't the stinging smell it emitted deterred me.
Now aware this was the solvent, I lightly dip my finger into it before gently rubbing my flowery script from existence.
The man places a small crystal vial on the table.
"Take it" he whispers.
This was highly illegal activity, but in that very moment it didn't matter anymore.
The Queen would not sympathise, and this man deserved a better life: A life perhaps looking after his beloved children in the Embrace, not stuck in the Hold, isolated from the world until this eventual demise.
With the deed complete and everything returned to its original state, I opened the blinds just in time to see the bartender arrive to set up shop.
I tie up the man's hands before dragging him to the nearest outpost.
We both didn't speak a word, but there was no need to.
We were, after all, doing precision butchery.
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