Nelson leads me into what seems like a spare room. A table, a single chair and the door are all that remain within.
He hands me a piece of crumpled paper.
"First, I want you to prove your literacy by reading the words on the page," Nelson says, looking at the page.
I rattle out the passage on the pre-prepared script.
"After seven days, when God fell upon the heavenly sky mountain, Esmereld, following the word of the Lord, descended from the holy mountain holding a carved tablet from the Almighty himself."
This sounds familiar.
"Upon it were inscribed the new commandments of righteous order. Those who followed his words would transcend their limits as humans and serve the Lord's will. It was at this time the first house of Ascenders were born, hearing the only demand of their creator—'to eradicate the demon!'"
"Good enough. You can stop there," he says, snatching the paper back. Not even looking back at me.
"Next is the numeracy test."
He slams the surface with another sheet before I can even verbalise my witty response.
"Here are the questions. Take all the space you need."
I glance down.
9 × 7 — well, that's just 63.
5 × 4 — that's an easy 20.
10 × 10 — everyone knows that's 100.
"Are you sure this is right? These are way too easy," I ask.
He narrows his eyes. "Are you sure you didn't cheat? Many people can't figure out the last one due to its immense difficulty."
He looks down at my chest, standing over me.
"Then ask me your own question's then."
He grunts walking to the other side of the room holding his quill mesmerised
"Answer me this. What! Is the multiplication of the two numerical numbers, of twelve and twelve, equate too? Answer this within— "
"144, is the total summation of this provided equation, and thus —" I answer mockingly.
"Enough! I get it now. Silence."
He jots something down with his favorite quill.
"I'll just write that you're very competent in numeracy, then...
Does this satisfy you."
I don't have the heart to correct him.
"For now." I respond vaguely.
"Good. Now for the health check," he says.
Come again?
"You can come in now," he calls out.
Two figures enter the room—faces hidden beneath those familiar leathery masks and hollow eyes. One is a man, the other a woman, presumably, judging by the shape of her oblong chest.
Plague doctor's—I wouldn't have thought to see them here.
One carries a suitcase. Of which they place on the table; opening with a click, therein lies a crystal orb to be revealed. It glows faintly within its padded cushion of nested yarn.
A faint brown bruise lies rough on the girl's arm, momentarily in my view before they cover it back, concealed by the suit of darkened glove tucked beneath the shaded overall of their plaguemaster's uniform.
"Stand ready!" one orders.
"What do I have to do?" I ask.
"Stand ready!" the other answers demanding. Voice speaking in embalmed tones, wrapped in encased leather — both indistinguishable in their shared acoustic monotony.
"The aura on the ball will react," one explains.
"We need you to place your hand on the ball. If it turns green, you're good. If it turns red… we must contain you."
"As a mort yourself, this is simply routine," the other sneers.
"And if I do happen to have the plague? What does that mean?" I ask, looking between them, unsure who I have to address.
Muffled whispering.
"This is no mere mortal's plague child. This is De'sin. An affront to us favored by God's will, be well to keep the mention of this strictly to yourself in presences such as ours in the future."
"When red It would mean you can't leave this unholy place. Ever. In your entire life. That's all that you need to know," one says interjecting over the last statement.
The other cackles, "But well, you may try if you so desire… murder on trespass it will be. You don't want to check out on the gift of life like that—not that you even matter much, you lowly one."
"Right, of course," I mutter.
I reach forward, placing my hand over the crystal ball.
A slight chill absorbs the warmth in my hand.
Light sputters surrounding the room in flickering light.
Then…
Nothing
"That's… intriguing," a covered figure clicks tongue. "You don't have any mana at all."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"Usually even you morts have some semblance of mana no matter how unclean it is. But you—it's none. Almost like you shouldn't even exist."
The other nods. "Indubitably, you are indeed a pitiful creature. This isn't merely 'low potential'; it is no potential, It is impossible for you to ascend towards the greatness of our God—the runt of this forsaken litter you are."
"So, is all well then?!"
"I suppose so."
"For now."
They pack the case, click it shut, and leave the room, not even shutting the door behind them. Gone as quickly as they came in.
"Well," Nelson breathes out after they leave, standing up. "You've all passed all the entry tests. I hereby appoint you as the vice-leader of the administration office."
"Vice-leader? Isn't that a bit much? I mean, the people outside, and now those two—they all don't like me."
"They can drown in their alcohol for all I care. As for them, they don't like anyone here. The real unspoken work is all conducted within this building—not the burning the corpses up front, but facilitating the documentation that needs proper handling.
Thanks to your abilities, and your non-convict status, I will be able to handle more appropriate matters where I need. With my authority, I designate you as such."
"Convict status?"
"Has Jiord not already informed you?"
I shake my head.
"Typical—getting me to handle all his work.
Let me explain this as simply as I can: many of the people here are classified as convicts. Thus, they are mandated by law to contribute to the corpse collection duty, for that is their punishment. That is one of the reasons personnel here are so fickle—they have to do this obligation before all other priorities."
"If I'm going to be honest and transparent with you, Desmond," he says,
"not many people here can read. Fewer can write. And even fewer can do complex maths in their heads. You can do all three, and you're not a convict. That makes you reliable—dependable for this operational task." He announces with heavy gravitas and the demeanor of an office grand-expert.
He leading me out the room and down the corridor, halting before a wooden door. "Now please inform me, how was the funeral? The reception?" he Inquires.
"You weren't there?" I casually probe.
"Some of us were unable to attend because we actually have work to do, rather than loitering around and finding another excuse to drink."
His left foot pats at the floor. Silently, softly, adorned in bland sock— as if measuring the passage of time through a system of feet, patiently waiting for a timely response.
Do I tell him about the others, no, that'll just ruin his day.
"It was everything Tim could have wanted," I respond, holding in my resentment.
"I see" He pauses for a moment, eyes chasing at the arched ceiling.
"At the end of the day, that's all that really matters." The baggage under his eyes turn a lighter shade. Then interrupting us, a bell chime rings throughout the building.
"I'm sorry—I must move on with greater haste now." He grabs a bronze key from his pocket and turns the at handle, explaining.
"Each of the town's faction heads has assistants who write and report for them, covering various aspects of their jurisdiction," he continues,
"Your current job is to read their concerns, the data, the information, and review them. Forward to me the ones worth implementing, the concerns worth addressing, and so on. Then, at the end of each month, you'll compile the summaries and send them to the agency, with that unusual ability."
"That's a lot of responsibility to entrust to me."
You're going to regret this, Nelson. I already have many ideas.
"Well, frankly, I have little choice, not many others are capable. And besides—Jimson trusted you, and that's reason enough for me."
He opens the door. Inside: a lounge, a table with draw,, a paperweight, a chair, ink, and assortments of written parchment.
"Make sure you've reviewed all the documents on your desk by the end of the day," he says. "You'll be good to go."
He gestures to a tall stack—forty documents at least, and another forty on the couch.
Some late-night reading, is it? I'll be generous and considerate by actually reading these.
"Here you have four coloured stamps on the table at your disposal," he explains, setting them neatly in a row.
"Red means denied. Green means approved. Yellow means reconciled—that's when you've handled the matter using your authority. Make sure to explain in the attached addendum. Blue means the report is pending; this means it can't be processed at this stage.
If you mark something as (Pending), make sure to cite the reasons clearly in the attached addendum for why this is the case."
He slides the yellow stamp aside slightly.
"Now the rules:
Never, use yellow on anything marked High Priority.
Those are proposals. You don't make decisions on proposals; you only assess them against the criteria listed on the docket to your left. If a [High priority] file doesn't meet those standards—for example, grammar, formatting, or consistency with its referenced documents—you simply reject it with red. It will get sent back down to the town heads for further reconsideration, so don't concern yourself with the details.
Again making sure to state the reason on the attached addendum why you have declared it as such."
He taps at the desk.
"[Medium Priority] items are inquiries. You can manage those yourself. Stamp red if you reject the claim, green if you accept it, blue if you're waiting on a further follow-up, and yellow if you've already resolved the issue internally, or have investigated the situation yourself and concluded it."
Finally, he gestures to the stack of thin brown files lying under a glass paperweight at the end.
"[Low Priority] documents are reports—routine submissions. Handle them with the same care as you would inquiries. The system remains the same, red for rejection, green for acceptance, blue for pending and yellow for reconciliation.
Keep them neat, keep them clean, and make sure every stamp matches your written editorial note in the addendum. That's all anyone reviewing will really check. If not, you'll only make our job harder."
He folds his arms.
"Simple enough, right? I have work to do, so if you have any questions, please follow up with Jan at the front desk. Just read those reports on the couch for reference. Welcome to the administration board, Vice-Leader."
He has a hand out, key in his palm. We clasp hands.