As Rahl let the older clerk lock the door behind them, he headed for the desk to pick up the forms and papers he’d left. He looked around. Somehow, the office looked and felt darker, but the same lamps were lit as when they’d left.
“I need to check with the director. Why don’t you put your things away? It’s been a long day,” Daelyt said before making his way back toward the study.
“I’ll… do… that.” Rahl yawned again. It had been a long day. His legs felt heavy, and he struggled onto the stool so he wouldn’t have to stand while he stacked the forms and slipped them into the drawers.
He was beginning to feel sleepy. Far too sleepy. He put his head on his hands at the wide desk, but somehow, it slipped onto the wood. Then he tried to lift his hand, but it wouldn’t move.
“He’s, almost out…”
“Get rid of the truncheon, and you can have what’s in .his wallet… lay him out on the old rug here, and we’ll just roll him inside.” There was a laugh. “Make him real comfortable.”
Rahl struggled to move, to hear more, but a hot blackness rolled over him.
Despite the clouds overhead, the late-winter afternoon was almost as hot as fall or spring, and the hint of a breeze was acrid and carried the heat from the furnaces to the west.
“Move that shovel, Blacktop!”
The man knew his name was not Blacktop, but, for all the time he had been in Luba, he did not remember what it was. Until he remembered his name, he would answer to Blacktop. Then again, he had no idea how long he had been in Luba, only that he had been there at least for most of what the overseers called winter, hot as it seemed to him. For the moment, all he knew was that every single time he lifted the shovel, his arms and back ached, and every time that he took a deep breath, the air itself burned through his nostrils and all the way into his chest. He sweated all the time, and half the time, his beard itched from the salt that dried in it.
“Keep the chute full!”
He kept shoveling, evenly and just fast enough so that the overseer would not flick out his lash. He already had more than a few rents in the back of the sleeveless canvas working tunic, and scars on his back beneath those rents. He did not remember how he had gotten them.
“Stand back! ‘Ware the wagon!”
Another wagon—pulled by heavily muscled sloggers— rolled to a stop in the unloading dock next to the chute that funneled the coal down into the coking furnace. The loading dock had been cut into the hillside, so that the wagon bed was level with the ground on which Blacktop stood. The top end of the coal chute was barely a span above the ground.
The wagon guide pulled a rope, and the side of the wagon dropped down. A portion of the hard coal rolled out of the wagon and onto the blackened and hard-packed ground some four cubits wide, where Blacktop and the five others stood between the wagon and the chute.
“Loaders! Back to your places! Get those shovels moving!” The overseer’s whip cracked into the hot air.
Blacktop stepped closer to the side of the wagon and slipped the shovel under a pile of coal; then turned and lofted it in a low arc into the chute. So did the loaders on both sides, all working with the same motion—out of necessity.
Scoop, turn, and release… scoop, turn, and release… Blacktop kept with the others until the wagon was empty. Then he lowered the shovel but did not otherwise move. “Loaders back!” He stepped back. “Short rest, and I mean short.”
Blacktop sat down on the concrete-and-stone support to the chute feeding the coking furnace below, a furnace whose stacks-rose far above his head, even though the chute ran down the hillside for more than thirty cubits. He turned his head slightly, to let the slight movement of hot air help dry the sweat on his face.
Farther to the west, the furnaces of the ironworks rose up the hill, stair-step fashion, with the large iron pipes that fed the exhaust gases of one furnace into the belly of the next. On the west end of the valley were the mills. He’d been told they were mills, but he’d never been there. His job was simple. He had to shovel coal when he was told to, rest when it was permitted, eat when he could, and-sleep the remainder of the time.
The great blast furnaces radiated heat and light into a sky that was gray by day and sullen red by night. Day and night molten iron poured from the furnaces into the sand molds, and when the molds were cool enough, the pigs were moved. At times, from a distance, he had seen wagons moving some pigs when still red-hot to the rolling mills and drop-forges to the west of the furnaces. When his crew worked close to the furnaces, the combined clanging of the forges and the roar of the furnaces was deafening. Other wagonloads of pigs went elsewhere, but he had not seen where that might be.
Depending on where he was loading coal or shoveling broken slag into the disposal wagons, Blacktop could occasionally see the red-hot intensity of the furnaces and feel the heat. The reddish color that he only glimpsed reminded him of something… but he could not remember what it might be. It felt important, and nagged at him, in the few moments when he had time to think, but he could connect it with. nothing before he had to go back to shoveling.
“Wagon away!”
The sloggers took up their traces, and the empty coal wagon creaked out of the unloading dock and back toward the black mountain of coal toward the east, even while another team of sloggers plodded forward, pulling the next wagon into the unloading area.
“Loaders! Standby.”
Blacktop stood and walked back to his position, second in the line of five.
The early morning was almost chill for Luba, and the warmth radiating up from the still-hot slag was welcome for most of the loaders working to shovel the chunks of waste into the disposal wagon, as was the heat radiating from the blast furnace above the slag-pile. A crew of ten breakers stood well above the -crew in which Blacktop worked. The breakers on the top of the slag pile carried sledges and bars to turn the solidified waste into chunks that could be carted away.
“Loaders! Stand and rest!” called the overseer in charge of the loaders. “Sloggers! Forward.”
The disposal wagon pulled away, slowly at first.
Blacktop and the other loaders waited for the next disposal wagon, taking what rest they could before they once more had to shovel the broken chunks of slag into the wagon.
“Not taking this no more!” The tall man at one end of the slag breaking team abruptly straightened. He lifted the pointed iron bar and shifted it in his hand so that it was held like a javelin.
Without pausing, he hurled it directly at the overseer who stood above him and a good ten cubits to the south. The overseer jumped sideways, but his boots slid out from under him, and he fell and then rolled and skidded a good fifteen cubits down the side of the slag heap.
“Loaders!” snapped the overseer in charge of Blacktop’s crew, “stand fast. Don’t move.”
Blacktop froze, only letting his eyes move to watch what was happening on the slag heap well above them.
The overseer picked himself up, almost resigned in his posture, but he did not attempt to walk or climb back up the slope. Instead, he walked sideways, back south, and away from the breaker crew.
Five of the other breakers dropped their bars and sledges and also hurried after the overseer.
The man who had thrown the first bar scrambled southward and picked up another bar, and then a second.
“Stand fast, Grunt!” snapped the loader overseer. To back up his order, he cracked the lash just above the line of loaders, close enough that Blacktop could feel the brief breeze created by the lash.
In front of Blacktop, Grunt stiffened.
The unruly breaker began to trot after the overseer, throwing a second bar, and then the third. ‘Take that, you frigging bastard!“ The breaker stopped.
Blacktop could not see why, but then, the overseer and the breakers who had followed him were out of his sight on the far end of the slag pile.
For several moments, nothing happened. Above and behind the slag pile, the massive blast furnace continued to roar. Warmth still seeped from the slag near the top of the pile. Two more breakers dropped their bars and followed the overseer.
The unruly breaker picked up another bar and held it, brandishing it, but not hurling it.
Blacktop waited, glad he was not shoveling the sharp-edged slag, and glad that he-was not among the three remaining breakers, although he could not have explained why.
The wild breaker raised the iron bar, holding it before him.
A bolt of white flame arced from out of Blacktop’s sight, but did not strike the man or the bar, instead spraying away from both, as if something unseen had acted as a shield.
“Frig you, white bastard!” called the wild breaker.
A second bolt of white flame arched out of the sky, and this time struck the iron bar. Flame sprayed off the iron and splattered into the breaker.
The man screamed and dropped the bar.
The third bolt enveloped the man, and flame flared everywhere. When it cleared, only ashes and dust swirled in the air, settling slowly.
Several moments passed before a figure in khaki trousers and shirt, with black boots and belt, appeared on the slag pile above the loaders. She pointed at the two breakers who stood at the end of the pile. “You two! You did not follow the overseer. You did nothing against the malefactor. Those who do not follow order or combat evil are evil.”
One breaker fell to his knees. The other looked blankly at the woman.
Two bolts of white fire followed, leaving no trace of either breaker.
The uniformed woman turned and left, without another word.
“You saw the mage-guard,” called the overseer. “That is what happens to anyone who fails in their duty. Anyone!” After a pause, he added, “Loaders, ready!”
Blacktop moved into position, waiting for the wagon side to drop so that he could begin to shovel slag into the disposal wagon.
Thoughts churned through his mind. Had he seen that before? He had known that something terrible would happen to the breaker who had tried to harm the overseer. He had known, but he could not remember ever having seen it happen. He had heard of mage-guards, but he had not seen one before. Or had he?
Why couldn’t he remember?
A mage-guard must never show uncertainty or be indecisive, but must act firmly and deliberately. Nor should a mage-guard delay acting when action is required, because a people equates inaction in the face of a crime or a disturbance with either indecisiveness, indifference, or ignorance, if not all three. Yet a mage-guard must also avoid the appearance of undue haste or careless swiftness, for those will create the impression of acting merely for the sake of conveying an impression, and that will reflect ill on the Emperor…
A mage-guard must always wear his or her uniform in all public places and never conceal his or her identity, and that uniform must always show cleanliness and care. ‘
A mage-guard must convey a mien of attentiveness and alertness and display equal concern for all law-abiding citizens, no matter what their position or station, as well as toward any outlanders, so long as they abide by the laws of Hamor. He or she should also never be cruel or vindictive, and never should a mage-guard display pleasure in meting out justice to malefactors.-A mage-guard should not ever show discouragement or anger, no matter how heinous an offense against the Emperor and the laws might be.
Nor should a mage-guard ever use his or her position in a fashion that results in personal gain of any sort, or gain to any other person related to the mage-guard. No Hamorian mage of any persuasion may engage in any venture involving commerce in goods, in coins, or in any other instrument of commerce, either for payment or for any other consideration. Nor may any mage accept payment for services from any source, except from the Imperial Treasury, with the single and sole exception that healing “practitioners may accept reasonable payment for healing services and only for healing services.
Gifts to mage-guards are forbidden, except, modest gifts by immediate family members…
Manual of the Mage-Guards
Cigoerne, Hamor
1551 A.F.
In the twilight, just inside the long cookshack, Blacktop stood in the chow line, shuffling forward behind the others. When he reached the spot just before the serving kettles, a white-haired man with a withered right arm and a wooden post for a leg below his right knee handed him a battered and shallow tin bowl.
“Take it, Blacktop.”
“Thanks, Oneleg.”
The old man grunted and handed another tin bowl to the loader behind-Blacktop.
What the servers dolloped into Blacktop’s bowl was the same at every meal. He thought it was, from what he could remember, a mixture of over-cooked quinoa, lumps of root vegetables, onions, peppers, a little olive oil, and meat shredded so much that it was impossible to tell from what it had come. Another server added a wedge of bread, and a third handed him a large tin cup filled with thin and bitter beer.
He left the servers and headed for the long wooden tables with the long wooden benches. He settled down beside the older loader called Brick. Blacktop ate quickly, using the bread to scoop out the stewlike mixture, but not ravenously. After each mouthful, he took a small swallow of the bitter beer. At some time—he could not remember when, not exactly—he had seen how the other loaders picked at men who gobbled their food, taking small morsels to annoy them. Small morsels were still food, he’d realized. It did not hurt that he was larger than most of the other loaders, but not enough larger that he stood out. His weather-tanned skin was more golden than brown, too, he had noticed, unlike the others, but his hair was blacker.