Psychopomp

Twenty-four executioners stand before them, dreadful, enigmatic epicenters of a massive open square lined by the dour ginger glow of gas lamps. Upon a sturdy wooden stage six feet tall they position into two perfect rows facing opposite directions. Their cumbersome, angled blades stand tall and perpetually at the ready, waiting only for someone to be restrained on the bench and stocks below to descend upon their neck. Before each lie famished barrels embedded into the stage deck, their rims ringed by a funnel whose lips kiss the chop blocks of their corresponding executioner.

“Voigt procured these soon after he became Warden,” the Consul explains with a rich puff from his pipe, “Had a local inventor design the contraption. Something more merciful, more efficient, I believe is what he instructed. The executioners of his father were flesh and blood, kept so busy they’d tire and as a condemned, one had to pray they weren’t near the end of the queue. I’ve never seen these require more than one fell drop to take a head clean off.” Hollow apathy thinly veils his words.

“What words do you give the departed as you sanction their death?” Ewain inquires as his eyes scrutinize along the platform’s construction, the blades of death made manifest. Beneath the deck the large barrels stand ready, their replacements adjacent and waiting to receive the offerings of the executed once the barrel before is full. The Krypteian walks upon the stage, studying every frame with curiosity.

“’Be not afraid nor in anguish for the Ichorians are the true and final judges. Leave this world as you should when finally you greet them, absent beg and whimper, with strength and courage. They may yet show mercy when you see them.’” Another dutiful drag of the Lydian petals’ numbing effects flows into the Consul’s lungs, “Most don’t heed the words. Cry and beg to the moment they can’t anymore.” So hard the Consul attempts indifference, leaning hard into the pipe.

Standing upwind of his older counterpart to avoid the potent smoke, Ewain looks at him out of the corner of his eye, “Why sanction these? Not a Warden in the city would commit an execution without a Consul’s sanction.”

With an inflection that reflects his protracted pause, the Consul answers, “I thought it…a mercy. As Klaus said, in this city, one murder can condemn thousands. This is all the habitable space they have, and every person is terrified to lose any of it. The accused in this Ward are tried in court with elected representatives from each district as judge. Most unanimously vote to condemn. If they aren’t executed, they most likely would be banished to the Ostermarks to simply be killed another way…in a land our Order has little presence in. I’ve been here among the people long enough to know they ultimately accept this as some necessary evil, and the Order’s delay in resolving this case has done little to assuage their position.”

“Do these executed receive Deliverance?” Ewain asks.

“I believe so,” the Consul exhales, “after about six years of Dormancy, right before a Dormant’s integrity cracks. The killer, though, they’ll keep him Dormant to the end of time.”

Ewain ponders on the words with moments of quiet before speaking, “Miss Petrus said Norma met someone in the last few weeks of her life. Someone with connections and years in the industry she hoped to become part of. Any ideas who may fit that?”

“Plenty. Even the Outer Wards have a sizeable patrician class, and here only patricians patronize theater, cinema, modelling. Our next POI may be able to narrow our search.”

“The Boatman?” Ewain guesses, recalling the reports he only had time to skim through, “You believe his business the intermediary for the Funerary Box?”

“Possibly. The victim and her mother had their insurance through him. At the very least he may have some small, pertinent details.” The Consul acknowledges before taking the lead once again through the city with the Krypteian quietly in tow. Through dark alleys and cramped passageways, they go until emerging into the unending, open district the locals call Pleasure and Penitence.

“Here,” the Consul tells Ewain, “is where people come after their ten to twelve hour shifts at whichever refinery they work. Provides some solace or escape, maybe even some genuine enjoyment,” he speculates. An uneasiness loiters, that which the silence of formerly bombastic swing and vocal pop and endless chatter leave wanting. “Down there is the trauma site,” the Consul indicates toward the end of the district completely shrouded in dark, like a street from the Ashen Zone dropped into the middle of the city.

The direction he guides them puts the darkness to their back. To their left are the pharma bars, companion parlors, and taverns where enough drachmae can buy anyone pharmas to alter the senses or induce entirely new ones, or perhaps the time of somebody to whisper sweetness in the ear and impart comfort to the body, or simply enough spirits to drown sorrows.

To their right are tight, cramped temples to the various Ichorians, dodgy storefronts of insurance dealers, and the practices of many physicians, professional and self-proclaimed. All where people can go to allay their guilt and tend wounds to start anew the next day.

“Let me take the lead with this one, Psychopompos,” the Consul insists as they near a store. Assurance, read the blinding pipe lights in bright blue and yellow and just below in illuminated calligraphic letters a name flashes. Phineas Swann. “I’m acquainted with the man. When he speaks to either of you,” he stops shy of the storefront and turns to face Ewain and Anaxander, “say not a word back. It will unsettle him.”

They remove their hats and enter.

Wreaths of rich, false laurels knit densely around each velvet podium and its occupant, a pristine Funerary Box. All sit in an open, polished wooden case that runs around the perimeter of the room. Chrysanthemums crowned by petals which explode with radiant color populate the laurels between each podium and bundle around wooden totems carved in the ancient style of the Ichorians. Stained glass, cheap in the bleeding of its colors and obtuseness of its shapes, encase the many lamps protruding from the walls while a jeweled chandelier flickers from above. To its flickers, the crooning melody of voice and wind instruments seem to cater, as though this room sought to instill a precursory drowsiness for those seeking deathly closure.

“Gentleman!” greets a man overdressed in his heavy black wool suit with a plum faux silk vest and bulbous necktie. Mists of water spray from the bottle in his hand upon the flowers and laurels. Beady yellow eyes behold them and as they move from Consul to Krypteian to Psychopomp, the pride of the man’s face, his immaculately combed hickory mustache, droops down. “Is it your interest in our packages that brings you gentlemen here? Because I assure you this is the finest you shall find in the Ward! But then,” he stammers on, “members of Orders such as yours have no need, I understand. Why, you’re guaranteed immediate Deliverance upon an honorable death, you lucky dogs.” A boisterous laugh bellows with hopes of being infectious. When it is apparent it is not, the Boatman grows pallid again and bows his head, “But of course I never meant to equate you sirs with lowly, simple beasts.”

“Mr. Swann,” the Consul politely greets while Ewain and Anaxander silently disperse and browse, “we just have questions that require pertinent answers. Indulge us and we’ll be on our way. I trust the parameters and consequences need not be recounted to you. Let us invoke the patronage of the Ichorians and proceed.”

By Detia the Judge, they both honor to speak true.

“Of course, Consul,” joviality never absconds Mr. Swann’s voice, nor a grin from beneath his mustache, “however, unless they are questions about how you go into a Box then onto the Stygian, then by the Father, I’m afraid I don’t know what questions I can be helpful with.”

“Approximately a month ago, I believe there was a customer that came in here, a young woman, nineteen. You’d remember her, attractive, red hair, meticulous presentation.”

Mr. Swann’s eyes deviate and beadily squint toward Ewain who is touching and very closely examining one of the Boxes, “She, uh, she does sound familiar.”

“Mr. Swann,” the Consul hardens his tone, “eyes on mine, if you will.” Once their eyes reconnect, he continues, “The young lady. Do you or do you not remember her?”

“I do, I do,” he affirms with skinny hands, “As you said, Consul, hard to banish from memory. Blessed by Iris herself, that one.”

“Recount her visit here. What did it concern?”

Again, the Boatman’s gaze drifts to the tacit two that violate the No Touching policy emblazoned on signs across the wooden case. Abhorrence twitches his nose and makes him groan before he returns to the Consul, “A policy…a policy for her mother,” he shakes his head to remember and force himself to focus on the conversation, “The young lady came in asking how much 10,000 drachmae could shorten her Dormancy. I was taken aback,” Mr. Swann animates and recalls with present vigor, widening his eyes, waving his hands, “Quite the substantial sum! For a plebeian. Ah, what beauty can obtain! Alas, I told her at most it may move her mother up by six months, a significant margin, yet dissatisfying for her. She stormed out shortly after.

“Shame, too, before I could propose a partnership between us,” the pointed ends of his mustache twist between his finger and thumb now, “Purely professional, mind you, but a dame like that as part of the store, perhaps displayed through the windows. Men would descend in droves.”

“And it would blend seamlessly with the décor in here,” the Consul jests.

A skinny finger wags in agreement, “Yes, yes, it would. In one of those corsets the trollops across the street wear. Add a bit of that sexual spice that so entices people. More modesty, more dignity, obviously, but perhaps it would be worth the investment in the lace the patrician ladies wear. Perhaps I should reach out to her.”

With patience still, the Consul edifies him, “An impossibility now, I’m sad to say.”

Mr. Swann bobs his head, “Ah, evidently, hence why you inquired of her. So, she is the cause of this all?”

“No more than you are, Mr. Swann. She did not choose to be murdered.”

“No, no, of course not! I did not intend to imply such a thing. Truly a despicable monster that did this. Poor thing. Though, I suppose there is a consolation. After the Psychopomp,” the Boatman glances back at him, stares before finishing, “does what he does, she will be Delivered immediately, no? The Long Sleep won’t be quite so long for her.”

Judgment seeps into the Consul’s tone, “That meliorates her murder?”

“Not in the slightest, no!” the Boatman feigns offense, “The sooner the culprit is off with his head, the better!”

“You may be able to assist in that matter.”

“What?” Mr. Swann’s voice squeaks, then once he sees Ewain picking up yet another Funerary Box, he rushes over, “Sir! Please, sir, uh, Master Psychopomp! Cease your touching of the Box!”

In the instant Ewain’s brooding eyes land upon the Boatman, he stops in his tracks. With the box lifted inches from its pedestal, the Psychopomp burns ocular holes through the man while continuing to slowly lift the box higher and closer to himself.

“Or-or molest these items as you wish. Just remember, anything you damage, you buy!” he then scurries back to the Consul, “Consul, when you are a Psychopomp, do you swear to muteness? Or is he…uh…” he puts his finger to his temple.

“Psychopomps speak with the dead. Do you wish for him to speak with you?”

Mr. Swann chuckles nervously, “Ichorians no, I just have never heard of this tenet of your Order.”

The Consul grabs the case and leans upon it. His atrophied leg could stand straight no longer and now he thought it best to be violate than feeble, “There’s much you’ve never heard, and much you can tell us now. These,” he nods toward the nearest Box, “are imitations all?”

“All of them, yes. Put them in the Stygian and they’d sink sure as an anchor. Why if even one of them were genuine Ashwood I’d be richer than that patrician, Cassius, himself. I would never let it in sight of a soul, and I certainly would not be resigned to some plebeian district in an Outer Ward.”

“How do you come in possession of them?”

“All these, you see, are purely for display. With the rarity of Ashwood, as soon as we receive any from the Ecclesiarchy they go to those in Dormancy. Without these, people would have no idea what they look like in person before they die. They would be unable to select a carving style, grain type so on and so on. Our guild, the Boatman’s Guild, we hire woodworkers to produce imitations for display only!” Mr. Swann makes sure to emphasize his last words, now staring at Anaxander who pays no mind.

Clutching the case hard, the Consul exerts all his effort to keep his bearing, “How often do you receive them?” He should have taken a bolster shot.

“Once or twice a year about, Consul. Not very often. We only need replacements when a Box’s vibrance dissipates.”

With almost startling quiet, Ewain comes by the Consul’s side and looks at the Boatman.

“May I help you, Master Psychopomp?”

“Have any ever gone missing?” the Consul reclaims the attention.

“Missing?” Mr. Swann repeats,” Never. I account for every single one upon their arrival.”

“And they all remain within this store?”

A forced smile attempts the speech his tongue fails to conjure.

Sudden sparks of a match catch Mr. Swann’s yellow eyes as the Krypteian leans against the case nearby and ignites the cigarette perched between his lips. “Boatman,” he begins with frostbitten voice, “if I must speak again to sequester a forthright answer from you, you will behold one eye with your other.”

Momentary paralysis comes over Mr. Swann after a petrified gasp. Only with the accumulation of voice through many moments can he muster words, “Please, sir, I have done nothing illegal! Sometimes I receive extra Boxes, more than there are pedestals for display, and sometimes patrons of…privilege solicit their cost. I made it clear to them these are false! ’Put these in the Stygian and they’ll sink sure as stone. No Deliverance. Just madness,’ I told them! Not for casual display or distribution, never for distribution, I said! Still, they desired them, and were willing to pay! I have my own family’s Deliverance to settle, after all! Family members in Dormancy, you understand! There was no deceit or ill intent in the transaction, sir, I assure you!”

“To whom did you sell them?” asks the Consul.

“I-I cannot betray the trust of my buyers, sir! They swore me to keep their confidence! Surely you can understand that!” his beady eyes open wide with begging.

“You betray their Trust, or you betray ours,” Ewain can no longer keep quiet, his voice jarringly apathetic to the man’s dilemma, “that box was given to another under the pretense of authenticity, and some innocent soul could have been lost forever. Whether you were directly involved or not, your transaction became the illegal genesis without which it could not have happened. You are damned either way, Mr. Swann.”

So long it’s been since he witnessed the panic of a man teetering on the precipice of total existential forfeiture that it briefly confounds Ewain, instilling in him a doubt in the confidence of this action. Strength of passion and rage do not churn within him to sustain the inoculation to the plight of the damned, the little physiological nuances that incite their terror. The sweat of the brow, the tremor of the lips, the heat of their breath, how it all billows through the glossing eyes.

“You will provide us names.” Anaxander folds up the pristine white sleeves of his silk shirt and, with a suddenness which astonishes the Psychopomp and Consul, seizes Mr. Swann by the throat and chokes him against the floor.

Gargled screams eek through the mustached lips, “Please! Sir, please!”

“Krypteian!” Ewain shoves past the Consul and stands just next to Anaxander, “what possesses you?”

One hand effortlessly pinning the Boatman’s head to the carpeted floor, the other positioning its dense fingers on the man’s right eyelids, the Krypteian slowly pushes, “I warned Mr. Swann what would happen if I must speak again. Do not worry, Psychopompos,” his voice assures with remarkable placidity, “so long as I do not sever the optical nerve, the eye can be restored to the socket.”

Breathless screams writhe and weakly stir Mr. Swann to pitiful fervor, “I BEG YOU! PLEASE!”

Snatching the Krypteian’s tense wrist and with modest struggle, Ewain moves Anaxander’s probing fingers from the Boatman’s eye just as it began to bulge from its socket, “Cease your action now, Krypteian.”

A blithe grin comes over Anaxander’s bearded face, “A second chance, then,” he loosens the hand retracted by the Psychopomp and his grip upon the Boatman’s throat, “Names, Mr. Swann. Names of those you had transaction with. All of them.”

Like a crumbling levee the words come out with the man’s tears, “N-Nikolas Galanis…Gn-Gn-Gnaeus S-Sulla…” every name he speaks worsens his stammers, “H-H-Harvey Eng-En-Engels….”

“No more?” the Krypteian asks almost sadly.

Mr. Swann’s puffy red eyes barely show as he shakes his head, “By Mykar’s axe, I swear it. I swear.”

Satisfied, the Krypteian releases the Boatman entirely and steps away from him, “We have all we need, Psychopompos.”

The Consul leans more now against the case to keep himself upright and presentable while upon the ground Mr. Swann lies curled, crying and shivering still with the shock of fear. Ewain pulls the whimpering man up with ease and throws him onto his feet against the nearby case, shaking the boxes and statues inside, “Compose yourself,” he gruffly tells him. “You are yet alive and inviolate. Pray to the Ichorians for strength if you must, make your peace with them while you can.”

Words of shallow effect upon the distraught man, his suit disheveled and face flushed ghastly red. What little effort he put to rein his sobs did nothing, and as the three men don their hats and step out the store, only his seizing mews bid adieu.

Struggle mounts in each step the Consul takes, his leg stiff and unbending and while Ewain sees this, saw it as soon as the Consul grabbed for support in the store, he offers no physical help. The man must be able to move on his own, for his own sake. “There, into that alley,” the Psychopomp directs them to go. Once its dark, condensed confines envelop them, he looks at the Consul who props himself against the cool, moist stone wall, “Can you administer yourself, Consul?”

“Yes,” the old man replies with wanting vigor.

Ewain puts himself between his elder colleague and the Krypteian, obscuring the latter’s view just as the Consul pulls out a syrette, “Your reasoning, Krypteian, for your action?” he demands with quiet authority.

“People such as him,” Anaxander begins calmly, greeting Ewain’s eyes with no apprehension or guilt, “lack the constitution for violence. Man thrived on words, as the Consul indicated earlier. To extricate a forthright answer from him diplomatically would have required an unnecessary amount of patience. Be assured, Psychopompos, I would not have employed such theatrics had I any doubts you would intervene.”

“And had I not?”

“Well, I would have been delicate with his optical nerve. A threat issued must be followed, lest they carry no weight.”

“These interviews, Krypteian, are our affairs. You follow our lead and observe in quiet. Your keep your threats unspoken unless you wish to witness mine.” He punctuates his point with a pause.

An amused smile answers him, “Not even a Krypteian would dare such.”

“The names given to us. I presume at least one is of interest to us.”

“Yes,” answers the Consul from behind him, his demeanor and breath slightly renewed, “Engels. Harvey Engels. He owns a theater house in the Ward, the Nuvaunte, caters only to patricians.”

Black lace robe. Nyphone in the fall. Ewain recalls the entries written into Norma’s schedule. “Where is he located?”

Rising to his feet and from the wall, the Consul speaks through a sigh, “Nuvaunte is in the Gatea District. I don’t know if he will be there.”

The Krypteian examines his watch then answers, “He will be. I assure it.”

“I know the way,” the Consul says, ready to be on the move and out this cursed alley.

“A moment alone, Consul,” Ewain commands, then looks to Mr. Agis, “Krypteian.”

“Of course,” hints of amusement perpetually present in Anaxander’s voice. He strolls toward the bland lights of the open district until out of sight.

“Can you sustain your composure, Consul?” Ewain asks frankly, perhaps more harshly than he intended yet he requires objectivity from his counterpart.

Their celestial eyes compete for luminance, “I can. I took two bolster shots, enough to carry me to the resolution of this case.”

“Have you been without the shots at all since the conception of the site?”

The Consul does not immediately answer, “No, Psychopompos.”

“His arm,” Art’s vocal vibrations advise, “let us see his arm.”

“Your arm, Consul, show it to me,” Ewain beckons.

Pulling up the rolled sleeve of his white cotton shirt, the Consul reveals countless track marks near the crease of his elbow. The skin around each inflames cherry bright and through his pale forearm sickly, dark veins bulge.

“Are you considering dismissing the Consul back to the Mission?” Art murmurs.

It will dishonor the Consul, Ewain thinks and against his waist, he simply taps dishonor. “Have you taken no Repose or detoxified your system?”

“An hour of Repose here and there, just enough to keep me from losing my mind and keep my edge. As for detoxes…I’ve done a partial and no more.”

In his quiet deliberation, as Ewain looks at the Consul, it is clear the man knows his thoughts in the moment and can only wait to hear what conclusion they arrive at.

“It will dishonor him,” Art laments, “it’s clear his body can no longer tolerate even basic bolster shots. If we dismiss him now, we seal his fate. Every member of the Order must be capable. If we permit him to continue in this condition, it’s very possible his blood toxicity levels could incapacitate him in the middle of an interview. The choice,” Art makes sure to say, “is yours.”

The moment, the silence demand an answer. Every second that passes only tells of the Psychopomp’s internal struggle. To dismiss someone of the Order as this is to suggest them incapable, no longer fit to fulfill their oath, yet Ewain must conserve his feelings, know when to be empathic, when to be objective. Is the Consul capable? That is what matters, for the case and for the Order. “Return to the Mission, Consul,” the words do not come easy, “I will finish the interviews and consult you before engaging the trauma site.”

Heavy the Consul’s head seems to weigh when he nods slow and with a sense of obligation, “You should be advised that the Records Edifice will be en route to the theater, if you still wish to view Miss Mortenson’s VPT. Our last POI before the discovery of Mr. Engel’s was the victim’s mother, her location will be in the report.” He takes a breath, still trying to understand it, “Morrius guide you, Psychopompos.”