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Rindell Jorren

Autumn 791 c.c.


Rindell wasn't at all sure about his job. Another day, another tent, another dead body to sketch. As always, he stood as far back as possible and held his tablet up over his face whenever he could, as if it would keep him from breathing whatever had killed the person. He was starting to think he should get another job, as if he had a choice. At home was the freak his father--planning who knew what punishment for Rindell if he left his apprenticeship--and here was the freak Aron Jannes.

"This is a good one," Jannes was saying, half under his breath. "Head is still intact, eyes are clear. We'll be able to get a lot from this one." He hung over the body and began poking at it with a small silver rod that was balanced between the deformed fingers of his right hand. Rindell swallowed hard and chewed on the end of his pencil, waiting unexpectantly for Jannes to call him forward to draw something.

For three years he'd worked for this disturbing man, the Circuit Justice for Mortality. Rindell had expected to travel around Dabion filling notebooks with drawings, though he hadn't really been able to imagine the subject matter. He'd expected to visit Healers' tents and burial grounds, a distasteful enough job, but better than facing his father again. He had not expected what the company of Aron Jannes would be like. No match for his father, of course, but Justice Jannes was impressively frightening in his own right. The cold face, the permanent frown, the angry eyes--he never actually lost his temper, but if Rindell had been drawing him, he would have drawn a powder keg with a broken hand. For once, though, Rindell had learned his lesson, and the caricature never made it to the page.

"The Healer you asked for is here," a voice said from behind them.

A tall, thin man in a white robe stood in the tent's doorway, calmly waiting to be acknowledged. He used no int...