Dead Letter Law

[Valentin]

Ash 17, 123

Office of Imperial Revenue, 7th Floor

There came a knock on Valentin’s door, and he knew what it was about.

It was past seven, according to the ornate grandfather clock, and he kept that instrument in impeccable working order. Valentin Valentin’s custom was to arrive early and work late, long past the time his co-workers would slip through the doors and out the building’s less-ornate side stairwells. It was one of the advantages of magic; his own rooms were but a vault away, and so he had no difficulty leaving well after curfews were called and the night grew dark.

This was part of why he was being approached, of course. There were still guards in the building, but they had no interest in aiding tardy employees. As a result, they came up through the offices, seeking anyone who was still in. And it must be that nobody else was in, for there were precious few times anyone would come to Valentin first.

”Enter." commanded the official, edges of his tone filled with bored annoyance, as was proper.

The door swung slightly inward, revealing the pallid face of Wilheim. A new hire, nobody in Valentin’s department–not nearly so senior–with a forgettable oval face, a runt of a ponytail, and a lack of chin badly disguised by stubble.

“Please, pardon me sir, but-” The man shook, blubbering slightly, seeking for words.

Valentin assessed the younger functionary’s face. He recalled seeing him with a deep, ruddy pallor, but the man in front of him was white as a sheet. The lawyer focused, searching his memory for any other details regarding the terrified man’s employment.

”Wilheim, yes. I remember you." Valentin did not invite him to sit. ”Work in the mailroom, yes?"

“No, sir,” the man seemed to stumble over his words. “The archive.”

”Ah. That explains it, then. You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Wilheim’s head snapped up, eyes blinking energetically. “Sir- you jest, but- amid the stacks, sir, I was just replacing the morning call books, and I heard this noise and there was a light, and when I-”

It took a moment, but it dawned on the babbling man that Valentin’s tone held not an ounce of humor in it.

“-er. Is there a ghost, then–?”

”My name is on the plaque on the wall next to you, Wilheim. Control yourself." Tragically, it appeared the man was too excited to take the reprimand. Valentin stood, reluctantly, and walked over to the terrified archivist, placing a hand on his shoulder in a manner he imagined to be comforting. ”The archive is nothing but ghosts, Wilheim. Pay them no mind, they can’t hurt you." Not unless you let them.

“But I saw a woman-”

Naturally. ”I’m sure. Go home and don’t think about it any longer until you sleep. She won’t follow you."

“But then, tomorrow-”

”Tomorrow, you’ll come back to work. And if you’re smart, you’ll ignore anything you see or hear. It goes away. Now good evening."

Valentin Valentin slammed the door in Wilheim’s flabbergasted face and went back to his desk. Too excitable, this one. He wouldn’t last a year down there. Should have gone to the mailroom instead.

[Valentin]

Ash 23, 123

Office of Imperial Revenue, 7th Floor

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Valentin started, his mind torn away from the ledger of accounts he’d been reviewing. He glanced up at the door to his office.

It had been well-on a week since his nighttime rendezvous, and Valentin had begun to hope that the podgy man had enough sense to follow his instructions. It happened that he underestimated his co-workers from time to time, though rarely.

It seemed that this would not be one of those times.

”Enter, if you must." The directive was announced in the same official, bored tone as before. As he’d expected, Wilheim peeked in.

The man’s face had a lot more color, this time around, though there was obvious trepidation written on it. Possibly someone had warned him against going to Valentin since their last meeting. Nobody ever heeded good advice, it seemed.

“Mr. Valentin,” the young bureaucrat began, seeming more in control of his faculties than the last time, “do you recall-”

”Yes, yes, your ghost. I advised you to ignore her."

“You don’t understand! I believe this woman was-”

”Wronged? Robbed? Murdered?." The man nodded, looking like the wind had been taken somewhat from his sails. ”Well that’s customary for such spirits, isn’t it? Why are you so taken with this one?"

“The pain on her face, Mr. Valentin! If you’d seen it, you’d understand! When she looks at me, I know she’s asking–begging! Crying out!--for some kind of aid, for some solace or justice! I’ve seen her more and more, around the stacks, up in the balconies, looking at me! The pain in those eyes…”

The lawyer sighed, closing the book of accounts before him. The leather-bound tome folded with a heavy thunk!, expelling a gust of air which gently rustled the loose papers throughout Valentin’s office.

”Fine. And why are you here now?"

Wilheim opened his mouth to speak, and Valentin cut him off at once. ”It’s because you intend to go down looking for her again tonight, yes? But you can’t muster the courage to go alone?"

The archivist seemed about to protest, but momentarily he realized that the cranky investigator was entirely correct. His mouth closed, then folded into a thin line.

”And well you should feel ashamed, but I’ll go with you all the same." Valentin smiled, at Wilheim’s evident surprise, an evil little tight-lipped smirk. ”You’re going to need someone to explain things to you at the end. Your type always do. Come, then, you lead."

[Valentin]

Office of Imperial Revenue, The Archive

The Archive of the OIR was a great stone chamber, located ten feet below ground and spread out beneath the tower and its grounds like a honeycomb. A century of tax records lay entombed there, some predating the Imperium itself.

To the average thief, the tons of ledgers filling the room would have been a grave disappointment, but to the Palace, they were worth more than all the gold in Avenna’s vaults. As a result, there was only one stairwell leading in or out, furnished with a solitary stone door. It was kept open during the day, but had to be unlocked several times to enter at night. Valentin left Wilheim to the annoying task. Meanwhile…

”It happens, from time to time."

“Eh?” the man grunted, distracted by his work with the locks.

”The records down here are transcripts of human lives, Wilheim. More detailed in their way than any portrait, or even a Memoria tablet. They describe the varied hopes, wants, failings of their subjects, along with the thousands of transactions they can’t even recall. The archive knows things about you which you, yourself, do not."

”And so it is, from time to time, the tattered aetheric echoes of some traumatized spirit gather here." Wilheim wasn’t a mage, so Valentin didn’t bother to explain the second factor at play- the wards. The Archive’s wards against Traversion were second only to those enjoyed by the Inquisition and the Palace itself; and Valentin, a practiced Traverser, was entirely certain that the same magic which blocked Projection was somehow catching spirits.

“I’ve only seen the one!” protested Wilheim, somewhat plaintively.

”They don’t last." said Valentin, dismissive, ”Most people can’t muster the presence of mind to hold themselves together when they’re stuck inside a body. Much worse without."

Click!

The final lock gave way, and Wilheim strained to push the door open. It was protocol to close the door again once you entered, and so Valentin waited patiently beyond the threshold as the red-faced archivist sealed them in once more. He gave the panting Wilheim a moment to catch his breath, then gestured expansively at the crowded shelves and stacks beyond.

When the Archives were new, the thousand ledgers and notes and records of the Imperium’s finances had been shelved like books, on huge pinewood shelves, each sixteen feet high. In time, the empire’s expansion and growth had threatened to overtake such conservative casing.

Twenty years ago, however, a visionary Chief Archivist had overseen a massive effort to replace the old shelves with metal ones, each mounted upon tracks. Hundreds of these archival shelves lined the walls and inner spaces of the cavernous chamber, each one featuring a levered mechanism on its side which allowed an archivist to draw it out into the aisles and access the ledgers within.

For many years, even this compact system seemed in danger of being overwhelmed, but technology marched on. In the center of the cavern was an enormous circular desk, surrounding a system of pneumatic tubes meant to carry memnosyte to and from the side chambers. A single dragonshard could contain a hundred volumes worth of text, and the engineers claimed that, someday, the entire Archives would be a single mechanism which could be searched and maintained by less than a dozen archivists.

The notion filled Valentin with some modicum of sadness. He rather liked the paper must and the hundreds of shelves.

Light blossomed ahead, amidst the stacks. It was an unearthly, numinous glow, the kind of light which did not quite illuminate, nor was it wholly blocked by the shelves in its way. One got the feeling, looking at it, that they weren’t really using their eyes.

“There she is.” whispered Wilheim, reinforcing Valentin’s already-low opinions. “This way.”

The investigator glared daggers at the back of the archivist’s head, but it was obvious that the man was far too intent on the tantalizing mystery ahead to be properly chastised now. He would have to wait until later for any dressing-down.

The two crept through the darkened archive, following the light. The sounds of shallow breathing and light, careful footfalls echoed in the cavernous chamber, causing Wilheim’s own breaths to flow faster and faster.

It took perhaps the better part of a minute for the men to cross through the aisles and reach the source of the unearthly light. Wilheim took the last turn slowly, white-knuckled hand grasping the edge of one of the metal archival shelves, almost pushing himself to lean into the aisle.

And there the ghost was. It was… less frayed than Valentin had expected, but still rather indistinct. A suggestion of a woman, more than the shape of one, but still more solid than the other specters he’d witnessed wither and die in these moribund halls.

Taken

The word floated in the air, halfway between a vibration and a prayer. The voice was soft, but the tone was pregnant with emotion. One emotion, anyway. Valentin let it sit within his brain, feeling the contours of the word rather than spoiling the beautiful moment with his own vulgarity.

“What’s taken?” breathed Wilheim, his words almost drowned out by his own unsteady breathing, “Who are you?” Valentin had never wanted to slap him more.

Everything… gone…

The impression of a woman extended a spectral arm, pointing at one of the indistinguishable archival shelves. The mesmerized archivist scrambled over to the shelf, spinning the wheel mechanism on the side to slowly draw it out amidst a chorus of rattling, of creaking wheels and straining metal.

The spirit seemed to draw in on herself, until she was nothing but a mote of light. The mote wafted through the air, unsteady, seemingly uncertain of what to do next- then it shot forward like an arrow, passing inches from Wilheim’s face and vanishing into one of the thousands of identical leather-bound ledgers.

“Ack!” the man shrieked, momentary hypnosis dispelled by shock and adrenalin. Valentin nearly caught him before he stumbled to the floor, then thought better of it. Instead, the lawyer made his way over to the exposed ledgers with a firm stride. He stretched forth one finger, tapping the little metal plaque beneath the shelf.

”Annual summaries from the last year. Newly-dead, I think."

The archivist scrambled to his feet, shock still writ across his face. “She’s in the book?”

”In a manner of speaking, I suppose." Valentin was no Sembler, but he imagined that even that small gesture had cost the spirit most of its vitality. It would not be long until it joined the choir of voices too small for even a mage’s ear to discern, and only the gods could say how many of those were laying throughout this room like dust.

Wilheim pushed past Valentin and, with trembling hand, retrieved the volume the ghost had indicated. He flipped it open, eyes scanning the indices with a practiced glance.

“These are records from Dardoun.” the man muttered, “From the Duchal seat. There can’t be more than a dozen individuals. Perhaps if I could-”

”Identify her?" Valentin interrupted, ”Play detective, perhaps? Run about looking at pictures and doing interviews until you find a name and a face which fit? Oh, yes, it’s possible."

Fool though he might be, Wilheim had recovered enough to know he was being mocked. He glanced up at Valentin. “What’s wrong with that? I might discover what…”

”Murder, I should think." said Valentin, offhandedly, ”Worse, maybe. Dispossessed children, some grand injustice. Yes, it’ll be something like that, or she wouldn’t have clawed so hard at life that Death itself could barely pull her back."

“Well then, we ought to find out!” the man declared.

”Exactly incorrect." the lawyer said, flatly, ”It would be a breach of privilege to use confidential tax information in your own private schemes, and inadmissible in court in any event. You would be severely disciplined, probably fired and, if you were so unfortunate as to be truly successful, put to death straightaway."

“What?” asked Wilheim, clearly baffled.

”That ledger contains the figures for the Duke’s household, yes?" The other man nodded, still looking confused, ”Do you remember any news reporting a death in that high household in recent months?"

“No, but I fail to see-”

”Think about it for a few more moments."

A light dawned in Wilheim’s face. He gasped. “You can’t be saying that he-”

”Indeed, I can’t be. And I'm not saying. Spectral testimony is frowned upon at court, and spectral hearsay is all the worse."

“But if he- or if one of his house…”

”Aren’t you getting tired of making me interrupt you yet, Wilheim?" Valentin tapped an agitated finger against one pocket. ”I know no such thing, and neither do you. But if you were so unfortunate as to come into that knowledge in truth…?"

Wilheim still seemed unconvinced. ”Do you know how long it takes a Kathar to disembowel a man?"

“What?”

”Disembowel, Wilheim. It means they use one of those frightful long swords and cut you open from knob to noggin."

“I know what it means,” the archivist hissed, “what’s it got to do with finding out who killed a woman?”

”I couldn’t actually tell you how long it takes." Valentin observed, ”It was faster than I could count, faster than I could blink. One moment the man was shouting defiance, and the next he was with the choir invisible. Got too close to the Imperial motor carriage, you see. Guard interpreted it as a threat."

Valentin sniffed. ”That was his Majesty, of course, I imagine you get more leeway with a duke and his retainers. Maybe they just shoot you."

Wilheim exhaled, hard and long. His emotions were clearly mixed. “Sir, I didn’t say anything about accusing anyone, I just thought we should… you know… help her?”

”You can’t help a ghost, Wilheim. She’s dead. And if you follow her story back to the place where it happened, you might just find you can’t avoid her fate."

The older attorney sighed, sensing another unavoidable bonding moment ahead. Still, he owed this much to his junior colleagues. ”Listen. You have a long career ahead of you. Maybe here, maybe in the Palace libraries or the Imperial Academy, surrounded by knowledge and scholars. It’s a life many can only dream of. You’ll be presented with many puzzles, the chance to solve many mysteries. But only if you learn to see which paths end in glory and which end in the cell. Take this advice now, and take it to heart: close that shelf, walk out that door, and-" Valentin scooped the book out of Wilheim’s hand and re-shelved it in a single, smooth motion. ”-forget which book it was. All right?"

Wilheim was silent for a long while, and Valentin began to fear that all the excitement had completely overwhelmed the man’s mind. Then he let out a long sigh and nodded, silently. Spirits dampened, the archivist turned and trudged towards the doorway.

Valentin exhaled, finally relaxing. He followed the young man out of the stacks, out of the world of dead words and back towards the universe of living ones.

[Valentin]

Valentin House

When he returned that night, Valentin was in a rare good mood. He’d long missed supper, but he blinked down to the kitchen and retrieved some bread and cheese to tide him anyway, bringing a small plate back up to his room, which he laid upon his junglewood desk- one last memento of his famed grandfather’s exploits in Ecith decades past.

Next to the plate, he laid a small, leather-bound ledger.