Roderic Hawke shrugged, the corners of his mouth showing the ghost of a smile.
“Why would you think you’d be allowed to speak to the council of justice? You don’t look like a noble to me. And there is no need for that: after all, they considered everything there is to this case. Perhaps you should have thought about the consequences of your actions before violating the law.”
The orderkeepers in the background kept stone faces, but the one in the front was clearly enjoying his misery. Kraghtol tried to calm himself, but couldn’t stop his voice from rising shakily.
“But that’s too much. There is no way I could ever pay that much!” Kraghtol protested, but didn’t impress the uniformed man in front of him.
“Well, that is entirely your problem, I’m afraid. If, however, you cannot pay the sum until noon tomorrow, your debt will be converted to a servitude contract for forced labor, just as the law decrees. One year for every ten gold pieces.”
“That’s not even a full day! This is just impossible!” Kraghtol almost shouted, but Roderic Hawke was unfazed.
“Is it? Then you will just have to work off the debt. And if you don’t comply voluntarily, we will not hesitate to enforce this ruling and take you into custody. Good day, Mr. Krasen from Caemdir.”
A whirlwind of emotions raged inside Kraghtol as the door closed again. He felt desperate and hurt, but most of all, angry.
“How?” he shouted to the only other person in the room.
“How did they find out? I’ve been so careful with everything!”
Aniriel, who had watched the entire scene from a distance, twitched at the sudden outburst and searched for words.
“Krasen, I —”
Her voice was nervous, and Kraghtol had never seen her like this. She seemed almost… guilty?
“I’m so sorry, Krasen, I didn’t think I —”
He froze, but his blood was still boiling.
“What did you do? Aniriel, what did you do?”
All on their own, his hands had clutched her shoulders as if to squeeze the answer from her.
“I didn’t mean to do anything. But the orderkeepers, they had noticed that I came here often, and they asked me what I was doing there. Should I have lied to them? I’m sorry, Krasen, please!”
He couldn’t believe his ears. Aniriel? Of all people? He could hardly hear her pleading; the blood rushing in his ears was too loud. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to scream in her face, to curse at her and let out his anger, to shake her until she understood what she had destroyed. He was just about to lose himself to his rage when he suddenly saw something in her wide-open eyes. It was his own reflection, a human face twisted by rage, not unlike that of the tavern owner Calder Rann, when Kraghtol had involuntarily exposed him to the orderkeepers.
Taking a deep breath, he forced his hands from her shoulders, and it took even more willpower to fight his fury down enough to open his mouth without shouting. The voice that came out sounded oddly flat and hollow.
“Just… go. Go home, Aniriel. I need to figure out how to get out of this mess.”
“But perhaps I can help —”
“No. You’ve done enough.”
The moment he said it, he knew he was being unfair, but he couldn’t help himself. He needed her out, and she thankfully took the hint, shuffling out of the not-so-hidden door until he was alone in the room, with only the jars of glowing paste keeping him company.
How stupid. Howincrediblystupid he had been to believe this was going to work? The anger boiled up again, but this time, it was not directed at Aniriel, but at himself. Well, at both of them. Even though she probably didn’t mean it that way, what Aniriel did felt just like a cruel betrayal. But the bitter truth was that even if she hadn’t told the orderkeepers, they would have found out eventually, anyway. He had dozens of patients coming in. How could he have believed even for a minute that his practice could have stayed a secret? He slapped his own face hard, just to give way to the anger.
This was insane. How was he ever going to pay a hundred gold coins? Even if he sold off everything he possessed, down to the clothes on his back, he wouldn’t havenearlyenough. This was the end.
He buried his head in his hands, but he couldn’t escape the raging fire of his own failure. Of being a failure. The storm inside him just wouldn’t subside, and with no other options left, he kicked the heavywooden table in front of him, letting it crash to the ground. His foot hurt from the impact, but he didn’t care. With another kick, he broke off one of the table legs, and then another. The shelf with the glass jars was next. With both hands, he grabbed two of the glowing lights and smashed them to the floor, sending colorful paste flying everywhere. Like a madman, he ripped down the shelf, breaking every glass jar and piece of furniture he could reach, until the sharp smell of the alchemical paste filled the air.
Only when there was nothing left to destroy, Kraghtol collapsed to the ground. His hands were wet, perhaps from the glowing mixture, and his whole body was in pain from the many times he had hit everything in the vicinity, including the stone walls and himself.
The fire inside him had died down, and all that was left in its place was a cold, hollow void.
With his shoulders slumped, he left the place of his shame, not even bothering to close the door behind him. On the dark streets, people avoided him — possibly because of the faintly glowing stains all over him — and he did the one thing he had done all his life, after each and every defeat: go home to hide in his bed. Only this time, there would be no Merrick to pick him up again.
