Nelson leads me into what seems like a spare room, with a table and chair, handing me a piece of crumpled paper.
"First, I want you to prove your literacy by reading the words on the page," Nelson says, looking at the page.
I rattle out the words on the prepared script.
"After seven days, when God fell upon the heavenly sky mountain, Esmereld, following the word of the Lord, descended from the holy mountain holding a carved tablet from the Almighty himself. Upon it were the divine new commandments of righteous order. Those who followed his words would transcend their limits as humans and serve the Lord's will. And it was at that time the first house of Ascenders were born, hearing the first demand of their creator—'to eradicate the demon!'"
"Good enough. You can stop there," he says, snatching the paper back. Not even looking at me.
"Next is the numeracy test."
He passes me another sheet before I can even verbalise a witty response.
"Here are the questions. Take all the space you need."
I glance down.
9 × 7 — well, that's just 63.
5 × 4 — that's an easy 20.
10 × 10 — everyone knows that's 100.
"Are you sure this is right? These are way too easy," I ask.
He narrows his eyes. "Are you sure you didn't cheat? Many people can't figure out the last one due to its immense difficulty."
"Then ask me your own question."
He grunts. "Fine. What's twelve times twelve?"
"144," I answer before he can even finish.
He jots something down. "I'll write that you're very competent in numeracy, then."
I don't have the heart to correct him.
"Now for the health check," he says.
"Come again?"
"You can come in now," he calls out.
Two figures enter the room—faces hidden beneath those familiar leathery masks and hollow eyes. One is a man, the other a woman, presumably, judging by the shape of her oblong chest. Plague doctor's—I wouldn't have thought to see them here.
One carries a suitcase. Of which they place on the table; opening it with a click, therein lies a crystal orb, glowing faintly within its padded cushion of nest.
A faint brown bruise lies rough on the girl's arm, momentarily in view before they cover it back, concealed by the suit of darkened glove tucked beneath the shaded overall of their plaguemaster's uniform.
"Stand ready!" one demands.
"What do I have to do?" I ask.
"Stand ready!" the other answered. Voice speaking in embalmed tones, wrapped in encased leather — both indistinguishable in their shared acoustic monotony.
"The aura on the ball will react," one explains. "We need you to place your hand on the ball. If it turns green, you're good. If it turns red… we must contain you."
"As a mort yourself, this is simply routine," the other sneers.
"And if I do happen to have the plague? What does that mean?" I ask, looking between them, unsure who I have to address.
Muffled whispering.
"This is no mere mortal's plague child. This is De'sin. An affront to us favored by God's will, be well to keep the mention of this strictly to yourself in presences such as ours."
"When red It would mean you can't leave this unholy place. Ever. In your entire life. That's all that you need to know," one says interjecting over the last statement.
The other cackles, "But well, you can try… murder on trespass it will be. You don't want to check out on the gift of life like that—not that you even matter much, you lowly one."
"Right, of course," I mutter.
I reach forward, placing my hand over the crystal ball.
A slight chill absorbs the warmth in my hand.
Light sputters surrounding the room in flickering light.
Then…
Nothing
"That's… intriguing," a covered figure clicks tongue. "You don't have any mana at all."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"Usually even you morts have some semblance of mana no matter how unclean it is. But you—it's none. Almost like you shouldn't exist here."
The other nods. "Yeah, you are indeed pitiful. This isn't 'low potential'; it's no potential for ascending towards the greatness of God—the runt of this forsaken litter you are."
"So, is all well then?!"
"I suppose so."
They pack the case, click it shut, and leave the room, not even shutting the door behind them. Gone as quickly as they came in.
"Well," Nelson breathes out after they leave, standing up. "You've all passed all the entry tests. I hereby appoint you as the vice-leader of the administration office."
"Vice-leader? Isn't that a bit much? I mean, the people outside, and now those two—they all don't like me."
"They can drown in their alcohol for all I care. As for them, they don't like anyone here. The real unspoken work is all conducted within this building—not the burning the corpses up front, but facilitating the documentation that needs proper handling. Thanks to your abilities, and your non-convict status, I will be able to handle more appropriate matters where I need. With my authority, I designate you as such."
"Convict status?"
"Has Jiord not already informed you?"
I shake my head.
"Typical—getting me to handle all his work. Let me explain this as simply as I can: many of the people here are classified as convicts. Thus, they are mandated by law to contribute to the corpse collection duty, for that is their punishment. That is one of the reasons personnel here are so fickle—they have to do this obligation before all other priorities."
"If I'm going to be honest and transparent with you, Desmond," he says, "not many people here can read. Fewer can write. And even fewer can do complex maths in their heads. You can do all three, and you're not a convict. That makes you reliable—dependable for this task." He announces with heavy gravitas and the demeanor of an office grand-master.
Leading me down the corridor, he halts before a wooden door. "Now please inform me, how was the funeral? The reception?" he asks.
"You weren't there?" I casually question.
"Some of us were unable to attend because we actually have work to do, rather than loitering around and finding another excuse to drink." His left foot pats at the floor. Silently, softly, adorned in bland sock— as if measuring the passage of time until a timely response.
Do I tell him about the others, no, that'll just ruin his day.
"It was everything Tim could have wanted," I respond, holding in the resentment.
"I see" He pauses for a moment, eyes chasing at the arched ceiling.
"At the end of the day, that's all that really matters." I see the baggage under his eyes turn a lighter shade. Then interrupting us, a bell chime rings throughout the building.
"I'm sorry—I must move on with greater haste now." He grabs a bronze key from his pocket and turns the at handle, explaining.
"Each of the town's faction heads has assistants who write and report for them, covering various aspects of their jurisdiction," he continues. "Your job now is to read their concerns, the data, the information, and review them. Forward to me the ones worth implementing, the concerns worth addressing, and so on. At the end of each month, you'll compile the summaries and send them to the agency, with that unusual ability."
"That's a lot of responsibility to entrust to me."
You're going to regret this, Nelson. I already have many ideas.
"Well, frankly, not many others are capable. And besides—Jimson trusted you, and that's reason enough."
He opens the door. Inside: a lounge, a table with draw,, a paperweight, a chair, ink, and assortments of written parchment.
"Make sure you've reviewed all the documents on your desk by the end of the day," he says. "You'll be good to go."
He gestures to a tall stack—forty documents at least, and another forty on the couch.
Some late-night reading, is it? I'll be generous and considerate by actually reading these.
"Here you have four coloured stamps on the table at your disposal," he explains, setting them neatly in a row. "Red means denied. Green means approved. Yellow means reconciled—that's when you've handled the matter using your authority. Make sure to explain in the attached addendum. Blue means the report is pending; this means it can't be processed at this stage. If you mark something blue, make sure to cite the reasons clearly in the attached addendum for why it is delayed."
He slides the yellow stamp aside slightly.
"Now the rules—never use yellow on anything marked High Priority. Those are proposals. You don't make decisions on proposals; you only assess them against the criteria listed on the docket to your left. If a high-priority file doesn't meet those standards—for example, grammar, formatting, or consistency with its referenced documents—you reject it with red and send it back down to the town heads for further reconsideration, again stating the reason on the attached addendum why."
He taps the desk once.
"Medium Priority items are inquiries. You can manage those yourself. Stamp red if you reject the claim, green if you accept it, blue if you're waiting on a further follow-up, and yellow if you've already resolved the issue internally, or have investigated the situation yourself and concluded it."
Finally, he gestures to the stack of thin brown files lying under a glass paperweight at the end.
"Low Priority documents are reports—routine submissions, mostly. Handle them the same way as inquiries: red for rejection, green for acceptance, blue for pending, yellow for reconciliation. Keep them neat, keep them clean, keep them organised, and make sure every stamp matches your written editorial note in the addendum. That's all anyone reviewing will really check. If not, you'll only make our job harder."
He folds his arms.
"Simple enough, right? I have work to do, so if you have any questions, please follow up with Jan at the front desk. Just read those reports on the couch for reference. Welcome to the administration board, Vice-Leader."
He has a hand out, key in his palm. We clasp hands.