"What's that?" Junior Scribe Hurm asked Eli, from two desks away.

"The capital wants …" Eli read the letter without moving his lips, which always amazed the younger scribes. "…wants me to compare the enclosed numbers from their archives with those we have here at Rockbridge. Finances, I guess. Except we don't keep those numbers, not in one place."

Hurm scrubbed his nose with his palm, leaving a smear of ink on his chin. "What does the capital care about our finan … uh, money?"

"I don't know, but … ah! She also wants a copy of some legal documents. The ‘guarantee of fief?’”

"Now you're just babbling."

Eli read the next paragraph. "I guess in the old days--this is kind of interesting--in the first generations after the Great Ward, all the provinces, every keep and company and community, sent a chunk of income to the capital every year in exchange for—"

Hurm made a loud snoring sound. "Boring!"

"It's fascinating," Eli insisted.

And it was. At least at first. But after hours of rummaging in boxes of scrawled notes, and after more hours of flipping through faded tomes and census reports, trying to locate the information that the cursed woman wanted, he started to think that 'boring' was too kind a word.

At the end of the day, with the flickering lamps offering more light than the setting sun, Eli cracked his neck and stepped away from his desk. He needed a breath of fresh air or he'd fall asleep on his feet.

He checked that none of the senior scribes were watching, then snuck upstairs to the attic and opened the shutters of the window. Cool, crisp air washed around him. He inhaled deeply and looked out across Rockbridge.

The orange rays of the setting sun brushed the tops of hundreds of houses and smithies, taverns and shops. Rockbridge was the smallest of the three fort cities in the Leotide Province, tucked in among the skirts of the western mountains, but it was still a city. Here in the upper quarter, outside the heavy gates of the Keep grounds, below the spire of the Church of the Chained Angel, most of the houses rose three stories, and the shops tended to offer clothing and jewelry and fine cuts of meat.

Behind the library, which Eli couldn't see from this window, smaller houses, though still neat, covered 'the Slope,' along with a Dreamer-shrine and the bustling tent-market. Beyond them, heading southward, a handful of tenements loomed like dead trees among a swamp of hovels and piss-stinking tanneries.

Then the fields began, miles and miles of crops spreading across the rolling plains. The two lesser moons shone above at moment, pale half-circles in the--

A commotion broke through Eli's reverie.

The clip-clop of horses' hooves on cobblestones, the jingle of gear. The squeak of a wagon … and the shouts of a crowd:

"Heroes! Thank you! We love you! Dreamer keep you!"

"Kill the toads!"

"Lord Ty, Lady Pym! Lord Ty, Lady Pym!"

"Kill the trolls! Cleanse the mountains!"

"For the Marquis! For the Angel! For Rockbridge!"

Eli leaned from the window and looked toward the Keep. On the widest boulevard of the city, a dozen riders headed from the gates, dressed in martial splendor. Well, not splendor, exactly. Each of the warriors wore armor and weapons worth more than Eli made in three years, but their gear was functional, not ornamental.

The lord and lady--the Marquis's twin children--rode in front, and directly behind them came the mages.

Two of them, which was a little scary. The scrawny woman with short hair and a square jaw was a mage of the Path of Arrowhead, according to the gossip, and the old man with the graying red beard was a twofold mage. Which meant he walked two paths at once: Arrowhead and Rampart.

Eli shivered at the thought. In excitement or fear--or both. He couldn't even imagine that kind of power. And he damn sure had never seen it. Which was undoubtedly a very good thing.

Then came the foot-soldiers. Three dozen, maybe four. Mostly marching along carrying polearms, which Eli had trained with during his years in the militia. Polearms, swords, maces, shields. He'd memorized a thousand drills, but nothing compensated for his sad lack of bloodthirstiness. He'd simply never wanted to hurt anyone, even during spars.

"I make a better scribe," he told the still-distant riders. "The only thing I cut into now is a quill and the only …"

He trailed off when the wagons creaked into view. Not the supply wagons at the rear of the convoy. Those he expected.

The prison wagon. Bulkier and higher, a brutal iron cage on a filthy platform.

The shouts turned uglier: "Traitors! Murderer! Murderer! Rot, you bastards!"

A dozen people were crammed into the space behind the bars of the prison wagon. Filthy faces, blood-caked tunics. Wild eyes flashing with panic. Skinny arms and dirty hands reached out beseechingly, for food, for water, for help.

Most of the prisoners stayed huddled in keening mounds of rags and filth. And even from high above, Eli imagined he smelled their stink.

Though those were the lucky ones. Given a chance at redemption. A chance at forgiveness. A chance to fight the trolls who infested the mountains. The trolls whom the Marquis had vowed to wipe from the face of the valley, to hunt to extinction. To finally bring peace to the outlying settlements of Rockbridge.

Those prisoners had been given a choice: execution or service. They'd lead the charge against the trolls. If they survived the battle with those monstrous brutes, they'd return to Rockbridge for payment and for thanks before being exiled forever.

Far better than hanging.

Though watching their huddled desperation made Eli shiver again. He'd heard that a single troll could defeat ten foot soldiers without strain. Rip arms from torsos, crush bones and organs--and chew off the faces off their enemies.

Suddenly boredom didn't seem so bad. Eli closed the shutters and headed back downstairs to finish his work.

And he did. He did finish his work. It only took him five and a half frustrating, tedious days.

Still, he was pleased with the result. An extremely excellent document. One of his best. He sent a message with a copy of his workings to the Steward at the Office in the provincial capital. Eli left another copy at the Head Clerk's office, to prove that he'd finished the task. Then he returned to his normal duties.

He'd pretty much forgotten about the report--until the summons came.

"Wash your face and scrub the ink from your fingers," Scribe Lynik told him.

"Huh?" he said.

"You're going to the Keep. You and the Head Clerk both. To meet the Marquis."

Eli's heart stopped. "Th-the Marquis?"

"That's what the summons said."

"Me? The Marquis? Summoned?"

"Apparently, Eli ..." She patted his arm fondly. "... that report you wrote caught someone's eye. Someone important."

"No!"

"Didn't I tell you? Hard work always pays off."

"Wh-what do you think they want?"

"My guess?" Her eyes sparkled happily. "To offer you a position in the Keep. Assistant to an advisor, perhaps? Just promise me this."

He almost laughed. "Anything!"

"Once you're the official Keeper of the Scrolls, don't forget the little people."