Brassworks

People in Glass Houses

"The Realm of the Dead is naked before the King."

Words of the Prophet

Chapter 2, Verse 18

"NEXT!"

The line of prisoners shuffled forward, moving like an enormous serpent through the winding lobby of the windowless building. Sand blew in from the open door, coating the dirty tile floors. It crunched underneath the bare feet of the inmates as they walked one-by-one before the judge. 

Dalia kept her eyes focused on the shackled ankles to her front. Every step came with a deafening rattle from the collected chains in the room. She pulled her scarf close around her small frame, shivering despite the oppressive heat. Whenever she lingered too long, a guard would appear and slap a baton against her arms or thighs. She was already bruised from head to toe. 

If she needed a surge of guilt, she would glance at the man trudging along behind her. The blacksmith's face bore fresh bruises. Every time a guard learned his name, it earned another beating. Dalia wanted to ask him about it, but couldn't bare to speak in his presence. It's your fault. All of this. Queen would be furious.

At the end of the long line, a fat old man in a flowing white robe sat at a tall desk. Sweat flowed constantly down his immense jowls, soaking his collar. He dabbed ineffectually at his neck and cheeks with a stained handkerchief. Dalia and Theo drew close enough to hear the judge's exchanges with the prisoners. 

"Next!"

A scrawny man with bulging eyes limped forward. He was naked except for a pair of filthy undergarments, and his sickly body shivered. His nose was large and pointed, and his two front teeth stuck out over his bottom lip. It gave him the appearance of an enormous rat. 

When the judge spoke, his accent pegged him as a native of the Gentle Shores. His long drawl pulled each word apart. The inmate, on the other side, spoke in the rapid jerking parlance of the Badlands. 

"Name?" the judge bellowed.

The scrawny man scratched at his neck. "Ick."

The judge peered down through beady eyes, his brow pinching together. "Wassat?"

"Ick, sah."

"You gotta last name, Ick?" He wiped a meaty hand over his face and dried it on his robes.

The sickly inmate shook his head. "Jus' Ick, sah. Them's whats'em called."

"Fine," the judge snapped. He fumbled with a heavy canteen, guzzling down milky water. "What's your crime?"

Ick shifted on his bare feet. "I'din'know. Bos'man kem an tekken me inna da boat. Din'know what I's done. Din'know why's I here, sah."

"Gods, can someone get me an idjit translator? I can't understand a goddamn word outta his mouth." 

One of the guards cracked the skeletal man across the back, knocking him to the ground. Ick wept bitterly and held up his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"HEY!" Theo pushed his way to the front, carefully weaving through the line of inmates. His chained ankles rattled with each stunted step. "Leave him alone. He's a Badlander, he can't help how he speaks."

The guard was too stunned to react. He glanced at the judge, who shook his flabby face in shock. 

"What's your name, boy?"

"Theo Palmer, of Empton." He stood tall and proud, pushing out his chest. A moment later, a baton slammed into his stomach and sent him to the sandy floor. Theo coughed and choked. He struggled to catch his breath. The guards laughed and the judge pursed his glistening lips.