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“I enforce the law. I punish the guilty.”
She swallows hard. “Oh. But what are the chairs for?”
“Every punishment is carried out with witnesses present.”
“Why?”
“Justice is not a private affair. If one has broken the law, one pays for it publicly. If one cannot follow the rules set down by the alpha, then one suffers.” I lower my voice for her benefit. “The same is likely to apply to you, my human mate.”
The sudden flush of red hue on her cheeks and across her nose is rather adorable. I could almost forget that she is a self-confessed lawless pirate and mutineer because she looks so much like an innocent human who would never dare break even the smallest of rules.
I take her hand in mine and lead her up to the dais. The steps are a little taller than is easily navigable by her shorter human legs, but she manages to scramble up them to stand in the same place so many other guilty parties have stood before. I think she feels the gravitas of the place, judging by the way she cringes and blushes.
“The public aspect of the punishment is to act as a warning to some, and to prove that justice has been done to others. At this stage of the proceedings, the entire hall is empty — but it will not be long before the first session begins.”
She looks around at the set up on the dais. There is an ample collection of implements that are used to punish those who deserve it. There are tools here which can make even the most hardened of criminals beg for mercy. I am thinking of the hard lash in particular. It’s a rather pedestrian term for a terrible thing capable of taking the scales off the hide of a saurian. It is made of a now extinct red tree wood known both for its flexibility and its resilience. The forces required for it to break are so extreme it may as well be indestructible. I have never used it, but I keep it front and center as a reminder to those who are paying the price for their crimes that things could always be worse.
There are generational stories about the hard lash, the damage it can do, how it is essentially an instrument of torture. In my work, the line between punishment and excruciating is a fine one. That is one of the many skills I have, the sense of how much discipline needs to be inflicted, and how much can be endured. Contrary to the image I have cultivated, I am not an entirely merciless beast — but I am a technician of pain.
“Avel! There you are!”
Footsteps come from the back of the hall, an area where few are allowed to tread. The hall is made in such a way that sounds of such a nature — short, percussive bursts of noise travel and echo around the high ceilings and bone-covered walls. I hear a short gasp from somewhere near my elbow as Raine draws closer to me. It is satisfying to see that this place gives her the same feelings of respectful fear as it was designed to give saurians. Perhaps she is more trainable than she might like to let on.
Castor has emerged from his offices. He is an older saurian male with predatory strains in his blood. This means he has no wings, but that has never stopped him from striking terror into those who deserved it. This is no mere bookish recordkeeper. Castor is the saurian master from whom I learned my trade. His scaling is not brightly colored anymore. Age has turned him a soft grayish hue, but his eyes still burn a bright red from beneath thick, severe brows. His hair is tied back in a long tail which runs the length of his spine, almost all the way to the floor. It was raven black once, but now there are flecks of bright gold running from his temples back over his skull.
Castor was the enforcer before I was the enforcer. He has retired from the profession, but he maintains an interest in justice and he keeps the record ledgers. He is wearing a long robe with a high collar. I note Raine’s reaction to him out of the corner of my eye. She sinks back, moving behind me slightly as if to use me as a shield. Cute, in a way, though it will not save her from punishment if she were to earn it.
“Morning, Castor. How is the schedule looking today?”
Castor ignores Raine, and I do not introduce her. Little female creatures on leashes do not warrant mentions from saurians like Castor or me. If she was not mine, I am sure I would not spare a passing comment on her.
“We have three criminals coming to receive justice today. Two are repeat offenders from the cells, and one is surrendering of his own recognizance, under the supervision of his guardians.”
“A young one?”
“Torin Rivet.”
The name puts a smirk on both our faces. The Rivet name is rather well known in Grave City. It is less a family and more of a lawless tribe. In times past, Rivets have been alphas, and they have been notorious criminals. Torin is the latest Rivet to reach the age of majority, and I am not surprised to hear that he has gotten himself into serious trouble almost immediately. It may as well be a rite of passage for the family at this point.
“That will be interesting. What is he charged with?”
Castor flips open the ledger in his hand, runs a long, clawed nail down the list, his brows rising as he reads Torin’s charges to himself. I wait for him to enlighten me, but instead of telling me, he simply sighs and rotates the ledger to allow me to see the list. It is exhaustive and takes up much of the page. Thefts, joyriding, property damage, and resisting arrest are among the uppermost of his many transgressions, all of which appear to have taken place on one evening — the evening he turned eighteen.
“Quite the birthday celebration,” I note.
“He should have been thrown in prison, but of course Thorvald intervened on his behalf, and Wrath put in a word or two as well. There are unseen strings in this city that the blighters pull, making us all dance like puppets.”
Castor has little patience for anything that denies what he considers to be proper justice. I am less concerned than he is. Torin will present himself today, and he will suffer appropriately. I am not a large believer in prison anyway. It is a waste of potential, in my opinion. Either a saurian can be rehabilitated through pain, or he would he better removed from society completely — and permanently.
“Do not worry. He will be dealt with thoroughly,” I assure Castor.
“Oh, I know,” Castor agrees.
“Who is on guard duty today? We will need sturdy saurians at the doors.”
“Barin and Vilkas.”
“Good.”
