1 Judgements

Daniel could never explain the feeling adequately, he'd never heard of anyone who was inked who could. In his mind he described it as half skin crawl and half soul-deep shiver. It was the tell that he had found someone with whom the Inkwalker had business. Some sort of wrong that still needed to be righted.

The 'tell' as he called it was quickly followed by the sort of ice-water pins-and-needles as if his entire skin had gone to sleep at once and was waking up. He could feel the magic building as he put his hands together. Without moving one hand he pointed.

The world seemed to stop around him as the Ink took over, making him taller, heavier and deepening his voice. Still pointing he spoke. "Ruru!" Those who heard him speak stopped where they were, they knew that voice. The baritone that rang out over the market in Solar Four. The tattoos rippled with a blue-white light a single tattoo, a bird on his left shoulder, remained blue-white and then the tattoo did what no other tattoo could, it pulled itself from his arm and became real. It flew around his head once and then streaked after the man at whom the pointed finger was leveled.

Once the bird was dispatched the only movement he made was to clasp his hands in front of himself as if praying, but his brown eyes with silver rims were wide open.

The bird, Ruru,was tiny, not much bigger than the mice it preyed on, the small ball of feathers, claws and beak streaked after the man, nipping, clawing and bashing him with its wings to herd him on. The crowd stopped to watch the tiny owl as it streaked away from the Inkwalker.

The owl was the messenger of truth, one of the talismans of the Inkwalker, and only his Alchemy could bend reality like this.

A single clap and he was naked except for the small breechclout he wore for modesty sake, another and he was holding a staff as thick as a man's wrist and taller than the Inkwalker himself, the tattooed figure didn't move as he watched the man run.

The visible skin, full of tattoos, were his credentials, only the Inkwalker had them. And they covered his body from the top of his feet to the underside of his chin where the head of the snake that wound about his neck was tattooed.

There were no tattoos on his face, nothing above the under side of his chin, but his ink wasn't like any other ink. Besides being his credentials, the living ink was his friend, and could amplify his magic to help him judge those who used magic to harm others, and worse yet, those who used magic to kill, or who tried to tempt the taboo. Solars in gold and bronze passed him by with a bow of their heads or a flick of their fans, giving his circle a wide berth so as not to end up breaking his concentration. Layers of gauze and veils protected the solars from the harsh sun. Their shoes ticked on the cobbles of the solar district as they passed to and fro, on their way from stand to stand of the market. Gold powder adorned their faces, and copper glinted off their wigs. Fascinators adorned their hair as did disks of gold or gems, and rays of the sun.

Among them were Lunars, late abed or early to rise their darker, heavier cloaks and jackets had to be spelled to keep them cool as the heavy dark fabrics were more suited to the cold nights under the moon. The brocade tunics of blue and silver were set off with high collars and military tunics with straight lines and belts that broke them evenly. Moons, runes, and gears adorned their jackets. Silver paint on nails, and blue-white disks of moon quartz adorned necks, and wrists, gathering magic and keeping it when they couldn't see the moon. And the Lunars were more free with their weapons, straps holding kit-guns or daggers, and the occasional magic slab used for communication.

The Inkwalker noticed these and his mind wandered for a moment lost in the ebb and flow of market day in Solar Four. To him it seemed both a moment and an eternity later when he clapped again, a dangerous movement for any Alchemist of his power. Around him appeared a circle inscribed with words of protection, words that would not allow him to be moved against his will.

Those who had been passing not only stopped but stepped back, prepared to watch. Casting on a busy street was unusual, but then again, he was Inkwalker. He had to be. The murmur began to start, for few would be so brazen as to cast mid-market, except the Inkwalker himself, the messenger of justice had come.

There were touches to forehead or breastbone, or wrist, depending on their sect, each asking protection of the magic that they used, for everyone feared the Inkwalker even if they had done no wrong, for he was the most powerful creature in the city, if not the world. Those who could craned to see his tattoos, but no one took pictures, they learned long ago, whatever magic protected him, he could not be photographed without permission.

A few moments after the flash of magic had faded a man ran out of an alley across the street. Western clothes, a thin shirt with buttons down the front, and thick-close-fitting heavy cotton pants, caught everyone's attention. The clothes said the man was not a magic user, what many called a "mortal" but the fact that the Inkwalker was chasing him told them that he was something much worse. He was an "unbeliever" a man who didn't believe in magic whenever it suited him.

Immediately after him came the tiny ball of feathers and claws still peeping indignantly at him as it pecked and flapped and clawed to keep him moving. For a long moment the Inkwalker let him run, and then a single whistle pierced the air and the owl flew straight up, and into a backwards barrel roll, making the man curious enough to turn and look at him as he ran at breakneck speed.

He hit the Inkwalker and rebounded as if he had hit solid stone. The bird banked, skimming the domed golden roofs as he made his way back to the Inkwalker. Ruru alit on the man's shoulder and nibbled his fingers in affection as the Inkwalker petted him. "John HH Matthews, You will stand for judgement."

Brown eyes with silver rims blinked at the dazed man who now sat on his behind on the hard cobbles, shoulders heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Bright green eyes blinked back, there were no rim of silver or gold, but they were a strange jade color. "Who are you to judge me?" The word "Garip" or freak died on his lips. He held out his hand. "I keep no circle."

His plea that he didn't use magic was a lie and the Inkwalker knew it. The Ink itself knew it too.

The Inkwalker's hands moved and a circle appeared in the air, "You used a stun spell when you robbed the Mazaga," The Alchemish word for a market slipped out. Like many, when agitated, he reverted to Alchemish, the language of magic.

He could feel the Ink moving but at the moment his attention was fixed on John, so he didn't catch the warning of disaster until it was far too late.

"It wasn't me, I didn't kill her."

"While that is technically true, you would not undo the spell to save her life. She reached for you, fighting the spell while you stepped over her— twice."

A small death's head had started moving weaving its way between tattoos from a place on the back of his shoulder, growing larger as it moved farther and farther up his body. The tattoo moved over the ridges of the snake Kaa that wound its way around the Inkwalker's neck and by the time it had reached his jaw line, it was growing faster until it covered his whole face, and in a flash of light, a skeleton stood where the ink walker had been, the two spiders on the back of his shoulders spinning his a cloak of midnight black that became first ink and then cloth as it fell and rippled in the breeze. The hands that gripped the staff, now a scythe, were bone, and the eyes with silver rims, were gone too, instead there were only coals.

If anyone had doubted the Inkwalker, they knew now, it was him. Olum, the Judge of men stood glowering down at the criminal. He leaned on the scythe, bending to investigate him closer. The smell of dust and earth hung about the skeleton, but it wasn't like a Becomer or a Risen, this was the clean smell of old earth.

He spoke again, but now his once-rich baritone was a wreck as it went from nails on slate to unoiled hinges and gravel, and back again. And somehow it seemed so much older than it had been, and more full of gravitas than even Daniel could normally pull. The voice was ancient, raspy, and full of pain and betrayal.

The coals flared in anger, and the bones twisted until the skull was glowering down at him. "She was eight years old, her only crime was bringing her father his lunch which he had forgotten at home a few doors down. You forget your magic when it suits you, but this cannot be forgotten. And the magic cannot forget you. And you show no sorrow even now, facing me. The only sorrow you feel is sorry that you were caught, but still confident you can hide behind the fact that you have forgotten your magic… But I know. Ruru knows, and I could compel you to speak the truth but I won't."

Death grabbed him by the arm, bony fingers around the outside of his right arm, And John screamed as there was heat and pain under those bony fingers. When the hands moved there were tattoos, crisp, clear and real looking though miniature. "This is my judgement. In eight months from today, they will find you in the street where she died, and you will share her death. But I am not without compassion, though you may be. There is yet time to avoid this fate. If you go to the courts, throw yourself on their mercy, and tell them what you have done, then whatever judgement they give will supersede my own. The ink I have given cannot be unmade, no knife or ink can alter it, and nothing save the true judgement of the court can remove it. "For your greed I have given you money." Death pointed to the small coins, tiny, but perfect enough they looked like you could use them for your daily mocha. "For your errant spell, I have given you the circle you used." The circle he had used was drawn. "For the life you have taken, I have given my scythe, and your count shall be CCXXIV, 224, the number of days in the eight months I have given you. And so that you will understand, every night when you sleep you shall know her death, and every morning wake again, and remember."

"My words are spoken, my magic spent, my circle almost broken, Go, and remember your obligations." With those words, the spell came to an end.

The change back was quicker than the change had been. A blink and there was a lithe young man standing where death had been. He was shorter than he had first appeared. Ruru, seeing him back took flight, speeding around the alley once, twice again, until he connected with the blank space on Daniel's arm and turned to ink again.

A single clap and the man was dressed as a Lunar again. Utterly spent, the figure staggered away, turning for the Lunar section at the end of the block. At least that had been his intent. But no more than two steps from where he had been, the world lurched sideways and then the darkness came for him. And Daniel knew no more for many hours.

********

In the central cog of the city there was a throng of people that surrounded the second tower, the home of the police. Up on the curved triangular overlook stood the police chief with his cog-shaped badge and his stiff copper coat over a button up shirt, what the locals called "western' attire, what they saw from the visitors of the far west who had all-but forgotten magic. The fact that he was wearing western clothing belied the fact that he was non-magical, what some erroneously called "Mortals".

Beside him stood a man dressed in the heavy coat and tunic like a Lunar but the colors were wrong. Instead of blues with silver threads the fabric was midnight black with blood red on it. It was this, alone that gave him away as a Necromancer.

Most magic users would only acknowledge two types of Alchemists, those of the sun or the moon, Solars and Lunars respectively. There were, in fact, Three. The third class, the Blood Alchemists, or the "workers of blood' or Workers of trouble as many called them, were more often than not, known by their one taboo that they broke. They were the only ones who could, and a few who would dare, to raise the dead.

Off to the far right of the cutout was the Taskforce, police officers, solars and lunars all, milling around with uncomfortable looks on their faces. These officers were here with a Necromancer without weapons. Their holsters were empty of the kit-guns or knives that they usually carried, relying instead on the protections etched into the metal under their feet. A few cubits behind them was the first tower, where lived the prince of the city, "Devlin Prens" as they knew the word. The third tower housed the courts, and this raised platform was often called "Inkwalker Plaza" for here the Inkwalker would often come to check on the officers with whom he served.

Etched deep into the floor of the dais was the name of the city, "Ayin Sehir" city of the moon, its name since before the beginning. And it was this name, and only this name that most magic users used. They wouldn't call it by the western name "Megopolis" the big city. They didn't care, frankly how big the city was, they cared rather, that it was sick, that something was wrong with it.

Standing on the dais above the crowd of reporters, "Speakers of Truth" as they were called in Alchemish, they tried not to show their discomfort and displeasure as the crowd of reporters thronged holding magic or gear-driven microphones or slabs close enough to record what was said for later broadcast.

From the tower across the way came the steward, his short staff of office clutched in his hand as he tried to hurry without seeming to be in a hurry. By the time he had crossed from the door to the bridge, to the overlook, he had settled his features into the calm, unruffled face he always used. "Your pardon."

The rust and copper tunic ruffled slightly as he bowed.

He turned to face the crowd just as the sound of the golden bells high above drifted down over them. Far above the Devlin Prens took her place. In this case the "prince of the City' Was a woman, and a Solar. She stepped up to the edge of the balcony a disk of the sun behind her, with her hair adorned in rays of the sun. Layers of gold and gauze cascaded down around her, obscuring her and making her seem like a golden statue far above them.

She held her hands up in oblation and then seemed to cast a spell, waving her hand in front of her. The bells on her wrists jangled too. After a moment she held her hands still and bowed.

The steward spoke. "The prince of the city casts her protection on this gathering, admonishing all that they not tempt the wards put in place, and wishing health and prosperity to all. She takes her leave of us for the sickness that has struck her has tired her." He held up his hands, the staff held high before speaking again "Our prayers go with her for a speedy recovery from the sickness that has plagued her of late."

There was a long pause and then the jingle of the bells as she retreated into her room again. "With the obligations made, I turn this over to the Chief of the Cog."

He touched the police chief on the shoulder with his short staff bestowing, symbolically the authority and protection of the tower upon him before the steward fled back to the door from whence he had come with a dirty look at the Necromancer before the door closed.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of Megapolis, Cog-bound officers, speakers of truth," he nodded to the reporters, "guests and children of the city, welcome. There have been many changes of late, some unpleasant, others like today, a happy occasion.

Today it is my pleasure to introduce to you my good friend, our new services officer, and sworn foe to the vigilante that plagues our streets. His name, is Javved."

The reporters murmered a bit as the police chief put his arms around the necromancer on the stage. The necromancer who without a doubt wore Inkwalker ink.

The world seemed to go quiet as the two spoke quietly for a moment.

Javved, 'the one who lived," as his name said, took a step forward. Over all his image was one that sat ill with people. He was handsome but his brown eyes seemed rimmed in red, and the ink on his arms, was magic ink as it moved and writhed under its own power, but no one had seen ink like it, and it made them afraid.

"Thank you Chief Ellers, Cog-bound, and Mortals alike."

His smile was charming. But his look and manner were unsettling. Like finding a beautifully deadly snake.

"Our great city was once said to be one of the most beautiful of the thirteen cities. We were proud to be Citizens of the the city-state of Magista, Magisters all, even those without use of magic, the mortals. And yet, we have failed our beautiful city. We have let it fall into disarray. Our sister Cities, Yeni Ay, "New Moon," and Alhadid albarid, Cold Iron, the Haven city, and many others have been lost to the malaise that now plagues our fair city, plunging us into darkness and bringing a divisiveness that has never been seen in this city before. It disrupts the use of common magic, so much so that this city has forsaken its magic roots, and renaming itself Megapolis. A mortal name."

The Alchemish names rolled off his tongue with the ease of someone long familiar with it.

He leaned forward as if to speak conspiratorially with them. "But that is not the worst part. This malaise brings sickness and plague. It brings back a malady not seen since the great war a thousand years ago, when the people were divided."

He held up a hand to stop them, "The workers of Blood magic always claimed they had done no wrong, that they were set upon for no reason except that people didn't like their form of magic. And while this is true, I will not stand and debate the issue so long passed. But yes, I am a blood alchemist, though I eschew the title of Necromancer." At least in public, he thought. "And you see I bear the ink, the mark of a righteous man."

He paused long enough to let the murmur die. A few knew, but didn't voice what they thought. There were ways to bind the ink against its will. There were ways to make it stay. And they all involved death. Men died for magic like that, and they died bloody.

"And with the greater plague, comes the lesser plagues, ones not seen in a hundred years. The ones that came after the lesser war two hundred years ago. And these were what the elders warned us of, our rains are out of season, too heavy, too light; the sun comes up too early, or too late; the moon lights do not come up at their appointed time.' He paused for a moment.

"But this is not the worst, and we all know it. For the malaise it affects our very city streets, stealing power, it kills our crops, and disrupts the very fabric of our world. And it is far more sinister than that. For we have lied to you, we all have. You see the malaise, it does more. It drives men's minds from them, it rebounds their magic upon themselves, and it brings forth twisted night plants. It makes poisons more potent, it makes cures less restorative, and in short it threatens the very fabric of what we are."

He stopped a long moment letting them digest that. "And I have to tell you something you will not believe. But it is true, by the office of the Inkwalker, this is true. For we have let this vigilante usurp the power of the police!"

There were shouted questions he ignored, waiting until it was quiet again to speak. "You are afraid of him, in public, you don't call him Inkwalker, you call him "Illustrated man" or the "Tattooed warrior" anything to avoid the truth. He is a vigilante. He is a very powerful Alchemist, I will say that. But he, and his crimes against the city and the magic are the reasons for the malaise, for the plague."

"Starting today we have instituted a three-hundred gear bounty on him. Anyone who gives us information that leads to his capture can have the money."

"Those of you still protecting him, remember this, it was men like him who got our cities destroyed in the days past. It was men like him who brought down the wrath of the thirteen." He held up his hands for silence. "You see me here, in the sun, my ink bare to see, and by this you know my office, I am an Inkwalker." He held up his arms so his sleeves fell back revealing the signs and sigils of the Ink. He had no owl on his shoulder though, and they could not see that the three on his chest were chained.

"So today I have tasked these cog-bound officers of the law to search for and find this so called "illustrated man" and bring him to justice. " He held up his hands to stop any questions before he continued.

"You see me here, out in the sun, my ink bare to see, and you know that I am an Inkwalker. And I declare this Inkwalker, this Illustrated man, Alaigtisas, A vigilante. A man who comes under color of authority not his own, murdering people in our streets, scaring our children and wreaking havoc on our justice system.

And while, it is true, none have yet seen his true face and lived, so powerful are his spells, and protections, I promise you I will make the streets safe. Hdha 'uqsim. For if this vigilante kills in our streets, what is to say that he will not do the one thing for which no magic user can be forgiven. Who is to say that he will not raise the dead and bring them back to plague our dreams? And I tell you this, he already has, they wait in the shadows and move in the malaise he has brought to our streets."

Making the people afraid was easy. He rolled up his sleeves to more fully show his ink. "You know that tattoos like this are not given or taken lightly. These are my credentials, I still carry the Ink. The illustrated man has stolen his ink, using forbidden arts to bend it it to his will and Hdha 'uqsim I will bring him to justice.

Today is the day I put him on notice, wherever he may be. Let him present himself here, at the city center and take his oaths in front of the public instead of using a stand-in. Or, so help me, by the moon and stars, by the heavenly bodies, and the magic within, we will find you, and make you fix what you have put wrong.

We will make you admit you have no right to wear the ink. And were I the man people claim me to be because of my heritage, I would threaten death or harm to him, but I do not, for no Inkwalker may threaten, they may however promise. And I promise, I will make these streets safe for all; I will make sure he faces Judgement; and I will make sure that this division he has wrought becomes the harmony we have always known.

Hdha 'uqsim.