"I am trying to determine which regiment might take you, sir. And stop craning your neck like that—I fear your waist or your neck, one or the other, is going to snap." Lucas the Great Poet immediately drew back and straightened.

  After crossing out the fifteenth regiment or department, the man finally arrived at an answer. "The Expeditionary Force." He inscribed the name on Lucas's enlistment form and handed it to the poet. "Go directly to the tent on your left and give this form to whoever's inside—anyone will do. They'll assign someone to escort you to the Expeditionary Force for reporting."

  "That's a unit heading to the front lines, isn't it!?" Lucas, his excitement barely contained, scrutinized the enlistment form from top to bottom repeatedly, his gaze sharp enough to slice through the parchment. "Correct." (Unless my superior lied to me.)

  "Will they accept me? Truly no physical examination required?"

  "None required, sir. And once you submit that form, they must accept you. Military order. You understand?"

  "I understand, sir, I understand." Lucas the Great Poet bowed deeply. "My gratitude, my lord."

  The deputy waved him off. "Go on, then, before I change my mind and throw you out." The poet retreated while offering thanks.

  After Lucas's departure, the deputy recruitment officer poured himself another drink. He couldn't quite comprehend why his superior—the Sheriff—preferred drinking at taverns rather than in camp. Though they weren't exactly high-ranking officials, they had access to adequate spirits. "Perhaps he simply enjoys the atmosphere," he muttered to himself. "And who would enjoy drinking with an old man anyway?" Setting down his cup, he buried himself in the documents once more.

  The workload was substantial, but the man's efficiency was nothing to scoff at. What normally took the Sheriff an entire evening to complete, the deputy accomplished in half the time. "Splendid work, Bonio."

  "My lord?" The deputy looked up. "I didn't notice you come in—my apologies."

  "No matter." The Sheriff reclined in his chair, wearing the satisfied expression of one well-fed and well-watered. "I've been sitting here for a little while. Seeing you so engrossed in your work, I thought better of interrupting." (That's your bloody job, by the Gods.) the deputy thought. "You've reviewed all the documents?"

  "All processed, my lord. The reports have already been submitted upward."

  "Excellent!" The Sheriff clapped his hands together, though the gesture was feeble. "Any amusing incidents at the tavern?"

  "Amusing incidents?" He tilted his head. "Let me think, Bonio. Hmm... someone spilled beer all over the floor, and I took a tumble that left me flat on my arse. Does that qualify as amusing?"

  "Certainly, quite amusing." Both men laughed heartily.

  "The fellow was drunk as well, so I made him buy me a drink, then splashed it in his face and called it even." He belched. "Strange thing is, nearly all the drinks I had tonight were courtesy of others."

  "How so?"

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "A few people at the tavern recognized me and fell over themselves trying to curry favor. Before that, my first drink was also someone else's treat. Though that was at the market."

  "You were drinking at the market?" Bonio nearly reminded him that had been during work hours, but thought better of voicing it. "Not drinking at the market itself—just took the coin. I helped a poet resolve a dispute—the one I mentioned to you before, the rather talented fellow. His stall was absolutely mobbed, nearly came to blows. Hmph, if not for me, he'd probably be singing through a gap in his teeth from now on."

  "So he gave you coin and bought you a drink?"

  "Something along those lines." He snorted. "Should've taken a few more coppers. What about you? Apart from those damned documents, did anything happen here?"

  Something seemed to click in Bonio's mind, though he didn't dare draw conclusions yet. "...Someone came to enlist." For now, he could only say this much—it was fact, impossible to fabricate or gloss over.

  "Oh?" The Sheriff perked up with interest. "Someone enlisting at this hour? Haven't they heard how horrifically the soldiers die during the siege assaults at the Cynthia front?" He gave a bitter laugh. "You could bring chunks of flesh from that place to the market and sell them, and no one would suspect it was anything but pork."

  "A... young man." The deputy decided against being too specific, since he couldn't confirm whether the enlisting poet was the same one performing at the market. "But his physical condition was extremely poor, barely meeting the requirements of any regiment."

  "Poor in all aspects?" Bonio nodded. "If he became infantry, it'd be the spear leading him into the charge rather than the other way around."

  The Sheriff laughed until he could barely breathe. "Poor lad—he sounds just like that little poet at the market. So what did you do in the end? Throw him out?"

  (It must be him.) The deputy thought with an inward smile. (But to be safe, better wait and see how this plays out.) "Not quite. The poet seemed to have compelling reasons for enlisting—desperately urgent about it—and insisted on going to the front lines rather than logistics. So, after considering every possibility, I assigned him to the Expeditionary Force." Having said this, he fell silent, expecting his superior's praise. The man before him held dual positions, frequently shuttling between the market and the recruitment office, which meant most of the recruitment work fell to Bonio. Yet he rarely received his superior's commendation—perhaps this was his chance.

  "The Expeditionary Force!?" The Sheriff exclaimed.

  "That's correct."

  "Bonio." The man adjusted his posture. "Are you joking with me, or do you bear some grudge against this enlistee?"

  Bonio was completely taken aback.

  "Didn't I tell you about the Expeditionary Force last time?"

  "You did, my lord." (Pity you didn't finish explaining.)

  "Good that you remember. Now, back to the question—are you being serious, or is this merely a jest?"

  "Of course... merely a jest, my lord." Bonio's smile was strained and awkward. He'd only recently been transferred to this position and had no desire to lose his livelihood so soon. "I didn't realize you were serious about it."

  "There are things one can jest about, and things one cannot. This gets people killed, Bonio."

  The deputy nodded vigorously, indicating he'd taken the lesson to heart. (Thank goodness I didn't mention he was a poet.)

  "So what became of him? Did you send him away?"

  "Sent him for the physical examination." Someone must have seen the poet carrying the enlistment form—being sent home wouldn't account for that. "In any case, he's certain to fail it."

  "May the gods watch over him." The Sheriff hauled himself up from the chair, groaning all the while. "Damned beer, damned floor." He rubbed his lower back. "Care for a walk?"

  Bonio had meant to decline. "Stop staring at those bloody documents, brother. Look at your eyes." He drew two circles before his own eyes, then laughed.

  (I wonder if that poet is still around.) He wavered internally, but couldn't very well refuse his superior. "Of course, my lord." He set down his spectacles and made a show of stretching. (Better pray we don't run into him.)

  Deputy recruitment officer Bonio's concerns were entirely unnecessary. Lucas the Great Poet was already en route to rendezvous with the Expeditionary Force, embarking on his long journey.