Paladins of the Pickle Goddess

They had brought in the bees early last night. Marcus, who had just started his shift, had thought he might be having a hallucination.

The arresting crew had wheeled the hive in, men holding up shields and yelping at every sting.

“Hold it back!” One had shouted.

“Never let down the wall!” Another had shouted. “We can’t let down the department!”

“For Cabellus!” The lieutenant had tried, but no one had taken him up on the battle chant. Most of the other guardsmen Marcus knew hadn’t proclaimed themselves for any specific god.

Marcus had swallowed, licking the end of the quill and looking between the other guards. Their faces had been swollen, angry.

“Can we… arrest a bee, sir?” He had said, going to his highest superior. The lieutenant hadn’t given him any mercy.

“We aren’t arresting the bees, Marcus. We’re taking this as collateral. For arresting a person. That’ll be Apis of Andrena’s Foundling- no, that’s only one N-”

“Yes, sir,” muttered Marcus. He had written faster. What had he done to earn this?

Now, with no mercy, and as the only guardsman on duty, he was able to admit it. The buzzing was driving. Him. Mad.

He leaned forward. Slammed his head on the desk. He had just begun his shift. He had an entire night ahead of him!

“All right there, Markey?” They only had one prisoner tonight, a drunk named Paulus. Marcus wouldn’t call him a ‘friend’, but he was arrested most nights, and yes, they talked occasionally. It got lonely at night! Was it such a crime?

“Fine enough,” he called back. It was just one of the drunks, poured into the cell after a night at the mead. “How are you? Hangover all right?”

“It’s fine,” said Paulus. “They’re running out of the good stuff. I might actually have to stop drinking. What’s the use of living in the city if you have to drink filth?”

Marcus turned back to the page where he was meant to fill in paperwork. He was still stuck on question one. Name of the arrested. Did a bee-hive have a name?

He frowned, then scribbled in, “confiscated property.”

Then he scribbled it out, crumpling up the paper and throwing it into the bin. It was the fourteenth copy.

“Maybe next time!” Called Paulus. He slumped to the floor. “Any chance of a snack?”

Before Marcus could respond, the door thumped open. He glanced up. “Lieutenant,” he tried, “I’m trying to fill it out, but-”

“I’m here to collect the bees,” said a voice. Markus looked first to the left, then to the right. Finally, he peered over the counter. A boy stood there. Blond hair, cut so bluntly it must have been some sort of equipment accident, and an accent so thick he could have been gargling knives. A newcomer to the city, then. He held a sword with both hands. Marcus leaned back before it could cut him.

“Ah,” he said. “About that. I’m afraid only family can pay bail, so-” That was another problem with the form. Weren’t bees… the entire family, themselves? Could a bee own money?”

“I’m here to support him,” said an old man, looming out of the shadows. He was grizzled, and scarred, and- was he wearing a battle-ax?

“Sir,” said Marcus, “According to civil law 12.4, safety on the streets, civilians aren’t allowed to carry battle-axes anymore.”

“What?” The man stopped midway towards his desk. Marcus retreated towards the wall, keeping his eye on the door. Was it a violation of his job if he ran? “What do you mean, not allowed to carry battle-axes? What if I want to go to battle?”

“Well, you’re allowed to carry a sword for that,” said Marcus. “Otherwise, it’s a violation of the peace on the streets. A battle-axe isn’t permitted in a duel.”

“Damn this country. Was better when we were an empire. Fine!”

He sheathed the axe. Marcus sighed in relief. Then the man unsheathed a sword. Marcus tensed back up.

“Ah- there’s no need-”

“Of course there isn’t!” The boy was pulling himself up so his nose could peek over the counter. Marcus was a little insulted. They’d built the counter tall on purpose, to keep all the riff-raff out. “All you have to do is give us the bees, and we’ll leave.”

There was another boy, Marcus realized, in the shadow of the axe-man. He hadn’t said anything. He just stared, looking down his nose as though he disapproved of everything. This was impressive, as most everything within the jail was above him.

“I already said, only family can pay bail,” said Marcus. “I’m very sorry, but it’s against regulation.”

He would never hear the end of it if bees escaped on his watch. What would they say about him then? No longer Mealy-Mouth-Marcus. Although- he frowned, trying to think of a joke about it. Did something about bees alliterate with Marcus?

“I think you ought to let the bees go!” shouted Paulus, still slurring. “I’ve been speaking to them, and they seem friendly enough to me.”

“Well, you’re not a guardsman, are you?”

“And all the better for it! Only one of us is working, isn’t that right?”

“Well, you’re in a cell, so I think I’m actually winning,” said Marcus. Then he didn’t say much at all, because a sword was at his throat. He backed up, towards the door. His hand slipped over the handle. When had his palm become so sweaty?

He looked up, up, towards the old man’s face. Where he might have seen regret, thoughtfulness in someone else’s eyes, he saw only wild joy. The man smiled. Marcus saw a lot of bar fighters come in every night.

Generally speaking, how many teeth they had was a sign of how well they fought. The better fighters would keep most of their front teeth, a few of their molars. The worse ones would have a smile of gold, a few silver. The worst of all would be all gums.

The man smiled at him with perfect teeth. All bone. “I wasn’t plannin on paying,” he said. “So. Your keys?”

“I’m not sure this is heroic,” said the blonde boy. He had come around the desk now, although he still hadn’t put away the sword, and it waved very close to certain parts of Marcus that he held dear. Marcus really wished he would put it away.

“I agree,” said the dark-haired boy. “Perhaps we should contact my mother.”

The blonde boy hummed in thought. The sword swayed again. Marcus swallowed and stepped slightly back.

“It’s always heroic to hurt the guardsmen,” said the old man. Marcus shook his head vigorously. “The law ain’t on your side.” Marcus shook his head more. “The only person that can help you is yourself.”

“It’s very heroic to help the law,” said Marcus, as soon as he could get a word in. “The law is here to help you, and every hero knows that the real heroes are the ones that enforce peace on the streets.”

“My mother says the law is whatever you can pay for,” said the dark-haired boy.

The boy frowned. His sword wavered. Apparently unsure, he eventually turned to Paulus.

Paulus shrugged. “Marcus is all right. I don’t think you ought to kill him. He gives me snacks sometimes. And he’s funny, in a stodgy, boring, kind of way.”

Marcus had never been so thankful to be called stodgy and boring. “Look,” he said, desperate. “I don’t like the bees being here either. But- could you at least make it look like you fought me? You know, tie me up? Leave a few bruises?”

The old man squinted at him. “You want me to hurt you?”

“They’ll make fun of me if they think I did paperwork for bees,” said Marcus.

“I can see what they mean,” said the man.

A few minutes later, Marcus wiggled as the ropes were tightened around his wrist. “I think that’s enough,” he said, hopefully.

“Now,” said the old man. “Pay attention, boys. When you want a prisoner to talk, you want to hit them with the flat of your blade. If you leave scars, that’s money off of the ransom.”

Marcus winced as the blade of the sword came down on his shoulder. “I think that’s fine!” He squeaked out.

“What if I don’t want information?” asked the blonde one. The blade shone menacingly above him.

“Well, usually I’d kill em,” said the old man. “Although I guess we have to leave this one alive.”

Marcus squirmed under their gaze. “The others might come back soon,” he suggested. “Very soon? Now, perhaps?”

“Right!” The old man sheathed his blade, clapped his hands. “You think you have enough injuries? Enough proof?”

Marcus thought he might be more bruise than person. He smiled through the wince. “Very good,” he said. “Thank you.”

To add insult to injury, the bees just buzzed happily as they were taken out the front door. There was no need for a wall of shields, no screaming. Marcus watched his favorite key-chain, the one with a little carving of a tree, walk right out the door with them. He slumped back in defeat.

His legs were already going numb. “They didn’t even give back my keys,” he moaned.

“Think of it this way!” Paulus hadn’t lost his spirit, even when they were slapping Marcus with the blade. “I’ll bet you get to take Beetle’s Flight off, now.”