TIED

Gideon Ember is a man guided by common sense.

He is the mayor of a city that used to be great, once, when he still young and still dreamed of changing the world. Now the city is beyond repair, and so is he.

He had witnessed it all fall apart when the new president’s armies came to Catalina. He had been there and he had done nothing to stop it. Gideon Ember is a man guided by common sense, which means he just watched. When the military filled his office, he said nothing. When they asked where the citizens’ records were, he pointed. When they asked him to sign the search warrants, he signed. When he was asked in court, “Isn’t it true, Mayor, that Seers are a danger to the safety of the capital? Of the entire nation?” he said, “Yes, it’s true.”

It’s also true that Mr Ember didn’t have a gun pointed at his head, but he knew it could be appear at any moment. The old president had one, the very night they arrived in the capital. A government full of Seers, and none saw General Martin coming. None foresaw the horror. How could he be safe? Some might call him a coward; he doesn’t care. He has a wife and children, and he can continue to say that he has them, in present tense, even though none of them speaks more than two words to him. Not that they need to say anything out loud, anyway. He sees the same thought in their eyes every day:

You could have done more.

But could he?

The new government allowed him to keep his position as mayor. General Martin wanted it that way. Not only to keep the mayor in Catalina, the capital, but also the mayors of the other cities in Melhinder. At least those who would not cause him trouble. He wanted it to look as if life was continuing as before. A complicated matter, considering civilians are hanged in the town square without bothering to set up a sham trial to determine whether they really are ‘enemies of the nation.’ It’s a good thing no one asks the mayor anything anymore, because he’d surely make some joke about how, once they’re hanged, they don’t seem very friendly to the nation anyway.

With all that said, Gideon did what he had to do, and he has almost no regrets.

Almost.

There was one case that left a bitter taste in his mouth, a piece of paper that he found harder to sign than the rest: the arrest warrant for the Hansens.

The mayor wouldn’t go so far as to call Mr Hansen his friend, but perhaps... a good acquaintance. Yes, that sounded about right to him. Gideon couldn’t explain why he was somewhat fond of the man. Perhaps it was because they had attended university around the same time, or because, during the few months following the occupation, Harry Hansen was practically the only person who continued treating him as if nothing had changed: little conversation and a poker face. He was a man rather like Gideon himself: elegant, cautious, reserved, and, at times, revealing a cynical sense of humour. Great company, if you ask Gideon. But again, thank the gods nobody asks him anything anymore.

It happened four years ago. General Martin had been in power less than half a year and did not seem interested in the influential families at all. This could be because they had already wiped out more than half of them: dynasties of Seers, other magical people, and a few that simply did not support the new government. The ones left were those with powers the regime found useful.

The families that remained, the high-born ones, were too afraid to show anything other than absolute loyalty, and truthfully, they were quite useless. Most had businesses inherited from previous generations, inherited mansions, and household staff paid with inherited money. But for all their uselessness, they were all that remained of the upper echelons of society, and even in absolute submission, allies are valuable. Eliminating one seemed foolish. Especially one as important ally as the Hansens.

They belonged to one of the most influential lineages in the country. They were royalty. Well, they would have been if the monarchy hadn’t fell centuries ago in Melhinder. Not that it meant much now, except that their ancestors were the only distant relatives of the last monarch who survived the Magical Revolution. There are no legal noble titles anymore, but people like to remember what they could have been and occasionally use their lost titles. Except for Mr. Hansen, who would not enjoy being called Your Majesty. Though Gideon doubted he enjoyed anything at all.

Still, the high-born families treated him almost like a king, listening reverently to the rare opinions he voiced.

And Mr. Hansen wasn’t merely submissive to the regime, like other men whose fear could be sensed from miles away. No, Gideon would even say he was sympathetic to the occupation. They never discussed politics openly, but when Hansen went to the town hall to sign permits and then they went for a drink after, he ended up expressing, throught short, enigmatic phrases, how little he cared about politics as long as there were profits to be made. And, oh, the gods know how much money they were all making.

That’s why he was so surprised when, one winter afternoon, a captain showed up with an arrest warrant for him to sign.

Gideon Ember always read the warrants. People asumes he did it out of curiosity, but the mayor truly wanted to know who his signature was going to kill. If he could do nothing else, at least he would know. And he would count. And he would remember it. And that afternoon, prepared only to read and count and remember, he suddenly spoke.

“The Hansen family?” he said as flatly as possible, trying not to reveal any emotion he might still have left. The man in front of him ignored the question. Gideon knew him. One of Martin’s closest men.

“Sign, Mayor”

“Why them?” Gideon didn’t know what strange courage had taken hold of him that day. He wanted it to stop.

The captain, Norman, studied him for a moment before speaking.

“They’re not safe, Mayor. They are a target for the rebels. The arrest is to protect them.”

“A target? Why would they be a target?”

“Our informants claim the rebels believe Mr and Mrs Hansen are hiding one of their own... one of those Seers.” Norman spoke the word with a mix of exasperation and disgust.

“That’s a very strange accusation.”

“We live in a very strange world,” Norman replied, with an humourless smile.

Gideon looked at the order: Mr, Mrs and Miss Hansen.

“Are they targeting their daughter too?”

The smile on the captain’s face widened into something genuine. He was having a great time. Gideon discovered that he still could hold a new feeling: the urge to punch someone’s face.

“Yes, sir. She’s the alleged Seer.”

“That can’t be true.”

But could it?

The mayor had never met the Hansens’ daughter. He doubted anyone outside the castle had. When someone asked when they would have the pleasure of meeting the heiress, Harry Hansen would simply state that his daughter would appear when she had to marry. Not before.

Gideon knew only one thing about the girl: she was the same age as his own son. He learned it on a curious day when he told Mr. Hansen he had to leave early for his son’s nineteenth birthday. Mr. Hansen had almost smiled and mentioned that his daughter was the same age. Gideon would say that was strange, if only someone would ask him for once! If the girl’s sole purpose was marriage, the family would have presented her in society at her eighteenth birthday, as was customary for young women of high status.

But that could mean many things, Gideon thought, like the girl being in poor health or having awful teeth. She didn’t have to be a Seer. She couldn’t be one.

“We know that’s not true,” Norman went on, “which is why we are taking them to a safe place.”

Gideon didin’t understand the feeling in his gut. They were going to protect them from stupid accusations and rebels. And although signing an arrest warrant for people who would go voluntarily seemed excessive, the new government was obsessed with paperwork. Gideon had signed more documents in those months than in his entire career. General Martin must have liked the illusion of legitimacy. Signatures on papers validate men in strange ways, Gideon thinks.

But still... he felt a twinge in his gut. Nothing common and nothing that made sense.

“Er...”

“Sign,” Captain Norman said, in a much more serious tone.

So Gideon signed.

It was as the captain was leaving the room that Gideon Ember dared to speak again.

“I really don’t think Harry Hansen is hiding anything, by the way. He has always seemed very adept at your ideas.” Our ideas, he corrected himself mentally, although he did not bother to correct himself aloud. No one cared what his ideas were because he didn’t have enough willpower to do anything with them.

“And may the gods bless him if not.” The captain smiled, viperishly, like someone who knows he holds the power. And with that, he left, closing the door behind him.

The thing is, Gideon heard nothing more. Months went by, years went by, and there was no trial, no public execution, no paperwork to sign to bury bodies. Nothing. So they must have been safe, right? The rebels’ accusations were unfounded. The Hansens must be somewhere on the coast, far from danger and from the criticisms of Gideon’s wife and her tea‑drinking friends about Mrs Hansen’s hideous hats. That was the logical conclusion.

But Gideon wants to be sure. He wants to know whether the ache in his stomach means anything, whether he must count three more bodies, and remember three more names. But he is a man guided by common sense, and common sense doesn’t ask questions.

When he arrives home in the afternoon, his wife is in the living room having tea and chatting with two women: old Mrs Dickinson, their neighbour, and their future daughter-in-law, Violet. He doesn’t greet them, but the younger woman waves at him politely while his wife and Mrs Dickinson discuss something enthusiastically. Gideon goes to the corner, sits in his armchair with a drink and listens to the murmur in the background.

“How can you not know what I’m talking about?” the older woman asks.

“I’m sorry, dear, but I’ve never heard of anyone called Godot,” his wife replies.

“Oh, but he’s not a person, he’s a myth,” the young Violet gently corrects.

“A myth?”

“Yes, I heard about it at university. If you leave a letter for Godot with a question on your roof, he’ll leave you a note the next day asking for a small secret. The good thing is that you don’t even have to think of one, he asks whatever he wants to know and if you reply, three days later he leaves the answer to your question.”

“My dear Violet, who is going to believe that?”

“But it’s real, I promise you, it’s not a myth at all!” Mrs. Dickinson insists.

“Really?” the young woman asks, eyes wide.

“Yes, yes! Mrs Thomas told me yesterday that Godot replied to her himself.”

“How’s that?” His wife asks, clearly uninterested.

“Apparently, she had heard of this mysterious Godot and had thought it was terribly silly. But one night, she realized a necklace she’d inherited from her mother was missing from her jewellery box. Very precious and sentimental. She searched the whole house and couldn’t find it. In desperation, she wrote a letter to Godot asking about the fate of the necklace and left it on the roof.”

“Did Mrs Thomas really go up onto her roof to leave a letter?” Gideon’s wife asks, amused.

“Well, she ordered a maid to climb the ladder while she kept watch.”

“That sounds more like her.”

“The next day the letter was one, replaced with a note”

“What was the question?” Violet urges

“Mrs Thomas wasn’t very specific about what the letter said, that Godot wanted to know where one of her workers lives or something like that.”

“And why would this Godot want to know where a worker lives?” his wife questions, incredulous.

“Who cares! The important part is that she answered, and three days later a new note appeared. It said that the necklace was under the seat of one of their cars. And sure enough, there it was.”

“That’s amazing! So he does exist!” Violet says.

His wife shakes her head. “It’s still just a legend, dear.”

“Do you think I’m lying?” Mrs Dickinson asks, very offended.

“Of course not. What I think is that Mrs Thomas is very old and imaginative. Even if the story is true, what she needs is new employees who won’t touch her jewellery. And a better security system, because it’s worrying.”

Gideon observes the scene with quiet pride. His wife is very intelligent, she always has been, far more than him. It’s a shame she doesn’t even look at him.

Later that night, lying on his bed, he thinks about the legend. And yes, Gideon is a man guided by common sense, but everyone has a moment of weakness. So, unseen by anyone , he climbs onto his roof and leaves a brief letter.

Dear Godot.

Where is Harry Hansen?

The next day passes frantically and suddenly it is night again, and again Gideon is climbing up to his roof, almost praying to no one knows whom to find a note.

And there it is, indeed.

He opens it, ready to answer any absurd question it might asks, and reads.

You’ll meet him when you rot underground, Mr Mayor.

He doesn’t even stop to think about the meaning before laughing out loud for the first time in years.

Wow, not even myths are willing to ask him anything anymore.