The sky smelled like spring storming, but a cloud of bone-dry dust marked Ramlin’s progress down the road. It had seeped into his clothes some miles since, fading them; and his rented horse punctuated every fifth step with a discontented huff.

Leading the beast along by the reins so he could feel the ground beneath his boots for once, the traveler didn’t mind the dust. The evening was quiet and wild–dark-cloud skies and a golden sunset–with yellow light  glowing gem-like through the buds of the willow trees. In spite of the journey that sorely needed finishing, Ramlin walked at an unambitious pace, determined to enjoy the fading vignette of perfect beauty.

The horse huffed again, halted, and refused to walk another step. Used to the beast’s protests, Ramlin gave the reins a gentle, almost indecisive, pull. 

“Come on, girl.”

The horse snorted again, tossing her head and stamping. Head up as high as it could go, she stared into the mass of glowing willows with eyes wide and ears sharp as pinpricks.

“Spooking at rabbits now?” Ramlin asked.

By way of reply, she looked at him with something that might have been uncertainty–or scorn. It was hard to tell with horses.

“Nothing to be frightened of, silly goose.” He walked back to her, scratching along the base of her mane. “I’d like to stay here too, but we’ve got a journey to finish and somewhere to be.”

She whuffled, less than convinced.   

Ramlin turned back to plod on–and found himself looking down the barrel of a pistol. 

“Halt, and state your business!” the man behind the pistol said roughly, the somewhat flamboyant mask over his mouth rumpling with the words. Ramlin frowned–first at the mask, then at the man. 

“I’ve already halted, as you may have noticed. And as for my business, it’s none of yours.”

The brigand looked taken aback, but only for a moment. He scowled, cocking back the hammer on the flintlock–in order to be extra threatening, Ramlin guessed.

“Your money–” he began.

“Is not here,” Ramlin finished. “Do you think I’m an idiot, to carry money around on brigand-infested roads?”

With an indignant huff, the man lowered the pistol.   

“You could try to let me finish my sentences. I may be attempting to rob you, but that’s no reason to be rude.”

I’m rude? You’re the one who’s–” Ramlin halted, thinking. “Hold on, there’s a pun in there somewhere. Let me think of it.”

The brigand threw up his hands in a silent plea to the gods, then wandered to the edge of the road and sat down to wait as Ramlin got his words in order. After a minute or so, Ramlin punched the air.

“I’ve got it! You want me to let you finish your sentences? Well, the only sentence you’ll finish is the one that’ll send you to the gallows!”

The man’s shoulders slumped, and he looked at Ramlin with ironically half-lidded eyes.

“Well?”

“Hilarious,” the brigand said in a tone as dry as the road he sat on. He got up, dusting himself off. “Or it might have been, had you thought of it a minute or so ago. It’s not even a real pun.”

“Of course it’s a real pun,” Ramlin drew himself up in defense of his maligned joke. “A pun is when a word meaning one thing is intentionally mistaken for the same word meaning something else.”

The brigand snorted. “Where did you get that information, Kober’s Universal Dictionary of Jokes?”

“Where else? It’s a perfectly respectable resource.”

“It’s a bookful of outdated drabble written by a drunken university professor who never made a joke in his life,” the brigand returned, fishing something out of his coat pocket. He drew out a book–small and worn, but with a perfectly readable title. Ramlin scowled at it.

The Definitive Listing of Humorous Types, by P.J. Dorbel?” he said, feigning disbelief. “That’s nothing but a doorstopper for uneducated peasants.”

“Of course it is. That’s why uneducated peasants always understand jokes so well.” the man flipped through the book’s pages with an officious eye. “Here,” he said, stabbing the page he wanted with a stiff finger. “Pun. Humor type: low. Benefit to joker: high. Consists of mashing the meaning of one word into the form of  another, creating an ironic but accurate marriage of words. Examples: Punny, Momster, CAT-astophe. The joke is not the joke, the joke is the fact that the joke was made. Perhaps one of the most existential forms of humor, the pun–”

“Cease this orgy of utter idiocy!” Ramlin roared, feeling himself red in the face with purest indignation. “Existentialism in puns? In that type, that horrible type of puns no less? You’re mad!”

“Of course existentialism in puns,” the thief replied. “Where else is it to be found?”

“Sarcasm, of course!” Ramlin threw his hands up. “Everyone knows that.”

“Sarcasm is anarchical, not existential. Everyone knows that.

The horse, a creature generally uninterested in both jokes and existentialism, had slowly wandered off. As the debate raged on, she decided to pass the time munching on willow branches–something which she was very interested in. 

But whether or not she was sensible to philosophical debates, the beast did have a sense of danger. She was not entirely certain what this sense was made up of–the faint crackle of leather soles over the dry ground, a nip of gunmetal scent drifting in her nostrils, the sudden quietness of birds. But as it flickered to life in the back of her mind, she ceased her munching, pricked up her ears, and snorted to warn her master of the approaching doom.

Ramlin, however, was now caught up in arguing whether flippancy was a true form of humor or simply–as the brigand put it– ‘the ghost of a dead sense, moaning its end.’ As a result, he did not notice the danger until, looming behind him, it settled the cold barrel of a pistol at the base of his neck.

The brigand, equally blinded by the fervency of his own statements, noticed the danger the same time Ramlin did; and by then it was too late.

There were three of them.  Dressed in faded cloth and leather spattered with the rust of dried blood, these brigands made the first seem like a character from a stage play–and they had surrounded Ramlin and this opponent both. The group was made up of a hulking axe man, a dark-haired, cold-eyed girl in a tricorner hat, and a lanky fellow who refused to move his pistol from the back of Ramlin’s head. This last spoke first, in a low and gravel-tempered tone that seemed the original to the first brigand’s parody. 

“Ah, Nargle,” he addressed the first brigand, whose face had gone white under his mask.  “I’m afraid ‘tis you who are the joke–and not a very funny one, at that.”

“Brinker,” the thief named Nargle said. “This stretch of road belongs to me. We agreed to that. You’ve no right to–”

“No right?”cold incredulity colored Brinker’s words. “Are you the one to instruct me on my rights?”

Nargle shut his jaw tight over whatever he had been intending to say next. Ramlin, in no better position, almost pitied the thief’s predicament–even if he was a detestable believer in P.J. Dorbel’s lies.

“Besides,” the female brigand said amiably, “our agreement only applies if you’re actually robbing people–not if you’re arguing with them about puns.” Her brows lowered over the edge of her mask. “Add that to a list of things I never thought I’d have to say.”

“So we get to rob the both of you!” the axe man said, as though he was announcing that cake and pies were available for everyone after the show. Brinker gave him a humorless look. 

“Thank you, Torsa–I believe that was implied.”

“Oh.” the axe-man wilted. “So can I–”

“By all means, please go ahead.”

Torsa grinned and hefted his weapon, taking a step towards the suddenly dwarfed Nargle. The smaller brigand cried out in protest–as did Ramlin, once he realized what was happening–but the cry was cut short as Torsa brought the base of the axe down on Nargle’s unprotected head.

   “You’re lucky to be alive,” someone remarked, before Nargle was fully certain of the fact that he was alive. He blinked, forcing himself to focus on the waking world.

The willow branches above his head whispered with the wind, slithering out of the night’s blackness like great yellow-orange fingers. They were unsettling. He tried to get up.

“That may not be the best–”

Nargle’s head spun, and he gagged before lying back down again.

“–idea,” the voice finished. “A blow that hard could well have killed you, and I’m afraid you’re not quite up to doing jumping jacks yet.”

The facts were attempting to reconcile themselves to Nargle’s mind. He rubbed a hand absentmindedly over his face, trying to clear the persistent ache, and came to the realization that his mask was gone. Panic spiked in his chest, gaze snapping to the owner of the voice, who was staring curiously at him across a small campfire.

“They stole my horse,” the man Nargle had tried to rob said. “There wasn’t much to do but patch you up and wait for sunrise. We’ll head for town in the morning.” He poked at the fire. “Report the fellows who jumped us.”

Nargle was silent, unable to view the man who’d seen his face and saved his life with anything but trepidation.

Noticing his expression, the man added, “Seeing as you never actually got around to robbing me, I don’t see there’s any need to tell them that bit.”

Nargle let out a tense breath. He didn’t like the idea of hanging any more than the next man.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” the man replied, “not to anyone. A story like that could ruin my reputation.”

Nargle nodded and immediately regretted it, closing his eyes with a groan.

“So. I gather your name is Nargle,” the man said after a moment, extending a hand over the fire. “Mine is Ramlin.”

Nargle raised his brows and shook the proffered hand, then chuckled. “Ramlin, eh?” he asked. “Not a very fortunate name.”

“Why not?” Ramlin looked genuinely curious.

Nargle laughed. Then, realizing laughter hurt, he stopped. “Well, it’s a perfectly fine name–but you just so happen to share it with someone a little less than fine,” he explained. “Some jumped-up government official who’s been threatening to come out of his ivory tower to sort out the provinces–not that he ever will, but the threat’s enough to get him disliked around here.” He grinned, happy to be the expert on local politics for once. Usually it was a subject he would rather avoid.

Ramlin was giving him an odd look, and Nargle tried to reassure him. “You won’t have to worry about that, though. I doubt anyone will mistake you for your namesake.”

The odd expression on Ramlin’s face hadn’t changed. He stared at Nargle for an uncomfortable moment, then looked at the ground with a sort of half-smile. By the time he looked up again, Nargle had almost guessed the truth.

“Well, I’d show you my badge of office, but that was stolen along with everything else, so you’ll just have to take my word…but I am that jumped-up government official. Duly out of my ivory tower.”

He gave the shocked thief a self-deprecating grin, and Nargle squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden worsening of his headache.

Brinker did not particularly mind robbing fellow thieves, or even leaving them for dead on the roadside. He didn’t particularly mind robbing anyone. It was, perhaps, this uncommon lack of conscience that deprived him of seeing the irony in his next words.

“We’ve been robbed!” he announced, looking through yet another package of worthless stolen goods. “Shirtsleeves and old books–nothing of value at all!”

“Well,” Melli, delicately cleaning her fingernails with a penknife, interposed, “Nargle hasn’t had a penny to his name in ages. And the other man did warn us he never carried any money on him.”

“He also said that Kober’s Universal Dictionary of Jokes was a good book,” rumbled Torsa, in the midst of digging through another pack. “I wouldn’t trust anything he said.”

“But it is a–” Brinker began, then halted, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “nevermind, it doesn’t matter. We’ve got to find another mark, preferably a richer one. No more dilly-dallying.”

The three brigands hadn’t bothered to flee all the way back to their hideout, instead rifling through Ramlin’s possessions a mere mile or so down the road. The cover of night, broken only by a lantern or two, seemed sufficient to hide them on the deserted road.

“Yes, that’s precisely what we’ve been doing,” Melli said, “dilly-dallying.”

“We haven’t been dilly-dallying,” Torsa sounded hurt by the suggestion. “We robbed five carriages just this week.”

“Yes, but none of them were carrying anything,” Brinker explained, “nothing of value at all. We need to find someone rich and rob them.

“Oh.”  Mollified, Torsa went back to his pack. 

“Of course, that would be far easier to do if we didn’t waste our time bullying poor saps like Nargle off their territory,” Melli said in a faint sing-song, focusing with abnormal determination on her fingernails. Brinker looked at her narrowly.

“I’m sorry, but are you–” he began, but was interrupted by Torsa throwing something small and hard at his head.

“OW!” he shouted. “What are you trying to do?”

“Sorry. Does that look valuable?”

Brinker scowled at the disc, which had landed in his lap. Soon, the scowl disappeared and he picked the thing up. It was simple enough–a circle of wood, carved in intricate patterns and outfitted to hang medallion-like on a chain. Thoughtfully rubbing a thumb over the engraved letters at the thing’s edge, he met his companion’s curious gazes.

“Torsa,” he said, “this is, quite possibly, the most valuable thing we’ve ever stolen.”

Melli frowned. “Really?”

Brinker held the thing up, and her expression changed. “Is that a seal of office?” she asked. “You just robbed a magistrate?”

Brinker shook his head. “I didn’t rob a magistrate.” He tossed the medallion into the air, catching it again with a devilish grin. “As of right now…I am a magistrate.”

The next morning was beautiful, full of sunshine and birdsong. Nargle resented it. As much as Ramlin insisted that his head hadn’t suffered any permanent damage, it felt as though it had been permanently bruised, and everything from light to noise to the very steps he took seemed to aggravate it. Ramlin was trying to encourage him.

“We’re very nearly to the city.” 

“I don’t even want to go to the city,” groaned Nargle. “I want to lie by the roadside and die.”

“Don’t be melodramatic. Do you want justice or not?”

Nargle halted his stumbling progress to squint at his companion.

“As a matter of fact,” he said petulantly, “I don’t care a fig if I get justice or not. Justice can go to rot and ruin, for all I care. At the moment, I would much rather have a sandwich.”

Ramlin raised his eyebrows. He’d never heard anyone say something so sensible and stupid all at once. He was used to cries for justice, pleas for justice, wailing and weeping to escape justice, but never simple apathy over it. He supposed that he never would hear of it, in his line of work; those sensible, careless people were unlikely to be seen in a justice hall. They were probably all off somewhere else, eating sandwiches–and Ramlin almost wondered if those invisible sandwich-eating hordes were not better off than the rest of humanity.

On the other hand, he had just been robbed, Nargle basted and left for dead. As a response, apathy was comfortable but unwise–the next traveler that Brinker and his brigands left for dead might really end up that way, and that was something that Ramlin, for one, did not care to have perching on his conscience. He grabbed a handful of Nargle’s coat, pulling him in an unwilling jumble of limbs down the road.

“Justice first,” he said, abbreviating the full course of his thoughts into single, assimilable points. “Then sandwiches.”

“Magistrate Ramlin,” a steward announced,  and the  entire court rose as the Magistrate, with all his robes, tried to make his way from the entrance of the town’s tiny justice hall all the way into its uncomfortable seat of justice without tripping. He failed. As the magistrate flopped into his chair with a scowl, the steward cleared his throat and announced the first case. 

“These are the two thieves that attacked you, and almost made off with your identity as well,” he said in the brief and somewhat condescending aside that he often used to announce cases. The magistrate scowled, first at the defendants, then at the steward, with equal dislike.

“You can’t be serious.” This from the first of the two thieves, a dignified-looking man, if a little travel-worn.

“Believe me, he is,” the second of the pair, a shorter, flaxen-colored fellow with a bandage wrapped around his head, replied.

The magistrate flipped his wooden seal of office over his fingers pointedly, then looked down at the two ‘thieves,’ a sharp grin flashing over his face. In spite of tangling robes and condescending stewards, Brinker was determined to enjoy his newfound power to its utmost. He aimed the greater part of his smile towards the real Ramlin, who stared back in useless indignation.

“These are indeed the men who tried to rob me–I was lucky to escape with my life,” he announced. “I’ll require some time to think of a fitting punishment for them. Let them await judgement in prison. Guards! Take them away.”

The justice hall only employed one guard, the same guard they had employed for the past sixty years. He shuffled steadily towards the defendants over the space of a minute, reached them, and then began to lead them away with no great increase of speed, bringing Brinker’s resounding command to a bit of an anticlimax.

“Well, that was a resounding success,” Nargle hissed as they were escorted to prison. “Tell me again why we couldn’t just get sandwiches?”

“Shut up,” Ramlin hissed back.

Ramlin had seen prisons before. He had inspected prisons, discussed prisons, and sent many people to prison. He’d always thought that if there was one thing he understood, it was prisons. As it turned out, they looked a great deal different if you were actually stuck in one.

Nargle had sprawled in relative comfort on the floor, leaning his head against the wall and watching Ramlin through sleepily half-lidded eyes.

“Unless you’re planning of wearing a hole through the floor, pacing isn’t going to help.”

Ramlin, who had only partly realized that he was pacing at all, stopped.

“How can you possibly be sitting still?” he burst out. Nargle shrugged, shutting his eyes.

“I’m used to this,” he said. “Thief, remember? I’ve been to prison before. Feeling trapped is normal–in fact, I think it’s sort of the point.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s only the truth.”

“No, really–hush. Someone’s coming.”

Nargle frowned, opening his eyes. “Who is it?”

The door opened almost as soon as he’d asked. Brinker burst into the room, fluttering his robes like the wings of giant raven, with the girl and the axe-man in reluctant attendance. Unmasked, they all looked a great deal different–almost respectable, if Ramlin hadn’t known better. He scowled at them.

“Come to gloat?” Nargle, still sitting on the floor, asked. “Isn’t that rather bad form?”

Brinker turned from his task of shutting the door with an odd expression.

“Gloat?” he whispered, as though unstrung. “What the hell is there to gloat about?”

Nargle shrugged.

“The usual, I suppose. Your clever victory, deceiving the townspeople, gaining a position of power and prestige while putting both of us under lock and key? It seems like something worth gloating about.”

“Power and prestige?” Brinker choked. “I’ve never been more powerless in my life. I had to dodge six secretaries just to escape the justice hall. Even here, I’m not safe. They’ll find me any second, and then that blasted steward will sneer at me again.” He shivered. “You’re more free than I am.”

“I can assure you, we’re not,” Ramlin put in, but Brinker wasn’t done.

“As for prestige,” he said, “there is none. I had more respect when I was a thief.”

“Are you sure about–” Nargle began.

“The court scribe threw an inkpot at my head!” Brinker hissed, no doubt intending to shock everyone. Perhaps Nargle was shocked; but Ramlin only nodded.

“Yes, they’re prone to do that if you get long-winded,” he said calmly. “It’s a difficult job, and it makes them temperamental.”

Brinker rushed at him, grabbing his cloak in desperation. “You have to help us escape!”

“We… have to help you… escape?” Nargle repeated, looking around the walls of their cell in pointed confusion; but Brinker, as usual, was unaware of the irony. Nargle turned to the other two thieves, who were looking as grim as their superior.

“Yes, escape,” the woman said. “You may be in prison, but I’m in a corset.”

“They took away my axe,” Torsa added, as though this was an offense against dignity to top all others.

Ramlin frowned, conflicted. He didn’t doubt that Brinker was telling the truth. The life of a brigand was a far freer and more interesting one than the life of a magistrate. If Ramlin was telling the truth as well, it was probably a healthier one.

But if magisterial duties were truly so confining, what better prison for a heinous thief?

Finally, he made his decision.

“Very well. I’ll help you escape this–if you give your word that you’ll go on to better things than thieving.”

“Of course. Anything.”

Brinker’s eager tone was not very convincing. Ramlin squinted at him, but there was no going back now.

“All right then, here’s the plan. Tonight, you come to these cells with the key…”

The brigands leaned forward in a small, hopeful huddle as Ramlin explained his plan.

Later that evening…

“This is insane,” Nargle announced, as the jailer’s footsteps made their last rounds about the night-darkened halls. “It’s never going to work.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” restless, Ramlin shifted. “It’s this or everyone gets a life in their own personal jail–not a very long life, in our case.”

“Just because it’s our only option doesn’t mean I can’t criticize its foolishness. You come up with the plans, and I’m supposed to insult them. It’s called teamwork.”

Ramlin snorted.

“Did P.J. Dorbel provide you with that definition?”

“No,” Nargle replied, “life did.”

After another moment of waiting, he added, “Are you sure you can’t just tell everyone about the mix-up, become a magistrate again? You’re a good magistrate. You could help people.”

Ramlin shook his head. “No.”

“Why not? It’s a lot less crazy than what you’re trying to do now.”

“Because everything that Brinker said about that job is true,” Ramlin said, sudden-serious. “It sucks the life out of you. You can’t help anyone, not really. You watch the same old problems resurface every day with new faces, and you know it’s never going to end–until suddenly you’re old and cynical as well as helpless. Occasionally, you get ink-pots thrown at your head. Or old ladies’ mittens…” he stopped a moment, thinking.  “I’ve got to escape, too.”

The words lingered in the dark air for a moment. Then Nargle sighed.

“Right,” he allowed. “But this is still insane.”

Shuffling was heard along the hall, and Torsa attempting a whisper.

“Do you really think we can trust–” his booming baritone began.

“SHHH!” two sibilant voices rejoined, and the attempted whisper fell dead. A key turned in the lock, and the door to their cell slithered open.

“Thought you’d never come.”

“Of course we were coming. I was held up by another secretary–there’s a whole plague of them around here.”

“Right. Just get us out of here.”

Ramlin led the way down the hall. The prison was somewhat less than well-guarded. It was a small provincial jail, after all, meant for drunks and vandals and second-rate thieves. It was relatively easy to get out the front door, and in the nighttime quiet there was no trouble walking across the open village square. When they reached the gate, Ramlin halted.

Brinker looked into the whispering, forested blackness and thought he smelled freedom.

He turned to Ramlin, gratitude watering his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said, handing the seal of office back as though it were something made vile by a witches’ curse. “Take your life back, Magistrate. I’ve no love for it.”

Ramlin looked at the seal, turned it over in his hands–a small, simple thing for all its carvings. “I wouldn’t thank me yet,” he said, almost sorry for what he was about to do. “I’ve learned–you have taught me–that I’ve no love for this life either.” He handed it back. “Keep what you’ve stolen.”

Someone had noticed the prisoner’s absence, and shouting had begun in the town. A flare of torches flickered orange against the city gate. Brinker’s face was white.

“They’re calling for you, magistrate,” Nargle said happily. “Better run back.”

Brinker didn’t mind him, looking instead at Ramlin–the only one present who really understood his terror.

“Please,” Brinker said. “Don’t do this. Take me with you.”

“Magistrate! The magistrate has disappeared!” cried a shrieking voice–the steward’s–and Brinker and Ramlin both flinched at it.

“Find him! Find him!” echoed the secretaries, as red torchlight and a dark-lit swarm of bodies began to fill the square, milling about in search of criminals and Justice alike.

“I’m sorry,” Ramlin said, sincerely.

But sincere or not, sorry wasn’t about to stop him from running.

“There he is! There he is!” the hellish voices cried as the four thieves fled into the forest.

Nargle looked back once. He saw the scribes, the secretaries, and the steward surrounding Brinker with screeches and torchlight. Brinker himself stood statue-still, the seal held tight in his grip like a proclamation of doom–then the lawful horde swallowed him up in its happy embrace, and he was gone.

“Well, that was an adventure,” Melli sighed, once they were well away from the city. “What now?”

They all looked to Ramlin; though it took him a moment to notice. He was their leader now, he realized; as Brinker once had been. He wasn’t the only one to have stolen a life. Perhaps Brinker would make a better magistrate than Ramlin had been; and perhaps, just perhaps, Ramlin would make a better brigand. Nothing had changed, not really; right and wrong were in their proper places, things quite different than lawful and unlawful.

“I think,” he began, “sandwiches.”

Nargle looked at him curiously.

“And justice?”

Ramlin nodded. “That too. But sandwiches first.”

Author’s Note: 

This tale was written in honor of my Dad’s retirement from a job as soul-sucking and unpleasant as a Magistrates’–and subsequent move to something slightly more legal than, though just as adventurous, as brigandry. Love you, Dad!

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