A place for everyone, and everyone in their place. Or else.

- The Titan’s Book of Order, Page 3 Line 5.

Private Marcus Sinnius Orennius sighed as he adjusted the silver tassels on his bright blue uniform. He was proud of the uniform he wore: human soldiers were the line of steel that stood between the Empire of Order and its enemies. If the soldiers failed their duty for even a moment, the very Empire itself might fall. Or at least that’s what the recruiters had told Marcus when he signed up. Mainly the job was paperwork.

Marcus’s patrol had set up a checkpoint on the road leading into a village. The checkpoint consisted of three high tables for the soldiers to stand behind, four filing cabinets, sixteen different stamps, and a demountable office where the patrol’s captain sat and checked the paperwork. Marcus stood behind one of the tables with Sergeant Konal. The sergeant was a plump, bald man, the veteran of a hundred patrols and ten thousand kidney pies.

“Tell me again, Marcus. You saw seven comets falling from the heavens?” Sergeant Konal asked as they waited for carts to arrive.

“Yup.”

“And your grandfather told you it was a sign from the gods that you would be a great hero?”

“Yup.”

“And you were…?”

“Sixteen. I left my parents’ turnip farm and tried to join the Heroes’ Guild. They turned me away but suggested I get some experience in the army. I’ve told you all of this a hundred times, Konal.”

“You never mentioned the turnip farm.”

“I’m sure I did.”

“Never.”

Marcus sighed. His grandfather had told him stories of great heroes who fought through level after level of dungeons, facing fierce minions and fiendish traps to win gold or rescue princesses. Young Marcus hadn’t been interested in treasure or princesses at the time. He had only wanted to hear about the monsters, traps, spells. His grandfather had been an inspiring storyteller, a trait which was much frowned upon in the Empire.

“Your grandfather sounds like a heretic,” Konal said conversationally. “I’m surprised he wasn’t arrested and taken for re-education.”

“He was,” Marcus said, but so softly that Konal didn’t hear. “He escaped. I never saw him after that.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, ‘I never liked his round hat,’ Konal.”

“Oh. Of course not. Proper hats are square, as per regulations.”

Marcus sighed again. He was wasting his time in the army. He had been taught seventeen ways to salute with his sword but only one way of hitting people with it. He’d stamped a lot of paperwork, but the closest he’d come to a fight was when he’d raised his voice to a trader. People still talked about it.

“Don’t you ever get bored of this, Konal?” he asked.

“Of course I get bored, Marcus. Bored means safe. Bored is good.”

“But what do you want to do for the rest of your life?”

“As little as possible.”

“Don’t you want to see a dungeon?”

“No.”

“There might be treasure.”

“There might be snakes.”

A dozen carts trundled up to the checkpoint, and the soldiers moved to inspect them. Each soldier had a role: some inspected the carts’ contents, others their width, color, or the type of oxen pulling it. Konal, as a sergeant, had the important job of checking the paperwork. He delegated this to Marcus.

Marcus saluted the first cart. A plump gnome clutching a file of paperwork hopped down and walked to the table. Gnomes were as small as goblins, but they would not have appreciated the comparison. They had wide smiles and long ears and were in charge of transporting food from the farms, although they were not farmers. That job was left to human landowners who oversaw teams of durbid laborers. The durbids were broad, almost spherical, with wide hands perfect for digging. Although the durbig grew the food, they weren’t considered smart enough to deliver it to the city.

That was the way of the empire: durbids grew the food, gnomes transported it, halflings cooked it, humans ate it, and the titans ruled over all.

“Do you have your form seven-three-aye?” Marcus asked.

The gnome searched through her folders of paperwork. Marcus shifted the shield on his arm. It was a wooden square, painted blue and gold, and grew heavier with every hour. He dared not put it down for fear it might get dusty. His other hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he looked the gnome over. There was nothing unusual about her. She was dressed in the conventional way, dusty breaches and straw hat, and was unarmed. She handed Marcus a form. Marcus glanced at the paper and shook his head.

“This is the wrong form. This is your seven-three-bee,” Marcus said, trying not to sound bored. “This is your approval form to approach the village on the roads. I need to see seven-three-aye, your approval form to enter the village. Check again.”

The Empire of Order had a great many forms. Forms were required to plant apple trees, to harvest the apples, to bring the apples to the city, to sell them, and possibly even to eat them, too, although the soldiers weren’t paid well enough to find out. There was a form to change jobs and another to change haircuts. The carter had a bag filled with documents that it searched through until she found the correct form. Marcus stamped it, the gnome got back on her cart. The long line of carts moved forward by one. A new set of carts arrived shortly afterward, and the process began again.

“The only thing we are protecting the empire from is incorrect paperwork,” Marcus complained after a dozen carts had passed.

“We serve as the mighty titans direct us,” said Konal, who found dogma easier than thinking

Konal had served in the army for thirteen years. He had never seen a titan in all that time, but his loyalty had won him several medals for long service. He wore them with pride on his chest, alongside a ribbon he had been awarded for having a particularly clean helmet. Marcus thought Konal’s career made turnip farming seem exciting.

“Did you ever report those seven comets to the priests?” Konal asked.

“Of course. It took me two years to fill out all the paperwork, and I haven’t heard back from them.”

Konal nodded, unsurprised.

“It is our duty to wait patiently,” he said. “As the titans—”

“Does that gnome seem nervous to you?” Marcus asked.

One of the gnome carters was sweating, although it wasn’t a hot day. Marcus watched as soldiers searched the cart, finding nothing out of the ordinary. He walked over to the carter and saluted. The gnome tried to smile, but his face formed a twisted grimace.

“What’s in the cart?” Marcus asked.

“Um, pears.”

“Really. Can I check?”

The gnome nodded and handed Marcus a document outlining the contents of the cart. Marcus studied the document, which did indeed state the cargo was pears. He pulled a stamp off his belt and stamped the gnomes’ documents. The gnome relaxed as Marcus began to pass the paperwork back but tightened up again as Marcus hesitated.

“Is transporting pears a stressful business?” Marcus asked.

“Um, no?”

“Then is there a reason you’re so nervous? You aren’t trying to smuggle anything into the village, are you?”

“Um, no!” the gnome yelped.

Konal walked up to the cart.

“Marcus, what are you—”

Marcus handed the paperwork to Konal, then leaped up into the cart. He quickly searched through boxes of pears until he found one far heavier than it should be. Inside were not pears, as claimed, but books. Marcus held one up to show the farmer, who froze, terrified.

“You’re nicked,” Marcus said. “Smuggling is a violation of—"

“Marcus, you used the wrong stamp,” Konal said, examining the gnome’s documents.

“Don’t worry about that. This criminal is smuggling—”

“You used the wrong stamp,” Konal said again, his voice weak.

Several soldiers gathered around them to see what the fuss was about. They whispered in shock at the sight of Marcus’s terrible mistake. Marcus jumped off the cart, still holding the book he had found.

“Here comes the captain!” someone warned.

“Attention!” Konal shouted, and every soldier saluted.

The captain marched up to Konal, grabbed the paperwork, examined it, and swore loudly. He held the offending document under Marcus’s nose.

“This is unacceptable! The wrong stamp! Never in all my days as a soldier has such a thing happened. What’s your name, soldier?”

“Marcus Sinnius Orennius, sir, and I—”

“I know that name… wait, are you the same soldier that shouted at the yam trader?”

Marcus hung his head. He was never going to live that down. “Yes, sir.”

“And now going about using the wrong stamps? What’s wrong with you, son?”

“Nothing, sir, the gnome is—"

“It was a rhetorical question!”

“Sorry, sir.”

“What am I going to do with a soldier who can’t be trusted to use the right stamp?” the captain demanded.

“Well—”

“Do you even know what rhetorical means, private? Don’t answer that!” the captain shouted, shaking his head in disgust. “I cannot believe that such a thing could happen on my watch. I’m only three years from retirement, and now this black mark will be on my record forever. I want you out of my sight, gone. I’ve heard rumors of goblins in the mountains. The noble there denies it, but I suddenly feel that I can spare the men to investigate anyway. You leave at dawn.”

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said unhappily.

The captain turned to Konal, who was standing so rigidly at attention that he wasn’t even breathing.

“And you too, sergeant,” the captain snapped. “You can return to this patrol in a month… if you don’t freeze to death. Dismissed!”

The smuggler’s cart was let through. The little gnome nodded to Marcus as he passed, as if in sympathy for the soldier’s plight. Konal waited until the captain was out of sight before glaring at Marcus.

“Thanks a lot, Marcus! The mountains are dangerous; you’re going to get me killed!”

But Marcus wasn’t listening. He picked up the book he’d taken from the smuggler and glanced at the title: The Lore. He hadn’t heard of it.

He stared at the line of carts waiting at the checkpoint and thought about their endless form seven-three-ayes.

Death, by comparison, didn’t seem so bad.