The heat of the sun beat down on Amerigo as he and the last of the goblins were herded into the training courtyard. The orcs prodded the stragglers with kicks, each one sending a goblin sprawling into the hot ground. But this was nothing new for the prisoners. Every day they were driven out into the courtyard, and every afternoon they were corralled back into the cells. The day’s work was piled on in the opening announcement.

“Welcome to day… uh… twelve of Farmering, a tutorial by our very own Lord Kairon!” the instructor growled, with only a pause to recall what number came after seventeen. “Today you’re plowin’ fields.” He had stooped to pick up a bundle, wrapped in rough canvas and bound with a leather cord. He tossed the heavy package among the crowd of prisoners, who ducked and shied away. It clattered and clinked as it landed.

Amerigo, his attention drawn away for a moment to avoid blunt force trauma from a roll as big as himself and at least twice as heavy, looked back to the instructor. He now had in his hand a bent implement.

“I’ll only be showin’ you this once! Pay attention!” he called over the crowd. Amerigo thought he heard a slight amount of embarrassment in the words. He looked on with the rest as the orc took a wide stance, turning to the side, and held the bent gadget with both hands.

“On your own plots, you’re gonna swing your plow like this. Like you’ve got an axe and you’re trying to split your opponent’s skull while they’re on the ground.” He swung it down over his head, bending at his waist, and the point was buried up to the bend in the hard soil.

“Then, you’re gonna drag it like you want to completely split the poor bastard down the middle.” The earth rose on both sides of the tool as the instructor drew a ragged line towards him. Leaving the thing in the soil, he turned back to them. “When you’ve split that one completely, you’re gonna start again and do another. And another. And when you get all the way across your plot,” and here he pointed at the crowd and swept his arm across them, “do another one right next to it.”

The instructor had easily dug a small trench about seven feet in front of him, but it didn’t give Amerigo much hope that he could do the same.

“You’ve got ‘till sundown! Get a plow and find your plots! Why aren’t you workin’?!” The crowd was whipped into a boil, none of them waiting for incentive from the instructor or the guards. As one, they tore into the wrapped farmering tools. It was a load of blunted broadswords, shortswords, and the like. They hadn’t even gone through the trouble of bending them. Prisoners, now equipped, began to disperse from the parcel, seeking to cordon off a small plot of their own. Amerigo, finally able to pick out something his size, did likewise.

****

The shadows shortened and lengthened as the prisoners toiled. Several backbreaking hours later, the sun was finally half a hand-width from the top of the courtyard wall.

“Inspection time, maggots!” came a cry from their instructor, who was now standing in the center of the yard. That sent everyone, even the stragglers, to their posts. For each of the dozen of them – amongst whom were lizardfolk, goblins, and even a small natural golem – there was a small plot of furrowed land, and each was standing at attention before it. Once in their places, the instructor began walking along the rows. He stopped at the first.

A goblin stood shivering at the corner of his plot, staring blankly ahead, the jerks and twitches which racked his body notwithstanding. The orc spared a brief scan of the goblin itself before turning his attention to the plot of land. Jagged lines zig-zagged the dusty square, all but crossing over one another in their stretch across the plot.

The orc held its hand out to the goblin, who handed over a small metal tool. It looked a cross between a mattock and a dull, bent blade.

Turning it over in his hands, the inspector felt the edge of the tool with a fingernail, scraping dirt off the tarnished metal. He grunted and returned it to the goblin. Its shaking hands almost failed to grasp it before the orc let go, continuing down the line.

Amerigo, standing to attention like the rest, spared a glance at the one plot between him and the inspector. He did not so much as crane his neck as he did slightly turn his whole body. In the weeks of his captivity and forced labor, he was learning where the lines were and how to approach them without crossing a guard.

A lanky lizardman, standing as straight as his curvy spine and neck would allow, appearing more to slump before his plot, hardened imperceptibly as the inspector neared. Amerigo could see his eyes darting about from under his scaly brow. The gaze of inspection passed over him, and then over his plot.

The furrows here looked like narrow trenches, having been gouged deeply and swept clean. There were no rolling curves between the lines. It was flat, small pits in the surface where small stones had been removed, plucked from the ground and the remaining divots ignored.

Despite this, the orc made no comment. He again demanded a tool from the plot owner, and the lizardman complied. This one was more clearly a bent and blunted broadsword, different in make from the goblin’s tool, but similar in form. But this one failed the scratch test.

“No dirt on this blade,” the orc rumbled. The lizardman began to shake almost as much as the goblin before it. “Show me your hands.”

From its sides, the lizardman drew them up, knobby and clawed. The orc took them in his, both in one great big hand of his. He plied the lizardman’s digits and scratched under the fingernails, his face close enough to scratch if the lizardman dared. But it didn’t.

The orc grunted and released him, not satisfied. He frowned at the offending prisoner, even as Amerigo noted the relief welling in the creature in its stance and slight tail flips.

“Now your elbows,” the orc grunted. He didn’t wait for the lizardman to present his elbows, instead grabbing one of the spikes there. Amerigo figured, as did the inspector, that one could be used in the same manner as a plow, and would likely be preferred by the lizardman’s build. The gouges were about the right size.

The lizardman pulled away, giving a startled squawk. It slipped the grasp, but the orc did not try again. He was looking instead at the hand that had gripped the spike.

“Take this one away!” he bellowed to the guards, holding up his hand. Even Amerigo could see the flecks of yellow dirt against the inspector’s palm. “Farmering is about discipline!” the orc roared. “Follow the tutorial, and only the tutorial! Furrows must be made across the plot with your plow! I’ll not be having any of my farmers shirking their instruction!” As the prisoner was seized and dragged away, kicking and shrieking, the inspector wiped his hand on his tunic, the anger fading to mild disgust. Each of the prisoners recoiled from their fellow as he passed them, carried backwards, a guard at both of his arms. The inspector absently chucked the tool onto the dirt of the plot and resumed inspection.

He closed on Amerigo.

The inspector walked casually, as though he had not just ordered a prisoner dragged off, and was soon towering over the gnome. Amerigo had learned by now not to look up at the orc, because otherwise he would start gawping at the huge figure. So, instead, he gazed at the orc’s knee.

He felt the intangible gaze pass over him.

“Why are you all wet?” the orc asked. “Been swimming in the watering tanks?”

He would not even attempt a response, for what good charades would do him here, but Amerigo had maintained the habit of watering himself as when he had been first captured. He found the water tended to film over him, keeping him from drying out. It also seemed to sustain him, which helped considerably, as the prison was rather loose with what they determined served as food.

The line of questioning stopped there, and Amerigo felt some tension ease. He didn’t dare sag or sigh, however. Not yet.

Next was the plot. Where the previous two – and having seen the plots further down the line, it could be said among the rest of the prisoners’ plots – were brown, damp, and furrowed to some extent or another, Amerigo’s plot was green and leafy. In the few weeks since his admittance to the program, he had succeeded at achieving growth in the desert. Granted, they were young plants, and for some of them it was touch and go even with Amerigo’s prowess, but there was something to be said for being the only farmer with sprouts in their plot.

Unfortunately, that something was about to be said by the inspector. Though Amerigo could not see it, a puzzled expression spread over his face.

“You think this is funny?” he said in the quietest voice he’d used all day. He picked Amerigo up by the scruff of his robe and lifted him to eye level. “Are you laughing at me?”

Amerigo hoped silently that he wouldn’t spin in the orc’s grip, as badly as he wanted not to look into those hard eyes.

“Everyone,” he said, addressing the other prisoners, “I want you laugh at this one’s joke here. Go on. I think he’s earned it.”

A few fearfully compliant chuckles came from a few of his peers.

“He’s worked awfully hard to make this whole exercise into a big, funny, old joke,” the orc said with mock compassion, “We’re only covering the basics, and here he is, got things growin’ – growin’ – in his plot already.” He lowered Amerigo to gesture with his free hand at the green plot, and the gnome thought for a blessed moment that the inspector would let him go. But he was jerked back to the orc’s head-height once more. “This little guy thinks he’s something special. He thinks he can stand out and say he’s better than you. Better than me. So go on. Laugh at him.”

More mirthless chuckles came dutifully from the other prisoners.

Without the ceremony afforded the previous two prisoners, he took Amerigo’s plough. It was no larger than an orc machete bent an inch from the hilt and creased along the broad side to form a leading edge. The orc fiddled with it, one-handing the dirt inspection. It was clean.

“No dirt,” he breathed into Amerigo’s face. The gnome felt himself pale, a pit opening up in his stomach. He hadn’t had to water the little plot much. The film had creeped down and over the blade, wetting the soil as he hacked at the ground. And, Amerigo considered ruefully, cleaning the blade as he went.

But no sooner did Amerigo start to wonder what they would do with him, a guard called for the inspector.

“I’m busy!” he growled back, but the runner persisted.

He tossed Amerigo onto his plot, who bounced bodily among the sprouts. His plow landed next to him. His wits returning from the stun of impact, he carefully got to his feet. It wouldn’t do for him to tread on a young plant after he had landed so heavily on so many already. Bent stalks and folded leaves wouldn’t be hard to correct, but replanting one displaced from him sliding over them could be traumatic.

Looking up from his work amongst the greenery, he saw the inspector arguing with the runner, though he was unable to fully hear what was said.

“…full up. No admittance,” the instructor was saying, Amerigo catching mere fragments of dialogue.

“…sent one back, didn’t you?” replied the runner, “…anyway….straight from the top.”

After another moment of standing the sprouts up and mending torn tissue, the inspector was leading another prisoner back along the plots. If Amerigo’s performance had irritated him, this development downright agitated him. This new prisoner being driven before the inspector was another lizardfolk, Amerigo thought. But that wasn’t right. Lizardfolk were taller, with longer arms and legs. They were also green or brown, not this golden color.

The orc didn’t glance at Amerigo as he led the newcomer to the plot beside his, but he caught the eye of this fellow prisoner. In their shared glance, Amerigo saw a spark of energy not present in those of the long-imprisoned. This one was new. And there was something else in their look, like electricity. It felt like a burgeoning sense of purpose had started welling inside him from that look.

The lizard was ordered to pick up the plow and stand at attention. Amerigo had gotten to his feet, returning to his post before the inspector resumed inspection. He passed Amerigo’s plot, affording no attention to the offending greenery or alleged showboating of Amerigo’s plot, instead grumbling over his encounter with the runner. He resumed inspections with even less relish than before, picking up with Amerigo’s other neighbor.

“Psst,” came a sound like a steam leak. “Hey, psst,” it continued, exhibiting a higher vocabulary than your typical steam leak. Amerigo afforded the new prisoner a glance.

“I’m Chicken,” the lizard said. “And I’m getting out of here. Do you want in?”

****

Justafar entered the Town Hall chamber and saluted. “You sent for me, Lord Kairon?”

The chamber was empty of the other orc chieftains. Their typical stations were vacant where they would otherwise be gorging themselves on one of their many lavish meals. Justafar sneered at the image. He was one of them, but he was not like them, though he still reserved a portion of his distaste for himself. He had encountered many of them before, typically before battle. Each one he had considered a hardened warrior, and few of those equals.

Now he considered them soft and unfit to lead.

“Yes,” Kairon said, “thank you for coming.” He made no comment about the salute, as he normally would. His mind was elsewhere. “Before we get down to the business I summoned you for, did you punish the delinquents? The murderers?”

Justafar grunted, “Yes, Lord. They were walked through the street,” and his tone became more sullen as he added, “before being flogged.”

“Good. We can’t go around killing citizens. Old disputes must be handled in new ways, Justafar. We have proper channels now.”

Justafar merely grunted.

“Now the matter at hand,” Kairon said, shifting subjects, “You and Eleruse, I understand, had a daughter?”

“No, my Lord.”

“Really? You didn’t?”

Justafar chafed under the prodding. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Did you or didn’t you?” Kairon asked calmly.

“My Lord, we had a daughter,” Justafar said, “but we did not raise a daughter.”

Kairon noted the conclusion here. “Do go on.”

“My Lord, she was taken from us.”

“Taken by whom? Agents of another tribe?”

He was getting frustrated at this line of questioning. He didn’t want to think about it. It was vulnerability.

“She was taken by the fae, my Lord,” he said in hushed tones. Attendants had ears.

“Taken by the fae? Kidnapped?”

“My Lord, this matter was settled before…”

“Before you came to the city. That is to say, you,” Kairon said with emphasis, “presided over the matter.”

Justafar grunted. He grudgingly added, “My Lord.”

“I think,” he said while clapping once, “the issue needs to be…”

From behind the throne stepped Penelope.

“…reopened,” Kairon concluded.

She looked him in the eyes. “Father,” Penelope said simply.