North to Nara: Crimson Sash, #1

One

The posters have been hung up for weeks. And not just around the Commons, either. They’re across the whole city. On buildings, lampposts, and street signs—even on some of the founders’ statues. Impossible to miss. The same kind we see every year. Each promoting Annual Recruitment.

But even though Recruitment is nothing new doesn’t mean Tali and I won’t go anyway. We always do. It’s tradition. Half the province shows up, practically.

Civil servants get to do something important with their lives—really make a difference, Tali says, staring longingly at the poster fastened to the side of the trolley car as it slows to a stop. The caricatures of public workers in their navy-colored uniforms, strong and brimming with patriotism, look back at her, motionless. Somehow, there’s a sense of pride in their inanimate, dark ink eyes.

One year, Tali continues. I’m giving myself one year to try acting after we graduate from the Academy, and if I can’t make it, I’m going to apply for civil service instead.

She sounds a bit fanatical—even to me. Not that I blame her. I also admire the servants. That’s not exactly unique around here, though. Everyone does. Helping the Nation the way they do is considered an honor. Only the best among us are chosen.

I might apply someday, too, I say.

The words come out of my mouth, but to be honest, sometimes I wonder whether I’m good enough to do it. I doubt they’d take me, even if I applied. For one thing, I’m not confident like Tali is. Or daring. Or outspoken. While she’s the one who takes center stage, I’m more the behind-the-scenes type. Besides, we both know I’d make a better scholar than actress any day—a point proven when I was the only Academy student selected for a curator’s internship at the National Museum this summer.

The Commons comes into view through the window. Even from here, I can see how busy it is. A flood of people—some dressed in trim, blue uniforms, others in plain, civilian neutrals—stretches across the Green from the Governor’s Hall to the scaffold. Everyone, spectator and servant alike, is eager to show support for the Nation.

Look at them all, Neve, Tali murmurs as the trolley car glides to a stop. You’d think someone famous was here.

As we step out onto the street, we become absorbed in the crowds making their way around the Commons. Beyond some vendors’ kiosks, schoolchildren playing tag, and sidewalk performers, there are long lines of aspiring civil servants in front of the Governor’s Hall.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many applicants, I say. My messenger bag is heavy, filled with textbooks—Tali insisted on coming directly here after class at the National Academy—and I shift the strap from one shoulder to the other as we push forward. They must’ve come from all over.

She nods. Do you think we’ll see Rafe?

I should’ve figured she’d ask about my brother.

Squinting, I hold my hand to my forehead to shield my eyes from the afternoon sun, and I scan the crowds as best as I can. I can’t find Rafe right now, but he must be around here on a day like today. This is his usual patrol route, after all. Not long ago, he was one of those new recruits, excited to be selected, to sign his own contract of service to the Nation. Laborer, Soldier, Enforcer, Sufferer—it didn’t matter to him how lowly or prestigious the assignment, as long as he was allowed to serve. When Rafe got home that night, dressed in navy, and told us he’d been chosen for Enforcer—a protector of our law—we were so impressed. There will be many more proud parents and little sisters tonight, I think.

Rafe’s probably over by the Governor’s Hall, policing new recruits, I say. I raise my eyebrows as I look at her. Why?

I’m just...wondering.

There’s a mischievous shimmer in Tali’s eyes, though, and by the way her cheeks pick up just a hint of color, I know her interest in my brother’s whereabouts isn’t strictly academic.

You should just tell him you like him, you know. You have my blessing, if that’s what you’re waiting for, I tease, nudging her in the arm with my elbow.

Tali pushes back her hair and shrugs, trying not to give too much away. But I’m not surprised. Despite all her confidence, it’s not the first time I’ve seen her turn speechless and flustered over Rafe. Looking for a distraction, she pauses by a table and examines a stack of pamphlets being handed out by a servant. Five Reasons to Join Civil Service, they read.

Nation first, Tali says, placing her right hand over her heart, in greeting to the man as she picks up a brochure. It’s the usual sign of respect and appreciation we show all servants. Across the Commons, I see at least ten other people smiling while they make the same gesture to navy-clad men and women crossing their paths.

The servant grins back at Tali and also places his hand over his heart. Nation first, he repeats with a nod before we move on.

"So, what are the five reasons to join civil service?" I ask Tali as we wander through the Commons. I can probably name enough benefits to fill the pamphlet on my own—and I’m sure Rafe can rattle off a dozen more than that, even—but it’ll help get her mind off looking for my brother.

Tali flips through the brochure, but as she opens her mouth to tell me, angry shouts—men yelling, fighting—erupt just beyond us. We exchange confused, anxious glances. Annual Recruitment is a National holiday; it’s not exactly a time for brawls and violence.

What’s happening?

Even as I blurt out the question, we’re both pushing through the crowd and standing on tiptoe to see. Not far from us, a man with graying hair and weathered skin has been cornered by a statue of the governor. His eyes are wild and fearful as a gang of three or four people bears down on him.

Please—I’m sorry—I was younger then—I didn’t realize what I was doing— the man gasps.

He raises his arms defensively, trying to protect his face as one of his attackers throws the first punch. That’s when I notice it: a single crimson sash tied around his left upper arm. In the Nation, marks of dishonor are always shown on the left shoulder, honors on the right. This way, we all know at a glance who has been loyal to our country and who hasn’t. He’s a criminal, this man—and, from the color red, it’s clear he’s the worst kind.

He’s a traitor.

You have some nerve, showing your face here at Recruitment, one of the attackers seethes.

Another enters the fray, pushing the man down at the foot of the statue and kicking him in the stomach.

I mean it, though—Nation first— The traitor coughs blood and struggles to stand, only to get immediately kicked down again. Nation first—

You lost your right to say that—you should’ve been expelled.

My heart thunders against my ribs as I watch the group of attackers grow. Four becomes five, then six. It’s savage. Brutal. Cruel. Someone needs to stop this—someone has to help this man. Traitor or not, he’s still a National. Dishonored or not, he’s one of us.

Everything registers with me in flickers, happening so quickly I can barely process it all. Beside me, a young mother scoops up her toddler, nestling him in her shoulder so he won’t see the violent scene. A few feet away, another baby cries, startled by the shouting. I whirl around to search for Tali, but she’s already gone, crossing the Green toward a man in navy—a civil servant. I see her talking hurriedly to him, pointing back in our direction. The servant follows her stare, sees what’s happening, and rushes forward without hesitating. Without thought for himself.

Tali’s back beside me again in a moment, heaving as she tries to catch her breath from running around. He’s going to stop it—he’s going to break up the fight.

I’m not watching her, though. Instead, I’m looking at the servant. Not only is he dressed in navy, but he has four white bands around his right arm. He’s a Sufferer—a highly trained, professional empath. I’ve never seen a Sufferer like him before. Usually they’re wrinkled and old, with wise, haunted eyes. A little creepy, even. Like living ghosts. They’re the kind of people everyone respects, even while keeping their distance.

But not this one. He’s young. There’s something like a lion in him, too—and it’s not just in the ways that are obvious, like his shaggy mane of wavy, dark blond hair. It’s also in how he moves, with long strides and squared-back shoulders—with self-assurance, a sense of determination. It’s captivating, beautiful and predatory at the same time.

That’s enough, he says, separating the men. Six against one—not exactly a fair fight, is it?

Like the traitor under attack, the Sufferer is outnumbered, but he’s strong and calm, and he has the authority of the Nation on his side. Even though he’s not an Enforcer like my brother—he ranks even higher than that—he must be obeyed. Reluctantly, the men back away like children caught red-handed.

But he’s a traitor out in public on a National holiday, one of the attackers argues.

That doesn’t give you an excuse to act like animals, the young man replies, shaking his head. He’s paying for his crimes already with his traitor’s sash. He deserves a second chance.

It’s a daring thing to do, defending a traitor like this—stopping the attack, then speaking these words.

And then the Sufferer does something even more unthinkable.

I watch, amazed, as he hunches over the traitor. He rips some fabric from the sleeve of his jacket, then presses the cloth against a gash along the traitor’s hairline to slow the bleeding.

It’s over, he assures the man quietly. You’re going to be all right.

Other civil servants have taken note of the scene by now, and a pair of medics, with their rolling gurneys and crisp bandages, quickly come to take over care of the traitor. A solemn hush falls across the Commons as the beaten man is wheeled away moments later. I’m sure I’m not the only one wondering if he’ll live or die.

I can’t believe that just happened, I murmur dazedly to Tali. My hands are shaking, and I shove them into my pockets.

Tali gulps down her disbelief and, composed once again, pushes us forward. What I don’t get even more is how that Sufferer could be so kind. Maybe the traitor shouldn’t have been attacked, but he doesn’t exactly deserve sympathy like that, either.

Glancing over my shoulder, back to the statue, I see the young Sufferer still standing around. He’s talking to an Enforcer. It’s Rafe—I can tell by his burly frame and the mess of dark hair atop his head. They speak words I can’t hear, and my brother takes notes on the small screen he’s holding. Nearby, another Enforcer handcuffs the traitor’s attackers and starts walking them across the Green toward the Governor’s Hall. A few bystanders linger to hear their charges, but I don’t care what they are. I still can’t stop looking at the lion on the Green.

I thought he was brave, I whisper.

Two

Every Tuesday after my classes at the National Academy, I have a standing appointment at the Governor’s Hall. I climb the speckled granite steps and enter between the pillars of the grand entryway, then walk through the foyer—past the gilded reliefs of our ancestral founders that hang on the wall, the men and women who renewed our civic pride by leading the Grand Expulsions, when non-Nationals were cast out beyond our borders. I take the elevator to the seventh floor, where the Center for Compassion is located, and I wait in the lobby for my name to be called—for the receptionist, a woman named Isla Pryce, to tell me my suite is ready. For her to say the Sufferer on the other side of the wall is available, prepared to receive my pain from me and exchange it for strength.

I’ve been doing this since I turned fifteen, more than two years ago. It’s a privilege afforded to all Nationals in good standing when we reach maturity—a tradition started after the Expulsions, when the civil services were restructured: Laborers perform works of the body, and Soldiers give of their hearts, with their loyalty and courage. Enforcers, through their knowledge of our laws, offer service of the mind, and Sufferers share their souls.

Today, though, something’s wrong. It’s taking longer than usual for Isla to call my name. I’ve flipped through the magazines on the table beside me twice by now and have reread the plaque that hangs on the wall behind the desk so many times I could recite it on stage if I had to, like an actress. Like Tali.

The Suffering helps build compassion and unity among our people, the plaque says. By transferring pain and sadness into the souls of those with the greatest aptitude for empathy, we ensure the happiness and prosperity of the Columbian Democratic Nation.

Neve Hall?

I stand up when Isla finally calls me. There’s little need for her formality. Isla knows my name, and the lobby is quiet: aside from her, I’m the only one here. The other Sieves—non-Sufferers who transfer pain to the civil servants better able to endure it—have already come and gone from their scheduled appointments. Rules and decorum are important in the Nation, though, so I go to her desk, and we speak in whispers—same as we would if the room was filled with strangers.

There’s been a delay with your appointment, Isla tells me, pointing out what I’ve already managed to determine on my own.

She’s older than I am—around forty, I think, from things I’ve heard her say—but she still looks closer to twenty, with china-smooth skin and not a single white hair. That’s one of the benefits of the Suffering. With little pain or sorrow to tolerate, we Sieves retain our youth longer.

I apologize for the inconvenience, she continues. If you’re able to wait a minute more, I’ll check to see if we can still accommodate you this week.

It’s getting late. Outside the window, dusk is falling. But I nod anyway. I haven’t missed an appointment at the Center since I became eligible for the Suffering. I can’t imagine what it would be like to go a week without it. That’s fine, I agree.

Isla consults the floatscreen in front of her with an air of importance, sliding around data with her sharp, well-manicured fingertip as she works to resolve whatever problem is causing the delay. A minute passes, and she frowns; her lipstick reminds me of blood. Then she nods, reading something on her screen that I can’t see.

Yes, she tells me finally, we can still take you. I’ve assigned you to a new Sufferer moving forward, and he should be able to receive you in a few minutes.

I open my mouth to ask what happened, why my previously assigned empath won’t be accepting my transfers today, or ever again. But my words are cut short by an odd crashing and a series of muffled shouts in one of the adjoining chambers. My body jolts, and I jerk toward the strange sounds. I open my mouth to speak—the questions stacking like bricks in my mind—but Isla’s already on her feet. Standing up from behind her desk, she moves hastily to the right—toward the hallway that leads to the suites where Sufferers and Sieves lie side by side, separated by thin walls, to accept their respective transfers of pain and power.

What’s going on? I manage to choke out.

Nothing, Isla insists.

It’s clearly a lie, though. She raises her arm to bar me from passing into the hall, from seeing what’s happening. My heart beats quicker, with dread and panic. Whatever is wrong and delaying my appointment—whatever messages she’s been fielding on her floatscreen—must be worse than a simple scheduling error.

But—

There’s another thud, and a tortured groan echoes down the hall. It’s like the pain and sorrow of ten people in one single, somber burst. I can’t help but think of a dying animal.

Isla’s eyes flicker with alarm. Wait here. Everything will be all right, she says, her tone firm and commanding, before she rushes around the corner and down the hallway.

I swallow hard, and my hands tremble. I shouldn’t be here right now. I should have rescheduled my appointment, or skipped it altogether. Surely, one extra week without the Suffering won’t be too uncomfortable to endure. I can make it. It’ll be fine. So even though Isla said not to, I glance around the corner to find her—to tell her I’ve decided to leave after all.

As I peer down the hallway, though, I’m paralyzed, rooted to the spot like one of the statues downstairs. What I see doesn’t make sense. Midway down the sterile, stone corridor, two Enforcers—each with three sashes on their right sleeves—are struggling to subdue an elderly man and wrap him in an odd, white tunic. The man is frail and disoriented, with silver hair and liver-spotted skin. Confused and in anguish, he tears at his navy servant’s uniform as he sobs.

Get him out of here immediately, Isla, hands on her hips, barks to the Enforcers. There is still a Sieve waiting in the lobby.

He’s not fit to Suffer anymore—he’ll need to be decommissioned, one of the Enforcers says.

I realize that, Isla snaps. That’s why I’ve already reassigned the Sieve to Micah Ward.

Nodding, the Enforcer redoubles his efforts to contain the old man. He murmurs something to the other servant beside him—an instruction, maybe—and together, they push the man to the floor. One Enforcer pins him down while the other finishes closing up the tunic... Except it’s not simply a tunic, I realize as I watch them work through an intricate system of straps and buckles sewn into it. It’s a straightjacket.

I squirm and sicken. Whatever’s going on seems cruel and heartless—abusive, even. This can’t be right. This can’t be happening. Not at the Center for Compassion. I wish I were like Tali, brave enough to do something to stop this. Even as I struggle to find my courage, though, a door down the hallway opens and another figure steps into the scene. The newcomer is strong and golden-haired, dignified, like a lion. It’s him—the Sufferer from yesterday in the Commons. The one Tali talked to. The one who came to the traitor’s rescue.

Relief washes over me. The Sufferer will stop this, with his peaceful but commanding influence, with his fairness. Of course he’ll help. He has to. He did yesterday for the traitor—and this old man is twice as helpless.

Can I try? he asks as he approaches. He glances from the Enforcers to Isla, who nods eagerly, apparently grateful for the offer of help.

Just like he did in the Commons, he crouches on the ground beside the wailing man. The latter kicks out and shouts profanities, but the Sufferer remains mild-mannered and patient. He grasps the man by the shoulders and looks into his face.

Levi, you’re with friends, he tells the man gently. No one will hurt you. You have my word.

The Sufferer’s composure and reassurance disarms the distraught man. As he stares into the face of the one person here treating him with compassion, a transformation begins in him. His thrashing subsides first. Then, after another moment, his screams fade to whimpers.

You’re safe, Levi, the Sufferer says. His voice is soft and deep and soothing. Something about it makes me think of a dandelion seed carried on a breeze. I feel calmer, too, just hearing him speak.

Another few seconds pass, and the old man quiets further. The tightness in my chest loosens while I look on.

Thank you, Micah, Isla says as the Enforcers help Levi to his feet. They walk the subdued man slowly down the hall in the opposite direction, toward a distant exit I can only imagine exists.

"You will see that he’s well-treated, won’t you?" the Sufferer asks as they watch Levi’s frail figure round a corner and disappear from sight.

Yes, of course, Isla says. There’s no particular kindness in her tone, though, and I have a feeling Micah must doubt her promise as much as I do. Now, there’s still the matter of the Sieve...

She’s talking about me, I realize with panic. Hurriedly, I turn to duck out of the hallway, back into the lobby where she told me to wait. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I see the Sufferer disappear again, through the doorway he’d emerged from shortly before. I barely manage to get back to my seat by the time the rapid clacking of Isla’s stilettos reaches me in the waiting area.

Your Sufferer is ready for you now, Ms. Hall, she tells me when she reaches the threshold.

Isla’s grin is forced, rehearsed and unfeeling. She’s pretending nothing terrible just happened—that an old man wasn’t just brutalized in the hallway—so I have to, too. Politely, I nod and follow her back across the cold, marble floor, its surface like ice.

Here you are, Ms. Hall, and thank you for your patience today, she tells me as she stops in front of one of the doors. I hope you have a restorative session.

I hesitate, my palm on the doorknob. This isn’t my usual suite. Instead, it’s the room adjoining the one Micah went through after helping Levi. I bite my lip nervously.

New Sufferer, new suite, Isla explains.

She doesn’t really