Act One

Prisoner 24601

Dig down, dig down
Don't give 'em no respite
Dig down, dig down
Through sickness and frostbite

"The snow is cold
This weather is too harsh"
Dig down, dig down
That's how it is in Narshe

"I did no wrong!
This torture isn't fair"
Dig down, dig down
And tell someone who cares

"It's been so long
Since I have seen my love"
Dig down, for she's
Forgotten you above

Work in the mines
To purge our crimes
Dig or bust!

Dig down, dig down
Were Espers just may lie
"How long before
This prison makes me die?"

Dig down, dig down
You shouldn't be so brave
Dig down, Dig down
You're digging your own grave

--Convict's Song

Snow on the mountains of Narshe reflected light from the winter morning sun and burned the eyes of those fortunate enough to work on the outside of the mines. Those laborers had the fresh air to console them, at least for today. The majority of those involved in the Esper Mining Project toiled on in the dark, dank, stuffy caverns, sweating from the strain even in the numbing frost, staining the rock red with blood from their worn hands, and regretting every last ounce of the criminal activity that put them there. They were all convicts, traitors to the Empire.

Some were murderers. Some were conspirators. Some were rebels. And Sabin Figaro was a thief.

He was not a young thief. He was not new to captivity. Nineteen years of paying his debt to society had murdered his youth and replaced it with the arms of one who had broken too many rocks, the legs of one who had tried in vain to escape on too many occasions, and the heart of one who had grown to hate the world. And he was one of the ones up for parole.

Most of the workers on the chain gang had no hope of going free in their meager lifetimes. The murders would be there for over two hundred years, the thieves who were not first time offenders wouldn't be out for fifty, and the rebels, by law, could never get out. Sabin's sentence had been only five years for a single burglary, though the law mandated an extra fourteen years for his attempts to escape before his term ended.

Parole meant going back out into the world, but Sabin hardly cared. The closest thing to a glimmer of excitement he had felt in many years was hearing that he would be digging for something other than gold this time. A mystical creature, called an Esper, was rumored to be hidden somewhere in the mountain, and he and the other convicts had the dirty job of digging it up, or at least clearing a tunnel so the Empire's mechanized legions could get to it more easily. The Emperor wanted the Esper, it seemed, and what labor could be cheaper than free, and where else could he get free labor but from convicts? There was always the option of slavery, but that would have been a terrible public relations move. Enough people hated the Empire as it was, and nobody cared at all if a bunch of filthy thieves and murderers wasted their lives and their souls away in a distant cave. Nobody cared when a convict keeled over from exhaustion. Nobody cared when a rat bit one and he died from poison. Nobody outside of the government even cared if they succeeded or failed.

Nobody cared that Sabin would go free that afternoon. He considered it unlikely that anyone would even remember him. Could a life like that, free from captivity though it be, even fairly be called freedom? The perversity of the system was that he'd be in a prison even when he was on parole.

When the sun, unseen by Sabin or any of the others at his side, reached its zenith, a man wearing an Imperial uniform entered the cave. He made his way to the workers, stopping every step of the way to wipe the dust from his crisp, recently pressed blue shirt. Whenever a stray rock hit his helmet, he winced. An Imperial soldier on either side of him kept watch for rats. The man stopped to speak with the foreman.

Sabin could not hear a word the two said to each other, but he still knew what they were talking about. Sure enough, the man took a key from the foreman, approached him, and, as one of the soldiers unlocked the manacles at Sabin's feet, he read from a slip of paper he pulled from his pocket.

"Prisoner 24601, you are hereby to come with me. Walk between the soldiers, and know that there are a dozen more just out side the tunnel in the even that you provoke any violence."

Sabin shrugged and did as he was told. He followed the trio to the entrance. He had to close his eyes when he drew near to the fresh air. Unable to see, he lost his footing a couple of times, and the soldiers had to help him up with the blunt ends of their spears. When he finally made it outside, Sabin allowed his eyes to adjust to the light, and he was able to see the outline of a man dressed even more sharply than the officer sent to fetch him. Behind the well-dressed man there were more soldiers than he cared to count.

The new officer—foe he was certainly an officer of the law—addressed him directly: "Prisoner 24601, your time in custody is up. You are now on parole. Do you know what that means?"

Sabin didn't mean it, but he said anyway, "It means I'm free at last."

The officer sneered. "You are no longer to be put to hard labor, but you are by no means free. I have here your ticket of leave." He took a yellow slip or parchment from a valise and handed it to Sabin. "You must present this as your official identification. It confirms that you are a thief. Law-abiding citizens have the right to know your criminal history at any time you engage in official business, including but not limited to staying at an inn, renting or buying a house, receiving any public service, or petitioning the local or Imperial governments on any matter. You are unfit for polite society, and you must be marked as such."

No expression formed on Sabin's face when he answered bluntly, "I stole only one meal. That is all. I am no threat to anyone."

The officer said, "I have known your kind before. You let a little pang of hunger rule you, and you think you are above the law. I would hope your sentence would have taught you that you are not, but with an attitude like that, you are bound to return. I do hope I am wrong on this matter, but I doubt it. I rarely am."

Sabin betrayed a frown. "My family was starving. I had no choice."

"They will starve again if you do not learn the meaning of living in a society built on a legal foundation."

"Nineteen years of breaking rocks has taught me what good our legal society has done for me."

"Bah," said the officer. "You would have been out much sooner had you only learned your place. Do not come crying to me, Prisoner 24601."

"I am Sabin Figaro! I have a name."

The officer smiled. "As do I. Inspector Leo, at your service. Do not forget that. If you ever violate the law again, I assure you that you will not have the chance to forget it. You're rue it until the day you die."

Sabin gave a cold stare as he allowed the soldiers to lead him back to town. As he did, he wondered how long it would be until the next snow erased his footprints and with them all evidence that he had been working in these mines. And when that happened, would there be evidence that he lived any sort of life at all? Would his sister take him in? Was she even alive? Could everything about him be summed up on a single page of writing?

Sabin folded up his ticked, place it in his pocket, and kicked hard at a bank of snow.