“The old writs were outlawed because their magic recognised a hand, but never troubled itself with the will behind it.”
— Chief Jurist Adérónkẹ́, from the Proceedings of the Service Writ Prohibition
Omotoyosi bought a meat pie because she was hungry.
She had been hungry when she first considered using the forbidden writ, and she was still hungry after deciding to do it. The pastry improved the first problem. It did nothing for the second.
She could still remember being entrusted with her first Guild recruitment assignment, when earning a person’s confidence had seemed as important as identifying their talent.
She knew what an old service writ did. A touch made its target a Guild member for three months, whether they consented or not.
They were banned.
And she’d brought two.
Golden Baobab hadn’t authorised either of them.
The thought should have ended the plan.
Instead, she found herself walking towards the Festival’s administrative pavilion while imagining the Guild’s green-and-gold emblem beside a famous royal name.
A craftsman near the courtyard was demonstrating a wooden animal that moved in response to carefully directed Chi. Children applauded as its head turned. At the next stall, an engineer was trying to silence a mechanical bird that had learned an embarrassing phrase.
The bird repeated it.
The audience roared with laughter.
Omotoyosi ordinarily would have stopped to investigate a machine capable of humiliating its creator. Golden Baobab could use an inventive craftsperson.
Today she passed without slowing.
The administrative hall occupied an old stone building beside the square. Officials sat behind tables crowded with ledgers, registration papers and Chi-powered identity readers. Participants came and went, some escorted by relatives, others trying to find the correct ceremony group.
Omotoyosi watched the clerks work.
A father argued that his daughter belonged in another section. A messenger hurried through the room with several folders. At a side desk, an attendant was being directed towards a separate office to resolve an access question.
Useful.
She approached a clerk.
“Excuse me. I have a question about the arrangements for important guests.”
“Which guests?”
“The important ones.”
He stared.
“Royal visitors,” she clarified.
“Are you attached to a visiting household?”
“Not directly.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t disclose their movements.”
“Of course. I’d be disappointed if you did.”
The clerk relaxed slightly.
“Suppose an escort has a problem with authorisation for the reserved gallery,” she continued. “Who corrects it?”
“Access matters go through the eastern desk.”
“Even when the participant’s own registration is valid?”
“Yes. An escort’s pass can be checked separately.”
“An excellent system.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Hopefully not.”
The clerk looked unconvinced.
Omotoyosi thanked him and moved away before he could ask for a name.
She already knew the broad structure of Festival administration. Golden Baobab sent recruiters every year. What she needed was the precise desk, a plausible delay and enough real procedure to prevent her false request from sounding entirely invented.
By the time she left, she had all three.
The ease of it should have worried her.
She bought another pastry instead.
* * *
The costume merchant did not want to rent Omotoyosi his changing room.
Then she complimented the quality of his embroidery. He softened. She purchased a length of fabric. He softened considerably. When she offered to recommend the stall to visiting Guild representatives, he agreed.
“Don’t disturb anything,” he warned.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Once alone, Omotoyosi replaced her green scarf with a modest outfit resembling those worn by temporary Festival assistants. A plain sash completed the effect. She checked herself in a polished mirror.
Efficient. Harmless. Entirely official.
“Disturbing,” she murmured.
She opened her bag.
Inside the narrow protective case lay two surviving service writs, pale and almost delicate. Their hidden patterns emerged under the changing light, revealing an old Chi-binding structure that had once made such documents valuable to powerful organisations.
An ordinary contract required agreement. A forbidden writ needed only direct contact with its activation space. Its magic identified the person who touched it and registered three months of genuine Guild membership.
One touch would be enough. Whatever followed would be difficult to undo.
Omotoyosi laid the first document beneath a sheet resembling a routine confirmation form. The marked area remained accessible through the opening she had prepared.
She stood back.
It looked convincing.
She pictured the prince discovering that Golden Baobab had enrolled him without permission.
He might challenge her conduct. He might bring her before the authorities. None of it would necessarily release him before the three months ended.
Golden Baobab would become famous for all the wrong reasons.
Omotoyosi considered putting the writ away.
She could return to the prince honestly, name her Guild and explain what its hunters actually did. He might be interested in its contracts, or he might refuse.
She stared at the blank space on the form where his choice should have been recorded.
She put the sheet away. Then, after a moment, she took it out again.
She thought of the older hunters who had once made Golden Baobab famous. Of the contracts the Guild still completed without applause. Of the young visitors who looked at its emblem and asked whether it was still relevant.
She wanted one recruit capable of changing all that.
She began to tell herself that a short period of enforced service might prove the Guild’s worth. Once the prince saw what Golden Baobab offered, perhaps he would choose to stay willingly.
She’d stopped believing the excuse before she’d finished making it.
She stood with the paper in her hands.
Then she slid the prepared form into a folder and closed the protective case around the unused writ.
“One chance,” she whispered.
The room seemed very quiet.
She slipped the folder beneath her arm.
She could still turn back. Her feet took her towards the courtyard.
* * *
The prince was watching a swordsmanship demonstration when Omotoyosi returned to the courtyard.
Two young practitioners were sparring inside a circle marked by wooden posts. One relied on careful timing; the other attacked with tremendous enthusiasm and very little patience.
The first turned aside a hurried strike and tapped his opponent’s shoulder.
The audience applauded.
“Again!” the defeated youth demanded.
“That’s the fourth time,” his opponent answered.
“And I’ll say it a fifth.”
The prince laughed.
“Determined fellow.”
Beside him, Bámidélé watched the boy’s stance.
“His right side remains exposed, Your Highness.”
“True.”
“He cannot recover his footing quickly enough after attacking.”
“Also true.”
“Then he ought to correct the mistake before challenging his opponent again.”
The prince considered the matter.
“Perhaps he knows.”
Bámidélé turned.
“Your Highness?”
“He knows,” the prince said. “Look at his face. He’s just too angry to stop.”
“Fair enough.”
“Besides, he’s enjoying himself.”
The defeated youth had just requested another round.
“Very much, apparently.”
Omotoyosi passed the edge of the gathering wearing her temporary administrative disguise. The prince barely looked at her.
Good.
A Festival messenger approached Bámidélé, his expression apologetic.
“Sir? Are you accompanying the royal guest?”
“Yes.”
“The office needs to confirm your access authorisation for the reserved gallery.”
Bámidélé frowned.
“Has something changed?”
“I’m told the eastern desk has identified a discrepancy.”
“Which officer requested the check?”
“The clerk responsible for escort verification, sir.”
Bámidélé glanced at his prince.
“Your Highness, I should resolve this before the ceremony.”
“Then go.”
“I would rather not leave you unattended.”
The prince indicated the crowd.
“There are marshals within sight. I’ll remain in the courtyard.”
“Your Highness—”
“I can endure a few minutes without supervision, Bámidélé.”
“You have a remarkable ability to make those minutes expensive.” Visit g.com for the full chapter.
The prince laughed.
“I promise not to purchase another puzzle.”
Bámidélé still looked unconvinced.
Omotoyosi waited without intervening. If she hurried him, she would draw attention to the request. A dutiful attendant deserved time to make the decision he thought best.
At last he bowed.
“Please remain here.”
“I shall be a model of restraint.”
Bámidélé gave him one final sceptical look before following the messenger.
Omotoyosi watched them disappear along the avenue.
The messenger was genuine. The discrepancy was not. Bámidélé was being sent to resolve a problem she had invented.
That distinction troubled her briefly.
Then she straightened her collar and approached the prince.
* * *
“Your Highness?”
The prince turned. He examined the woman approaching him. Something about her seemed faintly familiar. Perhaps the face. Perhaps the eyes. She stopped at a respectful distance and bowed.
“Apologies for the interruption. I’m assisting with Festival registration matters.”
He looked at the folder beneath her arm.
“Another registration issue?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“A remarkable number of people seem concerned about my paperwork today.”
Omotoyosi offered a sympathetic expression.
“Festival administration is a demanding responsibility.”
“So I’m discovering.”
She opened the folder.
“Your escort has been asked to confirm an access discrepancy. While that is being resolved, I require a small verification from you.”
The prince glanced towards the eastern administrative hall.
“Couldn’t he handle both?”
“Ordinarily, yes. However, the participant confirmation must come from the individual concerned.”
“Must it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He studied her. Omotoyosi maintained her professional expression.
“It’s a routine matter,” she continued. “We need to ensure that the access record corresponds to the correct participant before the closing ceremony.”
Omotoyosi held the folder still. The copied seal was slightly crooked; she hoped he had never seen a genuine one closely enough to notice.
The prince accepted the folder. He examined the visible document. Omotoyosi watched him read. One line. Another. He paused.
“Why does the verification form lack an official registration number?”
Her rehearsed explanation deserted her for one humiliating second.
“Temporary copies aren’t issued permanent numbers until they’re entered into the final ledger,” Omotoyosi replied.
He looked up.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
He continued reading. Omotoyosi resisted the temptation to speak. Unfortunately, cooperation had not made him incurious.
“Who authorised this?” he asked.
“The Festival’s administrative office.”
“Which officer?”
Omotoyosi supplied the name of the supervising clerk responsible for that section. A real clerk. A real office. And an entirely fabricated request. The prince nodded thoughtfully. He returned the document.
“Very well. I’ll have my attendant confirm it when he returns.”
Omotoyosi’s heart sank. That wouldn’t do. She gave him a patient smile.
“Of course, Your Highness. Though the identity verification itself requires your touch.”
“Why?”
“Because the record concerns you.”
“A reasonable explanation,” he said. “But not a particularly informative one.”
He was smiling again, as he had over the wooden puzzle. Omotoyosi kept her expression calm, but reached for the thread of Chi gathering at her fingertips.
Modulation touched the caution already stirring in him. It could not create trust or force an answer; his Chi resisted, and sweat gathered beneath her collar. She pressed gently, reducing the urgency of his doubts without removing them. Even that much was an intrusion.
She eased the pressure before he could notice her effort. The prince glanced towards the swordsmanship demonstration, where another cheer had risen.
“Very well,” he said at last. “Show me.”
Omotoyosi kept her relief hidden. She placed the folder on a narrow standing table beneath the courtyard awning and turned the document towards him.
“Just here, Your Highness.”
She indicated the small exposed space near its lower edge.
“A fingertip will suffice.”
He approached and examined the form. His hand hovered above the page for one last moment. Then, with the casual impatience of someone completing an unnecessary chore, he pressed his finger against the marked space. The document awakened.