The people of the city have each other. It is the least one can do when dependent on others for food, clothing, and living. That is why the fall of Chapatrueno—kind smith, desperate after his son's death—resounded in every sphere. Hundreds of artisans came to ask for clemency from the Whitecap who dwelled in the magic school tower with a growing population of students seeking, through their knowledge, to be received as mages in many of the small towns now established in the lands adjacent to the cities. There, they would protect the weak and provide life to all the small devices that make existence comfortable in these times. Only the Whitecap was not there.
Judeus Whitecap was the most powerful mage in the entire city. His magical field easily spanned from the outposts to about two kilometers into the coasts of Stormhammer. He worked very hard to recreate tools that facilitate daily life, training students. But for practical purposes, he was a coward—he had been since he was a student. Fearful of expressing opinions, of being something others did not need, of yielding to the pressure of knowing that not only life but the city's status depended on how well you could maintain a uniform, intense field. His master had committed suicide for failing the task—Judeus often forgot that the drugs he consumed and the women he slept with also had to do with it, especially when all this led to the old man's impotence. Now he looks at himself in the mirror for the twentieth time, trying to look serious and composed. Finally, he resigns himself and, with a hand on his beard, goes out to answer the citizens' plea for help.
While listening to them speak, he cannot stop looking at the lamps that, with simple runes, could provide illumination with almost no magic expenditure. The carts had authorized destinations carved into them, making carters unnecessary for transporting goods from ports to various points in the city. With a little panic, he realizes he did not hear anything they told him. Worse, they expect him to dictate the future of a person over whom he has no civil or military authority to judge. So he does what he always does—calls his assistant, a mid-level mage who successfully handles all public relations. "Make sure injustices are prevented." He secludes himself again in the upper part of the tower. By the time he reaches the top floor, he has forgotten the conversations and only thinks of a method of baking bread that does not require firewood.
The assistant knows what to do. He apologizes to all, promises the society of mages will take action and justice will be done. The villagers return to their homes, hoping soon to hear the hammer blows in Chapatrueno's forge. When they leave, the assistant takes a couple of scrolls and brings them directly to the constable. He hands them over with a somewhat haughty gesture—as befits a mage.
"Gentlemen," he tells them, "the great Judeus has learned you have a prisoner here. It goes without saying he can neither be executed nor kept in our lands. It would disturb society. So he sends, with his best regards, some scrolls for exile. The destination is marked there—he will hardly return. Thus, he will live the lawless life he so desires, and we will have fewer problems with people who only seek to annoy."
The constable's smile suggests this is not the first time they have proceeded thus. Apparently, a good number of troublemakers disappeared in the interest of social peace.
At the same time the assistant reaches the white tower's gates, in the prison, the Whitecap's great representative's advice is carried out. Before carrying out the sentence, they give him the day's beating. The dwarf is no longer in a condition to insult or shout. All attacks have been to his soft parts—nothing on his face to prevent people from saying he was mistreated, though it sounds ridiculous they think that would work. His eyes are out of orbit. From his mouth, a trickle of saliva drips to his beard. Only a murmur remains—a small spark of consciousness. Even when thrown into the transporter while the scroll is used to power the machinery, the word "They will die" echoes like a ghost in the room.