Chapter Two Hundred and Eighty. Indenture.

Chapter Two Hundred and Eighty. Indenture.

"You had a film crew ready?" Bob asked as a microphone was clipped into the collar of his armor.

"I didn't think you'd actually say no," Yorrick replied.

Bob shook his head and sighed, then slid Monroe from his Makres, holding the super-sized floof in his arms as another microphone was clipped to the big Maine-coon's armor.

"Why are we putting a microphone on Monroe?" Bob asked, directing his question to the woman who appeared to be in charge, or at least she was the one directing everyone else.

"Honestly, Bob, can I call you Bob? Monroe has a bigger following than you do, and while you're the one who can speak English, the more we can capture Monroe being adorable, or of you two being adorable together, the better," she replied.

"Ok," Bob said doubtfully.

"Trust the producers' Bob," Yorrick adjusted robes. "I hate wearing these things," he whispered, "why can't I have a staff of office, or a nice amulet, or those insignia your military uses? No, I have to wear hot, restrictive robes."

Bob cocked his head. "Are you telling me you don't have some sort of climate control going? Because honestly it's pretty warm here."

"Well, yes," Yorrick admitted, "but if I didn't they'd be hot, scratchy and restrictive," he grumbled.

"Alright people, we're good for sound, Mr. Wrathsbane, Bob, please remember that we're plain old humans from Earth," she smiled, "we can't keep up with you, so keep things at a nice slow pace for us."

"Where would you like to start?" Yorrick asked.

"Indentures," Bob replied.

"Alright, let's walk and talk then," Yorrick suggested.

It was weird, trying to walk beside Yorrick and pretend that there weren't twenty people around them, operating half a dozen cameras. Yorrick, of course, didn't seem to have any problems with it.

"So, as we've discussed, the societal structure of the Karcerian Empire is one based on personal accountability. Each citizen is required to pay a tax of one mana crystal equal to or greater than their level, per level, each month. That's less than a days delving. Still, occasionally someone is overtaken by events, or they're simply foolish with their spending, and they aren't able to pay their taxes. The Church of Mor'Noctum has a system in place to pay the taxes for their faithful in exchange for a donation of essence, but not everyone is faithful. If you fail to pay your taxes three months in a row, you are subject to indenture."

"Ignoring how ridiculous it is to not be able to pay what seems like a trivial amount, what happens when they are subjected to indenture?" Bob asked.

"Indenture contracts are auctioned off at the beginning of each month," Yorrick replied. "Once the contract has been sold, the indenture is subject to the terms of the contract. It's rare for someone above level ten to be subject to indenture, as over ninety-percent of indentures are pathless."

"Let's back up a second," Bob said. "Let's say that I had arrived in the Karcerian Empire instead of Greenwold. What would have happened to me?"

"You'd probably have ended up at the Warlocks Guild," Yorrick said, "where we would have gotten you into classes and delving." He sighed and waved his hand, "You're a special case. You would have been providing us with valuable information and insights, which we would have payed you for. Still I take your point. If you reach adulthood without establishing a plan for your future, you'll struggle. Our public Dungeons have not, for the past two hundred years, been fully occupied on the first five floors. You might have to work to find a group, but it should be doable."

"Walk me through it," Bob suggested. "I'm fifteen, I've slacked off, my parents have too many kids, I'm suffering teenage angst so we don't get along, and I'm out the door. What do I do?"

"The Emperor ends up taking more than half of the indentures, and at the lowest rates," Yorrick explained. "So it's in your best interest, as an indenture, to make a deal and be indentured just about anywhere else. All of this is taught the year we graduate," he continued as they exited the cramped and humble indenture's quarters. "It's not a secret, and while no one expects it to happen to them, if it does, they know the process."

"What is the average indenture rate?" Bob asked.

"Less than one percent of the population," Yorrick replied. "Over ninety percent of indentures are due to failures to pay their taxes, and the vast majority of those are low levels, who learn from the experience and never go through it again. The other ten percent are criminals, and they represent the higher levels who are indentured. Those contracts are almost exclusively purchased by the Noble Houses who get a bargain compared to what they'd have to pay someone with their skills."

"Which Noble house are we going to visit?" Bob asked.

Bob caught the grimace on Yorrick's face. "House Colvern, the First Council," he replied.

Bob didn't like the idea of Nobility. Inherited power was, in his mind, power unearned. The Nobles in the Empire were required to meet a certain standard to sit on the council and represent their house, but that did not mean it was a meritocracy, it just meant that the Noble scions were carried by competent people who were paid to ensure they were kept whole.

The smarmy asshole who greeted them at the entrance to the House Colvern compound was practically a walking cliche. He looked down his nose at Bob, gave Yorrick a sneer of disdain, and completely ignored the camera crew with the exception of a lecherous leer towards one young woman who looked distinctly uncomfortable as the man, who was easily twice her age, took several seconds to look her up and down.

After imperiously gesturing for them to follow him to the indentures quarters, he strode away, leaving the camera crew scrambling to keep pace.

Bob very deliberately walked more slowly than their escort. "Does that guy not know who you are?" He asked Yorrick quietly.

"He's aware," Yorrick replied.

"I'm kind of surprised you didn't just pimp slap him," Bob admitted, "with the whole Wrath and Pride thing you've got going."

"I own my Wrath and my Pride," Yorrick grinned, "although he does test both."

The man, who had yet to introduce himself, was waiting impatiently at a the door to a long, low building.

The Colvern estate had, thus far, been subtly ostentatious. The buildings were tall, and so heavily windowed that Bob wondered if magic was required to ensure structural stability. The buildings were all multistoried, and seemed almost tower-like, an impression heightened by the walkways that stretched between them.

"This place reminds me of the Warlocks Guild," Bob commented as the man fumed.

"Until a few hundred years ago, the High Seat of the Warlocks Guild had, with few exceptions, been a scion of House Colvern," Yorrick replied. "They stylized their estate to reflect that. Then I came along." He shook his head in mock sadness. "Sadly my successor isn't a Colvern either, so it looks like they're going to end up either restyling, or acknowledging that their chosen architecture is a tribute to past glories."

The man snarled at Yorrick and threw open the doors, stomping into the dimly lit room beyond.

Bob winced as the unpleasant smell of unwashed bodies, and something even more rank that he couldn't quite identify, wafted out of the door.

One of the cameramen gagged.

Yorrick grimaced. "I saved the worst for last," he offered, and then walked through the door.