“Tell me what you want from life.”
She took a deep breath, “I don’t really know. I’ve spent a long time thinking about what I would tell you.” She paused, “Maybe a gardener?” Her teeth nibbled at her lower lip, “Just a hobby, nothing I’m really invested in.”
“Interesting.” He dipped her right hand into a bowl of pale, viscous fluid. Her skin hardened; losing its color at places while growing darker at others.
“Am I gardening a lot?”
He repeated the process with the left hand, and set aside the bowl. “How has your education progressed?”
“I know my letters and numbers. I know enough Leryn to get by, but not much beyond that.”
“Any knowledge of the stars?” He began rubbing a balm into her arms.
“No.”
“Good with your hands?”
“Not especially.”
Fat pulled taut around her cording muscle, a writhing mass that bunched and stretched. He waited as she gasped from the pain. “Do you play any instruments?”
The young woman blinked as he applied a second dose to her arms, “I don’t understand.”
He met her eyes, pausing in his work, “Are you musically inclined?” He enunciated with a very mild patience.
She shrugged.
“Do you ever find yourself singing?”
“Why would I need this much muscle to sing?” Her exasperation showed plainly on her face.
“Drink this.” He handed her a small vial.
She eyed it, “And this will make me a gardener?”
He didn’t bother replying. Her body had already begun to change. Her sharp blue eyes had a duller cast. A rich mane of auburn hair had become a wispy halo of brittle brown. Her breasts were smaller, her face gaunt, and a lean sheath of muscle stood out sharply beneath clothes that no longer flattered her figure.
There were no mirrors in the Craftsman’s office.
She put the vial to her lips, winced at the taste, and he helped her stand. “Don’t do anything strenuous for a day. Your training will begin in a week.”
“My training?” Her eyes clouded.
“Yes.”
“For what?” She struggled to remain awake.
He opened the door, and two men walked in, taking her arms and walking her out. “For life as a warrior. Soldier or mercenary – time will tell.”
Her new muscles rippled beneath her skin, and the two men strained to keep her moving.
“Just think,” the Craftsman commented blandly, minutely adjusting his spectacles, “In twenty years you might get a chance to plant that garden of yours.” He shrugged, “If you survive.”
She lost the last of her consciousness, and was carried out.
“Bring in the next, please.” The Craftsman turned back to his table.
*
“Ambitions?” The Craftsman glanced over his next soul.
The boy shook his head, “No, sir.”
“And how is your education progressing?”
“Well enough, I suppose.” The boy shifted his weight, trying to find a comfortable seat on the hard wood of the table.
“History? Philosophy?”
“I liked my numbers best.”
The Craftsman nodded, tapped his chin, and chose a vial, “Drink this.”
A pause, “What will it make me?”
“Drink it, child. The world won’t make itself.”
The potion, a swirling yellow and white, slid across the tongue and down the throat. “It tastes horrible,” the boy’s face twisted in disgust.
“Most do,” a thin smile crossed the Craftsman’s face. Briefly. “You’ll be a drunk. A violent one.”
The boy tried to stand up, but slumped to the ground instead. His eyes had already begun to close. The Craftsman knocked on his own door, and the two men came in to collect the boy. “There is a strong likelihood that you’ll kill your wife and children someday, flee to the coast, and there be caught and hanged.”
The men left, carrying the child between them. “Every society requires a few tragedies, I’m afraid. It’s expected.” The Craftsman yawned, “The next, please.”
*
“I’m good around animals. Wouldn’t mind husbandry of any sort.” The young man grinned, “I know that this sort of thing doesn’t work in specifics.”
“Of course not.” A dry agreement.
“I speak three languages. Paint. Sketch. I have quite a nice voice,” he smiled, “Everyone says.”
“Dip your hand into this bowl, please.”
“I’ve dabbled in the celestial sciences. I know most of the constellations, but haven’t quite got the knack for navigation, yet.”
“It gets easier with practice,” the Craftsman watched as the man’s fingers grew thin and delicate.
“I imagine so.” The soul watched the transformation closely. “That is incredible! Where do you learn to do that?”
“That is a state secret, I’m afraid.”
“I heard that in Leria there is a craftsman for every town. More than one for the cities.”
“A lot of strange things happen in Leria.” He knelt, adjusted his spectacles, then rubbed a paste onto the young man’s legs.
The clear definition of muscle receded, leaving a gentle curve. The coarse hair along his thigh and calf turned several shades lighter, bending to a nearly transparent blonde. “The minute detail of all this is so far beyond me.” The young man’s voice was thick with awe.
“Mmm.” The Craftsman stood, putting the paste aside and carefully handed a leaf to the soul on his table. “Rub this on your genitals.”
He blinked, “Ru…I…On my what?”
A finger pointed between his legs.
“Oh.” He cleared his throat as he put the leaf down his pants.
A vial perched between two fingers as he watched with a clinical detachment. “You needn’t be so gentle. Do it quickly and be done with it.”
“Yes, sir.” His teeth were clenched. “It stings quite a bit. Is that normal?”
“Quite. Put the leaf down next to you, please.” A pause. “Good. Drink this.”
Relief was plain on the young man’s face as he lay the leaf aside and gulped down the liquid in the vial. “What will I be?”
“A homosexual.”
He blinked. “Oh.” A small push moved him further from the leaf sitting next to him on the table. “Anything else?” Hope and confusion fought to be the clearest emotion.
“Many things, I suppose. But you won’t be known for them.” The Craftsman picked the leaf up with tweezers and threw it in a small bucket nearly filled with empty vials and used materials.
“Why?”
“A certain number are expected to exist.”
The young man flushed, “And that’s all? Nothing more than that?”
A knock on the door, and the two men came in, “We all have quotas to fill.”
*
A woman walked in. Brilliant eyes, hair that framed her face and flowed over her shoulders. A figure both sinuous and full, with skin soft and healthy.
She smiled at the Craftsman and he offered a bored nod in return.
“You can leave.”
Her smile faltered, “I beg your pardon?”
“You can go.”
“But,” she seemed to have trouble breathing, “Who will tell me what I am?”
“You’re a beautiful woman.” The Craftsman explained in a patient tone saturated with his impatience.
“Thank you.” She smiled.
“The door is behind you.”
Her smile disappeared again, “But…”
“There is nothing else here for you. I could make you ugly, but it’s quite a lot of work, and I’ve already filled my quota. I could make you a mother, but your hips would be a horrendous waste of my supplies and besides -” He glanced at her significantly, “I’ve filled my quota. I have a few slots of whore left. Would that suit you?”
“Of course not!”
“Then don’t bother complaining. There are worse identities than beauty. You can be smart, stupid, gifted, or dull, and it all will be forgiven and forgotten. Your vices and virtues alike attributed as an extension of your attractiveness. Tell yourself that you’re entitled to it, if you want.”
“I wanted to be a court advisor.” Her voice sounded hard, bitter.
“In time, perhaps, you could be a beautiful court advisor. But the beauty will come first, I assure you, and the advice a distant second.”
“Why would you do this to me?”
“I have done nothing to you.” The Craftsman sneered, “We merely become what we are expected to be.”
The door opened.
*
Last soul of the day. An hour’s work. Fifty years of age to the body. A purge for lust, desire, and strong emotion. Many lifetimes’ worth of observation. A paste for the eyes, one that made the soul scream in pain. Spectacles afterwards. Not a vial at the end, but a pint-sized ewer.
The Craftsman looked the soul over when he was finished.
“What am I?”
His thoughts were well-hidden behind the many reflections of his spectacles, “Only we can say.”
*
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