Wherever the janitor goes, he finds a mess. In this ancient hospital, everything drips and weeps. Even the stone walls bleed. Thus, the janitor's work is never-ending. He trudges from one sordid task to the next, the creak of his mop-cart following him down the shadowed wards.
Some days he never stops scrubbing. The stains just won’t come out. The House likes to let those sanguinary fluids linger and leech into the stone, until there's nothing to be done about them. This enrages the janitor, for he cannot stand the sight of filth. The House must be clean.
Then there's the rubbish. It's always piling up. Sometimes the rubbish kicks and screams as he drags it to the furnace. But there’s nothing to be done about it. The rubbish must be taken out. The House must be clean.
On the worst days, he deals with the Pests. Every spring they come chittering through the crypts, burrowing beneath the cellars. Glibly, they ply the staff with honeyed words and darling treasures. But the janitor knows better than to listen to their silver-tongue lies. The Pests are insatiable. If left to their own devices, the vermin will eat through the walls. They’ll carry away the sick and leave the wards in ruin.
And so, on a day like this one—when the Pests are particularly rowdy, stirring up trouble in the crypts—the Janitor readies himself for battle. The Pests have sent an emissary to entreat with him. But the janitor is in no mood to parlay.
He reaches into his cart and withdraws an enormous sword. Muttering under his breath, he descends into the crypts.
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