Tearing Down The Statues

by Brian Bennudriti

  Several of them turned their eyes to the landing above and beyond them to a frowning man in a long dark gray peacoat with the old style leather uniform in illuminated malachite bracers and greaves, staring grimly at the assembly a handful of paces away from the blabbering Procedures Master, who was dull and old and uninspiring by comparison.

  Wrinkles whispered back, “That’s the new Chaselord.”

  “Chaselord?! That’s a Red Witch thing. What are we doing with one of those?”

  The mysterious fellow looked like a devil from the shadows, alien and brooding, trolling the anonymous faces which paved the courtyard looking for one whose soul he might swallow.

  “They’re worried we’re infiltrated or compromised.”

  “What if we are? What’s he gonna do about it?” Cope’s whispered tone was urgent, confused. The girl watchman turned subtly back to see his expression, perhaps curious that he knew so little of the consequences of a Chaselord’s appointment. She glanced at Wrinkles and the scarred fellow with raised eyebrows. Their own expressions spoke darkly of what such a man might do.

  “Nothing, Cope. Just don’t attract his attention. Stay away from him; and if he asks you anything, don’t even make jokes. Just be as normal and as professional as you can; and answer only what he asked you. Blend in.”

  “Why? What’s he supposed to do?”

  “Shut up, Cope.”

  Eber’s attention was elsewhere, his eyes still locked on the dais in the area where Stendahl and Peri stood before a backdrop of officers, “Look. I told you. They’re arguing right now. Look.”

  Strangely, and outside expectations for Stendahl, he and Peri were indeed having a discussion of some kind on the landing, only the two of them and in disregard for the challenging and cautious words of the Procedures Master about best practices in urban warfare and the passion of defending one’s very home. He talked of passion like he was talking about which blend of fescue seed was best for the season…like he was reading it or didn’t understand the root of his message. From their distance in the courtyard, the watchmen could neither see facial expressions nor gauge any context for the words exchanged between the Judge’s fatherless son and the leader of all Alson’s watchmen.

  “How can you tell they’re arguing? Looks like blobs from here.”

  “That’s because you’re freaking blind. They’re ticked off at each other. Look at his fist.”

  “Do we get to watch Revin drink?”

  “Uggh! You want to see that? What’s the matter with you?”

  “Standahl doesn’t argue. That doesn’t even make sense. You’re seeing it wrong.”

  Wrinkles shoved his hands under his armpits in an attempt to warm them in the morning chill, “They look like they’re arguing to me. Eber, sneak up there and see what you can find out. Pallius is in front – that suckup will know something.

  Cope interrupted, “Are you serious? What if the Chaselord sees that? Eber, you can’t sneak around right now. Stay here.”

  The girl watchman frowned, “Don’t do it, Eber. Cope’s right. This isn’t the time. There hasn’t been a Chaselord in thirty years.”

  “Come on, Eber. Pansy. Go talk to Pallius. He’s not even close to the stairs. Find out what’s going on.”

  Each of them glanced quickly to see what puckishness might be in Eber’s face, whether the familiar wrinkles framed his eyes as when he’d send new recruits off to the parts depot looking for imaginary repair materials or when he’d call the depot asking to speak to watchmen with profane names in hopes of their repeating him aloud…’Baws, first name Icy’, and that sort of thing. They knew well his breathless tinkly giggles when he was up to his business. At this moment, that was in fact what they found beside them. He grinned like an elf, plotting.

  The girl darkened her tone, “Eber, stop it. Not now. They’re watching us for anything not normal. You don’t know what they’ll do to you if they think you’re turned. Stay here.”

  He smiled wider, “No problem, guys. I’ve got this.” Then he was gone, vanished within the ranks of uniforms.

  “Oh crap oh crap oh crap.” Cope was droning in fright, their implications toward the Chaselord having made an impact on him. He was leaning forward in a useless effort to track Eber along his route between and into the line as needed, trying to avoid being noticed.

  “Cope, straighten up. You’re going to attract attention.”

  “Why’d you do that, man?! You know Eber can’t help himself. He’s going to get us all busted. I don’t know what they’ll do – this is bad.”

  The girl watchman craned her own head to try and pick Eber from the crowd; but he was only apparent occasionally, darting in and out as watchmen either allowed him through or tried to obstruct. Some along his path didn’t desire to accommodate this sneaking about and aberrant plotting and tried to trip him up or shove him out into the open. Yet he was skilled and deft, here hopping over a boot, there dodging behind the line as he went. She quickly looked back to the grim Chaselord staring and cold. Someone had taken the sparkling mass from Revin’s wife; and she was curled beside her husband on the landing, trying to console him, stroking his back and whispering into his ear. She looked absurd, round and sloppily dressed hunched beside a flapping and slaughtered man.

  “Oh, man are we going to be in the gravy if he gets caught.”

  The group of them went quiet for a time, waiting for some sort of shock which didn’t seem to come. The Procedures Master had stepped back and left a General to explain the logistics associated with the squadron briefings which were to follow and where those briefings would occur. He said things which were intended to be inspirational and something of note for historians perhaps, recorded along with the defense of Alson from siege and invasion and maybe her finest hour. Not many in the courtyard that day came to recall anything the fellow had said, unfortunately, for one reason or another.

  At last, Wrinkles broke the silence, “I’m wide awake.”

  The girl watchman creased her forehead, “What are you talking about?”

  “Shut up.”

  Wrinkles hesitated a moment in reaction to the voice from behind him, “Something my little girl scribbled on the driveway last night.”

  “I didn’t know she could write yet. What’s your point?”

  “Would you two shut it!” The voice from behind was more urgent, irritated. The girl and Wrinkles ignored him.

  “I don’t know what she was doing outside. It was after we put her to bed…doors were locked. Thought she was asleep all night. We were all pretty nervous after Balcister...stayed up watching the news. Somehow she got out and wrote, ‘I’m wide awake’ on the driveway in chalk. Saw it this morning when I left, bright yellow, scrawled in long fat letters. I don’t know how she got outside.”

  A pause, gathering thoughts, “Was she in bed this morning?”

  He nodded, “Yeah, she was. She has a fever or something. It was her handwriting…all caps. That’s something she does.”

  “You must have missed it yesterday going home. You were distracted and didn’t notice it.

  Wrinkles pondered, for the idea wasn’t new to him but rather was unacceptable, “Yeah. I must have.”

  “You think something happened to her?”

  He spun his head as if she’d thrown a rock at his temple, for it was his fear, “Do you think? What could she mean, ‘I’m wide awake’?”

  The girl watchman nudged his arm, recognizing too late when she shouldn’t have spoken, “You missed it yesterday going home. She’s with Elia all the time. No way was she alone. And Elia was fine, right?”

  There was no answer following that, as he perhaps was considering whether in fact Elia had been all right. It would have been difficult for him to say. Anyway, a massive black iron pot was being carried in by massive torturers upon the dais leading towards Revin; and it was attracting attention. The general had ceased speaking; and others were sliding dark stocks around Revin’s neck.

  Cope leaned forwa
rd again, “Where’s Eber? Can anybody see him?”

  “I think I see him over there. It looks like he’s next to Pallius now. That’s him, right?”

  The girl was watching Wrinkles, trying still to gauge how certain he was of Elia’s wellbeing. It frightened her. The scarred fellow kept his eyes on the Chaselord, who stood with his hands locked behind his back and still scanning. Something he saw in a turn of the Chaselord’s head drew his eyes to a cornice framing the courtyard, then another on the far side. There was something moving up there.

  “He’s got snipers.” Scars pointed softly, his voice cracking a little too loudly for the circumstances. “Guys, the Chaselord has snipers watching us. I swear – look up there.”

  Each of them followed his pointing finger to the tiny silhouettes. There were men atop the buildings, no doubt. Here was something none had foreseen; and its implications were paralyzing if that is what in fact those men were doing up there.

  “On us?” The question left off there in all its depth and urgency.

  Revin’s wife was being held by a giant Interrogator by then, as she’d tried already to run away now that the stocks were in place. Revin was a man thirsty for conclusion, flailing his stubs and shouting for an end to it, shouting something of the Talgos and what they bring with them. Peri and Stendahl were silent at this point, standing in respect for the moment and to see justice play out. It was strange to notice; but Stendahl with his white hair and the pale skin of his face stood out in view like a crisp-white dead tree on a green-treed mountainside; and many of those there that day watched him closely and were fascinated.

  The Interrogators with Revin were rosy and fleshy and unnaturally broad, their wide white grins surgically affixed and visible even from such a distance. Those men were withdrawn from society for hearing voices or expressing secret and unearthly desires, made cannibals and deviants and provided terrible addictions in the service of torture and extraction of intelligence. Typically, they were chained as they worked. Here, they moved quietly, securing Revin’s neck in place and positioning him while another held his wife by her hair. The General was saying something about faithfulness to one’s homeland and what happens to traitors. It was of course silent as snowfall at this point, all eyes locked upon the landing where the massive black pot slowly was brought to him on poles. Occasional flashes of lemon light squeezed from the pot’s opening as it swayed when the Interrogators stepped. Revin had by then ceased shouting and crying for his life, ceased threatening doom from his plots and intrigues, and was cooperating. To anyone with any sort of empathy, it would have been incredibly saddening to watch the man turn his head up and open his mouth wide to assist those charged with his murder in their work.

  There was a collective shock in the courtyard as Revin drank and as his throat opened up, a spirit passing through the formed masses speaking with the voice of the ocean and saying, “Enough”. Perhaps their grandparents had seen similar things in their times; but no recollection at any dinner table could call to mind what it was like for those there to see such retribution towards a man so closely in the employ of a Talgo – their Talgo.

  After Revin’s pierced corpse went limp, punctured in places with seeping golden drops and charred, the interrogaters threw his wife off the dais and into the courtyard as they might a chewed apple core. She wouldn’t drink today; and they were done with her. She was also with this act being told she may not have Revin’s body, which was perhaps just as cruel. Once the horrible sculpture cooling within him was removed, he was to disappear with no tomb as did all traitors in the days of the Old Man, to take away a rallying marker for other intrigues or martyr-worshippers. Revin would never be seen again; and everyone understood that. Stendahl was crying; and many noticed and wondered.

  “That is so messed up.”

  Cope leaned in again, his unpleasant breath on the girl watchman’s neck, “What happened to Eber? I don’t see him anymore. Is he coming back?”

  In fact, there was a gap in the line where both Eber and Pallius had stood moments before.

  “Pallius is gone too – maybe they went out of the open to talk.”

  Up above, on the rooftops, the snipers seemed to be at attention and sighting something in the courtyard.

  “That would have been stupid.”

  There was some murmuring and confusion sounding from the direction to which Eber had gone, where he and the other had stood speaking.

  “Where did they go? What’s going on?”

  The general spoke again and was dismissing the watchmen to their logistics briefings, wishing them good fortune and courage in the defense of their city and in the oncoming battle. The crowd was breaking up and dissolving into disparate threads, lingering chatter of what they’d seen and heard, with occasional blasting screams for speed and discipline from the field officers to get moving. Suspicious and afraid, the girl watchman, her eyes squinted, glanced to the landing where the officers and the Chaselord and Stendahl and Peri still stood. Now, they needed snipers on their own defenders; and Interrogators were on full display in the light of morning for all to see, executing state officials. Now, the government was muddled and split with nameless attackers coming to lay waste to the city’s bright streets with everyday lunatics smiling in shopping malls. Now she stood in a crowd of soldiers who might soon be dead being asked to risk her soul to fight for those people there.

  She glanced back to where Eber had gone missing, then back to the landing. A soft yelp of surprise rose from her throat when she saw that the Chaselord was staring directly at her.

  18 SIEGE

  “All right, riddle boy. Out with it!” Cristoffel examined Misling’s blushed face as if he’d eaten the last cookie. “What have you been saying to that girl to get her so worked up?!”

  The mog vehicle was rumbling along the concrete panels and limestone curbing of a vertical street on the outside wall of a tall building climbing upwards toward an illuminated sign which read, “Unleashed”, bathed in the flickering light of tall blue and white gas jets: some sort of business offices in the smaller financial district the poorer kids called, “The Spooks”. Newer buildings in Alson were required to maintain such streets. Misling and Cristoffel weren’t yet to the part of town wherein Balcister had once stood, not yet even past the step streets and cluttered and rambling art houses of Bethani. In fact, she had for the most part kept to the upper parts of buildings and in the shadows of arches, soaring towers and gabled friezes high above the city. Though there was extraordinarily little traffic, they weren’t alone as they’d perhaps anticipated they would be. Only an occasional scattering of folks like small crickets were appearing on the streets down below as the sun was rising.

  The Recorder looked back at her innocently and with caution, still unsure of this girl, “Lennox Weshire believes you are poisoning him.”

  She turned her head to face front, “Good.”

  The world went on its side quickly as Cristoffel twisted the worn control stick to its left, steering the mog vehicle across the clay rooftiles of an elevated walkway joining buildings. There was a sharp set of pops as the swivelseat spun loosely again in its bearings to the new orientation. The Recorder watched her until it was clear this wasn’t something she’d discuss.

  “Well?” Cristoffel’s tone was curt.

  Misling coughed as he considered perhaps the level of detail or how to frame out what he needed to say, “She is kind to help. There is someone who is very special, a man of importance, who was to be in Balcister yesterday. That is where this Recorder must go…quickly. It has been too long already.”

  She glanced at his face like she wasn’t accepting something he’d said, “Your dad?”

  He chuckled…almost, “This Recorder’s father is laying drunk in a plains town beanfield hallucinating and soiling himself.”

  Momentarily on their side again, they twisted horizontally to range across an expanse of concrete wall on another tall office building, where just beyond was a cluster of crowde
d rooftops leading out of the Spooks.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Like a thundercrack, a shot fired so close to them she heard the wind from its passing. A clay drainspout shattered into pink and white fragments, spraying dust. With instinct, Cristoffel jammed the controls forward and moved the vehicle high and around to the far side of the building, high into its tower where they’d be shielded from view. They both sat motionless, only after a moment at last looking cautiously down to scan the wide streets and broad panorama of cityscape before them. No sign of a shooter or patrol.

  “Too sloppy for military.”

  Misling shoved his face into his hands again at the delay, “What was it then?”

  “Gun freak maybe…gang. It’s Alson, who knows? We’ll sit here a few minutes. Take it easy.”