Though desperately needed, the depths of him echoed that this joy was unearned, that it existed in violation of his penance. And his soul had rallied in revolt, forming an army of self-hatred within, intent on enforcing his punishment. You do not deserve this, the army said, you deserve only torment. You deserve only to suffer for what you’ve done. But Jem did not want to believe it, and so the day had become a battle.
For each mote of doubt, his hope looked to snare a fragment of joy to house and nurture, but ultimately, it could not succeed. His hope was a weak faction, a small and brittle thing, built from cowardice, so as the day proceeded, each moment of pleasure was met with a volley of recrimination.
Several times, Trin’s stories had made him smile. In return, the army sent him the image of a burning home. He saw the inks burst in the window and again he felt the searing of his father’s flesh. When he laughed at Trin’s jokes, the army emulated the sputtering gasps of the old man as he struggled to breathe, a knife lodged in his heart. Once, Jem had let his eyes wander to the merchant’s breasts. To punish him, the army reminded him of Elyse’s tears the night he’d left. Each ounce of delight, every moment of relief, was met with hatred, and through the course of the day, each comfort was stripped from him.
Eventually, the images, sounds, and memories were not needed to corral him back to sorrow, for he began to believe those doubts. That last stronghold of hope was split, and sliver by sliver it joined the army, leaving only self-contempt in its wake. The army had waged a war of conversion and Jem had been an easy conquest.
At the crest of the final hill, Trin tugged on her reins and the ox halted. Beneath them, the road loped casually down the rise and through the Legion’s encampment. Lane sprawled from the base of the next hill to the top of the rise, and the ancient road trundled the length of it. Surprisingly, the river had not given up its fight. It had returned in greater power to intersect the city’s southeastern edge, and in answer to the cliff’s challenge, it had become a powerful fiend, devouring great stretches of land. The river had grown vast and its once clear waters deepened to an opaque blue. In the failing light, it was a mire of shadows so dark the opposite bank could not be seen.
Jem understood the river, for he had once been in its place. The river was absorbing the land for the same reason he had killed his father. He knew, in time, that it would devour the land, then the cliffs, and perhaps the road itself, leaving only the sound of waves washing against cobbled stones, erasing all the memories once held as proof of its love. All that would remain would be an empty plain – a face unrecognizable, worn by grief – upon which every truthful moment will have been forgotten, replaced only by those rare moments of doubt which become entire. Those hours spent under a night of stars or the pleasant walks beneath a canopy of green will be gone. What will remain are the unhappy, accusatory glances, the disappointed sighs of unrecognized potential, and the pursed lips of complaints unuttered. It will be these memories that withstand the drowning torrent, these that ask, ‘Could it have ever lasted?’ and assert, ‘It was never real.’
Jem’s stomach roiled.
The Legion was camped in the valley between the two hills. Large plumes of smoke, shimmering in the day’s last light, drifted from hundreds of campfires. The banners of Jem’s youth dotted the camp’s perimeter; a field of red surrounding a white circle that enclosed six of black. Known as the Alchemist’s Gasket, the sigil was supposed to represent the gods, country, and the priesthood all in one. The large circle represented the Mother, three large black circles for Just, Alchemist, and Mystic. And three smaller black circles for Farmer, Smith, and Mason. Together they symbolized the Mother and her First Generation. At least, they were supposed to.
For Jem, these banners were a reminder of his childhood. A reminder of those days spent at the garrison on the edge of the mining camp. It had been more than five years since he had seen those banners, but even now, as he approached adulthood, he found the red background unsettling. The color was too close to blood and the banner too violent a reminder of the mines. He remembered a time when he’d been proud of the symbol, after all, he had grown up in the garrison – he had shared meals in the mess with his father and the other soldiers. He had listened to their stories of glory and honor, and for many years, Jem had wanted to be a soldier himself – but his pride had since waned.
A camp beneath those banners was a poor omen.
“It’s hard to like soldiers,” Jem mumbled. In his mind he pictured the walls of a dank pit, speckles of wet crimson glistening along freshly carved stone.
Trin gave him an odd look.
A man’s voice flanked him. “Not the wisest comment at the foot of an army.” The soldier had come upon them from the trees, his clothing indiscernible from the surrounding foliage, and as he crossed onto the road before them, more soldiers skulked out of the brush to form a semicircle behind the cart.
Wearing burnished leather armor interspersed with studs and an iron skullcap, the lead soldier stopped before the ox. With his short black hair and the burnished copper skin of a Dren, Jem took the man for a member of the Priest’s Caste. Sure enough, the soldier wore a gasket with three black circles on his left breast; the Legionnaire’s Mark.
Nance nuzzled the man with her nose, and taking her head in his hands, the soldier scratched the long, wooly fur of her chin.
As his gaze studied Jem, his hands suddenly stopped. Stepping to the bench with a surprised look, he held out his hand and nodded to the staff leaning next to Jem.
“May I?” he asked.
Uncertain, Jem looked at Trin for confirmation.
“Better give it to him,” Trin whispered. “He looks like an angry one.”
The man flashed her a wicked grin, showing pearly teeth ordered in neat rows. Jem offered him the staff and the soldier took it carefully. As he ran his fingers along the small bird engraved at the top, his smile broadened. “You keep strange friends, Trin.” Shaking his head in what Jem could only describe as wonder, the man handed back the staff.
“So do you,” Trin responded. “We’ve been sitting here for at least a minute now and not one of them has moved to get a better look at me. Nor have any offered me a drink.” This last comment was clearly directed at the soldier himself, and laughing, the man pulled a flask from his pocket and threw it to her. She pulled off the cap and took a drink before offering it to Jem. Remembering her earlier promise, he drank grudgingly then handed the flask back to her. The liquid burned in his throat.
“All right,” Trin said. “You’ve earned a bed tonight.”
The soldier stifled a laugh.
Turning back to the man, Trin’s face became sour. “Is the asshole here with you?”
“Yep,” he answered.
“And the skank?”
“Still in Trel.”
“Well, there’s that at least. You won’t tell him you saw me, will you?”
“Can’t promise anything.”
“What will it cost me? All I’ve got is the ox and the boy. You can take your pick. Personally, I’d take Nance. The boy is rather dull.” She nudged Jem with an elbow. “On second thought, take the boy. I need the ox to get home.”
The soldier rubbed his chin in contemplation. He looked at the ox, then at Jem, and back to the ox. “As much as I like Nance, I can’t take your deal, Trin. Wouldn’t be fair. Only way into town is through the camp, so if I don’t tell him, someone else will. Not to mention the ones behind you aren’t as shy as you think. It’ll probably cost you the ox, the boy, and a lot more besides to keep them quiet.”
Trin tilted over the wagon bed to face the other soldiers. “So that’s what you want, eh? Well shame on all of ya. What do you need them for if you could have me? I mean sure, maybe I can understand the ox, she’s got some meat on her, but this scraggly thing next to me? What’s the point?”
Jem could the feel heat rushing to his cheeks and the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed or angry, but for some, sick re
ason, he felt he deserved any mistreatment he received.
Trin turned back to the legionnaire. “All right,” Trin said. “Fine. He’s going to find out. But if any of you tell him, then I’m not drinking with any of you ever again. Which inns are free, Bell?”
“Mother only knows, go look for yourself.”
The soldier, Bell, dodged as Trin whipped the reins at him. The ox must have been accustomed to the gesture, for she gave no reaction but to tilt her head and sniff. Bell chuckled, lifting his hand to settle the already settled ox.
“Most should be free,” he said. “The common soldiers aren’t allowed into town without direct orders. I’d offer some suggestions, but the more I know, the faster he finds you.”
“Going to sell me out yourself then, eh? Traitorous butcher.”
Bell smiled. “I won’t go looking for him, but if he asks me about you, I wouldn’t feel right lying to him. Sooner or later he’ll learn you’re here, and he’ll know it was me guarding the road. Best I know nothing.”
“You and your butchering dignity,” Trin mocked. “What do I have to do to drag you down to my level, Bell?”
The soldier shrugged.
“Well then,” Trin sighed. “We better get moving before I finish this flask and can’t shut myself up.” She whipped the reins to set the ox in motion.
“I expect that flask to be full when I see you,” Bell said, sidestepping off the road. He cringed then added, “And with alcohol this time.”
“Can’t promise anything,” Trin mimicked. The ox plodded toward the city of Lane.
“Vindictive as always,” Bell muttered.
As the wagon trundled past, Trin answered without looking back at him. “Damn straight. Now, make sure your soldiers understand the full implications of that.” She grinned even though the soldiers couldn’t see her face.
“Who are we avoiding?” Jem asked. There was a hint of anger in his voice. Her insults had stung and the prospect of a legionnaire stalking them did nothing to calm him. It was said that legionnaires could sense those who broke the gods’ laws – it was bullshit, his father had never known wrong from right, despite his station – but as much as Jem felt he deserved punishing, he didn’t trust punishment administered by the Legion. Not after his childhood, and the crimes his father had committed in the Legion’s name.
Trin sniffed. “My once fiancé, and now my sister’s husband, Taehrn. He tries to speak with me whenever I’m within his grasp. It’s never pleasant so I avoid him best I can. Problem is, he’s got too many connections. Like Bell. Bell used to serve under him, before Bell earned the Legionnaire’s Mark, and they’ve been friends since childhood, so he feels some sort of loyalty toward Taehrn, even though the bastard doesn’t deserve it.”
Jem paused at the name of Trin’s former fiancé. Taehrn was a common enough name, and yet it made him nervous to hear it. “So, you know Bell through… Taehrn?” If Taehrn were here…
“No. Bell’s an old friend. Might even be a cousin. The wealthy class in Trel isn’t as big as you’d think, and we don’t mingle much with the poor. He’s no merchant like my people though. His family is old rich, not new rich – all priests. You know the type, all of them clerks and magistrates and a few legionnaires here and there. My mother’s family is the same breed, though none of her ancestors ever mustered the courage to join the Legion, still they’ll claim they served their country better than any other. My mother’s family – and most of the old rich really – are a rather pretentious lot. About fifty years ago, when my father was young, it was rare for their type to marry outside the caste. Course, at the time there was no need for them to do so, what with the priesthood owning most everything. But once the Writ ended and the merchants started pulling in coin faster than the temples, the priests started intermingling with us commoners.”
Jem knew all about that sort of thing. His own father would have lived his entire life a scribe if not for Indaht’s heroism in the Gableman’s Riots. It was only in deposing the Tyrant of Ternobahl, and by the ambitions of the Trellish Magistrate, Marcus Godahn, that Jem’s father had been made a deacon.
Trin shrugged. “Of course, they didn’t really learn their lesson. Even though they’re marrying with us, they’re still holding on to their imagined superiority. Only difference is that now we’re in the loop instead of out of it. Like I told you before, a merchant’s son can’t be a fisherman, even if his father was before him. Instead, he’s gotta join the Legion or be a priest. Only way out is to be as rich as the merchant before you, or jump ship like I did.”
Trin jerked her head toward the road behind. “Bell’s different though. More humble than you’d expect considering the family he comes from, so he and I always got along pretty well. These days he’s one of the few people that don’t shun me whenever I come home. Probably hoping I’ll hop in his bed someday, of course.”
“There are beds you haven’t visited?” Though the words had begun as a joke, anger, hurt, and jealousy had mixed together, leading the words to vitriol.
Trin glared at him. “Watch your tone, boy,” she warned.
He gawked at her. “You insulted me first,” Jem said.
“Sure, but my insults were jokes. I enjoy a sharp tongue in jest, but yours was genuine scorn. Now I’ll warn ya once, if you’re going to sneer like that, I suggest you save your derision for when you’re out of my reach.”
“Or what?” Jem said.
He had no room to dodge the elbow that stole his wind and brought tears to his eyes. As he regained his breath, he drew himself erect and glared at her.
Holding the reins and flask in the same hand, Trin opened the lid with the other. She took a sip then replaced the cap. “And so you understand, I don’t sleep with everyone,” Trin said, the scowl vanishing from her lips. “There’s the odd person or two I miss – you know – the celibates and the eunuchs.”
She offered him a smile and the flask. He drank, but did not return the smile. Again, the liquid stung his eyes.
“You gonna apologize?” Trin asked.
Jem grunted.
Trin watched him from the corner of her eye. “Apology accepted,” she said. “Now give me back that flask.”
As they pulled up to the edge of the camp, a lone sentry greeted them with a nod before waving them through without speaking a word. The camp was immaculate, its tents organized in a grid, four tents to each square, with pathways between and a fire pit in every fifth square. Soldiers in embroidered red and black tunics sat gathered before the fires, with variations of the Alchemist’s Gasket adorning every uniform. Very few of the soldiers spared their cart a second glance. Those who did were all men, their eyes lingering overlong on the merchant. The number of people awed him. The largest city he’d visited was Riften and it was nowhere near as large as this camp.
There was no wall separating the camp and Lane, the line of tents simply stopped where the buildings began. The camp ended abruptly as the valley gave way to the gentle rise of a hill, the city stretching before them. Another guard stood before banners which marked the boundary, but he faced the camp rather than the town. Clearly his job was to keep soldiers in, not citizens out. He did not motion them past like the previous guard, instead, he outright ignored them.
The streets of Lane were as clean and ordered as the Legion camp. Where his ancient friend intersected another street, the roads there were newer, their stones a different color, but the same cut and pattern. Though beautiful, these streets looked to be but a crude copy of the road on which he’d traveled.
Edged by sharply curbed sidewalks, the deep street was pocketed by drains positioned to flow beneath the stone foundations of the buildings. To the southeast, he could see the river in the narrow strips between buildings and a mass of sails that crested the rooftops. As they climbed higher, so too did the buildings, hiding first the river and then the sails.
Though it was still early, the shops they passed were all closed for the day. Empty stalls lined empty streets, their
wares and vendors gone home for the evening. A cool breeze drifted up from the river and a haze of smoke hung in the air. At an intersection, Trin took them west, deeper into the city. Music and voices lilted down these streets and candlelight shone behind windowpanes, but the people were unseen.
Every building was fashioned in the same style; a base of granite, a heavy timber frame, light wooden paneling for walls, and small glass windows. They stopped at the first inn, a large building in the same style with an equally large and windowless barn attached. Before entering, they left Nance and the wagon with a stable boy.
The inn was similar to the one at home, but much larger. The room they entered was a decently sized common room with enclosed booths lining two of the walls. At the near end, a long counter that served as both bar and service desk stretched before a door, which by the smell, must lead to the kitchen. At the far end, a crowd had already gathered at the wooden tables before a small stage of raised planks. A man with sagging cheeks and a balding pate stood behind the bar, his eyes wandering the crowd. When he saw Trin, the man’s face lit up and he bustled to meet them at the service desk.
“Trin. It’s good to see you. You stayin’ for the night?”
“If you’ve got the room.”
“Sure do, been slow lately. Not a lot of caravans. Word must’ve gotten down the road that the Legion is camped here. Even the locals been comin’ around less. Too afraid to go outside I suppose.”
“Have the soldiers been givin’ people trouble?” Trin asked.
“Yep. They been tryin’ to enlist anyone they can. Been real out of hand. First day they went to the jail and conscripted anyone behind bars. Didn’t matter the offense or how long the sentence, just signed ‘em all up for service. Even the drunks. After that, half my usual patrons been too afraid to drink. Course I can’t blame ‘em. The Legion ain’t no place for their type. Too much sobrier-ty.”
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 11