Trin grimaced. “What about the merchants?”
“The soldiers been taking whatever they need. Givin’ out pieces of paper and tellin’ ’em, ya gotta go to Trel to get your money back. They’ve even been checking the ships, takin’ any cargo they want. By now, all the merchants comin’ from Trel have probably heard enough to know that any goods coming down the river ain’t for sale. What you doin’ here by the way? Would’ve thought you’d be smarter.”
None of this surprised Jem. The Legion and its masters took what it needed from those who needed it more. It could even steal the innocence of a child.
“Had a job that took me all the way to Dekahn, already had all my goods stolen at the border.”
“You were in Lock?” The innkeeper’s jowl’s wobbled as his mouth scrunched into a frown. “How they actin’ there? Bet they’re scared witless over what’s comin’ for ‘em.”
Trin frowned. “The city was calm when I was there. I must’ve left right before the calls to war came. Shit, the first I heard of this war was when the Legion robbed me at the border.”
“Don’t surprise me,” said the innkeeper. “Those godless savages probably don’t know when to be properly afraid. Mother knows the Legion will give ‘em a good lesson.”
Trin’s frown deepened, as once again, she pressed her fingers across the bruise beneath her eye.
An odd habit, Jem reflected. Suddenly uncomfortable, he busied himself by examining his soot-stained hands.
“How many nights you stayin’, Trin?” the innkeeper asked.
“Just the one.”
The innkeeper’s gaze wandered to Jem. “And you’ll be wantin’ a single bed?” he asked skeptically.
Jem shot the innkeeper an insulted glance. Jem was not a harlot.
Trin, noticing Jem’s indignation, laughed. “No, two beds tonight.”
“Right, then.” The keeper rifled through a ledger, then found and offered them a key from somewhere beneath the desk.
Trin accepted it then motioned Jem to follow. “Thanks, Hald. We’ll be back in a few. Have a bottle of wine ready for us.” She pulled Bell’s flask from a pocket and threw it to the innkeeper. “And fill this with your finest whiskey.”
The innkeeper caught the flask and nodded. Together, Jem and Trin ascended the stairs to the rooms above. They found their room at the end of the hall; a simple room with a small fireplace, a desk, two beds, and a wash bucket half full with clean water. They left their things in the room then returned to the common area to sit in one of the secluded booths. A few men sat at the next table, shouting at each other over a game of dice, but aside from that, the booth was peaceful.
A waitress brought them a bottle of wine, two glasses, and Bell’s flask. Trin sampled the whiskey before storing the flask in a waist pocket. Jem watched distractedly as she poured wine into a glass and handed it to him. When he didn’t accept it, she set it on the table before him.
“Ready to tell me why you’re running?” she asked.
Jem met her glance, but said nothing. Perhaps he should tell her the truth, that he had murdered his father and then an old man on the road. She could tell Bell, and Bell, sworn to Just, would be required to kill him. He could accept his final punishment and end it all now. But perhaps that was too easy. It would only be a way of avoiding the merciless guilt that was his true penance. And more than that, he was not yet ready to die.
Still angry from before, he continued his silence. Trin tried again.
“What was she like then?”
Again, he said nothing.
A smile came onto Trin’s lips. “An ugly one, huh? Well in a small town like Vale I guess you have to take what you can get.”
Jem’s rage burgeoned. “Not as ugly as you, with those disgusting bruises all over your face.”
The merchant shot to her feet, the bottle of wine still in her hand. Seeing the look of outrage and disgust on her face, his anger retreated immediately. In its place, somehow, was fear. When she spoke, her voice carried all the emotion of her face. She spoke softly, but firmly, her gaze piercing.
“You’re a miserable little shit, you know that? I don’t know what you’ve done or what someone’s done to you to make you so damned unhappy, but if you’re going to lash out at other people because of it, I don’t want anything to do with you. I’ve met plenty of folks like you before, and for some reason, all folks like you want is to keep being upset so they can keep complaining about how upset they are. Saddest thing is, only thing keeping you from being happy is you. You realize that don’tcha? Doesn’t matter what happened to make you such a sad little bastard, but you’re the one dwelling. She break your heart? That what this is? Well, get over it. You hurt her in some way? Well, go back and fix it. Fix your butchering mistakes or sit and whine for the rest of your butchering life. I don’t care which you choose, but don’t you try and make me as miserable as you.”
She drank heavily from the bottle of wine. In the silence that followed, she did not blink nor break her stare.
“Here,” she said, thumping the bottle onto the table before him. “You’ll need this more than I will.” Taking her glass, she stepped out of the booth and pulled a chair up to the dice game. Miraculously, it seemed that no one had noticed their confrontation. It had felt like she had been shouting loud enough for the entire world to hear. But no, she’d been speaking only loud enough for him.
Trin sat at the dice game with her back to Jem. He could barely overhear her words. “So boys, what are we playing and who’s going to order me a butchering drink?”
After breaking her gaze, she didn’t look back at him. Ashamed, he studied his palms. He was a monster. A murderer. And he would forever ruin the lives of those around him. He downed the glass of wine he’d left untouched, then took a sip from the bottle. He thought about apologizing to Trin, but decided against it. It would be best if he never spoke with her again. She didn’t deserve his venomous presence; she was not the cretin that he was, to warrant such a punishment. He drank from the bottle again. In the morning, he would sneak away quietly and continue on without her noticing his absence.
For a time, Jem stared at the empty booth across from him, and then at his hands, and then at the table and the wine bottle. Anywhere but at Trin. Pulling a few jars of ink from his pocket, he pretended to study them. He knew that if this were not such a public place he’d be in tears. Eventually, he gave up, let his forehead slump onto the table, and stared blankly at the wood.
“She drink you under the table already, boy?”
Jem turned his head without lifting it from the table.
Bell stood in the aisle, his padded leather replaced by a cloth uniform. “Mind if I sit?”
Jem lifted his head and waved his hand toward the booth opposite. Maybe he should tell Bell his crimes himself. All it would take is one short phrase, I am a murderer, and no one else would ever get hurt. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. He couldn’t do it. Even in this, he was a coward. He took another sip from the bottle.
“You didn’t drink all of that yourself, did you?” Bell asked.
“Not all.”
Bell grunted. “Well pour me a glass before you finish it.”
Jem looked at the empty wine glass on the table. Instead of filling it, he pushed the entire bottle across the table to Bell, then let his forehead drop back to the wood. He heard the clink of glass and then the slosh of liquid.
“If you’re going to puke, I’d advise you to tilt your head first.”
Jem acknowledged the advice by lifting his hand.
The legionnaire cleared his throat. “How’d you meet Trin?” Bell asked.
Realizing that Bell was not going to let him rest, Jem lifted his head. “She tried to kill me,” he said.
An accusatorial frown donned Bell’s lips. “Oh,” Bell sighed. “You didn’t try to rob her, did you, boy?”
“Not unless she owns the river.”
Bell laughed. “No, not her. Her family might though.”
He held the glass of wine in his hand, sipping casually. “So, what did you do to piss her off?”
Jem mistook the question. “I told her she was ugly after she insulted me.”
Again, Bell laughed, a short guffaw.
“Yeah, she’s got a bit of a bite to her jokes, but they’re all in good fun. You’ll get used to it. So, she tried to kill you for that, eh?”
The alcohol had clouded Jem’s mind. “No, I don’t know why she tried to kill me. First I saw her, she was pointing a bow and yelling at me.”
Bell frowned like he didn’t understand, but he didn’t ask for elaboration.
“How come you’re sitting with me instead of her?” Jem asked.
Bell nodded his head toward the other table. Following the gesture, Jem started. Trin had left the dice game, and now sat at another table, with a soldier in a red, Legion tunic. Jem knew this man. He had seen the man before, at the mines at Liv. His hair was short now, cut close just like Bell’s, and on his breast he wore the First Legionnaire’s Mark, but there was no mistaking it. The name of Trin’s former fiancé had not been a coincidence, this was the same man.
Though Jem couldn’t see anything but her back, somehow, he could tell that Trin was tense. The soldier was speaking in a low tone, while Trin was shaking her head in a vigorous ‘no.’
“Taehrn?” Jem asked, though he already knew the man’s identity. Jem shifted deeper into the booth.
“Yep,” Bell answered.
“They hate each other,” Jem said, watching Taehrn’s face and Trin’s stance. It didn’t surprise him. Taehrn was an easy creature to hate. Though the knife wasn’t there, Jem reached for his sheath.
“Just her I think.” With his right arm, Bell rubbed the back of his neck. “We should talk of other things. It’s their business and they’ll likely be arguing for a while.” Bell paused, a sad smirk crossing his lips. “So where are you from, boy?”
“Jem,” he pleaded. “Please stop calling me boy.”
“Sure. Where are you from, Jem?”
“I’m from Vale, but I grew up in the fort at Liv.” It was difficult for Jem to keep his attention on Bell. His gaze kept trying to sneak back to Taehrn. He wondered if it was just Taehrn here… if Magistrate Godahn were here too, Jem did not know what might happen.
“A soldier’s son?” Bell asked.
Jem frowned then gave the trained response. “Yes, my father was the garrison’s scribe.” It was not the truth. His father had been none other than Deacon Indaht Trask, but that was not a fact to be shared if he wished to remain in good health.
The man didn’t question it. “That must’ve been good work. What’s your father doing now?”
Jem said nothing, and after a long silence, Bell’s smile lilted. “Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss.” The soldier allowed for a moment of silence and then continued. “How old were you when the mines closed?”
“Ten.”
Bell’s jaw clenched. “You were old enough to remember it then?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why you hate soldiers.”
“Yes.” Taehrn in particular.
“Gods…” Bell swore. “No child should have to go through that.” Bell shook his head as he studied his wine glass. “But keep in mind,” he added, “not every soldier is Deacon Trask. Most of us would have killed him ourselves if we’d been there.”
Except Taehrn of course. And Jem himself.
The alcohol had made Jem dizzy. He tried to refocus his vision on Bell, but again his gaze slid to Taehrn. As his eyes came to rest, the black and red of the First Legionnaire’s uniform ran together, the coat’s rounded buttons like ingots awash in red. Pitch, iron, and blood – the true symbols of the Legion. Though the iron that remains is false and worthless, a cavern in the North wears these same colors, those pieces of value already traded in exchange for flesh. And now, here they sit, buttons on this man’s coat, tempered into the sword at his waist, forged into candlesticks atop the desks of priests. The blood traded is not their own, but that of slaves.
Glaring at Bell, Jem controlled his eyes and his thoughts. Even if Bell didn’t know it, even if he denied it, any friend of Taehrn’s had benefited from the deaths of others, and Jem hated him for that.
But of course, Jem had benefited too. If he hated the Legion, it was only because he hated himself. He’d slept beneath banners of the same color. He’d eaten bread made by Legion chefs. He’d consorted with the enemy – and not from a distance – not like Bell. He had even helped Taehrn save Indaht Trask’s life. So how can I hate Bell? Bell did not eat from the same table as Trask. He did not spare my father’s life, only to regret the decision later.
Jem took a deep breath. Hating Bell was pointless, especially when there was enough about himself to hate already. Releasing a sigh, he looked to Bell and spoke in resignation.
“My father used to say the murders and the beatings were the Legion’s right. That the men deserved it because they were criminals. I always hated him for that. Not everyone who was beaten were criminals.” A passing thought made Jem wonder if Bell had been sent to spy on him. It was farfetched that Taehrn would recognize Jem before even seeing Jem’s face, and even less believable that Taehrn would have predicted Jem’s arrival, but it was possible. What if Taehrn had sent someone to speak with Indaht? Taehrn and Magistrate Godahn might already know of Indaht’s death…
“Must have been hard,” Bell said.
Jem shook his head. The man’s tone was genuine, but his words were an empty phrase, something to say when there was nothing better. If Bell had been sent because Taehrn knew, then why hadn’t Taehrn looked at Jem? The man would not have sent Bell to do a job he could have done himself. He might be ‘First Legionnaire’ now, but to Jem he would always be the Executioner. Bell couldn’t be a spy.
“It was,” Jem agreed. He spoke quietly, worried that his voice might attract Taehrn’s notice.
Bell rubbed his neck. “Was your father…?”
“One of them?” Jem asked. There was nothing to do but go on with his story as if nothing were out of place. “No. He wasn’t one of the victims. He… didn’t understand why someone might question the deacon. He’d served the Legion his entire life, and for him, the Legion was beyond questioning. A legionnaire’s word was the word of the gods, even coming from a man like Deacon Indaht Trask.”
“Sounds like he was in denial,” Bell said.
Jem shrugged. “Maybe. My father never watched the beatings or saw his colleagues throw withered corpses into the abandoned shafts.” The speech ran from his lips in the exact fashion he had memorized it. All of it was a lie. His father had done exactly those things; indeed he had been the one to order the beatings and discard the overworked bodies. “He was too busy with his books and letters. In Vale, the villagers used to say that ‘a man in comfort is blind to the world.’ That was my father. Of course, I tried to convince him many times, to explain to him what was happening, but he always had some excuse. At first, it was ‘you’re a child. You understand nothing.’ Later he would simply turn me away. I think by then he had acknowledged the horrors, knew I was right, and was afraid of what I’d say next.”
Bell listened silently, his face somber.
“The worst for me was not the beatings, but the men who received them. They watched as their peers were beaten and killed, but did nothing except shy their gaze when a guard turned their way. They saw the beatings get worse. They saw more and more of their fellows die of exhaustion as the iron became harder to find.”
Jem found that his tongue was beginning to run amok, but he could not stop himself. None of this was prepared in advance, and yet he did not care. Let this man hear the truth, let the butcher run to Taehrn and tell him everything. What more could Jem lose?
“I hated them,” Jem said. “Even more than I hated my father. More than I hated the soldiers. Because they did nothing. Because they did not fight. They knew that Deacon Trask would murder each and every one of
them, and still they did nothing. I was only ten years old and I did everything I knew to do. I stole food for them. I brought them warmer clothes in winter. I even turned my back on the men and women who had raised me. And in return, the miners would just stare at me from behind empty eyes.” Jem could feel the tear on his cheek, but the alcohol had taken him past caring.
Bell’s brows were downturned in a sympathetic look. The glass of wine in his hand shook, though the man probably didn’t notice. When he spoke, his voice was low and deadly.
“I know of what you speak.” Bell ran a hand through his hair. “My first posting was as a guard at the stockades in Trel. In my time there, I saw prisoners of all types… and I have seen men and women crumble in the way you describe. Some would bite and scream and kick until they died, and others would simply break. There was one man I remember, far worse than all the others. His mind was so far gone that he could only repeat the same few words; ‘I am the brother, the farrier, the farrier.’ Day after day, night after night, ‘I am the farrier. I am the farrier.’ It chilled me to the bone.”
Bell stopped and swallowed.
With a glance at Taehrn, Jem had to stifle the grim and sardonic laugh which tried to bubble to the surface. The irony of it killed him. How could Bell know that the madman he described was Jem’s uncle? How could he know that the farrier of which he spoke was the very man Jem’s treachery had condemned to an execution. And even worse, that the same legionnaire who had forced Jem into the ruse, now sat at the table across from Trin. Immediately, Jem’s distrust for Bell returned. There was no way this could be a coincidence, no way that Bell could walk into this room, with the same man that had committed the crime, speaking of the man they had sent to death, and know nothing of it. The Well whispered as Jem did his best not to think of his uncle or the repercussions which might ensue if Bell did know all.
Thankfully, Bell did not seem to notice Jem’s discomfort. His words continued guileless, merciful and distracting in their innocent sincerity.
“It was always so strange…” Bell said. “The ones like that, they always became despondent. They’d take orders, they’d listen, but all their will seemed concentrated on putting up a wall against thought. Every now and then a letter would arrive from Liv. A request for more men sentenced to death or a life of labor. Jem, the men sent to the mines were always those broken men. More than that, they were the worst of the broken. They were those who had given up their faith and their humanity.”
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 12