He turned a corner, and turned away from Rachel. His shoulders clenched. His smile thinned into a sick sliver.
He went to a tiny tavern that took up three rowdy floors south of the Pens district. The sign was as big as the door. A giant blackbird perched on a painted minaret.
He gave the feather to one of the bouncers. The bouncer took Jona up to this fourth floor that didn’t officially exist. A door opened.
Two men stood on either side of a man in Senta robes, holding him there, waiting for Jona.
The Senta had his eyes closed. He was breathing in, holding his breath, and then releasing gently with a hiss, like air leaking out of a punctured ball.
Jona stepped into the room. The door closed behind him.
“Go on,” said one of the two men. “Show him what you are.” Jona looked up at the fellow in the Senta leathers. He wasn’t big. In the light, his little body and little head looked like a skull, all forehead, cheekbone, and jaw.
This fellow handed Jona a little dagger.
The Senta closed his eyes. “Does the wind move,” he said, “Or is it just the flag hung up in the wind? Neither really move. Motion is only the mind moving.”
“Can you truly see your own demise?” asked Jona. “Yes,” said the Senta.
“How do you die, then?” said Jona, “Tell me what you see in your dreamcasting.”
“I see only my mind moving,” said the Senta. “I don’t understand why I am here. I’ve done nothing.”
“I don’t understand it, either. I just do what I’m told. I don’t ask questions. Tell me something, though, if you had to guess, what was it?”
“A demon child,” he said. “I saw one with a woman. I saw them, and I tried to warn her. I tried to tell somebody.”
“I see,” said Jona. “What he look like? Anything like me?”
“No,” said the Senta. “He was thin and pale. He was… Don’t people care that the demon children are here?”
“How did you know what he was?”
“I… I just know. Dreamcasting is like that. It’s a feeling I get, and I see things.”
“See anything about me.”
“I’m too scared to do it.”
“Try.”
The Senta was crying. “Please don’t hurt me. I can’t see anything in you. I can’t concentrate when I’m this frightened.”
Jona cut his own palm, not very deep, along the same healed line that he had used when he had condemned Aggie. He grabbed the Senta’s ear, and shoved the prisoner’s skull sideways. Blood dripped, burning like acid, into the Senta’s head, exposing the skull beneath the skin.
The Senta screamed.
“I’m sorry about this,” said Jona. “Believe it or not, I don’t want to kill you.”
The Senta didn’t seem to hear anything. Jona watched his own blood burning down the side of the man’s face. He watched the skin boil and singe with the demon blood, and the clothing burn where the blood ran. Jona pressed his hand into the Senta’s eyes. They melted like ice cubes in the acid.
Jona watched it. He wrapped his hand in strips of the Senta’s leather. He sat and watched.
The Senta stopped screaming long enough to vomit. His skin kept burning away. His blood and bone boiled with the acid. The side of the Senta’s face caved in like a boiling watermelon.
Jona closed his eyes. He jammed the knife into the Senta’s heart. He kicked the Senta, with his chair back to a trapdoor near the wall that opened to the old canal.
* * *
“What do you mean, a grudge?” said Rachel, touching Jona’s bandaged palm with another question on her face.
Jona shrugged. He pulled his hand away. “Oh,” he said, “I mean that people kill each other sometimes, when they get mad at them, and we catch them doing it, and they’re never smart about it, and they confess right away because they did it when they were angry and can’t believe they did it and telling us about it and dooming themselves is like healing them.”
She touched the knife in Jona’s belt. “You ever kill anyone?” “I’m a king’s man, a city guard, so I have to kill sometimes.
They aren’t good people, though. I kill killers, and worse.” “What’s worse, children of demons?”
“No,” said Jona, “I’ve seen a poor man spend his last coin on
a single puff of the pinks, when he was supposed to be working, and his whole family is on the street with nothing to eat, and nothing to do but start stealing, so then I have to arrest the thieves who were only trying to steal to eat, and maybe they stole enough to hang.”
“That’s horrible.”
“So, when we find the smugglers, we push ’em. We do everything we can to break ’em. Then, we hang ’em high, and we put their heads on pikes along the city walls and harbors.”
“That’s just horrible,” she said.
“It’s important,” he said. He stopped and let the little boat drift a minute. “You know, when you’re talking about something that hurts one person, it’s not so big. Lots of people get hurt, you know, and you can’t stop it all. But, when something hurts lots of people and makes them hurt people, too, then you’re talking about something big.”
Rachel sighed. She leaned back and stared at the night sky overhead. Out in the middle of the lake, a few strong stars poked through the clouds and the lights. She recognized a constellation.
CHAPTER XI
I remember Jona’s friends and fellow guardsmen falling away. Corporal Jaime’s eldest daughter died. He paid the Erin priests all his savings to inter her under a picture of her because he thought she was so beautiful—so pure. He cried on duty, slipping into alleys and empty cells.
None of the other guards said anything about him crying like that.
Three weeks after the funeral, Jaime was still a mess.
Then, Jaime’s wife hung herself.
Jaime disappeared a while. When he came back, his younger kids were all living with his wife’s family. Just him and his eldest boy remained in this old house that had grown new echoes.
He sold the rope she had used to hang herself to a crazy old woman that probably imagined herself like Lord Sabachthani. He used most of the money to buy his eldest son an apprenticeship with a stone-mason in the Temple districts on the east river, and the boy never came home again.
Jaime had a few coins left and this house that had been in his family forever, all empty now. He blew all of the coins on a single bottle of foreign whiskey.
He brought the whiskey in to the guards to share, but not even the scriveners wanted to touch a drop of suicide-rope whiskey. So, Jaime sat in an empty cell alone and drank it all, singing rowdy songs, and screaming, and singing sad songs, and crying out his daughter’s name which was the same as his wife’s name. Dacha… Oh, Dacha!
He was still there in the morning. Calipari sent him home without pay. Calipari told Jaime to get his head right and then come back when he was ready.
Three days later Jaime came back like nothing had happened, and he wouldn’t let anyone talk about it. He smiled and pushed the boys around and he was ready to walk the streets.
Two weeks ago, he had a wife, and four kids.
* * *
Aggie was not showing signs of pregnancy. The Captain was impatient, and her death was imminent.
Jona had forged a letter.
She read the letter, and cried. She crumpled it up in her palm. She threw it at Jona just like she threw words at Jona.
“How do I know this is real? How do I know it’s really him? I don’t believe you, king’s man. I can’t believe you. Why won’t he come to me? Tell me why he doesn’t come for me!”
Jona stroked her cheek. “He’ll come when he can,” said Jona, “Sneaking into a prison is not for a thief. He’ll come when he’s leaving with you. Until then, eat something.”
“I don’t want to eat! I want Salvatore!”
Jona clutched the wailing girl to his chest. He stroked her hair. He didn’t try to speak. He didn’t know wha
t to say. He let her cry, and he looked over at the food he had brought her and the flies that swarmed upon the bread. He hated that Aggie wouldn’t eat first. He hated seeing those flies eating her food in tiny crumbs, planting maggots in the meat.
He held the girl close.
* * *
Jona stopped on his way out of the prison. He handed a bunch of tea-stained letters to the carpenter that had sent Jona off on so many killing jobs. He set up shop at the gates to catch the prison workers coming and going out the main gate. Some of the tea stains had flecks of blood. Some of them, just drops of ink.
The carpenter scanned the letters quickly. Jona watched the merchant’s eyes light up. He pulled Jona into a back room.
“You know what this says?” said the carpenter. He had these tiny glasses on his eyes wrapped in cloth to hold them together. They were far too small for his huge face. He read slowly.
“I wrote it, didn’t I?” said Jona. “I copied it out of Calipari’s papers.”
Jona had been looking for any sign that Calipari was investigating the Night King. He found nothing. He had planted another document into the pile of papers, with news of a Senta killed, and bodies tumbling into the water, for no reason. He found rumors that Mishle and Ela Sabachthani were checking the laws to see if he could be king despite being a commoner. In this, Jona saw a life for Aggie.
“We don’t like Mishle,” said the carpenter.
“I’ll do what I have to do,” said Jona. “I’m hoping for a different kind of payment.”
“Commoner’s shouldn’t try to be the king, you know,” said the merchant, “Ain’t right.”
“He’s a good man,” said Jona. “I want something good in exchange.
“He’s not our man.”
“Give me Aggie. I’m doing right. I’m earning my keep, ain’t I? I killed that Senta for you.”
“We’ll arrange Mishle for you quick. Keeping an eye out for our interests is smart. Maybe the Night King’ll give you a pretty little prize for your sharp eyes. Maybe.”
“If Ela doesn’t go for the Chief, she’s going to be married to Elitrean’s son, right?”
“Rumors say so, even if she hates the boy. We can rumor them together, make it look good. He’s our boy. He’s better for us.”
“I guess he would be.”
“The Chief is impossible. He’s owned by the lords, not by us.”
“He is impossible. No commoner should be king while a lord like me is nothing but a blood monkey. You can always count on me. I don’t think Sabachthani’ll be the queen. Sabachthani’s too smart to want the throne. She’s smart enough to know where power really is.”
“Yeah? Where’s that?”
“This city is built on mud. You and me, and all the people like us. We’re the mud. We’re holding everything up and wiggling around, pushing things up out of the mud and pulling ’em back down again. Night King is the power of the mud.”
“You’re mud. You’re not even that. You’re bloody Elishta. Don’t be getting any ideas. You don’t deserve to be alive, and don’t you forget it.”
The carpenter looked down at Jona’s papers like staring into a fire. “We got mud, but we got something else. We got the King, and the Night King. Everyone in between the kings got nothing.”
Jona took out his knife. “We’ll see how the Chief feels about mud like us when I gut him like a hog.”
“I’ll send a boy for you,” he said. “This might be dirty. We didn’t expect this. We don’t have a plan in place.”
“I’m ready when you’re ready,” said Jona.
“Good lad,” said the carpenter. “And all you want is that girl, Aggie? Never pegged you for the type to want another demon’s used up whores.”
Jona felt no anger, anymore. He felt nothing. All he felt was tired. He wondered what it was about killing people that made him want to sit in a dark room, by himself, and never come out.
* * *
Do you want to go to one?
What? Of course not.
Why not?
They’d kill me!
They’ll bounce you. But, they won’t bounce you with me around.
I’m the one who introduces you, so I’m the one they’d be shaming if they bounce you.
Then I don’t want to shame you. Why do you want me to go to one of these horrible things, anyway?
I just think it might be fun, you know. You love to dance. We’ll go, and you can dance with men who dance for a living. It might be fun.
It might get me killed.
Aren’t even a little curious? We’ll go, and just watch.
What do you mean, just watch?
We’ll hang out in the trees and we’ll be in the shadows, and I’ll pretend like I snuck you back there for a tryst and no one would stop us, and we could just hang out forever and watch and listen.
I don’t know. Maybe.
* * *
Jona slipped a coin into the palm of a coachman, with a little note. The coachman slipped the note into his pocket. He pointed up to the wall next to his couch.
Jona led Rachel to the back of the couch. “Climb up,” he said. She looked at him like he was crazy.
He jumped up to the back bumper of the carriage, clinging to the golden luggage rack on top with one hand. He held his other hand out to her.
She frowned. She took his palm, and let him pull her up to the bumper. He planted a boot on the wheel just beside him. The carriage lurched and pulled back, but he was able to pull himself all the way to the top. Rachel didn’t try that. She held up her hand. “Pull me up,” she said.
He took her wrist in both hands. He leaned back, and tugged her up to the top.
The coachman shouted. “Best be quiet up there, else someone’ll see.”
Jona rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the warning,” he said.
From where they sat, they had a good vantage point on the garden beyond the wall. Two musicians played a stringed instrument that sounded like a peacock’s mournful wail. One man pushed down black and white keys, plucking long strings of a harp. The other man gently pulled the bow across the strings. The pitches bent and warped at the edges. Below them, dresses as delicate as Fabergé eggs twisted in a painted whirlpool. Luxury vessels pushed to the center in time to the song. The passengers—young women, all, and as pretty as wealth could buy them—hummed along to the music.
Jona looked at Rachel’s face. Her jaw hung open. Her eyes were as big as two white moons.
A drum beat kicked into the end of the women’s music. The men cheered. They could return to the dance, at last. Jona caught a familiar angle from the corner of his eye. One of the men collected his siren from the clumped center and twirled her into the new song. Jona sucked wind in from his teeth.
Salvatore.
A new young woman, with red hair and a laugh like huge splashes of water—she wasn’t a noble and she didn’t belong here and when she laughed anyone could see that. The young woman and Salvatore spun around the floor for a few measures until Salvatore danced apart, into the arms of an older woman.
“Something wrong?” said Rachel.
“Nothing,” said Jona, “I just remembered something, is all.”
“What?”
“See how everyone’s dancing?”
“Of course. It’s beautiful.”
“Well, nobody ever dances with the person they really want to dance with. You never dance with the person you came to the party with, unless you’re married.”
“That’s stupid.”
“That’s how it is. These only look like fun. But they’re work. Two fellows meet for a drink, and negotiate a treaty that opens new ports for new products. Two fellows fight over the same girl, and they dance the night away and in the morning they’re too tired to visit again, and they’re too late. Her father contracts their wealth away by marrying her off to someone else. Two girls fight for the hand of the richest man, whether they like him or not, so they can live as they like until they die. It’s all work.
”
Jona watched for Salvatore to make his real move. Salvatore slipped a string of pearls off the neck of his dancing partner fast as a hummingbird’s wing. Jona wouldn’t have seen it if he wasn’t watching close for just that.
The red-haired girl with the huge, beautiful laugh approached an older man who wasn’t dancing at all.
The girl offered her hand to be kissed. The man scowled like she was a fool. She spoke.
He responded rudely.
The girl smiled. She swayed her hips to the music.
He huffed at her.
She spoke, and poked him in his fat stomach. People around them laughed.
His face lowered to a glare. Red spread up the back of his neck.
Salvatore took the red-haired girl’s hand, and swung her into the dance. The necklace Salvatore had stolen passed from his sleeve to her bosom. They parted, with their eyes still locked.
She danced away from him with an adolescent boy looking up at her like he was in love. She was laughing and laughing and sharing long glances with Salvatore over the young boy’s head.
The dancers stopped to breathe. Servants with drink trays fanned out through the crowd. The musicians bowed to applause.
Rachel sighed, amazed at how beautiful everything was. She leaned deeper into Jona’s arms.
Jona didn’t notice. He was thinking about killing Salvatore.
Rachel pecked Jona’s cheek.
Jona blinked. He leaned into Rachel’s ear. His mind returned to the creature in his arms.
“My mother makes most of those dresses,” he whispered, “She doesn’t recognize the girls unless she sees them in the dress she made. She never knows who’s pretty or who isn’t. She just knows whose dress cost more, and who’s always sending the dress back to let out a seam. Girls get fat quick if they aren’t careful.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” said Rachel.
When We Were Executioners Page 3