When We Were Executioners

by J. M. McDermott

  Rachel followed Jona with her eyes. She saw him stop a thin, pale man in a purple topcoat with black, silk pantaloons. The man smiled at Jona, but Rachel couldn’t see Jona’s face. She saw Jona’s head leaning in close and firm, like he was saying something important. She walked as gracefully as she could across the crowded yard. She had to dodge circles of old friends clumping together as the two crowds from the house and the garden merged.

  She took Jona’s shoulder. He turned with an angry face at her. He took a deep breath.

  A red-haired woman touched the shoulder of the pale man with whom Jona had been speaking. The pale man snatched the woman’s arm from the air, but let the woman walk away from him. They both held their hands up, reaching after each other in the crowd.

  Jona shoved the man’s hand down. “Hey, have you met the Duchess from Batriva?”

  The man cocked his head. “No,” he said, “I can’t remember meeting her at all.” He squinted. “You look familiar,” he said.

  “I’m sure we’ve met at some lovely party in Batriva, where I am from originally,” said Rachel. She recognized the man, too. He could’ve been a patron at her brothel, or a man about the streets in her neighborhood.

  He had a familiar face.

  “I’m sure we might if I had ever been to Batriva.”

  In the distance, a band began to play a slow, majestic march. Ruffled dresses and shining pantaloons meandered out to the center of the lawn and bowed gracefully at each other. The people danced with their hands quite nearly touching, spinning stately circles.

  “My name is Sir Salvatore Fidelio,” said the pale man. He reached for her wrist. She let him take it. She looked back from the dancers. He kissed her, and he did not let her go. He stayed there, with his face against her glove.

  “I am the Duchess Rachel Batrilander of Batriva,” she said.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “I wish to dance with you,” he said, “if you wouldn’t mind…”

  He looked at Jona. Jona nodded, and bowed to the man. Rachel clutched at her own dress.

  She had never thought so much about her boots before, like heavy chunks of lead beneath her dress.

  Salvatore took her out among the spinning circles, and found a place for them in the swirling lines. During the marches, men took the outer circle and women took the middle. They took simple, slow steps spinning in time with the music with their palms out, nearly touching. Then the men stepped backwards at a turning of the melody, and the women swelled forward following a reed flute’s mournful wail. The men gracefully spun together to the outside of the circle of women. Now the women were on the inside, and the men pulled the women back from the center to where they were before. The steps repeated with a new partner. Though it was mostly movement, women put themselves into the motions, swaying their hips or twirling their fingers like snakes.

  Rachel danced stiffly. The men looked her in the eyes, and sometimes one slipped his hand too close to hers and brushed at her skin in a lithe stroke. Rachel knew what they wanted to tell

  her. Put your body into it, darling. It’s simple, but so is true grace. Rachel smiled and looked away. Her stomach danced more than she did.

  When the song ended she was with Sir Salvatore. He bowed to her. She curtsied.

  “Milord,” said Rachel, “This dancing has parched my throat. Please, take me to find a drink.”

  “Of course, milady.”

  She took his arm and let him lead her past the crowd.

  “I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Sir Salvatore Fidelio,” he said, “and you are still the Duchess from Batriva?”

  “I am still. Ask me later, I might be someone different. What do you know of Lord Joni?”

  “Him? I know he wasn’t invited.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite. That’s alright, it doesn’t reflect poorly on a man to seek to improve his station.”

  Sir Salvatore gestured over his shoulder. Rachel turned, and she saw Lord Joni dancing a graceful waltz with an older woman, as graceless as Rachel, but with wider hips.

  Salvatore snorted at Jona. “He seems to be doing quite well for himself.”

  “Oh…” said Rachel, “Who is that woman?”

  “That is the daughter of Lord Sabachthani. Not even the king is richer than her, I hear. Certainly, no one is as beautiful.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’s just being polite,” said Rachel. She turned back to her companion on whose arm she was.

  “Frankly, I don’t think he stands a chance.”

  “She’s a bit old to be dancing vigorously, isn’t she?”

  “I would be careful before I discuss the hostess at her own party, Duchess. Have you been here long?”

  “Here? I came with Lord Joni.”

  “No, no, girl. How long have you been in Dogsland? Has it been for the whole season, or did you sneak in to catch the final hours before the rains?”

  “Oh, I just came in from Batriva three days ago. Where are you from, Sir… I forgot your name again.”

  “Salvatore. I have been here all the days of my life. My father was a soldier who earned our minor nobility during the war, but he died rather quickly afterwards. Fortunately, the title is hereditary. I have been seeking my fortune until recently, and therefore have not been attending many of these lovely affairs.”

  “Oh, and how is your fortune… Where do you…”

  “I am a speculator in the wool market.”

  “Are you rich?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, would I?”

  “Of course not. Where’s my drink?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I really am thirsty. Find me a drink. Something tight. Last thing Jona brought me wasn’t tight enough. It didn’t even buzz me.”

  “I’m sure one of the servants will get around,” he said, “They seem determined to ignore us. Perhaps they suspect us of being crashers. I hate to break it to you, but everyone knows Jona is a crasher, so we all suspect you are a crasher, too. They won’t kick you out if you behave yourself, but they certainly won’t pay any consideration to you when you show up on his arm.”

  “My name’s Rachel Nolander. That’s my real name. Send the hounds after me if you want. What’s your real name?”

  He smirked. “I’m Salvatore Fidelio, no ‘Sir’.”

  “Nothing wrong with a fellow trying to improve his station. Tell me, Salvatore Fidelio, have I seen you before tonight?”

  “I can never remember anyone. I have a terrible memory unless I really know someone.”

  “Well, Jona’s left me for the hostess, so I guess it’s only you.” Rachel looked over Salvatore’s shoulder, “So dance with me on the other side of the lake. I can’t handle the crowd. I’m scared to Elishta about all of this. This was all Jona’s idea.”

  Salvatore bowed. He took her hand. He walked her around the lake. When they reached the edge of the light, Salvatore bowed, again. He held out his hand to her.

  Instead of delicately touching her for a decadent waltz, he pulled her close to him like a peasant girl. She rested her head on his shoulder. He spun her in his arms around the edge of the lake, far from the crowd.

  * * *

  And Jona saw the two dancing. He bowed to Lady Sabachthani, and begged her forgiveness. She rolled her eyes, and looked across the lake. “We’ll talk more later,” she said, “Don’t kill any of my guests over some peasant girl, Lord Joni.”

  Jona ground his teeth. “I’ll do what I like,” he said, “If we’re being honest about it.” He pushed through the dancers like he was a king’s man closing in on a street tough in the Pens. People cursed him for his rudeness and he didn’t hear them.

  He walked quickly around the little lake to Salvatore Fidelio spinning Rachel.

  Jona clenched his fist. Rachel laughed at something Salvatore said. Jona hopped a little, almost running now.

  Jona grabbed Salvatore by his ear. Rachel scowled at him. Jona tossed
Salvatore into the shallows of the lake.

  Jona pointed down at Salvatore like Imam’s own Inquisitor. “You’re coming for Aggie, or else you best learn how to swim.”

  Salvatore looked up at Jona. He sat in the lake, and splashed his hands among the shallows like it was a joke. “If you wanted to cut in, you should have asked, Lord Joni.” Salvatore stood up. He walked back to the shore.

  Jona lifted a boot to kick at Salvatore’s face.

  Rachel grabbed him. “Jona!”

  Jona pointed his thumb at Salvatore. His face twisted. “If you knew that fellow like I know that fellow, you’d do the same thing. Maybe worse.” Jona spit on Salvatore’s shirt. “Aggie’s counting on you. All you have to do is show up on time, and take her. After that, you can dump her anywhere and walk away. But you have to show up first. Here you are, like nothing happened. Have you gone to see her? She won’t even talk to me, anymore. She won’t do anything but ask for you.”

  Salvatore stood up from the shallows as gracefully as he could. “You’re the one who told me to do that to her.”

  Jona walked out to him. Jona jammed his finger onto Salvatore’s chest. “I told you I’d do my best to save her, too,” shouted Jona, “I told you I would. And I did. And now you have to do your part.”

  Salvatore brushed water from his hair. He looked at the green algae on his palms from the bottom of the pond. He rubbed it off on Jona’s lapel. “I can’t even remember her face,” said Salvatore, “Did I love her? I don’t know. A woman I loved would never have done what she did. I don’t know her. I don’t know anything about her.”

  “She’s going to die!” shouted Jona.

  Servants walked around the lake casually, ready to intervene and throw both men from the ball. Lady Sabachthani stood at the edge of the party, watching this scene with her arms folded.

  “People die,” said Salvatore, softly, “but I don’t unless the king wills it.”

  Jona grabbed Salvatore by the lapel of his fancy coat and threw him into the lake, again. He took Rachel’s hand and pulled her into the hedge maze.

  Rachel touched her cheek where the lake water had splashed her, but it wasn’t lake water. It was tears. She was crying. Her sleeves melted in the acid, like smoldering paper. Her eyes widened. “Wait!” she said, “Wait!”

  Jona turned.

  She bent over. Her tears fell straight down into the grass. A small stench of burning grass and death followed her tears.

  “What is it?” said Jona. He noticed her clothes were melting here and there.

  Rachel breathed hard. She tried to clamp down on the lump inside of her. She tried to close her eyes so tight that no tears could slip out.

  Jona didn’t say anything. He rubbed her back. He looked at her, mystified by what was happening. She choked hard on her own sobs. She clamped her eyes shut, and tried to hold all of her tears inside. She held her breath.

  Where tears fell, a section of hedge browned at the edges, and grass melted at her feet.

  They walked back through the maze. Her clothes continued to burn off from acid. She spit on her hands and patted at the edge of her new holes. “It’s my tears,” she said.

  Jona took off his jacket, and put it over her shoulders. He didn’t care if his dress uniform burned. He never wanted to wear it again. He had made her cry while wearing that jacket.

  In the carriage, Jona held her hand. “I’m…”

  Rachel put a finger on his mouth. “Hush,” she said.

  She leaned into his shoulder. She ran her hand up and down the side of his face with this burning smell between them—the brimstone, acrid smell of acid-burned clothes.

  * * *

  Rachel got back to the apartment in her own familiar Senta clothes alone. Djoss sat on a chair, nursing a bottle of piss brandy. He looked up at her. “Hey,” he said, “Where’d you go?”

  “Oh, I was just out a bit.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I went out.”

  “Okay, and when you do that, where do you go?” “I go out. That’s all. Look, Djoss, I don’t ask about your women. Don’t ask me where I go. I won’t be found out. I’m careful.”

  “Rachel… I just want to know where you go. I get worried sick when I don’t know where you are.”

  “You think I don’t worry when you’re gone?”

  “It’s different for me.”

  “Why? Because you’re human?”

  He looked up at her like she was a child. He spoke softly. “Because I’m a man,” he said, “Because I can always walk away with nothing inside of my belly.”

  She snapped her fingers. A spark of flame jumped into the air. “Elishta on you and your belly.”

  Rachel snapped her fingers again, and the brandy burst into flames. Djoss cursed. The bottle fell to the floor. It shattered. He jumped up from it. He stomped on it with his boot before the fire spread.

  Rachel grimaced. “Why do you have to worry about where I’m going all the time?” she said, “Can’t I have my own life, like you do?”

  Djoss spit on the spot of singed floor. “What if we have to break for it?” he said, “I need to know where you are in case we have to break for it. You tell me the same thing.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m going out. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  Rachel stomped out the door. She slammed the door behind her hard. She fumed all the way past all those noisy rooms.

  Djoss was behind her. He called out to her.

  She ignored him. She turned two corners, walked past the large slaughterhouse, and through the human bottleneck from the workmen building the new canal. She turned a corner, and then another corner, and then another. She didn’t know where she was, anymore, and she had never been there before.

  CHAPTER XVII

  I know Djoss looked for Rachel in the stockade because he met Jona there. I don’t know precisely how his feet carried him over the streets.

  I know he was chasing after Rachel, but she was so fast through

  the evening crowd returning home and grabbing the meat for their dinner from the butchers near the Pens and no one knew her, really, so how could he find her?

  Djoss could find Turco faster than Rachel. Djoss didn’t know where she went. He walked down the road. He asked the vendors and shopkeepers if they saw his sister.

  “What did she look like?”

  “A Senta, about this tall, and pretty as a flower with mouse brown hair.”

  He cursed when he saw where she worked. He went inside, and told the women there that they’d have to find another maid for the night because Rachel was sick and wasn’t able to get out of bed at all. He didn’t know if she’d ever come back, but if she got better she’d come by.

  They shrugged. They put the sign looking for help in the window. Djoss asked if that ever really worked. The owner said that the people who worked there couldn’t usually read, but having the sign up still seemed to work.

  Djoss walked up and down the street, looking for her. They hadn’t been going out together lately, and he didn’t know where she was going now. He stopped ragpickers that he knew. They didn’t even know Djoss had a sister.

  Djoss tried to find the few places he had taken her when they had gone out together, but they were anonymous places, where people don’t tend to remember anything.

  He stopped in at the tavern where he still bounced when there wasn’t any weed to burn and he asked around if anyone had seen his sister. This time of day, it wasn’t crowded yet. People were still home eating dinner, pretending to talk to each other, and no one had hit the streets, yet.

  Yet, the boss told Djoss he needed to work later. Djoss told him his sister was missing, and he needed to work on finding his sister. The boss told him to go get somebody to cover his shift for him, and Djoss grabbed the first big fellow he saw come in the door, and Djoss offered him a few coins to pick up the shift that night. Djoss told him he could take the night’s wages f
or the shift, too.

  The fellow shrugged, and figured he might as well.

  * * *

  Djoss hit the streets, with no idea where to go, except that he had to keep looking. He walked and walked, searching the crowd, until he was completely lost. He stopped in a tavern for a drink. He didn’t have lots of money on him. He bought the cheapest thing on the menu, and he drank it fast so he could get drunk quickly. He did it until he was out of money.

  He stumbled back into the street. He was drunk enough to shout his sister’s name while he walked, like seeking a lost dog. Angry men threw trash from the windows. A jar of pickles broke on Djoss’ forehead, cutting him. A woman cheered from her window. Djoss tumbled into a ditch, overwhelmed from the alcohol and the vinegar. He turned onto his side to vomit.

  When he woke up, a city guardsman was poking at him with a sharp hook. Djoss groaned. He looked up at the man standing over him in the early morning light. The guard shouted something. Djoss couldn’t understand it because it hurt his head so much. He rolled to his knees, and the motion rolled his stomach into his mouth. He poured more vomit into the street.

  Then he heard what the guard had said. “Get out of the street, fool. Be drunk somewhere you won’t get trampled.”

  Djoss clutched his stomach and staggered into an alley. He threw up one more time. He sat in the alley for hours, waiting for the worst of the hangover to pass. He stood up and trudged towards his home. He squinted into the light and took a wrong turn.

  He heard a town crier screaming about the executions slated for tomorrow. Robbers, thieves, rapists and none of them wealthy.

  The town crier called out about an of-demon girl to be burned alive.

  Djoss stopped in his tracks.

  He turned towards the town crier, up on his little pillory. He walked closer, slowly, with a new sickness all over his face.

  “Hey,” shouted Djoss, “Hey, what was that about an ofdemon?”

  “I only know what I shout,” said the crier, “Ask a gossip about the of-demon. I’m an honest fellow!” and he went back to his litany of criminals.