When We Were Executioners

by J. M. McDermott

  Jona ran a hand over her face. He could see that her eyes were open, looking down his naked body.

  “The hottest part is almost over,” said Jona, “Dogsland’ll start cooling off soon.”

  “Good,” said Rachel, “I’m so hot I can’t move.”

  “When it cools off, the rains’ll come. Places’ll flood. People will drown in their own homes. Not really, but it’ll start to rain a lot, again. No one will drown. They’ll just wake up wet if they didn’t get their house ready. Roofs might cave in. Foundations carved bad might bust. Won’t stop the city. We’ll walk around with parasols and go on like there’s no rain. We’ll scrape out boots at our doorways and pretend there’s no mud. Ships’ll come just the same. Ships’ll go just the same. Things will go on until Adventday, about when the rain lets up a bit. Then it’ll come back, but it won’t be as strong. Then the rain will fade until it’s just the sun. But it will rain a while first.”

  “When it rains everyone will be all muddy,” said Rachel, “and the stinking meat and blood will wash away so fast that the Pens won’t stink at all.”

  “Oh, the Pens always stink. But you get used to it.”

  “You should go. My brother might show up sometime.”

  “I should. Let go of me, and I will.”

  “I can’t let go of you, Jona.”

  “I’ll stay, then.”

  “But I should.”

  The sun patch slowly crawled over the thin sheets. Rachel crawled with it, deeper into Jona’s skin.

  The walls leaked the noises of the people in the building. Unconnected clanging of pots or boots or the creaking of footfalls or the chairs. Muffled voices—mostly women—spat gossip from window to window. Children in the narrow street, banged cans with sticks and sang songs.

  A key in a lock.

  Rachel’s eyes opened. Jona grabbed at his pants below the foot of the bed, but he was too late.

  A giant stepped in from the street. A cloud of alcohol sweat spilled into the room behind him.

  Rachel had the sheet pulled over herself. Not even a hooked toe peeked out from the edge of the bed. She looked up at her brother, her face pale. “Djoss,” she said.

  Djoss took one step closer to the bed near the window. His fists clenched.

  Jona grabbed for his boot. He had a knife in his boot. He jumped down to the floor, grabbing for his boots. He found one. He jumped up with the boot in his hand.

  Djoss took one more step. He raised his fist. His face was blank as death.

  “Don’t hurt him,” said Rachel.

  Jona jammed his hand into his boot. He quickly felt around for his knife. “Tell him to stop and I won’t,” he said. No knife. He had the wrong boot.

  “I wasn’t talking to you!” said Rachel.

  Djoss took another torpid step. His lip curled.

  Jona grabbed his other boot. He shoved his hand inside for his boot knife. He grabbed the handle. He whipped it around between him and Djoss. The knife was still stuck in the boot. The boot waved in the air. Jona flipped the button that held the knife down. He threw the boot at Djoss. Djoss knocked the boot away with his fist. He raised his fist.

  Jona knelt down low with his knife in his hand, ready to lunge.

  Rachel snapped her fingers. Fire spread over Djoss’ face.

  “I said don’t hurt him!” she shouted.

  Ice followed the fire, encasing Djoss’ head like a helmet. He punched at his head. A wind blew him back, through the open door into the hall. The door slammed shut.

  “Jona, get dressed,” she said.

  “Will he…”

  “Jona, just get dressed. He won’t hurt you. Just get dressed and go.”

  “What about…”

  “Do it!”

  Jona grabbed at his uniform. He put his boots on first. Then, he took them off, threw his pants on. He grabbed his uniform shirt.

  The door opened again. Djoss stood there, burning. Tears welled up at the edge of his eyes.

  Jona stood, looking at him in the doorway. Rachel shouted at Jona to go. Jona looked up at Djoss’ red eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. He stepped into the hall.

  The door slammed behind him.

  He stood in the hall, listening at the doorway in case Djoss attacked Rachel. Rachel said, through the door, “Where have you been?”

  He couldn’t hear Djoss’ answer. Then he heard a deep bass voice, like a human bear, “I’m going to get some sleep. Burn those before somebody gets sick. Is he sick from you?”

  “No. He’s like me.”

  “He says he is.”

  “He is. I know he is. It’s all right. We’re careful. We’re more careful than you.”

  The sound of a giant falling into a mattress. Leather pulling over skin. The sounds of the rest of the building overwhelmed the sounds from Djoss and Rachel’s room.

  Jona walked down the hall. He pulled his shirt and jerkin over his shoulders. He realized that he had left his knife back in her apartment. He couldn’t go back for it.

  He found half a small lemon in his pocket, still fresh and leaking bitter juice. He sniffed it. He bit it. He walked down the stairs, sucking on the lemon. In the street, he threw it into the gutter. He looked up at her window. He saw lines of laundry drying, dancing in sea breeze. He heard the street. He heard the wind blowing in from the ocean.

  He waited, looking up at her window. Then, he walked away.

  * * *

  Jona was sitting on the fence again, waiting for her to come out with the wash. He sat there, waiting, and when he saw the night maid come out with the wash, it wasn’t Rachel. It was this other woman, with fat arms. She looked up at Jona, sneered at him, and went to work. “Nothing to steal round here, king’s man. Even the women are too cheap to steal.”

  “I wasn’t trying to steal,” he said, “Looking for Rachel Nolander, the maid. She’s Senta. She here?”

  “No,” said the woman, “She’s off.”

  “Oh,” he said. He swung down from the fence. “Tell her I was looking for her.”

  “I ain’t saying nothing to nobody,” said the maid.

  “Yeah,” said Jona. Jona tossed her a coin. “Well your kind don’t count as somebodies, so you tell her.”

  CHAPTER XXI

  Sergeant Nicola Calipari and Geek bit thumbs at each other and laughed because of a joke they had just finished about a fellow that’d answer every question they asked him by biting his thumb at whoever punched him last. Jona walked in at the end of the joke with Jaime. Jaime clomped his heels and saluted.

  Sergeant Calipari jumped to his feet. “What was that, Corporal?”

  “Corporal Lord Joni and the Corporal Kessleri walked the Pens, sir!”

  “Excellent, Corporal!” said Calipari, “Are the livestock safe in those Pens?”

  “Sir, no sir!” said Jaime.

  “What?” Calipari leaned into Jaime’s face, spitting on him a little, in good fun. “Why aren’t the livestock safe, Corporal?”

  Jaime choked on laughter. It took him two tries to spit the words out with gravitas. “Any pig in a pen isn’t safe, sir! Pigs in pens are lunch, sir!”

  Geek burped.

  Jona grabbed the reporting papers from the desk, and moved items around the duty desk so he could sit down and write report. The worst he saw was some kid smugglers. When they were ghosted by the guard, they cut cargo and ran. Jona let them go. He dumped their lost pinks into the river.

  Jona cut a goosefeather quill, and dipped it in the ink. He scribbled his report. Jaime waited for Jona to finish.

  Jaime was telling the crew about this thing his kid used to do. Jona didn’t want to listen. When Jona finished his report, he handed the paper to Jaime. Jaime scanned quickly, while talking. Jaime initialed at the bottom, and placed the paper on Calipari’s desk.

  Sergeant Calipari took the paper, initialed it, and stuffed it into a large envelope with all the other reports. He looked around him for a spare body. Jaime and Geek had both disappeared int
o the holding cells to drink brandy in an empty cell.

  Jona held out his hands. “Sergeant,” he said, “I’ll take it in.”

  “Corporal?” said Calipari. He leaned back in his seat. “You sure you don’t want me to get one of the scriveners?”

  “It’s fine,” said Jona, “Let the kids go home early.”

  “You want to run papers?” he said, “Look, if you got nothing going on, want to run a den with me and the kids instead? We bust one of the dens, we smash the pipes, and we run anyone we catch into the tank. Then we file a few reports. A little fun for the scriveners, huh?”

  Jona nodded. Jona stood up. He unsheathed his sword, and checked the blade for imperfections. He flipped the blade back into his baldric. “Bats or teeth?” he said, “And you know how I feel about just bats.”

  “I know, Corporal. Sorry, but bats. You can keep the teeth in your pants,” said Calipari, “You never know.”

  Jona pulled a club from off the wall. He hefted it in his hand. He didn’t like it. He put it back for a different one, thinner with more weight at the end. “I’m not sitting with a scrivener,” he said. “Get me killed.”

  “I’ll sit the scriveners around front, and you’ll watch for the back way,” said Calipari, “Always a few like to run for it. Break them. I’ll meet you in the middle.”

  “Aye,” said Jona, “Which hole?”

  “The Three-Legged Dog.”

  “That pit?” said Jona, “Back way’s a pit, too. Easy to roll a fellow there.”

  “Soft on me, Corporal?”

  “Never,” said Jona. He gestured at one of the scriveners. “Just give me the new one. He’s fresh from training and still strong from it.”

  The scriveners sat up taller hearing about the evening’s plans. Their quills slowed, and their backs straightened.

  Jona caught the youngest private’s eye. Jona and the new private shared a grin. “Pike him and he’ll watch my back,” said Jona, “He’ll like pikes better than teeth.”

  “You’ll be fine on your own. I’ll run through and let the kids break the guts of the place. Any trouble should break quick.”

  “Right,” said Jona, “If some tough breaks me, my mother’ll come looking for you, Nic. I’m an only son.”

  “You’ll do fine, Jona,” said Calipari, “You live for this stuff.” Calipari snapped his fingers at the new private, who would be running reports at the end of the day. “If you get back in time, you can come along, Private.”

  The boy, for he was still a boy, dropped his quill where it sat and ran for the central station, reporting envelope in hand.

  * * *

  He doesn’t tell me anything about where he goes. Nothing at all. It makes me sick to think about it.

  I could probably tell you.

  Don’t. Please, just don’t.

  Turco and Djoss cased this huge warehouse from the back.

  The warehouse had one whole wall open to the canal, where water and ships ran straight into the warehouse like needles docking in old veins. These flatbeds with heaps of damp wool belched back into the canal.

  Turco and Djoss stood outside the arch where the wall opened to the canal. They were on dry land. Turco pressed against the arch, his head shooting around the beams to peak inside. Djoss was just behind him.

  Six workmen moved wool from the heaps on the land to the heaps on the boat.

  Turco grimaced. Djoss shook his head. Djoss pointed again. Turco looked in, and saw workmen. He punched Djoss on the shoulder. Turco tried to walk away. Djoss grabbed Turco’s cloak. Djoss shook his head. He gestured to the ground with his open palm. Wait.

  The next riverboat piled with wool disengaged from the docks, and drifted into the canal. The drivers pushed the boat along with long poles across the bottom of the river. One man stood in back with the rudder. Until the next boat came, the workers sat down on the wool, and passed different flasks around.

  Djoss pointed again. The wool on the boat had been blocking a small, red door on the other side of the warehouse. Card games are behind red doors.

  Turco nodded. He wrapped a dirty red rag over his face. He slipped a small crossbow from his cloak. He strapped three bolts to the string, ready to shoot wild. “You were right,” he said. He grabbed the edge of the wall and swung around, howling.

  Djoss winced. Too soon. Djoss tugged a brickbat off his back, and swung into the warehouse on Turco’s heels.

  A worker looked up at Turco. “What you want?” he snorted, “You stealing wool?”

  Turco stopped in his tracks. “Pardon us, gents,” he said. Turco bowed gracefully.

  Turco kicked open the red door. Inside the room, six men sat around a table, and a seventh held a bottle of brandy.

  Djoss filled the space behind Turco.

  The gamblers looked up at Djoss, a huge gorilla of a man, with arms like bags of meat. Turco waved his crossbow around the room like a child with a toy.

  The man with the brandy placed his cup onto the table. He placed the bottle next to it. He raised his hands. The other men put their cards facedown on the table, and raised their hands in the air.

  Djoss had the brickbat in one hand and a damp red rag over his face, too. Djoss closed the red door behind him. “Well,” he said, “Keep your hands up, and don’t get killed.”

  Turco moved to the edge of the room. He howled and hopped. Turco threw his cloak on the floor next to the table.

  Djoss swept one hand across the table, and threw everything there onto the cloak—card, coin, cup, and pipe. He grabbed the corners of the cloak together in a bunch, and swung the makeshift sack up to his back.

  Djoss and Turco backed away fast, and by the time they got to the warehouse again, a new boat had been half-piled with wool. Turco jumped onto the boat, and he crawled over the mountain of wool to the other side of the boat, the edge of the warehouse, and escape. Djoss followed over the wool, too, because he didn’t want to run through the workers with the money.

  The workers stayed out of the way.

  The man with the brandy probably alerted the improper authorities. Djoss and Turco had to get off the streets. They moved ten blocks fast, sticking to the alleys as much as they could. They didn’t run, but they didn’t linger. They lost their red rag bandannas. When they got to the tenth block, they were at the kind of tavern where no one had eyes.

  The place used to have a sign of a black dog over it, until a thug had broken the decrepit sign and the dog had lost a leg. Now it’s called the Three-Legged Dog.

  Djoss paid cash for a room upstairs. While there, they’d both split the bounty, and take their prize downstairs to the limbs of the wishing tree. They’d smoke everything immediately.

  By the time they finished counting, Turco’s hands were trembling, and he sweated pink blood. He fingered the pipes from the table, searching for the right kind of smoke. The pipes leached black ash.

  “You,” said Djoss, “Get your hands out of the way.”

  Turco pushed aside cracked glass from the cups and bottles, and the edges cut his hands, but he had to get to the next pipe. He didn’t seem to mind the tiny lines of blood on his hands.

  Djoss slapped Turco’s wrists. “Hey!” he said, “Look out, alright! I’m trying to count the coins! People don’t smoke the real stuff at the tables.”

  “Never know,” said Turco.

  “They don’t, all right?” said Djoss. He pushed Turco back from the pile. “Relax. Let me finish counting. We can’t rent a room for the ragpicker pipes with what’s left.”

  “If they don’t throw us out together, I’ll cut off your fingers.”

  “I’m almost done counting.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Wait…” said Djoss. He looked down at hands, befuddled. “I lost count. Let me count. Go spit out the window and see if you hit anybody.”

  Turco threw his hat off his head, and let his scraggly, black curls swing free in the wind like ruined rope. He wiped at the pink blood seeping from his trembl
ing skin. He leaned out the window.

  Djoss finished counting. He pushed a pile of coins across the floor. “Hit anybody good?”

  “No,” said Turco, “I haven’t been spitting. There are guards down there.”

  “What? How many?”

  “Lots.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “They’re standing there. And they’re talking with a fellow.”

  “A fellow fellow, or just someone?”

  “A fellow fellow. I think it’s the innkeeper’s fellow. Their watchout man is watching out. Don’t worry. Fellow’ll bribe the guards. Guards don’t really care about this place. Might get killed coming in here, ringing their bells.”

  “Want to wait a bit?”

  “Why?”

  “You know, maybe the fellow don’t have enough.”

  “No, it’ll be… Yeah, I see the coins. Let’s go.”

  Turco stepped towards the door. He crossed over the coins and Djoss.

  Djoss grabbed at his cape. “Wait,” he said. “Weren’t we going to use this to get some paint, find Dog and get the mudskippers working?”

  “We can do that later.”

  Djoss pointed down at the floor. “Don’t forget your coins,” said Djoss, “I’ve got mine.”

  * * *

  Corporal Jona Lord Joni leaned against a wall beside the back door. The Three-Legged Dog squatted on an intersection of three footpaths. Two of those footpaths went to the front door. One went to the back. The back footpath was a zig-zagging mess of old bricks, loose beams, and squatters in the ruins. The front way wasn’t much better, but at least the two roads passed between the Pens and the Ferry, and crowds walked on them.

  Jona had the bat in one hand and the sword in the other, and he held them up so everyone there could see him.

  Among the ruins, hollow eyes looked out from shadows at Jona like he was a piece of raw meat.

  Jona knew he’d hear the screams and footsteps pounding up the stairs, when Calipari struck. Until Jona heard commotion, he watched the crowd around him. Two men in black capes bled pinks. They trembled and passed an undercooked sausage between them. They growled obscenities at each other between their turns of bites of food. An abandoned chamber pot kept a fire burning where six or seven wadded clumps of rag watched the two men with the sandwich. They pretended to ignore Jona.