When We Were Executioners

by J. M. McDermott

  Jona grabbed at her and wrapped his arms around her. The drums rattled in her bones. Her ears ached. She pressed her palms over her ears.

  Jona grabbed her hands away, close enough to her face he could bite at them with his teeth if he wanted to.

  Bodies merged into the sound of bare palms and sticks pounding the drums. A hundred faces blurred.

  Rachel grabbed at Jona. He pulled her in even closer, jumping with her. The Nameless’ bodies pushed the lovers together

  in a swell.

  Their hips moved as one entity, merging like heart halves in

  a fetal chest.

  Blue finger streaks leaked down her face from the acidic demon sweat. Her eyes were wide, watching his ecstatic face. He

  laughed. She tried to jump higher, above the crowd. She was terrified. She was going to have to clean her clothes. She pressed herself into Jona’s powerful body with all her

  strength.

  She was full of joy.

  CHAPTER V

  Calipari’s note passed from Jona’s hand to the hand of a Sabachthani gate guard. They were in a tavern near the island. The city was sweltering hot, like it was as hungover as everyone else. The place was empty that afternoon.

  Jona had bought the man a tankard. They sat in a corner, where nobody could hear the words.

  The gate guard handed the letter back with a shrug. “Can’t read,” he said, “I know you, though, Lord Joni. You working with Calipari, right?”

  “Yeah. Calipari sent me. Tell me about the Chief Engineer,” said Jona. “I hear he’s coming to my streets. I hear he’s Ela’s people. We want to know who’s coming. You know, if he’s going to mess things up or leave us alone.”

  “That fellow? He’s a commoner walking around like he’s somebody, that’s what.”

  “Anything else?”

  Lady Ela Sabachthani arranged meetings with the Chief engineer by breaking her own canal. She sledgehammered a retaining wall until it cracked. Then, she sent a runner to get the engineers to help her with the repair.

  The Chief came from the palace, with his loyal engineers on hand to repair the breach. The Chief shared tea with Lady Sabachthani until his men finished fixing what she had broken.

  The man at the gate said that the Chief was a good tipper, like he had more money than even Lord Elitrean. He couldn’t have that kind of money unless he was dirty, and all the gate guards agreed about that.

  Jona agreed, too. Ela was probably bribing him for something. It was all related to the throne, and it was all Jona needed to know to not ask any more questions about it.

  This fellow was coming into the Pens. It had something to do with Ela. It had something to do with kings. Nicola would want to know that.

  * * *

  Calipari eyed his men at roll call. Tripoli looked hung over, bad. Calipari pointed at Tripoli. Calipari pointed at Jona. “You two,” said Calipari, “A city engineer wants some king’s men today. Dry season. Road work, and canals time.”

  “What took them so long to get down here?” said Jona.

  Tripoli coughed. His face was sick white. He tried talking again, but he kept coughing. Then he sneezed, and that cleared his throat. “What they need us for?” said Tripoli.

  Calipari shrugged. “Search me if I know,” he said, “but be good boys and do what you’re told. I don’t want to hear about any problems or you’ll be scrivening for a week at half pay. Something’s going on. I don’t know what. I want to keep the streets safe, regardless.”

  Calipari grabbed the senior scrivener—a fellow called Pup on account of how his tongue stuck out when he was thinking. Calipari strapped a sword to the boy’s back. Pup jumped to walk about with the Sergeant. He waved at the other scriveners, and the rest of the scriveners bit their thumbs at Pup.

  Tripoli and Jona waited for the engineer in the street. Tripoli yawned and coughed at the same time, and it sounded like an animal choking. He laughed. “I don’t know what we drank last night,” he said.

  “We were drinking from one of those hoses, Tripoli, and I drank you into the gutter, too.”

  “Sounds about right,” said Tripoli, “Hangovers are Elishta itself, sometimes.”

  “Don’t blame me, you can’t take the juice.”

  The Chief Engineer’s carriage turned down the road. Black horses with golden headdresses high-stepped down the street. The side of the carriage had the hammer and the snake of the city engineers.

  Only one engineer had a carriage.

  Tripoli stood up fast, and straightened his uniform. Jona kept his slouch. Jona sat down in the doorway. “Relax,” said Jona.

  Tripoli whistled at Jona. “That’s the Chief Engineer.”

  “I know,” said Jona. Jona faked a yawn. “He’s a good fellow.”

  “You met him before, Lord Joni?”

  “Naw, but I know him. He’s no noble. I can boss him around easy. Why you think Calipari volunteers me on him. Relax.”

  Tripoli ignored Jona. Tripoli stood with a straight back, and watched the carriage with large, black horses coming down the avenue.

  The Chief Engineer’s carriage crawled to a stop in front of the guard post. Tripoli reached for the handle of the door. Tripoli pulled it open like a coachman.

  “Thanks,” said Jona, to Tripoli. Jona jumped through the door.

  Inside, Jona had to let his eyes adjust to the dark. He held still in silence, blinking his eyes until he could see.

  Then, Jona saw the man inside. The man had leaned back, surprised by Jona.

  “Hello, Chief!” said Jona. Jona shoved his hand into the old man’s face. “We’ve met here or there, but I don’t think we’ve been formally proper about it. I’m Lord Joni, Corporal Jona Lord Joni. Nice ride you brought us.”

  The Chief Engineer was a tall, thin man. He looked like he had more bones than muscle. His white hair, rakishly swooped around a saggy, loose face. His lips pursed to hide an amused grin. He was trying to be serious.

  He took Jona’s hand, shook politely, and gestured to the street. “The pleasure is all mine. Mishle Leva, Keeper of the Keys and the Chief Engineer of the city. Please, meet me outside, Corporal.”

  Jona stepped back outside, beside Tripoli.

  The Chief Engineer peeled himself from the carriage seats. He planted his cane on the ground before he stuck his feet out. “And who else is working with us, today?” asked the Chief.

  Tripoli threw up onto his boots.

  “Don’t mind Corporal Tripoli,” said Jona, “He’s a little sick. That’s why he got stuck with us.”

  “How come you got stuck with us, Lord Joni?” said the Chief.

  Jona laughed. “I volunteered, Chief,” said Jona, “I hate to see Lady Sabachthani’s friends down here with just him for protection.”

  The Chief nodded.

  The Chief pulled a large, lumpy sack from the inside of the carriage. He reached inside, and rummaged through rolls of blueprints.

  The smaller of the two coachmen jumped down from the high carriage seat. He pulled a strange contraption from a side compartment of the carriage. This device was an odd mass of springs and slats, like a large, crushed cricket. The couchman strapped the device across his shoulders like a backpack. He adjusted a spring. Large boards opened like wings. From his belt, two hinged rods pushed the board out and up into a drafting table. All the fellow had to do was stand still. The Chief spread the blueprints onto his walking desk. Little springs and teeth held the paper against the wind. The servant held ink in one hand and a series of quills in his pocket. He dipped a quill in ink, and handed it back over his shoulder to the Chief. The Chief took the quill. His hands moved over the blueprint. He scribbled furiously. His old knees trembled, but his hands were musician still.

  Tripoli cocked his head at the contraption. “Don’t show that to Calipari or the scriveners’ll never forgive us.”

  The Chief nodded his head. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. He didn’t look up from his sketching.

 
Jona walked around to the blueprint. He peered over the Chief ’s shoulder. He recognized the sewer but he pretended that he didn’t. “Where do you want us to take you?” said Jona.

  The Chief Engineer pointed at a juncture in the lines and numbers. The Chief ’s finger paused as if Jona would say something. Jona didn’t say anything.

  “We’ll be closing off… none of the streets have names here, do they? Can’t afford street names… Well, we’re going to dig a small canal out of some old sewer lines,” said the Chief. “We’ll make an island out of all that slaughterhouse nonsense and animal storage, to promote the cleanliness of the Pens District. Butchers’ll have to take their meat directly onto the canals instead of the streets.”

  Jona snorted. “This district’ll never be clean. You and the rest wouldn’t set one suede boot down here.” He looked down to Tripoli’s boots, covered in regurgitated meat and bread. “Can’t say I blame you, either.”

  Tripoli scraped his boots one at a time against the carriage wheel to clean them off. “Shit Island’s better than Shit District, I guess, but it won’t keep the streets clean for long. Not as long as there’s horse shit and dry season.”

  The engineer gestured quickly to one of his servants. The man gently pulled Tripoli away from the carriage wheel. Tripoli nodded, and looked down at his boots, shamed.

  The Chief Engineer kept scribbling on his blueprints. “St. Lorraina Island, actually. She’s the patron of butchers, and all blessings to Imam’s flock for donating this name. Shit Island is where most of the fullers work, north of town. That’s what I call it, anyway. You ever been there?”

  “No,” said Jona.

  “Avoid it if you can,” said the Chief. “Makes this place smell like a rose.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Jona.

  “I can’t just wall off the fullers with a canal. They’re up in the country past the wall, working along the beachheads. Ever been to the beaches?”

  “Can’t say I’ve been anywhere, Chief,” said Jona.

  “Well, the only place worth going in the whole city is Sabachthani’s estate. Nothing else is worth the trouble.”

  Jona nodded.

  CHAPTER VI

  A maid drank too much in a tavern near the eastern wall. She thought Jona was a suitor sent by her father to spare her the horror of work. Jona walked in, saw her eyes light up, and sat down. If her suitor was coming, he’d have trouble finding her with another king’s man in front of her. She asked Jona if her father had sent him, and Jona said yes because she was dressed like a maid. She had blue eyes, pale as daylight, and she never seemed to smile. She drank and she told everything Jona asked about everything, drinking and drinking on Jona’s coin until she could barely keep here blue eyes open. She told Jona about Mishle Levi.

  The chief engineer, Mishle Levi, had a weekly meeting with the king, which had become pure ceremony.

  The chief engineer poured the king’s tea, helped the king drink his tea, and talked about the king’s sons as if the boys were still alive. The chief forged the king’s signature on anything he needed. He sent them to Lord Sabachthani, and if it came back, it was approved.

  Every branch of service was like that. The Captain of the Guard answered to no one, not even Sabachthani, just clearing his budget with the tax officials. The generals trained their men in seclusion in the forests, while noblemen vied for the loyalty of the soldiers. The bureaucrats moved papers from one end of the city to the other, collecting stamps and coins and stamps and coins, passing the coins up into an unknown aether somewhere above their heads.

  Foreign nations sent envoys to Lord Sabachthani. Nobles roamed unchecked in the streets, with no authority to pressure away their foolish intrigues.

  * * *

  Tripoli’s hands shook when he walked. The Chief pointed at Tripoli’s hands and Jona shrugged. Jona made the universal gesture of drinking alcohol. Jona took the hook off Tripoli’s back and carried both of the hooks for the grates, one on each shoulder.

  Tripoli clambered down the steel ladders into the darkness carrying the knotted measuring rope to the bottom of the sewer. He had to stick his hand into the lowest point of the sewer. His arm emerged brown to the shoulder after the grate at the bottom of a hill.

  After that sewer, he was coughing and choking and trying to crack a joke about what he had just done. He acted like he was about to throw an arm around Jona. Jona kicked Tripoli in the shin, and jumped away. Tripoli laughed, waving his filthy arm at the people walking past. They pulled away from Tripoli, some shouting curses to raise the dead.

  Then, Tripoli walked hurriedly—no explanation—away from the men. Tripoli stepped into this alley between two larger pens full of cattle. He ducked behind a pile of bones and bloody papers. He threw his pants down to his ankles. He aimed at the fence.

  Jona winced at the sounds—like a bucket dumping water from a high window.

  Tripoli coughed and cursed.

  Pedestrians—rowdies and gangers, all of them—shouted encouragement.

  “You can do it! Don’t give up!”

  “Breathe! You’ll get it out!”

  “Be sure to name her after your ma!”

  Tripoli shouted at the people to toss off. He cursed Imam and Erin. He cursed his mother, his father. He cursed his own name, then his wicked ways. Tripoli’s voice cracked in a raw scream. Tripoli fell over, clawing at the ground.

  The engineers who had been trying not to look couldn’t help it, now. Tripoli clawed at the ground. His face looked like dying. His mouth gasped like dying.

  And he was dying.

  Jona ran to him.

  Tripoli flopped in this puddle. A pool of pink blood collected around his ankles. His intestines, blown inside out, twitched in a purple shit blood stew from his body.

  Jona cried out for help.

  Tripoli clutched at Jona’s leg, gasping for air and bleeding. Wet shit and purple blood spurted out of the bloody funnels that hung out of Tripoli’s body like sausages being aborted.

  Jona tried to hold Tripoli. Jona tried to pick Tripoli up and hold him, and hold him still so he wouldn’t bleed so much.

  Then Tripoli was very still.…

  Mishle Levi, the Chief City Engineer of Dogsland, pulled Jona away.

  The Chief tried to light fire to the body with anything he could find. “That’s strong as demon fever,” said the Chief, “Typhoid, and bad. Worse than plague, that strong.”

  Jona’s stomach turned. It was because of him. “He must have picked it up from that girl we found, the nun,” said Jona, his stomach turning thinking about every time he and Tripoli had handed a flask between them.

  The Chief patted Jona’s back. “Maybe. Jona, you’d better burn that uniform tonight and bathe alone. Go find a temple and see if you can get some holy water or something to bathe in. We all will soon as we can.”

  One of the journeyman engineers produced a small keg of kerosene. He poured it all over the ruined body. Jona didn’t watch them burn the worst of the stain away. The mess burned like wood, but it was meat and it shouldn’t have burned like that. What remained, blackened and unrecognizable, was still whole, still human. That’s what a demon stain can do to a man, a real man, if there’s too much of it inside of him.

  The Chief sent for Sergeant Calipari, and pulled Jona away from the alley.

  Jona’s hands shook. His eyes were closed. He was thinking about all the times he and his fellows had handed a flask between them, and how many times someone had gotten a little sick but not really gotten sick enough to matter.

  And now Tripoli’s blown inside out, and burned on the street like a rabid dog.

  * * *

  Jona and Rachel were taking a break from dancing, and Jona was sweating, and Rachel was using her Senta winds to wick the sweat off her body before it started to pool in her clothes, melt them faster than they would otherwise melt from her demon stain. She hated how she smelled when she was sweating, like she could smell the clothes burning a li
ttle.

  Then the song changed, and they both needed a drink, and they went to the penny pot. One penny down, and they could drink as much as they could from this big rubber hose without stopping for air. Before they got drunk, they didn’t take the hose because they didn’t want to make anyone sick. After they got drunk, they figured everyone drinking at the hose was already drinking themselves sick, so why not drink at the hose?

  Rachel went first, and got enough down to make her eyes water. Jona didn’t drink much right then. He was trying to keep his head together.

  Jona tried to tell her she was beautiful.

  She smacked his arm. She told him to cut that out. “Why?” said Jona.

  “I just want you to, okay.”

  “Something else, then. Did you hear the criers? Big ship went

  down in the bay. Foul play suspected.”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” she said, “What happened?” Jona flung another penny at the barman, and handed the tube to Rachel. She listened while she drank.

  Jona looked past the bar, to the water far beyond the smoky room. “This big ship was coming in loaded down with all kinds of fancy wood. Somebody started a fire. Whole thing down in the bay, and everyone on board a dead man. King’s men in the Low Sticks were pulling bodies out of the water all morning. The sailors wouldn’t go down with the ship. They jumped— most of them on fire—right into the water, but they couldn’t swim far all burned up like that. No one was going to risk getting close to a burning ship, so nobody saved them.”

  Rachel choked, and shoved the tube spilling cheap alcohol at the barman. She wiped her sleeve over her arm, and gasped for air. She said, breathless, “No one got out?”

  Jona smiled, sadly. “No,” he said, “It was fast. Spread real quick. She must’ve been covered in something. Looks juiced, you know, but the ship never even anchored in the bay. Ship’s owned by foreigners. We checked up on the sailors a bit, and the people who were expecting some nice wood. Didn’t find a thing.”

  “That’s it? You just ask a few questions and all these sailors died?”