When We Were Executioners

by J. M. McDermott

  Rachel poured hot wine over the wound. Djoss gasped.

  “I knew that already,” she said. “It’s a weed, right?”

  “That’s what they call it,” said Djoss.

  “So, where does it come from? What kind of plant is this, and where does it come from?”

  “I don’t know,” said Djoss. “It comes from the stevedores,” said Djoss. “They drop it off. I cut it into smaller packages. We give it to the mudskippers and the ragmen. Who cares where it comes from? All we have to know is where it’s going.”

  Rachel keeps this thought she reserved for Jona, when they curled together, briefly, in the morning light. But where is Turco going, Djoss? A creature stepped off the ships one day, and the world behind him remained as mysterious as the weed that fed his desires.

  The Unity ignored Turco’s past, for his death. She looked at him sometimes, and she saw no hands, and no feet. She saw his legs moving, and his arms moving, but the man was like a ghost to her, floating through the air, unable to touch the world where he moved. Hands are the things that make a man. Hands are what helps him control his world. Without hands, without feet, just a hunger on the street, grinding down and going nowhere.

  When Turco spoke, she couldn’t hear anything from his lips but a gust of wind that blew in from the water and left as empty as it came.

  * * *

  My hand touched a large cobblestone.

  I looked around me at the road signs and the doors. I knew exactly where I was, in a flash of borrowed memories. There, the zig-zag path to the animal pits. There, the tobacco shop. That way, the red brick ruin of the old brewery. Six steps backwards and I was in the Pens District’s new canal, that had made this awful place an island. Six steps forward and old wheel-ruts from dozens of carriages that had stopped in this field of mud remained like statues until the rain melted the old ruts away in new mud.

  My husband asked me why I had stopped.

  I told him that I stood where Jona had killed the Chief Engineer.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Jona was on his own with a sword on his belt in case of trouble. He was supposed to watch the killing floor door to see if anybody came out without blood all over them.

  Nobody came off the abattoir clean unless they were dirty. Calipari had Jona doing this, looking for the smugglers the same way the mudskippers looked for them.

  In the distance, Jona heard the sound of a scrivener running closer. Street vendors in the distance shouted out to a king’s man, “Hello, king’s man! Hello!” Jona heard the king’s man shouting back, but didn’t recognize the voice. The voice was winded. This king’s man was running. Jona looked down the road to the sound of the vendors shouting.

  The private’s stomach bounced when he ran. He looked like a taller, heavier version of Geek without the muscle hidden under his flesh.

  “Sergeant made you run, didn’t he?” said Jona.

  The Private planted his hands on his knees. He gasped for air. He nodded.

  “Those street rats shouting hello at you?” said Jona. “Next time any fellow says hello to you like that, punch him in the face hard as you can. Don’t care if it’s your own mother.”

  “What?” said the Private.

  “They’re doing that to warn people you’re coming,” said Jona.

  The Private looked down at his boots. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and padded sweat off his face. His other hand pulled out a note for Jona.

  Jona held the note gingerly because it was sweaty, too. He read the note—the ink all bled from sweat like a printed mumble from Calipari’s clean hand. Calipari told Jona to head to Station 12. Jona scratched his head. “What’s your name, private?”

  “Sir?”

  “Your name.”

  “Kessleri, sir.”

  “Private Kessleri, you know where Station 12 is?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How far away is it?”

  “Far, sir. It’s north and east. Bunch of merchant homes. A few good markets. My brother lives around there.”

  “Did Calipari tell you why we’re going up there?”

  “We, sir?”

  “Yup. Did he tell you why we’re going up there?”

  “No, sir. I have other duties, Corporal.”

  “Then we’d better hop a cart. How much coin you got?”

  “Not much.”

  “I got a bit.”

  Jona jumped into the street at a meatcart. He threw his hands up at the driver. “Hey, driver!” shouted Jona, “Where you headed?”

  The driver reigned in his horses. He tightened his grip and scowled. The driver was about as old as Kessleri, but the driver was small as a child. He didn’t look like he’d keep his bench in a strong breeze. “You king’s men?” said the driver.

  “Yeah, but all we want’s a ride if you’re heading the right way. No trouble and no peeking where you don’t want us. Where’re you headed?”

  “You tell me where you’re headed,” said the driver. Jona laughed. He glanced sideways at Kessleri and nodded encouragement. Go on, Private.

  Kessleri curled his lip. “Don’t work that way,” he said. Kessleri put a palm on his pocket to push out a hard round thing like he was carrying a blackjack there. Jona knew that Kessleri was bluffing. It was probably a bottle of ink.

  The driver nodded. “I’m heading north,” he said, “I’ve got to make the far wall by sundown and stop a few times by and by.”

  Kessleri laughed. “North and which way,” he said.

  “What?”

  Kessleri pointed out the three directions with the hand that wasn’t holding his imaginary blackjack. “North and east, north and west, or north and north?”

  The driver shook his head. “I don’t know. Look, just get on, king’s men. We’re wasting time. I’ll take you north a ways, and you can steal another ride when you know which way I’m headed.”

  Kessleri nodded at Jona. Jona hopped on after Kessleri. Jona sat on one side of the driver, and Kessleri sat on the other.

  The driver snorted. “Safest cart in the Pens,” he said, barely under his breath.

  * * *

  After the ferry, the driver turned to the west. Kessleri and Jona gestured at the driver to slow down, and they jumped off. Kessleri pointed to the western road. “We can head this way a bit. We’re close.”

  “I thought you said the place was far,” said Jona.

  “Yeah, and we went far, didn’t we?” said Kessleri, “Look, we’re almost there. We just need to head west towards the second wall.”

  “We should’ve walked,” said Jona.

  Kessleri shrugged.

  Jona walked through the door and saluted the sergeant. “Corporal Lord Joni, and Private Kessleri” said Jona, “We’re here from the Pens. Calipari didn’t tell me anything.”

  The sergeant pointed over his shoulder at the cells. “Somebody show these Pens boys our little prize,” he shouted. The scriveners ignored the order, and kept their heads down over their papers.

  “Mopper,” said the sergeant, “Take the Corporal to the cell.”

  A skinny private with a harelip stood up. He looked like he was always grinning with that harelip, but his eyes were pissed. Kessleri looked at Jona like the Kessleri didn’t know what was going on. Jona gave away nothing. Jona stared Mopper down. Mopper, with the harelip, handed Jona a key. He pointed back to the last cell in the station. “We got your smuggler, Umberti, carrying enough pinks to cheese-for-brains three bulls and redroots, too. We wanted to roll him to the noose. Apparently Sergeant Calipari wants him, first. Now, I hear he won’t pay for his crimes on account of some other fellow you’re after.”

  “What’d he do to you?” said Kessleri.

  Mopper shrugged. “He’s ours. We don’t come to the Pens looking after trouble. Why you come to us to get yours?”

  Jona raised a hand. “It ain’t about us. It’s Geek’s thing. You know Geek, right? Calipari wants one of us to get stripes before he retires. Geek’s gotta put
something together big enough to take over the station in a couple months. If it wasn’t for that, Umberti’d be yours.”

  Mopper spit through the hole in his face. “This one started something he couldn’t finish, and now we watch him walk?”

  Jona nodded. “We’ll finish with him quick,” said Jona, “You see him again and he’s yours.”

  “Like we need your permission,” said Mopper.

  Jona gestured with his head at Kessleri. Jona walked past Mopper, and Kessleri followed.

  Umberti, his face all black and blue, looked up from his cell. “What’d you do?” said Jona.

  Umberti coughed. He didn’t say anything.

  “We’re taking you to the Pens, Umberti. My boy Geek wants to talk to you. Maybe you talk right, and you don’t come back here.” Jona opened the cell. He pulled a rope from his back pocket and bound Umberti. The rope didn’t seem necessary. Umberti’s leg was swollen up, and he could barely walk.

  “I’ll tell you what you want to know,” said Umberti, “Just don’t hit me again.”

  Jona laughed. “The man you’re singing to is Corporal Geek. Don’t even whisper a thing to us. I don’t even care enough to hear it. Me and my boy, we’re just mules, like you.”

  “There’s two of them. A Dunnlander and another fellow. A big fellow. Mudskippers blowing whistles and they all came for me. Took me down, stole what I was carrying. I go back to the Pens, I’m a dead man.”

  That’s how Djoss and his crew are getting away with it. The mules they hit are too scared to go anywhere, tell anyone. They lose their shipment, and if they’re still alive, they run.

  “Umberti, I don’t know what delusions you living with, but you’re a dead man here, and faster, too.”

  Out in the street, Jona made Kessleri carry Umberti like a porter with a sack of potatoes. Kessleri gasped for air and walked slow. Umberti just closed his eyes. He mumbled under his breath like he was praying to Imam.

  Jona knew Sergeant Calipari would appreciate making Kessleri exert himself. The private had been scrivening too long. The three had to stop on the way back a dozen times, to let Kessleri catch his breath. Umberti said nothing. He looked at the ground with pain on his face like a bleeding pig. Eventually, Jona got impatient, and stole the services of another cart headed south.

  Kessleri asked Jona what was going to happen to Umberti.

  Jona looked at Kessleri sideways because the private ought to know already. “Geek’s going to find Turco and his friend,” said Jona, slowly, “and he’s going to put the two into the two different rooms right next to each other. First one to sing lives.”

  “Umberti’s ready to sing?”

  “He’s just dead meat walking. He’s nothing. He’s a payoff to keep the real power off the mudskippers. We’re throwing him to the wolves. Stuff you never see written in a report, Kessleri. You’re late on the real work. And fat. I bet Calipari transfers you back out to signal fires on the outposts. I would, if I were him. Look at you.”

  Kessleri didn’t say anything in his own defense. He stank of sweat. When the king’s men returned to the Pens station with their prize, Kessleri collapsed into his scrivening chair like he was falling into a hole.

  Calipari looked at Jona knowingly and pointed with his eyes at Kessleri. Jona shook his head at his Sergeant. This private’s no good. The old soldier nodded. Jona went back out to where he was standing before he had to pull Umberti. The rest of the day he stood there, watching blood-stained men walk in and out of the killing floor.

  Most days it was like that.

  At shift change, Geek invited Jona and Kessleri to the Pits to celebrate the new bird with some bear-baiting. Kessleri said he was too tired to move.

  Calipari pointed at Kessleri, and spoke loud so everyone in the district could here. “He keeps on like that, he’ll never be more than a scrivener. Geek, you’re going to have to do something with him when you’re running the place.”

  Geek scoffed. “I’ll transfer him back to signal fires,” said Geek, just as loud. “Soft fellow’ll leave and we’ll get someone else tough enough to roll all the pinkers and drunks.”

  * * *

  Jona was at a bear-baiting at a pit under a bridge. The giant black bear had six chains bound to two metal collars holding her in the ring. She could stand up, turn around, and move a few feet. The chains came off anchors from old ships and had a sheen of rust on them, but they were solid enough to keep the bears from charging the crowd. This bear was starved and angry and standing up on her hind legs and swiping at the air.

  People behind her threw bits of trash at her. The bear spat white foam when she roared. Her voice cracked.

  They probably had been boozing her up. She probably hadn’t had a drink of plain water in days, and was so dehydrated she couldn’t think straight.

  The dogs were in a wicker cage at the edge of the pit, just as hungry and wild.

  The dogs—three giant wolfhounds as big as small ponies and vicious—busted loose of the wicker and bolted around the perimeter of the pit. They circled the chained bear. They barked like they were the kings of the pits.

  Jona had bet for the bear, and he already knew he was losing this bet with the drunk, weak bear and the ready dogs. Jona walked around the back of the crowd to go to the man selling bottles of warm gin from crates. The gin tasted like vinegar, camphor, and piss more than it tasted like gin, but it fuzzed a fellow’s head just fine.

  Jona paid for his bottle. Before he could open the bottle, a small stone smacked his back from the better seats above the rabble on the killing floor.

  Jona looked up and the Chief Engineer was up there, sitting next to a veiled woman. (Jona recognized Lady Sabachthani even with the veil, but he didn’t dare acknowledge her, even in his mind, lest his tongue slip while drunk.) The Chief leaned over the railing. He handed Jona a gold-embossed flask of expensive brandy. He spoke a greeting, but no one could hear anything over the crowd. My Lord Joni, said the Chief ’s mouth.

  Jona smiled and shouted Thanks, as loud as he could. Jona handed his own piss gin from the cheap barrels up to the Chief. The Chief nodded his gratitude. He popped the top of the bottle and raised the piss gin in a toast. The Chief poured the gin down his throat like a man in a desert. Jona couldn’t drink the piss gin without flinching, and the Chief did it like it was water.

  The veiled noblewoman laughed.

  When Jona turned back, one of the dogs had a broken back, and had fallen under the feet of the bear, whimpering and bloody and trying to crawl away with the one leg that was still working.

  Jona threw the flask’s liquid back so he didn’t have to watch. People cheered.

  One of the dogs got right up into the bear’s jugular—latched onto the bear and didn’t let go. The third dog was up on the bear’s back, chomping and clawing on her shoulders. The bear’s claws were awful, tearing at the dog at the throat, but the dead dog’s teeth never let go. Jona looked away.

  Men cheered. Men cursed. Men threw their tickets down. Men held their tickets up. Jona handed the flask to Geek. Geek didn’t look at what he was drinking by now. He just drank as much as he could as fast as he could. Geek passed it to the guy next to him, some nameless lump of uniform—the scrivener, Kessleri or Pup or anyone at all.

  The flask went to the next guy after that, and on through the crowd, and if the Chief wanted his flask back, he’d have to buy it from a fence.

  Jona looked back to the match in the pit. The bear was almost dead by now. The dead dog’s teeth had locked into her throat. The bear couldn’t roar. She collapsed to all four feet.

  The dog on her back, who had merely survived, was the victor.

  Jona looked back at the Chief in the good seats, but the Chief was gone. The flask was gone, too. The only thing that made Jona sure the Chief had been there at all was the warm aftertaste of good brandy.

  Pugilists jumped into the pit and helped roll the dead bear and the dead dogs to the edge where two fat women in aprons were going to cut
away the flesh of the three dead creatures and roast the meat on the spot over big cans full of hot coals.

  Jona had already eaten. He looked the pugilists up and down. Ugly men with cauliflower ears threw red drunk words at each other. They were older than Calipari. Their best fights were long behind them.

  Jona didn’t have any more money to bet. Jona waved at a drunk Geek. Geek didn’t see. Jona pushed through the crowd, crossed a field of carriages, and climbed up a small hill to get back to the streets.

  It hadn’t rained in three days. The summer sun was still up in the sky, right at the edge of the western skyline.

  Jona passed three sailors speaking gibberish. He thought about hustling them for a bribe. He turned back, but all three had disappeared into the crowd.

  (The thing about living in this city, Rachel, is that a fellow has to walk like they’re going somewhere, even when they don’t know where they’re going or else they’ll look like a mark or like trouble and everyone will see them there, and wonder about them.

  That may be true for men, Jona, but women linger and gossip and watch the faces in the crowd for lost boys, lost lovers, and all the men that are always walking like they’re going somewhere.

  Well, your brother had better keep his boots on in the street, else he might get a lasso around his neck. Troublesome folk are getting braver with their ropes these days.)

  Jona started walking.

  A knot twisted in Jona’s stomach when he thought about the flask disappearing into the crowd.

  Tripoli had died of demon fever. People got sick all the time.

  * * *

  Rachel ran a rag down Jona’s face. Little bits of blood had splattered across his face, but he hadn’t noticed until she had wiped the blood away. She didn’t ask about the blood. He didn’t volunteer anything.

  They both knew it was human.

  Rachel and Jona sat in a booth drinking red tea while the sun

  rose behind them. She sat against the wall, and tried hard to protect her head’s absent shadow from the slanting light. She was going to be late going home, and she didn’t want to move about in the slanting morning light. She wanted to wait until the sun rose enough to push the shadows into puddles underfoot, and hers would just be the wad of her clothes in the crowd. They were drinking red tea, and waiting. Jona had to go to muster, soon, but he didn’t care if he was late.