Unfettered II: New Tales By Masters of Fantasy

by Shawn Speakman

  The words settled on the hot air with more reflection than regret. Jak had waited three years for the farmer to admit it. Three years of field-hand work. Three years with Murar and his family in this small valley a day’s ride from the city. But men share things after enough time, and often when they’re working out in the sun.

  “That makes us a pair, then,” Jak said matter-of-factly, and kept watching the dry, dusty field.

  “That so.” Murar nodded as if it made sense enough. “You have an affiliation? Or run alone?”

  Jak caught a hint of skepticism. Didn’t matter. And it was time to tell him. “Dannire.”

  His employer swallowed hard, the sound loud in the dry silence. Murar turned to look at Jak, his eyes scrutinizing, searching for a lie. He found none. And the skin on his arms prickled as if brushed by a winter wind.

  “Dead gods, really? A holy clipper?” Murar’s voice tried to sound incredulous, but hinted of a tremble. “I figured Dannire was a thought model. A sort of kill-without-prejudice technique.”

  “I think the Dannire are misunderstood,” was all Jak offered. Sweat dripped off his nose. “What about you?”

  Murar didn’t seem to hear the question, muttering to himself. He was mumbling through the many myths about the Dannire: that they only worked cathedral districts and enemies of faith, that they could kill by thought, a handful more. But he kept circling back to the notion that the Dannire existed at all. He seemed stuck on it.

  “Couple of knife-and-alley men, out to pasture, then. That it?” Murar asked, making a poor laugh.

  Jak shrugged and mopped his face with a kerchief. “You needed help opening up new land for a beet crop. I’m not above shovel work.” He lifted the tip of his tool, then slid it back into the dry-tilled soil.

  “Come, then,” Murar pressed, getting a shade of his grit back. “Share a kill with me. Let’s have a Dannire story.”

  Jak smiled more genuinely. “I could use a break,” he said, and eased into a memory of the time when—

  I waited outside the door until the soft sounds of two people together—bed-linen sounds—came to an end. Then I slid into the room. In the dim light of a low-wick candle, the woman lay beneath a sheet, the man was already dressed. I cleared my throat. The woman turned to see me standing there, her expression one of confusion and irritation.

  “Jak Mylen,” I said, announcing myself to solve the mystery. “And you are Pamala Wright. Mrs. Pamala Wright.”

  The man stood and gathered a few things from the bedside table. I handed him three realm handcoins and a small vial as he passed me. He drank down the liquid before he left the room.

  “Think you’re clever, do you? Finding a woman with a man other than her husband?” From a tin tray on the bed-table, she picked up a lit tobacco stem. After a deep pull, she blew the smoke out in a slim stream. “And you needn’t have paid him. It’s not like that.”

  I smiled. “Like what?”

  Her expression twisted. “I’m no whore.”

  Shaking my head with amusement, I drew a chair from a small table and set it bedside.

  She flipped her tobacco stem at me, which was a nice surprise. I’d frankly expected more shame. Maybe pleas to keep it quiet. Promises to reform.

  “My husband’s a sheep,” she argued, answering an unspoken question. She lit another tobacco stem. “Follows the rest of the wagon-trade labor. No backbone.”

  “Married you when he’d rather not, though.” I sat and crossed my legs as one who’s keeping an appointment. “Because he got you pregnant. Seems like there’s some backbone to all that.”

  She shot a burst of laughter.

  I joined her. Why not? Then I looked around the small apartment. “I suspect this place has but one purpose, am I right?”

  She eyed me. “You’re a man who asks questions he has answers for.”

  “Guilty,” I said.

  “Is it names you want?” She took a long draw of her tobacco. “Or do you have something else in mind.” Her gaze grew suggestive.

  “You are remarkable,” I said.

  “Thank you.” She gave an impish look.

  “I don’t think you took my meaning.” I shook my head, still smiling.

  “I think I can take—”

  I held up my hands to stop her. Much as I might have enjoyed the barb-filled banter, time was short. “You’re spreading around a chlymic disease.”

  She looked down at her own womanhood, as if she might see something there. When she looked up again, her smile had returned. “I see. And you’re here to admonish me. For the public good.” Her eyes narrowed, searching for an insignia on my clothes. “You work for the League of Civility?”

  That’s when seriousness entered in. Into me. Into the room. “The husband you shame,” I pointed at the bed, “raises a child born crippled because of the disease you carry. He knows you take men into your bed in this private apartment.”

  She laughed again. This time it came caustic and casual. “I know he knows. I told you: no backbone.”

  I leaned forward, the chair legs creaking under my weight. I wanted to be sure she saw my eyes clearly for the next part.

  “Your husband won’t leave you because there’s honor in him. Honor for your child. For your marriage. Even, by every deafened god, for you.” I paused. “There’s a small bit of foolishness in that. But I respect the last hell out of him for it—”

  “Fine,” she blurted, “then you marry him.”

  I held my tongue a moment. Smiled. “I also won’t let his shame go on.”

  The woman opened her mouth to argue back, but said nothing. Her eyes slid to my long knives. Worry furrowed her brow.

  To settle her nerves, she took several long pulls on her tobacco. Her eye caught something on a short chest of drawers. “There,” she pointed, “I have bladders and sheaths for them all. Every last one of them. Their choice if they wear them or not.”

  I nodded. “Like this last fellow, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. And this one,” she wagged a finger at the door, “skittish he was. Wore both.”

  I stared at her a long moment before saying, “I know.”

  This time, her brow positively tied itself in knots.

  I sat back, crossing my legs again, examining my bootlaces, as I explained. “The bladder was protection from the sheath. You see, that batch of linen sheaths there,” I pointed to the chest, “has been soaked with a tincture of monkshood and belladonna.”

  Confusion spread on her face. “Linen sheaths are dipped in salt and herbs—”

  “Not this time,” I said.

  Another long silence stretched between us. We stared at one another. The woman raised a hand to her throat, sucking a lungful of air as if it was getting hard to breathe.

  “I added the belladonna for irony,” I explained. “Monkshood would have been enough.”

  “You bastard!”

  I shook my head. “Who am I kidding, the whole thing was ironic.”

  She looked past me to the door, as if to escape, or maybe with hate for the man who’d just left her bed. Then she lunged at me, fingernails angling for my eyes. I slipped to the side, and watched as she fell half out of her bed. She couldn’t gather enough air to push herself back up. I obliged, setting her again on her pillow, and pulling the coverlet up.

  “There, feeling better?” I asked.

  She gulped for air like a banked carp. Anger and despair mingled in her eyes.

  “I’ll take that as a gracious farewell, then.” I stood up, turned down the lamp to nothing, and slipped from the room as quiet as a prayer.

  Murar was nodding. “More poetic than I might have done,” he observed.

  Jak looked back over the irrigation ditch and its several turns between here and the river. “It doesn’t hurt for the one who’s dying to be reminded of her part in it, does it?”

  The story had eaten up the rest of the day, the sun now half below the western hilltop. Shadows were claiming the valley. />
  “Let’s be done for the day,” Murar suggested. “Light’s mostly gone anyway.”

  Jak nodded and picked up his shovel, heading for his field-hand shack. He could feel Murar’s eyes following him. But he left that alone. No harm in it.

  When he got back to the ditch the next morning, Murar was already at work. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but there were shadows around the man’s eyes. He hadn’t slept.

  Before Jak had scooped a single bit of dirt, Murar asked, “The Dannire, they work for the Church of Reconciliation, don’t they?”

  Jak broke ground a few strides ahead of the ditch, working the furrow back toward Murar. “Common mistake,” he said.

  “Another church?” Murar pressed.

  “Dannire work for themselves,” Jak explained. “But I understand the confusion. Reconciliationists call on the Dannire when things go bad. And I suppose our relative interests share more in common than most groups.”

  “I suspect they pay handsomely.” Murar grinned, his lower lip protruding as it did when money was mentioned.

  Jak laughed as he threw a shovelful of dirt. “Dannire don’t kill for pay. You might have just asked me if that rumor was true, rather than back into it with a clumsy comment.”

  Murar lowered his eyes to his work for several long moments. He kept shoveling as he asked, “How do you come by coin, then?”

  Jak’s laugh came easier this time. “We dig ditches.”

  The answer relaxed Murar, who chuckled as the two men connected their work to lengthen the irrigation trench.

  When they paused for their first break, resting their shoulders and backs, Jak broke the silence. “Occasionally, even a Reconciliationist needs to be corrected.”

  “You call them ‘corrections?’” Murar wiped sweat from his face with a dirty hand. The smear of dirt made his smile seem clownish.

  “You can have influence when you kill,” Jak explained. “Even if you’re doing it for coin, the death can have effect beyond your contract.”

  “You mean mourners?” Murar asked.

  “Not exactly.” Jak began again to dig as he explained . . .

  I finished putting on the last bit of my disguise, then turned into the city square where thousands had gathered for the beheading.

  I’ve always found the mix of emotions at these things interesting. Some folk are somber. Some prayerful. Some nervous. And there are always a few who seem eager. It’s as though they would wield the ax themselves, given a chance. Made me think of wolves with the scent of blood in their noses. They bare their teeth, lower their heads. And follow.

  I wound through the crowd, no hood. Hoods invite attention. Stupid thing for a killer. As I neared the platform, I heard the blackcoat giving a sermon. This one was a Reconciliationist. I knew him well enough.

  “It grieves me that it comes to this,” Asedia, the blackcoat, was saying. “But my commitment to you all is that even our own prelacy is not above our law.”

  On the platform before a wood block knelt another blackcoat, bound at the wrists. Marcus Chadburn was his name. A good man. Perhaps a bit dim, but that’s no sin.

  “Idleness,” Asedia explained. “Idleness that made him unresponsive to your needs. And while he was idle, spending his time at the supper table. For hours. Dining well from collected tithes. Growing fat on your labors.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Asedia’s gut couldn’t be harnessed by a belt—he wore his sash above his mighty belly. And by that time I was at the front of the crowd, a few strides from it all.

  “You find this humorous?” Asedia asked, looking down at me.

  I wanted to say, Not humorous, hypocritical. But I held my tongue. I had a different purpose here today. And instead, I mounted the platform stairs and stood facing Asedia.

  “If you’re going to plead for Marcus’s release, you’re too late.” Asedia spoke less to me and more to the crowd. “We presented it all to a temple jury. The sentence is final.”

  “No pleading,” I said.

  The truth was, Marcus was innocent. I’d been at the Cathedral for the jury. I’d followed up on the evidence presented to convict him. I’d trailed every person associated with the whole damned affair for weeks. I had evidence of my own. There was idleness and appetite aplenty. But it belonged to Asedia, not Marcus.

  When the rumors grew loud enough that the prelate herself was hearing them, Asedia needed a goat. Someone to pin the rumors to. There were things not getting done. Needs not being met. Storehouses running low. The work of the prelacy languished. And who better to pin all that to, than one too slow to really defend himself. One who might just believe the charges, because while he wanted nothing but to help, he also knew he was slow, and so might not think himself worthy of his place among the others.

  Marcus had given himself to this, thinking his sacrifice might set things right. I knew it, because I’d visited the man the night before. Took a final confession of sorts.

  I turned to the crowd of wolves. “Take a good look at us,” I called out. “You’ve come here to see blood. Justice, you think. And this man uses words to make you feel justified in your bloodlust.”

  Asedia reached out to try and silence me. I caught his hand and squeezed until he visibly grimaced and ripped his hand away.

  But the fat prelate wasn’t done. “None of us is eager for blood,” he countered, appealing to the wolves. “But if we, your servants, are not accountable to you, then who are we accountable to?”

  Our deafened gods? I thought.

  “I challenge you,” I cried out, pacing the front of the platform, glaring at the crowd. “Go back to your homes. We’ll see justice done, and you can be sure of it.”

  I knew none would leave.

  Silence and stillness fell over the square. Far off, a dog barked, the echo haunting, like an omen. Not that I believed in such things, but the timing couldn’t have been better. I might almost have thought that Asedia had it planned.

  “You see,” the fat prelate whispered at my side. “Accountability must sometimes be witnessed. This is not a bad thing. I commend you for your attempt. It sickens me, too, that we delight so in blood. But I’m afraid it’s not to be avoided.”

  The fat prelate’s look of shared concern was what sickened me. I couldn’t stand it a moment more. I nodded as though agreeing with Asedia—so as not to alarm him—and stepped behind him on my way from the platform.

  This would take some concentration.

  I stopped directly behind the fat man, put a foot around in front of his right boot, and pushed hard enough to trip him forward. I followed fast, in case he didn’t go down. He did, stumbling on his hands and knees into the block. In one swift motion, I ripped the ax from the executioner’s grip and took Asedia’s head off.

  I didn’t need the backstop of the wood to do it, either. My stroke was strong and clean. Asedia’s immense form slumped forward and rolled off the platform to the ground. His head tumbled and landed near Marcus’s knees.

  Gasps and howls and angry shouts erupted from the crowd. A few swords were raised. A chase would fast ensue. I gave Marcus a nod. Then I leaped from the back of the platform and raced up a rear alley. I had my escape route planned. And really, most of the city folk are pretty slow on their feet.

  “You killed a Reconciliationist blackcoat?” Murar asked, incredulity held in his eyes.

  “Dannire share common ground with clergy, but we’re not slavish to them. Though, I’d say they’re closer than the rest. On right ways, I mean.” Jak pried a large rock loose from the soil and rolled it out of the ditch.

  “Killers are all slavish to something. If it isn’t coin, it’s usually the thrill of it.” Murar stood bent over, his eyes fixed on Jak’s face. “What was it for you?”

  Jak straightened, stretching his back. “The right kill,” he answered. After a long moment, he added, “Avoiding the wrong kill.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the Dannire do work for hire?” Murar stood up too, joining Jak in an uns
poken break from their trench.

  “Aside from ditches, you mean.” Jak smiled. He really was enjoying the hard labor.

  Murar waited. He clearly wanted a response.

  Summarizing a killing way of life seemed trite, but Jak settled on, “Dannire try to make things right. For wrongs.”

  “Wrongs?” Murar asked. “And who decides these wrongs?”

  “Some are big wrongs,” Jak explained, “things you or I might hear about because they have broad implications.” He paused a long moment. “Some wrongs . . . no one hears about. They’re quiet wrongs. Made in small rooms or far places. Some of these . . . we answer.” He let his smile return. “When we’re not digging ditches.”

  Murar squinted, as a man does when he thinks. “But who do the Dannire answer to, then?”

  “Ah, I see,” Jak said, nodding to the apparent need his employer had to understand the flow of authority. “Let me answer with a question: When you were killing, why did you cloak your movements, hide your identity, kill at night?”

  “The strong law,” Murar said, as if it should be obvious. “Assassination is a death-crime.”

  “Precisely,” Jak agreed. “But Dannire don’t regard the authority of men. I don’t mean we ignore it. Though we do. It simply doesn’t enter into our plans. I guess you’d say it’s not a caution for us. And, if I may say so, civil guards—even army guards—pose little threat to a Dannire. We train . . . differently.”

  Murar was visibly struggling with such loose constraints. “But if you observe even a titch of Reconciliationist doctrine, you’re accountable—”

  Jak held up his hand. “That’s what I’m telling you: We’re not accountable. Probably because we don’t seek any reward. Not here in this life. And not in any life that might follow it.” He thought for several moments, then added, “There’s a unique liberation when you don’t regard the law, or even heaven, and only look after the right kill. Gives a man some sanction. A kind of peace.”

  The sun suddenly felt heavy. The broad yard close. On a sunny day, talking of death. Of Dannire killers. They were the unknowable threat. What little was said of them was misspoken. They were often called holy nightmares. The real nightmare, Jak thought, was that the Dannire were needed at all.