We Leave Together

by J. M. McDermott

  I hate…

  Ma, I know. This is how it is. If I can send a note, I will. That’s all I can do.

  Did you catch anyone bad tonight?

  Yes, we did. We caught a king’s man in a hookah pit more cheese than alive. We ran the whole place down. Did you hear the riot bells from here? That was us. That was us bringing down one of our own who went as bad as it gets. That was me hunting him and finding him, and he was on my crew.

  Oh. Did you know him well?

  I did, Ma. Been running with him since I don’t know when. I rang the riot bells, and now he’s walking to the noose. His head’s going to be on the wall and I was the one sent him to it. I knew him since I was just starting out. I knew him so long, Ma, and I was the one finding him and ringing the bells.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry, too, Ma. I’m sorry I didn’t send a note. I know you worry about me.

  CHAPTER 7

  Bricks and rotting wood and the oily dandruff of the paint that had bubbled and cracked and fell like tiny, dirty snow from the wet heat.

  Rachel ran her fingers along the edge of her own room.

  She couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she dreamed of Djoss grabbing a good man in the dark, throwing the good man against a wall and shoving a knife into the good man’s stomach. She dreamed of Djoss snatching ragpickers by their ankles and lifting them upside down to shake out all their coins. She dreamed of Djoss slipping his hand into an open window and grabbing anything he could fence. She dreamed his hand found a neck and he squeezed off the skull to sell with his big hands.

  She dreamed of Djoss in a pink pit, his eyes glazed over like he was dreaming of Rachel dreaming of him dreaming of Rachel dreaming of him dreaming of Rachel dreaming of him dreaming of Rachel dreaming of him…

  Where did the dreamcasting end, and the dreams begin?

  He came home, when he came home, with no food. He opened the cupboards looking for food. He ate what he found, raw. He slept with his back to Rachel if he stayed long enough to sleep.

  They had stopped talking to each other.

  Silence is a word, too. Silence is a terrible word. Silence is the sound of bridges crumbling in the dark, of flowers wilting, of dead tongues.

  ***

  Once he knew where to look, it was so simple. Jona took Geek with him into the Pens. They passed the feedlot where animals were droved into pens marked with their owners. They came in on ships, and overland, and sometimes they were just pulled in one at a time from someone who had an animal on his own and wanted to sell it. All the killing happened here. Animals were pushed and prodded into narrow stalls, smashed with hammers or cut across the throat to bleed out. The House of Sabachthani owned the building, and pushed the law through that made all butchers licensed, all meat passing through these walls. And, Jona knew where to look.

  “I see it there, Geek,” said Jona. He pointed at Havala Veriki, prodding at a large wagon crate with a prybar. It was the kind of crate that came on galleons, big enough it was too big to move overland, too big for carts and wheels. It would come up from the bowels of a ship on a crane, land there, and stay there. Havala Veriki was the man at the gate with the crowbar, waiting for them. As soon as Jona and Geek came in, he knew. He didn’t pretend he didn’t. He saw from across the room. He grabbed a crowbar and stepped up to the right crate. Havala Veriki was resigned, pale.

  “It’s a sheep shipment from a boat. It sits around a few days. Pull the numbers off the lot and go get the paperwork. I want to know who owns the shipment. Move fast. We got to move fast before anyone knows what we’re doing.”

  “You sure this is a good idea?”

  “It’s a terrible idea, but do it anyway, Geek. If it’s good enough, you can take the bars for it in the write-up. Move fast.”

  Havala Veriki was there, and said nothing to Jona. Havala wouldn’t even look up.

  “Go on, then,” said Jona. “Go to the business, man.”

  Havala pressed his ear against the door. “I don’t think it’s ready,” he said.

  “Crack it, or give me the crowbar. Doesn’t matter to me.”

  Havala looked down at the crowbar and thought about it. He pushed it into the wood and half-heartedly worked it.

  “The sheep come in, and we don’t open it,” he said. “Comes off the Island and we never open it until it’s quiet.”

  He worked at it a little harder.

  “You’re going to get us both killed,” he said.

  “Don’t got any guts in these Pens with all these hard boys?” said Jona. “This is on me, not you.”

  Jona looked around, seeing how many men there were watching from the corners of their eyes. There were hammers that killed cows, here, and men who carved meat with knives all day. Jona was alone on the floor, with Havala hesitating and play-acting.

  Jona shoved him aside. He pressed his ear against the wood, and heard the baying and shuffling and scratching. He cursed and slammed the crowbar into the slats, pushing hard. It cracked, and the smell hit, nearly blowing Jona over. It was a smell like rancid blood and flowers in bloom.

  Havala stood sheepishly beside it, willing himself not to look.

  The shipment of sheep was not of sheep at all. The animals bayed and keened, and some were as big as sheep, but the weed was in them, growing pink and flowering from inside of their guts and shoulders and necks. It was a vine that wrapped around them. Without tongues to truly howl their pain, they could only grunt and wheeze and occasionally bay a bit, with muted voices.

  Dogs, carrying the weed that grew into their very skin. The foreman refused to look. “Ain’t supposed to open this cart for another week at least. Ain’t supposed to even open it.”

  “It’s open now,” said Jona. “Look at them. Do you see?”

  The foreman was afraid.

  “Do you see this?” said Jona. “Do you know how to make a dog grow a weed like that? Do you know what kind of plant that is?”

  The weed was sick and purple-veined, feeding on blood and soul not light. The flower bulbs were open, redder than blood and stinking of dead meat. Jona knew the smell too well. It smelled like his own blood. The demon weed came from demons, somehow. It was a demon, or a product of one. He curled his nose.

  “Why won’t you look at what you do?” he said, to the foreman.

  “I’m paid not to look,” he said.

  Jona grabbed him hard at the back of the neck and arm. Jona wrenched him into the wall, furious. Then, Jona threw him into the crate to look and fall into the stench of dying dogs and living weed. He slammed the door. The foreman didn’t scream. He whimpered a little, then began to cry. It was a quiet thing, barely as loud as the tongueless dogs that died inside the crate.

  The abattoir was bustling, but once the crate was opened, all men had backed away and fallen still. All the men stood or worked around the far side, away from the crate. Dead animals were splayed open, gutted, hacked. Living animals keened and moaned in fear beyond the walls. The men here were silent. They wouldn’t even look up. They just pretended to be working somewhere far away from the crate.

  Jona grunted at them. These men, who refused to see, refused to fight. It’s no wonder Salvatore had lived so long here, and Jona’s father and grandfather, too. No one wanted to look at what was right in front of them. They were afraid to look. These tall, strong, hard men who carried knives to work and muscled down cows and horses with their bare hands and iron hammers were afraid to open a crate.

  Geek was in the main office digging through papers with a note sheet ready.

  “Hey, Geek,” said Jona. “We don’t need to worry about that stuff.”

  “Why’d you send me over here, then? Bloody hell, Jona, you know I didn’t want to stick a finger in the hornet’s nest.”

  “I know where the ship came from. I saw what was on it, and I know where that came from, too. I know, Geek. I know everything. Frankly, now that I know, I think it’s better no one else does. If I can stop it, I will, but�
� I won’t. I can’t. The ship came from the Island. I know where it came from. I know who.”

  He crumpled up the sheet of paper and threw it on the floor. “Calipari told you that, didn’t he, back when you started poking into this business? Anyone could’ve told you that. Bloody hell, Jona. Might as well be digging a hole to Elishta itself.”

  Jona nodded. Back at the station house, he wrote a report and handed it to Calipari. The old sergeant folded it in half. “Do you want me to read this?”

  “Sure,” said Jona. “Not a lick of it is true. Read whatever you want.”

  “Can I send it up to processing? Can I send it to the captain?”

  “Yeah. I have to go,” he said. “Sorry I’m not walking about, but if I don’t get ahead of that report, my ma and me don’t survive the night.”

  “Are you leaving town?”

  “No,” said Jona. “I won’t leave town, and I won’t tell you where I’m going. Should be all right, though. Hey, how long have you known?”

  “I make a point of not knowing, Lord Joni. I do everything I can not to know because long live the king and all that. You can be a fool if you want, but I’m sending Geek to ground with enough coin to pay for his hiding hole. I wish you hadn’t dragged him into your folly.”

  “Right,” he said. “I’m going to go see someone I know and let him know it was all a mistake, and I’m hushing it up. I got a copy of the report I’m sending up the chain. Any heat comes down to me. Geek will be fine, I think.”

  “I’m almost done. I’ll have land out there, where me and Franka can raise a family and work the land. I got a letter from her just the other day. Watch your step, Lord Joni. I hope you get your officer’s fleur and marry a nice merchant’s widow and get out of this mess with your skin and your teeth on the same bones.”

  Jona nodded. He stood a long time, looking at Nicola, and Nicola looking back. Both men looked so tired.

  Then, they both went back to work.

  CHAPTER 8

  The first real, hard rain of the turning seasons came. The clouds blew in from the ocean when the city slept, and by morning, the oppressive weight of the air gave warning of what was to come. By mid-morning, the air was so fat with water, it could no longer hold. The rain fell. This was a rain to melt old roof tiles and flood new sewers and old sewers alike and to wash all the city raw. There were no people anymore, just parasols and high boots and cloaks. Everyone that could found shelter from the storms. In the Pens district, in every house and working building, empty pots filled up with water to be dumped out windows. In the empty rooms, water filled up the floors to rot them out. It was the season when squatters were tolerated who would be willing to handle the flood. It was the season when every doorway became shelter from the storms for dogs and people who might as well have been dogs.

  Mishle Leva’s final canal wasn’t finished. Water would have to erode the final stretch with mud spilling over the malformed shoreline, cutting its own pools and runnels down the seven or eight blocks to the edge of the docks. A pinker talked about how nothing ever worked right down here, and about how the people had all melted away, and that’s why no workers were left to finish the canal.

  This pinker, I’ll call him by his true name for there was someone observing him. Djoss was his name and his listener didn’t know it—leaned over to the fellow next to him in the bar and explained these mysteries. Salvatore heard Djoss’ story. Salvatore leaned over to the woman he was with, Mishaela—her of the luxurious red hair and the lonely heart.

  She, Mishaela, leaned over to Djoss. “Tell me, fellow,” she said, “How long have you been sucking on the hookahs?”

  Djoss mumbled something about a red parasol, staring at his own hands.

  Mishaela touched Djoss’ arm. “You want some money?” she said, “You can head down a bit if you get some of that. You bring me some jewelry and I’ll give you some coin for it. Go get me some jewelry and I’ll buy it off of you.”

  Djoss pushed her hand off. He stood up. He turned from the bar. He walked into the rain, no parasol and no hat and no cloak to keep the hard rain from falling on his skin like warm needles.

  Salvatore kissed Mishaela’s neck. “That got him moving. You up for a kick?”

  Mishaela took Salvatore’s hand. “Poor fellow can’t tell a lady from a parasol.”

  “Maybe he did,” said Salvatore. He pulled Mishaela up to her feet. “You need any redroots? They got ’em here.”

  “I can sleep all day if I want as long as dinner’s on time. I told you that.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “He’s nothing but trouble, but I’m bored. Think he might be carrying anything?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I’m bored, Salvatore. I’ve lived here my whole life and I don’t care about the rains.”

  The storm embraced Salvatore and Mishaela harder than they embraced each other. It shattered on Salvatore’s big, black hat. It slid over the lip of Mishaela’s parasol like a walking waterfall.

  ***

  Djoss stumbled down the street under the full weight of the rain, unaware of his audience. The lighters didn’t walk around in this. The streetlights lasted as long as the kerosene inside of them. In and out of the flickering light, Mishaela couldn’t follow Djoss with her eyes. Salvatore, with his ancient eyes, could.

  Salvatore followed Djoss. Djoss’ cheap, dirty linen shirt clung to his skin like water-proof mud.

  Salvatore pointed at Djoss’ back down the street.

  A strong gust blew rain up into Salvatore’s face. His hat blew back. Mishaela angled her parasol to protect Salvatore’s face. Their capes caught the wind but didn’t fly out far with the sheets of rain falling hard.

  Djoss stopped to gawk at every shop window, and all of them were closed.

  Dogs stumbled in and out of the alleys, watching the scrap trash rinsed away into the rivers that flowed to the sewers, and all the smells of the city merged into one mud smell and all the boots of the people—where dogs saw them—were caked in mud and all the dogs were caked in mud, too. All the daylight rivalries found a truce in the rising mud. Dogs huddled together to stay warm in the covered places out of the blustering rain beside cats and rats and large birds.

  When Djoss staggered like he was going to fall, Salvatore held his breath. “He could drown on his back with his mouth open like he is. We’re counting on our fellow to lead us to coin, not drown.”

  Djoss turned down an alley that still had plenty of streetlight. A red line of paint—gambling—hid in a corner between a boarded up basement and a large fence. On the other side of the fence, boar pigs tried their best to sleep. The muted grunting snores from the animals were not as powerful as the smell.

  Salvatore gestured with his neck. Mishaela didn’t see it. Salvatore pointed at the door. “Red door. Card game,” he said.

  Mishaela nodded. She squinted into the rain. She saw nothing but rain.

  Djoss pounded on the door. It opened into blinding light. A black shadow filled the entryway with a club over one shoulder.

  “You up, wet bear? This is a five table. Five gets you in the door.” The man chortled after he spoke. Djoss looked like exactly what he was: a pinker desperate for more coins to fall into the hookahs.

  Djoss tried to push into the room.

  The man pushed Djoss back with his free hand, and adjusted the club on his shoulder.

  “I need to know you can stand the table. Got any coins?”

  Djoss scowled. One leg dropped back and his back hand curled into a fist.

  “Didn’t think so, pinker.”

  The man turned to close the door.

  Djoss’ pendulous fist cut through the rain. Mishaela heard the thump of knuckle on the back of the bouncer’s head, where the neck and the skull connect. Djoss was still strong. No one expects pinkers to be strong.

  The bouncer fell into the table. Furniture crumpled inside the room.

  Djoss went in with his fists up.

  Salvatore
told Mishaela to wait for him. Salvatore jumped down the alley. Mishaela didn’t wait. She jumped after Salvatore, and slipped a kitchen knife from her sleeve.

  Salvatore unfolded his blackjack from his pocket.

  A king’s man—I’ll call him by his nickname: Geek—pulled Djoss out from the room with Djoss’ arm pulled up behind the back.

  “Calm yourself, killer,” said Geek. “You got some rowdy stuff in you doing like that when your head is all cheesed. You just want some coins so you can suck on some hookah somewhere, right?”

  Geek pushed Djoss off into the rain. Geek pulled a few coins from his belt and threw them at Djoss’ feet.

  “Get out of here,” said Geek.

  The bouncer who had been struck in the head had not, in fact, been holding a club. He had the steel weapon in his hand now, and the thick wooden sheathe in the other. The steel flashed and flickered where it wasn’t dusted by rust.

  Djoss bent over to collect the coins. Geek turned around to go back to the game. Geek saw the bouncer with the rusty sword out, cutting at the rain. The bouncer had that angry sneer on his face that meant only one thing from a red door bouncer with a sword in his hands.

  Geek held up his empty palms. He shouted for the bouncer to cool.

  The bouncer lunged.

  Geek shouted, “No!” He jumped in front of the bouncer, and grabbed at the man’s sword arm. The two giant men crashed like ramming ships, then crumpled into a heap of breaking masts and shattered hulls.

  The bouncer ended on top. He stood up. He didn’t have the sword in his hands.

  Geek didn’t get up. In the crash, the sword blade was angled down his back, and he had fallen on it. And he made soft gurgling noises in his throat, but the rain drowned him out.

  He looked up into the storm clouds. He looked up into the rain that ate tiles and nibbled at foundations like rats and filled the sewers up until everything spilled over into the canals. The rain seemed to be everything gray in the world, gray water falling from gray clouds and his eyes were gray now, too. The rain washed Geek’s blood away, washed his skin away, washed him away forever.