He wiped away another tear. He did have doubts. Did Mogyrk have doubts, also, before he gave his Signs to man? He had given Didryk a chance, yes, but what world would there be for him? His path had been cleared with murder. What good could proceed from that?
He had given the boy a foundation of bones.
The Aging of a Kill
- Vault of Heaven -
Peter Orullian
The air carried the sweet scent of ripe grapes. The sun above hot, but not unpleasantly so. Audra Vance sat back on her heels and looked up the long vineyard row. Harvest time. Wine-making season. She placed a cluster of grapes into a wicker basket, taking pleasure in such a simple routine task. Simple was always better. Beside her, Jenn Jonsan, ten years her senior, sat flush on the ground and mopped her sweaty face. Together they observed a mild quiet, before Jenn broke the silence, “It wasn’t always like this. Autumn in the vineyards, I mean. I built up to this by sending others to die.”
The words sounded like confession. But not regret. Their sound settled into the grape leaves and dry ground and made this corner of the vineyard feel private, important. Two years. Audra had been in the employ of the Second Counsel of the Court of Judicature for two years, waiting for this admission.
The admissions always came. The only question was time. Hard work helped the words along. Perhaps they were like toxins that needed to be sweated out of the body. Or perhaps weariness lowered one’s defenses.
“Me, too,” Audra replied.
“Really?” said Jenn. “And who have you killed?” There was humorous sarcasm inside the question. Not mean-spirited. More amused than anything else.
Audra gave the second counselor an even look. This part always came, too. “I was trained a Dannire.”
Jenn’s thin smile flattened, her critical stare sharpened. She sought any crack in Audra’s demeanor or conviction, to prove her a liar. But unsmiling faces and critical stares have no effect on a woman who’s spent a life killing. And Audra didn’t lie.
A look of approval and respect rose on Jenn’s face. Not the usual bit of fear. That was the way with politicians. They didn’t have a good sense of their own mortality.
“My abandoning gods,” Jenn remarked with some delight. “I would never have guessed. I thought the Dannire more a Reconciliationist fable. You know, to inspire conformity to church doctrine.”
Audra shook her head once. “Been a while since you’ve sat in a pew, I’m guessing.”
“Hard benches for soft minds,” Jenn quipped. “I figured the Dannire were the religionists’ way of pretending they had real strength.”
“Other than faith, you mean,” Audra countered, a wry smile on her lips.
“My faith is in the strong law.” Jenn mopped her face again, her eyes distant as one seeking to recall forgotten information. “As I recall, the Dannire worked against enemies of the faith. Killed without conscience or the consequence of sin. Took contracts without payment.”
Jenn shared a look with Audra, as though seeking confirmation. Audra stared back.
“Wonderful, then,” Jenn finally said. “Two women of consequence harvesting grapes in wine season. Should make for wonderful stories to pass the time.”
Audra gave that another thin smile. “You believe me then?”
“Tell you what,” said her employer, the woman’s voice suddenly that of the counselor who examines and argues and judges. “Give me the story of someone you’ve killed. A Dannire story. Let’s have some evidence.”
Audra nodded. “I see. I’m to be cross-examined, then.” She gave an easy laugh, the sound flat among the vine rows. “How about this—”
* * *
I slipped on my disguise and found my way to one side of the great platform on the day of the public court. Comes once a year. A throwback to before the Court of Judicature, when the crowd served as immediate jury and justice. Now it was almost theater. But the sentencing stuck. That was the important part.
It took place in the great square. And it was a fine day for it. Crisp feeling in the air. Autumn sun. Stones let up tendrils of steam as they warmed from the frosts of night.
On one side of the platform stood a young girl, twelve years old she was. On the other side stood a man, forty if he was a day. A second man, dressed in a jershire—the ceremonial robe of justice, long to his toes, and crimson as blood—paced casually between them.
“Who knows the challenge?” the mediator asked.
“I do,” I said, and mounted the platform on the girl’s side, giving her an imperceptible nod as I passed.
“Very well, I give way to you in this dispute,” said the mediator, who promptly left the platform.
I stopped dead in the middle of the rough planks, and eyed the two gallows looming over the defendants. They were meant to suggest that either could be at fault. Somehow their promise, in the light of strong afternoon sun, was just twice the death.
I then looked over the crowd, which stretched out of sight. Well mannered, they were. No one shouting or laughing or holding private conversation. They waited on my adjudication of the challenge. It would not go as they expected.
I gave the man a hard stare, and turned in the direction of the girl and strolled toward her. “He is not the first man to be found in your bed, is he?” I asked in a way that made clear it wasn’t a question.
There were a few gasps from the mob. Some sounded like distaste at the accusation. Some sounded like surprise that I was harping the girl and not the man.
The girl looked up at me, trust in her eyes. “I live at the foundling house,” was all she said.
For most of the crowd it was explanation enough. The ugly truths of orphan life were widely known.
“But you’ve a taste for older men, haven’t you?” I countered. “A unique desire for a girl your age.”
The girl said nothing, dropping her eyes to the rough platform planks. Some would see it as shame. I knew better. She let her chin dip to complete the air of disgrace. As her hair fell forward, the peeling skin on the back of her neck came into view. Scilla sickness. It had progressed.
I left off, and paced to the man at the other end of the trial platform. “She’s awfully young to bed down,” I remarked. “Are we going to find more girls plagued by your oily shanks?”
The man offered a nervous smile. Shook his head violently. “I didn’t know the lass’s age. She came on strong, and look at her. She’s fully a woman, don’t you think? A bit of facepaint and she could be your sister.”
I hate men who use horseshit flattery to try and ingratiate themselves to me. The insult of it burned behind my teeth. I took a long breath to moderate my response.
“You’re saying she’s the only one, then,” I said. “And that a man your age can’t possibly rape a child if she looks old enough to consent.”
“She came at me,” he argued. “All adult-like. And from what I know, there’s no law preventing two loving people from enjoying each other’s company.” His nervous smile rose again on his pocked face. It stretched his skin in white bands around puckered scars.
“Loving,” I muttered.
He nodded, tentative, shifting from one foot to the other.
“You’re saying she’s the only one, then,” I repeated.
“Of course,” he yelled. “What do you think I am?”
A goddamn liar. And bugger. I knew full well he visited the foundling houses on a weekly rotation. Paid hush money to some of the stewards, made hollow promises to the rest. That bit of knowledge had been easy to come by. Tailing a man who has lust on his mind is an easy thing. He’s led by his loins, and leaves caution at home.
I stared back at him long enough that he’d know I knew the truth. That crack of worry on a guilty man is a sweet thing to witness. I nodded imperceptibly.
Then I stepped slowly back to the girl. “Did you come at him?”
She shook her head.
“Did you fight his advance?”
She shook her head again and repeated, “I live in the foundling house.” Foundlings have no rights, her words seemed to say.
“And yet you’ve accused a ranking member of the Society for Social Reform of rape,” I said with some regret. “Without evidence of attack...without even your own refusal of his proposition... Did you know that false accusation of a leader of Social Reform is a high crime?”
“I don’t care for the betrayal, either,” shouted the social reformer. “You’ve sullied my reputation.” He pointed at me. “You find her guilty, you hear me?”
Some men you just can’t wait to slip cold steel into.
I turned back to the girl. “Anything more to say?” I asked. Hard thing to try and balance compassion and objectivity. It’s like listening to a sophist talk about love and marriage. Some things, some words, only have meaning because of the way they make you feel. Otherwise, they’re horseshit.
She gave me one last look. There might have been a plea in it. It was hard to say. A long moment later she simply shook her head again. Goddamn brave lass.
At the rear of the platform, a barrel-chested man stood stock-still in a full hood with only eyeholes cut for seeing. I nodded to him. He came forward, lowered the noose, and helped the girl step back beneath the crossarm. He tied her hands with a gentle touch. He then pulled a hood like his own, except without holes for seeing, over the girl’s head, and tightened the noose around her neck.
This wasn’t a typical gallows. No trapdoor. No drop lever.
The big man then stepped back, and took hold of the rope, waiting on my signal.
“For the accusation against a member in good standing of the Society for Social Reform, we sentence...” Silent gods, her name. What was her name?
“Sarah,” the girl quietly offered, the sound of it muffled through her hood.
Goddamn brave.
“Sarah,” I repeated loudly for the crowd, “to hang. By this, justice is done. Let anyone argue,” I invited, as was the tradition. “But a word of caution. Once you let an urchin dictate justice, beware the streets. They’ll fleece you and stick you and call it your fault.” A harsh statement they’d remember her for.
A mild wind passed over the great crowd. None spoke up. They only gazed on, some eager, some curious, some with a flat look in their eyes.
I gave it another few moments, then quietly spoke a word. Not a word anyone would know. And only loud enough that Sarah could hear it. To activate the poison in her blood. Her eyes shut, and she slept. Deep and unwaking.
I nodded the signal.
Without ceremony, the barrel-chested man pulled the rope, and raised Sarah off the platform. The girl didn’t kick or struggle. She swayed a bit. The crowd grew dead quiet. A heavy blanket of silence fell down around us all.
* * *
“So you used the annual public trial to kill a child?” Jenn remarked. “That’s your killer’s story?”
Audra remained silent.
The second counselor laughed. “The insinuation of a young girl’s shabby box to condemn is hardly new. I’ve been doing it in private chambers for years. I swear,” she said, smiling, “I’m the only real protection our esteemed pedophiles have in this country.”
“I know.” Audra plucked a grape and placed it on her tongue.
“Still, I’m not quite sure I understand.” Jenn’s brow furrowed with concentration. “Was it mercy? Killing the child, I mean? You being a holy clipper back then, I would have expected you to put a knife in the shanky reformer.”
Audra thought about the girl. About Sarah. “Some killing is at request. Some for personal conscience.”
“That’s cryptic,” said Jenn.
“Do you mean like the logic of a counselor who protects pedophiles?” Audra stood, picked up her basket of grapes, and headed for her small quarters off the main lodge.
Counselors in general took their posts in order to give their self-righteousness some authority. It would be burning in Jenn that Audra hadn’t let her have the conclusive word in their exchange. Small victories have their sweetness.
The following morning they met at the mash vat, a wide deep oak tub filled to the knee with grapes. Jenn sat to one side methodically washing her feet and legs. Her brow was still pinched.
Audra had barely sat when Jenn set in, “You can’t have been working for the Church of Reconciliation, then. They’d never authorize the killing of a child.”
Audra let the latent question lie while she washed her own feet and legs and stepped into the vat. As she began stomping grapes, she replied, “Dannire work for themselves.”
“That might explain why they seem more a fable than a real institution,” Jenn reasoned. “But it doesn’t explain the connection to the Church.”
Jenn climbed into the vat and began to mash grapes. Together they stepped high and slow, feeling the juice squish between their toes. Audra never lost her balance. Jenn held the side of the vat.
“When there’s damning work to be done, the Reconciliationists call on the Dannire.” She paused, gathering a second thought. “And Dannire share certain ethics and ideals with Church-folk.”
“Meaning a woman like me has no ethics or ideals,” Jenn challenged.
Audra let that go. She wouldn’t be baited. “A kill is made for reasons. Not gain.”
“Everything is gain,” Jenn countered. “No one does a thing except for advantage. Coin is the most obvious, but certainly not the lowest.”
The smell of grape mash rose in waves around them. It carried a tart, pleasant scent. Their feet made sucking noises as the grapes became a thick slush. Mashing was meant as a civilized bit of work. Genteel. Something that would become a story to tell at polite gatherings in the company of influentials. Everything is gain.
Audra felt the tug of another wry smile. “No,” she agreed, “not the lowest. It reminds me of the time...”
* * *
I strode the polished marble floor of the Eneri Bank. My footsteps echoed out over empty chairs and desktops and up the high-vaulted ceilings. I’d come after hours. More conducive to my business. The lights still burned full, shining off brass-hooded lamps and gleaming on other instruments of measure. The whole place held a feeling of latent industry. One could almost hear the buzz of focused conversations that hummed here during the day. Just now, only one ministry banker occupied the cavernous offices. My appointment.
I settled into the chair opposite her, waiting patiently as she concluded some calculations. I’m not new to math, or even ledger-work, so I could see she was deliberately stalling, making me wait. The game of power had already begun. I was going to enjoy this. I removed one of my short knives and began to work it with an oil rag.
Eventually, the woman dabbed her pen with a cloth, set it aside, closed her book of accounts, and folded her hands atop the ledger. The look she gave me was practiced patience. She wasn’t naturally given to this part of her job—dealing with clients. She preferred accounts. I’d seen as much in her private affairs—she hired agents to manage land holdings, public businesses like meal houses and liveries. But she was mighty with her registers. Those she managed during the day. And those she managed when the bank was closed.
“You want to establish an account?” the patient-faced banker asked.
I ignored her question, and continued working the knife-steel. Not in a threatening way. More as an irrelevant task that was more important than answering her question.
“An account?” the banker repeated.
Without looking up, I replied, “I have a considerable sum of money that needs to appear legitimately earned.”
“How did you earn it?” she followed.
Straight-talker. This should go well. “How is that your concern?”
“There’s an art to cleansing ill-gotten money,” explained the banker, tapping her ledger. “The industry you name should bear a relation to the actual source.”
I knew all this. I’d
read her ledgers. But I led her down the path. “I don’t follow.”
Her patient smile faltered at the edges. She blinked slow and drew a deep breath. “A pirate’s bounty,” she further explained, “might be listed as mariner shipping. In an audit by a legal agency, a rational explanation for the confusion can be offered. Accusations dismissed as one man’s misunderstanding of your business practices.”
“Clever,” I congratulated her. “But what if we’re talking about a large sum? An amount any intelligent person would know isn’t standard fare for dockside trade?”
“Look around you?” she invited. “Does it look like we can’t handle a large exchange?”
I didn’t look around, instead tightening my focus on the banker and choosing my words carefully to coax the desired response. “I’m not here in the light of day, when you no doubt scribble in a different ledger—one for the ministry bank. I’m here now, with private business.”
The woman shook her head, her impatience getting the better of her. “Wrong,” she blurted. “You’re here now because you’re cagey. There is no other ledger for the ministry bank, and you may be glad of it. To cleanse money, you put it on the public record. You make it available to auditors. You invite them to scrutinize its source. When you do these things, most actuaries won’t bother. They’re trained to look for anomalies. And it’s not healthy for them to find fault with large accounts, in any case. What do you suppose would happen to our solvency if foreign depositors pulled their money from our vaults because an auditor found us incompetent?”
“You take foreign deposits?” I asked, knowing full well she did. It was a point of personal pride for the woman.
Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists Page 42