When We Were Executioners (22 page)

“Just staying out of the rain?”

“What else is there?”

“For us, I don’t think there’s much more than that.” “You see your brother, lately?”

“Yeah, but… I don’t know.”

“I won’t roll him. Promise. I can tell you he’s doing something he should worry about if you think he’s up to no good. He probably is.”

* * *

He came to me last night before we went dancing. I got a full night’s pay for it, but when he came with his friends, I was sent home. Everyone was paid and sent home.

That doesn’t sound good.

If they paid her to leave, she left. Whatever happened at the brothel was none of her concern if she wasn’t cleaning up afterwards. Jona saw her. He ran across the street and asked her what was happening. What Rachel didn’t say: Her brother had bought the place for one night, to place a pipe in the kitchen. They didn’t want her around in case of trouble. What trouble? Dog sat at the hookah pipe, pushing coals underneath the water and stuffing demon weed into the bowl without a word. He smoked like he was sucking on a teat. He coughed up blood. With the blood, he painted three crowns over the door. Djoss was the watchout man. He pulled the owner aside, and pointed at his sister.
Send her home. I don’t want her here. I didn’t know she was going to be here.

Turco offered to walk her home.

She said yes, because Turco had helped her, and because he was working.

She changed her mind.

Then, Jona was there, hid in a dark corner, and watching something in a tavern where people were dancing. He stepped over to her, waving hello. She smiled. She thought to introduce Turco to Jona, but she didn’t really know what to say about the men to each other.
This is the king’s man I know. This is the ganger I know, smuggling demon weed.

No matter. Turco was gone into the tavern like he wasn’t there at all.

“Come on,” she said, to Jona. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

“That your friend?”

“No. My brother’s friend. He’s… Well, he’s all right, but I just don’t… um… I don’t think he wants to say hello to you.”

“Yeah. We were looking for a Dunnlander.”

Then she’s laughing. “I’m sorry. Hard to imagine anyone looking for him. He’s not much more than a dog.”

“If you say so.”

Turco’s job, then, was a tout, if Djoss was on the door, and Dog was at the pipe, Turco was walking around, looking for people who wanted to smoke, and telling them exactly where to go. He knew the city better than Djoss. Dog had his tongue cut off, his ears mutilated, and too much weed to keep things straight. Jona pointed to the tavern Turco had entered, but Rachel shook her head.

“Anywhere else. Anywhere at all.”

Jona and Rachel escaped the night in this corner café. Jona ordered plain red tea. Rachel slammed three glasses of cheap gin. Rachel laughed. She tried to cool the alcohol burning in her throat. She conjured ice from midair and tossed the balls of ice into her mouth to cool the burn. When the cold stung her, too, she pulled it out, then back in again to cool the alcohol burn.

Jona asked her if she felt beautiful when she was drunk.

She shook her head, all fuzzy. “No, but you look beautiful when I’m drunk,” she said, too loud.

Music from next door bounced between the cracks in the bricks. Rachel grabbed Jona’s arm.

They danced in the middle of the café to the music from next door, and the café owner shouted at them for it. Jona waltzed Rachel into the street.

Rachel grabbed at Jona’s hair and dug her lips into him. He pulled away when he ran out of breath, and took her by the hand and into the streets and into an alley. She asked him if he was taking her to a secret tavern for powerful noblemen.

He said he was taking her to a secret ball for criminals and thieves, which was almost the same thing.

She asked if there’d be dancing.

He said there’d be the best dancing in Dogsland.

He tossed a coin into a hidden crack on the wall. He tugged the correct stone, and the door opened. Rachel gasped because the door had opened from the side of the café where they had just been drinking brandy.

And down below, he took her through the dank and the stink. She lit Senta fires in the air to light the way. The drumming echoed through the halls.

She asked him what that drumming was and he told her it was a temple to the Nameless where people were always dancing and pounding their souls into the drums.

“I will not worship at any temple of the Breaking,” she said. “Certainly not to the Nameless Ones.”

“Don’t worship,” said Jona. “Just dance.”

* * *

Rachel breathed in like she was about to scream.

Jona kissed her to silence her. He laughed and told her to relax. The people around her ran streaks of lime through her hair. They ran blue streaks over her face and over her grey and red Senta robes. Then, they pulled her in to join the crowd.

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?”