“Please,” she said. She leaned into my shoulder, crying.
“No,” I said, “Dogsland must have her turn with you, enemy of life.”
* * *
I tested her blood over the iron tub of water. The blood burned so hot, that I had to let the heartwood paper fall into the water. The water swallowed the flame. If she had been of-demon, the fire would burn as hot inside the water, too.
After this test, we bandaged her arm. We walked her to the Captain of the Guard.
(She knew her fate after how her son had died. She knew, and felt no will to flee or start again. She waited for her own destruction, getting out of bed, washing her hands and face in a basin of holy water, pushing needles through the hem of dresses, cooking cheap sausage for herself alone, and talking to the son that wasn’t at the table anymore—but still she talked to him. She heard his voice in the gaps, evading her questions. She was too tired to walk home sometimes and slept in a tavern near her work to save up the strength to walk home. Since his death, she had been so tired.
Then, we finally came to send her skull to the spikes along the city wall. She was Lady Joni, once, and rich and beautiful. Now she was just another skull along the wall.)
* * *
My husband and I didn’t use just fireseeds this time. We overturned barrels of kerosene across the halls, down the muddy stairs, and into the basement. We placed fireseeds at the windowsills so the sudden flames would blow new seeds out into the streets.
I went to the back door. My husband went to the front. We both dropped our matches. We ran through the streets to our inn near the docks.
Houses all around caught the flame. Men screamed as their shops burned to the ground. Women tore their hair. Dogs screamed at their gates with nowhere to run.
Fire companies flocked to the site, ringing bells and dragging their pumps like a parade, buying the burning buildings for almost nothing before they raised a finger to help push back the flame.
My husband and I watched from the window of our inn near the docks. The smoke drowned out the sea clouds. Old demon stains burned strong. Let this whole city burn down.
My husband spread dandelion seeds on his windowsill. He blew them into the wind.
We should burn the whole city.
We are executioners, not revolutionaries.
We were executioners. We did not kill this woman who had done such evil things for so long.
Did you want to kill her?
She was not a child of a demon, only the mother of one.
No one was looking. We could have killed her. People were hurt in the fire. They died in it.
Erin, be merciful, I pray that our holy task is judged righteously done when our soul rests in Your cold embrace.
Erin, be merciful.
The buildings that burned opened a new canopy for the seeds of life. New men would rise from the mud to grasp at the sun over the canopy. New homes and new shops and new streets would bring new hope to people that needed hope after such an awful fire.
Ragpickers dug through the remains as soon as the trash was cool enough to touch. Ashen rags became grey paper. Paper got sold. The paper described the transaction of items passing from one boat to another. These passing items, with all of their papers, eventually fell to the ground as rags. The ragpickers took them to the ragmen, and spent their money on the things that spilled in from the seas.
Imam’s flock seeks to pluck the ragpickers from the streets, house them in dormitories, and educate them so they might be more than ragpickers.
The paper their Temples use to write such missions come from the very ragpickers that need to be saved.
* * *
Where did I leave those three blighted of-demons during their time in this city?
The memories hiding in my skull blur together, and I struggle to follow threads of life with this quill.
Quill, together, let us go dancing at a ball. I seem to recall that such a thing was next enough.
CHAPTER XVI
Work isn’t bad. It’s just work, you know. I work, and I make money, and then I go home.
You said that you meditated while you worked. I do. I reach for the Unity while I work.
What is that? What’s it like?
Well… Let me think of how to explain it. Hm.
It isn’t really important. I’m trying to talk about something, is all.
I hate sitting around in silence.
I understand. I think I can explain the Unity. Last night, I looked down at these wet little wads of ratty hair on my mop. These frayed bits did not see their path across the floor. I couldn’t see their true destination until after I swung the mop. And the Unity was the handle. The Unity was my hands pushing the mop. The Unity was the destination. The place that was out of my hands was the thing I controlled. The room was, regardless of me. The floor was, regardless of me. The little white-grey mop-threads splayed everywhere with each flick of my wrist, pre-ordained but also not pre-ordained. And then, I wondered if I had everything backwards, and each one of my fingers was the true population of the metaphor. I couldn’t see where my fingers shoved the mop. And that started to make sense. And I thought about other kinds of fingers shoving other kinds of mops. And then, there’s this woman—we’ll call her Jess, because they all pretend their name is something cute like “Jess”—and she clomps up and down the stairs ready to roll a fellow with her bat. The bat crosses the same air, and the same heads got smashed—because all heads looked the same to Jess, who was not cute like her name. And I knew her life. The Unity unfolded like a flower. Jess hadn’t touched a drop of liquor since her daughter died. Jess’ daughter, like a smaller, prettier Jess (but she wasn’t really that pretty), took up with a mean fellow for a while. Jess was too drunk to notice what was happening. The fellow beat the girl up so bad she could barely walk home to Jess. Jess broke off the leg of her kitchen table and carried it to the man. Jess came down on him. She took his own knife and claimed both of his ears, his nose, and his tongue. She threw the man out the back window from three stories, and figured he’d bleed to death before anybody helped him. She was right. When Jess got back, her daughter was dead. Jess put the pieces of the dead man in a pickle jar in her cupboard, and she buried her daughter. Now Jess kept the girls safe. And that’s Jess. And the Unity brings the threads of her life into focus.
That’s a horrible story, Rachel.
Well, it’s a horrible place. I work, and I go home, and I don’t think about anything when I’m there but my faith.
I want to take you somewhere beautiful, Rachel. Please, let me take you somewhere beautiful.
* * *
Jona rummaged through his mother’s closet for her old dresses. He needed something long-sleeved, with a high collar, and gloves. He wanted something green to match Rachel’s eyes. He wanted something simple that would be easy to sew into the right size.
He found something jet black, long and elegant and fringed with white silk ribbons. He pulled it out from the closet and carried it downstairs. He held it out to Rachel. “Put this on,” he said.
“What?”
“It’s my mother’s dress.”
“I’m not getting in that thing.”
“You are, and then you’re going to help me fix it to fit you
where it’s too big on you.”
“Why?”
“Because every beautiful lady needs a beautiful dress.”
“I don’t need anything like that.”
“Come on, it’ll be nice, and then tomorrow I’ll take you somewhere you can wear the dress.”
“I’m not going anywhere in that thing.”
“It won’t be dangerous, I swear. People’d notice a Senta, but they wouldn’t notice you in this.”
“I don’t like to go places Senta aren’t welcome.”
“It’s not that, it’s just that you’d be the only one in the place, and everyone would notice you.”
“Where?”
“Just this party, and you�
��ll love it. We won’t stay long. Then we’ll go about town pretending like we’re both rich nobles, and everyone will believe us because they’ll see you in your dress, and me in my dress uniform.”
“The dress is beautiful.”
“Do you want to try it on?”
She frowned. “I do,” she said, “I really, really do.” She pulled off her Senta leathers, with a frown like she hated what she was doing. She wasn’t going to stop.
* * *
Rachel walked like a peasant in a dress. Jona pressed a hand on her hip.
“Like this,” he said.
His hands moved her hips under the fine black satin. He put his feet behind hers. “Lift up from your body.”
She put her hands on top of his. She looked over her shoulder at him. He pressed his lips into her ear. “Like this,” he said.
His thighs pressed into hers. He pushed her with his own body. He held her hips in place.
“Like this?” she said.
She stepped away from him. She took two steps, before her boots clipped each other. She stumbled, laughing.
“No,” he said, “just try your best. You’re beautiful enough, and you’re with me, and no one will really notice.”
She couldn’t take off her boots. Underneath the hem of the dress, her muddy, dank boots clomped inelegantly. None of the nice shoes fit her demon feet. Even if they did, they would only make her step worse because Rachel’d only ever worn these strange kind of boots that hid her deformed, bestial feet.
Jona asked her where she got the boots, and she said that her brother made them for her from other boots. If they ever tore, Djoss took care of it.
Then she changed the subject in the same breath.
“This is a terrible idea,” she said, “Please don’t make me do this.” She pressed her face into his shoulder. “I’ve dreamed of this as long as I knew what people with money did, and I can’t wait to go, but it’s a terrible idea. We’re going to get caught.”
“We’ll be fine,” he said, “Rich people will never admit that two of-demons—and poor of-demons at that—crashed their ball. Anyway, the true measure of a grand ball is how many illicit guests sneak through the gates. We won’t be surrounded by the rich. We’ll be surrounded by people just like us. Merchants, maids, guardsmen, nobles, and anyone else with the juice to wear nice clothes and hop through a window. Free food, and fine dancing, and everyone is lying about who they are except for the people that don’t need to introduce themselves. Even they’re mostly faking.”
“Faking being rich and powerful?”
“When a rich and powerful person lies, you can’t just call them a liar, right?”
“You can’t?”
‘No. Look, just pretend as much as you can, and try to follow my lead, and do what the other ladies do. If they catch us, they kick us out the back door. I do this all the time, you know.”
“Do you?”
“My mother did, too, when she met my father. Remember who I am. I am Lord Joni. I may be poor, but I am still a nobleman. I must jump these things and wow some ugly horse of a girl who can buy herself pretty to take me to her bedroom and call me her husband.”
Rachel coughed. “Charming.”
“I’m never actually going to do it,” said Jona, “If I wanted to do it, I’d have done it long ago. Rich is nothing. Money buys ugly girls pretty, and stupid men smart. Rich ruins a good fellow.”
“I’d love to get myself ruined like that.”
“Rich people get complacent, and they don’t see the problems hanging all around them. Happened in Galvez across the sea, and a bunch of them rich folk died and didn’t see it coming. We poor saw it coming from here.”
“Djoss and I don’t stick around to let things happen to us. Usually fellows can see it coming, whether they dreamcast or not.”
“Rich people don’t see it. They smile and dance until the rope bites their neck and rolls ’em. Happens everyday.”
A long pause.
Her hands brushed along the dress. His fumbled in his pockets like a fool. Her eyes looked down at herself. His looked at her face.
He realized that he had stood her in front of a mirror, but the only thing in the reflection was her clothes, and some malformed shadows instead of a face.
I suspect Rachel was thinking about Jona’s father, and that’s why she didn’t say anything after his speech.
* * *
Jona rubbed Rachel’s shoulders, above the skirt of scales hidden in the folds of her dress. He kissed her neck. She stared out the window of the carriage, to the street, and all the people walking and walking and walking. “When we get there,” said Jona, “you’re a vacationing Duchess from the Brendt Islands, near Galvez. Your family resides in…”
“I’m a dispossessed duchess, with no holdings at all, and I came here on your arm because I’m trying to find a rich husband to rebuild my family name. My parents are dead. When they were alive, we were from Batriva, in the north where it snows all seasons.”
“Have you ever been to Batriva?”
“I lived there for almost a year.”
“Perfect. If anyone asks can you talk about it?”
“Me and Djoss had to jump out a second story window to escape with our lives. Mud and a mattress saved our lives.”
“Don’t talk about that. This is going to be lovely, I promise. No mud, no mattress, no second story window.”
“I’m terrified. I can’t wait. Please, let’s not stay long. I just want to see it, dance once, and then make our grand escape. Do you think they’ll send hounds after us?”
“I can ask them, if you want, if we get bounced.”
“I hope they don’t send hounds after us.”
* * *
The carriage stopped at the rear gate of the compound. Jona and Rachel were nowhere near the grand entrance where line after line of carriage waited for a grand introduction through the main hall.
Jona shook hands with a man in a smoot-covered apron smoking a pipe at the gate. Money passed between their friendly palms. The man held the back gate open for Jona.
Jona turned back to the carriage. He held up a hand for Rachel. She emerged from the carriage into the night like a raven bursting from a treehollow, long hair like a ruffled train of feathers and flowing trails of white ribbon and black satin. She stepped down carefully, pretending like she wasn’t wearing thick boots inside the hoops of the dress.
The man with black apron and pipe held his breath when he saw her.
Jona nodded at him. Rachel’s skin was a smooth, nocturnal alabaster. Her imperfect face made her like a monument, where time’s fingers had carved new, soft nuances into the stone. She was as gorgeous as anyone could hope to be.
Jona took her arm. He led her through the gate. Jona knew the way. They strolled under a small stone arch, into a maze of low flowers. They walked around a pond covered in paper lamps like burning lilies, and into a large hedge maze. Jona stopped her once to kiss her. She leaned back into the branches, and then she shoved him back. She smacked him because he was messing up her hair.
Jona helped her prod her hair back down. He led her through the maze to the main lawn. Paper lanterns hung from trees like giant fireflies, flickering. Already, people milled about—so many people, and all so beautiful. The men wore black and dark purple and uniforms with ribbons and medals. The women wore everything else, and black and dark purple. Every face was pure. Every smile was truthful.
Servants in white moved through the crowd, with liquors on trays. Guests reached up and selected from the different colors of liquid. The sips were small like their small laughter, all delicate like crystal.
Rachel clutched Jona’s arm. He led her towards the raised dais where a group of musicians tuned.
Jona leaned into her ear, and cupped his hand over his mouth to hide his lips. “In another hour or so, this whole place will be stuffed with dancers. Everyone will be spinning around the dance floor like it’s nothing, but nobody dances with the fel
low they came with,” he whispered, “Let’s go meet someone. I’m looking for this fellow I know.”
Rachel leaned up to his ear like she was going to kiss his neck. Instead, she cupped her hand over her own mouth and whispered back to him. “Are they all crashers, or is there someone you see that actually belongs here?”
“This rabble?” Jona gestured to the people all around. He didn’t bother to whisper. “Mostly crashers,” he said, “Mostly. Come on. Let’s meet some people. Duchess Rachel Batrilander, I presume?” he offered his hand.
“Oh, goodness! You must be Lord Joni,” she said. Rachel raised an arm at a passing waiter for a glass of liquor and quickly selected something in a bright shade of blue. She swallowed it fast and looked around at all the beautiful people walking through the lawn from the house. She put the empty glass on another passing tray.
Jona looked at her wide eyes, her smile. He introduced her to the first man he saw. He kissed Rachel’s naked wrist above her glove. She laughed. The man’s beard tickled.
Jona walked Rachel around the room, introducing her. The names, like a foreign vocabulary rolled over Rachel’s ears. She let the men kiss her wrist, right next to her pulse. After a few men had kissed her, a spike of fear entered her. She might smell like bleach. Her hands must be too rough, after all that cleaning.
She wrapped her arms around Jona, and refused to let anyone else touch her.
Women curtsied, and she copied them as best she could in her heavy boots. The bottom of the dress, where the hoops brushed the grass, was already damp with dew. Jona had lowered the hem all the way down to hide her boots. The hem dragged over the grass, picking up every tiny drop of dew.
Another man kissed her wrist before Rachel could stop him. He said his name. Rachel stuttered her own invented title. Jona asked her if she wanted something else to drink. She nodded her head. He pulled her back to the edge of the crowd.
Before they could return to the edge of the garden, gorgeous people poured out from the sprawling main house, and Jona looked up at the crowd. He pulled Rachel’s arms off of his body. He looked up over the crowd strolling down from the main house. He muttered something to Rachel, but she didn’t hear it. She fell back from him, and tried not to look too conspicuous.
When We Were Executioners Page 8
