Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists

by Edited by Adrian Collins

  Her flat pudgy face took on its first glint of delight. “Eight nations, all told,” she said, leaning back and knitting her hands just beneath her impressive bosom. “My design. We’re the first deposit house to establish banking across borders. Our depositors can travel without having to risk carrying large sums. They may travel as far as Reyal-Te, Ebon, hells even Nallan, and draw funds there.”

  I nodded as though impressed. “And shop owners from those regions may come here and do the same?”

  “Exactly.” The banker’s smile was self-satisfied, and would be short-lived.

  Because I knew all this, too. And more besides. “Remarkable as all that is,” I said, “it doesn’t explain the fact that you personally hold twelve discreet businesses throughout the city. That’s more than a ledger salary would support. So, come now. I’m here to deposit a fair sum, taken in a less conventional manner. I want to know that my banker is shrewd. Not simply good with math.”

  Her smile fell. She sat forward, her chair creaking beneath her weight, the sound of it rising into the vaulted climbs of the bank. “You stay the hell out of my business.”

  I stared back with a look of apathy.

  After a long moment, she gave a nod of slight concession. “Transactions of state are...complicated,” she began, seeming both reluctant but eager to explain. “A practiced hand might find as much as eighteen percent of the deposit hard to account for. Not to mention the interest—”

  “Which has a reported percentage and an actual percentage,” I finished.

  Her smile returned as one who believes she’s found a sympathetic soul. “Exactly,” she said again. “What’s more, there are times, however unfortunate, when the bank must seize funds from a defaulting foreign national account.”

  “With you deciding what ‘default’ means,” I added.

  She didn’t bother to acknowledge the obvious. “Legal recourse in such an event is costly for the depositor,” she continued, “and rarely successful if attempted at all.”

  Then the banker laughed a bit, the sound of it like she was not used to doing so, as though her throat had forgotten how.

  “Whose national funds have you seized?” I asked, laughing with her.

  “So’Dell, Kuren, Ebon.” She waved a hand as if the list was too long to enumerate. “Sods, all of them. If you can’t take care of your money, you don’t deserve to keep it.”

  While her laughter continued, I drew a small leather bi-fold from my cloak, untied the leather strap, and opened it. I removed the topmost document and gently placed it in front of her, orienting it to be conveniently read.

  “What’s this?” she asked, leaning forward.

  “It’s a contract for your life.”

  “A what?” She began to read, her face sobering by degrees each passing moment. Smile fading. Cheeks slackening. Eyes widening. Fingers trembling.

  “The one you hold is unique,” I explained, speaking conversationally. “The Solida cutters. Court assassins from Ebon. They begin by killing all known kin of the mark, taking pieces of the victim as evidence of the kill. These they show to the mark before slowly dissecting her. Only when she is near to death do they cut her throat as a mercy.”

  The banker looked up over the document at me, as one wishing to hear that what I’d said wasn’t true.

  In response, I placed a second contract before her. “Nallan alley backers. Killer sect known for extreme nationalism. They want you, too. Their art is making death look accidental.”

  After another long moment, she forced her unpracticed cackle. “A ruse. You’re gilling me for a better rate. Dead gods, and I almost believed you.”

  In response, I placed a third contract before her. “Your lover, Katrine is it? Down to Riven Port on an inspection run. Checking your warehouses.”

  The woman shook her head in denial of what came next.

  “So’Dell death squad has her.” I reclined, looking up into the heights of the bank, so like a cathedral. A church to the faith of coin. “It’s an interesting approach for a cutter guild. Effective. Emotional leverage. I wonder,” I speculated casually, “if you see Katrine as another asset? Or if you’ll take her place as the contract expects.”

  Her face slackened in surprise and horror, her mouth gaping. Then another tentative smile. “A fine game. But no. Why would I be hearing about it from you and not these assassins?” She visibly relaxed.

  “Because a Dannire asked,” I said.

  She pointed at me. “You?”

  “I’ll give you a tip for free,” said I, carrying on with the language of commerce. “Katrine’s life isn’t worth a spit. If she’s not dead already, you may trust they’ll never let her simply return to her philosophers. That’s where she wiles away the time, no?”

  The banker nodded, the realizations appearing to pile up behind her distant eyes.

  I wasn’t one to rush things. So, I sat, waiting. These moments were worth the savor. And they went one of two ways—there’d come defiance or contrition. I typically bet with myself which way each would turn. I was betting defiance this time.

  Could have been ten full minutes. But eventually her eyes focused. Her countenance hardened. Lovely, defiance then.

  “Guard,” she intoned coolly.

  Four men appeared, one from each corner of the bank. They wore the bank insignia. Had each, in fact, been in the bank’s employ for no less than four months. They were being paid handsomely. By me.

  “The official record will show that you broke into the bank after business hours,” she stated with new confidence. She leaned back, steepling her fingers. “I’ll have a bruise or two. Maybe a cut. But how grateful I’ll be for our night guard, who subdued the threat. Though, they’ll have killed the thief in the exchange.”

  I wasn’t opposed to a bit of good theater. So, I clapped for her story. The sound of it like sharp reports in the largely empty bank.

  “You should have been an author,” I said. “Less risk to it.”

  The woman didn’t wait. “Take her down,” she commanded.

  The guards stood pat. The banker showed the four an angry look. “I said Take. Her. Down!”

  No movement in the wide bank.

  “It’ll come to you,” I said, steepling my fingers in mockery. “Give it a moment.”

  She needed only half that, her brow tightening almost immediately. “Gods-damn clever. And who are they?”

  “Allow me to introduce countrymen from Ebon, Reyal-Te, So’Dell, and Nallan.” I gestured to each man in turn. “Nations who’ve had the bad luck of closed accounts at this bank,” I caught her eye, “at your hand.”

  “I see. A poetic kind of justice.” She swiveled to face the Nallan man square. “And what is she paying you? I’ll double it.”

  Abandoning gods, was this woman cocksure! Wonderful!

  The man said nothing. Didn’t move. She tried each of them with the same result.

  When she finally turned her attention back to me, I smiled sadly. “Contract cutters, unlike this fine institution, don’t default on their contracts.”

  “The ethics of murder,” said the banker. “High moral ground you stand on.”

  Now my patience had run out. “You’ve options,” I explained, dropping the last of the contracts from my bi-fold on top of the others. “You may choose which of these best suits you as a means of death. Or...” I drew this out, savoring, allowing the impact of her final choice to have its own moment. “You may do it yourself. Here. Now.”

  “What, kill myself?” She laughed—her most genuine laugh of the evening. “You’re mad.”

  I gathered the contracts and put them away. “I’ll only ask one more time. Then, I will walk out of this place, and leave you to your chances.”

  She looked around at the cutters. Indifferent eyes met her on every side. Something in the silence must have gotten to her. A mortal feeling, perhaps.

  “How would I do it?” she asked.


  I dug one gloved hand into my inner breast pocket and flipped a coin onto the desk before her. “Salvin metal. Deadly to the touch. Just pick it up.”

  The coin had been fashioned into the likeness of a penny. I liked the symbolism of that—dying for one last penny.

  To her credit, she didn’t waver in picking up the coin. She didn’t do it swiftly, or desperately, but she didn’t hesitate either.

  “It’ll be painful,” I told her. “You’ll froth at the mouth. Drool. Empty your bowels. But if you keep hold of that penny, it’ll do the job.”

  “You’re an alley bitch,” she said as I stood and set to leave.

  “Coming from you, madam, I take that as high praise. Goodbye.”

  * * *

  “You’d have made a fine court counsel,” Jenn remarked.

  “How so?” asked Audra, stepping from the vat and wiping her legs of grape juice with a towel.

  “The art of leverage to force a favorable choice.” Jenn spoke matter-of-factly. “Most dissents aren’t argued and won in the court halls. They’re negotiated with threats and promises well before they’re heard by a judging authority. The court is simply the pageant to share what’s been agreed to beforehand. And successful counselors know how to compel complicity.”

  She was more right than she knew. Save one thing. “Dannire address wrongs.”

  “Are you talking about morality? Really?” Jenn sounded incredulous.

  “It’s clear the courts don’t do it,” Audra observed. “And counselors sure as every hell don’t.”

  Jenn laughed her caustic laugh. “So Dannire deal death as punishment based on their own sense of justice. That sounds entirely different. Who do the Dannire answer to, then?”

  Audra gave her a patient look. “It’s not who we answer to, but who we answer for.”

  “The cryptic response of a killing sect.” Jenn finished cleaning her legs and pulled on her sandals.

  Audra did the same, and fell in beside Jenn as they walked back to their rooms. “Sometimes the Dannire are asked to step in when the wrong is far-reaching. Say, to kill a murderous general who is slaughtering populations.”

  “Altruism, then,” Jenn quipped.

  “But more often, the Dannire see to small wrongs. Quiet abuses. Indignities that ruin a single life.” Audra let that sink in.

  “The Court of Judicature could bring the Dannire to trial—”

  “They could try,” Audra said, ignoring the rest of Jenn’s comment. “But the Dannire don’t regard the law you so artfully... navigate.”

  “Abuse, you mean to say,” Jenn corrected with a smile.

  Audra nodded to that. “We simply don’t answer to it. Any more than we answer to the accepted laws of heaven.”

  “You kill for heaven,” Jenn said.

  This time Audra shook her head. “More accurate to say we have the peace of heaven. That’s a deadly tool when one’s job is death.”

  “I could use me some of that,” Jenn joked.

  They each laughed at the idea that Jenn had a conscience.

  “Not caring is different than having an assurance,” Audra clarified.

  Jenn didn’t rebut that, and seemed to chew on it as they continued walking to their rooms. Maybe fifty strides from the houses, Jenn’s husband, Bur, and young son, Kaleb, emerged from the door and greeted them.

  The boy was eight years, and a bit on the small side for his age. He ran into his mother’s arms. “Did you bring me grapes?”

  “Oh, all hells, I forgot,” said Jenn. “Sorry, bean.”

  Audra drew a small cluster from her pocket. “What you forgot, was that you asked me to carry these for you,” she said. It was a lie. But for children, some lies are the right ones.

  Kaleb snatched them up and popped one in his mouth. “Thank you,” he said around the gob.

  “Yes, thank you,” Jenn repeated to Audra. It was the first genuine thing she’d said all day. At least it sounded that way. For all her sins and abuse of her position in the court of judicature, her love of her family was real enough. Audra had seen it up close over the past few years. Maybe most powerfully at her daughter’s funeral. Death is a sad event. But you learn much by watching its mourners. Jenn hadn’t needed her court tricks to show real emotion that day. It was refreshing to see.

  “I’d have paid to see you tromping grapes,” Bur, her husband, offered. “Such a menial task for a woman of the court.” He was smiling, but as a man whose wife led him like a dog on a rope, the truth inside the words weren’t hard to see: He liked the notion of her being made to perform the uncomely tasks.

  “Not menial, Bur,” she chided. “Civil. We’re on the journey of the grape. Participating in a thousand-year-old process. Gods you’re thick.”

  He gave Audra a sheepish look. “I was only having a bit of fun. I hope you enjoyed your day.”

  Jenn rolled her eyes, but gave Bur a conciliatory pat on the arm. She did care for him. But her respect for him came in waves. Honestly, Audra was surprised the man hadn’t moved on from Jenn years ago. Did he not respect himself?

  But she’d seen it before. The simple truth was that fathers bear all manner of indignity for the sake of those they love. The ugly truth was that some women knew it, and abused these men’s decency. It was one of the things she hated most about her own gender.

  “Maybe your husband would learn something from one of our stories,” Audra suggested.

  “That’d be a good trick,” Jenn quipped.

  Audra quickly shared the context of her and Jenn’s conversations over the past few days. He didn’t seem entirely surprised that his wife would have an assistant with such a history. But he sidled up protectively beside Kaleb, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  Audra smiled to see it. “Ladies have their flaws. Once—”

  * * *

  I entered by a window and crouched, listening behind a low wall as the young women shared their escapades. I knew all their voices. Voices are like fingerprints. The sound of each coquette brought to mind her face, her family, her daily routine, her biases. Everything. I knew these girls. Had followed each of them for weeks. Had learned to hate them.

  They sat in a circle in a lavish apartment deep inside the merchant district. Quarters here weren’t just expensive; they were owned or rented only if your surname had the right pedigree. Or political station. Fixtures were polished. Wood oiled. And the air carried the scent of rare chocolates and foreign fruits that would cost a month’s salary for most city-folk. Privilege is what it smelled like.

  And privilege breeds boredom. Which breeds unkindness.

  “Enough chitter, I hereby open this meeting of the Society of Ruin,” said Ann. “We’ve two initiates whose admission deeds we need to hear and judge. Melisa?”

  Melisa cleared her throat. New money. She wanted to belong, but she didn’t have good examples of unkindness at home. “Well,” she began haltingly. “There’s a suitor. I’ve known him since I was thirteen. He’s always thoughtful. Brings me dalla flowers after the rain. When they’re the sweetest—”

  “You’re betrothed?” interrupted Ann. “Please tell me you’re betrothed. And that you love him, besides.”

  “We were to be married,” Melisa confirmed. “I thought I might love him. I know he loved me.”

  “How did you know?” asked another coquette, Christina. “Not kisses and promises, I hope.”

  Melisa paused a moment. “He didn’t decide for me.”

  “They all do that in the beginning,” said Ann, impatience edging her tone. “What did you do to him?”

  Melisa was silent for longer this time. The silence said much. Regret. Shame. Second thoughts. “I told him not to call on me again. Told him I didn’t love him.” She stopped, seeming to gather herself. “I told my father he tried to force his loins on me. He was beaten, expelled from his counting house, disinherited.”

  Ann tittered at that, bringing the rest of the gi
rls into a chorus of the same. “Lovely. That’ll do for membership to our association. But you look apologetic. You’ll need to harden yourself. The first time is forgivable. But no more.” A shifting of her dress, as she repositioned. “Now, Loni, do tell.”

  The silence this time was different. Not shame-filled or regretful. This was a pregnant pause. Eagerness to tell. Loni was old money. Some of the girls thought maybe too old. She had an easy way about her. She didn’t worry. “Well, Ann, I thought I should do something...profound. Something to really impress.”

  “Ooh, I like the sound of that.” Ann clapped twice. “Let’s have it.”

  Loni didn’t hesitate. “I paid your suitor a visit.”

  The hush that followed lay heavy and violent. “Why?” Ann said softly.

  “I had an idea,” Loni replied with the most practiced nonchalant tone Audra had ever heard. It was hard to believe this was her inaugural ruin. “I wondered if I could do something to upset you. You, who lead this pack. And at the same time end the tiresome stories you inflict on us when we gather at your hem.”

  “Oh?” said Ann. Such a beautiful response. Audra knew it inside from out. Nothing these girls ever did was a surprise to Ann. Or at least that’s what Ann thought. She had members of the Storalaith House tailing each of them day and night. Information gatherers. She was playing her part to Loni’s revelation.

  “Yes,” Loni went on. “I bedded your man. And he went down rather a willing horse, I have to say. Whether because you keep your knees locked or because you don’t, I can’t say. But the lad fell for me. Renounced his vow to you. And I promptly put him out.”

  Ann let out a long exaggerated gasp. “Oh, no, you didn’t do that? How will I ever survive it?”

  A stunned silence stretched out.

  Then, softly again, Ann began to speak. “The pity is that your ruin is more worthy than any of our current members. And if I had a forgiving mind, I’d take you as a sister.”

  “You n-n-knew?” Loni stuttered.

  “My sippy bird, of course I knew.” She spoke as though this was all long history. “And no real member here ever creates a tie they aren’t willing to sever. That’s the key to happiness. Or haven’t you been listening these few weeks?”