A Janissary's Notebook

[Blue41]

What would Sam have done?

He would have quit, likely. Tried to once before, and this is a much more serious matter than a dead Nadiri.

So many words wasted, only for the man to turn around and leave the moment he gets a glimpse of...what? Reality? Negotiations between the Accord? Choosing between one ally over the other because...why, exactly?

Idiots. Idiots. Idiots!

And fucking snakes.

I'm sure he's going to run off and become a Balladeer. Drink deeply. Fuck off to the west and die in a ditch for women and children. It's all so pointless. 

Gods damn you, Sam. Why did you have to die?

[Blue41]

It's done. In more ways than one.

Left the League of Purple. Inevitable really-- I should never have returned in the first place. Too many people who can't do what needs to be done because their hands are tied. And I'm chief among them. I remember watching Marcellus, eating as we discussed who would live and who would die. Praying for the choice to be taken out of his hands and into another's. Buoyed this way and that by the pleas of those who hate him. I watched him and wondered how many people died at the Gap, caught in the riptide of his reckless charges.

I hated him, in that moment. If he had chosen Got Valdhazr, I'm not sure what I would have done. What I would have said.

It doesn't matter, now. The Prince's curse is more terrible than any fate I could wish-- on any man. The only reason I was spared is because I still remember the words of Luskavi. I toss the ash, I hurl the evil. Irony. I deserve it just as much as Argyris and Saenus. Worse, because I may as well have set the Banda Rossa on him. The Wroth will have its due, eventually.

If the Well survives what is to come, then it will have made all of this worth the trade. And mizzar...just a bit, now and then...will help me to bear the rest.

[Blue41]

I thought I had evaded the curse of the Prince, but it sure doesn't feel that way.

Barely got an hour of sleep the night before, because all I could see, over and over, was my death. Came differently every time. At first I was overwhelmed, alone and surrounded by enemies-- like back in the Fort-- only this time, Hosan wasn't around to serve as the anvil. Spears pierce my side, and I'm pressed beneath the weight of their bronze. Then I was pulverized by a stray shell; carried off its mark by the wind and Misfortune's Eye. My shield splinters beneath a rain of arrows. My blade snaps off at the hilt, and I'm left without steel in my hand as the chargers bear down on me. On and on.

I didn't die when the moment came, though. Not me. I was lucky. The men under my command weren't. Our march south was met by an ambush-- Orc rising from the Ash like they were of the Red. Not dead yet. Scarab, Soldier, Recluta. Butchered, yanked off their feet by Orc riders, cut down in a stroke. I don't know how I didn't join them. In the end, the dream was more prophetic than I realized. I was knocked unconscious, overlooked among the fallen. And by the time I awoke and had made my way to the war camp-- feverish, half-sick with dread and doom-- the battle was over.

We had won, but it didn't feel like victory. More death. Daoud, gone to join Samton on the other side. Grimes, with a eulogy he would pass on to me. Kind words to speak for those who should hate me, rightfully. There's not enough ash in the desert to toss and make this right.

There is some scorch in the evidence locker, though.

[Blue41]

The dirt brings me up, keeps me moving, focused. The mizzar brings me down, soothes the stresses and pains away. But there's nothing quite like the rush of a trial, the charge of a guilty verdict, the certainty of knowing that the Wroth will get Hris due, with a little assistance from the Fourth Legion. What burns is knowing how easily things could have gone the other way-- the Al-Almadel trial all over again, with no other recourse available than the most obvious one. Suppose that speaks to how dire this has gotten that the thought crossed my mind.

Borrow the Recluta-- the voiceless Recluta's-- defense. 'Started hollering about the Wyrm, went for his blade and the rest is what it is.' Blood will have blood. Cut a corrupt system out of the picture quite literally and handle the problem myself.

Samton, Joachim...they would have backed it. Reyer as well, if he had been around. But Daoud would have hated it. 'The law is meant to be impartial, boring, clinical in its application to the masses.' I'm paraphrasing, friend, but the gist is clear enough. I remember agreeing with it at the time...if reluctantly. Because that was then, and this is now. No fucking Orcs to be found. Penned in here with these idiots and their trivial complaints and this, this one thing I can do...Nearly taken away from me by now. Argyris and his pack of idiot Magistrates would have taken it away if they could. They think they understand what I'm after, but they're wrong.

This process has to be done right. I don't want bodies. I don't want scapegoats. I want...

To forget, for a time. This helps. Wroth take them if they get in the way of that.

Scorch sits in the bottom drawer of my desk under lock and key like a bomb. Haven't tried it yet. How close could I get to what I want?

[Blue41]

There's orc out there, they say. But I haven't seen any. Not a fight to be found on the road, despite getting enough magic to face down a clan or two. Suppose I took their proximity for granted. Felt like they'd be here forever. But instead there's just...an absence. Nagging. Wrong. Persistent.

Got Valdhazr was no better than the Rampart. I may have dodged Zosmere's curse, but I could feel their enmity-- he and all of his people. We betrayed our oaths and live on while they were put to death or dishonor, and that kind of grudge born by so many takes on a will of its own. I can believe that. I can respect that. But-- no fight there.

I opened the drawer when we returned. A moment of hesitation, but it turned out to be for nothing. The Scorch seemed to fight its way into my body, an entirely unpleasant burning sensation that was enough to drive off the dark thoughts. I let it drive me out into the sands, too. Solo patrol around the walls. Not much better pickings out there-- a goblin here, a kobold there. Crumpled underneath the weight of my camel. Low pleasure in that. But not enough.

Where the fuck are they? And why won't they come out and fight?

[Blue41]

Spent some time doing something I hadn't done in ages. Organizing. Getting my potions in order, wands, tricks and traps and all the other rattling camelshit in my bag. Took a bit of time but not enough, so I went to the barracks, checked the chests. Off-loaded a dagger I no longer needed. Went to the officer's lounge next. Among the stashed weapons and armor was a book-- Manual of Deduction, 5th Edition by Shukri. Inside was a bookmark; note from Daoud. Not addressed to me, but to the next Sergeant(s). A few personal tips from one man to the next.

All very Daoud suggestions. Remain objective. Take measurements. Document, document, document.

I replaced the book. Left the room. Returned to my office. Listened to Reyer's briefing on Phor and the dwarven survivor of Got Valdhazr, trying to stay in the moment. Present. Listening. But there was a dagger in my heart and the only way to ignore it for a little while longer was another shot, after they left. Still got it under control. Not so bad, really. One left.

[Blue41]

Harder to get up these days. Harder still without wanting to reach for the desk drawer. There's a voice in the back of my mind that knows exactly why that is, and what's to blame. Thankfully, it's still very easy to ignore.

I roam through town like a bad itch. I wander the wastes atop Whisper, blade ready, eyes narrowed, looking for trouble-- or inviting it to find me. Rarely-- perhaps because I toss the ash-- do I get what I want. Something, perhaps the influence of that voice again, decides that it's better to do this solo. If I'm going to catch a beating or worse, then it's better that there's no collateral damage. Be an asshole if you like, but at least don't be a selfish asshole.

The Garrison was quiet last night, but we had a couple of new Scarabs who were idle. Decided to go on a troll-hunt, see how they handled themselves. And these days it feels like battle is the only way to pull out of this stupor, pierce the malaise. Trolls made for big ugly targets, every movement obvious and telegraphed. Arm was sore from all the stabbing, but I welcomed the discomfort. It was easier to focus on that than the feelings being called a war-hero from one of our group stirred up in me. Reminded me of a dead man's gift that I hadn't asked for.

"What do you want, Lieutenant?" The Magistrate had asked. A stiff drink. A shot of Scorch. To change the past. Corrupt men out of power and the approval of martyrs beyond my reach. The world to make sense again.

Nothing he can give me. Or any man.

[Blue41]

The Scarab was delivered to the threshold of the Garrison. I couldn't see his face, but I could smell him-- enough to know that his insides were outside, and had likely been scattered every which way in the Gutters; found a new home in one thousand worms. The cycle of life begun anew. I couldn't see his face, and I couldn't recall his name. He was everyone-- Sam, Daoud, Joachim, Cosine, Kroggnought, Zaniah, Zakar, Volandis, Syter. He was no one. Toss the Ash.

It was djinn that did it, I learned later. Roving packs of them released underground, beaten back by Janissaries and caravaneers back to whatever void they come from. The Scarab-- Soldier, now-- had gone without back-up and found himself overwhelmed. No one took credit for the attack, and no clear lead on who called them forth. Just a body in a public plot in the Maq'bara, a footnote in a Twindari journal. And mine, I suppose, because I'm the responsible one according to the Bey.

Someone was responsible for this. Just a matter of finding them, and holding them to it. Good as Scorch might be, it doesn't compare to a good trial...