A Janissary's Notebook

[Blue41]

[Kept on the person of Rennik Colmes, squirreled away in some pouch within a pouch...]

Just when I thought my luck was changing.

Weeks upon weeks of wandering from refuge to shelter to homestead to miserable fucking tent town looking for the essentials. Food. Water. A place to shit without worrying about Melek springing out at ya. Ephia's Well sounded too good to be true, which usually means it's a scam. Only...there were walls, mostly solid. Good wine. Sweet, sweet qalyan pipes. Food. The little luxuries I was starving to get for so long. And once I had them in hand, I got to thinking. I got to stupid. Got to wanting more. That's how I ended up with the Misfortune.

And I was right. My luck's definitely changed. It's all gone to shit now. And it's going to stay that way until I end up in the ground.

But I can beat this. I survived Ringfall. Survived the desert. I can wriggle my way out of His grip, too. I know it. I KNOW IT.

[Blue41]

A scar from Zakar.

There was a tension in the room after the death of that dwarf. He came along, quiet as a lamb, and the rest of us trailed after him. Into the Garrison.  Past the hanging jars of ash, beneath key set over door frame, down the stairs into the training hall.  We looked at each other, the walls, the floor. Anywhere but him. To kill a man in direct violation of the Legate suggested one of two things. Either Zakar was an idiot moonstruck child with a very heavy mace and the training to use it, or a madman only interested in how blood he got to spill on the job. 

"The Legate told me to do it."

I recall what he said to me during the trial: that, if the opportunity arose to execute the dwarf for the crime, he wanted the 'honor' of doing the deed. There was a lot of whispering at the time, but his stood out. He didn't say much else during all of the strategizing and plotting and reacting. I wonder if he was listening at all. Maybe, by that point, he had already heard all that he needed to.

"Why is he still here?"

Of course, Sorazin Bey gets the last word. I wonder if Karath resents me for it. He was closer to Zakar than I was, and I made him into his gravedigger, because I needed to soothe the public. It helped that I had all the proof I needed-- the scar from Zakar. Lucky to be alive.

An idiot or a madman. Or this new third option that's been dropped into my lap. Zakar on someone else's payroll, cleaning up the mess before it started to stink. Kill the dwarf before he could turn on his backers, just in case he felt the need to shriek over the bellows. And then... hope his pitiful excuse would land him on latrine duty, or the stocks, rather than exiled or sacked? Pointless to guess at the logic of a dead man. A dead, compromised man. Not if there's more like him in the Legion.

Miserable fucking luck. This is why the Wroth sent me back; dying would be too much of a break compared to rat-hunting inside the garrison.

[Blue41]

Shane Gallows.

If Zakar existed in that 'not quite a friend' space, then Shane lived and breathed in 'not quite an enemy.' Was in bed with some bad folk, manipulated the duties of his position for personal profit, placed his importance for a good story over basic ethics and morality, on the one hand. On the other hand, he was invested in my survival, wrote a decent article or two and was generally forthcoming with information. Except the fraud.

Some of the boys weren't fond of him for the role he took in defending the Gutter Banshee. Nearly defending Mudgut. 'He helped bandits escape conviction'-- but I understood. It's how the system works, and if he didn't do all he could for them, then the point of the whole fucking mechanism of law falls apart. I imagine it must've been killing him inside to be denied a defense of his caliber. The irony...

Rennik,

Heard good ol' Quentin calling over the thunder for a "Recruit Suli."

Did you know that there was a "Suli the Dwarf" who used to run in the bandit gang of Warthog Mudgut? It's the darnedest thing. Surely, surely they aren't the same person? The Janissaries would never hire a (reformed?) criminal into their ranks...

That's not a rumor, either. I saw Suli with my own eyes, heard him with my own ears, as I was tumbling through the Dry Gutters in a running battle to escape.

But don't consider me inclined to come by the Garrison for an official report.

Gallows

Sums him up right here. Was he trying to rattle me, or trying to be 'helpful' in his own way?

Or maybe that sums me up. The job's made me paranoid, to the point where I second-guess everything, from anyone. Motives. Ambitions. Drives. ...That's part of the reason Aubrey drives me up the goddamn wall. But that's a whole other entry.

[Blue41]

Skaldorr Merizad.

Part of me wonders how much attention he paid to Shane Gallows, because they both had a similar strategy when the time came to clap them in irons. Assert ignorance and confidence in equal measure. Total belief in their ability to escape their crimes by being one step ahead, thanks to a bit of bribing and peeking at restricted files. No need to violently resist arrest because there's no way we can make it stick to them. And then we do. Granted, it's a near thing, and I'm sure my luck will give out one of these days, but...maybe swearing an oath before the Wroth was enough to stave off the Misfortune for a while. I'll enjoy it while it lasts.

It probably won't be very long. I did Bruno Garibaldi a bad turn, and that'll come back to bite me eventually. All I remember was asking him if he was willing to testify against the dwarf, nothing about keeping his name out of it. Heart just about stopped when he hesitated on the stand. I was sure he was going to recant. If he hasn't skipped town for the wastes, I'll have to buy him a drink- try and make it up to him.

The lads wanted to drink to their win, like this was a great victory. It's not. There's still a leak in the Legion that needs plugging, and it won't be until the next Gallows or Merizad that I'll see an opportunity to do that. Best I can do now is to try to keep an eye on everyone. Even while we're being watched ourselves...

[Blue41]

Alright. Maybe getting this out on paper will help some. Let's talk Aubrey fucking Domergue.

The first time I met Aubrey was a few days after washing into the Well, doing odd jobs here and there. Me, her and a few others entered the Gutters. Desperate refugees hungry for a meal or a handful of dinar made banditry a common thing, and in our wandering, we stumbled on the tail end of a mugging. Mostly, that was a handful of idiots chasing other idiots down a dingy pipe, while some folk groaned on the ground.  In this case, they had actually caught one of the men responsible. Pontius Slax, I think. "Grand," says I, "looks like everything's in hand, so we can keep on moving on. Right?" No, of course not. Aubrey insisted-- along with Arterian, now that I think about it-- that we march this trouble-maker off to the Janissaries. In order to see justice done. And justice in this case was hurling some camel shit at aforementioned idiot in the stocks. I think I threw ten camel diamonds. Aubrey didn't throw one.

So. Aubrey is a meddler.

The next time was during the Legion's try-outs. No small time investment, that. Weapon training, patrolling, running around the walls in the hot sun, with  a little practice bout between teams to top it off. Aubrey's made team captain, picks me, slips me a little magick to even the odds. We win the bout, and the brass make their final selections: Aubrey, Scarbork, me. First wave of refugee Janissaries. Big fucking honor (in theory. In reality, my luck's thrown itself head first into the dirt and shows no signs of improving.) Aubrey's all wide-eyed: "Really? You want lil' ol' me? Are you sure?" And then reveals this as some kind of power play for the League of White, that she couldn't possibly be a Janissary, and trounces off while the Lieutenant spits into the sand. Short one soldier, Zakar al-Sid is chosen in her place. We all know how that fucking ended.

So. Aubrey is a liar.

We all lie. To ourselves most of all, if you wanna be a fucking philosopher about it. I don't hold that against her, really. At this point, I don't think she could've handled this job-- not after hearing what she said about Gallows. About Merizad. Her friendships, acquaintances, connections...they matter more to her than taking the hard road. Loyalty unto death, but to people rather than ideas or institutions. Thing of it, people will let you down. They're bound to. We ain't gods. But the shit we're holding up has to last for generations, and that doesn't happen by making yourself bigger than it.

Aubrey's gotta be in the spotlight.

She put on a good show. A little drunk, a little desperate. A touch of the hand, a tempting secret. Carefully laid bait. Only I don't think the trap's set just for me. It's for him, too. Two, three birds with one stone? And when the dust settles, and it's time for elections to begin... the Legate seat? Possibly.  Lying, meddling and an ego fit the job requirements. But how far is she willing to go for it?

[Blue41]

In my dreams I see arrows falling to earth in a hailstorm. Every arrow finds a target. Every target is someone I know, someone I've studied-measured-followed. Every target is guilty, so every target deserves it.

I don't know who the archer is. Is it me? Is it Urazzir?

[Blue41]

Words to remember, from Ellanher: No one betrays you quite like a friend.

Should've trusted my gut. Karath had been distant for the last few weeks, I suppose, but I was also busy as all hell. The Gallows case. The Merizad case.  Investigating Diakos. Investigating Aubrey and Isabelle and always another investigation. I saw him in passing, a nod here, a word there, but that was it. But the moment he's forced to endure more than a thirty count in my presence...the moment I get the nod from the brass, it all came spilling out like bad wine. Zakar. Again.

I haven't thought of him in weeks. I don't think of him, except the few moments Quentin brought him up. Is that strange? Zakar was probably dirty. Compromised, in Merizad's pocket. In someone's pocket. He put himself, his needs, over the Legion. Just like Karath. I trust my steel more than I do your plank of wood. This shield has history. He had history with Zakar, too.

...Was Karath even my friend? Will I spare him another thought? Will I remember Quentin?



It's the job. The nature of the work requires a certain degree of...distance. Distance will save me from the spears and arrows. Distance will ward off the eye of Urazzir. Distance makes it easier to see Mirit's tears as daggers, makes it easier to see Sylvia's questions as probing, someone else's words in her mouth. The job's the only thing that matters, because the Well matters. The Legion matters.
No more Zakars. Bloodthirsty idiots who act without care for consequence.
No more Karaths. Too soft-hearted to focus on what matters.
No more Quentins. The fact that I can't be sure of what you did that gnome speaks volumes.

They'll be better--the ones that come after.

[Blue41]

I find myself missing Ellanher more than I thought I would. Maybe it's because I know he'd understand this sinking feeling. Like I'm drowning with every step forward I take, falling into a muddy quagmire of...compromise. Doubt. Suspicion. And any time I find my way to a breath of fresh air, I'm yanked right back down again. There's no one I can trust, and that's exhausting. People who pass me by all have the same comments to make:

"You look stressed, Sergeant. Eating well?"

"You look tired. How about some mizzar?"

"Drinks on me, Sergeant."

There was a time I would've treated these words as what they were. Innocent nothings, rather than a probe of my defenses, a test to see how likely I am to accept a drink, a smoke, a gift. I can't even claim to miss that time, now. But I do miss the feeling of being able to share of myself without waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Never assume innocence. No one betrays you like a friend.

There are days when the teachings of Urazzir feel more like a curse I've taken on. Today's one of them.

[Blue41]

There are some mysteries I'll never be able to resolve. What led Ophelia Whitmore into the Gutters to meet with the man that killed her? Was it overconfidence? Fear? The blind faith that she was more valuable to them alive than dead?

Can you protect someone from themselves?

The sendings were a gamble, admittedly. I wanted the pair of them to feel they could beat the charges, to feel so sure of their victory that there would be no need to lay a hand on Ophelia. They both had to go down for this, regardless of who called the shots between them. It was the only way to make sure that in a few days, weeks, months down the road, we didn't run into another merchant complaining of a protection racket in the Souk. But they killed her anyhow, as if that would erase their previous crimes. Ophelia was a tool for John Syter, a Legate candidate that doubtlessly would have danced to the tune of the League of Gold to the detriment of the Well. She was also a frightened young woman in a bad situation without any friends who cared enough to reach out before it was too late.

I will carry it with me-- the tragedy of her death. But I will not let it keep me from doing the only work that needs doing.

Three Voiced dead. Two for the Lions, one for the sands.

There's just one more loose end to wrap up, and then I can put this case to bed.

[Blue41]

Miserable, fucking luck.

How in the fuck did I manage this?

[Blue41]

Strange feeling. No capital cases on the board, no investigations to pursue and no Legates to bring them to.  Instead of being able to lose myself in work, I'm left to the sort of administrative duties best left delegated to others. Answering letters. Closing out old case files. Restraining myself from kicking up the level of shit that comes naturally to the Astronomers and Cinquefoil. Trying to keep the treasury from bottoming out, even while the lads see to training new recruits. Everything will change once we have Legates again, I tell people. I tell myself that, too. I wonder if I believe it.

If the peace wasn't uneasy enough, there's the matter of the Wyrm's deathrattle. Finding snakes under beds, snakes on the road, snakes in jars. Snakes eating themselves.  Curses overlapping curses.

I should have my hands full with the aftermath of the Legate's murder, but I've got a sneaking suspicion about where Zarat ended up. The question, then, is when she'll show up again. But I don't have much say in that matter--that's up to him.

[Blue41]

Administrative leave.

Think of it like a vacation, the Lieutenant told me when I read over the letter, not even a full day after the debacle of a debate and the Testimonial. The latter being when I decided to publicly throw in my lot with the League of White--with Lynneth-- over Cyrille. I don't take vacations; this work matters. The job is everything. All the more reason, the Lieutenant soothes, and between his tone and the look in his eyes, I know the discussion has already ended. The rest is just a formality. Packing my bags, boarding the caravan and then off into the Ash to investigate some spectacular bit of distraction that the Consulate's cooked up on my behalf. ''Soothe the woes of some land-owning relative fifteen branches removed from the Maribid line." Sergeant Colmes is on the case to investigate precious lost fennec. Camelshit.

I hang on to my chip, though-- they can't take that away from me. It's a form of entertainment for a while, as I ride into the dunes, listening to some of the usual shit-stirrers, with a few new players in the mix. Then it becomes a source of irritation. Maddeningly infuriatingly teasingly irritating. I'm no scholar but why the fuck does it feel like I'm the only one with any sense in the room when it comes to that man-- that thing. Sol Auk. Since speaking with Daoud, I went back over every meeting I had with it. Every chance encounter. Every word of warning, every counsel given. It's only now, with distance, with perspective, that I can see how nearly every piece of trash I cleared from the alleys aided it in some way.

Ophelia, the previous Gold front-runner for Legate, slain by Brudron and Atreus-- rivals among the Purple in their own right, in both business and politics.

Merizad, who dominated narcotics before Sol Auk's own, 'legal', enterprise.

Witness to Wulfsige's crimes. A hand in the pocket of many a Janissary besides.

It never hid. Never declared its intentions to be seen, be known, be the top dog like all the rest. It came peddling...water and advice. Offered to 'buy me out of my contract to the Fourth Legion', which I refused to consider. If I had, it would've been one more obstacle cleared from the path...

I don't yet know the specifics of that meeting between it and the Torchbearers, but I can imagine. I can wonder if this thing with a political firebomb in its pocket even needed to show its hand, or if the bluff was enough. Because of the implicit threat it represented, Sephidra will never run for office or hold any political placement of worth for the rest of her long life. Naelin torched the reputation of her Torchbearers, along with a share of public good will. If they met with Sol not to deliberate or fight, but to concede and cut a deal, as I suspect...well, the law can only help so much. If a man threatens to blow you away with a firebomb, that's something you can report. But if the man makes you believe he's holding your destruction, and you hand him everything freely...they say there's no devils left in hell. They're right. We've got one here in the Well, and it can't even read a contract.

It won't be long before they call me back. Wish I could say I was happy about it. But I heard about the trial, and the re-trial, and the re-re-trial to know that the letter will be coming any day now, and it'll be back to the Well to untangle this mess.

Until then, I bide my time.

[Blue41]

Been a while since I've had the chance to take up the quill for personal reasons. It figures that it's a matter of mortality that turns the trick. Mine, specifically.

Fear death. Control the fear to deny it power.

I always thought that if I was going to die-- it would be quick. A knife in an alley. Poison in my drink, something odorless, colorless, painless. Execution for overstepping my boundaries one too many times. A quick death would be best. It's more merciful that way; no time to think about the specifics involved, or dwell on the pain. No chance to linger on old regrets, words spoken in anger, words left unsaid to those who needed to hear them. It's just one wrong choice and then you're off to see the Twindari. But these new orders...time was supposed to be on our side, our advantage. Instead it feels more like an unbreakable fishing line, with me caught fast.

I don't want to die. Too much left to be done, and no one left to do it. The guilty would go unpunished. Those biding their time would rejoice. Those seeking guidance would drift astray.

I don't want to die. I'd like a stiff drink and a good women, even more than I did when I first arrived. The Legion's given me a Voice and a name but it's still failed to deliver on those two fronts. Can't enjoy them I'm dead.

I don't want to die. I'd like to see them again, one more time--Karath and Sylvia. Talk things out over mizzar. Try and build that bridge to get back to where we were before, or somewhere new where we could coexist.

But if I have to die...this is a good cause. The only cause. And if I have to die for it to succeed, then I won't hesitate.

"If the Sultan asked you to drop dead, right on the spot, what would you do?"

"I'd hope he  could make better use of me than that would allow me a knife to speed it along. "

[Blue41]

There were other investigations I never undertook after that case because of their membership in the Accord.

Time was you followed corruption all the way to the top, Rennik. This isn't that.

I don't believe him and what's worse, I can't make myself believe him, either. The smart thing to do would be to put this all behind me with Shahlil's second trial. Everyone got what they wanted, even if the halfling slipped her bindings, because the decision mattered more than her death.  It's proof that the Fourth Legion is willing to honor the Accord, even when the other signatories aren't. Even when they shield murderers and brookers and cultists and dissidents and traitors, the Fourth Legion holds the line. Just another element of the Misfortune, and aren't I the good little soldier? Isn't this another element of the Work?

Yes, and no. Because I was charged by the Bey to watch for enemies within as well as without. I renewed those oaths when I was given this rank. I've honored them again and again-- Zakar. Wulfsige. Munster, had I allowed that wound to fester. Not easy work, but within my power when dealing with soldiers. But a Lieutenant? How the fuck am I meant to deal with that? It's not like I can handle this like Syter again, and if there's anyone who should know how to cover their tracks, it would be a Janissary.  Getting evidence may be entirely impossible.

The only bit of suppressing done was Sol Auk's rescinding of her exile, and our putting Soldiers in charge of murder trials they had no right to be overseeing. Greener than the cloaks off your back.

Working under someone who'll serve the Astronomers' interests is also impossible. I wouldn't have even suspected if Auk hadn't made the fucking insinuation in the first place. At the time it was easy to overlook it as related to the clusterfuck of bad decisions that was the Twindari trials...but Vergal was always at the root of it. Everything else was a distraction. If we had been allowed to run that investigation to its conclusion, I know we would have found what the halfling didn't. 

I never would have been allowed to investigate Syter either. Not by the Fourth Legion, at least. If I recall right, just breaking into his office would have earned me a whipping and my rank, if not my job. Pointing a finger nearly earned me treason.

I'm starting to think that I can't help myself. It's like I have this compulsion to see the worst, to call it out...whatever the cost. Ellanher would have something to say on this, but he's not around. And I know what I'm going to do regardless.

Just need to get properly drunk, first.

[Blue41]

"Congratulations, Sergeant. Another case won."

There was a moment, then. A flash. An urge. Where I considered how long it would take, how much effort it would require, to hook an arm under one of Argus' legs and scoop him up and over the gate, to tumble into the Arena below. A bit of a light meal for the Orentid lions after they had concluded dining on Volandis. Does he truly think that I enjoyed sending the man to his death? That I'm not aware what a colossal waste this was? That I have any other choice in the matter?

The urge passed, but the resentment remained. Perhaps this is the Wroth's influence from being etched on to the Stele. Damn Argus, for believing his pithy comment needed to be heard at all. For believing that a man who confessed his fate was somehow still innocent. Damn Isabella for believing me capable of what the Advocate claimed-- a 'political hit-job'. Damn the Cinquefoil Rose, for their ignorance. For being unaware of the mess their actions caused. For believing heroic actions alone are all that qualifies you to lead the Well. Damn you, Amelie, for offering a hand to a condemned man and believing this would uplift you, rather than sully your spirit and those around you. Damn you, Lynneth, for not taking the extra step. After climbing out of blood and viscera, you wanted to believe the worst was past you. You wanted it to be over.

Damn you, Volandis, for asking me to do what your comrades could not. Damn Rennik Colmes for doing his duty.  For recording horrible truths.