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...

[Blue41]

When it was done– when the last man in green and brown had left the office and left me to my lonesome, I confronted the bottom drawer. It was empty– I had gotten rid of the vials around the time that Laurentis' trial was kicking up, because I didn't need it then. Not the way I needed them now. I considered my dead as I considered the future I could see a path to.

Samton, the heart of the Legion who sacrificed himself for the cause– no, the men he believed in.

Daoud, ever meticulous. Ever thoughtful. A single careless moment had sent him down the Edutu.

Joachim, stubborn and reliable. A survivor and the consummate Soldier. Cut down by an assassin's blade.

Grimes. Not yet grown into the boots he had been asked to wear. A protege, like me and yet so unlike me in so many ways. Dead man walking.

The Scorch would soften things, smooth over the hard jagged edges, sweep away the recriminations and self-loathing in the rush of adrenaline and bloodlust. The Orc had returned. I could slam a vial down, ride out from the gates and run into the enemy before I hit the Gap if I was lucky. I could lose myself in it for a while, let it float away.

It would be so easy.

And in the end, that's what decided the matter. I don't get easy. I'm not allowed easy. They get easy. What I get, what I deserve, is the rocky path. When I'm asked why I do what I do– if it's worth the pound of fucking flesh or the chaos or the shrieks for my head– I know it's the work. It's never easy. The Scorch stays in the locker. This notebook came out instead.

It's not your judgment I fear.

Grimes was...unmoored. Whatever news he had expected to hear, it wasn't this. About the hardest news I've ever had to deliver. 'March out in advance of the vanguard, alone, without water.' I've ordered the death of men before, but they had earned it in some way. Informants. Murderers. Grimes' crime was making a bad call in a public setting in a heated moment. He'll die for it, and I'll be left wondering what more I could have done. His error reflects on me. Does that then reflect on the Bey? On the Sultan? Who dies for the sins of the subordinate, and when is it enough?

I loathe cities, Colmes. I hate them. For they are filled with the politicking, and the lies, and the twisted purpose of women and men who have not seen what we have seen.

Our errors. There was a time I engaged in those old intrigues, of currying favor, collecting information, building a network. Since my return to the Well I haven't bothered. Believed myself above it, perhaps, or that with enough pressure, with enough weight, I could simply will what I wished into existence. I've been comfortable in that isolation, and I've expected others to feel the same. Grimes couldn't handle that, and it was a mistake to believe that he could. He's not me, and that's not a knock against him. One of me is enough.

Argyris was never and could never be on our side, but Yildirim...we helped vote him into his office. We worked with his Magistrates. He pleaded on Grimes' behalf. All he needed to do was resist the pressure, as I have– but there it is again. These men are not me. I can't expect them to be me. But I can hate them for it. And yes, there is hate. It's not the first time I've tried to resist the weight of the Accord and lost, and it can't be done alone. I should not have been alone.

I will suffer some misery for a better tomorrow.

Pretty words. Cheap words. Ever the performer, playing the 'reasonable fool', even as it condemns my own men for doing the work. Was there truly a time I respected this woman– even admired her, considered her my friend? What sort of person can live from day to day in this manner, saying one thing while believing another? Why can't she act without always considering how it will appear, how it will affect their image?

The best we can do.

Yes. His hand is present in this– was present from the trial and Presmir's ill-fated decision. If he had gotten his way, Laurentis likely would have been pardoned just as ahd Ishal had been after a week or two of 'latrine duty'. The Law rendered toothless. Daoud had once urged me to remain clinical, detached– as the law ought to be. There is no anger in its convictions, righteous or otherwise. It should be boring, rote, by the books. Wheel knows I've tried. There was no real personal stakes in this back and forth with Argyris. It was just the work. Now, though? No longer.

They will murder him, and the Banda Rossa will be compensated to do what we already do out of duty.

And there is nothing I can do.

There is nothing I can do.

....

Wronged-stone. Lord of Tin. Unbidden Brother of Torments.

By the oldest ire, the first scorn, the grievance that can never be answered. I demand succor. I demand relief from the wound knot, tight itself twisted. I demand vengeance.

Blood for blood.

Take what price must be paid. I am nothing. I offer myself freely.

Ahmet Yildirim
Argent Argyris
Mirielle Rosseu
Aubrey Domergue

[Blue41]

Toss the Ash. That's what it always comes down to.

This isn't a coincidence. They were let into the city, and from that moment on, things turned to shit-- just when we were on the verge of putting it altogether. They gave Yildirim a coin-- marked him, too. I may have misjudged him, but marked is marked is marked. Need to give him some ash...

Biggest question at the moment is how badly Bashir is implicated. Not a trial I would enjoy, but I don't think we can afford not to do it.

I should speak with the record-keeper...

[Blue41]

I can't be what the old man needs. Not without making some concessions— no, compromises. I used to believe that was a strength. Something to be proud of, that I...shared a weakness with the Bey, I suppose. I've been able to ignore the games the rest of them play while pursuing my own agenda.

What do I have to show for it? Ultimately the blame lies with me. Because I wasn't willing to do what was necessary for the Legion to thrive. No more.

The viper or the adder.

[Blue41]

If you have to die, die literally rather than metaphorically.

Daoud would know a more Izdurian way of putting that. He probably did, and I probably put him off. Maybe it's better this way, though. Much as I would have liked to prove Azmir wrong, I am who I am. I'd be dead in the Royal court in thirty minutes or less, and they'd be replacing my post by the top of the hour. Death by poisoned fig.

I can't be what the old man needs. Maybe I can find that for him, though. Assuming I survive what comes next.