Another sample chapter

[mouseofcards89]

*This is another sample chapter of mine, though from an entirely different (and, as of now, untitled) work of fiction. The genre is fantasy, though I mainly mean for it to suffice as a socio-political commentary. Again, your comments are welcome. I had to post this in two separate entries, as it was too long to fit in one alone.

The autumn lane seemed to beckon to me like a lover lost in space as the rope tightened around my neck. Everything was coloured a rich, unadulterated gold. No doubt that whoever owned this house came by this window often enough to enjoy the view and take in the scenery. Surely, upon returning home, they would recognize me, or at least what was left of me.
Though the effort was unconscious at first, I found myself humming snatches of a lullaby that the matrons used to sing us, back in the days when I was still young enough to understand what innocence truly meant. Looking back, much of my life seemed like background music to this one lullaby. Now, getting ready to breathe my last in a stranger’s house, I wondered why I had not spent the milotene shells in my pockets before coming here. The rope had cost me the better part of a day’s takings, and this cash had been my change. Why did not accounting for the small things suddenly seem much more important to me than the bigger things?
They would miss me, sooner or later, when I didn’t come back. That was a certainty. If I perished, then the Thaxanor would recover my identity papers, would see who and what I represented. Petty burglary was just a small base of revenue. The extent of our operations had infiltrated every level of the hierarchy, here in the compound. Though I knew that the officials often turned a blind eye, they would not be able to ignore something like this, and a full scale investigation would be launched. My death was a political statement. Or, perhaps I simply wanted to die.
My generation was the echo of a century of indentured oppression. When the ancestors had come to this place seeking sanctuary and a regimented lifestyle towards a higher good, they never once considered the ambitions of those yet to come. When their gods and moral centre had evaporated, they sought an alliance with the most powerful empire in the known regions. So, for the last one hundred years, we had been utilized as a source of cheap labour in exchange for the privilege of worshiping the Thaxanor juggernaut. Autonomy, freedom, had never once occurred to our former leaders.
Here, now, my death would be in service of a purpose much greater than any one man. The Thaxanor would try to eradicate my comrades from existence. There could be little doubt of that. They would be forced to either mobilize, rise up, or perish. Most of them would likely despise me for pushing their hand, at least for as long as it was possible for them to despise anything. They could succeed. There was little doubt in my mind of that much. Oh, few believed themselves to be capable, but they had the resources and the cunning. We could not hope to crush the Thaxanor, certainly, not with their military might and years of experience. However, a violent insurrection could disconcert them, leave them reeling, on the ropes. By the time that word of our accomplishment reached the other compounds, perhaps the spirit of the insurrection would spread. I had no way of knowing whether or not there were organized factions there which actively opposed the Thaxanor elite, or if they possessed nearly the same level of influence that we did. No matter. Subduing the Thaxanorians was the least of our worries. After we did succeed in escaping, our own people would most likely brand us heretics.
The rope began to chafe around my throat, and I knew that the time would have to be coming, soon. Now that the harvest season was over, labourers often were permitted to return home from the fields early. It would hardly do if they were to find me still alive. Not for the first time, I wondered if hanging was the most effective way to do this. The prospect of death was certain, but I had no way of knowing how long it might take for me to lose consciousness. Really, given the choice, I would have preferred to jump. That solitary moment of free fall...of pure liberty, of exhilaration, of oneness with the world around me...might have gone some way towards compensating me for the freedom that had been denied to me in life. There were simply no structures around here that were tall enough to suit my purposes. For a time, I had considered the clock tower, but it was debatable whether a fall from that would be fatal. Here, now, I realized that a rope would do the job, but it would certainly be very...painful. It was not that I am reluctant when it comes to experiencing pain, but I certainly do not wish to pursue it if it is not necessary. Jumping would have been instantaneous. This way, it could take minutes, or even half an hour.
There would be a dance, tonight. The Thaxanorians often tolerated such things as necessary to keeping the peace. Our group had relished that as a private joke many times. These events were our main recruiting grounds. I wondered if Susannah was going to wear her green dress tonight, and resolved that, should I not black out instantly after jumping, then I would keep her face in my mind’s eye until the end. The many hours consumed by our conversations was the precious little time in my life which I could say beyond a certainty had been well spent. Of course, she was not one of us, but rather believed this world to be a paradise. Here, right now, I realized that my action would deprive her of that paradise. If the insurrection failed, then there would invariably be bloodshed, and life could never go on as it had before. However, if it succeeded, then she would be torn asunder. She had only ever seen me as a fascinating pariah, but I had wanted her. More than once, when the shadows began to grow long on the walls in that place and the tremulous thoughts started to outweigh reality, I wondered what it might be like to kiss her. True, I was not allowed to have such thoughts, and there was no room in my mind or heart for them anyway, but they were my illicit dream. Rebellion in a moral and philosophical sense had always come as naturally to me as breathing or sleeping. They comprised the framework of my reality just as surely as blind obedience and hard work comprised hers.
I had no last will and testament. There was nothing to leave. If all went according to plan, then none of my comrades would have any use for the remembrances of this world, anyway. When they reached the wilderness, if a new nation was forged upon their shoulders, I hoped that they remembered me only as an aspect of bygone history that had never really existed. The shame of my people could never be erased, so it must be forgotten. Perhaps Aniruddha would think of me from time to time, and Fergus as well. We were all so young. Given time, I knew that at least half our number likely would have come to embrace assimilation into the Thaxanorian hordes. Doing so was considered to be a mark of maturity. We were not the first generation ho have what the Thaxanorians might have considered ‘antisocial tendencies.’ On the contrary; some of our parents, and grandparents, had actively resisted, though their dissent was limited to peaceful means. Thaxanor understood no language other than that of sword upon sword.
So, perhaps this represented a turning point for me. Had I chosen to remain alive, cloistered away in one of our hideouts with my friends discussing armed revolt, then it only ever would have amounted to just talk. True, some of the more radical among as had begun to stockpile weapons. We even had some types of improvised explosives that the more studious of us had built out of their own expertise with chemicals and similar matter. However...the chasm between conspiracy and action could be a difficult one to bridge. Though I could think of at least half a dozen others who might have gladly taken my place on this stool, they were too outnumbered by those who simply used our meetings as a means through which to vent their own problems and dissatisfaction with the system. Sooner or later, people would be consumed by their adult occupations, and would simply stop coming. The few who remained would certainly not be enough to wage anything consequential. Those stragglers would all go on to live lives of meaningless drudgery, waste away and die young, or, lacking that, commit an act rash and foolish enough to warrant their public execution, and in doing so reinforce the propaganda of the Thaxanor hegemony. If I did not do this now, then I would find myself on a similar stool again, in five or at most ten years, but then it would be for nothing. My time had come.
I braced myself to jump, beckoning Susannah’s smiling features to my mind. Just as I was about to release myself, a piercing scream resonated through the house. Almost losing my balance, I turned around hastily. Had someone arrived home?
The shout had come, not from inside the building, but rather from the opposite side of the street from where I was standing. Someone was running at an exceptionally fast pace...but not towards me. Whoever this person was, they were sure to have others on their tail, and I would inevitably be spotted is a very compromising position. There would not be enough time to finish myself off before someone happened upon me. Cursing fluently, I removed my neck from the noose. As long as I was going to be delayed, I had might as well see what all the fuss was about.
However, I was hardly in a position to do anything of the kind. Both of my hands were bound. If someone discovered me like that, then I might as well have stayed in the noose. Working my way over to the window, I worked at the knot on the ledge there. It gradually began to weaken under the pressure. Fortunately, I had only been able to afford cheap rope. As it started to fray, I stayed attuned to what was beginning to sound like a full fledged stampede outside of the window.
A moment later, my hands came free, and I moved them hastily, trying to get the circulation going again. I decided that there was no time to move the rope or the stool, so whoever arrived home that night would be in for an unpleasant surprise. There was nothing I could do about that.
This home could not be called a house, as such. It was more of a hovel, in what was already a run down and dilapidated section of the Compound. There was little here that was worth stealing in the first place, and, though pickings were slim, all revenue was useful when it came to fuelling our resistance effort. We had no compunctions when it came to stealing from the very people we were trying to liberate. As we saw it, we were bettering their long term interests anyway, unbeknownst to them, and everyone had to make some necessary sacrifices. Be that as it may, this sort of thing was entrusted only to more senior members of our organization. We preferred to keep the newer recruits under the impression that our entire basis for operations was morally immaculate.
I exited the house quickly, and looked up and down the lane. It seemed as though a stream of people had appeared out of nowhere. Many of them were still in their work clothing. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what might be causing this sort of commotion. A number of them were shouting, though the swell of people made it next to impossible to decipher individual voices. A woman clutching a squalling infant ran into me, almost bowling me over. I looked on in amazement when she did not even stop to apologize, but rather kept running, the infant screaming in her arms every step of the way. I searched around feverishly for someone, anyone, who might be able to tell me what was going on. Spotting a face that I recognized in the mob, I dove into the crowd, narrowly avoiding several more collisions.
“Freyr!” He carried on, oblivious to me. I could see that there were several others with him that I knew. They were all talking excitedly amongst themselves, but the noise of the crowd had drowned me out. Shaking my head in frustration, I tried to muscle my way closer to where they were. Someone’s elbow caught me in the ribs as they charged by, and I nearly doubled over in pain. Gritting my teeth, I continued to move forward, wondering what kind of spectacle could turn an ordinarily discordant population into a solitary, united mob. Now limping slightly, I managed to make my way over to the others.
Freyr was not in my immediate circle of contacts, though I knew that he was devoted to our cause and I had spoken with him previously at meetings. He generally worked as a day labourer. Therefore, if he was here, then this meant that people must be streaming in from the outlying pastures and fields. He was reasonably well built, and I knew him to be a capable fighter, though he was always reluctant to throw the first punch.
As I approached, he took notice of me, and nodded vigorously in greeting. Solemn dark eyes surveyed me questioningly, trailing on my chafed arms. Most people I had spoken with seemed to believe that Freyr was dull witted, and, in one sense, he was. Ask him to solve a complex problem, and he was completely lost. In spite of this, he had a cutting intuition which often proved to be extremely useful. Besides, education and literacy rates were extremely low among most of our numbers. If he was a fool, then he most likely wasn’t naturally disposed to be that way. If indeed it ever did come to armed conflict, then I would have trusted him to lead us. He spoke loudly to me in his slow, gruff voice.
“You weren’t at work today.” It wasn’t a reprimand. We all knew that, if one missed work detail too often, then the Thaxanorians were most likely to get suspicious of you. My assigned occupation consisted of feeding livestock. It was dull, if necessary work. Roughly a third of the local economy, such as it was, happened to be agriculturally based. We raised cattle, and, when the proper time came, they were removed from our pastures, slaughtered, processed elsewhere, and shipped to the Thaxanorian heartland. How exactly they ensured that the meat kept over the long voyage was beyond me. Salt, most likely. During this time of year, after the harvest was in, a lot of what had formerly been the planting crew got shifted over to either the mines or the livestock for the entirety of the cold season. This meant that, occasionally, it was possible to slip away without being called to account for it. I returned his nod.
“I had some things to take care of. What’s all this?” He shrugged.
“Jasper got conscripted. Wants to take his shot at freedom, I suppose.” My mouth hung open. Jasper Handleson was little more than the village idiot. I had been in the same room with him several times before, and never really understood him. He was a shaggy, disinterested youth a couple of years older than me, who was said to have once jumped a Thaxanorian guard. I had no idea if the story was true or not, though it wouldn’t have required a tremendous feat of the imagination to believe it. Jasper was violent, and that was an understatement. Once, we had been assigned to the same work detail team, which was supposed to be chopping lumber in an old barn. It was dry, tedious work, and everyone was fed up with it by the middle of the afternoon. One of our number, a tall, burly type whose name I never learned, had managed to get some chewing tobacco someplace. Things like that were commonplace on the black market, though prices were extremely inflated and the average working man, especially one just starting out, hardly had enough milotene shells for that kind of thing. Luxury items that had to be bought with hard currency, and, though you might occasionally find a Thaxanorian corrupt or desperate enough to give you legitimate money in exchange for the shells, you would be hard pressed to get a fair trade. Most people I’ve heard of who take part in those transactions don’t get those items for personal use, but rather trade them back to their fellow prisoners in exchange for a disproportionate quantity of shells. It was supposedly a very profitable business. So, this heavyset man had managed to get his fix, one way or another, and decided to sample some of it there in the barn.
There were no Thaxanorians supervising us at the time. I don’t know if that would have changed things, if there had been. They tended to stay out of prisoner disputes unless things got out of hand. Again, this was the whole policy of live and let live at work. If they had directly oppressed us beyond what was strictly necessary, then they prevented open rebellion and maintained the status quo. Besides, it was highly unlikely that people were going to rebel, or so I suppose they imagined. After all, we had submitted to their rule in the first place, had we not? We hadn’t been conquered. Thaxanorians or no Thaxanorians, I doubt that anything would have stopped Jasper.
After the man had chewed his tobacco for a time, he turned and spit the remains at his feet. Unfortunately, this turned out to be dangerously near Jasper’s vicinity. None of us had any time to stop what happened next. Before any of us could move a muscle, the man’s head was on Jasper’s chopping block. I don’t think that this unfortunate victim saw it coming any more than any of us did. Jasper had seemingly grabbed him in one fluid reflex, and pulled him down. The man probably could have squirmed away in that first moment, but chances were that he was the most surprised of us all. He was at least a full head taller than his attacker, and considerably outweighed him, too. Most of that extra weight looked to be muscle. The most surprising aspect of all of this was the look in Jasper’s eyes. There was no fury there. He was not even visibly excited, as anyone else might have been. There was simply that cool, purposeful, detached look in his gaze. Another man might have looked at a hangnail that needed to be pulled off and disposed of in much the same way.
For one, thrilling moment, I remember feeling positive that Jasper was going to decapitate the man with his axe. True enough, the blade was dulled (not even cowards like my people were entitled to use weapons with refined edges; the Thaxanor may have been pragmatic, but they were far from stupid). Ordinarily, this made work like ours twice as hard, which was a large part of the reason why most of the men despised it. However, I knew in that moment that it was certainly possible to take a life with it. Jasper dropped the weapon that all of our eyes had been riveted to, though. Apparently, he had something else in mind.
With all eyes upon him, he withdrew something from his left pocket. It was a wooden screwdriver. Although not all of us had them, they were more or less universal throughout the colony. Jasper inserted the sharp end into his victim’s ear, and twisted. When I say twisted, I mean twisted. The man’s shouts of pain were loud enough to be heard wherever the Thaxanorians shipped our cows to. This process continued for at least twenty or thirty seconds, and all of us were positive that a guard would either come running due to the commotion, or that the man would pass out from the sheer level of pain. As it turned out, Jasper had other plans. He abruptly withdrew the screwdriver, raised the man’s head, and brought it down with resounding force on the cutting block. His victim was knocked out instantly, and slid to the ground. Although he was far from dead, I would stake my life on the probability that he never heard anything out of that ear again for as long as he lived. After he was on the ground, Jasper returned the screwdriver to his pocket, back still to us, retrieved his axe, and got back to work as though nothing had happened. None of us dared to help the victim, or do much of anything else besides return to our own tasks, which we promptly did.
Though the Thaxanorians surely heard about this incident, nothing seemed to happen to Jasper as a result. In fact, three days later, I saw him drawing water from a local well, walking along with everyone else. No one talked to him, but he hardly seemed to care.
His Citadel match, though hardly the stuff of legend, was as remarkable in my mind as any number of the macabre contests I had seen in my seventeen years. All male Caladeans, upon reaching the age of eighteen, were supposed to take part in a duel with another male of the same age. This was preceded by nearly six months of gruelling preparation, often under the tutelage of a Thaxanor combat-priest. These days, however, due to an increasing population, it was impossible to assign instructors to all participants, so, in many cases, duels were no longer fights to the death. Nobody wanted to see two novices endlessly hack away at each other, with little to no idea as to the classic techniques. These matches were as much of an art form as anything else, and attracted spectators from as far away as the Thaxanorian mainland. They were far from a Compound exclusive activity. Indeed, a small culture of commerce had been built around it. Most people in the Compound had not a single piece of currency to their names, or at least nothing that would be recognized as such in the outside world. However, many of the visitors did. The Thaxanorians collected significant revenues from all of this.
In fights featuring novices, though, the betting pool was almost nil, as few people seemed inclined to stake anything significant when the odds were so evenly balanced. As a result, most of those fights took place during the cold season, as fewer ships tended to arrive at that point and the fights were losing money anyway. Thus, many of those matches were considered ‘low entertainment,’ and most of them involved either dull knives or no weapons at all. In the majority of cases, both combatants were completely unarmed, and simply punched and kicked one another until one of them was knocked out.
Jasper’s match took place during the cold season. Though I believe that he was easily talented enough to have appeared at one of the matches earlier in the year, the Thaxanorians evidently decided against it for reasons best known to themselves. As far as I could tell, he was brutal and unpredictable. No one could tell what he might be capable of in a setting where violence was openly encouraged. Indeed, someone responsible for organizing the fights likely imagined that he would attempt something that was in ill taste. For once, I found myself agreeing with them.
On the day of his match, the stands were almost completely empty. Although the Citadel was the centre of our cultural achievements, such as they were, on that day, it was almost abandoned. This may have been largely because it was almost noon when the stick dropped, so most people were at work. Though some fortunate individuals eke out a livelihood selling refreshments and souvenirs in the Citadel itself, most of us work either out in the fields, like myself, or down in the spice mines. There are perhaps a dozen other small trades which flourish in those parts, which really is a small community onto itself.
I don’t remember what it was that first brought me to the stands that day. Admission was free. The Thaxanorians evidently saw no real point in charging us for the privilege of watching our own dismember each other, mostly because our milotene shells simply would have been recycled back into our shadow economy anyway. At the time, I would have been fourteen, still too young to work for pay, and my parents were out in the fields.
At the time, Jasper was still mostly unknown to me. By this point, I was already actively involved with the youth resistance movement, though my ‘responsibilities’ were more like errands. I was often made to carry messages from one member to another, and was still learning the complex system of passwords and protocol that had to be observed while doing any kind of business within the movement itself. The guy who headed up the youth wing, San’jin Amerston, was a prick. I remember that, several days before Jasper’s fight, he had blacked my eye for mispronouncing one syllable in a long string of codes.
So, there I was, sitting in the spectator stands with several friends and doing my utmost to keep that eye concealed. Any visible wounds indicated that you were easy pickings. When Jasper and his opponent, some kid from the other side of the Compound named Santiago, entered the ring for the first time, I recognized Jasper’s characteristic black hair immediately. He kept it long and loose around his face, and I remember thinking what an idiot he was at the time. For one thing, it simply gave his opponent one more advantage against him. Though it was not a mandatory regulation, it was well understood around the Compound that men would sell their hair in exchange for money. Some women did the same thing, though they were a minority. Pathetic though the payouts were, they were common practice. This was a social norm. Caladean men above the age of fifteen or so who did not have completely bald heads were often marginalized from what passes for polite society in these parts. It implied a certain financial sufficiency, which no one did have. So, hair was pretension. I know of several men now who used to keep their hair at a length of a couple of inches. While most people don’t consider this a taboo, it’s a sign of solidarity, of cautious resistance to a social trend which has taken root, not through any direct regulation of the Thaxanorians, but through something much more sinister than that. However, the Underground eventually outlawed this practice, claiming that it gave the enemy a means to identify us. So, it stopped.
Jasper, however, has always kept his hair long. In fact, I doubt that he has ever gotten it cut. It hangs down well past his shoulders. Back then, I wondered if he was some prestigious member of the Underground that I didn’t know about. I discovered later, though, that we never would have accepted someone like Jasper, even if he had expressed the remotest interest in joining. As far as the rest of us could tell, he cared only about himself. He had no notions of the higher good.
Naturally, he won his fight in under five minutes. Santiago was completely helpless against him. Jasper ignored every rule about fighting techniques that I have ever heard of. He threw the first blow, kept his limbs loose and relaxed, and failed to protect his vulnerable spots. When he did eventually succeed in knocking Santiago out, we all applauded, though he gave no sign of acknowledging us or even caring in the least. Instead, he began to scream. It was the first time that I had ever heard him give voice before or since, but it was more than just incoherent wailing. It sounded like some kind of a dead language, almost like poetry of some kind. We had all sat there, shocked. Artistic expression of any kind was strictly forbidden. Artists in the Compound were obliged to produce their work in accordance with strict Thaxanorian guidelines and in the Thaxanorian likeness, and I’m sure that whatever he was singing was as alien to them as it was to us.
So, as I stood there, jogging alongside Freyr, I could hardly comprehend what he had just said. Jasper had been conscripted into the Thaxanor Army? There must be some sort of mistake. Conscription was regarded as an honour, an accolade of great prestige won after years of demonstrating oneself worthy of the privilege. With conscription came full citizenship rights in the Thaxanor Empire, and emancipation from the Compound. Surely, someone had misheard. If they were transporting Jasper anywhere, it was to the penal colonies further up North. I had heard rumours that the Thaxanorians were beginning to lose territories in the Southwest, and were looking for extra bodies to help them hold down those areas. Frankly, I could not think of many Caladeans who would be eager to return to that coast.
Over a century before, the city-state formerly known as Caladea had established a treaty with Thaxanor which had granted the Empire an invaluable foothold on the Irysian continent. As a peninsula, Caladea had been vulnerable to attack on three sides, and, had it resisted, then chances were that it likely would have been decimated by a superior Thaxanorian navy and taken by force. As it was, they had surrendered almost completely peacefully, stifling rebellion where it arose and funding a five year resettlement program which sent over a third of its population north to the Shiloh Strait. The history books (which precious few, including myself, were able to read) claimed that the Caladean emperor of the day had been a peace loving man ahead of his time, who had seen the ideals of the Thaxanorian vision and acknowledged them to be the best way for his people. I thought that the man had been at best, an ill fated opportunist, and, at worst, a through and through coward. Surrounding city states had paid the price, in full. Most of them were now either occupied to this day or annexed. So, needless to say, there was no love lost between the expatriated Caladeans and their former neighbours. Now that some of these territories were under attack by other states that were bordering them to the north and west, I expected that the Thaxanorians would draw upon the populations of their many colonies in the area to stifle the threat. This meant that Caladeans from this Compound alongside men who would be just as if not more glad to see them dead than the enemy would. So, conscripting Jasper into that force was essentially a death sentence.
I could see a pillar of what was clearly smoke rising in the air ahead of us. Moments latter, we arrived in the Compound courtyard, which passes for the administrative centre in these parts. The Thaxanor garrison stood to my left. It was a massive building, and, though I had never been inside, I understood that it housed most of the Thaxanor stationed here. It was an impersonal, drab structure, with a gruel coloured exterior and massive oaken doors. Beside it was the Office of Private and Commercial Affairs. There sat the Thaxanor House of Commerce, which handled most matters pertaining to imports and exports. I can acknowledge that, while the Thaxanor do certainly demonstrate ingenuity in a number of different areas, their architecture needs some work. That building looked dilapidated and worn out. I doubt that it had been renovated once since it was built a century before.
The building beside it was what captured my attention, and that of everyone else present. It was a colossal structure which dominated the Thaxanorian ideological landscape. So far as our Compound went, it was second only to the Citadel in both stature and cultural importance.
Now, the Sanctuary of Saxtus Tri’a was burning, and everyone was looking on in disbelief. The sky might have fallen, and it would have warranted a lesser level of shock. Everywhere, people were clutching at each other and wailing. Unseeing eyes perceived the spectacle, and watched as the formerly pristine place of worship as it fell in upon itself. Standing in front of the scene, arms pensively folded across his chest, was none other than Jasper. His long, black hair was coated with a fine ash, as though he had been anointed in the destruction of this place. At first, in spite of the fact that he was standing so calmly immediately in front of the scene, I simply found myself unable to process that he had been responsible for this. Somehow, in spite of the fact that I felt nothing but scorn for the domineering religion of the oppressors, I knew that even I certainly never could have gone to these lengths. I could justify murdering Thaxanorians (in theory, at least) if such a thing was necessary, but burning a building as sacred as this simply defied the imagination. It wasn’t an option that one acknowledged, and then rejected. It simply wasn’t an option. Smoke began to congeal in the air, and several people closer to the building began to cough. It was the pungent odour of rotting souls, the spirit of the building finally gone to rest.
Though there were many Thaxanorians in the crowd, too, of course, none of them made any move to take Jasper into custody. Frankly, though I had always liked the design of their military uniforms, the Thaxanorians did not know how to dress their civilians. Most of them, both men and women, stood scattered about wearing humble, brown tunics. They stood there openmouthed, just as astounded by the moment as we were. One of them stepped forward. He was sobbing like a child. His breaths came in intermittent gasps, and I was strongly reminded of an ancient, particularly wizened fish. When he spoke, it was between choked sobs. I glanced minutely over at the medical building, which stood on the opposite side of the square. Hopefully, there was someone in there still manning his post, for this man’s sake.
“Why...why, my son? You were so close...we were so close...” I had expected Jasper to ignore him. In fact, as far as I was concerned, Jasper was now more than a statue of marble, for surely, no human being could be capable of doing this. However, he turned. As on that day, long ago, his features were utterly expressionless. It was as though someone had just asked him what day it was, and he responded calmly, stoically.
“I had to make sure that it all burned, Father. You know that.” He turned back to face his handiwork, and the old man clutched at his chest. However, nobody paid any attention to him, and, when he collapsed to the ground a moment later, no one stirred. He was already dead.
Our magistrate strode into the square, escorted by an armed guard. They all wore the white tunics and crimson insignia of Thaxanor regulars. I wondered if Jasper would allow them to take him alive. However, as they approached, he spoke again, and the occupants of the square hung on his every word.
“My prerogative, Magistrate.” Our Compound Magistrate, Arenton Calendine, was a grossly obese man. I had only ever seen him before at processions on Empire holidays, but he disgusted me. Porcine eyes surveyed the crowd intently. If he was overly distressed by the destruction of the Sanctuary, then he did not show it. To the contrary, he looked almost amused. Then again, perhaps it was simply his triple chins which gave him that perpetually smug look. I knew nothing about the man personally, though I had heard that he was a former noble who had been somehow disgraced and exiled here to preside over us. What precisely he did was beyond me. The exiled Caladeans more or less ran their own affairs under strict Thaxanor supervision. Another, brutal faced man stepped forward from the delegation, and I recognized him instantly. This was Aesimides Mantola, Captain of the Calendine Guard and Calendine’s political deputy. He had been reassigned to the Compound from farther north. Though I do not know what his role was up there, it had likely involved something that would be discussed as legend for years down here. Amongst the resistance movement, he was known as the Mandible. That was an inside joke, because though all of us knew that Calendine was politically in charge and was really little more than a fat, revolting spider, Mantola represented the fangs behind his operations. He wielded the real power. Jasper surveyed him with the same casual indifference that he directed towards everyone else. When Mantola addressed him, there was steel in his words.
“You have your orders, soldier, and you will obey.” Jasper faintly raised an eyebrow.
“My orders.” It was not a question, but rather a flat statement. My eyes darted back and forth between the two men. Jasper was as nonchalant as ever. Not for the first time, I wondered if he was somehow sedated. Maybe the Thaxanor sought to victimize themselves here, to somehow make this play out as politically advantageous to them. Jasper could simply be their pawn, though that sounded ludicrous even as I thought it. If anything, they were Jasper’s pawns. “Section 42, subsection e.” I blinked. That sounded like a regulation of some sort, though I could not have begun to imagine what is was supposed to refer to. Jasper continued to stare, unblinking, at the Mandible.
“Subsection e) tells me that, as a conscripted man, I may issue a challenge to my commanding officer by means of burning my draft papers in front of him. I have made an altar, and offered my challenge to your gods themselves, but, seeing as it looks like they don’t plan on showing up anytime soon, your ugly snoot will have to make do. What’s it going to be, Mandible? Answer quickly, before I get violent. All of this burning has made me hungry, and I do so love roasted sheep.” He gestured offhandedly towards us, like a musician acknowledging the orchestra at the end of the show. Vaguely, I realized that I had just been insulted, but I was too busy processing what he had just said to care. He had just made an obscure reference to some document of which I knew nothing. Conscription was an honour, a privilege. No man in his right mind would have refused it. If a man who had suddenly come by a windfall of a million coins had rushed up right then and tossed them into the midst of the burning sanctuary, I could not have been more surprised. I was also not oblivious to the fact that Jasper had just used the man’s disparaging nickname.
Mantola, however, appeared unruffled, and replied curtly.
“When and where?” Jasper shrugged.
“Here and now.” Mandible nodded absently.
“Your weapon of choice?” Jasper shrugged again.
“It makes no difference to me the instrument by which you wish to meet your gods. Dao quintus der magnus trei.” Though I would have not bet on it, that last bit had sounded a great deal like one of the archaic Caladean tribal dialects. It used similar tenses to the primary Caladean language, which had been created out of the many tribal tongues, but also used a number of words that I did not recognize. This, too, was a calculated insult. Those languages were dead, now. Referencing them implied a love of disunity, of disorder. I wonder what was going through Jasper’s mind as he stood there, a solitary force of one against the entire world. Did he actively espouse anything?” I nudged Freyr, and whispered my hushed question.
“What are they doing?” Freyr replied out of the corner of his mouth.
“It’s an ancient clause in the Thaxanorian constitution. If a conscript feels aversely disposed to serve under the leadership of a particular authority figure, then he may stake a challenge to that figure by burning his draft papers in the figure’s presence. This gets him a one on one duel. If he wins, then he is granted his freedom, and sent away from the clan. If he loses, which is much more likely given how well trained Thaxanorian commanders generally are, then he won’t have to concern himself with much of anything anymore.” I didn’t question how he had happened by this obscure knowledge, but turned back to Jasper, who was still standing there, a smug look on his narrow features. Mantola spoke shortly.
“And your terms? Should you win?” He spoke the entire phrase levelly, though his aristocratic features plainly looked disgusted with the whole proceeding. Though challenges were tolerated, if not commonplace, in the Compound, they were tolerated if prior approval was granted unanimously by the Guild. However, challenging a Thaxanorian was unheard of, and was prohibited under civilian law. Most duels took place between neighbours over petty squabbles. Some of the more high profile fights took place in the Citadel. Jasper responded thoughtfully.

[mouseofcards89]

“A boat, and a crew of my choosing, of course. Though I would far rather sail the oceans of this dead world alone, having slaves would make my life far easier. I will be needing three days to prepare for my departure from this land, during which time your Thaxanorians will leave me be. But, that’s not the least of my demands, Deputy. If I win here, today, then not only will I let you live, but you will be coming with me, alone. To serve under me. Do I make myself understood?” Mantola gazed at him calculatingly for nearly half a minute before replying.
“I accept. And, if you lose?” Jasper smirked.
“Deputy, if I lose, then there will not be enough left of me to decide what to do with. I think that we are both agreed on that.” Mantola said nothing, but gestured for his comrades to gather closer, which they did. As they spoke in whispered conference, Jasper turned to look at the gathered faces which had assembled to witness the spectacle. A faint sneer was evident. For one, solitary moment, his gaze seemed to make contact with mine. There appeared to be a ghost of recognition there, though I perhaps simply imagined this. He appeared to be at peace with himself and the world, as though the dwindling haven of spirituality behind him had been the focal point of all his anger. Here he was, not betraying any signs of intimidation...what does this man fear? Surely, he was not doing this out of cowardice. Even if, by some trick of fate, he does manage to win, then the Thaxanor will surely cut him down anyway. However, no sooner had this thought crossed my mind then I banished it. They would not dare renege on their word in front of this many people, even if we were all Caladeans.
The council of administrators broke, and Mantola began to remove his outer cloak. It was an unremarkable garment, but practical. Really, it communicated a great deal about the methods of its owner. Mantola’s methods, both in politics and combat, were unremarkable. He was an extremely competent commander, but did not believe in either extravagance or loud speech. He was a man of few words, preferring to communicate through actions. While others in his position might have either abused their power or catered to popular consensus in an effort to rise to still further heights of influence, he did no such thing. Mantola was not unduly cruel, but neither was he overly kind. Though he operated within the boundaries of the law, he was not predictable. Really, he gave the impression of an idealist slightly gone to seed. Unlike the fat slug next to him, Mantola preferred to lead a socially conservative and utterly predictable lifestyle. I might have called him valorous in another lifetime, but this somehow would not have done justice to the word. He had a highly patrician face, and dark hair that was beginning to fade to grey. Sharp, assertive brown eyes, while not hard with a veneer of ruthlessness, were clearly well attuned to their surroundings. Yes, this was a quiet, just man. As the cloak fell to the ground, a small, fair haired boy darted out of the crowd, and scooped it up with both hands. Under other circumstances, this would have been almost laughable. The child might have been able to use the garment as a shelter. Mantola looked down at him, and spoke a curt command.
“Fetch me the longswords, boy, and be quick about it.” The child nodded obediently, and scuttled off. I half expected him to trip over his burden, but he did no such thing.
It was clear that Mantola had retained the finesse of his youth. He had long, muscular arms, with a tattoo of the Thaxanor Royal House crest on one shoulder. Half a dozen long, pale scars all over his torso communicated that their owner had likely survived dozens of battles. He began to pace back and forth, stretching out his arms and flexing them. Though this made for a rather undignified display, it was a testament to his practical nature. Calendine addressed his subordinate in a booming voice.
“Finish the whelp quickly, Aesimidies! There is business to be attended to, and we have wasted enough time on this foolish matter as it is!” Evidently, the fat one did not believe the burning of his Sanctuary and the death of a priest were situations worthy of his notice. However, Mantola lowered his head to his superior deferentially.
“Of course, Excellency.” Clearly satisfied, Calendine looked away. Again, I wondered what he had done to warrant getting assigned to this place. He was an ineffectual leader, and practically everything he touched seemed to fester and rot under his influence, but he appeared to be in someone’s good books.
While this exchange was taking place, Jasper was standing where he had been since we arrived, legs spread apart and arms crossed across his chest. He appeared to be entirely lost in his own thoughts. Though he was wearing a long, dark cloak, he did not discard it. I had no idea what his physique was, though it certainly could not be any better than his opponent’s. Mantola had to be at least twenty-five years his senior, but he was in perfect physical condition. He certainly had to be confident of his chances, although, in that moment, I definitely was not.
A woman made her way to the front of the crowd. At first, I thought that she was simply trying to get a better view, but Jasper seemed to take notice of her. She was of average height, with long, straight auburn hair, and what must have ordinarily looked like sharp, intelligent blue eyes. Today, however, there were silent tears streaming down her cheeks. She nodded silently, a gesture which Jasper was plainly intended to understand, but he returned her imploring gaze coldly, betraying no signs of recognition. The piercing sob which she let out then would have been enough to shatter a murderer’s heart, and she turned back to the crowd and disappeared. I could sense Calendine’s eyes following her from all the way across the courtyard. That was a perilous risk that she had just taken. He was a notorious womanizer, and she had just staked her life on Jasper’s victory.
It was an oddly disconcerting feeling. Never before had I stood in a crowd like this one. Everyone was completely silent, anticipating what was to inevitably follow. After what seemed like half an eternity, there was a faint clinking sound in the distance. The boy had returned, carrying what looked like a pair of finely crafted longswords with both hands. He handed one to Mantola, who unsheathed it and examined it closely. It was an impressive weapon, and appeared to have been repeatedly polished and honed. It apparently met with his satisfaction, for he dropped his arm loosely to his side, and stood poised. The boy then turned to Jasper, obviously intending to bring him the second sword. However, before he could take a single step, Jasper moved like a liquid shadow. A Thaxanor guard, who had been standing near the front of the crowd, most likely one of the first people on the scene, did not have time to react properly. Jasper struck him once, twice, three times with his closed fists, and the man went down. Seizing the sword from his belt, Jasper scarcely looked at it before returning to where he had stood before. It was a mediocre weapon, standard issue for most Thaxanor regulars.
Three of the guards who had been flanking Calendine and Mantola took steps forward, obviously planning on intervening before matters got out of hand. However, Mantola waved them back without even glancing at them. He was now looking at Jasper with a new sense of purpose, though the contempt was barely disguised in his eyes. The boy carrying the second sword dropped it in apparent fear and cowered on the ground, plainly expecting Jasper to run him through. Jasper focused on him, but his eyes were neither gloating or reproachful. He spoke emptily.
“You will remember, boy, that it is never wise to accept a weapon from your enemy, under any circumstances.” The child had clearly heard him, though he shrunk back, plainly still afraid that his life was in danger. Mantola stepped forward. As the boy got to his feet, the man ruffled his hair.
“Run along home, son. You did well.” I blinked momentarily. Mantola has children? Somehow, this seemed completely incompatible with my image of him. The child sprinted away, and I forgot about him completely.
The sky had been growing steadily more dark over the last several minutes, and ominous thunderheads were moving through the sky. It was very rare for anyone to actually see the sun itself. More often than not, it was obscured by very heavy cloud formations, and was said to be on omen for anyone who looked upon it. Now, a light rain began to fall, though not a single person moved. The wind began to pick up, and gradually increased to a howl. I watched the Sanctuary nervously. It was a contest of the wills. If the rain continued for long enough, then the flames would hopefully be at least partly extinguished. On the other hand, if that wind kept moving at its current rate, then the chances of the fire spreading to neighbouring buildings and eventually to the whole square was exceptionally high. I looked at the Sanctuary. In its prime, it had been a proud if tasteless building. Now, it was likely to be reduced to a charred ruin. Though there were unlikely to be any ships on the coast in this weather or at this time of year, I wondered if it might have been possible to see the conflagration all the way from there. Now, it quite literally was a beacon. Ironically, through its own demise, the building proved the Thaxanor propaganda to be correct, even if only for a few minutes.
I turned my gaze back to Jasper, who was now moving forward. Though I despised the Thaxanorians as well, I realized in the space of that moment that I was a coward. After all, I had almost killed myself less than twenty minutes before, all in the faint hope that the Thaxanorians would recover my papers and, as a result, begin prosecuting the Underground until they were forced to either fight back or be destroyed. The odds did not favour my cause, and a failed insurrection would arguably do more damage than none at all would.
However, Jasper was not motivated by any collective set of ideals. We did not despise and ostracize him: he despised and ostracized us. We rebelled on the enemy’s terms, if it can even be called rebellion at all. I suppose that I operated within a framework of decency, and honour, and all the rest of it. There was no room for that in what passed for Jasper’s heart. He did not hate the Thaxanorians: he hated the world. His every action, from breathing to slaughtering the enemy, was an act of rebellion. It came so naturally to him that it was not reflected at all in his features or movements. It composed him. My eyes lingered on the spot where that child had sat, cowed, moments before. There was no doubt in my mind that, had Jasper deemed it necessary to do so in accordance with whatever passed for his own rationale, he would have driven a stake through that boy’s heart. What was the source of his hatred? I realized then, as they moved forward to meet each other, that one could never understand Jasper on those terms.
Mantola had turned himself in such a way as to place his back to the Sanctuary, while allowing Jasper the least wide target area possible. This was a standard tactic in sword combat. It decreased the likelihood of getting struck on the non-sword arm unexpectedly.
Jasper, who had taken no such precaution, swung high and horizontally, but Mantola blocked him with ease. Angling his sword downward, he aimed with his blade arched slightly horizontally. Clearly, his goal was not to incapacitate his enemy on the first blow, but rather to destabilize him by causing him to lose his grip on his weapon. I wondered if such a mediocre blade could even hold out against an onslaught like that. Jasper deflected the blow, though I did see him stumble slightly. Mantola pressed his advantage immediately, moving in with a flurry of high-handed thrusts and swings. I doubt that any of them would have been enough to have finished Jasper off had they gotten through to him, though they kept him constantly on the defensive. He, unlike Mantola, had not assumed the more conventional fighting stance, leaving most of the left side of his body exposed. This made defending himself doubly difficult, as he had twice the area to cover.
Mantola was a swordmaster. I do not know how many engagements similar to this one he had won, but they must have numbered in the dozens. He struck me as a man with principles, and one who had paid for those principles in blood. However, his movements told me that he was relying of Jasper’s lack of education to secure a victory in this case. He saw the young man as a hothead, but all of his moves were textbook ploys. I expected that most of what he was doing could likely be found in a training manual somewhere. He was not vindictive. If passion is the master of innovation, then he was predictable. One did not need to have read the textbook manuscripts to figure out where he was going to go next. One calculated strike after another related all of this for him.
The rain had continued to fall in the meantime, and the cobblestones were beginning to get extremely wet. If either man lost his balance, then he was finished. Jasper, who was parrying feverishly, seemed to be in far greater danger of tripping than his opponent was. Mantola continued to press forward. Dimly, I noticed that the fighters were approaching the garrison wall. If Mantola got Jasper’s back up against that wall, then he had all but won. If Jasper knew this, then it certainly was not betrayed on his features. He was nonchalant as ever.
I wondered for the first time if the long haired man had any intention of surviving this. Perhaps his only objective from the outset was to go down fighting. Had he consented to be enlisted, then he surely would have been stabbed in the back one evening as he slept and left to fade into obscurity. I realized that, regardless of how this battle turned out, it was going to be the stuff of Compound legend for decades to come. Perhaps Jasper simply wanted to go out with style.
They were almost there, now. It would be over in half a minute more at most. Soon, Jasper would not even be able to draw his blade back to swing properly, because he would be obstructed by the wall.
Abruptly, they arrived. Mantola took a lateral swing at Jasper’s legs, plainly intending to slice him neatly in two. I scarcely saw what happened next. Jasper must have somehow anticipated the blade, and jumped at precisely the right moment. Instead of severing both of his legs beneath the knee, he crouched and jumped cleanly over the sword as it swung in for the kill. Mantola, who had plainly been expecting to meet flesh or at least a counter, overcompensated and stumbled headlong into the wall. He would have collided directly with Jasper, but the younger man was no longer there. Though his open posture had proved disingenuous when it came to defending himself, it gave him a far better range of agility than his opponent enjoyed. He had moved hastily, and was now standing by Mantola’s unprotected back! Had he wished to, there was no doubt in my mind that he could have finished off the Deputy right then. If Mantola somehow recovered his momentum and found a way to block the most immediate threat, then he would find himself in the exact same position that Jasper had been the moment before. Plainly, the Deputy expected that he would be defeated, as well, because he seemed to bow his head, as though flinching, for a fraction of a second. This happened within a very narrow timeframe, and I doubt that most of the spectators even noticed it, but it could not have been plainer to me. He believed that he was about to die.
However, the blow never came. Instead of moving in for the kill, Jasper retreated! He dashed for several meters, and my mind spun in incomprehension. Was he running away? Why? Perhaps this man truly was mad! Had he taken advantage of that opportunity, then he most likely would have won. Fair play certainly wasn’t a factor. Any man who failed to exploit an advantage of his own devising in combat for fear of appearing unfair was a fool. If I would have had no such compunctions in his place, then Jasper certainly didn’t. No, there was something more at work here.
As we watched, Jasper placed his sword on the ground and neatly removed his long overcoat, dropping it unceremoniously on the ground beside him. He was wearing nothing underneath. By the look of many people in the crowd, who had likely wanted to lynch this same man moments before, many of them would have been euphoric had he tossed it to them. However, he did no such thing.
By this time, Mantola had turned away from the wall, dazed. The falling rain plainly made it difficult to hear what was going on behind him. He had not seen Jasper retreat, and was plainly just as surprised that he was not dead as the rest of us were. By the look on his face, he half expected that his opponent was still there, and had simply spared him for an additional moment to relish the despair that was now plainly stamped on his face as he ran him through.
Jasper, however, showed no signs of wanting to directly engage his opponent again. Instead, he turned and ran nimbly into the burning Sanctuary itself! The doorway was almost completely engulfed in flames, though he managed to somehow evade them as he leaped through. This was suicide! The entire building was going to collapse at any moment. Even if it hadn’t fallen down already, the air inside was bound to be contaminated by heavy smoke. Assuming by some miracle of fate that he was not covered in smouldering rubble or incinerated directly, he would suffocate.
The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath. The entire tone of the engagement had changed. Moments before, this had been a standard, if highly anomalic, matter. One man had rejected what was commonly considered one of the highest honours that the authorities were confer. A more unlikely candidate did not seem possible, and, not only had he been selected, but he had turned them down. Now, as a little known but apparently legal matter of course, he was fighting for his right to freedom. Travel beyond the compound was strictly forbidden, and I knew of no one who had done so in the last hundred years, or even of anyone who had really wanted to, for that matter. Though life under the Thaxanorians was difficult at the best of times, it was preferable to no life at all, which was the choice that our ancestors had faced. Even if we had somehow managed to escape, we could never return home. Caladeans were seen as synonymous with treachery. The entire idea of the Resistance was structured around the concept of defeating the Thaxanorians here, in this one place. That much would demonstrate to the world at large that Caladea was no longer content to be Thaxanorian toadies. Although escape was a presumed necessity, the entire point of the exercise was to humiliate and degrade Thaxanor, to cause them to lose political credibility. If word of the revolt spread to other parts of the Empire, then perhaps there was hope for a more widespread insurrection. If history reported that it had been Caladeans who led this trend, then perhaps there could yet be hope for Caladea in the world to come.
Jasper, however, did not care who he killed. He simply wanted to be free. The Thaxanorians were a means to an end for him. Now, as I looked on at the smouldering Sanctuary, I wondered what he could possibly be up to now. Surely, he could not still be alive.
Something moved out of the corner of my eye, and I looked up incredulously. There stood Jasper. He had emerged unto a burning balcony which the Thaxanorians had once used as a means to communicate announcements on market days. Now, however, it was almost completely engulfed in flames. He resembled nothing so much then, with his long dark hair and bare chest, as a demon from the old stories. His presence alone was terrifying.
My gaze turned back to Mantola. He had recovered from his encounter with the wall by this point, and appeared fully aware again. He, too, was surveying the balcony. To his credit, there was not a trace of fear in the man’s eyes. He stood there indomitably, watching, as though trying to determine his best way up to where his opponent was.
I suddenly understood in a flash what Jasper had done. This had been his plan from the start. He wanted to finish the fight on his terms, on the balcony. Had he darted into the Sanctuary immediately, then he would have been perceived to have been running away, and Mantola would not have felt compelled to go after him. It would have been the act of a madman, in the fullest sense of the word. However, Jasper had not seized upon an improvised opportunity a moment before. He had known precisely what his opponent had planned to do from the outset. He surely would have been capable of resisting without losing as much ground as he had, but chose the most timely means through which to press his advantage. Had he sparred with Mantola on open ground, then he still might have still won. However, a battle in the Sanctuary was what he truly wanted. Had he fought on open ground, then the fight would have taken longer to win, though the risk to himself would have been far less. The Sanctuary, however, would have burned to the ground by that point, or at least would have been impossible to enter.
Mantola could have waited. Surely, that balcony was going to collapse in a matter of moments. However, Jasper’s manoeuvre of a minute before certainly had not been the act of a madman. It was the clearly calculated deduction of a genius. Now, any reluctance on Mantola’s part would appear to be cowardice. He had little choice in the matter.
Instead of charging into the sanctuary as Jasper had done, however, he appeared to have other plans. Sheathing his sword, Mantola set his sights on what had once been a flag staff, which stretched out some six feet horizontally immediately to the lower left hand side of the balcony. Breaking into a dead run, he approached it, jumped into the air, just managed to grab it with both hands, and used his momentum to twist himself into a midair backflip. My mouth hung open. This feat would have been exceptionally difficult for any young man, and Mantola was past his prime. What he did next, however, was even more astonishing. Before I had time to process what was going on, he landed squarely with both feet planted on top of the staff! However, this was obviously a precarious position, so he wasted no time there. Instead, he used the force of his landing to drop into a crouch, and spring again. This time, he managed to grab the edge of the balcony with his fingers, and I wondered for a moment if the whole thing was going to collapse under his weight. It held, though, and pulled himself up and over the railing with one simple gesture.
Mantola seemed to favour his right hand slightly upon landing. It looked as though he had been burned, and this hardly surprised me. Much of the balcony was already alight, and, though he had escaped the flames themselves, the surface of that railing had to be hot beyond all tolerance.
Jasper, in the meantime, had hardly been standing idly by while all of this occurred. Instead, he dipped his blade into the flames on the other side of the balcony just as Mantola reached the landing. I watched, fascinated. Surely, the steel would melt under the extreme temperature...however, it appeared to hold, and Jasper was now clutching a flaming sword. An ominous creak resounded from the balcony. It was obviously on the verge of collapsing completely under their combined weight.
Jasper wasted no time. Surging forward, he unleashed a flurry of devastating attacks unlike anything that I have ever seen. He was barely visible as he moved with extraordinary alacrity, almost as if he was somehow a conduit for the storm which surrounded us. Mantola scarcely had time to parry properly, let alone respond in kind. His sword hand had been wounded in the climb, and he gripped his blade gingerly. Jasper swung low, catching Mantola at the base of his blade. Though the Deputy might have been able to prevent what happened next had his hands not been injured, he could not hope to counter it in the state that he was in. He lost hold of his fine blade, and it went flying through the air, landing on the ground below. He was now completely unarmed.
Jasper, however, was nothing if not unpredictable. For the second time in as many minutes, the foe was at his mercy, but he did not kill the other man. Instead, he dropped his own weapon behind him, and I looked on in disbelief. Does he intend this to turn into a melee brawl? However, it appeared that Jasper had other plans. In one swift movement, he withdrew something from the pocket of his breeches. It looked like a dagger of some sort, though I could not completely make it out from where I was. Mantola, still clearly aghast at losing his weapon, did not have time to respond to what happened next. Jasper lashed out deftly, shoving his opponent against the flaming wall. I did not see what happened next. Whether Mantola’s agonized screams were a result of the flames, or due to whatever Jasper was doing with his dagger, I had no way of knowing. However, a moment later, it was all over. With a mighty shove, Jasper turned and pushed Mantola off of the balcony, breaking the railing in the process. He fell about twelve feet, and landed on the ground. I could see that the back of his shirt was completely burned away, and the flesh on his back was charred so badly that it resembled nothing so much as the roasts which occasionally get served at the rare festivals in these parts. There was also blood pooling around his face, though I couldn’t see what was causing that.
Jasper jumped through the opening, and landed clearly on his feet behind the prone form. He spoke in an entirely level voice, addressing the now visibly trembling Calendine.
“He’ll live. The boat will be prepared in three days. You will see to it personally. When all is done, this one...” he nudged Mantola’s body with one foot, eliciting a groan (somehow, in spite of everything, the disgraced commander was still conscious), “will be chained to the masthead. You will send your half dozen best engineers to confer with me, and they will carry out my instructions to the letter. There will be no need for cash payments. I want no reminders of this place. I am at liberty to select my own crew, whomever I deem fit. You will leave both them and their families unharmed. That will be all. Oh, and of course...” Jasper strode over to where Mantola’s sword was lying, retrieved it, dipped it into the flames, and returned to where he had been standing before, “the formalities...must be observed.” Withdrawing a shin sheet of paper from his pocket, he touched the flaming blade to it, and it was incinerated to ashes almost instantly. Dropping them to the ground, he smiled thinly.
“He only has one eye to see with now, but they are burned properly.” That could only be the conscription order. He tossed the sword back in the direction of the burning building, and leered at Calendine.
“You know what I want, you bloated sack of offal. Give it to me, and there will be no further trouble. My methods are simple. You know that. So, follow my orders precisely, and there need be no further violence. If you try to deceive me in any way, then I’ll leave it to your sadistic imagination to understand what will happen to you. Three days. Do not be late.” He turned on one heel, and stalked off, retrieving his overcoat in the process. It was as though his exit was some sort of a cue. The crowd began to gradually disperse, and what had been a dull murmur gradually built to a roar. Someone grabbed me by the shoulder. I turned around instinctively to find myself staring at a boyish face with freckles and a mop of bright red hair. Although two years older than myself, Charles Luca still could have passed for little more than a child. In spite of this, his diligent work ethic and keen intuition had already allowed him to rise to prominence within the Underground. I did not know exactly what his responsibilities were, though he had something to do with the treasury. He hissed something at me. Given the fact that he was so short and the crowd’s din had reached an unprecedented volume, I had to lean down and ask him to repeat himself, which he did begrudgingly.
“The hammer is on the windowsill.” Naturally, this was an encrypted phrase. He was informing me that there was to be a meeting that evening. I nodded in acknowledgement, and he raced away, doubtless to find someone else.
It is truly a pivotal moment in a man’s life when he holds up his convictions to the light of the sun (or, in this case, the burning symbol of an oppressive faith) and somehow sees right through them. As a boy and young adolescent, I had revelled in those games, deceiving the adults and working towards something which could only be considered my own, unique future. At sixteen, I understand that I am, strictly speaking, little more than a child myself, but the truth still hit me hard.
I do not know when I started to be disillusioned. Certainly, we had begun to stockpile weapons and work towards something concrete for some months now. Though the organization was controlled and predominated over by adults, it still catered mostly to youth. Ridiculous code phrases and other such rituals perpetuated that idea. Surely, the Thaxanorians must have been aware of our activities by this point. However, at no time did they try to intervene. We represented the interests of a couple of radical adults, but, in that moment, I realized that the ultimate method of rebellion was one which sought to turn an entire generation against its parents. These men provided us with literature, educated us, trained us. Most of the Compound’s adults were perfectly satisfied with the way that they lived out their lives.
My name is Jacques Shrewson, and this is my tale of the demise of the beginning. This is where it all ends. Perhaps, standing there with chafe marks on my hands from the rope and no real idea as to where I was going in life, I decided that it was time to pursue a radical change.
One year earlier, I had seen a child murdered in cold blood. Maize (just Maize; we never did determine what his family name was) had been little more than a derelict. When the first casualties of the plague had begun to surface in the colony, the Thaxanor intervened with biotechnology to prevent it from spreading. We were, after all, a valuable source of cheap labour, and it would hardly do to lose all of us. However, some families were not reached in time, and, mortality rates already being what they were, Maize was left to fend for himself. I will never forget the look of silent desperation in his eyes when I found him with his hand in my pocket. He was an amateur thief, and clearly had no idea what he was doing. At the time, I took the kid in, though my own mother could hardly afford to support him any more than he himself could. As a result, he became the Resistance protégé, a mascot of sorts. Most weeks, he would be sent to stay with one member or another. In spite of this, I knew that, if not for my act of clemency, then the child would most likely still be alive.
When he had first ingested the powder, I was the only one outside of Damson who knew of it. Randola Damson, though a Thaxanorian overseer, was reputed for dealing commercially with both the Caladeans and the Thaxanorians. Though most of his business dealings were legitimate, there was little doubt in my mind that he had something to hide. If the Resistance could get the goods on a Thaxanorian, then who knew what kind of political leverage that doing so could gain us? Though I was only fifteen at the time, Maize and I were given the task because this was supposed to minimize culpability for the organization as a whole.
Once we actually did make it inside, everything had gone well enough until Damson arrived home earlier than he was supposed to. I made it out unscathed; Maize did not. Unsure of what to expect, I had lingered around for the better part of half an hour. Eventually, I returned with an alibi, hoping to at least discover Maize’s fate. He had been branded with an unusual symbol resembling an X on his left arm, but otherwise still appeared to be very much alive. Damson appeared to be on the edge of a breakdown. He told me that I needed to bring Maize to see the Inspector, gave me a location and an evening. While I processed all of this, it was secondary information to me. If Maize died, then it would be my fault. I had agreed to bring him along in the first place.
A strange youth named Horus had accompanied us on the evening of the liaison. Though I was familiar with the name, I barely knew him and, as such, mistrusted his intentions. When I told the Resistance what had come to pass in Damson’s home, they had come close to completely ostracizing me. I had endangered a child’s life. Somehow along the line, they forgot that they had directly sanctioned the operation. It wasn’t as though they particularly cared what became of Maize, either. Dead children were a liability. They drew unwanted attention to us.
So, Horus had been sent along to ensure that the operation ran smoothly. When we arrived at the appointed time, however, I was not even permitted to enter the building, so I remained alone in the fields for a time. Half an hour later, a dark clothed man who I did not recognize had brought a limp body outside, promptly dug an improvised grave, and deposited Maize inside. Though I am ashamed to admit it now, I ran away in horror.
I could hardly confront Horus about what had happened later. After all, I was not supposed to be there in the first place. Doing so could have endangered my own life for no reason. Evidently, the two of us had seen something in Damson’s home that we were not supposed to. The Inspector, whoever he was, certainly was not a part of the Resistance. Conspiracies were rampant in the compound, and, given necessary levels of secrecy, it was quite possible to have two almost identical movements operating parallel to one another, and for neither one to ever gain knowledge of the other’s existence. If this Inspector had wanted to kill us all upon discovering that we knew something of their operations, then this failed to explain why Horus was still alive and well. Had he been sent back as a spy, to sabotage us in some way? He had not confided in me, but this seemed highly unlikely. My superiors surely would have asked the same questions. They had accounted for Maize’s death through a cover story, but I knew the truth.
So, I was entirely isolated in my knowledge. Nightwish was the only lead that I had to go on, but the trail was completely cold. I learned that night that the Resistance is surely as corrupt and short sighted in its means as it is in its ends. Maize’s demise had been my fault. If I had turned him in to the authorities after he stole from me, then he may have been sentenced to some hard labour, but, after that, likely would have been reassigned to one of the orphanages. None of this made any sense to me anymore. The Resistance was willing to sacrifice a child in order to achieve a utopia that they could not even begin to fathom. I felt as though I had been entirely disillusioned against my will. Through my death, I had sought to restore some honour to it, but now realized that I never could have succeeded.
This was why I now knew that I had to go with Jasper. The notion does not make a great deal of sense to me right now, and perhaps it never will. He is a voyeuristic madman. I do not know what his vision is, or even if he has one. However, this is my ultimatum. Exile, or respectability. If he will not take me, then I will leave the Resistance for the rest of my days. It was entirely possible that there would be reprisals for that, but I no longer saw any other way out.
So, as I stand here looking at Charles, I know that I’m finished with these clandestine meetings for good. Of course, he has no way of knowing that.