Bone Jack

It seemed to Itzal as if Ben understood what he was dealing with in Trouble. That, at least, was a comfort.

“Look at me, Burner,” Ben said. Trouble rolled his eyes and looked idly toward Ben.

“You have been served before, Ben Mouse,” Trouble said. “My colleagues served you a warning before. You are not in favor with the governor of this town.”

“That’s rich,” Ben said. “I’ve lived here longer than he has.”

Shrugging, Trouble said, “One of your makes laws. One of you does not.”

Confused, tense, Itzal held his eyes barely open. He awaited some signal from Ben. It grew unclear what the slandersmith’s play was.

“I am not sure I recognize the supposed authority of the governor,” Ben said.

Trouble looked him full on for the first time. The sharp strain lines in Trouble’s face stretched to a frown that could have been annoyed, or sad, or pained.

“Do you have wine?” Trouble asked, rubbing over his eye. “My head hurts. Damn.”

He looked around, as if for the cup of wine. No one made a move to hand him anything. That made him look sad.

“You are not welcome here, sir,” Ben said. “And before this honorable Bone Jack, I consummately reject any authority with which you find yourself so bold as to invade these premises.”

“I’d rather hoped you wouldn’t say that,” Trouble said, rubbing his temple under his black linen hood. He gazed idly into the fire and it glinted off his eyes. He seemed for all the world barely engaged with his surroundings. “I’d rather hoped for your compliance. You’re the only slandersmith in Garrison. It’s a shame you feel so uncompliant.”

“I am beyond uncompliant, sir,” Ben said. “I am in public revolution.”

“If you must be,” Trouble said. He rose to his feet, every bit the aching old man, though Itzal couldn’t guess him to be too much older than himself. With no further preamble, Trouble produced a wax-sealed envelope from inside his robes somewhere and handed it to Ben. “You’ve been put on notice,” Trouble said.

With that, Trouble—clutching his cloak tight around his shoulders—walked to the door. He glanced, muzzy-eyed, back into the room before leaving, as if he had something yet to discover.

“There’s still a ghost about somewhere,” he said as if to himself. Then he took his chalk smell with him and he went out. Ben shut the door after him.

Ben tossed the sealed envelope on the low table in front of the fire. He started hurrying around the room, gathering bags and tossing things into them. He also clambered up a ladder into the small attic and retrieved some articles, and down a ladder into a cellar and brought back foodstuffs. He never paused long enough for Itzal to ask anything. Every so often, though, Ben glanced at Itzal. The frown in the wrinkles of Ben’s face softened by nearly imperceptible degrees with each glance.

“Do us a favor, mate, and try that on for size,” Ben tossed a parcel of brown clothes at Itzal. “You’ll have us both stopped on any passage, prancing about like a blue jay.”

Itzal set the clothes to the side. “What’s happened, Ben?” he asked.

Ben answered by taking up the sealed envelope and tossing it at Itzal. Itzal looked at it. It was heavy paper. On the front it only had a full name, which probably belonged to Ben. Sir Benedict Mouse, O.P.1. The seal of black wax on the back of the envelope had the impression of a boar’s head in it. It was the official seal of Ernst von Gesicht, or Lord Keiler, and governor of Garrison. Itzal looked up at Ben, unsure what to make of it.

“Legal documents always rattle my calm worse than a dozen armed men,” Ben said, as if that explained it. “I reckon that the good constable has more than a dozen on their way here, anyhow. Go on. Open it.”

Itzal did. He skimmed the papers. They didn’t require a close read. They were various legal documents written in a sharp black letter with flourishing pen strokes. Just the kind of script a writer of litigation would have used to show off his use of a quill and attempt to elevate the unpoetic language of money and law.

Taken all in all, the documents were writs of eviction and seizure of goods. The document concluded with the words, “On authority of Ernst von Gesicht, Herr Keiler, Governor at Garrison Port Town, and Legal Representative of the Great Basin Trading Confederation,” here the document broke for a swirling signature and another black boar’s head stamp. “And served” the document concluded, “by a representative of his constabulary.” It had a second signature at the very end, if the illegibly scratched runes could be called a signature.

“Is this Trouble?” Itzal asked.

“More than you’ve ever experienced,” Ben said.

That confused Itzal for a moment. It took him that long to remember that Trouble had become a proper noun to him.

“That’s what I call the Burner,” Itzal said. “Trouble. I never learned his name.”

Ben grunted his approval of the nickname and continued about his fussing. It was clear that he was packing for a journey. A loud knock nigh shook the building up. It came from the front room.

“Are you going to get that?” Itzal asked.

“That, Blue Jay, is a hammer,” Ben said. “Pounding in a nail to hold up a sign.”

“It’s been happening too often lately,” Helving said, speaking up for the first time in a while. Itzal found himself surprised to hear from him, although he shouldn’t have. Felt surprised, that is. Itzal looked round to listen to Helving now. “Evictions getting tacked on the doors of merchants. It seems to have become the surest way of telling who the Confederation approves of.” Reconsidering how he had said that, Helving said instead. “Or who’s paid up with the Confederation, anyway. And who isn’t.”

“Does the Great Basin Trading Confederation have any authority here?” Itzal asked. “It never seemed like it mattered much, not from everything I’ve heard.”

A few seconds of quiet followed this, punctuated only by Ben thumping around and gathering his things. Helving watched him, as if waiting for Ben to engage. The closest Ben got to engaging was to glare at them over a deep frown when he paused briefly while testing a knife’s blade.

“It’s hard to understand if you’re only used to life in the mountaintops,” Helving said. “Down here, there’s no organization with more authority than the Great Basin Trading Confederation.”

Itzal considered arguing the point. Instead he watched Ben hurry around, preparing to leave his shop, which served double purpose as his home.

Itzal looked at the documents in his hand again. It held a lot of power.

“Look, Blue Jay, if you mean to dally here, that’s your wake,” Ben said. “I’m leaving now.”

“To get your property,” Itzal said.

“Yes.”

“And barter for Lilywhite,” Itzal said.

Ben glanced at Itzal.

“I shall come.”

“No reason for you to do that, Blue Jay,” Ben said.

“Yes there is,” Itzal said, hoping Ben didn’t ask what reason.

“What reason?” Ben asked.

Itzal coughed. He took a too-big sip of his drink, and coughed again but this time more seriously.

“There is no reason for you to do that,” Ben said.

Itzal tried to argue, but he couldn’t through the coughing.

“You’ll be naught but a burden. Mind you don’t slow me down,” Ben said.

“What? Just like that?” Itzal managed to say.

“I am not your parent. But then again, no one is, are they?” Ben said. Then, grunting, turned toward the front of his shop. “Mind you change out of your blue jays, Blue Jay.”

Soon after that, Itzal stood outside of the front door of Ben’s slandersword shop. He read three posters nailed there, all bearing the governor’s boar’s head seal. They briefly explained, between the three of them, that the premises had been evicted. They stated that the goods and properties there were forfeit and due to be seized by the recognized government. There was also a posting that anyone caught with goods and merchandise obviously purchased at the location would be investigated and possibly persecuted.

“Do you think much about what you do?” Itzal asked Helving, who walked up just then, casual as the aroma of bread.

“Often,” Helving said.

“Do you ever do things that make no sense to you?”

Helving laughed, but he nodded. “They keep telling me that I will be wise someday.”

“Is that how to get around it?”

Helving shrugged. He looked at the notice on Ben’s door. “He’s been making trouble for years,” Helving said. “It’d be quite impressive if it had only taken this incident to get them to finally do this. I understand they’ve been wanting to do it for years.”

“Do you just know everything about the area?” Itzal asked.

Smiling, Helving tapped the side of his nose in one of those gestures that mean it’ll be his secret.

“How are the new clothes?” Helving asked.

Itzal wore brown now. A leather surcoat kept the clothes tight around his chest and waist, but the cloth of the sleeves and pants was baggy.

“Heavier than I’m used to wearing,” Itzal said. He tightened his jaw against mentioning how strange it felt not to have all his trinkets hanging around him. The ones he wore in his hair and around his wrists gave him comfort, but the ones that he’d sewn onto his old clothes were jumbled into a small bag hanging from his wide belt.

“You’ll forget it soon. They’re fine clothes. Slandersmith apprentice clothes, I believe. The Slandersmith School is a wondrous place. I hope you get to see it some day.”

Itzal nodded. He agreed. He felt too downcast to say so.

Helving had a long mace leaning against his shoulder. Essentially a staff, taller than he was, with a ridged head on it. It was a product of Ben’s, so it was very fine.

“A gift from our sir,” Helving said, smiling. “Things in this town grow less and less settled by the day. I shall be glad to be armed before long.”

“You’re not coming with us,” Itzal said, not really asking.

“This is my beat,” Helving said, gesturing widely at Garrison. “Here’s my duty. Not sure what’s coming, but I plan on braving it well as I might.”

Itzal nodded. “Thank you for your help today, Helving,” Itzal said.

“May you find your way,” Helving said.

“Don’t fall behind, Blue Jay,” Ben called, walking away from them up the dirt road.

Itzal nodded again, though he knew Ben couldn’t see. He gave a brief bow to Helving, who bowed back but not as low. Itzal hurried after Ben.

Ben led along toward the docks, in no way surprising Itzal. He had in common with Lilywhite that he moved faster than he looked like he ought to be. While Lilywhite had walked with a flounce that made him look about ready to be knocked off his feet by passing butterflies, Ben walked like rocks rolling down a hill. Itzal could just about hear the rumbling instead of Ben’s thumping boot falls.

They ducked past a donkey-drawn delivery cart. To get out of the way of it, Itzal had to dart right. He moved within an inch or two of a postings board. A familiar face glowered out of a drawing on one of the posters. Itzal snatched at it, then moved on and caught up to Ben again.

“Ben,” Itzal said. Ben didn’t slow or look around. “Are you seeing these, Ben?”

“Never a better time to relocate,” Ben said.

“I suppose not,” Itzal said. “Hmm. Rather a paltry reward. For murder, though. Fairly exciting. Who’d you murder? Not a bad likeness, really. The artist must have had a liking for you.” Itzal held the reward poster up to compare it to Ben’s face. “Fearfully quick work. These weren’t up when I got to your place. Who did you kill, anyhow?”

“Move your hands if you want to keep them,” Ben said.

“Who did you kill anyhow?” Itzal asked.

“No one.”

“It says here you killed someone.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

“If a bounty hunter catches you and they hang you, whose death will you swing for?”

Ben gritted his teeth, looking sideways at Itzal. It took a long time for him to answer. They’d tromped through several alleys before Ben said anything else.

“Volta Gabbana,” Ben said. “They’ll hang me for Volta Gabbana.”

“Really?” Itzal frowned, not sure what to do with that. They walked under a bridge. It blocked out the light for a moment. “Will it stick?” Itzal asked.

“You’ll find that accusations leveled by the Confederation usually stick these days. Well enough to hang.”

Itzal nodded. He’d have to do more investigation into this Confederation. Back at school they’d understood the Great Basin Trading Confederation to be only one of several large organizations of merchants who joined together to help each other move goods and build profits. None of them featured too prominently in the larger political doings of the world, so far as Itzal had been able to tell. Though he’d been lately reevaluating his opinion of many of his long-held opinions.

Something caught his attention. “Do you smell that?” he said.

“I only smell horse piss.”

“It smells like spiced gyros…”

“Are you hinting that you need some spiced gyros?”

“I have no money.”

“Will spiced gyros keep you from talking for a while?”

“Yes.”

Ben handed Itzal a coin. A few moments later, Itzal had a hunk of hot, spiced meat on a skewer. He ate it and watched the city. They walked too swiftly for him to take in much, but he at least made note of the grit-filled air. It covered him, like an extra skin. It made him want to find a river and rinse off.

Gnawing on the gyros, he kept glancing around, looking as much like a tourist as he could manage. He figured he couldn’t help looking like an outsider, so he could at least try not to look like a Bone Jack. He wasn’t convinced that being a Bone Jack would be all that dangerous. The sight of a Bone Jack ought to at least give people comfort and a sense that someone near by would look out for them. He decided to trust the judgment of Helving and Ben about it, at least for now. So he tried to look like a tourist.

It gave him a chance to look around. The town had a bustling commerce that only grew thicker any nearer they got to the docks. Most of the crowd seemed like what ought to be expected in a fairly populated dock town. Plenty of merchants and a few consumers, colored by occasional citizens who seemed like they didn’t have a job, and a lot of travelers. For the most part, they looked intent on their own business and disinclined to notice Ben and Itzal. Although Itzal did notice a person or two glance at pin boards then at Ben. They’d often point or talk to the nearest person to them when they did that.

“We seem to be attracting some looks anyway,” Itzal said. “I don’t know why I had to change into these itchy clothes.”

“Those clothes are made of the finest cotton linen of Alwatan,” Ben said.

“It’s itchy.” Itzal said.

“I thought you were going to stop talking.”

“Itchier than usual, anyway.”

Ben growled and stopped talking. Sucking the last flavor from the thin skewer without any gyros anymore, Itzal glanced around a bit more. They’d nearly reached the area of the docks. Itzal heard the creaking and shouting and the bells ringing to warn of the movement of ships.

Unexpectedly, Ben cleared his throat, glancing at Itzal while he did, and spoke again. “Real test of your observation, Blue Jay, is whether you seen our shepherds.”

“I have seen a few too repetitive stubbly mugs down a few alleys,” Itzal said. He caught sight of one again; a long-nosed cove with hair that looked like it had dried egg in it. Itzal had seen his eyes a little more often than he would have liked.

“Are they going to attack us?” Itzal asked. Ben shook his head, which Itzal didn’t see; he heard Ben’s stubbly chin scratching against the high collar of his jacket.

“Not if we stay on course,” Ben said. “I reckon they’ll just be seeing us off.”

Itzal wondered what Ben had done to raise so much attention. “Are they the governor’s men?”

“Probably they are,” Ben said.

“I hope you’ll tell me what you’ve done to peeve these people so completely,” Itzal said. “I’m sure it’s a ripping story.”

“It isn’t.”