Chapter 2B: Consequences

As the last hours of daylight tinted the sky a pale orange, she took them slightly west off course. Hans saw the blocky outlines of a village. As they neared he corrected himself. The community barely qualified as a village. A handful of buildings centred around an inn and bakery with a miniscule farm lying on the outskirts. She pointed to the small inn, a gentle smoke wafted from its chimney into the night-air. “Rent a room and wait for me in the dining hall. If anyone mentions pay, just show your badge.”

When he nodded, Bellona made a beeline for the farm without a backward glance.

“Just show my badge, huh?” Hans repeated to himself as he approached the inn. He stopped at the door. There was a crude carving of a horse etched in the wood. He could hear the hearty laughter and rowdy chatting of men, the slamming of metal against wood and even a faint snore. He leaned on the door and pushed it open with his shoulder. All eyes were upon him and the chatter ceased for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity. The patrons took in his light breast plate, the leather gauntlets with built-in knuckledusters, the lance and his leather boots. One man pretended to shiver in fear and his companions chuckled. Hans widened his awareness so that he saw everything but still focused on the innkeeper behind on the counter.

“Two rooms please,” he said.

“This here’s a quiet place. We dun wan’ any instantgators,” the innkeeper moved slightly so that his body shielded a young woman behind him. She shared the innkeeper’s pale hair and long nose. The resemblance between them was apparent but it looked better on the girl.

“I just want to order food and lodging for one night for me and my companion,” Hans pulled off his gauntlets and showed his ‘badge’; a tattoo on the back of his left hand. It depicted two axes, crossed, the blades turned inwards towards a four-spoke wheel.

A solemnity came over the innkeeper.

“Two of you!” he shook a follow-up comment out his head. “Fine. I’ll have yer room-“

“Separate rooms,” Hans said quickly. The innkeeper clenched his jaw.

“-rooms ready. Have a sit down.”

Hans complied. He pulled back on his gauntlets. Since the diners had seen nothing climatic, they returned to their meals and conversations, though they kept stealing glances at him. Hans knew one man had glimpsed his tattoo while he had been talking to the innkeeper and he had immediately made a hasty retreat out the front door without finishing his supper. Hans had heard of the fear that Executioners received from outsiders and even from the capital where they were more commonplace, but for someone to have left without finishing an apple pie because one had shown up in the same room as him? The discrimination was more serious than he thought.

                The inn door swung open. If the innkeeper’s face had been dismayed by the appearance of an Executioner, it  nearly fell to the floor at the sight of the newcomer. Hans shifted discreetly in his chair for a better view. The first thing Hans noticed as the newcomer stretched the kinks out of his neck was the pearl-holstered pistol hanging from his hip. The man was also tall and barrel-chested and had a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Holbein,” the gunslinger approached the counter.

“Grant, ye hev a two year old bill,” the innkeeper responded. ‘Good evening’ never made it into the innkeeper’s book of greetings, formal and otherwise.

Grant snorted, “I pay eventually, don’t I?”

“Only once in a blue moon and barely enough for half a sip o’ ale.”

The gunslinger reached into his pack, jerked out three dead rabbits by their ears and dropped them unceremoniously on the counter. The innkeeper’s daughter, just returning from the kitchen, stared at them with an open mouth.

“My pretty Beth, ye get bigger and bigger, every time I come back home,” Grant said, pointedly staring at her slim waist and wide hips. He waved a bloody rabbit foot tied to a pink ribbon in front of her face. “I got something for you.”

“Where you hunt these?” the innkeeper examined the game with suspicion. “Ain’t never seen wild hares so fat and happy  before. These here,” he looked sharply at the gunslinger, “look an awful lot like the Ur-Lisle’s girl’s pets,” he said.

Grant shrugged. “Food is to be eaten not played with in my opinion.”

The innkeeper’s daughter blanched visibly. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

His hand casually brushed the pistol,

“Just give me the usual.”

The innkeeper engaged the gunslinger in a stare off. Hans could see the options of attempting to throw him out or quietly feeding the gunslinger at his expense was tearing him in two. Finally the innkeeper looked away and motioned to his daughter. She disappeared into the kitchen as the gunslinger smirked in victory and subsequently took an empty table near Hans. He took in the boy’s clothing and weapon derisively.

“How’d a little boy manage to take even two steps in them things and not hurt hisself?”

Hans tried to repress his annoyance.

“I managed, obviously.”

The inn door creaked and the chatter ceased once more as another newcomer visited. Even the crickets seemed to fall silent at Bellona’s entry. From her unusual dark skin to her plain but expensive battle-travelling gear and oppressive face, everything about her demanded attention. A few men took in her lance and either exited upstairs to their quarters or through the front door. One tipsy patron even fell out the window in a drunken slab. Women in this side of the country were rarely weapon wielding soldiers, and the exceptions to that social rule tended not to be pleasant company.

Grant wolf-whistled as Bellona sat at Hans’ table. He nudged Hans and cocked his head towards the innkeeper’s daughter even though his eyes were on Bellona. “Wanna trade? Just for tonight?”

Hans balled his fists and the gunslinger barked his rough laugh. The innkeeper’s daughter set a bowl of stew before Hans, momentarily distracting him from his anger. She decidedly stood closer to Hans as she waited for Bellona’s order, apparently more willing to chance a young Executioner than a dark-skinned woman who was armed with shrivelled human heads hanging from her waist. Hans could understand.

“One for me as well,” Bellona said, pointing at Hans’s stew.

“Uh-huh,” Hans noticed that she did not bother with either adding a ‘ma’am’ or a voice that spoke of welcome.

“One for me as well.” Grant smiled.

Beth glanced at his and nodded. She walked to another table then Grant abruptly stuck his hand up her skirt. The girl all but flew backward, her face burning red enough to scorch stone.

“Aw, come on, Beth, you used to like me touching you,” he grinned.

“’Fore you went crackers!”

He caught her arm. She struggled to loosen his grasp and called him a string of unmentionable names. Hans felt a flare inside him go off. He made to get up.

“Sit down,” Bellona said firmly.

“Senior-”

“Sit down or I will send you back to the city to the Council with a letter of complaint tonight, understand?”

“Listen to mama before she spanks you,” Grant sneered at Hans's darkening face. He twisted Beth’s arms and forced her to sit in his lap. She sat there rigidly and close to tears. He stroked her thighs.

Hans felt his hand twitch to his lance but when he glanced at his mentor; her eyes had no room for argument. He balled his fists in his lap instead and looked around at the other diners. Typically, they were all suddenly eating their meals with enough gusto to become temporarily deaf. Hans looked for the innkeeper but the old man had busied himself with cleaning an already spotless counter. No one had any intention of getting involved with crazy Grant the gunslinger.

“This is wrong. He won’t even lift a hand to help his own daughter when it really counts,” he said fiercely to his mentor.

“If you can’t deal with it,” she dragged his soup towards her. “Then get out.”

Hans stared at her in a daze; felt his respect and awe for his famous mentor battle a new rush of feelings that he had never experienced before. The innkeeper’s daughter cries jolted him out of his distraction and he made his decision. He would rather accept the punishment from the Council than try to sleep knowing this girl was helplessly being molested by an armed hothead. Hans's chair scraped backwards,

“Sorry Senior-”

“Excuse me, girl,” Bellona nodded in Beth’s direction. Her face was tearstained and there was a gentle drip of snot at her nose. The gunslinger, Grant, paused in pinching her thighs, at the sound of Bellona’s voice. It automatically pulled his attention to her mouth; it was full and nicely shaped.

“Y-Yes…” Beth sniffled.

“Did you make this soup yourself or is there a cook in the kitchen?”

“I made it…me mam taught me when she was...”

Bellona said, there was a hint of kindness on her voice, but barely. “Do you have a written recipe?”

“Mam couldn’t write but I can.”

Bellona pulled out a piece of parchment from her bag and tore a strip, “Would you mind?”

The girl turned slightly to her captor.

“Do you mind?” Bellona directed the question to Grant.

He hesistated then let Beth go and leaned back into his chair, steadily gazing at Bellona’s still impassive face. The girl flew into the kitchen with the piece of paper, wiping her face with her skirt as she ran. Her father seemed visibly pleased and was not rubbing the counter with as much vigour. Hans felt the other twisted feelings that had been battling his respect and awe wither away. Grant was suddenly preoccupied with staring at Bellona. She just kept eating, for all she cared; the man was just an extension of the chair his butt was sitting on.

“So where are you from?” Grant’s question was directed at Bellona, his tone was light and playful and he donned his best city accent. Did he think that was an original pick-up line?

Bellona’s spoon paused momentarily. She didn’t even blink in his direction.

“I’m eating,” her tone clearly indicating zero desire to converse with him.

Hans smiled as Grant frowned at her sandpaper tone. He immediately found her attitude insufferable.

“This kid here your boyfriend?” Grant decided to be gracious and to give her another try. Maybe she was shy. He pulled his chair closer to their table. “Ever thought 'bout getting a man that you could wrap your legs 'round without having to do it twice?”

She made no sign of hearing him. Her only movement was the repetitive trips her spoon made between soup and mouth and the occasional eye-blinking. Hans felt smug when he saw Grant’s irritation.

Grant slapped the table sharply causing Bellona’s bowl to tap dance sharply on the wooden surface. “I’m talking to you, pig-princess.”

Bellona looked at him then as if she had just discovered a beetle scurrying along the floor.

“I apologize; it’s just that when I’m eating I don’t wish to be disturbed by anyone except a person or  matter of importance. Since you seem to be having problems grasping that concept, I’ll clarify that you fall in neither category. Bye.”

Successfully stepping on the beetle and grinding it to dust under her heel, Bellona returned to her meal.  Hans saw the Grant’s years of bitterness condense into a dark gaze and shifted so that he could have easy access to his dagger.

“You look hungry for some humility, Princess,” his practiced hand reached for his gun.

It happened so fast that Hans hardly caught the moment when Bellona’s arm lashed out, her knuckleduster connected to Grant’s jaw with an audible crunch and he was thrown backwards from his chair.

“Have some first, sweetheart,” she resumed her meal. “And tell me how it tastes.”

When the initial shock wore off, Hans leapt to his feet and checked the gunslinger. He had been knocked out when his head had slammed into the floor. Hans peered past the gunslinger’s mangled lips. Grant had lost a few teeth and his jaw was clearly dislocated.

Hans could feel his palm beginning to dampen.

“Your speed is…incredible!” he whispered in awe. Incredible or inhuman?

“So is theirs,” she waved around the room with her spoon.

Hans glanced around. The chairs was completely empty. He had not even heard the rest of the men high-tail it out of the inn. Even the drunks were gone. Bellona’s spoon clanged into the empty bowl. She waved to the innkeeper,

“Show us to our room.”

 

*

The innkeeper turned the key, the lock groaned and the door creaked open.

“For the Lady,” the innkeeper said without flourish.

The room had a disused look about it but it was obvious that it was cleaned regularly. It was plainly decorated; the most exciting ornament in the room was a patchwork quilt, but it was big enough to comfortably hold three people. Bellona admired the quilt, the patches depicted scenes during various natural disasters.

“This is sufficient, thank you,” she said graciously.

“Pleased to hear, ma’am,” the innkeeper waved to Hans. “Now for you, young Lord.”

Hans took several moments to realise that the innkeeper was referring to him.

“This is sufficient I said,” Bellona said sharply. “And I meant for myself and the boy.”

Hans whipped around at her,

“Huh?”

The innkeeper looked back and forth between them as if he was trying to calculate a long arithmetic problem. He shrugged and offered a sly smile,

“Understood, milady”

“Wait, there’s a misunderstanding!” Hans felt his face heating up.

“No there isn’t,” Bellona said calmly, she sat heavily on the bed and bounced gently. “Hmm, not bad.”

“Senior, you’re giving the man the wrong impression...”

“I hope you don’t kick in your sleep or it may make things complicated when we get tired.”

“Senior!” she bounced to her feet and clapped her hand over his mouth.

“Er…” the innkeeper edged out slowly. “The young lord ain’t yet eaten, shall I bring him some stew?”

“He won’t be needing anything, I want us to be in bed right away, good night.”

A clear dismissal. The innkeeper did not feel snubbed. He was half-way out the room anyway. The door closed with a gentle click. Hans stared at her hand which was covering his mouth; it was hot and dry. Bellona noticed and removed it abruptly. She continued to study the quilt work.

“Senior…?”

“You’re going to sleep on an empty stomach because you’re being punished and I only use spanking as a last resort when disciplining disobedient children. Got it?”

He wished she would look him in the eye.

“I thought our job was to help make the world safer from criminals.”

She pulled out her lance and slammed the head into the wood. Again, she displayed such speed that he wondered if she was human. It was no longer any surprise to Hans that the Silts had been such a valuable asset in the Rhoecian military and paramilitary. But they had formed a rebellion and betrayed Rhoeza and so had been hunted down and largely extinct save for a few descendants. If there were any pure-blooded Silts left on the mainland they were unheard of, although Bellona’s appearance was the closest to a pure blood as he had ever seen. Except for her nose, it was straight and slightly upturned, Chalkish.

“Our job,” her tone pierced him to the core. “Is to execute condemned traitors; traitors that are convicted by the Courts of the Council. Our purpose does not include getting involved in a bar fight, or theft or anything that our heart may condemn unless the Council agrees to it. Did the Council secretly instruct you to rush to that girl’s aid? If so then I apologise profusely for holding you back from carrying out your duty.”

Hans could hardly believe his ears. He even reached for an earlobe as if to check for a tear. Disappointment and repulsion returned to battle respect and awe. This time disgust was backhanding respect in the face.

“I asked you a question, Hans-Kohai.”

‘Kohai’, it meant lower-class student or protégé, derived from one of those ancient languages from one of those powerful countries that their ancestors came from. It was also the first time she used his name in conversation. She was reminding him of who was the superior.

“No, Bellona-Senior, it was my moral obligation and not my professional duty to rescue that crying girl from molestation. However, for my insubordination, I ask for your forgiveness.”

Her smile was full of mock amusement,

“Now we’re being very formal with no respect. Tell me, Kohai, how well did you study the Handbook?”

Handbook? Hans remembered after another day of training, when there was just a week left before they were assigned to their mentors, their teachers gave out a small leather-bound book to each student except Hans and one other. Then they were instructed to study every letter in the book before the week was done. Hans and the other student, affectionately called Catskin, had protested but the weapons trainer merely shrugged and said that they were exempt from the verbal tests. They did not mind very much after hearing that.

“Was never issued one, Senior.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, surprise and a glimmer of fear changed her facial expression. Hans forgot about his anger at Bellona instantly. Any news that changed her normally deadpan manner into a look of fear made Hans worried. She continued to stare at him until understanding dawned clearly in her eyes, which she immediately shut away, returning her face to its normal impassiveness.

“Senior?”

She tossed a black, leather-bound book at him and moved to the window. It was thin and the cover read, ‘The Axeman’s Handbook’.

“You can have mine,” she glanced outside and opened the window. “Read it. Remember as much as possible. Keep it safe.”

He unstrapped his weapons and bags and sank to the bed, opening the book to the first page. The text was printed in red ink.

“You may ask me any question,” her voice sounded so far away.

He nodded. He heard her close the curtains, dislodge the lance from the floor and remove her bags.

 

‘Under the Treason Act, petty treason is currently defined as an aggravated form of murder in which a superior is betrayed by his/her subordinate, consisting of:

1.       A spouse killing his/her dowry-receiver

2.       A student or apprentice killing his/her teacher or master

3.       A servant killing his master or mistress or their heirs

4.       A citizen killing law enforcement officials

High treason consists of:

1.       The murder of any noble, government official or Councilmember.

2.       A citizen releasing sensitive or confidential information related to his/her country to a neighbouring country

 

The Guidelines and Rules for An Executioner (including traditional Axemen, Swordsmen, Lancers, Magicians, etc) Employed by the Council are as Given and are Legally Punishable as Stated in The Index Unless the Council Rules Otherwise.’

 

Hans looked up when he felt the bed sink under a new weight. Bellona had stripped to her undergarments, a thin, low-cut cotton halter top and knee breeches, the pale material emphasizing the richness of her dark skin like cellophane. She sat close to him, her eyes on the open page and her slender fingers plaiting her silver hair into one braid. Blood rushed to Hans’s face and he tore his eyes away before the heat could spread downwards.

“You can deal with this tomorrow,” Hans thought she was reaching for his shirt but she plucked the book from his hands. “We leave before dawn tomorrow morning. Go to sleep.”

“But it’s still early,” he complained then winced. He realised how childish he sounded.

Apparently so did his mentor.

“So are you,” she leaned the lance against the wall and tucked a knife under the pillow. Then she slid under the covers. “Get undressed and go to bed. Learn to sleep with one eye open. Many people resent us, not just counting the ones who are on our list.”

“Because we scare them?” he turned his away from her. “And because we might have killed someone they know, someone they loved.”

“Death does not have to take away a loved for people to fear and hate it. And we are the emissaries of death in one of its cruellest and most terrifying forms,” she rolled over so she faced the wall. “And Hans, read Rule number 6 in the Handbook before you go to bed.”

He nearly tripped over his breastplate in his rush to get to the book. Hans flipped to the rules and guidelines page and skimmed:

‘6. Executioners must never draw their weapons against a non-condemned civilian despite any circumstances that may arise, except, only in the case of self-defence in which the civilian may be accused of obstruction of justice which is a low-level crime or of sympathising with a traitor which is itself an act of treason which is punishable by death.

Punishable by Index [ii] (see page 13).’

 

Hans flipped to page 13.

 

Punishment Index

[i] Executioners which break a rule denoted by this number are liable to be punished by whipping.

[ii] Executioners which break a rule denoted by this number are liable to be punished by death.

 

“Good night,” she muttered.