A Janissary's Notebook

[Blue41]

Always had a complicated relationship with trust. It's not a word I speak aloud without certain caveats, but when the Consulate pressed, I just blurted it out. 'I trust these men.' And damn if I didn't believe it. Damn if they weren't ready to follow me into the shit, to stain their hands following me wherever I wanted to lead them. What did I do to earn that kind of dedication? How close was I to losing their trust with my actions?

I felt the urge again, in the interrogation room. I felt myself approaching the precipice. I was ready to jump. Draw the dagger, drive it home. Give myself a 'defensive wound' or two. Dispose of the body. Deal with the dwarf.  The first step would have been easy. Easy to justify everything in the name of what the Bey wanted, what the Sultan wanted. Get the fucking book, whatever the cost. Find Zarat. Close the case.

I hesitated. It wasn't the thought of killing that gave me pause-- because no one's truly innocent. It was the thought of killing one to let another murderer go free.  If I had known what Childkiller was going to do...I would have stopped him.

I would have. I would have. That's the line.



How fucking pointless... There's no point in wallowing in it. The Glaziers will want their pound of flesh. We'll make them pay for it.

[Blue41]

Graen's out.  I don't know whether I'm more upset with her or myself.  I trusted her-- I did. I do. Or at least, I knew her. I was aware of her blind spots, her vulnerabilities. They stand out as clear as day with hindsight.

The Shadowbrook trial, and that absent killer instinct.

Advocating for the witness when we needed them gone.

Ready to argue on behalf of strangers we didn't know and were bound to refuse, because 'we were like them, once'.

Her loyalty was always to B'aara over the Fourth Legion, and this parting was a long time coming. Still, it hurts. Maybe it would have been easier to deal with this if it had been tinged with tension, like every 'exit interview'.

[Blue41]

Dakhwar.

Dakhwar.

You pick things up on this job. For me, it's a habit of revisiting the facts of the case, playing things out over and over again in my head. Muscle twitches, and to which direction, favored sides, favored people. When they meet your gaze and when they look away, and why. What words stand out, and what words are thrown away. Actions of significance that are meant to be what they seem, and the insignificant actions that gleam in their shadow. In my dreams, I see the cupkhwar, and I'm forced to contrast the reality of the meeting against the ideal my mind would like me to dwell on. The mind is a thief. The mind is a conman. The mind is a bastard in service to the Enemy and you can't fool paper, so I commit it to paper.

The Dakhwar.

The boy kept it wrapped up for a reason. There are the obvious reasons, of course-- it drew our attention there immediately, which would serve to hide something else, something we missed...the priestess, perhaps? A muttered word, a worked rune, a curl of her fingers? Some enchantment flung in our faces? There are the less obvious reasons, as well. Direct contact with the cupDakhwar is to be avoided. Then there's who they allowed to touch the cupwar. Why? Why did I touch it? Why did it offer it to me? Was it because of our little delegation, I was the one who needed to be compromised? The only one whose reaction didn't match what they would want--slavish devotion, or shock, or awed gratitude? I touched the Dakhwar. There was never any hope of tearing it free of that thing's grip. A touch was all that was permitted.

And it was then, at that moment, I felt something. The connection must have been formed then. And when it was hidden away once more, I can place what I felt then. Loss. Disappointment.

And now, visions. Hallucinations. The boy's began before he found the cup, or so he claims. The creature's visions continue. How long has it held the Dakhwar without the insulation of cloth? What tricks does it play on his mind? 'In the night-time sleep. Upon the stars. In groans of the earth. In clap of thunder, and the breath of song.'

Dakhwar for her.

I don't see her, though. I see him. It. That face. I don't recognize it, but it stares and stares, repeating that hateful word. Dakhwar.

I have to find a way to deal with this, or I'm through. I have to keep it together. The temple. B'aara. As good advice as any.

[Blue41]

I recall joking with Daoud that it was a particular quirk of the Fourth's misfortune at work that guaranteed that any closed room meeting I was part of was doomed to be interrupted by a knock at the door, or a ring of the bell. Popularity had its problems and part of that meant I was no longer allowed to determine when a good conversation would end. Rather, it would end on someone else's behalf.

Now, though... Cup, Cup of Woe. Cup of Destiny, perhaps. Touch'd by fate. By Misfortune. Trained upon you.

It was foolish to seek the healers, foolish to believe there was a more capable curse-breaker than Lurak. We have our ways to avert disaster, and it seems I must keep to them closer than ever. Toss the Ash. Early and often. Remember the Omens. Keep it out of my mind.

I did not ask to be thrown in the midst of prophecy and destiny and this storybook Cinquefoil camelshit, but it seems like I no longer have a choice in the matter, even in denying it. There is a weight here, the turning of the Wheel, as if I stand in the eye of a great storm, and to fall would be disastrous. Because it has happened to the Fourth Legion before, hasn't it? Porusk Bey, whose cloak coiled just so, and cost him his life. If my judgement falters, will I find a place in Lurak's book as well-- one more example of Urazzir's vengeance?

Suppose that wouldn't be so bad, as it implies enough people left behind to remember.

[Blue41]

The more I've learned about Zaniah, the less I feel as if I knew her. Which is dramatic to put down in parchment, as I cannot claim to have spent very much time around her, not counting the work put into her trial-- charged with a capital crime, at that. But if there's anything that the rank has pressed upon me, it's the importance and inevitability of spending time with people you'd rather avoid entirely. Faced with that, one either learns to adapt and roll with the changes, or they get stuck in a prison of their own making. Zaniah seemed like the former-- so maybe the critical error here was underestimating just how severe of a shift there would be. Certainly puts her bellows in a different light. Extortion. Promises she couldn't keep. Wildly ambitious, wildly unrealistic dreams of expansion.

It's foolish, I know. Foolish to feel satisfied, somehow. Absurdly so. And yet here it is-- another person you claimed to have trusted, let you down again. They will all let you down, the moment you believe it's safe to extend your hand again. Assume the worst. Assume guilt.  How many more times do I need a reminder before the lesson sticks? Or is it just amplified by the Dakhwar, the stench of Misfortune that lingers on me? Yes. Let's take some comfort in that. In a lie.

Toss the Ash, hurl the evil. And what's more-- make plans for the next one, the one Sol Auk can't have influenced in some minor way. Rest in peace, you ancient bastard.

[Blue41]

After the meeting, I made my rounds around the Well, as I usually do. Some litter-bug had scattered Orentid propaganda here and there, all speaking to the same thing. 'The Well was better under Orentid rule. Up with Ibtihal, down with the Sultan.' More in that vein, not worth putting to writing.  Never mind that the author likely wouldn't know one way or the other, even from literature, whether their beliefs were rooted in truth...I didn't feel angry or upset, but rather a sort of deep and enduring resignation in its place; one that stayed with me until I returned to the Garrison, pausing only to toss the fliers into a bin. The words of the Sergeant echoed with me at that moment.

"Are we really going to have to die for this rabble? How many good men, dead...for the sake of some fool actresses' dreams?"

Yes. Yes we are. And part of me wonders if it might be time to start really considering my retirement. What that might look like.

The Congress of Kardesler went about how I expected it would go, the moment Hasheema took her seat. I could go over the specifics-- what might have been said more eloquently, when to interrupt, when to remain quiet-- but it would be a futile act. Ultimately, the decision was always going to be out of my hands-- never up to me. While it might be galling to lose the decision to someone who should be representing the League of Purple rather than the White, or whoever speaks for bleeding hearts with no thought for strategy or what their enemy may be thin


[A break, and then the writing continues, in a hurried, busy script...]

DAKHWAR-- LUST, DESIRE

Hide

Literal-- everyone seeks it?
Literal-- powers of the Cup? Not working on me if so

[close]

UPON THY HANDS/FINGERS/MIND

Hide

Paraskevi
touched by fate/misfortune
feature of the cup?

[close]

OF THE BEAUTY OF THE AGES
SALVATION

THEY AWAKE-- BEWARE.

Hide

Inheritors?
Sibilant?
The dead below?
The Orentid?


Qa'im?

[close]

That was probably a really fucking bad idea.

[Blue41]

He had been gone for months, no longer a shadow in the peripherals of my vision, and I had fooled myself into believing it was over. Then-- in the middle of the night, while I was pissing away last night's port, he appeared again. Staring me down with that fucking mask. Pointing...off into the dunes.

Wasn't much longer after that that word reached me about the Depths. A path being opened. Ill omens magnified by one thousand. Not a coincidence. I hadn't made too much of an effort to stay abreast of the happenings of Ephia's Well. Kept my chit in a desk drawer, along with my ring of commendation. Focused on the work in front of me, which was mostly keeping an eye on the Rampart, amusing myself with mapping out the connections between one Clan and the next. I had heard things, of course. A coup averted. Blood plagues. Monsters. Joachim's death-- that one took some time to process. To grieve.

Nothing about Zarat, the one that got away. Or if there was news, then it wasn't something spoken of over the bellows. Could it be that no one cared to continue the search? What could possibly be more pressing than determining if we had allowed yet another Legate to escape us after compromising us so badly?

I could let that one sit and smolder, I suppose. If not for the sight of him, again. Pointing-- towards the Well. Had to be. You get used to tossing the Ash, you learn to pay attention to the right signs. Or the wrong ones.

Had to pull some strings for a reassignment. Wasn't an easy thing, but after recent events in the Well, it went better than I expected. Here's hoping no one tossed out my old casework.

[Blue41]

There's less of the old faces I remember than I thought. Qari, Mevura, Stern. Those I worked with by necessity or by preference, and was thankful for their competence. Alejandro, Marcellus, Amelie. Those who moved in similar circles. Sephidra, Naelin. Those I would rather forget entirely.

My office remains just as I left it, even if the Legion has changed. It's with no small amount of happiness that I can say it's for the better. Competent officers who are capable of juggling both sides of the work, clean reports mostly clear of smudges and stains, a full treasury. Couldn't ask for more. There's also...something surreal about it all, walking those halls again, seeing odd reflections of the past. I look at Kroggnought's hammer and feel Zakar's maul dropping me to the ground. I see Joachim's saber on Reyer's belt and there are times I could swear he's fallen into step just behind me, always ready to back my play. Ashworth's distrust of the Rose. Lightdew's obsessions.

I despise nostalgia. Pointless parallels to draw from the present to the past...but I find myself doing it all the same.

Information on Zarat was more available than I expected. Everything I learn just provokes more questions, questions that I don't have the means to answer myself. There's a trip to the Sandstone in my future.

[Blue41]

Isolated. Paranoid. Coarse. Unhappy.

I isolated myself because of that godsdamned cup; that one touch I can still faintly recall allowed that...Ayyabasim, I suppose, to get a claw into my mind. I was compromised, and I couldn't even talk about it. Not with the brass, not if I wanted to continue to serve the Fourth Legion. Even the few who did know looked at me like I was crazy. So I had to stay away. Missed the war. Missed the death of Joachim. Missed too much.

Paranoid. Sure-- I've been paranoid ever since Diakos was still walking freely around the Well. Plenty of reasons to still be paranoid, now that we have lizards and foreign spies inside our walls. The Enemy is within as well as without, and paranoia is what keeps you sharp, keeps you alive, keeps you ready. How am I meant to just let that go? This job requires you to think of the worst possible scenario, and prevent it from coming to pass. You want me paranoid. Right?

Coarse and unhappy. The work makes me happy, and it doesn't require me to put on airs, to act in any specific way beyond what it takes to get results. Sure, I've erred. Made mistakes like anyone else. But my successes outweigh my failures and in the end, isn't that what matters?

[...]

Daoud did suggest to me once that I ought to get a hobby, find something to do with myself when I'm not in the uniform, not on the job. And I nodded and smiled and said I'd try to find something-- whittling, I think. I remember purchasing some raw wood from the Souk, a whittling knife...and then they vanished into a desk drawer to gather dust. Because the work matters, and the work never ends. It dominates my thoughts, my dreams. Even while I was away from the Well. It's unhealthy. Which is more than a little rich, considering who it came from, but the Bey was right about me.

I can change. I will change. As soon as I find her, I can make a concentrated effort to...be different. Do something else.

I can't even lie to myself.

[Blue41]

Losing people doesn't, or hasn't, gotten any easier.

Kroggnought and Synamar Neldorcal. I can't say I knew either of them well enough to know their likes and dislikes, their motivation, what they aspired to. That's not so much a matter of interest as it was time. What could I have done differently? I know it's a question that every Janissary who returned from the Rampart will be asking themselves, and still it must be asked. When Samton asked if they should accompany us in the mission and I said yes, did I err? When the time came to consider exit strategies, was I too slow to act, too hungry for the chance to learn whatever else I could? In the heat of the battle, should I have been focused more on mending wounds with water instead of drawing blood?

I've had to do some growing to fill this position of Lieutenant. I can tell that I've come a long way from the last time I visited Har'pas Valley. It wasn't the orcs that I feared in that arena, but of being too slow, of losing the men under my command. Staying up on the walls was never an option, despite the fact that I'm no storied swordsman or bloodthirsty orc-slayer. Never give an order you're not willing to carry out yourself. The men wished to fight and we had little choice otherwise.

No other choice for any of it. Nothing that could've been done to keep them out of the path of that dragon, save preventing them from making the trip in the first place. And if that had happened, would we have survived the second bout with as few injuries as we did? Likely not. Send me to the Mount while I consider alternate timelines.

Marcellus is alive, at least. We're spared Legate Sephidra for a little while longer.

[Blue41]

Warmaster. I've come to realize that I hate titles. Lieutenant is different, of course-- it's more a rank, a designation, than anything else. But Syter's Slys? Warmaster? They feel false. A mask put on for someone else's benefit. A lie of dubious intent and quality. Who does it serve? Maybe that's why I was completely caught off-guard when Ashworth wanted to put my name forward for the role. And again, learning that Mevura had suggested it during the Assembly. Running a war wasn't supposed to be on the docket for me-- I came back for Zarat, after all. Toss the ash, hurl the evil, nothing ever works out like it should. Touched by fate, touched by Misfortune.

[I should speak with Paraskevi...]

The more I thought on it, though, the more I realized that I couldn't be content serving under anyone who would treat this conflict as little more than an opportunity to heap glory on their name. That only became more clear during Aubrey's little game-- one that became an impromptu meeting of the minds between the members of the Accord. There was a time where I would've wasted time and ink wondering what kind of scheme she'd be cooking up by supporting me for the position. There was a time where the thought to back anyone besides herself would never have even occurred to her. Reyer was right, then-- she has changed.

I owe her an apology. Or a thank you, at least. Thanks to that meeting, I can see a path forward. The work's had the good fortune [toss the Ash] of forcing me to get used to the idea of working with each of the Signatories, and that's something the rest of them aren't as used to. Justifiable tension between the Banda Rossa and Balladeers. No one wants to follow an Astronomer Warmaster. And the influence of the Drink, and the Sisters underneath it all.

'If there's any voice in the back of your head whispering doubts, you need to silence it right now. You're the best man for the job.'

I suppose there's little point in finding Zarat if there's nowhere to bring her back to. And already I can feel myself starting to make plans, consider meetings, make arrangements-- regardless of whomever the Legates choose won't change much for me.

[Blue41]

It was at some point during the third interview that I felt it. The thrill. The rush. That onset of emotion that I once upon a time relied on mizzar to give me, that I confessed to Delmare was the reason I'd always come back to the work, regardless of what they paid me. Deeper and more primal than satisfaction, more complex than happiness. The soft mental snap of pieces falling into place, of finding something unexpected beneath a flipped stone. I could live off that feeling for the rest of my life and it would never be enough.

If I'm named Warmaster, I'll be required to put chasing that feeling aside for the time being-- at least until the war ends. And of course, if I survive the outcome. There's a very real chance that this may be the last case I present, and the last time I get to employ these talents. Masking my intent. Staying silent, to prompt the suspect to fill the void with more defensive, flimsy words. And cold methodical pursuit of all the people involved. Ephia's Well is vital, and I'll do what needs doing for the sake of it. Just as Kroggnought and Synamar and Joachim and so many others have done.

But I will miss that feeling.

Joachim never had the patience for it. Johan could've come to understand it, if he had stuck it out. Of the current crop, Lightdew is probably the closest to understanding it. I should speak with her about it sometime, when time allows.

[Blue41]

I suppose this is the closest I'll get to understanding what it means to be a Legate. A sudden flood of meetings and requests to meet, and not nearly enough time to answer them all...to say nothing of the actual urgency of the situations that matter. Far away, over the dunes, men are dying at orcan feet because it's impossible for people to reach a decision without trying to maneuver something out of it for themselves.

Still, I've done the best I could with the time I have to work with. Four positions filled on the Council. Two or three remaining, that I expect to accept. The Legates to pass on those decisions to. A fact-finding mission/history lesson with Alejandro. I have to imagine that he'll make an appearance, as he is wont to do, at some point. Council meeting to call to order...

And then we're past the point of theories and hypotheses and into practice. The point where men start dying, and I provide Kroggnought and Synamar with a few neighbors, based on my decisions. Toss the Ash and hurl the evil, that I ward the Wroth's Eyes away.

[Blue41]

They call me Warmaster, but it was hard not to feel like some mummer in a costume, playing at a role. Fools would congratulate me, like I had just won a Sister-sponsored charity auction, while the more canny looked grave and told me they didn't envy the burden. My more outspoken critics in the Legion seemed to show a bit more deference, while strangers in the Souk went out of their way to greet me. The reality of it didn't really sink in until I sat down in the throne of the Sultan, before the Stele of War. We had stumbled over the scaled up models on the theater of war, gawping at the scope of it, the expense, the tools that had been provided to us. The armor of a dead man-- a hero, a piece of history plucked out of time-- provided to me to make me look and feel the part.

I'm used to having to direct the lives of men and women in my profession. Seeing them put towards a purpose, playing to their strengths, letting them flourish. It's far more rarely that I've had to direct their deaths as well. And now every moment, every decision I make going forward would save some lives while condemning others to death. Not for the first time, I put Paraskevi's words to paper as I consider that cup. Touched destiny, touched by fate. Touched by Misfortune.

I could tell it wasn't just me feeling it, either. The rest of the Council...well, aside from some confusion, some talking over each other at the start...they fell into a rhythm that you really only see in times of great stress. Working together because to do less would mean the end of the whole, as opposed to the self-interest and grandstanding that dominates so many Assemblies. It was like they had left behind their old prejudices on the ground. I wonder if returning to the Well felt disorienting, as they were forced to assume roles that no longer quite fit.

[Blue41]

'I can't believe you added Alejandro to the Council.'

My blood was still up, I think. The stand-off with the Prince and his cohorts in the Krak, and the weight of the words that followed, words that might create a very real, potentially dire consequence. The irritation of feeling like I needed to justify any of my choices to anyone, let alone him, who made such easy assumptions at the drop of a hat. I snapped back at him. I don't remember exactly what I said, but even with his mask on, it was simple enough to see that he was hurt. Simpler still to forget, as Ashworth reminded me as unobtrusively as possible, that no matter his rank or his duties or what he had seen, he was still far too young-- for all of this. I remember walking away angry, and those might have been the last words between us, before he returned cold and lifeless.

There is regret, wrapped up in the knowledge that-- unlike Joachim and the rest of the Fourth-- there will be no time to process. No time to grieve. The priest of the Wroth's words echo still in my mind. 'When you, too, perish, know at the mantle that you will, also, leave but regret and the ledger of your transgressions, and those transgressions against you.' It sounds right-- but it should not be so right here. I wish that I could've left things on better terms.

But wishes are for beggars and children. I'm sorry Cosine. You deserved better.