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[Kept on the person of Rennik Colmes, squirreled away in some pouch within a pouch...]

Just when I thought my luck was changing.

Weeks upon weeks of wandering from refuge to shelter to homestead to miserable fucking tent town looking for the essentials. Food. Water. A place to shit without worrying about Melek springing out at ya. Ephia's Well sounded too good to be true, which usually means it's a scam. Only...there were walls, mostly solid. Good wine. Sweet, sweet qalyan pipes. Food. The little luxuries I was starving to get for so long. And once I had them in hand, I got to thinking. I got to stupid. Got to wanting more. That's how I ended up with the Misfortune.

And I was right. My luck's definitely changed. It's all gone to shit now. And it's going to stay that way until I end up in the ground.

But I can beat this. I survived Ringfall. Survived the desert. I can wriggle my way out of His grip, too. I know it. I KNOW IT.

A scar from Zakar.

There was a tension in the room after the death of that dwarf. He came along, quiet as a lamb, and the rest of us trailed after him. Into the Garrison.  Past the hanging jars of ash, beneath key set over door frame, down the stairs into the training hall.  We looked at each other, the walls, the floor. Anywhere but him. To kill a man in direct violation of the Legate suggested one of two things. Either Zakar was an idiot moonstruck child with a very heavy mace and the training to use it, or a madman only interested in how blood he got to spill on the job. 

"The Legate told me to do it."

I recall what he said to me during the trial: that, if the opportunity arose to execute the dwarf for the crime, he wanted the 'honor' of doing the deed. There was a lot of whispering at the time, but his stood out. He didn't say much else during all of the strategizing and plotting and reacting. I wonder if he was listening at all. Maybe, by that point, he had already heard all that he needed to.

"Why is he still here?"

Of course, Sorazin Bey gets the last word. I wonder if Karath resents me for it. He was closer to Zakar than I was, and I made him into his gravedigger, because I needed to soothe the public. It helped that I had all the proof I needed-- the scar from Zakar. Lucky to be alive.

An idiot or a madman. Or this new third option that's been dropped into my lap. Zakar on someone else's payroll, cleaning up the mess before it started to stink. Kill the dwarf before he could turn on his backers, just in case he felt the need to shriek over the bellows. And then... hope his pitiful excuse would land him on latrine duty, or the stocks, rather than exiled or sacked? Pointless to guess at the logic of a dead man. A dead, compromised man. Not if there's more like him in the Legion.

Miserable fucking luck. This is why the Wroth sent me back; dying would be too much of a break compared to rat-hunting inside the garrison.

Shane Gallows.

If Zakar existed in that 'not quite a friend' space, then Shane lived and breathed in 'not quite an enemy.' Was in bed with some bad folk, manipulated the duties of his position for personal profit, placed his importance for a good story over basic ethics and morality, on the one hand. On the other hand, he was invested in my survival, wrote a decent article or two and was generally forthcoming with information. Except the fraud.

Some of the boys weren't fond of him for the role he took in defending the Gutter Banshee. Nearly defending Mudgut. 'He helped bandits escape conviction'-- but I understood. It's how the system works, and if he didn't do all he could for them, then the point of the whole fucking mechanism of law falls apart. I imagine it must've been killing him inside to be denied a defense of his caliber. The irony...

Quote from: A scrap of parchment slipped into the journalRennik,

Heard good ol' Quentin calling over the thunder for a "Recruit Suli."

Did you know that there was a "Suli the Dwarf" who used to run in the bandit gang of Warthog Mudgut? It's the darnedest thing. Surely, surely they aren't the same person? The Janissaries would never hire a (reformed?) criminal into their ranks...

That's not a rumor, either. I saw Suli with my own eyes, heard him with my own ears, as I was tumbling through the Dry Gutters in a running battle to escape.

But don't consider me inclined to come by the Garrison for an official report.

Gallows

Sums him up right here. Was he trying to rattle me, or trying to be 'helpful' in his own way?

Or maybe that sums me up. The job's made me paranoid, to the point where I second-guess everything, from anyone. Motives. Ambitions. Drives. ...That's part of the reason Aubrey drives me up the goddamn wall. But that's a whole other entry.

Skaldorr Merizad.

Part of me wonders how much attention he paid to Shane Gallows, because they both had a similar strategy when the time came to clap them in irons. Assert ignorance and confidence in equal measure. Total belief in their ability to escape their crimes by being one step ahead, thanks to a bit of bribing and peeking at restricted files. No need to violently resist arrest because there's no way we can make it stick to them. And then we do. Granted, it's a near thing, and I'm sure my luck will give out one of these days, but...maybe swearing an oath before the Wroth was enough to stave off the Misfortune for a while. I'll enjoy it while it lasts.

It probably won't be very long. I did Bruno Garibaldi a bad turn, and that'll come back to bite me eventually. All I remember was asking him if he was willing to testify against the dwarf, nothing about keeping his name out of it. Heart just about stopped when he hesitated on the stand. I was sure he was going to recant. If he hasn't skipped town for the wastes, I'll have to buy him a drink- try and make it up to him.

The lads wanted to drink to their win, like this was a great victory. It's not. There's still a leak in the Legion that needs plugging, and it won't be until the next Gallows or Merizad that I'll see an opportunity to do that. Best I can do now is to try to keep an eye on everyone. Even while we're being watched ourselves...

Alright. Maybe getting this out on paper will help some. Let's talk Aubrey fucking Domergue.

The first time I met Aubrey was a few days after washing into the Well, doing odd jobs here and there. Me, her and a few others entered the Gutters. Desperate refugees hungry for a meal or a handful of dinar made banditry a common thing, and in our wandering, we stumbled on the tail end of a mugging. Mostly, that was a handful of idiots chasing other idiots down a dingy pipe, while some folk groaned on the ground.  In this case, they had actually caught one of the men responsible. Pontius Slax, I think. "Grand," says I, "looks like everything's in hand, so we can keep on moving on. Right?" No, of course not. Aubrey insisted-- along with Arterian, now that I think about it-- that we march this trouble-maker off to the Janissaries. In order to see justice done. And justice in this case was hurling some camel shit at aforementioned idiot in the stocks. I think I threw ten camel diamonds. Aubrey didn't throw one.

So. Aubrey is a meddler.

The next time was during the Legion's try-outs. No small time investment, that. Weapon training, patrolling, running around the walls in the hot sun, with  a little practice bout between teams to top it off. Aubrey's made team captain, picks me, slips me a little magick to even the odds. We win the bout, and the brass make their final selections: Aubrey, Scarbork, me. First wave of refugee Janissaries. Big fucking honor (in theory. In reality, my luck's thrown itself head first into the dirt and shows no signs of improving.) Aubrey's all wide-eyed: "Really? You want lil' ol' me? Are you sure?" And then reveals this as some kind of power play for the League of White, that she couldn't possibly be a Janissary, and trounces off while the Lieutenant spits into the sand. Short one soldier, Zakar al-Sid is chosen in her place. We all know how that fucking ended.

So. Aubrey is a liar.

We all lie. To ourselves most of all, if you wanna be a fucking philosopher about it. I don't hold that against her, really. At this point, I don't think she could've handled this job-- not after hearing what she said about Gallows. About Merizad. Her friendships, acquaintances, connections...they matter more to her than taking the hard road. Loyalty unto death, but to people rather than ideas or institutions. Thing of it, people will let you down. They're bound to. We ain't gods. But the shit we're holding up has to last for generations, and that doesn't happen by making yourself bigger than it.

Aubrey's gotta be in the spotlight.

She put on a good show. A little drunk, a little desperate. A touch of the hand, a tempting secret. Carefully laid bait. Only I don't think the trap's set just for me. It's for him, too. Two, three birds with one stone? And when the dust settles, and it's time for elections to begin... the Legate seat? Possibly.  Lying, meddling and an ego fit the job requirements. But how far is she willing to go for it?

In my dreams I see arrows falling to earth in a hailstorm. Every arrow finds a target. Every target is someone I know, someone I've studied-measured-followed. Every target is guilty, so every target deserves it.

I don't know who the archer is. Is it me? Is it Urazzir?

Words to remember, from Ellanher: No one betrays you quite like a friend.

Should've trusted my gut. Karath had been distant for the last few weeks, I suppose, but I was also busy as all hell. The Gallows case. The Merizad case.  Investigating Diakos. Investigating Aubrey and Isabelle and always another investigation. I saw him in passing, a nod here, a word there, but that was it. But the moment he's forced to endure more than a thirty count in my presence...the moment I get the nod from the brass, it all came spilling out like bad wine. Zakar. Again.

I haven't thought of him in weeks. I don't think of him, except the few moments Quentin brought him up. Is that strange? Zakar was probably dirty. Compromised, in Merizad's pocket. In someone's pocket. He put himself, his needs, over the Legion. Just like Karath. I trust my steel more than I do your plank of wood. This shield has history. He had history with Zakar, too.

...Was Karath even my friend? Will I spare him another thought? Will I remember Quentin?



It's the job. The nature of the work requires a certain degree of...distance. Distance will save me from the spears and arrows. Distance will ward off the eye of Urazzir. Distance makes it easier to see Mirit's tears as daggers, makes it easier to see Sylvia's questions as probing, someone else's words in her mouth. The job's the only thing that matters, because the Well matters. The Legion matters.
No more Zakars. Bloodthirsty idiots who act without care for consequence.
No more Karaths. Too soft-hearted to focus on what matters.
No more Quentins. The fact that I can't be sure of what you did that gnome speaks volumes.

They'll be better--the ones that come after.

I find myself missing Ellanher more than I thought I would. Maybe it's because I know he'd understand this sinking feeling. Like I'm drowning with every step forward I take, falling into a muddy quagmire of...compromise. Doubt. Suspicion. And any time I find my way to a breath of fresh air, I'm yanked right back down again. There's no one I can trust, and that's exhausting. People who pass me by all have the same comments to make:

"You look stressed, Sergeant. Eating well?"

"You look tired. How about some mizzar?"

"Drinks on me, Sergeant."

There was a time I would've treated these words as what they were. Innocent nothings, rather than a probe of my defenses, a test to see how likely I am to accept a drink, a smoke, a gift. I can't even claim to miss that time, now. But I do miss the feeling of being able to share of myself without waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Never assume innocence. No one betrays you like a friend.

There are days when the teachings of Urazzir feel more like a curse I've taken on. Today's one of them.

There are some mysteries I'll never be able to resolve. What led Ophelia Whitmore into the Gutters to meet with the man that killed her? Was it overconfidence? Fear? The blind faith that she was more valuable to them alive than dead?

Can you protect someone from themselves?

The sendings were a gamble, admittedly. I wanted the pair of them to feel they could beat the charges, to feel so sure of their victory that there would be no need to lay a hand on Ophelia. They both had to go down for this, regardless of who called the shots between them. It was the only way to make sure that in a few days, weeks, months down the road, we didn't run into another merchant complaining of a protection racket in the Souk. But they killed her anyhow, as if that would erase their previous crimes. Ophelia was a tool for John Syter, a Legate candidate that doubtlessly would have danced to the tune of the League of Gold to the detriment of the Well. She was also a frightened young woman in a bad situation without any friends who cared enough to reach out before it was too late.

I will carry it with me-- the tragedy of her death. But I will not let it keep me from doing the only work that needs doing.

Three Voiced dead. Two for the Lions, one for the sands.

There's just one more loose end to wrap up, and then I can put this case to bed.

Miserable, fucking luck.

How in the fuck did I manage this?

Strange feeling. No capital cases on the board, no investigations to pursue and no Legates to bring them to.  Instead of being able to lose myself in work, I'm left to the sort of administrative duties best left delegated to others. Answering letters. Closing out old case files. Restraining myself from kicking up the level of shit that comes naturally to the Astronomers and Cinquefoil. Trying to keep the treasury from bottoming out, even while the lads see to training new recruits. Everything will change once we have Legates again, I tell people. I tell myself that, too. I wonder if I believe it.

If the peace wasn't uneasy enough, there's the matter of the Wyrm's deathrattle. Finding snakes under beds, snakes on the road, snakes in jars. Snakes eating themselves.  Curses overlapping curses.

I should have my hands full with the aftermath of the Legate's murder, but I've got a sneaking suspicion about where Zarat ended up. The question, then, is when she'll show up again. But I don't have much say in that matter--that's up to him.

Administrative leave.

Think of it like a vacation, the Lieutenant told me when I read over the letter, not even a full day after the debacle of a debate and the Testimonial. The latter being when I decided to publicly throw in my lot with the League of White--with Lynneth-- over Cyrille. I don't take vacations; this work matters. The job is everything. All the more reason, the Lieutenant soothes, and between his tone and the look in his eyes, I know the discussion has already ended. The rest is just a formality. Packing my bags, boarding the caravan and then off into the Ash to investigate some spectacular bit of distraction that the Consulate's cooked up on my behalf. ''Soothe the woes of some land-owning relative fifteen branches removed from the Maribid line." Sergeant Colmes is on the case to investigate precious lost fennec. Camelshit.

I hang on to my chip, though-- they can't take that away from me. It's a form of entertainment for a while, as I ride into the dunes, listening to some of the usual shit-stirrers, with a few new players in the mix. Then it becomes a source of irritation. Maddeningly infuriatingly teasingly irritating. I'm no scholar but why the fuck does it feel like I'm the only one with any sense in the room when it comes to that man-- that thing. Sol Auk. Since speaking with Daoud, I went back over every meeting I had with it. Every chance encounter. Every word of warning, every counsel given. It's only now, with distance, with perspective, that I can see how nearly every piece of trash I cleared from the alleys aided it in some way.

Ophelia, the previous Gold front-runner for Legate, slain by Brudron and Atreus-- rivals among the Purple in their own right, in both business and politics.

Merizad, who dominated narcotics before Sol Auk's own, 'legal', enterprise.

Witness to Wulfsige's crimes. A hand in the pocket of many a Janissary besides.

It never hid. Never declared its intentions to be seen, be known, be the top dog like all the rest. It came peddling...water and advice. Offered to 'buy me out of my contract to the Fourth Legion', which I refused to consider. If I had, it would've been one more obstacle cleared from the path...

I don't yet know the specifics of that meeting between it and the Torchbearers, but I can imagine. I can wonder if this thing with a political firebomb in its pocket even needed to show its hand, or if the bluff was enough. Because of the implicit threat it represented, Sephidra will never run for office or hold any political placement of worth for the rest of her long life. Naelin torched the reputation of her Torchbearers, along with a share of public good will. If they met with Sol not to deliberate or fight, but to concede and cut a deal, as I suspect...well, the law can only help so much. If a man threatens to blow you away with a firebomb, that's something you can report. But if the man makes you believe he's holding your destruction, and you hand him everything freely...they say there's no devils left in hell. They're right. We've got one here in the Well, and it can't even read a contract.

It won't be long before they call me back. Wish I could say I was happy about it. But I heard about the trial, and the re-trial, and the re-re-trial to know that the letter will be coming any day now, and it'll be back to the Well to untangle this mess.

Until then, I bide my time.

Been a while since I've had the chance to take up the quill for personal reasons. It figures that it's a matter of mortality that turns the trick. Mine, specifically.

Fear death. Control the fear to deny it power.

I always thought that if I was going to die-- it would be quick. A knife in an alley. Poison in my drink, something odorless, colorless, painless. Execution for overstepping my boundaries one too many times. A quick death would be best. It's more merciful that way; no time to think about the specifics involved, or dwell on the pain. No chance to linger on old regrets, words spoken in anger, words left unsaid to those who needed to hear them. It's just one wrong choice and then you're off to see the Twindari. But these new orders...time was supposed to be on our side, our advantage. Instead it feels more like an unbreakable fishing line, with me caught fast.

I don't want to die. Too much left to be done, and no one left to do it. The guilty would go unpunished. Those biding their time would rejoice. Those seeking guidance would drift astray.

I don't want to die. I'd like a stiff drink and a good women, even more than I did when I first arrived. The Legion's given me a Voice and a name but it's still failed to deliver on those two fronts. Can't enjoy them I'm dead.

I don't want to die. I'd like to see them again, one more time--Karath and Sylvia. Talk things out over mizzar. Try and build that bridge to get back to where we were before, or somewhere new where we could coexist.

But if I have to die...this is a good cause. The only cause. And if I have to die for it to succeed, then I won't hesitate.

"If the Sultan asked you to drop dead, right on the spot, what would you do?"

"I'd hope he  could make better use of me than that would allow me a knife to speed it along. "

There were other investigations I never undertook after that case because of their membership in the Accord.

Time was you followed corruption all the way to the top, Rennik. This isn't that.

I don't believe him and what's worse, I can't make myself believe him, either. The smart thing to do would be to put this all behind me with Shahlil's second trial. Everyone got what they wanted, even if the halfling slipped her bindings, because the decision mattered more than her death.  It's proof that the Fourth Legion is willing to honor the Accord, even when the other signatories aren't. Even when they shield murderers and brookers and cultists and dissidents and traitors, the Fourth Legion holds the line. Just another element of the Misfortune, and aren't I the good little soldier? Isn't this another element of the Work?

Yes, and no. Because I was charged by the Bey to watch for enemies within as well as without. I renewed those oaths when I was given this rank. I've honored them again and again-- Zakar. Wulfsige. Munster, had I allowed that wound to fester. Not easy work, but within my power when dealing with soldiers. But a Lieutenant? How the fuck am I meant to deal with that? It's not like I can handle this like Syter again, and if there's anyone who should know how to cover their tracks, it would be a Janissary.  Getting evidence may be entirely impossible.

The only bit of suppressing done was Sol Auk's rescinding of her exile, and our putting Soldiers in charge of murder trials they had no right to be overseeing. Greener than the cloaks off your back.

Working under someone who'll serve the Astronomers' interests is also impossible. I wouldn't have even suspected if Auk hadn't made the fucking insinuation in the first place. At the time it was easy to overlook it as related to the clusterfuck of bad decisions that was the Twindari trials...but Vergal was always at the root of it. Everything else was a distraction. If we had been allowed to run that investigation to its conclusion, I know we would have found what the halfling didn't. 

I never would have been allowed to investigate Syter either. Not by the Fourth Legion, at least. If I recall right, just breaking into his office would have earned me a whipping and my rank, if not my job. Pointing a finger nearly earned me treason.

I'm starting to think that I can't help myself. It's like I have this compulsion to see the worst, to call it out...whatever the cost. Ellanher would have something to say on this, but he's not around. And I know what I'm going to do regardless.

Just need to get properly drunk, first.

"Congratulations, Sergeant. Another case won."

There was a moment, then. A flash. An urge. Where I considered how long it would take, how much effort it would require, to hook an arm under one of Argus' legs and scoop him up and over the gate, to tumble into the Arena below. A bit of a light meal for the Orentid lions after they had concluded dining on Volandis. Does he truly think that I enjoyed sending the man to his death? That I'm not aware what a colossal waste this was? That I have any other choice in the matter?

The urge passed, but the resentment remained. Perhaps this is the Wroth's influence from being etched on to the Stele. Damn Argus, for believing his pithy comment needed to be heard at all. For believing that a man who confessed his fate was somehow still innocent. Damn Isabella for believing me capable of what the Advocate claimed-- a 'political hit-job'. Damn the Cinquefoil Rose, for their ignorance. For being unaware of the mess their actions caused. For believing heroic actions alone are all that qualifies you to lead the Well. Damn you, Amelie, for offering a hand to a condemned man and believing this would uplift you, rather than sully your spirit and those around you. Damn you, Lynneth, for not taking the extra step. After climbing out of blood and viscera, you wanted to believe the worst was past you. You wanted it to be over.

Damn you, Volandis, for asking me to do what your comrades could not. Damn Rennik Colmes for doing his duty.  For recording horrible truths.

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.

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'.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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UPON THY HANDS/FINGERS/MIND

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Paraskevi
touched by fate/misfortune
feature of the cup?

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OF THE BEAUTY OF THE AGES
SALVATION

THEY AWAKE-- BEWARE.

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Inheritors?
Sibilant?
The dead below?
The Orentid?


Qa'im?

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That was probably a really fucking bad idea.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

'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.

Keeping the pressure at bay is important. Vital, these days. I wish I had the time or the faith to indulge in mizzar again, but it's not a great look to spend time in Elossi's presently, and if I started, I'm not sure I'd know when to stop. Telling myself that things aren't as dire as others make them out to be used to work, before I was selected for this role. Now the opposite is true.

In a few days, I'll be leading a 'suicide' mission with a group of relative unknowns into enemy territory, and this time I won't be leaving a Kythaela or Isotta behind if I catch an orc arrow to the throat, I'll have Mirielle. A hobgoblin with enough cunning to figure out how to kill someone with a book rather than read it. A problem that I can't solve if I end up dead...but there's no one else I can trust to lead this. It was hard enough finding the right team in the first place. And there's a weight in my gut that's growing heavier and heavier.

I don't want any of them to die, but they will, eventually. That's not what nauseates me, paralyzes me. What  turns my stomach is the cold, Wroth-eaten part of my brain that will move on past their deaths, analyze the chances for success or failure if an earlier sacrifice is called for, calculate what we stand to gain or lose if I do this, or that...It makes me just as bad as Marcellus, I suppose. I don't have an Axe to blame atrocities on. I have ghosts at my back. And the number's growing all the time.

And yet, I still believe I'm the best person for this job; that it would be worse with someone else in this position. Arrogance, maybe. Hilarious, definitely.

I've been distracted. There were signs of the growing rift, in hindsight. Ashworth's tactful silence when Reyer discussed Operation Gold Dust. Reyer's tactful omission of the casualties inflicted upon the populace. I didn't expect things to come out the way they did, however-- I was half expecting Reyer to throw a punch, and I don't want to imagine where things might have deteriorated from there. They both knew better than to have it out in front of the men, much less me, so the fact that it did means we're long past the point of an easy resolution.

And to be honest, I don't know if I have the time to settle this for them. Really feeling the limits of being a single man pulled in every direction, to deal with every threat. Keeping the Astronomers and their lackeys out of the depths. Keeping the Legates from choosing the safest, risk-free choice every time. Keeping the Banda Rossa in check. Keeping the Council motivated and productive. Keeping myself running on the handful of hours of sleep I can scrape together.

Delegation is tricky enough when job security relies on being suspicious as possible, all the time. So this particular issue is going to fall to hope and a handful of ash. Maybe it will solve itself with time and distance.

Times change. People change. But if you told me that I would be discussing politics with Stern and sharing a drink with Naelin and Aubrey without being compelled to, I would have called you crazy. But here we are.

No one betrays you quite like a friend, I told Naelin-- same thing Ellanher told me, so long ago. And I can recognize the intentions behind my own actions. I keep people at a distance for their benefit as well as mine, because if ever the work requires me to take action against them, I can't let sentiment slow me down. Last names. No drinks shared, only formalities exchanged. All to protect myself from feeling that sting-- again. Letting those walls down, even for a moment, feels like a mistake. Or it would be, if I was still just a Lieutenant. Warmaster requires a different train of thought.

"Alejandro's practically half-Drink, Lieutenant."

I didn't need him to tell me that, really. I think that when it comes to addiction, like recognizes like to a certain degree. All his talk about not hesitating when that door opened, just leaping through without a second thought of the consequences, caution to the wind...that's not something you do if you treat your life like it has any value. Or perhaps that's too harsh. He's certainly in no hurry to die-- it's just that his life isn't as valuable as the knowledge he seeks.

There's where we're similar-- we both open doors. I just prefer the interrogation cell, a heaping helping of pressure, and my notebook at hand, while he prefers his sketchbook, songbook and dossiers. I cracked her open-- just for a second or two if that...but it was enough to know that I'm on the right track. Perhaps I'd feel worse about pressing the writer the way I did if he wasn't so blindly devoted to protecting them. Except he's really just protecting himself in the end. No Selsi means no more trips into the dark. No more high.

Part of me wants to blame her for this, for how conveniently it all fell into place after. The Tormented, striking for no reason I can fathom-- at me, specifically. Marcellus snatched away again, with only the Sisterhood to depend on for his rescue. That kind of conspiracy belongs in back-alley scribblings read by moonlight, but I can't help but wonder how much longer it would have taken to have gotten something of use out of him. And if I should return to the matter, how much longer it would take the Tormented to appear soon after.

Patience goes far in this profession, though. I can wait.

Apothar Mendista. Shahlil. Bestworth. And of course, Teg.

I don't give those names the same amount of consideration I used to. I had largely put that part of my career behind me, but it all came rushing back the moment Oro came calling with Azimi in tow. Somehow, I had gone from suspecting the man who entertained Astronomers for drinks while discussing cases to being that man. And while that situation and this one are very different...there's more parallels than I care to believe. I let Daoud explain his reasoning to me-- and to his credit, he handled the situation with more grace than I did. I weighed the chances of a guilty verdict against that of a civil war...even as Ashworth must've been weighing the decision to quit in his own head. Just like I had.

Only he decided to speak the words I had swallowed. What does that say about us? I was ready to throw away my career over the death of some anonymous scumpicker in the Creep, because I didn't like the thought of letting the Astronomers get away with it. No, more-- I didn't like them feeling entitled to protection from us, even if it guaranteed their cooperation for a few more days, weeks, months. Until the next argument blew it up. Ashworth's ready to throw away his career because he wants "to right wrongs, and seek justice."

Was I ever so idealistic? No. I think Zakar knocked that part of me out of my head, and I'm lucky he didn't take my head off in the bargain. Whitworth wasn't about justice. Gallows and Merizad. Shadowbrook. Volandis. I wanted to hold them accountable for their actions, because I know that when I die, it's Urazzir who will hold me accountable for mine. I've never fooled myself into believing I could stay on the 'right side' of history, and never tried to. Reyer says he's dirtied his hands, and I believe him, because my hands are no better. It would be something of a requirement for rank, if it wasn't for Ashworth.

I have until the end of the day to try and dissuade him from the path I didn't take. To shatter his illusions about the work; hardly enviable work. If I fail, it will mean a court martial, to say nothing of the effect it will have on the rest of the men. On the war. If I succeed, it will mean... well, Teg and I found our way to a working relationship eventually. It should be possible for Ashworth and I to do so as well. But it will likely never be as it was.

That's worth mourning, but it's like I told Stern. You can ward off grief as you would the Wroth, and I don't have room to let that affect me right now. I can't.

Nobody betrays you like a friend. Strange thing to be on the other side of that statement for a change.

I could see what my words were doing to him, even as I spoke them. Tearing down the myth, the miracle, the legend of Lieutenant-turned-Warmaster Colmes, a second at a time. But I couldn't stop myself. I'd like to think there is a perverse kind of joy in confession. Perhaps it's similar to stuffing yourself with sweets to the point of sickness. I will regret this, you might think to yourself at the time, but it's what I want right now and I won't be denied.

I told him about Zakar-- the messy, unvarnished truth, as well as the version we told the public and what came of it. I hadn't thought about Karath in months; so much so that I ended up reviewing what I had written so long ago and had to laugh at the irony of it.

QuoteNo more Zakars. Bloodthirsty idiots who act without care for consequence.
No more Karaths. Too soft-hearted to focus on what matters.
No more Quentins. The fact that I can't be sure of what you did that gnome speaks volumes.

They'll be better--the ones that come after.

Who the fuck was I fooling?

In the end he decided to stay, because the alternative was painful for all involved to consider. I've put enough of my men in the ground, and I'm to blame for each and every one of them to some degree. If I didn't stick the dagger into their backs, then I put them in front of the ones who did. Ashworth's disillusionment is on me, too. I don't think we'll ever return to that same level of easy comfort we had developed in the last few weeks. I would mourn it, but that's not my particular patron. Instead, I'll add it to the list of transgressions.

There won't be a Magistrate Ashworth, just like there wasn't a Magistrate Amenya. You don't move up in this job without getting your hands dirty, without using secrets like knives. Without being a battering ram when it's called for. I had forgotten that, but maybe that's what growth is. Learning and re-learning the hard lessons until they stick.

When it was over-- when my mouth was dry and there was no more truth to tell-- he thanked me for the speech. He still believed that I was the only one who could take on this task, this role of Warmaster. He no longer believed he could play his own part, though. Like Bashir, this was a man who would go through the motions, until it broke him. And I, callous as ever, would do what was necessary until that happened.

Hand's actually aching a bit from all the writing last night. Reports and reports and reports, and no end in sight. That is truly the work. It's not often I set aside the chip for a bit and just focus on paperwork, but from the sounds of things, it was the right call. Upside of all this nonsense is that it's served to pull the Legion together when five days ago in ways only a common enemy can. Reyer and Ashworth have buried the hatchet. Ashworth has seemed willing to put the matter with Azimi aside in light of bigger fish, so the old rapport has returned.

Now there is simply doing what I do best.

Kardesler, again.

By all rights I should not have been present for another one. If not for the hex of the Tonsured and the gaze of the Wroth, I likely would been in the trenches at Red Hill. And, I imagine, become part of the Goreheart after dying on the end of a lizard spear like so many of my brothers-in-arms. But no, that wasn't the plan the Wheel had for me. Instead I was to attend the second Kardesler in my memory, and perhaps the only Kardesler in history to welcome a slab of ox meat as one of the attendants.

I was expecting the worst after the Council meeting the night before. Ephia's Well being able to unite and stand together when it mattered most is the stuff of storybooks; Balladeer bullshit. But no one could have predicted the arrival of the dwarves, and the location of the southern holdfast revealed at last. Nor could anyone have predicted Kha'esh's demands to see a union formed. I let the canyon feeling a bit of lightness for a change. The idea that things might turn out to be alright for once.

Toss the ash. It will not last.

Another arrow in my quiver. Points to Amelie for noticing it. And yet more reason to be wary of her-- too canny by far.

The al-Almadel trial was the first since my return that I got to sit as State Counsel and feel the old rush again. The heady high of opening statements and surprise witnesses, dampened somewhat by a clearly hostile Magistrate. In the end, I have to give credit where credit's due. Skarn was right. Daoud was right. Had I acted on my fears and suspicions before, it would have been premature, and the cost would have been high. We're in a better position now, but the stakes are even higher. An arrow's only valuable as long as you're holding a bow to fire it with.

Surprised myself in the interrogation room. The elf's words weren't all wrong-- the Asterabadian ideal is dead, and the wrong shall right. If we reach the place I detailed in court, where elections are decided before they begin purely by the clink of dinars, then it won't be long before law becomes one more tool for the corrupt to wield as they see fit. I feel pity that the man grew disillusioned in record time, but not that he was put up on the chopping block for it.

If I had my way, he wouldn't be the only Candidate put on trial. But as I continue to say to damn near everyone I meet...I'm making the best of a bad hand.

The arrival of Kha'esh, given how hot the Wroth's eyes are on my back, will doubtless coincide with the end of the election. Good times ahead.

She thinks of them as her children-- that's why she's willing to run again and again. Because she really cares about them. She can't help it.

There was a time I could say my own sentiments echoed Sephidra's with all sincerity-- I'm sure of it. Now...I do think of them as children, but not as a mother might, nor with the Mother's grace. Instead, they're unruly privileged feckless brats, to be intimidated, pressured and pressed back into line, with the occasional clout across the face now and then. The Bey made that clear enough from the moment I took on these colors; that I would be keeping the Sultan's peace. That I would be defending them, sometimes in spite of themselves. That I would on more than one occasion, and more often than not of late, be the only voice of reason in the room and rarely heeded. I accepted that. I rose in spite of that.

But now...I'm tired of it.

I played the good soldier with the Legates as I did with the envoy. Sat there and took it while these smiling fucks in their Gold togas took their clumsy grabs in the dark at what I'm up to. I prayed to the Sabotage to keep from laughing, and prayed to the Wroth to keep from grinding my teeth to powder. Everyone voted for these idiots, whose first move was to bring in still more idiots to suckle from the teat of the State. Qari the slavish. Greenbranch the drone. A lunatic elf shrieking about apes and orbs with Bashir's old title. The Depths opened up under the oversight of a goblin motivated only by spite and the clinking of dinar.

They'll vote for them again because this war still isn't real to them, and they can't see beyond their own slavering needs. Nothing will improve, and the right will wrong. Are any of them worth saving?

Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I still can't help but care. No walking away, not this time. The work remains, and it will get done. But I think I've seen enough that I can stop making the attempt at civility. If we're all in this together, then by the Wheel, they're going to feel it.

Do what was necessary to achieve a union of the states, because we cannot resist Iakmes alone. That is what we were told, and it determined much of the decision-making that came after it. But after meeting with Yataghan face to face... is there regret? No. It's unlikely that we would have had this level of insight into their motivations if we had turned them down at Kardesler, and forewarned is forearmed. Is there shame? Wroth watches-- yes. I never imagined I could feel this level of contempt for the people I've been charged with protecting, people whose fates have been entrusted to me, however begrudgingly they may give it.

How could they be so blind to his motives? Why did they choose to stay silent when speaking out actually mattered?

The Bey charged me with being the only voice of reason in rooms he wasn't in. Gods know I've tried to do that. I was ready for the impotence, the frustration, of being shouted down, outmaneuvered, outnumbered by those all too happy to pursue their own destruction. I wasn't ready for how tiring it is. I am tired of what they choose to accept, and being forced to accept them. So many compromises and half-measures when the correct path to take sits before them.

Denounce them. Denounce him. And prepare for the consequences of that.

Enough. Take my own advice.

[Shaky script, terse message.]


Hubris.

Everything hurts.

To endure is to break.

Blood will have blood.

Three days.

One more day.

The Wroth watches. Blood will have blood.

Toss the ash.

Strange thing to see your name in the paper. Stranger still to consider how much my tactics have changed since that conversation with him. Yataghan.

I never had an issue with his strategy, I realize now. I had an issue with the fact that it worked to the benefit of Kha'esh, while leaving Ephia to rot. In essence, that it only benefited them. But if the battle at the ruins had gone down like I had initially planned it, with that main column as the distraction for the Kan'zuzu group...I imagine the Great Serdar would have been pleased with the results. What does that say about me?

And what will I do when I come face to face with him again?

Samton is dead. The Wroth will have His due, but I wonder where His ire would turn? At Zthae'ikos? Iakmes? Rosseau? Saenus?

Me?

We have our victory, and no victory comes without a cost. I believed I was willing to pay it. I have paid, time and again, despite this...powerlessness. A shiny title and extra duties and responsibilities, with none of the authority to act on it, to do what needs to be done. What's the point of it? Why am I fighting so hard to save this place, if everyone I care about is lost in the process?

I hate these people. The ones who believe they can speak for me, that they can move me on their board like another pawn. I hate this system of politics that saps at our judicial system by the day, the constant back and forth of warring wills, promises broken the moment one looks away. I hate our politicians who lack the guts to stand behind an unpopular decision. How much longer do I have to put up with this? Why am I putting up with this?

Samton died believing I had all the answers. Loyal to a fault. He believed in me, and now...

What the fuck was it even for? Any of it?

What would Sam have done?

He would have quit, likely. Tried to once before, and this is a much more serious matter than a dead Nadiri.

So many words wasted, only for the man to turn around and leave the moment he gets a glimpse of...what? Reality? Negotiations between the Accord? Choosing between one ally over the other because...why, exactly?

Idiots. Idiots. Idiots!

And fucking snakes.

I'm sure he's going to run off and become a Balladeer. Drink deeply. Fuck off to the west and die in a ditch for women and children. It's all so pointless. 

Gods damn you, Sam. Why did you have to die?

It's done. In more ways than one.

Left the League of Purple. Inevitable really-- I should never have returned in the first place. Too many people who can't do what needs to be done because their hands are tied. And I'm chief among them. I remember watching Marcellus, eating as we discussed who would live and who would die. Praying for the choice to be taken out of his hands and into another's. Buoyed this way and that by the pleas of those who hate him. I watched him and wondered how many people died at the Gap, caught in the riptide of his reckless charges.

I hated him, in that moment. If he had chosen Got Valdhazr, I'm not sure what I would have done. What I would have said.

It doesn't matter, now. The Prince's curse is more terrible than any fate I could wish-- on any man. The only reason I was spared is because I still remember the words of Luskavi. I toss the ash, I hurl the evil. Irony. I deserve it just as much as Argyris and Saenus. Worse, because I may as well have set the Banda Rossa on him. The Wroth will have its due, eventually.

If the Well survives what is to come, then it will have made all of this worth the trade. And mizzar...just a bit, now and then...will help me to bear the rest.

I thought I had evaded the curse of the Prince, but it sure doesn't feel that way.

Barely got an hour of sleep the night before, because all I could see, over and over, was my death. Came differently every time. At first I was overwhelmed, alone and surrounded by enemies-- like back in the Fort-- only this time, Hosan wasn't around to serve as the anvil. Spears pierce my side, and I'm pressed beneath the weight of their bronze. Then I was pulverized by a stray shell; carried off its mark by the wind and Misfortune's Eye. My shield splinters beneath a rain of arrows. My blade snaps off at the hilt, and I'm left without steel in my hand as the chargers bear down on me. On and on.

I didn't die when the moment came, though. Not me. I was lucky. The men under my command weren't. Our march south was met by an ambush-- Orc rising from the Ash like they were of the Red. Not dead yet. Scarab, Soldier, Recluta. Butchered, yanked off their feet by Orc riders, cut down in a stroke. I don't know how I didn't join them. In the end, the dream was more prophetic than I realized. I was knocked unconscious, overlooked among the fallen. And by the time I awoke and had made my way to the war camp-- feverish, half-sick with dread and doom-- the battle was over.

We had won, but it didn't feel like victory. More death. Daoud, gone to join Samton on the other side. Grimes, with a eulogy he would pass on to me. Kind words to speak for those who should hate me, rightfully. There's not enough ash in the desert to toss and make this right.

There is some scorch in the evidence locker, though.

The dirt brings me up, keeps me moving, focused. The mizzar brings me down, soothes the stresses and pains away. But there's nothing quite like the rush of a trial, the charge of a guilty verdict, the certainty of knowing that the Wroth will get Hris due, with a little assistance from the Fourth Legion. What burns is knowing how easily things could have gone the other way-- the Al-Almadel trial all over again, with no other recourse available than the most obvious one. Suppose that speaks to how dire this has gotten that the thought crossed my mind.

Borrow the Recluta-- the voiceless Recluta's-- defense. 'Started hollering about the Wyrm, went for his blade and the rest is what it is.' Blood will have blood. Cut a corrupt system out of the picture quite literally and handle the problem myself.

Samton, Joachim...they would have backed it. Reyer as well, if he had been around. But Daoud would have hated it. 'The law is meant to be impartial, boring, clinical in its application to the masses.' I'm paraphrasing, friend, but the gist is clear enough. I remember agreeing with it at the time...if reluctantly. Because that was then, and this is now. No fucking Orcs to be found. Penned in here with these idiots and their trivial complaints and this, this one thing I can do...Nearly taken away from me by now. Argyris and his pack of idiot Magistrates would have taken it away if they could. They think they understand what I'm after, but they're wrong.

This process has to be done right. I don't want bodies. I don't want scapegoats. I want...

To forget, for a time. This helps. Wroth take them if they get in the way of that.

Scorch sits in the bottom drawer of my desk under lock and key like a bomb. Haven't tried it yet. How close could I get to what I want?

There's orc out there, they say. But I haven't seen any. Not a fight to be found on the road, despite getting enough magic to face down a clan or two. Suppose I took their proximity for granted. Felt like they'd be here forever. But instead there's just...an absence. Nagging. Wrong. Persistent.

Got Valdhazr was no better than the Rampart. I may have dodged Zosmere's curse, but I could feel their enmity-- he and all of his people. We betrayed our oaths and live on while they were put to death or dishonor, and that kind of grudge born by so many takes on a will of its own. I can believe that. I can respect that. But-- no fight there.

I opened the drawer when we returned. A moment of hesitation, but it turned out to be for nothing. The Scorch seemed to fight its way into my body, an entirely unpleasant burning sensation that was enough to drive off the dark thoughts. I let it drive me out into the sands, too. Solo patrol around the walls. Not much better pickings out there-- a goblin here, a kobold there. Crumpled underneath the weight of my camel. Low pleasure in that. But not enough.

Where the fuck are they? And why won't they come out and fight?

Spent some time doing something I hadn't done in ages. Organizing. Getting my potions in order, wands, tricks and traps and all the other rattling camelshit in my bag. Took a bit of time but not enough, so I went to the barracks, checked the chests. Off-loaded a dagger I no longer needed. Went to the officer's lounge next. Among the stashed weapons and armor was a book-- Manual of Deduction, 5th Edition by Shukri. Inside was a bookmark; note from Daoud. Not addressed to me, but to the next Sergeant(s). A few personal tips from one man to the next.

All very Daoud suggestions. Remain objective. Take measurements. Document, document, document.

I replaced the book. Left the room. Returned to my office. Listened to Reyer's briefing on Phor and the dwarven survivor of Got Valdhazr, trying to stay in the moment. Present. Listening. But there was a dagger in my heart and the only way to ignore it for a little while longer was another shot, after they left. Still got it under control. Not so bad, really. One left.

Harder to get up these days. Harder still without wanting to reach for the desk drawer. There's a voice in the back of my mind that knows exactly why that is, and what's to blame. Thankfully, it's still very easy to ignore.

I roam through town like a bad itch. I wander the wastes atop Whisper, blade ready, eyes narrowed, looking for trouble-- or inviting it to find me. Rarely-- perhaps because I toss the ash-- do I get what I want. Something, perhaps the influence of that voice again, decides that it's better to do this solo. If I'm going to catch a beating or worse, then it's better that there's no collateral damage. Be an asshole if you like, but at least don't be a selfish asshole.

The Garrison was quiet last night, but we had a couple of new Scarabs who were idle. Decided to go on a troll-hunt, see how they handled themselves. And these days it feels like battle is the only way to pull out of this stupor, pierce the malaise. Trolls made for big ugly targets, every movement obvious and telegraphed. Arm was sore from all the stabbing, but I welcomed the discomfort. It was easier to focus on that than the feelings being called a war-hero from one of our group stirred up in me. Reminded me of a dead man's gift that I hadn't asked for.

"What do you want, Lieutenant?" The Magistrate had asked. A stiff drink. A shot of Scorch. To change the past. Corrupt men out of power and the approval of martyrs beyond my reach. The world to make sense again.

Nothing he can give me. Or any man.

The Scarab was delivered to the threshold of the Garrison. I couldn't see his face, but I could smell him-- enough to know that his insides were outside, and had likely been scattered every which way in the Gutters; found a new home in one thousand worms. The cycle of life begun anew. I couldn't see his face, and I couldn't recall his name. He was everyone-- Sam, Daoud, Joachim, Cosine, Kroggnought, Zaniah, Zakar, Volandis, Syter. He was no one. Toss the Ash.

It was djinn that did it, I learned later. Roving packs of them released underground, beaten back by Janissaries and caravaneers back to whatever void they come from. The Scarab-- Soldier, now-- had gone without back-up and found himself overwhelmed. No one took credit for the attack, and no clear lead on who called them forth. Just a body in a public plot in the Maq'bara, a footnote in a Twindari journal. And mine, I suppose, because I'm the responsible one according to the Bey.

Someone was responsible for this. Just a matter of finding them, and holding them to it. Good as Scorch might be, it doesn't compare to a good trial...

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








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

It would be so easy.

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

It's not your judgment I fear.

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

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

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

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

I will suffer some misery for a better tomorrow.

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

The best we can do.

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

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

And there is nothing I can do.

There is nothing I can do.

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

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

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

I should speak with the record-keeper...

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

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

The viper or the adder.

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

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

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

Months of work reduced to ash in a single announcement. And there's no way to make things right. No path forward on the road I'm on.

What was it even for? What the fuck am I doing with my life?

And how the fuck am I supposed to move forward from this?

I could feel their eyes on me when he said it-- our newest arrival, fresh from the academy at Baz'eel. Vahd al-Madani, whose father bought him a Lieutenant's rank in the Fourth Legion. I'll admit it surprised me. I felt a similar surprise when I met Seriyah for the first time. The realization that for an Ashfolk to come here, to Ephia's Well and to do this-

In her case, to throw away her family and friends to minister to the poor with Sibylline Sisterhood. The desperation in that act, because there is absolutely no need to throw your lot in with those two-faced harpies to do what you claim to.

In his case, the low regard of his father-- because as Nock pointed out-- there are easier postings for a promising young man embarking on his military career. More prestigious postings. It took me all of one drink to peg al-Madani as fit for the Second Legion. He could be riding his beautiful Ava down the streets of Baz'eel before returning to an office abound with cushions and perfume, with better vintages on hand than Baz'eel Blue.

Instead, he's here. War's on, but he'll find no glory on the field, and he'd have to work to make it off, especially with Rousseau still clinging to her seat. All of his learning and knowledge are theoretical, and better suited for Baz'eel than this satrapy in any case. Perhaps I'm being too hasty, and al-Madani was sent here by his father to toughen him up, shape him into something else. I know too little about him and fatherhood in general to speak to that-- all I know is that I have very little patience or room for officers to 'find themselves' in the process of fulfilling their commission.

I'll have to speak with Nock and Nor later. Make sure everyone's on the same page.

I'll take no pleasure in watching the man's face change when he realizes the reality of his situation. We're not the Second Legion, and he's going to have plenty on his plate to keep him busy. I just hope he can handle it.

Some days it feels like I've aged a thousand years, and then I turn around and realize we've got a new crop of Soldiers, green as a reed and hungry to leave their mark on the world. That's enough to roll time backward for a while, to make me recall what drew me to the work in the first place. Never had a natural inclination towards it. No experience soldiering or keeping the peace. I just assumed that hunting criminals wasn't too far off from hunting beasts, once you learned to recognize the signs, to follow their tracks. Once that became a certainty, I was hooked.

Like an animal, though, I can smell my time coming on the wind. Perhaps it's some lingering effect from touching the false Dakhwar all those months ago, or the whisper of the M-- bouncing around my mind, or the eye of the Wroth. I don't know if the work ends at Bet Nappahi, fighting on the front lines in a war I never asked for or in Baz'eel as I fade into obscurity. But it will end. I don't care for the idea of legacy, and I've put aside thoughts of finding some...successor. Grimes killed that notion as thoroughly as a bolt to the skull.

I could work myself into the grave, to my very last day, and be happy to do it. But should I be? Isn't there supposed to be more to life than the job? Daoud thought so. Encouraged it. I never gave it an honest attempt at figuring out that particular mystery. When the war ends, if I'm still around for what comes after, maybe it's worth the attempt.

I didn't know Grenth well, or personally. But I did make him a promise, in the darkened cellroom. Same promise I owe anyone who ostensibly dies under our protection; the same owed to the Wroth--that I would find him answers, that blood would have blood. And for the last week, the men worked hard to do just that. Barely needed any direction, which should be a blessing. But despite all the noise over the bellows...I'm not satisfied. The blade may have been buried, but its wielder is still at large.

Perhaps that's what drove me to answer Doomed-Oath's call. Grenth didn't have much on him that should have gone to his next of kin, but he did bear that message. Rose the hairs on the back of my neck to read it. Doomed-Oath understood the significance of it as well. We spoke, and for a change of pace, I shared without thought of where the information might go to, or the dangers in revealing it. And he and his did in turn, which was...unexpected. Made me realize that there's something of a pattern with me when it comes to meaningful relationships. Mine are always contentious. I can think of very few I can call friend who I also haven't suspected of treachery, or asked uncomfortable questions, or nearly driven out of my life entirely.

Didn't leave the Tablet feeling better, or worse. What I felt was a kind of...persistent awareness, somehow. The Wroth's eyes staring at the back of my head. There was something I was missing, something important. Damned if I knew what, but the feeling itself was familiar. Diakos in a coma on the brink of death in the Temple of B'aara. The Tonsured, speaking cryptic truths that no one else could hear. Going on patrol with a Soldier around the Well, and finding snakes, eating their own tail, at every wall-- dead in the sands.

Trying to fit together a puzzle the size of the Divan's map-room with one hand. Just because it can be done alone, doesn't mean that it needs to. Made the realization, the thundercrack of what might be hit that much harder. I've come close to opening up that drawer again, but scorch can't match that feeling. I live for it. I think the soldiers might be coming to realize that, too.

Opened the drawer for the first time in a while. Dirt this time, a chunk big enough to blot out the bile in the back of my throat that I have Aubrey to thank for. And him, I suppose-- the Secretary. Only they're not really to blame here. It's the whole fucking situation, the one in front of me and the one to come, just a little further down the road. The dirt helped for a little while. Pushed those thoughts out of my head, so I could just sit in the darkness of my office and...exist. Threw the chit in the drawer and didn't pull it out until I was out of the hole they put me in. Small favor that I didn't get any other visitors in the interim. Wouldn't do to have the rookies see me like that if I can help it.

Talked a lot about why I don't get to take the easy path. Even talked myself into believing it, and why. But it's hard fucking work, this job, and there's too few hands to lend to my own. None of them can look past their own wants for titles and dinari and approval to focus on what needs to be done to keep this place running. None of them are willing to make the hard decisions without someone to blame for it if something goes wrong. Cowards and dogs and self-righteous head-up-their-ass harpies who have the dubious fortune of continuing to draw breath.

I tell myself that I'll hang it up and trot out to Baz'eel before I become as bitter as Boudanne, haunting the halls of this Garrison with only my muttering to give people warning. Part of me wonders if that time's already come. It whispers that I'm being arrogant to believe that the work won't continue in my absence, that the people under my command won't carry on when given the lead. The dirt did a fair job of deafening it. Scorch would be even better. But what would absolutely take the proverbial cake would be finding Grenth's killer; the hand behind Vladimiros' contract. And the chances of that grow slimmer by the hour, thanks to the donkeys in the Krak.

Need to get out of my head. Get some distance, talk things through with the men. Might help with this. I'll take might over another trip into the locker.

Hard to believe there was some blissful period of time where I could safely ignore who was running for Legate, because even if they were never going to do anything of use to the Fourth, at least they wouldn't get in the way either in their submission to the Rose. Not the case anymore. The Bey once charged me with the enviable role of being the only man in a room full of dreamers and schemers to speak sense. These days I feel like I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, and no one's listening. Wait. Watch. Be still. Not yet. Don't act until we're ready to move.

Not heeding that is what got Syter killed, and started Diakos running. I've been bitten. I remember the lesson. But I can't change my nature. I'm going to get stung again. And fool that I am, I'm going to meet it with my eyes open and blood on my teeth. 

I'm too close to this. I can recognize that. That's growth.

But that doesn't mean I'm wrong. And that's just me.

Someday I won't have to hear the phrase "when the war is over", and my life will dramatically improve. Unless, of course, I'm buried six feet under. Not sure I warrant the Ashfolk treatment. Not sure I'd like it.

Nor's been absent for a while, and I know who's to blame for it. Fucking Teg.

This isn't even something I can properly blame myself for. Never liked the man, but at least I have the good sense not to show it, not to speak of it freely, because it serves no one and can only provoke dissension among the ranks. Feels all the more pointed after hearing about what Aubrey's going through. But I can't help but wonder how things might have gone if I had gone after Teg for how he treated Rhuk. The man's always had to fight the feeling of not being appreciated enough for what he's done for this Legion. Would it have been wise to give him that validation while simultaneously turning the grunts against another officer?

No, not wise. A better friend might have done it, but a good officer wouldn't.

Not sure what's going to get him out of his funk, or if anything will. Time or the end of the war, whichever comes first. I don't have the luxury of withdrawing, and thankfully there's plenty to keep me busy. Good crop of Soldiers, but they're still prone to doing Soldier shit. Starting fights, verbal or otherwise, that they shouldn't. Pursuing cases without thought of the consequences. Makes me nostalgic of my own days as a grunt, but I wouldn't trade places if I had the chance. If they all come out of the other side of this conflict alive, then the Legion might be in a good place for a while.

Going to burn that letter tonight, I think. Step out from under that particular shadow. Been long enough.

'Toil in recording horrible truth.'

I can't put this one to parchment, though. I'd gotten used to giving the men work, carrying out that work, but it's all so small in comparison. Petty crimes committed by pettier people with no real inkling of how they can cover it up, versus these fucking

Marishyen

Who calls those bastards to task? Who pulls the puppeteer out from behind the curtain and demands compensation for the shit they've been sold? How do you put a ghost on trial?



The work. The work is absolutely going to get me killed. But that's the work. And it's going to get done.

If.

Going to put that word on my tombstone. Feels like an accurate summary of my life, my career, up to this point. How many things would change for the better if I had acted on a hunch, and how many things would be worse? If I had rolled right instead of left with Ramcrest, would I still be around to scribble pointless speculation in this godsforsaken book?

Arslan. Hard to believe that what I'd been angling for all this time took place-- at great cost and loss of life, but the next conflict's opening shot was fired, and for a change Ephia's Well wasn't caught on the back foot. It didn't go as I would've liked, or as expected, but then, plans rarely do. For so long, I had been worried about trying to mitigate the Banda Rossa's role in what was to come there. Never would've expected both Legates to go for it-- one, sure. But both of them? Toss the fucking ash. I wonder what Saenus would've made of this if he was still alive. Properly alive, instead of the state he's existing in now.

Rectifying that's got to be next on my list. I owe him that much. Even if it kills me. At least I'd be leaving the Legion behind in good hands.

I'd beg the Wheel and all of the Gods on it to keep me from attending any more Janissary funerals, but it would be hypocritical, wouldn't it? After all, taking Arslan's kicked off another war-- sure as shit falls out of a camel. All three of the lives that we lost there are on me. Izamail's message-- 'the scales shall righten.'

How's my life going to pay for all the lives given, or lost, on my account? I don't see how they ever could. All I can do is hope that it was worth something beneficial. That it keeps this Well moving forward.

I can feel Him. Ever since Arslan, and the Scald. Betrayal's a mortal sin, and I can feel His eyes on the back of my neck like the rays of Pra'raj. Hot. About as hot as the sands outside of Arslan, lying half-dead or half-filled with arrows, hard to tell which in all of the pain and delirium.

I can feel her eyes, too. Just as heavy, but something to be carried rather than burdened with. I never went in for all of that hero worship and cheap flattery that Warmaster attracted. Holding a title or wearing a medal didn't make me a hero or anything so ridiculous as that. That title was reserved for the dead. But the way she looks at me almost makes me feel as if I deserve it.

And I don't. Couldn't be further from the truth. Truth's the oldest, sharpest blade-- always manages to slice through all the camelshit we wrap ourselves in. Luther's trial may have went as expected, because the case was solid and securely built. Ilphudel's the real deal, and if she comes out of this war alive, I can safely leave future prosecution in her hands-- but the vendetta against the man would've made Daoud sick. Impossible to find an unbiased Magistrate in this citadel, but we should at least maintain the illusion of it. Only thing that keeps it palatable at all was that the man was a murderer. That, and the rest of the men had no issue with it.

Wonder what she'd think of me if she was aware of half the shit going on behind the scenes. Would that faith falter, fizzle away like burnt parchment in a strong wind? Or would she understand the necessity of the choices made in the face of a broken system?

And why do I find that I care what she thinks?

Do not open unless In the event of my death I lose this last gamble the Wroth gets His due

Nock

QuoteThere's a saying related to the Eighth Spoke that a friend-- the man who converted me, in fact-- shared with me a while back. No one's capable of hurting you as deeply as a friend can.

For a long time I took that the wrong way. I avoided close friendships, complications, entanglements and poured myself into the work, because Wheel knows there was enough of it. In my early days we had more than a few leaks, more than a few reasons to look at the man standing next to you with suspicion rather than trust. But it turned out it wasn't betrayal I needed to worry about. Not conscious betrayal, that is. The few friends I did have, when this war claimed them, and I wasn't able to speak with them one more time, one last time...

That was a wound, one like no other. Sent me down a dark road, and forced me towards a crutch I'd rather not go back to. And of the Legion entire, I know you can relate to that most keenly. You've been where I've been. For the longest time, I couldn't understand why Daoud did what he did, riding into battle at Arslan, where the fighting was fiercest. I understood on a basic level, one with all the old words attached-- duty, responsibility, honor.

Finding his note in the officer's lounge helped. It wasn't intended for me, but it was...enough to pull myself back from. To remember what was important.

That's what I want this letter to be for you, in the event you come out of this alive and I don't (toss the Ash.) There's going to be that temptation again. The bottle. It's going to feel irresistible. But this is my last order: find something to keep living for, whether it's inside the Garrison or not. The Banafsi boys would want that. Ashworth would want that. So would the rest of us.

And whatever comes next, I know you can handle it.

Colmes

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Gilbracht

QuoteGilbracht,

There was a time– around the time there was mention of a leak around the Garrison, that I wondered if it might be you. You were pretty cozy with Oswick, and you always had a habit of running off solo into the wilds when back-up was available. Not to mention you were a member of the League of Gold. I'd be a fool not to wonder if you were capable of lining your pockets to provide a bit of 'harmless' information here or there when it suited you.

That night we went after Ramcrest– the first time– clinched it for me, though. I was at the man's mercy, and you had already fallen to him once before. It would've been a simple thing to flee again if you were in league with anyone, and make out like a bandit in the process. But you fought like hell. Chased him all the way down into the Creep like a green mastiff. Saved my hide in the process.

I'm sorry I doubted you, Soldier. That's more on me than it is you. I'd warn you against doing the same, but we're so different from each other that I don't think that'll ever be a problem. That might've been part of it, too. You've got this sense of...freedom that I don't think I've felt since putting on this uniform. The first real trial I was a part of ended with me nearly getting my head split open, can you believe that? By one of our own Soldiers, no less.

'Provocation is the friend of death, give it no surface, no purchase. Smothered are the Spiteful, Ground by the Wheel.'

Stay ahead of the Wheel, Gilbracht.

Colmes

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Still a little bit of time to work on these and all the rest. Toss the Ash.