Husk: A Maresman Tale (19 page)

Jeb shook his head. “Nope.”

The sheriff left him then, and slammed the bolts back in place.

Killed by the Maresmen or executed by the good people of Portis. Didn’t seem like much of a choice.

Jeb settled down on the straw and stared up at the cobwebbed ceiling.

That only left him one thing to do: search for that elusive third option, and hope when he found it, it wasn’t the kind he thought about last only because it tended to be worse than the other two.

22

L
ONG MINUTES WENT
by. Jeb’s thoughts darted in and out of a sea of possibilities, each time coming up short, or recoiling from darker depths than should have existed in a man’s mind.

He couldn’t help asking if that was it, the third way: root out the nature his mother had left him and embrace it; use inhuman means to get himself out from between a rock and a hard place. The thrill of power that thought excited was instantly quashed by the fear of what it meant. Was it even possible to unshackle his inheritance, to separate and free it from all that made him human? He shook his head and felt his lip curl up in a wry snarl. That way lay an abyss as foreboding and unknowable as death. His guts lurched at the yawning void swelling up within him, and he wrenched his thoughts in a different direction.

It wasn’t what he expected.

Tubal’s smoldering body thrashed before his mind’s eye, and scolding tears burned tracks down his cheeks. Poor Tubal. Poor, loyal Tubal. Jeb only had himself to blame; he should have seen it coming; should have had his mind on the job, and should have kept it there all along. Instead, what had he done? Let his roving eyes get him on Sweet’s wrong side; obsessed about a woman who now turned out to be his own mother; lost a heap of coin in a card game—his and Dame Consilia’s, and by all accounts, she couldn’t afford to lose it; then, rather than make it up to her, he’d vented his husk blood on her and discarded her like an empty wineskin. Was that really what he wanted to embrace, the nature that had gotten Tubal killed, the nature that could treat a woman like so much meat? Uncle Joe wouldn’t have put up with that kind of behavior from him, and Aunt Mary… He pictured the look of disappointment she’d have given him and retreated down another avenue.

The long minutes grew into hours of silent brooding. The beams of sunlight turned dirty as they inched almost imperceptibly across the room, leaving shadows in their wake.

At some point, a man he’d not seen before brought him a plate of bread and a cup of water. It occurred to him he could have overpowered the man, made a run for it, but by that time, apathy sat upon him like a heavy cloak. When the door clanged shut again, and the bolts were slammed back into place, Jeb mindlessly picked up some stale bread and began to chew on it.

The water tasted of chalk, and he would have spat it out if not for the dryness the bread left in his mouth and throat. He winced as he slugged it down, and forced himself to finish the rest of his meager meal. He was about to settle back on the straw, when he caught the low rumble of voices outside the door.

Eating and drinking must have done more than appease his hunger, he realized, for his heart was suddenly clipping at twice its rate, and his blood was fired with the need to do something.

He rolled to his feet and turned his back to the door, as if he were looking out of the barred window. Maybe he didn’t need to dip more than a toe into his husk nature to get out of this. What he’d already touched upon was enough, surely. He was faster than a man, fluid as a serpent, and he possessed a strength that belied his size. Sword or no sword, he could handle the sheriff, and the man who’d brought him food could hardly be said to present a threat. It wasn’t like he needed to justify the action, either. Authority, he could respect, but not abused authority. And besides, when the Maresmen came, he wanted to meet them on his terms, not Sheriff Tanner’s.

The bolts were thrown back, and Jeb forced himself to relax, let his shoulders sag in a show of defeat.

The door creaked open, and Jeb turned. He expected to see Tanner first, and maybe his deputy or whatever he was, but instead, Marlec slipped through the gap and stood clasping a basket before him. The door closed immediately, and the grate opened and shut just fast enough for whoever was outside to make a quick check.

“I see you’ve already eaten,” Marlec said, with a nod to the crumbs left on the plate. “Maybe you can save this for later.” He angled the basket toward Jeb. “I’m told Tizzy Graybank makes excellent haddock pie, so I’ll be interested to get your opinion on the matter. She also recommended some pickled herring bites. Apparently, they build up your muscles or something. The fisherfolk can’t get enough of them, she says.” He set the basket down a little too close to the row of buckets for Jeb’s liking.

“Marlec…” The name dripped from Jeb’s lips like rancid milk.

“You were expecting someone else?”

“I was hoping for someone to hit.”

Marlec stuck out his chin. “Be my guest. Just be sure to strike both cheeks. I would say vanity insists on symmetry, but in actual fact it’s more of a spiritual thing.”

“What is this?” Jeb said. “We suddenly old friends, having a laugh and a joke?”

“Grim situations call for lightness of heart,” Marlec said. “And your situation is looking extremely grim right now.”

“That what the sheriff says?”

Marlec knitted his brows and steepled his fingers before his lips. “Is it true, Jeb, what he’s saying? That you murdered a man, then went on to kill however many more on Boss’s land?”

“Those aren’t the words I’d have chosen,” Jeb said, “but there’s truth in there somewhere.”

“But why, Jeb? The stygian?”

Jeb drew a finger across his neck. “One down, one to go.”

Marlec’s jaw dropped, and his hands fell away to his sides. “You don’t mean that.”

Jeb gave him a tight smile. “You converted her yet, assuming she hasn’t left town?”

Marlec eyed him for a long moment before answering. “She’s still around, Jeb, though not at the Crawfish.”

“Bet Madam Sadie’s real happy about that.”

Marlec snorted, and suddenly looked awkward in his brown robe, like he wasn’t fit to wear it. It passed in an instant, though, as he imposed a shade of serenity with a pious bow of his head.

“She was a little upset, but mostly on account of the fact she was the one making up the beds and serving breakfast. Maisie—your moth—”

He stopped short when Jeb shot him a look that should’ve burned his eyes out.

“The husk seems unsettled. I ran into her in the square where wagons come and go. It looked like she was thinking of leaving, but after I told her you were—”

“You spoke with her?”

Marlec rolled his head, and a flush crept into his cheeks. His chest rose as he drew in a deep breath. “Said I knew her son, that he was in jail, but she just looked at me with those… those…” He pulled a chain of beads from his robe pocket and kissed the metal cross hanging from one end. “I wanted to say more. So much more, but my tongue got tied, and I—”

“She got to you, didn’t she?” Jeb said. “Like I said she would.” He laughed. “Maybe you need to pray harder.”

Marlec nodded, all the while staring at the cross on his beads. “Maybe I do. Maybe I have.” He re-pocketed the beads and studied Jeb for a moment. “Of course, it could be that I am not the Lord’s instrument in this. Nothing is impossible for Him, but it is becoming clearer by the day that if this husk is going to be saved, it is not by my hand.”

“Oh, really?” Jeb said. “So, let me guess: I’m going to bring her into the fold for you?”

“It’s possible,” Marlec said.

“No, it isn’t. Did she tell you, Marlec, what I almost did? What I wanted to do with her?”

“She didn’t speak, Jeb. Like I told you, I tried to, but… and then she just sneered, like she knew what I was feeling and didn’t think I was man enough.”

Jeb pressed up close to him, looked him right in the eye. “And what exactly were you feeling, Marlec? Don’t deny it, now. Even Wayists have needs, am I right? How do you cope with the welling up of all that tension? Isn’t that why your god gave you hands, Marlec? Go on, be honest with me.”

Marlec pushed roughly past him and went to stare out through the bars. At first, Jeb thought the monk was going to explode, turn round and take a swing at him, but instead, he let out a good-natured laugh. “My abbot told me a story once, before I left the… community.”

“Left?” Jeb said. “Why’d you leave? Is that even allowed?”

Marlec dropped his gaze to his feet. After what seemed an age, he angled a look at Jeb. “It wasn’t by choice.”

“They threw you out? What did you do?”

“Anyway,” Marlec said, ignoring the question, “apparently, the same dilemma faced our forebears. Our Order, indeed, our entire faith stems from Earth, hundreds, if not thousands of years before the first settlers arrived in New Jerusalem. A survey was taken. I imagine it was longwinded and quite sensitive in most respects, but essentially, it boiled down to one thing: How do you, as consecrated brothers, cope with…” He licked his lips and tried again. “Cope with…”

“Go on,” Jeb said. “I get the picture.”

“Well,” Marlec said, “out of the three thousand questioned, two thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight were surprisingly candid.”

“You mean they took matters into their own hands?” Jeb said, barely suppressing a smirk.

“In some cases. Others were… familiar with streetwalkers; still others had secret lovers, and not all were women, either.”

“But two were above such things,” Jeb said. “Is that what you’re saying? Holiness overrode their base nature?”

Marlec went rigid, like a statue. “Paralyzed from the neck down.”

Jeb chuckled. He was starting to warm to the monk.

“Of course, it doesn’t mean to say—” Marlec started.

“Course not,” Jeb said. “But don’t worry, Marlec, your secret’s safe with me.”

“I’m serious,” Marlec said. “At least allow me the fruits of that particular victory.”

“Shriveled up fruits, most likely,” Jeb said. “Ready to drop from the vine.”

Marlec sighed. “I was trying to…” He rolled his hands through the air, searching for the right word.

“Lighten the mood?” Jeb suggested. “Practice your comedy routine? Take my word for it, Marlec, you’re probably not cut out for the tavern circuit.”

“I was trying to connect.”

Jeb pretended to look affronted. “With lewd jokes?”

“Anyway,” Marlec said, “the survey wasn’t reliable, by all accounts. It’s attributed to a certain Friar Otto, who was later discovered to be the Liche Lord of Verusia.”

Jeb raised an eyebrow. He’d heard the name, maybe in a fireside story aimed at scaring kids. The Liche Lord of Verusia… Yes, now he remembered. One of the settlers’ tales Uncle Joe used to tell when Aunt Mary wasn’t around. Nothing more than a floating skull that borrowed bodies from the neck down and had a penchant for impaling.

“Friar Otto, eh? Sounds like they admit anyone to this faith of yours,” Jeb said. “Maybe there’s hope for me yet.” Hope for his mother, too, he thought cynically, on account of her and the Liche Lord sharing the hobby of taking other people’s bodies.

“Otto Blightey was a devil,” Marlec said. “A sadistic, bloodthirsty, lecherous devil. He was found out eventually, but not until he’d caused irreparable damage.”

“Oh?” Jeb said.

“Maybe another time. And speaking of lechery, you’ve been quite the incubus, I hear.”

Jeb cocked an eyebrow.

“The Sea Bed’s abuzz with talk of the sounds coming from your room the other night. Is that sort of thing usual for you, Jeb: using a vulnerable woman and discarding her like trash?”

“Pretty usual.”

“Sin speaks to the sinner, Jebediah,” Marlec said. He pulled out his leather-bound book, thumbed through it and found his place: “Sin speaks to the sinner, in the depths of his heart. There is no fear of—”

Jeb bustled him toward the door and knocked loudly.

Marlec traced the lines on the page with his finger, skipped a few: “He so flatters himself in his mind, that he knows not his guilt.”

“Sheriff!” Jeb called, hammering on the iron.

“Humility,” Marlec said.

“What?”

“The reason they made me leave the abbey. Lack of humility.”

Jeb was about to say it didn’t surprise him none, that maybe it was time Marlec learnt from his mistakes, but the viewing grate rasped open.

“What’s going on in there?” the sheriff growled. His narrowed eyes peered through the slit.

“Nothing, Sheriff,” Marlec said. “I wanted to leave, but then I remembered something.”

Jeb didn’t object. Truth was, the humility story had his interest piqued.

“Any more of your clamoring,” the sheriff said, “and I might just forget you’re in there, you hear me?” With that, he slammed the grate shut.

Marlec exchanged a look with Jeb then said, “What are they planning on doing with you?”

“Nothing I don’t deserve. What is it you Wayists say? A hand for a hand?”

“That is not what we say. They’re going to kill you, in return for those you killed?”

“That’s about it,” Jeb said. “One way or another.”

Marlec wrung his hands and bowed his head. “No one deserves that. It doesn’t matter what they’ve done.”

“I like this religion of yours more and more. So, tell me, what was that humility thing?”

“I mean, it does matter,” Marlec said, “but there’s never an excuse for killing.”

“Now you’ve lost me,” Jeb said.

Marlec looked like he was going to explain, but then his eyes glinted and he changed tack. “I should have said something earlier. She has a message for you. The noisy lady.”

“Dame Consilia?”

Marlec nodded.

“Well?” Jeb could imagine what it was. More often than not, he got letters and gifts for weeks after laying with a woman, thanking him for his attentions and begging for more.

“Something along the lines of ‘Rot in the Abyss’,” Marlec said.

“Oh.” Jeb frowned and then looked him in the eye. “You think I will?”

“On account of your actions?” Marlec shrugged.

“On account of what I am.”