The Tijervyn Chronicles
Chapter Six

story by
Richard Fife

art by
April Herron

Chapter Six: “Dirty Work”

Markus dodged passed one of the urchins preparing for the day and stepped into the dining hall. Cook was at her usual post, ladling out porridge, and the only other adult to be found was Vlad. The scrawny, foreign man was standing by a table with one of his feet propped up on the bench and his bowl of porridge forgotten in front of him. Instead, his attention was completely on the narrow wooden spoon in his hand.

“Morning, Vlad,” Markus said.

Vlad did not look away from the spoon. “Have you ever picked something up that you know what it is, and you know why you picked it up, but for the light of Troena you cannot remember why?”

“Uh, no,” Markus said. “Not really.”

Vlad glanced up. “Oh, good, neither have I. That’d be strange, eh?” He then flopped down onto the bench and started eating.

“Yeah,” Markus said. “Say, do you know where everyone is?”

Vlad paused to pour a bit of clear liquor from a flask into his porridge. “Bryon is out lining up a job for tonight; he should be back soon. Gavrial is running an errand of some sort; he’ll also be back soon. I saw Kira leave a bit ago, but she didn’t say where she was going, but Margot left soon after. I’d imagine they are working the streets. That’s where Gust went. At least, I think that’s what he said. Who really knows with that one?”

“Oh, well, is there anything I should be doing?” Markus chewed his lip a bit. “I mean, should I be out trying to pick some pockets or something?”

From over by her pot, Cook snorted, and Vlad looked Markus over with a critical eye and shook his head. “I think, my friend, that picking the pockets is not for you. But it is not something anyone else really has to do anyway. Our responsibility to The Hole is to be there for the jobs Bryon finds for us. Anything else is, pardon the phrase, pocket change.”

Markus groaned at the joke. “Alright then, so what am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Vlad said. “I don’t really care. Maybe you could read a book?”

“And where, exactly, would I find a book?”

Vlad looked up at him as if he were simple. “The library? There’s one in a cubby off the main room.” He looked back down at his now empty bowl and sighed. “But as for me, I am off. The Baron of Rasputnik is a busy man, you know.”

“I’m sure.”

Markus waved his goodbyes to the other man then went and got a bowl of porridge from Cook. He was starting to wonder if she knew how to make anything besides cabbage stew and porridge, but from the sour look on her face, he figured it would be wise to not ask. After he was done with his breakfast, he went in search of Vlad’s so-called library, which turned out to be a battered bookshelf with a few dozen leather-bound volumes on it.

He was sitting in the main room, reading a series of essays on the right to govern, when Gavrial returned. He looked at the book, grunted in amusement, and then went down the hall to his room. A few minutes later, Bryon entered, bent his head to read the cover of the book, and smiled.

“Ah, one of my favorite volumes,” he said. “Well, old chap, how’re you enjoying it?”

“It’s, um, good,” Markus said.

Bryon laughed. “Dry as last year’s leaves, I know. But I do enjoy the ideas in it. Read it enough times, and you can almost see what the rebels are about.”

Markus closed the book and put it on a nearby table. “You believe in their cause?”

“Not particularly,” Bryon said. “But I do like that they exist. Makes it a more exciting time to be alive. And it puts more work out.”

Gavrial poked his head of his room. “Oh, I thought I heard a drowned rat trying to sound all philosophical and educated. Got us a job, Bryon?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Bryon said. “Stop playing with your guns for a minute and come out here, and I’ll tell you about it.”

Gavrial grunted and lumbered into the main room. “Well, what is it, then?”

“Something we haven’t done in a while,” Bryon said. “Apparently, someone has gone and made someone else decide they need killing.”

Gavrial nodded. “Yeah, has been a while. Who is it?”

“Wait,” Markus said. “You mean assassination?”

“Dirty work,” Bryon said. “But it does pay well.”

“And is a nice change of pace from all the robbing,” Gavrial said.

“Oh.” Markus leaned back looked away from the other two men.

“Is that a problem?” Bryon raised an eyebrow. “I’d hope not, seeing as you killed in your first couple of hours in the city.”

“In self-defense,” Markus said. “Not because someone paid me to. Don’t nobles have their own assassins?”

“It isn’t a noble hiring us,” Bryon said. “I wouldn’t have taken this job if they offered, and they do, sometimes. They like the extra distance a slum band can give. But no, this is just a wealthy industrialist that wants his competition to disappear.”

Markus narrowed his eyes. “These are the paths you say we are forced to, Bryon?”

“If we don’t do it, someone else will,” Gavrial said. “And if we don’t take an occasional dirty job, the other bands will think we’re soft, and next thing we know, it isn’t just the constables we have to worry about hunting us down. The weak don’t last in the slums.”

“It’s a matter of survival, but one that at least pays well,” Bryon said. “So, I ask again, is this a problem? Don’t tell me you haven’t killed men in their sleep before, not with what you’re built to do, revenant.”

“The men I killed were fighting a war,” Markus said.

“So are these industrialists,” Bryon said. “And they all know it. Sabotage, theft, and assassination are common place in Tijervyn, Markus, no different than the war. Is this a problem?”

“But—”

Bryon gave Markus a level stare. “Is this a problem?”

Markus sighed and looked from Gavrial to Bryon. “No.”

“Good,” Bryon said. “Please understand, Markus, I understand your reluctance, but this is life in the slums. You knew it wouldn’t be easy when you wanted to join us. Perhaps you didn’t realize just how hard it is.”

“Perhaps,” Markus said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go for a walk, get some fresh air.”

“By all means,” Bryon said. “Although I’ll warn you, the wind is from the east today, so the air isn’t all that fresh.”

“Fresher than in here.”

Markus stood and left. Outside, the air was thick with the smell of soot, and people walked about their business without sparing him even a glance. He walked around the block, but it did little good to clear his head. Bryon’s words made sense, but it still did not feel right. He came back to the front of The Hole, but he could not bring himself to go inside. Instead, he turned around and walked into the cathedral.

Inside, the long lines of pews were empty save for a single cloaked and hooded figure far off to one side in silent prayer. A priest in a bright blue habit looked up from a desk next to the door and smiled.

“Good morning, child,” the priest said. “Troena’s light shine on you.”

“Morning, Father,” Markus said. “I was curious if I could just sit and think some.”

“Of course, child,” the priest said. “If you need anything, even an ear to listen, let me know. I’m Father Morgan.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Markus went to the far opposite corner of the pews from the cloaked figure and sat in thought. In the war, he had not been expected to actually kill anyone until after he had been reclaimed as a cyborg, and he had admittedly been reluctant to back then. By the end of the war, it was a different story. He looked down at his hands and could almost see bloody stains across his palms. He had but to close his eyes, and he saw the bodies before him. He might not have been made with a gun or blade built into his body like most reclaimed soldiers, but his hand was strong enough to crush the windpipe of a sleeping man quick enough that he did not even wake. His body was weapon enough on its own.

“You carry a heavy load, child, to sit so long in contemplation.”

Markus looked up in shock before he realized how long he had been sitting. The cloaked figure had left without him noticing, and Morgan was standing by the end of the pew.

“These are hardly easy times, Father,” Markus said.

“Talk to me, child,” Morgan said. “What weighs on your soul?”

“Nothing Troena would approve of, Father,” Markus said.

“Child, I am a priest in the slums of one of the largest cities in the world. I am not a constable, and I won’t judge. That whatever bothers you is weighing on you speaks well enough of your conscience.”

Markus took a deep breath. “I’ve been asked to do something that I don’t think is morally right, but I don’t know why. It’s not like anything I haven’t already done in the war, but for some reason, doing it here feels wrong.”

“Then it is wrong,” the priest said. “Oh, I know that look of skepticism, but it is that easy, child. If you think it is wrong, then it probably is.”

“So is everything we think is right just fine?” Markus said.

“Alas, it doesn’t work the other way,” Morgan said. “I know these are hard times, and a person may be able to justify much in the name of what they must do to survive. Is it wrong for a man to steal bread to feed his starving family? That is a question that is a little hard to answer. But, when we are faced with these questions, we must ask ourselves: is this really needed to survive, or am I just telling myself that it is.”

Markus sat up straight and looked the man over. “I’m not that religious a man, Father, but I’m pretty sure the Church says theft is wrong.”

“Oh, it does,” Morgan said. “And isn’t that great and good in a perfect world, where children don’t starve. Here, in the slums, well, I’m here to just do what I can.”

Markus slumped back down. “Oh. Still, my problem is hardly feeding children.”

“But you think you need to do it to survive?”

“I’ve been told that,” Markus said. “I’m not too sure. It makes sense, but it just feels wrong.”

Morgan sighed and gave Markus a soft pat on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to ponder some more, I think. But, if you want to talk some more, I am always available.”

“Thank you, Father.” Markus sighed as Morgan walked away and went back to staring at his hands and seeing blood-stains.

* * *

Kira walked along the street as if she was just any other woman going about her daily chores. She even had a basket in the crook of her arm that had some things she had picked up, so after a fashion, she was running her errands. She just happened to be so in a very particular fashion, and not all of them were errands that anyone else would consider normal.

Ahead of her, a man with blond hair was meandering his way through the nicer sections of the Scent District. He had a small coterie with him, a lean old man, a pretty young woman, and an adolescent boy that carried their purchases. The old man was a minder, and as such seemed to be far more attentive to the surroundings than the others. Because of him, she had to keep quite a distance. She had already seen him foil one pickpocket’s attempt.

The group stopped, and Kira walked a store’s length closer to them before stopping herself. So many amateurs stopped the same moment as their quarry, but she was long past that rookie mistake. With the casualness of any other patron, she slowed and started to look over a display of sample-scents at a perfumery.

The group continued to dally at whatever store it was that had caught the young woman’s attention, and Kira was forced to start pulling the glass rods out of their vials and sample the scents. She had not worn perfume for longer than she could remember, and the scents turned her stomach with the memories they brought back. Yet, some small part of her, perhaps one that had lain buried as long as the days when she had worn perfume, wondered if perhaps she might not grab a small bottle. Surely just so that if, perchance, Bryon ever needed her to pass for a lady. With the right clothes, Markus could probably pass as a lord. She wondered what scent he might like.

Her quarry started moving, and she gave the perfume a sad look, shook her head, and put the glass rod she had been holding back in its stopper. The quarry was two storefront’s ahead when she finally started moving again. She had meant the look to just be part of her act, but there had been something more to it. Her, wear perfume again? Even if Bryon needed it for a job, she doubted she would want to. The most he would likely get from her was a bath. And thinking of Markus? She did not have time for that, not now.

From the look of it, the group was about to stop at a tailor’s shop, so Kira lagged behind, choosing a dressmaker’s window to stare at. Sure enough, the young man turned into the store, but the minder stayed behind and looked around the street. His gaze was casual, that of a man just keeping his bearings, but it lingers on Kira a moment longer than anywhere else. Her breath caught, and he looked back at her with a raised eyebrow. She forced herself to consider the dressmaker’s window a moment longer before shaking her head and moving on. She passed by the tailor on the other side of the street, and she felt the minder’s eyes on her the entire time. That feeling did not leave her until she turned a corner into one of the rare bisecting streets between the wealthy and poor sections of the Scent District.

How had he noticed her? Had she imagined it? No, he had looked right at her and known. Despite her finer clothes that blended into this side of the Scent District, despite her erratic distance and stops, he had known she was following.

“That was strange, eh?”

Kira spun around to see Margot strolling up the street. “What are talking about?”

“That old man figuring you out,” Margot said. “You weren’t exactly being obvious.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kira said. “What are you even doing here? I thought you were working Uptown today.”

“And I seem to recall you rather loudly announcing that you were going to the Warrens. And yet, you went straight to the Garden District and have been so intent on tailing that whelp from Tidor Manor that you didn’t even notice me tailing you. And to be honest, I wasn’t really trying.”

“You have no right to be following me,” Kira said. “I’m part of your band, for Troena’s sake.”

“Usually,” Margot said, “I can’t follow you without you at least having an idea you are being tailed. But you never had a clue. I overheard Gavrial telling Bryon how you were acting strange in Tidor Manor. Was that the whelp you got all teary-eyed over?”

Kira took in a sharp breath. “What do you want, Margot.”

Margot’s eyes went wide with supposed innocence. “Who, me? Want anything? I’m just worried over my sister. We are sisters, aren’t we, Kira? Girls in the slums have to stick together.”

“Then you won’t tell anyone I was here?”

Margot’s eyes narrowed. “Then again, we have to watch out for ourselves, too.”

Kira had to force her hands to not clinch into fists. “It works better when we watch out for each other . . . sister.”

Margot smiled and patted Kira’s cheek. “Yes, of course. We all have secrets, right? This can be ours.” The smile was instantly off her lips. “You owe me, sister.”

Kira nodded, and Margot smiled again and walked away. As she went, she casually brushed against any number of people, and Kira could barely make out the motion of Margot’s hands. To be sure, she patted herself down and found all her possessions in place. Well, everything except her pride. She would have rather had owed Gavrial than Margot. He at least would have tried to just force himself on her. But who could tell what Margot would want.

Kira poked her head back around the corner, and as she suspected, the group she had been following was nowhere to be seen. The day was a waste. No, not just a waste: a loss. She gained nothing but a debt. She shook her head in disgust and started back to The Hole.

* * *

By the time Markus finally left the cathedral, it was nearly dusk. He walked across the empty street, up the steps, and right into Gavrial. Gavrial looked at him in shock for a moment then laughed.

“And here I thought you’d run off on us,” Gavrial said. “I was just coming out to look for you. Get enough air?”

“Plenty,” Markus said. “Is it time to go?”

“Not quite yet,” Gavrial said. “You can go down and get some dinner first, if you’d like.”

“Thanks.”

Gavrial nodded and patted Markus on the shoulder before he turned around and led the way in. “It’s a hard job, Markus, but you’ll get used to it. Everyone does, after the first few brushes with dirty work.”

“As Bryon pointed out, I’ve done this before,” Markus said. “I was just not expecting to do it again, that’s all.”

Gavrial opened the concealed door. “You said you have a grappling hook, right? In your leg?””

“Yes,” Markus said. “It’s just stored there. I attach it to my arm, and I can shoot it out.”

“Good, good,” Gavrial said. “Make sure you can get it fairly quickly. We’ll need it.”

Markus nodded, and when they entered the front room, they went different ways, Gavrial to his room, and Markus to the dining area. Cook gave him a bowl of soup that, for a wonder, was not cabbage. Kira was in there, but her face looked such a thunderhead that he decided to not try and strike up conversation. Her eyes were down, anyway, and it looked like she was staring at her new ring. Bryon’s warning about running the Thieves’ Race came to mind, and he sighed. He would have to find someway to lessen the sting. Not now, though. She would likely just get even angrier with him if he tried now.

He ate his soup quickly and alone, and then went and refilled his tank. When he had been in the army, he had only had to fill the tank once a day, maybe twice if he had to do some especially heavy work. But he had access to better steam back then, boiled from the heat of kilns. As it stood, the small candles he used barely got the water to boiling, much less past it. He was still boiling the water when Gavrial poked his head into the small room.

“Time to go.”

Markus frowned and looked up. “Just let me finish filling up.”

“Make it snappy,” Gavrial said. “I’ll be waiting out front.”

Markus nodded, and Gavrial disappeared. The water was completely boiled into steam, but it still wasn’t nearly as hot as he would have preferred. Well, he could fill up again when they got back. Just for a quick jaunt to some poor sap’s manor and back would not strain him too much.

He transferred the steam into his tank with a narrow hose and blew out the candle. He then pulled the grappling hook out of a compartment in the side of his leg and put it in his coat pocket. He took one more look around the room, as if there was anything for him to forget, then made his way to the street. When he emerged outside, Gavrial was sitting on the steps of the building, looking around.

“Well, I guess I rushed for nothing,” Markus said. “Who’re we waiting on?”

“It’s just us,” Gavrial said. “Too big a crew would make this too obvious. Our target is in The Brass Purses. He apparently has a habit of spending his nights in his office. Quite the driven industrialist, eh? Right near works himself to death.”

Gavrial laughed at his own joke but cut off when he noticed Markus’s grim face.

“Sorry,” Markus said. “I don’t find killing a man for coin funny.”

“Oh well,” Gavrial said. “Long as you don’t find it impossible, I guess that’s all that counts. Come on.”

They left the slums quickly and skirted along the factories until they reached a fairly main road that branched to the north-east. Here, the factories stayed to their right, but practical, blockish buildings dominated their left. It was into these, the Brass Purses, that Gavrial led Markus.

The tall buildings and narrow streets cast a preternatural darkness over the dusk, especially as the gas streetlights had yet to be lit. Regardless, the streets were not quite abandoned. Groups of men walked about, going from one building to another, or seeming to be on their way out of the Brass Purses in general, perhaps on their way home to their families or to a pub for a drink.

Gavrial walked with a practiced casualness that Markus forced himself to adapt. Just like during the race and the job in Dunny Manor, he had a perfectly normal reason to be there. A part of his mind wondered if the strange man with the shockshield would make an appearance. Markus hoped he would. He would not be caught unaware this time.

Before long, Gavrial turned down an alley and stopped just after a turn that hid the street. He sat down on an old, half-rotted crate that groaned under his weight, and Markus looked around in confusion.

“Why are we stopping here?”

“Waiting,” Gavrial said. “Wanted to get in position before people in the streets up here was uncommon, but we’ll have to wait a little bit, until after midnight, to actually move.”

“So much for this being a quick job,” Markus said. “You might be carrying me home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t get to fill my tank up as much as I would have liked,” Markus said. “I thought this was going to be fairly quick, so I figured a partial fill would be fine.”

Gavrial grimaced. “That tank is a right annoying problem, Markus.”

“If I had a way to make hotter steam, it wouldn’t be,” Markus said. “Perhaps we will have to visit your meister friends and see if they can make me something.”

“Risky,” Gavrial said. “Torbit and Jasyn, they could make you something alright, but then they’d ask ten sorts of questions wanting to know why. I doubt you want Tesma’s people knowing about you.”

Markus eased himself down onto another nearby crate. “True, anyway, for now, I guess I’ll conserve what I can.” He reached down to either side of his hips and twisted a set of recessed knobs there. His legs suddenly went numb, but he ignored it and did the same on his arm. The entire time, Gavrial looked at him in confusion.

“What’re you doing?”

“Stopping my legs and arm from using steam while we wait,” Markus said. “Just let me know about ten minutes before you want to move. It takes a bit to warm them back up.”

Gavrial nodded then settled in against the wall. While they waited, he pulled out a chunk of wood and started whittling with a rather large knife. After some time, he looked up at Markus and grunted.

“What’s your problem?”

Markus blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been staring at me like some light-blind fool the entire time.”

Markus shook his head. Had he really been staring? “I just haven’t gotten used to wood being just another thing. There wasn’t much around us in the war, and Adervynians treat it like gold, besides.”

“Why do they do that?”

“There isn’t wood for hundreds of miles around the city,” Markus said. “It’s a steel and stone hell.”

“Imagine that.” Gavrial looked at the half-carved object and put it back in his pocket. “Anyway, turn yourself back on. It’s about that time.”

Markus turned the valves back open, and feeling slowly crept back into his limbs. The hours he had just spent without feeling had reminded him of just how strange it was that he could feel at all. When he had complete feeling back, down to the fine silver tracing over his fingertips, he nodded to Gavrial.

“Good, now get us up to that roof.”

Markus looked up to where Gavrial pointed and smiled. It was not that far, and there was an ideal ledge for the hook to grapple. He pulled his coat off and rolled his sleeve up, then pulled the long cylinder that was the grappling hook and attached it to the top of his forearm. Gavrial watched with a mixture of disgust and fascination. Markus pointed up to the ledge and clinched his fist, and Gavrial flinched back as the grappling hook shot out with only a soft click. A quick pull later, and the hook caught.

“I can’t just leave the rope loose,” Markus said. “Stand on my foot and grab on. I’ll haul us both up. And grab my coat, would you?”

Gavrial grunted and did as Markus instructed, and Markus flexed his hand again and the rope started to wind itself back up. It was slower than Markus was used to, but as he was hauling twice his usual weight, he figured he should be happy the wench was working at all. He did not want to think about how quickly it was probably consuming his steam, though.

Once they were on the roof, Gavrial signaled for silence and led them across several buildings that were interconnected. Before long, he pointed to a door, and Markus picked the lock. There were two more doors inside, but after those, Gavrial started walking calmly, as if he had just returned home.

They were in a long, open clerical office, and at the end, a small half wall hid a corner. Gavrial pointed to that would-be office, and the two of them wound their way pasts desks laden with typewriters and dossiers. Gavrial pulled his strange, meister-built gun out, and poked his head around the edge of the door. He then smiled and walked inside. When Markus followed, it was to see a man asleep at his desk.

The man was younger than Markus had expected, maybe not a year or two older than himself, and he had an almost amicable look about him. He was the kind of man you could see yourself drinking with at the pub. How many sleeping men like this, in their last moments, had he seen?

Gavrial put his lips near Markus’s ear. “Can you kill him without making it too bloody?”

“I can crush his windpipe before he can wake,” Markus said.

“Do it.”

Markus walked around the desk and reached for the man’s neck, but he stopped with his hand hovering a hair’s breadth from flesh. It was just like in the war. This man was in a war no less bloody. Surely he knew the risks of being an industrialist in Tijervyn. Besides, he owned a factory, where men and women from the slums toiled and often died. This was not an innocent man.

He pulled his hand away and shook his head. “No.”

“What do you mean no?” Gavrial caught himself a moment too late, realizing he had spoken near a scream.

The man sat up in shock and looked around, and Gavrial swore and leveled his gun at the man.

The man’s eyes went wide. “Who are—?”

Gavrial fired, and Markus flinched away as blood splattered. A neat, small hole trickled blood out of the middle of the man’s forehead. The man fell limply in his chair, and Gavrial shook his head.

“Dirty work. Come on, someone probably heard that. I doubt he was the only one who worked into the night.” Gavrial had to repeat himself before Markus tore his eyes of the body and followed him.

* * *

Gavrial walked into Bryon’s office and sat down. Ada jumped up onto his lap, and he rubbed behind her ears without really thinking as he waited for Bryon to finish reading from the dossier in front of him. He did not have to wait long.

Bryon put the papers to one side and looked up. “How did it go?”

“I put a bullet between the mark’s eyes,” Gavrial said. “Messier than we wanted, but still the same effect.”

“Not really,” Bryon said. “Our employer wanted the death to be obviously caused by a revenant.”

“Markus froze at the last minute, and the mark woke up.” Gavrial gently picked the cat up and put her on the desk. “I had to improvise. I’m sure you can start rumors to the same effect, anyway.”

“Yes, but that is more work,” Bryon said. “And while our employer no doubt expects that to have already been the means by which I’d accomplish such a feat, I’d hoped to have the easy time of only telling the truth.”

Gavrial grunted and crossed his arms. “What should we do about Markus?”

“Do?” Bryon raised an eyebrow.

“He didn’t have it in him,” Gavrial said. “He’s killed in the night before, but he didn’t have the stomach to do it without some would-be noble cause behind him. I’ve heard about revenants, how that spike changes them. It makes them unreliable, they say.”

“Until they can provide me with proof, I’ll rely on what my own eyes can see,” Bryon said.

“Well, my eyes saw that he was unreliable,” Gavrial said.

“I see that he still has a heart,” Bryon said. “Even if some of it is made of brass. He hasn’t been in this life long. I can forgive him compassion. What about you? You seem to forget that he saved your life.”

“Just because he saved it doesn’t mean he owns it.” Gavrial stood and jabbed a finger at Bryon. “I still don’t fully trust him, and tonight is going to make it harder. I’ll yank that spike out if I even think he’s going to double-cross me.”

Bryon patted his lap, and Ada jumped into it. He then looked up at Gavrial. “I trust your judgment, Gavrial. But please, don’t be hasty. He is new to our way of life, despite his war experience.”

Gavrial jabbed his finger again. “The second I think it.” He turned and left.

* * *

Markus heard Father Morgan sit next to him, but he did not look up. The priest did not speak, and the two of them sat there in the nearly dark nave. After some time, Markus looked up from his hands and to the shadowy icon of Troena that sat on the altar.

“What is a man to do, Father?”

“What he can and what he must,” Morgan said. “So, you did what you wished not to?”

“No,” Markus said. “I didn’t, but it happened anyway.”

“Then you are not to blame, child,” Morgan said. “You do not have control over the actions of others.”

“I could have stopped it,” Markus said. “I was right there. I could have saved that man’s life.”

“You did not take it. Be comforted by that.”

“I did such horrible things in the war.” Markus looked down at his hands again. “But, it did not bother me back then. I was fighting for a cause. What cause is it that I fight for here? What nobility is there in this life?”

Morgan took a deep breath. “You ask questions that have haunted man since Troena made us to walk this world. Sadly, those are answers you must find for yourself, for the answers I have found for myself would probably not suit you.” He patted Markus on the shoulder and stood. “You are always welcome to come and find some peace here, though. Remember that.”

Markus nodded weakly, and Morgan walked away. After he left, another form, a person in a cloak, walked up and sat next to him. Markus glanced at the person, keeping watch for any sudden movements, but all the person did was reach up and lower the hood of the cloak. A woman’s face turned and smiled at him.

“You were in the war?”

Markus furrowed his brow, but nodded.

“I was too,” she said. “I’m a lieutenant with the Fourth Corps. You?”

“I was a sergeant in the Second,” he said.

“Ah, then you fought at the Battle of the Sorden?”

Memories seemed to flash before Markus’s eyes, flashes of fire and blood. “Yes, I was there.”

She looked him over. “You aren’t in the army anymore, though?”

“I took my discharge just after the war ended,” he said. “I guess you could say I just couldn’t stomach it anymore.”

“It is still a heavy burden to carry, these memories we have, and the church only offers so much solace.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Even a church that understands people like us, like Father Morgan’s. Sometimes, though, you need someone who was there, too.”

He looked down at his hands then back at her. “I suppose so.”

“Why don’t we go find a tavern,” she said. “Try and forget those bad memories?”

He shook his head. “Not tonight, but thank you.”

She nodded and stood. “I’m here often. If you ever need to talk, remember me.” She started to leave then hesitated and turned back. “My name’s Megyn.”

“Markus.”

“Remember, Markus,” she said. “You are not alone.”

He watched her leave, glanced down at his hands, then stood. Cook would not be serving dinner for much longer, and despite his mood, he knew he had to eat. And then, after that, sleep, where both old and new nightmares awaited him. As he left the cathedral, he wondered: had he made the right choice? It was yet another question for which he had no answer.