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Reasons, by Light-Child
Tannen, Jean.
Soon to reach mid-twenties.
Gentlemen bastard, student of Don Maranzalla, follower of Aza Guilla, the Lady Most Kind.
Son of a merchant.
Son of a bitch.
Yes, that pretty much sums me up. I’m Jean Tannen, thief, con artist and all that, currently waging war against this fella that found it convenient to mess up the lives of the Gentlemen Bastards. Said fella goes by the name of Grey King, by the way, and it is because of him I find myself sitting on an old sleeping pallet that is rather prone to give out if I am to judge by the creaking sounds it makes.
And sitting is about the only thing I can do right now. If I am to lay down on the strained thing under me, I’ll probably wake up on the floor with a thud. The positive side of the whole affair is that I at least have a blanket, though where it has been before, I do not wish to know. Master Ibelius, or the fucking dog leech as Locke so nicely called him, threw it to me before he vanished to get supplies. As long as it doesn’t come from his research laboratory, I’m not one to complain.
Locke is the occupant of the better pallet in the grime-covered room. It used to be a storage drawer, but Ibelius decided to make better use of it and tipped it over before covering the whole thing with some sheets. Either way, it does suffice as a bed, and more isn’t needed. Draped in more or less clean sheets and with cheap furs as padding, it looks almost out of place in the otherwise not so luxurious room. I’m grateful for the padding; I think he’d bruise his ribcage otherwise, as his own body offers about as much protection as a slip of parchment.
He’s sleeping again, Locke. After limping around in the room, shouting some rather inappropriate things to Master Ibelius and describing me rather colorfully, he is sleeping. Something tells me he doesn’t like to be trapped here and face the limitations of his own body. He never liked it when someone took something from him, always went great lengths to get it back and then some. I don’t think he feels any better about it now that the whole foundation of his life has been ripped from his hands with all brutality you can imagine. So I let him yell and call me those things. Shit luck Jean, but at least he is sleeping now, having worn himself to exhaustion.
That leaves me here alone. I have all time in the world to study the dull walls and the mural painted on the ceiling, carefree men and women having a joyous time and never-ending smiles. I don’t mind. Bet Locke is going to be out for quite some time, and even though I am the one that appreciates the presence of the dog leech, for quite frankly, without him our dear garrista would have been dead, I am grateful to have a break from his half-sarcastic chatter.
The sarcasm part I can understand, however - a doctor’s best defense against the desperate, unrealistic demands of his patients. I doubt it is the best way to deal with someone who enjoys clinging to the illusion of being invincible, but I let that be his business. My job is just to sit here and make sure nothing gets out of hand, Locke’s tantrums a small price to pay for keeping his skin intact.
I pluck out a thread from the moth-eaten sheet in my lap and throw it absently to the floor while rolling my eyes. Only sound that interrupts the silence in the room is Locke’s steady breathing, but that’s all I need to hear. Today’s bread price or the occasional shouts of the Yellow Jackets could interest me less; I closed the window and shut out the light.
He’s got quite a tongue, that one. Sharper than what’s good for him, gift and demise in one, as Chains once put it. Wise man, Chains. Bet we wouldn’t be here if he was still around. Chains was a tactician. Bunch of urchins thrown at his hands, and he worked us like clay, shaping us into well-oiled clockwork, giving each of us a function. Mine was to play shield and sword, or hatchet, to be more precise. Chains took away our prospect and gave us a purpose, determined our course but not the outcome. I wonder if he would have expected this turn of events.
But I don’t think it’s in my place to contemplate over these things. After all, Locke was always meant to lead us because of his incredible ability to create hell and high water and get out of it afterwards. He’s the thinker, I’m just a bruiser for his disposition, like Chains had intended. Though there isn’t much I can do right now, apart from maybe reading and memorizing literature on Physiks. Which probably would be the best thing to do; I doubt it is the last time I’ll find myself in this position. It’s certainly not the first.
I look up and risk leaning backwards until my back presses against the wall, relief in itself. Not going to sleep. I know he won’t like it if I leave him unguarded. It’s a thing I picked up quite fast, as I am probably the only person who can read a man with a thousand faces. Stubborn bastard, he never said anything and never will, but he refuses to relax in Master Ibelius’ presence. Then again, I’m not the one who almost drowned in horse piss after being betrayed by a Bondsmage, so I have nothing I should have said. All I’ll do is being a good tool and watch over him.
Now, I’m not really obligated to that, like I’m not obligated to come running when he whistles just because some old fox taught me to do so. But I do it anyway, servant and friend and bodyguard in one. A good tool indeed.
One might ask ‘why?’ of course. Now that I have nothing better to do than glaring at the faint mural above me, it feels like a good time to try and answer that question. Sooner or later, I’d be confronted with it anyway. There is a life as a free man waving to me from afar, and I sit here and guard a sickly, short tempered and at the moment very miserable and less than pleasant being.
I think it began sometime after Father Chains’ lecture on our abilities and right choices, that night on the temple roof. Locke was on his knees, peering over the edge of the rooftop with a mix of fascination and silent dismay, staring down into endless darkness. Chains’ was exhaling smoke from his paper-wrapped sheaf of Jeremite tobacco and I let my eyes follow the smoke, keeping a healthy distance from the edge of the rooftop. Funny how these moments only seem special in retrospect; at that time I kept recalling a complex mathematical problem I solved earlier that day. Locke was distracted by Chains’ dangling old feet.
I never even liked Locke in the beginning. The rule saying that people are generally far more pleasant before they reach adulthood has never applied to him. In fact, he was the most obnoxious boy my childhood self had ever met. The kind who always tries to lever himself up by pushing others down. Locke never had the fortune of knowing his place, and I don’t think it helped the matters that Father Chains mapped out a path for us that let us unofficially declare ourselves the owners of the world.
No, I didn’t like him at all, as he confirmed all my prejudices on how street urchins from the very bottom of the pit in Camorr acted and looked like. And yet he had the guts to think he was something, only because Father Chains gave him that liberty.
They say a human being goes through several phases in the adaption process. First denial, then acceptance, then accommodation. We were no different; soon Chains could just stand back and admire his handiwork as we cooperated like the finest Verarri machinery. We were still small boats thrown at the mercy of a capricious sea, but we weren’t alone, and we could navigate, turn in the direction we wanted. We could do something, and I suppose such a realization pleases people. Especially if they haven’t wiped the snot away from their noses yet. It brought us all closer and our strengths grew simultaneously, though we suffered the drawbacks of childhood and Father Chains lost more than a few strands of hair trying to cope with our pranks, accidents, and occasional emotional fits.
Then I discovered an unexpected side of Locke. Well, perhaps it shouldn’t have been as unexpected as it was, for I knew since the beginning after all. I was personally the one to rough him up good on my second day in Chains’ care. And in the end, it was still unexpected in a way.
Frailty.
When Tesso and his gang of misfits took us for weaker carcasses to prey on, Locke’s time as supreme leader came to an end. He could set up the most intricate schemes, the most detailed plans, but had nothing in store for a brute like Tesso, who simply needed a good, solid trashing. That’s where his talents faced their limits.
But that didn’t mean Locke would give up. Gods, frailty was one thing, Locke and frailty was another.
And it was such a fucking bad combination.
When I learned that Locke was as good as immune to pain, when I learned that physical punishment would never shut his cocksure mouth, when I learned that he was very well willing to die to reach his goals, I knew my role would be to act as a buffer. I learned to cope, and since then, I guess I
started taking a certain pride in what I did. All the times that we ran through the streets together were still vivid memories, me shielding him with my body as I took down anyone stupid enough to think they could be a match for the Gentlemen Bastards.
Sometimes, Locke saved me the trouble and talked us out of the most incredible situations, and by the time the fools realized that their victims had ridiculed them in the most sophisticated ways, we were miles from their reach. Sometimes, he would stagger, beaten half to death and yet happy as a lark because he was the one to have the last word.
As the years passed, Locke still directed us. He had learned, though it cost old man Chains a few extra wrinkles, the full implications of the word garrista. I think we all secretly admired him for that, but Bug and I had not seen to what lengths he could go before we hauled him up from that cask of horse piss. By then, it was already too late.
Now everything is gone. Everything. I suppose I have no real reason to linger. I suppose seeking revenge on a bastard who has half of the city behind his back is absurd, and technically, Locke is not my leader anymore. I don’t have to put up with his suicidal, one-to-hundred chance for survival schemes. Yet I wouldn’t even think of leaving him; I owe him too much for that.
I lower my head and brush a hand through my hair. Gods Jean, but lying was never quite your thing you know? Here I sit, making up excuses that might sound noble in my head. Excuses of debt, of reason, while in reality, the truth is so simple it’s almost embarrassing.
I won’t leave Locke, because that bastard doesn’t know the meaning of the word hesitation, and someone has to be there to pick up the pieces. It is a tedious and sometimes not too rewarding job, but it gives me a purpose. And I need a purpose more than ever, now that we’re standing on bare ground with coins enough to barely cover our next few meals.
And so I push myself up. It takes some effort; my body is weary and my arms feel rigid and sore, but I stand up and rub my elbow absently. I’ve run out of loitering time, now is the moment to get something useful done. Perhaps get down and pick up some fresh bread, which I’ll later have to shove down Locke’s throat.
He is still sleeping, and I’m grateful for the break. After the chain of recent events, a calm moment, however miserable, is sorely missed. Later though, later I’ll have plenty of following whatever insane plan Locke has conjured. I’ll make sure he recovers. Or I’ll strangle him. Whichever comes first.
But I won’t leave him.
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