Baker and Jones Ch. 12

Chapter Twelve

Hear now, The Six Demands We Make of Bellchester:

We Demand for Workers a Thirty-Hour Work Week

this being for the same pay, or more, as the current weeks.

We Demand for Workers Full Citizenship Without Property,

this enfranchising the entire population, with all rights and duties

therein.

We Demand for Workers a Break-up of All Monopolies,

to be divided into worker-owned industries.

We Demand for Workers a Tax Upon Wealth,

consisting of ninety-percent above one thousand pounds a year, and that

reparations be made for the Kerish Famine.

We Demand for Workers Public Trials for Labor Violators,

and that unions be made a protected class; the violation of whose rights

accruing a punishment of forfeiture of all assets.

We Demand for Workers an END to Collar Servitude

The hammer rings loudly in the early morning as Annette pins the notice to the side of a local bakery. She yawns and nearly strikes her own thumb as she misses the nail, which quickly jolts her awake. She turns around, rubbing her eyes and feeling the cool morning fog nestle up against her rosy cheeks.

"I bet you like that last demand, eh, Red?" Patrick chuckles, his throating voice bouncing to her left.

Annette scowls. "We've talked about this."

Patrick's smile quickly leaves his face, and he looks down at the ground. "Right, sorry."

"Thank you," Annette shakes her head. She yawns again and turns to face the third member of their party. "Marian, how many more do we need to post?"

Marian thumbs through the stack in her arms. "Just a handful left."

Annette nods gratefully. "Thank God." She rolls her shoulders and faces Patrick again, still sulking that his joke had failed. "Patrick, you take the rest."

"Why me?"

"You know why," she insists, pulling the flyers from Marian's arms and pushing them up against his chest. She deposits the hammer and nails into his hands. He frowns, but Annette holds firm. "Just do it, we'll keep watch."

Patrick obeys, though makes it clear he doesn't like it. He shuffles away, grumbling, and after he turns a corner Annette can hear the muffled sound of him hammering up another notice.

"So commanding..." Marian whispers provocatively.

"I can be much more than just commanding," Annette flirts back.

"Oh, I'm aware."

Annette shares a knowing grin with Marian, and for a moment considers picking up her hand to kiss it. She decides not to, figuring they'd already be in enough trouble if they were caught putting up the posters. She smiles to herself and turns away, listening again for the sound of Patrick finishing their task.

She'd known Marian for a little while before the Mallets. They'd run into each other at Eleonore's Gallery a few times... well, more than run into each other. Marian was always so friendly to her, appreciative of the fact that Annette was a welcome difference from the men who usually purchased her services.

Marian had a round face and warm eyes, with high cheekbones that shimmered slightly when the light caught her dark umber skin. She was a little shorter than Annette, a fact she often teased her about, and typically wore her curly hair back in a tight bun. Annette had seen it out of its confinement a few times, and knew it poofed out into a soft and voluptuous afro, which she found cute. Marian didn't like to show it off very often, she already received enough strange glares from those who could tell she was from the colonies, and resented the attention that came with it. Around her neck dangles a tight leather collar.

Annette glances back at Marian, noticing her shivering fiercely. "Are you cold?"

"I'm always cold," she puffs back.

Annette makes to grab her coat, asking, "Would you like to borrow my-,"

"Keep it," Marian dismisses.

"It's really no trouble-,"

"I have deep pockets," Marian smirks, shoving her hands into the sleeves of her dress. She shoots a proud look at Annette, though continues shivering. "My hands will be fine. I can handle it."

Annette smiles back. "I'm quite sure you would stare down an upcoming locomotive and still be convinced of your own fortitude."

Marian shoves her. "Shut it, Red."

"Oho, I'm Red now, am I?"

Marian flashes her teeth and sticks out her tongue, but bumps her hip affectionately into Annette. She stands a little closer, and Annette wishes she could just throw her arms around her to keep the cold at bay. They sit and wait for a while, occasionally hearing the sounds of Patrick's hammer ringing out across the square. Annette notices the morning light slowly illuminate more and more of the area, turning the gray fog whiter, and begins tapping her foot impatiently.

After a moment, she leans her head down to Marian and asks, "Do you think I could-,"

"Really?" Marian scowls.

"I'd have enough time if I ran."

"You're unbelievable. Jarl said 'no.'"

Annette looks away mischievously. "He didn't say 'no.' Not technically."

Marian waves a dismissive hand at her. "You've already made up your mind. I have no idea why you're asking me."

"Are you okay to-"

"Finish up here?" She rolls her eyes. "Yes, obviously."

"You're amazing, thank you," Annette bounces in place.

"You'd better be back to warm me up later," Marian pouts, "I'll be pissed if Jarl kills you for this."

"Have no fear," Annette beams, "I'm sure Joan would leap at the opportunity to fill my vacancy in your bed."

"You know I hate Joan."

"Then I'll be sure not to let Jarl kill me," Annette pips.

She leans down and kisses Marian's cheek, flashing her a final smile before taking off down the nearby alleyway. She'd already mapped out her route in her head as she put up posters all morning, and so she wastes little time dashing across town. It wouldn't be too far, likely only a mile and a half, and a tiny part of her is grateful for the chance to get her blood pumping to push away the frosty morning air.

- - -

Annette stumbles into the meeting only a few minutes late, relieved that it seems she's only really missed the opening introductions and greetings. She hovers against the back wall, shoulder to shoulder with a crowd of about twenty fellow laborers from different fields of work. Across the room she notices Jarl glare at her, his firm brow lowering, but ignores him.

"...Regardless," Failinis is saying, "I thank you all for joining me today."

A burly man with a bald head leans forward and slams a fist onto the table. "Why are we here, Mallet?"

"For the same reason I always invite you..." the Mallet's leader pauses for a minor effect, "...solidarity."

"Ass," the burly man grunts.

A scrawny man with gaunt cheeks and icy blue eyes glares at Failinus and scowls, "You're here to poach more of our union dues."

"You ought to know by now, Charlie," Failinis shakes his head, "I've no interest in your money."

The final woman at the center table snorts. "Just our workers."

A tense pause fills the room, and the surrounding crowd exchange hushed whispers between one another.

Failinis takes a breath and picks up a piece of paper from the table, holding it up to the room. "Have you had a chance to look over our most recent publication? The Six Demands."

The woman perks up once more, frowning and saying, "We weren't consulted."

Charlie nods his head in agreement, his face scrunched up incredulously. "An end to collar service? Have you lost your mind?"

Failinis smiles. "The Mallets are setting forth an agenda for the cause," he tells them, his voice smooth and polished. "They are finally beginning to fear us, fear the power of the Mallets. Now, the time and the context are right to press them for justice. The unions you represent ought to understand the significance of joining together at this moment."

The burly man shoves his chair back, letting a loud scraping noise screech out across the hall. "Now is the time? Now!?"

"Say what you mean, Marcus."

Marcus stands, staring down Failinis like a hound ready to strike. "Where were your Mallets last month when Beckett's men broke the masonry strike, huh? They were nowhere to be found!"

A murmur trickles through the crowd.

"I seem to remember your strike was broken by scab workers shipped in from the colonies," Failinis rebuts.

"We could have blocked them if-,"

"No, you wouldn't have," the woman to his right shakes her head. "Sit down, Marcus. You're making an ass of yourself."

"Thank you, Miss Stonewater," Failinis nods.

"Call me 'Miss' again and I'll kick your teeth in myself," she grunts. "It's Marjorie, please and thank you. And ol' Marjorie still has a bone to pick with you thinking you can set the agenda for us."

"The Six Demands," Failinus smiles, "will reshape society from the ground up."

"And I don't deny it," Marjorie shrugs. "But where's the call to liberate our colonies overseas? Where's the concern for foreign labor?"

Charlie lets out a bark of laughter. "You know the crown would never-,"

"The crown wouldn't end collar service either," she interrupts. "It's a miracle slavery was abolished years ago."

"Collar service is still slavery," Failinis rebuts.

Marjorie raises an eyebrow at him and frowns. "I don't remember the blokes being carted off ships from the colonies having rights or contracts or ends of their terms of service."

"The rights are poorly regulated, and the -,"

"But it's still rights," she asserts. "It's not the same."

From the corner of the room, Jarl crosses his arms and challenges, "Am I hearing correctly that the textiles union endorses collar service, Marjorie?"

"No," she growls. "It's just not the same."

Failinis quickly resets. "May we return to the matter at hand?"

"Yeah," Charlie sits forward and drops his hands onto the table in frustration, "the matter of the Mallets being the leeches they are. Do you know how many of my workers abandoned the mills to join your warpath?"

Jarl speaks up again, his voice cool, calm, and malicious, "Perhaps Mill United requires a more imaginative agenda to keep their enthusiasm."

"Ass."

"The Mallets bring two strengths to the equation: presence and ambition," Failinis declares, tossing an appreciative nod towards Jarl. "The Barons are already beginning to fear us, as are the nobles, and now that we've made our demands we can begin negotiation. Or, more accurately, you can begin negotiation," he gestures to the table of union leaders.

"I don't follow," Marcus sighs.

"Of course you don't, oaf," Charlie sneers.

Failinis continues quickly, capturing the momentum and energy of the crowd and effortlessly channeling the tension of the room onto his words. "The Barons will know that they can either negotiate with your unions or they'll wake up with their collars freed and their throats slit. They can give into your demands now, or face the Mallets later. We are the vanguard that will provide you the leverage you need.

"We'll take their servants, we'll take their workers, we'll seize their factories," he boasts, and the crowd seems to hang upon his every word, "and bring ruin upon them. If by industry they pull themselves up, then by industry we will cast them down!"

There's a brief applause, and the union leaders share a tense exchange of glances between them. One by one they stand, and only Marjorie Stonewater shakes Failinis' hand. They file out of the room, followed by the remainder of the crowd, leaving behind only Failinis, Jarl, and Annette.

Jarl's angry scowl returns, and he storms across the room, stopping just in front of Annette and towering over her. "I told you not to come."

"Technically you only said I wouldn't be welcome," she smirks.

"You're out of line, Red."

"It's fine, Jarl," Failinis rolls his eyes. "Would you give us a moment?"

Jarl furrows his brow for a moment, then shakes his head and leaves the two of them alone.

Annette feels a tremble of excitement and nerves trickle down her back. She'd never been able to speak alone with Failinis before, and despite her curiosity and best efforts, she'd hardly spoken to him at all. He runs his hand through his red beard, and his eyes are a serious and thoughtful shade of deep brown.

"I don't think we've had a true opportunity to meet," his low voice puffs. He extends a hand, which Annette shakes. "I've heard a great deal about you."

"What have you heard?"

He takes a few steps back and plops into one of the empty chairs, kicking his feet up onto the table where his heavy boots slam down onto the wood. "Jarl says you're disrespectful and impulsive. Guy says you're clever and perceptive." He pulls a pipe from his pocket and strikes a match, igniting it. He takes a long draw, then blows the smoke out of his mouth contentedly. "I'm inclined to believe the truth is somewhere amidst both."

Annette smiles and paces away, taking in the room. "That was a tense meeting."

"It's all just posturing, looking tough," he waves a hand dismissively. "What did you think?"

"I suppose I understand their concerns."

"Do you think they're warranted?"

She takes a thoughtful breath. "I think they're scared, and have every right to be."

Failinis nods appreciatively, and takes another long inhale of his pipe. "Jarl tells me your owner, the Deacon, is still alive. He survived his unfortunate fall into the river."

Annette quickly hides her guilt. "Evidently he's a strong swimmer."

"Did you help him?" His brows furrow, but he holds up a hand. "And before you answer, please know that this is a test."

For a moment, Annette considers lying, but decides not to. "... I did."

"Why?"

"I didn't have it in me to kill him," she sighs.

"Even though he was guilty? Tell me about your thought process."

Failinis' voice is calm and measured, with a soft curiosity to it that seems genuine. Annette looks him over for a moment, and says, "The point of all of this isn't to spill blood in the streets. The point is to gain leverage through fear, as you yourself said moments ago..." She takes a breath. "I deduced that assassinating a priest-to-be would have the same effect for leveraging fear as almost assassinating a priest-to-be. In either case, it communicates that no one is safe from judgment."

"Perceptive," Failinis lets out a puff of smoke. "Jarl believed it was due to you being a coward."

Annette snorts. "I was brave enough to tackle him into a river then fight the current to deposit him on the shore."

"I agree," he nods.

Failinis returns to his pipe for a long few breaths, closing his eyes and savoring the scent of tobacco.

"Did I pass your test?" Annette nudges.

"Both of them."

"Both?"

Failinis smiles. "I have an assignment for you. It's no small task, but I believe you may be particularly well suited to undertake it."

"In which way?"

"We are after a man whom we must not kill, though many would surely want to."

"Who?"

Failinis flashes his teeth in a mischievous grin. "Mister Wemberly."

- - -

"Was he pissed?" Marian tilts her head, letting it lay over the side of the mattress.

Annette shakes her head, pulling the boots off of her feet and dropping them down next to the doorway of Marian's room. "Jarl will get over it."

"Not him," she sighs, head hanging upside down now. "Failinis."

"Not at all," Annette shrugs. She stretches, taking a peek out the window before sitting beside Marian. The room is cozy and comfortable, in a small inn built against the side of Elenore's Gallery. It's where most of the collars who worked there lived. "He seemed intrigued."

"Intrigued?" Marian sits up. "By you?"

Annette smirks and cups Marian's chin between her thumb and forefinger. "Are you really one to be surprised by how interesting I am?"

Marian snorts and shuffles away, crawling under the covers and lifting them up towards Annette. "Come off your high horse and get in here. I'm still freezing and it's your fault."

"I offered you my coat," Annette smiles, sliding under the blankets.

Marian tucks her head into Annette's chest, prompting Annette to pull her into a warm embrace. "I wouldn't have been up so early if you hadn't sweet-talked me into it," she mutters.

"I say five words and you swoon," Annette giggles.

Marian blows a raspberry on her tunic. "I don't swoon."

'"Of course, Annette, you know I'll do anything for you,'" Annette mocks, putting on a ridiculous impression of her.

Marian shoves her playfully. "I'd barely be a part-time Mallet if it wasn't for you."

"At least I make it worth your while."

"Oh, do you?"

Annette tilts Marian's chin up and kisses her, laughing a little as she does. Marian easily melts into the familiar taste of Annette's lips, sighing and embracing the flush of warmth. Annette shifts over, slowly climbing on top of her and pushing her into the mattress, knowing that Marian loved the feeling of weight and pressure on top of her. She kisses her for a little while, not feeling much other than the simple enjoyment of a pair of soft lips and a friendly face, and eventually pulls away.

Marian raises her shoulders and drops them, sighing contentedly. Annette was sure that Marian had to deal with a horrendous display of bad kissers and tedious partners at the Gallery, and a little part of her is thrilled to have been trusted enough by the girl that she relaxed into Annette's kisses. Marian was kind enough to let Annette stay here while she was away with the Mallets, and Annette would be lying if she said she didn't enjoy the company as well.

"I almost forgot," Marian tucks an arm under her, opening the bedside cabinet. She pulls back, depositing an envelope into Annette's hands. "This came for you. Maggie at the desk said a pigeon dropped it off."

Annette recognizes the penmanship immediately, and sits up to open it carefully.

"It's from her, isn't it?" Marian asks, and Annette nods excitedly. "What's it say?"

Annette chuckles and turns back to her. "I can only tell you after I've had an uninterrupted opportunity to read it."

Marian smiles and shakes her head, plopping back into the mattress and pulling the covers up. Annette smirks and returns to the parchment at hand.

My Dearest, Annette,

I'm not sure if you're aware, but I am particularly fond of the medium of written correspondence, and I even believe myself to be quite adept at the format. Indeed, it was my appreciation for the format that led me to befriend Harold in the first place, so that I might have a method of subverting the need for postage for my hobby. It does, however, come at the expense of seeds, so one might argue it was all for naught. However, I find that I have lamentably few acquaintances with which to indulge my interest in this hobby; save Martin, who has spectacularly poor penmanship; a school friend, Candice, who writes me only once every eight months, exactly on the dot; a penpal from Tuskova; and now, you. I look forward to discovering what sort of writer you are.

I thought of you on my investigation yesterday; not you, specifically, but rather what you might say. As I hunched over to examine the body of a deceased Stanton Hound, over whose death two local lords were placing fault upon each other, I could almost hear you ask one of them: "Might it provide any comfort of me to suggest that your hound might be able to clarify the source of its demise once you encounter it in Heaven? Do dogs go to your Heaven?" I should clarify: one of the two men, Lord Dobbs, is a painfully religious man; the sort who might soon after take up the preaching circuit as a lay hobby, and whose obnoxious religiosity was annoying me greatly. I did, indeed, make the quip, which he did not find humorous in the slightest, and I couldn't help but wonder if it might have been more comedically successful with your expert delivery. Success for whom? It's difficult to say.