Baker and Jones Ch. 15

Chapter Fifteen

Annette awakes to the sound of water dripping into a little puddle, echoing politely across the cobblestone walls. Just a simple drip... drip... drip...

A different droplet of water falls across her nose, sliding down her face and over her lips before drifting down her chin. She scrunches up her face as it moves, reaching up to brush it away with one of her arms only to find them tied behind her, locked against a metal pipe. She struggles against it for only a moment, before Jarl's voice picks up from across the room. He sits perhaps fifteen feet away, lounging next to a modest fire set in an old metal barrel, leaning over and whittling a small piece of wood. On the ground next to him, easily close enough for him to swoop up with hardly a breath of time, is his revolver.

"My father was a unionist,"Jarl says, his voice low and thoughtful, "he worked at a steel factory all his life. He came to Bellchester with nothing and was given nothing."

Annette gazes around the stone room, seeing little trickles of water through small cracks in the walls and forcing herself to take steady breaths through the cloth gagging her mouth. The air is musty and damp, and if she were to wager a guess, she's somewhere in the sewers underneath the city.

"That factory beat the life out of him daily," Jarl sighs, "you could see it in his eyes, in the way he drank, in the way he yelled at my mother. It was killing him, eating up his soul and replacing it with soot and ash and coal." He takes a long breath, letting his shoulders rise as he does. "So, he figures something must change. He joins a forming union."

His knife makes a long stroke down the wood, smooth and skillful, shaving off a long strip of the grain. "Do you know what the Barons did?" He looks up at Annette, meeting her eyes for the first time and sending a cool shiver down her spine. "It's nothing wretched, have no fear. They moved the workers to a new factory across the river, a nicer one. They even set up a ferry across the river to get to and from work each day."

Annette listens quickly, though behind her back her hands fumble with her bindings. It's rope, thankfully, but it's thick and coarse. Even if she had a knife it would take some time to cut through, and Jarl's tied the knot in such a way that it is out of reach over her hands. She slowly rotates her wrists around the metal pole behind her, hoping to carefully shift the knot closer.

"One day," Jarl continues, "my father is going to work, taking the ferry like he's been doing the last couple weeks. He's involved in the union less and less, partly because some of them are snobs and partly because the new factory is an improvement. He even enjoys the ferry ride, despite the fact it takes longer. He says it's peaceful. Well, on this one day, the engine explodes and takes the ship down. Anyone not killed by the fire drowns in the river. No survivors. A convenient end to an inconvenient union."

He drops the piece of wood onto the ground and twirls the knife around in his hands, letting it dance across his palm effortlessly. He gazes over Annette's form, watching her struggle softly against her restraints. "We're well below the city, in parts of the sewers even the rats don't know about. Scream, fight, it doesn't matter. I have questions, and you're going to answer them."

Annette stares down the fire in his eyes and nods slowly, gulping back her fear and trying to let her mind work out an escape. Jarl stands, moving towards her and removing the gag over her mouth. He pulls his chair closer to her, scooping up the revolver as he does, and plops down into it.

"Who have you talked to about the Mallets?" He tilts his head, glaring at her.

Annette takes a steadying breath, fighting to keep her voice calm. "What sort of talking might I have done?"

"Anything."

"Outside of Mallet's members?" She asks and Jarl nods impatiently. "Cordelia Jones."

"And?"

"I negotiated with Mister Wemberley."

Jarl leans forward. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing that would incriminate anyone but me."

"Liar."

Annette shakes her head, nervously eyeing the revolver between his palms. "It's true. He was only interested in upkeeping collar service. The escapes we staged made his investors wary of his business, and in publicly recapturing me he could steady their fears. That was the deal we made. No information."

If Jarl has further thoughts on that, he remains quiet. He looks away, speaking as he gazes over the stone walls behind her; and somehow, as his eyes leave her form, he feels even more dangerous. "Everything you said about your owner; that she hit you, beat you, was a drunk - all a lie?"

"Recovering alcoholic."

"Chainlaid?"

"Technically," Annette winces. "We do box together for sport now, as well, so I suppose she does hit me-,"

"Shut up," Jarl rolls his eyes. He faces back towards her, raising the pistol and allowing it to ask his next question for him.

Annette shudders and fights her restraints for a moment, only to force herself to calm down and speak instead. She talks quickly, hoping to let her words be her defense. "Cordelia and I were investigating a death!" She exclaims, staring down the barrel. "Henry Rosen. His trail led us to you, so I joined the Mallets to find out why he was willing to die."

He points the gun forward, closer to her. "And you learned what?"

"Died in the 8th Street Factory Fire," Annette gulps. "He set it because he wanted to end the Baron's grip on labor. He was an idealist, ideological. His pseudonym was Maccabbe because he liked the stories of their revolution."

"And your investigation ended?"

"Yes," she nods quickly.

"How much does Cordelia know about our operations?"

"Very little."

"Define 'little.'"

Annette nods quickly, taking another hasty breath. "When I ran away from service I actually ran away. No contact with her until the raid on Wemberley."

Jarl leans back slightly, providing just a little reprieve from the threat of a bullet from his weapon. "I want specifics."

"She knows we freed collars. She knows about Bembrook's death and the fire."

"Did you tell her names?"

Annette grimaces and answers, "Yours, Failinis, Patrick, Guy, and Marian."

"Has she learned any real names?"

Annette shakes her head. "Only Marian, and only because she doesn't use a pseudonym."

Jarl purses his lips to think for a few moments. He stands, returning to the small fire as Annette shivers from both fear and the chill of the damp, dark room. The light flickers as the fire licks the edges of the barrel, and his form casts a large shadow over the wall. She returns to slowly trying to edge the knot closer to her, but with little success.

"So I am to believe," Jarl muses aloud, "that you remained because you were converted to our cause? I believe that's bullshit."

"It's true!"

He frowns at her. "You wish me to believe you spied on us for an owner, then joined because your heart was moved, then left and never came back?"

"You would have killed me had I returned!" Annette scoffs, leaping forward slightly only to feel her bonds hold her back.

"And I would have been right to do it," he mutters.

"I didn't return because you would have killed me, and now I'm a traitor for not coming back to die?" She furrows her brow, once again frustrated by the singularity of Jarl's focus. It was one of his great strengths, that he could compartmentalize and narrow his focus, and simultaneously it was his greatest weakness in Annette's eyes.

"I'm willing to die," he spits back.

"By the Barons."

"Everyday I accept I might die in the struggle to defeat them. What else is there but this?" He glares at her, pouring forth his dedication into his next word. "Nothing."

Annette scowls. "But would you die by friendly fire?"

"If Failinis tells me to jump in front of his revolver, I'll jump. I'll ask him to shoot me twice just to be sure." He shakes his head and steps away from the fire, slowly pacing around the small room. "You don't understand because you aren't consumed by the struggle like the rest of us are. If I fight the Barons, I die. If I live under their rule, I die. You, on the other hand, ran happily back to your oppressor. You're wearing her goddamn ring around your throat!"

"I'm surviving!" She protests. "Do you think I'm in service by choice? It was that or starve, or freeze, or be killed by anyone who wanted the thrill of murder. How is that any different?" Jarl doesn't answer, instead taking to scowling at Annette with a heavy brow. She groans and adds. "And after the raid on Wemberley, it was return or die by your hand!"

"Then you should have died."

"For what purpose?" Annette leans forward again, struggling to rise to her knees. "A vague appeal to honor amongst comrades? What is gained by my death?"

"Justice."

"Vengeance," she rebuts.

"Synonymous in the fight against tyrants."

Annette struggles forward even more. "So you'd do what, exactly? Throw away lives endlessly until the Barons topple under the weight of blood and gore? Until there's no underclass left standing for them to oppress? Shortsighted."

"It is necessary."

There's a brief pause, and Annette feels a bubbling passion and offense in her chest. She hates the black-and-white thinking Jarl always operated with, and the inflexibility of his outlook.

"I didn't betray the Mallet's, Jarl."

He gazes at her for a long time, hardly moving, his eyes locked onto hers. It's impossible to read his expression, locked behind an icy stare and a firm brow. It isn't even as though he is testing the validity of her statements or the truth in her tone, he simply watches.

"Then I have a task for you," he says quietly.

"You're not going to kill me?"

"Would you like me to?"

"What's the task?"

He fiddles with the revolver in his hand, not aiming it, but simply drawing her attention. "The Mallets work on leverage and action. Words mean nothing. If you wish to prove your innocence, and your conviction, then you shall return to the first task I required of you. The one you never completed."

The meaning settles on Annette like a rock in her stomach. "No."

"I am offering you an opportunity to clear your name and be reinstated."

"She isn't a Baron," Annette complains.

His eyes flick down to her collar, and the ring sparkling in the light of the fire. "She owns a contract."

"She isn't evil!"

"You need not be evil to do evil."

"I won't do it."

Jarl storms forward, throwing a leg onto the chair before her and sneering down at her. "Do you think revolution will be bloodless?" He shakes his head and quickly adds, "No, don't answer that. Do you believe that the blood spilled by uprising will be more or less than the blood spilled by industry as normal?"

"I won't hurt -,"

"It isn't about Cordelia," he sighs. "It isn't even about you. It is about reshaping society from the ground up."

"I am not your enemy, Jarl," she pleads.

"You don't need to be on their side to be my enemy," he spits back. "It is you squeamish ones who hold us back. It is your constant pleading for us to stay our blades that holds us back."

"I celebrated Bembrook's death."

"And yet pardoned the Deacon."

"So?" Annette frowns.

Jarl peers down at her, his voice measured and quiet. "Since you did so, it is as though Failinis has lost his nerve. How many Barons have we felled in the last few months? None."

"We started freeing collars instead," she retorts.

"It isn't enough," he dismisses. "That may be all well and good, but it doesn't overthrow their society. It doesn't make the Baron's fear us!"

"Yes, it does!"

"Not for their lives. They'll expend countless resources to defend their property, but they'll only ever negotiate with a bloodied sword at their throats."

Annette frowns and gives him a glowering, dismissive stare. "So go kill them."

"I intend to," he affirms. "As will you."

"You don't need me."

Jarl flashes a grisly smile. "You are a symbol to us just as with Wemberley. If you take up arms, Failinis will return to our old strategy."

There's something beyond Jarl's words prickling at Annette, something locked carefully behind his icy glare. Without her appealing to focus on freeing servants rather than assassinations, Jarl should have no issue convincing Failinis of his methods. And yet, Jarl went out of his way to pursue Annette instead. Had he lost favor? Did he make some sort of error? What was his motivation?

She takes a long breath and places an extra confidence into her expression, speaking with an assured, knowing authority. "You do need me."

He gestures the revolver at her. "So you will comply-,"

"Not for that reason," she deflects. Her brows lower perceptively. "There's something else, isn't there? Something you're not telling me."

Jarl doesn't answer, choosing to turn away and face the fire instead.

"Tell me," Annette implores. "I can help you."

"Clearly you cannot," he spits back.

"Jarl, I am not your enemy, and neither is Cordelia," she asserts. At the base of her neck, she feels her spine tingle ever so slightly - so slight that she cannot even be sure that it was truly occurring. It's as though her mind was slowly igniting, racing forth with a clarity that brought forth connections she couldn't substantiate but that she knew must be related.

"Enough of this-,"

Annette interrupts quickly. "How did the police know of the Wemberly raid?"

Jarl tenses, though tries to hide his reaction. Annette restrains her proud smile as he turns back around. "You're grasping at straws."

"So you feel it too," she concludes. "There's something wrong. Something isn't adding up and you know it." She squares her shoulders and places as much certainty into her words as possible. "Someone ratted us out, and it wasn't me. You want it to be me because that's a simpler answer and an easy solution, but we both know it wasn't."

"We are moving into a point of no return," Jarl says quietly, pacing away thoughtfully. "Pieces are coming together for the Mallet's next move. Some too easily, some with far more difficulty than expected."

"Failinis doesn't know you think there's a traitor," Annette concludes.

"I am the overcautious protector," Jarl shrugs. "I am simply playing my part."

"Jarl," Annette shakes her head, "I am with a detective. If you are worried about treachery amongst the Mallets, let us help you."

"That's a ridiculous-,"

"We've infiltrated the Mallets once before," she continues, "and you didn't catch us. We could uncover things you would never find."

Jarl fiddles with the revolver in his hand, turning it over and over as he thinks. There's a surprising uncertainty in his presence that is uncharacteristic for Jarl, a man who was usually painfully assured of himself. Annette readies herself, aware that when he was out of his element he was unpredictable, and thus dangerous.

"No detective," he says at last, his brow furrowing at her. "But you will assist me."

"It'll be easier if Cordelia and I can work together-,"

"I said 'no,'" he spits. "Consider this a stay of execution for her, but I will not endanger our missions by bringing a complete outsider into our midst."

Jarl strides over to her and drops down to his knees, his face contorted into a clear warning. Annette feels the barrel of the revolver press into the underside of her chin and holds her breath, trying to force down her fear.

"I offer you this," he whispers, pushing the metal deeper into her skin and resting his finger on the trigger, "I will restore your place amongst us, and in return, you will assist me in protecting our interests. If you decline, or disobey any of my orders, or I have any hint you might be working to undermine me, I will have Cordelia killed. Painfully. Publically." He twists the revolver into her once more. "I'll make you watch."

"Born in different circumstances," Annette croaks, "that sort of threat would make you an effective Baron..."

Jarl smiles, grim and foreboding. The pistol lowers from her chin, and a few moments later Annette can feel a blade saw through the coarse rope binding her hands behind her. She falls forward slightly, but quickly recovers, standing tall and stepping away from Jarl. He rises to his full height as well, still towering over her, and points the revolver at her once more.

"Will you comply?" He asks, tilting his head as though begging her to test him.

"I will follow your lead," she gulps.

-- -- --

If she were with anyone other than Jarl, Annette would crack a joke as they approach Merlin's workshop once more. It would be clever and coy, some sort of remark about the familiarity of the experience and returning to him with a collar around her throat, but she suspects Jarl is in no mood to be tested. She holds her breath and stays her tongue.

Merlin's beard parts to reveal a smile as she approaches, and the old, burly man leaps up to his feet as they arrive. "Red!" He exclaims, striding towards them. Merlin pauses for a moment in seeing Jarl beside her, seemingly unsure if he was allowed to be excited by her presence. "What're you doing here?"

"Testing to see if this collar can survive two escapes," Annette quips, though keeps her voice low and restrained.

"Come on over," Merlin waves, "and we'll get that ghastly thing off you-,"

"No," Jarl interjects.

"No?"

"Red keeps the collar," Jarl glowers at her, his brow furrowed deep and mournful.

Merlin frowns and plops back down onto his heavy stool. "She's joining back up, is she? Let's get it off." He nods sympathetically to Annette, who smiles weakly back at him.

"Tell her about Winchester," Jarl deflects bluntly.

Merlin cocks an eyebrow, tilting his head and gazing between the two of them. "I'm not in the business of keeping collars leashed, Jarl," he says in a low voice. "It'd only take a second to free her-,"

"Red is on probation," Jarl holds up a hand. "Until we fully settle some unresolved issues, she keeps the collar."

"It's alright, Merlin," Annette pips up, raising a hand to cover the ring at her throat. She wonders how long it'll be until Cordelia will notice she's gone, and how long until she'd be able to hunt her down. She'd been able to keep some distant tabs on Annette the last time she joined the Mallets, but Annette isn't sure how much freedom Jarl would give her.

"It isn't right," Merlin shakes his head. "No one should be in-,"

"I'm fine," she interrupts. Annette sighs and grips Cordelia's ring tightly, yanking it off of her neck and breaking the small metal loop that kept it affixed to her collar. She steps forward and deposits it into his large hand, closing his fingers around it and saying, "Consider this a first step in the process. Ring first, the rest of it later."

Merlin keeps his frown, but stomachs his complaint. He nods slowly, gripping the ring and tossing her a sympathetic look.

"I'll want that back," she grins weakly. "It belongs to someone special." For a moment, she considers telling him to bring it to Cordelia so that she'd known Annette was alright, but Jarl's harsh glare at her back dissuades her. She sighs and retreats back to Jarl's side.

"Winchester is a... well, something we don't understand," Merlin huffs. Jarl pulls up a seat alongside him, and directs Annette to do the same. "It's a name that popped up without much explanation, and something didn't seem right."

"It's not an uncommon name," Annette shrugs. "What's so unusual?"

"We found it on a letter," Merlin explains, "well, not the name. We found a seal on a letter that led us to the name. It's some noble family, from just outside the city."

"There's plenty of those."

"Shut up and listen," Jarl scolds.

Annette resists the urge to roll her eyes. "What was in the letter? And where did you find it?"