Woolgathering

  ***

  The assassin within Investigator Ulisse was poised in the center of an underground chamber secreted beneath the Ghileswick Mariner's bank. His dissimulated features hadn't changed despite their surroundings, and his arms were crossed over his broad chest in an expression that admitted no fault for the relocation of his target, Desi Consentio. He had removed the deerstalker and great cloak, but his faithful pistol dangled from the holster at his side.

  The seven top officials of the Quatronne family didn't seem to approve of his choice of weapons, but neither could they deny that he was their most reliable emissary. They were dressed, typically, in an array of morning suits and fanciful hats, many with signature rings on their fingers that cost more than an Investigator made in his prime. Said rings tapped idly at the round mahogany table circling the speaker— Ulisse, in this case— and their faces were in the shadows. Yet another gimmick belonging to the various mind-games they used to keep their delegates in submission.

  Since the proud 'families' of Illum had grown into crime rings dissolution and cutthroat politics were a growing threat; honor was a joke, group unity was upheld by fear, not principles. But of course, none of this mattered to the assassin they'd crafted. He was a perfect tool, fashioned of their own hands, by their own blood, sweat, and tears. From the time he was born they had indoctrinated him to his purpose. They made sure he knew that it was what he was bred for, what God or perhaps his prophet Rue himself had intended that the dark, frightening little boy with his too-sharp wit should become.

  And so he had.

  His lip twitched, but the light bearing down on him from above was too blinding for any of them to see. Apparently they had located the newest haven for the unfortunate Desi Consentio, and they were briefing Ulisse on how he was to go about executing the derelict.

  They had already gone through the pleasantries: the stern 'don't fail us again' and his polite remark that it was an honor to finally be brought before the heads of the family after all his years of service. Now... now they were getting nitty-gritty, instructing him on how he should enter the Roanokan Center for Trade and Commerce, how he should leave a pointed letter there to warn other partners in the business of extortion not to make the same mistake. He listened attentively— when he did a job he took pride not just in doing it right, but in doing it perfectly.

  "Any questions?" the head of the table, the Quatronne family boss, asked unnecessarily. Everyone seated knew that Ulisse Quatronne never needed to be told anything twice; his curt nod was just a seal on the paperwork, so to speak. Though, of course, his audience with them was not over, he thought to himself, and he barely suppressed his exultant grin. It seemed like a divine blessing indeed when the boss, pleased with his weapon's acquiescence, asked:

  "Tell me, Ulisse. Have you found out a way to rid yourself of that cumbersome alter ego of yours? I know you insisted it could prove useful, but you could playact the role of Investigator just as well."

  The urge to grin had been unbearable before, but the assassin was a man of discipline. His smile crept over his features gradually, exposing his gleaming white teeth one by one, sending an inexplicable shiver down more than one of the hardened villains' spines at that table.

  "I'm sorry, boss," he said, with careful, solemn deliberation. "I don't think I can be rid of him. We're the same person, you see."

  Seven guns were drawn, seven skilled hands aimed to shoot. But they had made Ulisse into a monster, and there wasn't a single man who fired before one, perfectly aimed bullet drilled through their chest and they topped to the ground. There were seven shots, all from the assassin's, the Investigator's pistol, and seven souls fled to hell from the demon they had created.

  The demon...

  "Your problem," Ulisse found himself saying to no one in particular as the flavor of that word demon in his mind made his stomach twist, made him sick, "Is that you were too willing to believe that humans could be good or evil. There's no such thing in man. And if there was, I was too clever for it. I was so clever that none of you paranoid bastards guessed, not even when I first started playing the game for my father. And now you're dead. And it's not good. But it's lawful."

  Strange that this, his obsession, his ultimate offering to the holy precepts of morality and order wasn't as fulfilling as he'd imagined. But then, he hadn't finished yet. There was yet one more sinner facing execution, and fortunately Ulisse had the authority to condemn him.

  The Investigator didn't go back out through the door he'd come in; that way he'd be shot down by the Quatronne family's mongrels. He moved toward the 'secret entrance' behind the boss's chair. The sliding, camouflage door was a centimeter or two from lining up perfectly with the crevice behind— one of many mistakes his victims had made that day. Idly, he wondered if it would be the Gianni family that inherited the Quatronnes' territory and the criminal organization known as the Derci. The womanizers were little better, but they did have some standards, and one of them was to benefit the people at large whenever it didn't interfere with their objectives. They were the lesser of two evils. The lighter of two, very dark shades of gray.

  Ulisse emerged in Ghileswick to find it sighing with a light drizzle, its stony cheek and the streets he had worn smooth with his soft leather boots wet as though with tears farewell.

  On a whim, the assassin removed his boots and his stockings, throwing them over his shoulder as he felt the slick cobblestones beneath his pale toes. He'd likely cut himself on someone's discarded rubbish. He didn't care. He ambled leisurely toward Hangman's Yard and smiled as his feet squelched through cool puddles of mud, as he felt all those sensations he'd always been too reserved to appreciate. Ghileswick rained on him in bittersweet acknowledgment, and he loved the city all the more for it. It seemed too soon that he drew near to his destination. It seemed too soon that he had to face the wan, androgynous figure hanging at the gates, waiting for him.

  "I knew you were the same all along," Risk said as he approached.

  The Inspector's smile widened, and he nodded. "You always knew me best."

  For once, Farley was frowning; his smooth features wrinkled into an accusatory mien. "You're not a judge, Ulisse," he said with some strain. "Only an investigator."

  "I know," Ulisse confessed. "But I think I'm qualified for this."

  "You're not," Farely told him, flatly.

  "Always so presumptuous," the Investigator sighed. "But why argue? This isn't what I wanted to leave you doing, my friend." He reached forward, pulling the wriggling youth into his embrace.

  "You can't do this," Risk yowled as he struggled to free himself. "Hell, you don't even have to go to prison. We're smart. We could pin the murder on the Quatronnes— it isn't as though you left them alive to protest."

  Ulisse shook his head, gently. "Besides being illegal and wrong, what would that make me but a hypocrite— more of one, anyway? Please don't fight with me anymore, Risk." He squeezed the youth. "Do try to listen to Miss Coombes. She could teach you a lot, and you won't keep your boyish figure forever," he said, his hand sliding up to cover Farley's heart, his breast. The youth moved to protest, but cut off as Ulisse kissed first one cheek, and then the other.

  "Take care, my little liar," he whispered as he turned to leave, but Risk was still touching his fingers gingerly to the cheeks the Investigator had graced with the Illumni greeting of friendship. Or perhaps he'd meant it the Roanokan way; Farley was too buried in his own denial to know at that point. Instead his mind fixed on the one truth he did possess, and he flushed with rage.

  Ulisse was going to die...

  "I hate you!" Risk cried at the Investigator's back. "I hate you and Miss Coombes and all your stupid, foolish honesty! People like you— you should be happy! You should love yourselves for being so genuine— and you go and kill yourselves to prove your virtue? What the hell is that, then?! Will your integrity never be satisfied? Can't you idiots see that your truth is that you're fine! If anyone should go and hang themselves it's— I c
ould never be like you, damn it! And I— I don't need your truth anyway! Why did I ever—?!"

  Risk punched the iron gates to the prison yard while Ulisse stopped, twisting to stare in amazement at the hot tears streaming down the youth's face.

  "I hate you!" Farley sobbed again, covering his face because he didn't want the Investigator to see. "I hate you so much!"

  "Risk," Ulisse said, pleadingly. "Stop."

  But Farley continued to weep; the rusty locks had crumbled, the soul peering out through his eyes had shattered and spilled forth. He was in pain. He, the fool, had listened to Morrigan and come, and now he would die of grief beneath the Investigator's noose. He couldn't do this anymore, he thought as he bawled, sinking to the ground.

  "Risk," Ulisse wheezed. He didn't want to watch this anymore, yet he was transfixed.

  "I hate you!" Farely cried a third time, holding his stomach, crying so hard he wretched.

  "Richarda!" the Investigator shouted at last.

  The youth blinked, swallowing.

  "Calm down," Ulisse begged as the poet hiccuped compulsively. His nose was running, his face a ruddy, heart-wrenching mess. The Investigator felt his hands shaking, his heart racing as he came to a very important realization.

  I hate you, his precious little liar was screaming. I hate you...

  "No," the youth choked at last. "I— I won't calm down."

  "Why?!"

  "I don't know!" Risk buried his head in his knees, sobbing harder.

  "Hey..." Ulisse murmured as he somehow, miraculously returned to the youth's side, as he knelt down beside him. "Richarda."

  "Stop calling me that!"

  "This is important," he scowled, taking her shoulders. "Listen to me. Just—!" the youth squirmed. "I—!" The investigator was kicked for his troubles. "Richarda!"

  "I said to stop it!" Farley shouted, glaring at him.

  "Then listen!" he ordered the youth. "I— remember the night I told you I love you?"

  "I don't remember," Risk insisted venomously. "Was it you or the assassin?!"

  "Damn it grow up just a minute!" the Investigator demanded, desperately. "Risk I won't go to the noose. I'd— I'd live through anything if you'll just promise me something."

  Farley's eyes widened; he seemed mute, shaking his head feverishly as though imploring the Investigator not to say it. 'No,' he was mouthing, but he'd lost his voice.

  "Promise me you'll stop doing this to yourself," the Investigator continued. "Promise me you'll stop living this way."

  Farley looked as though he'd just been shot. "I—," he squeaked. "I promise."

  "Promise me honestly!" Ulisse beseeched him. "You know I can tell when you're lying!"

  Beneath the Investigator's hands the youth was trembling, even jerking spasmodically when he hiccupped. "I can't. You— you know I can't."

  Ulisse grimaced, rising. "And I can't let someone like me live with my sins."

  He said this, and yet his heart was breaking over the apprentice he'd thought so strong, the apprentice he'd thought would be okay. Was the greater punishment to watch this, or hang, he wondered?

  Still, Farely wasn't the only one who was good at lying. The Investigator turned back toward the gallows, and at sight of his determined back stooped once more with the weight of both their flaws, Farley seized his wrist.

  "Please," he whispered. "Please no."

  "I can't," Ulisse echoed in Farely's ears, calmly. It was only the truth. If he was of no use to him— to her, if his very life wasn't enough to help her, then he didn't think he could see the point, anymore.

  "Don't do that!" Farely shouted.

  Ulisse walked, tearing himself from the youth's grasp.

  "Stop, damn it!" Risk cried.

  The Investigator plowed through, inexorable.

  "I told you why I'm like this!" Farely said, wrenching himself forward as he tried to catch up with his friend, whom was inserting his key to the prison's yard. "I told you— I trusted you with that! How haven't I been honest to you?! What do you want of me?! Do you want me to wear dresses? Do you want me to tell everyone I'm a defiled heiress whose father cast her out?! Do you want me to state the obvious?! Is that it?!”

  "No," the Investigator said. "Something much more important than that." He had pulled the gate open, and he cast one last, solemn glance back at his beloved, at her suffering. Risk's heart stopped. Once Ulisse had passed through that gate, he could not be recalled, he would be beyond salvation.

  "What do you want?" Risk whispered, though he knew and had already confessed he couldn't give it.

  "Look at yourself," Ulisse murmured, haplessly. "For just one minute, look at yourself, honestly."

  "I—." Farley held himself, backing away. "I have. I just didn't see what you wanted." He was stalling. Ulisse knew it. Because Risk never saw anything unless it was through that cracked and filthy lens his father had given him. Because Risk only stared into mirrors, never into pools, never down at himself. And for all the time the Investigator had known him, for all the joy the youth had given him, for all the love he truly thought they shared, his bloodstained hands had been of no avail in what his precious little liar needed most.

  He began to walk through the gates.

  He ran into a short, decidedly cross little woman, with a scowl so deep he thought at first she must be scarred as she jabbed him in the stomach with her pistol.

  "What. Do you think. You're doing?" Morrigan demanded.

  Ulisse gawked. Behind him, Farley was doing the same.

  "I leave the two of you alone for ten marks," she said, brandishing the weapon, forcing Ulisse to retreat until finally he ran into the tear-stained Risk. "And suddenly one of you is hanging themselves and the other's having a fit of hysteria!"

  "W—where in the hell did you get that gun?!" Farley finally managed to ask. He quickly regretted it as the barrel was directed at him.

  "What woman in hell doesn't own a gun when they live by themselves?!" demanded Morrigan as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "More importantly, why haven't you carted Ulisse's ass home, young lady?!"

  Risk colored at the honest title. "I— what did it look like I was doing?!"

  "A whole lot of whining, that's what. And you," Morrigan rounded back on Ulisse, proceeding to poke him anew with the pistol. "Suicide is against the precious law you keep going on about, if I'm not mistaken. And what kind of man reduces a girl to such tears, hmm?!"

  "That's—." Ulisse began.

  "Oooooohhhhh no!" the school teacher chastised. "None of that! No more platitudes from either of you. Risk, your lover's a man with depreciated self-worth who has a hero complex. Ulisse, Risk is a liar, she will be a liar for as long as she wants to be, and the man never changes the woman. Have I made myself clear?"

  "No!" Farley said, regaining his fire. "First of all, this is not the time for you to start referring to me as a woman; second, who invited you you old crow, and third—!"

  Staring at the barrel of the pistol, Ulisse laid his hand on Risk's shoulder.

  "Perhaps..." he suggested, "This is an argument for another time."

  "Damn straight it is," Morrigan scowled. "Now both of you are coming back to the house, and we are all going to sleep."

  And with that, she began stomping ahead, leaving the scolded lovers baffled in her wake, but not before she'd added, with a significant look at the two of them:

  "In separate beds."

  Ulisse and Farley stared at each other, wondering what it was precisely that had just happened, sobering once more.

  "You do have a hero complex..." Risk said, slowly.

  "And I suppose if I stick around I'll have a much better chance of saving you than if I try to rush it all at once," he said in jest, blushing.

  "Were you really going to... to hang yourself?"

  "Yes. Were you really trying to say that you loved me, while you were screaming all that?"

  "...yes."

  "That's not a lie?"

  "Y
ou tell me."

  "I think I'll let Miss Coombes do the translating, from now on."

  "Indeed..." They drew a little closer to one another.

  "Perhaps she's right. Some sleep would help us... think more clearly," Ulisse coughed.

  Risk nodded.

  And with that the man that was two men and the woman who was too many things to name both took each other's hand, and they followed a teacher who was very much herself indeed, reflecting that it would be a long time indeed before any of them understood what they should have felt that night.

  Sufficient Unto the Day