The sky was dark, up through the trees. Stars hung lazily between the hazy clouds, lit only by a fading moon. Somewhere off in the distance, an animal called out to the others like it, saying now’s the time! While the rest are asleep!
“Where’s your head at?” asked Topek, nudging the fire with a stick, sending a spray of sparks into the air. They’d set up camp a little ways off the main road, in a well-worn clearing littered with trinkets from visitors long gone. It was comforting, but eerie.
Émile blinked himself back to the present. “I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”
“Too hot,” agreed Nowak, leaning back against a tree with his arms out at his sides like the corpse of a saint. “Is too hot here.”
“Try goin’ south,” said Topek. “Then complain to me about heat.” He noticed Émile’s momentary smile. “You been? South, I mean?”
“Now and then,” said Émile.
Topek was good at reading people. Sometimes too good, with little regard for how his observations would be received. He got an amused smirk on his face. “Smuggler,” he said. “You were a smuggler.”
“I was a baker.”
“Aye, you keep saying. But I’ve yet to see the proof. Now a smuggler, that fits. That’s what you were.”
“Last week, he was spy, to you,” said Nowak.
“Aye, but—”
“Before that, lawyer on run.”
“I was just joking when I—”
“Before that, son of Napoleon.”
Topek jabbed at Nowak with the stick. “You talk too much. I’m just sayin’, there’s a lot about ol’ Shenny here we don’t know, ‘sides his love of stealin’ horses.”
“The horse was a gift,” said Émile.
“And his love for contradictin’ everything I say.” He turned to face Émile, brow furrowed in a way that said he was joking a little less, expecting a little more. “How about this: we all tell one true thing ‘bout ourselves every day. One true thing, big or small. Help us learn to trust each other.”
“I trust you,” said Nowak.
“Hush, ya dumb trunk,” said Topek, never breaking eye contact with Émile. “I’ll go first. My brother Charlie an’ me, we got our start fightin’ dogs down south.”
“You fought dogs?” asked Nowak.
“No, you moron, the dogs fought each other. We found ‘em. Wild ones to win, house pets to lose. Good money on either end of the equation, and we were the kings of those numbers.”
“Why did you stop?” asked Émile, like he was only half-interested.
“You ever seen a hungry, wild dog go at someone’s pet?” asked Topek. flinching at the memory. “Ain’t something you cherish. Not for long.” He leaned back, and the darkness slipped right off of him. He winked to Émile. “Next?”
Émile, though, turned to Nowak. “Your turn. One true thing.”
Nowak thought and thought, and then seemed to seize on an idea for a second before changing his mind. Topek was losing patience, and about to interrupt, when Nowak finally said: “Beets.”
And that was it.
Topek turned around, frowning at the bigger man. “Beets what?”
“You say one true thing. True thing is beets.”
“I know beets are…” Topek sighed. “One true thing about you. Not the whole world, just you. Try again.”
Nowak’s eyes shot back and forth as he searched his memory, resulting in a jubilant: “Beets.”
“Oh for Christ—”
“Tata was beet farmer. Taught me to be beet farmer. Trouble is: I do not like beets. Taste like mud.”
Topek burst into laughter; Nowak and Émile did, too. For a moment, they were—just as Topek said he wanted—a little closer, like comrades enjoying each other’s company after a long day of toil.
But then Topek’s eyes caught Émile’s, and he knew the fun was over.
“And now Shenny,” he said. “One true thing.”
Émile frowned, trying to pinpoint the one true thing he could bear to impart. Something real enough to satisfy their curiosities, but sheltered enough that it wouldn’t rip open something he couldn’t repair in himself. The ship? No, too raw. Before? And his escape? But if he told them that, they’d never stop asking, and there was so much he couldn’t bear to uncover again. Something about his parents, then. The monastery? No. His sister’s—
No.
“I was in love once,” he said, and the others quieted to hear him. “Someone I shouldn’t have…she needed me to…” He couldn’t find the words. “I failed her.”
The fire crackled. The wind rustled the leaves above. The silence was piercing.
“You mean in bed, or—?” grinned Topek, and the laughter returned again. That awful moment of reality that Émile had been dreading for months had come and gone, and strangely, things were no worse than before. It was a strange sensation, coming out the other end of the truth unscathed. He wasn’t sure if he liked it.
“Started without us?” asked Gauthier, tromping in from the road with his rifle over his shoulder, and Dexter a short distance behind, eyeing the surroundings warily. “Hope there’s drink left, at least.”
Nowak finished the bottle quickly. “Just finish,” he said, with a devilish grin.
Gauthier dropped his pack and stretched himself out, cricking his neck after a long day on the road. “Shoulda stayed in town,” he said. “Had a big meal, lots of drink. Serves me right for tryin’ to be nice.”
“Sure does,” said Topek, nudging the fire some more. “Got anything useful?”
Gauthier prodded his pack with his boot, but his face told the story well enough: not good. “Odds and ends. Imports running low, sounds like. We’ll have to do some digging before the frost sets in, or it could be a long winter.”
Dexter settled away from the others, setting is hat on his knee and pulling a book from his pocket. He paged through to the middle and was half a page into it when Nowak asked: “What is book?”
Dexter turned it around to show the cover page: Le Rime di Dante.
Topek frowned. “You read Italian?”
“No. Words just look beautiful. Peaceful.”
“You don’t know many Italians, then.”
Gauthier and Émile laughed, then noticed each other laughing, and carried on regardless. There were fewer and fewer of those moments of late, where they surprised each other with their overlapping experiences. Over time, they had started to realize they were very much alike in a lot of ways. One had just gone down a wrong path.
It was hard to say for sure which one that was.
“So the accounting on the Yarrow job came in,” said Gauthier, taking a seat with the others. “And it would seem I was wrong, Mr Deschênes. Your debt’s not almost paid. It is paid. You’ve earned back all the money we forfeit by not handing you over to Aylen.”
“Before Aylen rescinded the bounty,” noted Topek.
“It’s the thought that counts,” said Gauthier.
“It is,” agreed Émile. “And I’m grateful. I am…”
Gauthier caught the tone. “But now that you’re free…?”
Émile looked out at the road. At the places it led. And the places it wouldn’t go. He said nothing.
“Here’s my counter, then,” said Gauthier, nodding to Topek, Nowak and Dexter in turn. “We’ve discussed it, and we’d like you to stay on. As an equal partner. Keep doing what you’re doing, but keep the money.”
Émile had known this was coming, but it didn’t make it any easier to finally face it. He fought to stay civil, to stay calm…but it was hard, because had it not been for Gauthier and his crew, Émile might have made it to Perth in time. He might have made a difference, and saved Maggie from…
…from something he knew he couldn’t have stopped. By all accounts, she died a few short hours after he’d been forced away from Perth. Even if everything had gone right, the fastest rider on the best horse wouldn’t have gotten to Bytown in time to save her.
But he still hated Gauthier for it. Still blamed him for taking away the chance.
He wanted to spit in their faces and storm off and never look back…but he knew them well enough to know his best weapon was his civility. They respected civility. A code of conduct. Honour. Righteousness. And insulting them would not do him any favours.
Gauthier could see his reluctance, so he tried another approach: “It’s your words that do it,” he said. “You can talk anyone into anything, no matter who or what. Hell, just think of how you talked us into skippin’ that bounty. That’s talent.”
“I just listen,” said Émile. “I can’t fight, I can’t shoot, I can’t track or intimidate—”
“Aye, and that’s why we need you,” said Gauthier. “You’re approachable.”
“You’re an easy mark,” said Topek. “Draw people in.”
Nowak smashed his fist into his palm. “For us.”
Gauthier smiled. “The rest of us scare folks into submission, but that only works so far. To be honest, Deschênes, our income has—what, doubled?—since you joined up. You give us what we lost with Charlie.” Topek winced at the words, but seemed powered by them, too. “So we’d like you to stay.”
The others all nodded their agreement, which did nothing to help Émile’s mood. These were the people responsible for the mess he was in. These were the people who had ruined everything, and now they wanted him to—
“Sleep on it,” said Gauthier, and when Émile caught his eye, it was clear he could sense what Émile was thinking. He recognized the tension, the revulsion, and didn’t want to make a scene. Whether that meant Émile would get to quietly slip away, or be killed in his sleep, he couldn’t say. But at least he was being given a chance to reconsider.
Gauthier leaned back, looking up at the stars. “We’re heading west in the morning,” he said. “A ways out. Fellow named William Mercer wants a pair of servants caught and returned.”
Émile stared at the fire, trying to ignore what came next. For every Yarrow—where they had been meting out justice in unconventional ways—there were ten “caught and returned” jobs, where the poor and downtrodden were hunted and killed at the request of their wealthy overlords. This pair of servants were probably young lovers who’d decided to elope, and now this William Mercer wanted them hanged for the inconvenience.
He had to slip away in the morning. He had to escape this Hell.
“Where they headed?” asked Topek.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” said Gauthier. “We’re not after them.”
This got everyone’s attention, including Émile’s. Gauthier soaked it all in, enjoying toying with them, as he had so many times before.
“Anyone know who William Mercer is?”
“Rich bastard?” asked Nowak.
“Aye, rich bastard,” said Gauthier. “And how’d he get rich?”
Dexter answered, without looking up from his book. “Peter Aylen.”
The others’ surprise was punctuated by Gauthier snapping his fingers and pointing at Dexter. “You ever wonder how Aylen went from a navy deserter to the king of the Shiners in the space of ten years? William Mercer, that’s how. Mercer came from money. Youngest of five brothers. Lots of connections but no savvy. He was looking for a way to prove himself ‘fore his father shipped him off to England to manage one of their estates.”
“Poor lad,” said Topek, wiping a non-existent tear from his cheek.
“He and Aylen were perfect together. Mercer got Aylen into places he never could have dreamed of, and in return, Aylen made the impression Mercer was too timid to try. They bullied their way to fortune. And fast, too. Bought a sizeable chunk of land along the Ottawa, and were poised to reap big rewards.”
“So what happened?” asked Topek. “Why’s Mercer out of the picture?”
“They had a falling out,” said Gauthier. “Mercer sold his portion of the land to Philemon Wright, right out from under Aylen. Destroyed their business in an afternoon.”
Nowak winced. “Foolish.”
“Aye, it was,” said Gauthier. “Two days later, as Mercer’s tryin’ to flee, Aylen sets fire to Mercer’s riverboat while he’s on it. Aylen lit the thing personally. Watched it burn.”
Émile flinched at the thought. He remembered far too well what Aylen’s vengeance felt like. The heat on the skin, the panic, the confusion.
Gauthier got a little more solemn. “Mercer’s wife and babe died in the flames. Mercer nearly did, too. Was meant to testify against Aylen, but disappeared from hospice at Barracks Hill before a trial could be set.”
Everyone around the fire got very quiet. Very, very quiet. Topek, hands were tight fists, his eyes downcast as he churned the words he’d been hearing.
“So if we get Mercer…” he said.
“…he can testify against Aylen,” nodded Gauthier. “Convict him of murder. See him hanged.”
Gauthier looked to Émile as he said the next words: “There’s no money in. But there’s salvation, if you want it.”