Jon Serro Is Dead
76th Yaris, 2719 | Just Before Noon | The Book and Bell
Five mugs of beer in a single hand. It was a personal best.
Rum Ginny's fingers had dried into a useless, claw-like branch by the time the frothy mugs had been laid before their intended consumers; she shook it until the blood came back, but barely had time to wince at the tingling before more trays were pushed into her arms by Stu, who was looking labored and put-upon.
Off to table six, where seven wheezy, drunken idiots were bemoaning the loss of their factory jobs in the recent downturn. Whisking by table eight, breezing over to table four again, taking down orders mentally, a quick thump over the head to the boy who had attempted to drink and dash, then back to the bar.
Her feet ached. Her hands ached. Her head ached. It would have been far quicker to catalogue the parts of her that did not ache, incidentally. Ginny griped and moaned to Stu in the half-moment it took her to gather up more drinks - the fussy man at table one had ordered a ridiculously complicated cocktail! - before she had to hurry off again.
It was worthless to pretend that all this business was bad; they had done more profit this morning than they had all week. It was the announcement. It had changed the way everyone looked at things. Every conversation skewed serious; everywhere she turned, there were drawn faces and whispers of suspicion. It scared her worse than her most potent nightmares to think of it.
"It's real," she had heard a man whisper. "I thought it was just stories, but it's real."
Ginny shook her head, trying not to think about it, to focus on work. Money in the coffer. Money to get Stu out of Vienda, to get them both out while there was still time. She could do it. She could do it all by herself, without him. Catching Stu's eye, she hurried back to the bar to serve the fresh crowd of people pouring in, all desperate for news about Jon Serro and the resistance but not daring to speak too loudly.
"That's right! I...I killed Jon Shhherro!"
The drunken yelp brought the cacophony of voices to a shocked and muted roar, and many heads turned to look at the man standing on the table, wobbly legs showing through holes in the knees of his trousers, his eyes glazed over with mad conviction. He shot his fist into the air and bumped the low ceiling with a painful crunch of his knuckles.
“Killed 'im! Dead, he ishh! I'm a buh-loody hero!"
Catcalls and boos answered his manic laughter, and a few mugs - proper wooden ones, the kind that shouldn't smash against the wall - smashed against the wall. Ginny groaned. Already the heightened tensions in the room were coming to a head, and she could smell a fight brewing easier than she could predict a storm after a thunderclap.
"Shut up, ye stupid kov," she yelled, pushing him so that he crashed backwards onto the table. It was timely, as a knife had just come whizzing through the air at the man's head. His friends edged away from him as though he was the carrier of some rare disease, but Ginny knew he was only the first - soon the evening would be lousy with pretenders to the throne, idiots who thought they could profit from this death.
The room began to recover from their anger as swiftly as it had begun, and soon they had forgotten the loudmouth man who, trailing a puddle of vomit, was being dragged out of the door by the gangly redhead barmaid. He made a splock sound as he hit the cobblestones.
"Don't come back for a while," she ordered him firmly, silhouetted in the door frame. He squinted up at her.
"Ye're not at all funny," she added, and slammed the door in his face. Moving back to the bar, reaching for the next tray of ale, she heard the door open and her lip curled.
“I told ye, t’ ge—oh.” The young wick blinked, hovering in place. Slowly, the wild rowdy crowd fell quiet, one by one as a figure moved through the tavern. Eyes followed the person, wide and expectant, and even whispers faded away till nothing but the sound of footsteps could be heard in the full room. The figure came to the bar, stopping, meeting Solid Stu’s dark brown eyes with piercing blue ones.
Silence held, pregnant and expectant in that moment.
“They’re waiting for you, Wisp.” He said quietly, as though Alyssa was unaware of the situation around her. The assassin sighed heavily, reaching into her cloak and drawing out a copy of the Vienda Weekly, throwing it on the bartop.
“It’s true.” She said finally, her voice loud in the silence of the room. Turning around finally, the brunette scanned the people there, knowing each and every one of their faces. She’d known all of their faces the minute she stepped in, assured that in this space, they were all freedom fighters.
But were they all friends?
Inhaling as though it was a chore, Alyssa continued.
“I’ve looked for Jon, and I can’t find him. There are signs of a struggle in his room, which I tracked to the river. I’ve seen the blood, and I’ve seen the shiv that cotted him. It’s true.” Her voice grew slightly thicker, as though she was trying to talk through molasses.
“Jon Serro is indeed dead.” The murmuring began quietly at first, before someone within the crowded tavern found their courage to speak up.
“What now? I mean, we’ve been subjected to questioning and arrests by the Seventen for weeks. People are missing, Wisp, and frankly we’re all wondering why? Ever since Jon brought that girl back from the Rose, there’s been nothing but trouble.” Ginny crossed her arms, looking at Alyssa. It was true. The Resistance, and people who were innocents, had been dropping like flies since that Emmie girl had arrived. Azmus was desperate to find her, or to find them, that much was clear. But why hadn’t Jon given her up, why had he let so many of their ranks be tortured and worse? For the first time in her short life, the witch had questioned her Leaders motives, and his sanity.
“What now?” Alyssa repeated the question, looking at the man, her blue eyes steely and cold.
“We lay low. We go about our lives. We wait for—” Stu cleared his throat, interrupting the woman.
“Wait for what, Wisp? Who leads us now, if Jon is dead?” Alyssa frowned, looking around the room before looking back at him.
“I haven’t had ti—”
“It should be the Wisp.” He said simply, nodding at her. “It should be you.”
Voices rose in agreement, nodding and raising their glasses. Alyssa shook her head, raising her hands and looking around the room.
“I’m not—I can’t—look I…stop!” She said sharply as the volume increased, the people falling silent again. The brunette assassin looked at her peers, brow drawn.
“I’m no leader.” Stu snorted, leaning his hands heavily on his bartop.
“Yes, yes you are. Look at us. Look.” He waved a hand over the forlorn crowd, sweeping across the room in one broad movement.
“We’re lost, Ma’am. We’re scared. We’re angry. Scared, angry people do stupid scared, angry things. It’s how we’ve lost Jon, and I frankly, am worried. Worried that without someone who can keep their head, someone who fights for us and not for themselves, people are gonna do dumb, scared, angry things.” Alyssa stared at him, shaking her head.
“I can’t Stu.” She whispered, but the folk in the crowd were settled. A voice called out, then another, and other. Mugs beat on the table, and people began to stand.
“I stand with you!” They said, one by one, before more and more took to the phrase, until finally the room was full of standing Freedom Fighters, all raising their mugs towards the woman. Stu was the last, taking a mug of his own and raising it to the brunette.
“We stand with you.” Alyssa swallowed the lump in her throat, her blue eyes softening for a moment before they hardened again. Her shoulders straightened and her chin lifted.
“In that case, I will stand for you. For all of you. For our brothers and sisters we’ve lost, and those we must still find. I will stand for all, as best I can, for as long as I draw breath.” Moving to stand in the centre of the room, she looked at her audience, leveling her gaze to each and every one of them.
“But understand this, and let all your fellows know. I will not rest until I find out what happened to Jon. And if I find out it truly was someone within our ranks, I will be serving the justice that Jon deserves.” Taking a mug of ale from one of the tables, Alyssa raised it high.
“For Jon!” She said firmly, and took a drink.
“For Jon!” The crowd replied.