Rules 4.2 – “We Adapt”

Jaysynn stood almost at attention, not in deference to Tarc’s authority, but because that posture was the surest way to keep his emotions out of the room.  “You’ve made your point, sir.”

“Not quite,” said Tarc.  He paused for a minute.  He leaned back in his chair with arms crossed.  “Do you know what a rule-breaker is?”

“You tell me, sir,” said Jaysynn.

“A rule-breaker is a visionary.  And…” he shrugged and went on, “depending on what type of visionary he is, he either accomplishes great things or he gets his head cut off.  Now, I’m a rule-breaker myself.  Do you know what rules I’m breaking?

“You’re stripping men and women of their freedoms for your own benefit.”

Tarc smiled.  “Well said.”  He leaned forward again and went on, speaking quickly and directly, “But you’re soft pedaling:  I’m running a damn slave camp.  I’m paying people nothing but their daily bread.  And I’m using their labor to establish businesses that will all be running strong when this city gets back on its feet.  I’m using this catastrophe—and the suffering and desperation it’s created—to get ahead.  Two weeks ago if you’d told me about someone doing what I’m doing now, I’d say to cut his head off.  But today I’m the biggest humanitarian on the whole mountainside.  I changed the rules.  That’s how we Falconer’s live:  we change the rules, or the rules change on their own, and we adapt.  Now, from one rule-breaker to another, I ask you:  what is your vision?”

“I don’t have a vision,” Jaysynn said.

“I don’t like dancing around to get a question answered,” said Tarc.  “You snuck out of the camp and you went to the city.  Think about it a minute and then tell me clearly what you were doing or what you were looking for, or you’re going to be one of those rule-breakers that loses his head.”

“I don’t know,” said Jaysynn.  “I wanted to see what it was really like.  What the problems were, if there was work for the people, if there was food.”

“You thought I was lying—you thought you’d be better off there than here?  Is that it?”

“No,” said Jaysynn.  “I just wanted to know what kind of trouble there was, and if there was a way for people to make it out of it.”

“So you’re some kind of bleeding heart, then?  Or are you looking for lost sheep so you can be a shepherd?  You want to lead?”

“I don’t know if I want to lead,” Jaysynn said.  His posture slackened a little.  “I know I want to help the people that are suffering.”

Tarc nodded.  His posture, too, grew a little less tense.  He had spoken honestly before, but it was a businesslike honesty.  Now his voice was less terse, almost rich:  “The only thing to do for people is lead them,” he said.  “That’s the only help.  That’s what they want.  They used to say to give people hope.  Give them a sense of self-worth.  Give them education.  Give them love.  Whatever.  Anyway, that’s all yesterday’s bullshit now.  Give them a leader.  That’s all there is now.  Are you that kind of visionary?”

The flame on the oil lamp flickered.  The room was not bright, it could hardly have been bright enough for Tarc to read his paperwork.  And here he was, staying up through the night watches to see if Jaysynn was a leader.

“Why are you asking me this when I jumped your fence?” Jaysynn asked.

“I don’t know,” said Tarc, still with his new, warm voice.  “You’ve got the shoulders of a leader.  You’re a military man, I’m guessing.  We found a Thyrian military knife in your gear—and you were tracing.  That’s who we’re at war with, by the way.  Or that’s who we think we’re at war with.”

“And still you’re asking me to be a leader?”

“You came back,” said Tarc with a shrug.  “If you were trying to infiltrate the city, which is what the Governor is so afraid of, you would have stayed there.”

“What if I’m trying to infiltrate the camp and sabotage the food supply?”

“Then you wouldn’t have needed to see the city for yourself, and you wouldn’t have blown your cover just a few days after arriving.  Look, I told you I’m a rule-breaker.  You were Thyrian military.  I don’t care.  Now you’re a refugee.  You abandoned a life that wasn’t working out.  If you’re some kind of radical, I want you on my side and not against me.  That’s all there is to it.  Now are you a leader?”

Jaysynn thought back to his talk with Kyrie earlier that night.  If she saw him now, she might think he was making a deal with the devil.  But she would still want him to say yes, he was a leader; he was made for bigger things than grunt work.

“I don’t know,” he said.  “I think I could be.”

Tarc’s warmth passed instantly.  “Well, don’t think about it.  Just do it.”

“What are you looking for, exactly?” Jaysynn asked.

Tarc stood.  “I told you I’m trying to start businesses here.”  He started pacing around the room.  “I don’t have any grain in the fields, but I’ve got a little stored, and my boys found a lot of ground barley near an abandoned mill—they’ll start shipping it in first thing in the morning.  I’d like to take over operations of the mill and I’d like to start a bakery.  Those are a couple options.  You know anything about baking?”

“Not really,” Jaysynn answered.  “Well, a little.  And there’s a girl I want working for me.”

“Alright, then it will be all women.  And you’re not going to lay a finger on any of them.”

“Right, fine.  I wasn’t planning on it.”

Tarc wheeled around and tipped his head toward Jaysynn.  “I didn’t ask about your plans,” he said.  “Don’t do it.”

Jaysynn told him who the girl was, and Tarc told him what needed to be built and when.  But they spared the details.

“And what did you say your name was again?” Tarc asked abruptly during their discussion.

“Um…Elric,” said Jaysynn.

“Well, Elric.  Come see me in the morning.  I’ll hook you up with a special projects man who will help you get things rolling.  For now, you need to get to bed.

Jaysynn took a breath, relieved that the night was over, yet disappointed that it had to come to an end.  He had the energy of a young visionary, but the exhaustion that comes with far too little sleep, from being pulled out of bed, from staying up to talk to Kyrie, from running into Falcon Point the night before.  It was adding up.  Yet plans would run through his head all night:  he would have a terrible time falling asleep.

“Yes, sir,” he said in deference.  “Have a good night.”

Vac nodded to him, and Jaysynn left the room

Shortly after, Captain Mile returned.  He had circled the building  as soon as he left and had been waiting in the back room.

“Well?” he said.

Tarc walked back to his desk and took a seat.  He picked up his reading glasses and put them on, slowly and deliberately, then adjusted the bridge so it sat on just the right ridge in his nose.

“That was him,” said Tarc.

“Should we send word to your brother?” said the captain.

“Why?” said Tarc, looking down at his papers.  “He would just have him killed.  But I’ll get some good work out of him.  A good leader is worth more than a decent bounty.”

The guard stepped around the corner of Tarc’s desk, close to his side, and softened his voice:  “What about the others?”

“The others?” Tarc asked, looking up from his work.

Captain Mile swallowed his spit.  “Should we tell them?”

Tarc stood.  He was a large man, and physically powerful, with a spirit even bigger and darker than his body.

“Don’t ever speak of the others,” he said, his voice quiet but fierce.  “Not to me, not to any other man alive.  If I want them to know anything, I will think of it without any help from you.”  He looked over his reading glasses and into the guard’s eyes.  “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said the captain.  “It’s just that there is a substantial reward for…”

Tarc raised his fist and struck the guard in the side of the head.  The man fell at once to the floor and clutched his ear, blood spilling out from between his fingers.  His hat rolled across the floor in a half-circle and fell over, bottom up.

“Do I make myself clear?” Tarc asked.

“Very clear.”

“Good,” said Tarc.  “I’ll get you something for your head.”

He went into an adjoining room and soon returned with two towels.  The captain was still on the floor, and still a little dazed.

“There’s one for your wound,” said Tarc, throwing him a towel.  “And here’s one for the floor.”

He made his way back to his chair, readjusted his glasses, and pored over his notes while his captain held a towel on his ear and wiped the floor of town hall clean of his own blood.

Series Navigation<< Rules 4.1 – “We Adapt”Rules 5.1 – Kings Are Laid Low >>
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