For I am a man under authority, having soldiers under me:
and I say to this man, Go, and he goeth;
and to another, Come, and he cometh;
and to my servant, Do this, and he doeth it.
Matthew 8:9 (KJV)
The death report. The obligatory black-bordered form every Brotherhood leader had to fill out and file away when someone in the ranks was cut down. It was a small task, but a decidedly unpleasant one; and though the rankers liked to joke about it—they called it the Black Form, the Walking Papers, the Final Tally; and some years ago a particular wiseacre had dubbed it the Meat Order—right now Jezrael didn’t feel much like laughing.
He took the form in hand again, and sucked meditatively on the end of his pen, and surveyed what he’d written.
Surname, la Dague; first name, Martine; middle name—I don't know. It's not on any of her papers. Maybe she doesn't have one—didn't have one. I'll have to ask Desiderius to go through the member rolls again.... Date of birth, 19.3.6561.
He paused to rub his temples rather absently, then started reading again. Marital status...unmarried and cohabiting, for all the good it did her, poor foolish girl...children, three. Lauran Duke l'Orange. Ernest Talon Falcone, Jr. Keidre Martine Falcone. Ages six, five and three.
Age at time of death. Twenty-five. Jezrael shook his head. That's too young, that's much too young. And...let's see...cause of death? Multiple injuries. The dark-feathered drake smiled to himself, grimly. I wonder what the Elders would say if I said that Martine's cause of death was Ernie Falcone's jealousy. Or Duke's negligence. Or even— He sighed. Even my own interference, damn it. He sucked harder on the pen.
I could say that, he told himself. I could say that, and every word of it would be true. Every word—
"Jezrael? You okay, buddy?"
Jezrael looked up. Duke had opened the door to his office and was standing just inside, his expression one of mingled amusement and concern.
"I—" Jezrael shook himself back to reality. "I think so. Yes, I’m fine—I just wanted to get this finished before I went home."
"Well, I was passing by out in the hall and I heard you talking to yourself. What’s got you bothered?"
Duke took the paper from Jezrael’s hand before his friend could protest. "What’s this?" But he looked, and his face fell. "Oh. That."
"Yes," Jezrael answered softly. "That." He stood up, walked around his desk, perched on its edge. Duke sounded okay, but he looked...ruffled. Unsettled. "What about you, what are you up to?"
"Ach." Duke lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "Dunno. Just thinking...." He trailed off, and for a moment something hung unspoken in the air between them; and then the younger drake said, "You got a minute, Jez?"
"Mmm." It wasn’t quite an answer. "Maybe. But just a few—I need to be getting home, it’s late. What’s on your mind?"
"A lot of things." Duke passed a hand over his face wearily and for the first time Jezrael saw the deep shadows beneath his eyes. "I need somebody to talk to, and from the look of things I’d say you do too. Whyn’t you come down to the Cloak and Dagger with me and let’s have a beer."
It wasn’t a question, and Jezrael hesitated. I need to be going, I told Anya I’d be home at midnight, and it’s half past already...but Duke’s right. We need to talk. We’ve made a terrible mistake...
"All right," he said at last. "Just let me get my coat and call the wife."
***
Duke’s glass seemed to be half empty before Jezrael had gotten himself seated comfortably. "I don’t guess I got to tell you that Martine’s funeral is tomorrow—I’m lending a shoulder." The gray drake laughed, but the sound was hollow and bitter.
"No." Jezrael ran a hand through his hair and stared into his own glass. "You don’t have to tell me. I’m delivering the eulogy."
"Fun," Duke sighed. "What are you going to say?"
"I don’t know. What can you say to do justice to a woman like Martine?" That it’s my fault she’s dead?
The corners of Jezrael’s mouth quirked upward with a wry sincerity; but Duke scowled. "You gotta stop doing this, Jez," he said, and gulped beer.
Jezrael picked up his own glass and sipped at it cautiously, wincing at the sourness it contained; then he drank deeply. "Doing what?"
"You know." The scowl deepened. "Beating yourself up every time something happens to one of us. I mean, come on, yeah, you’re the leader, but that doesn’t make you personally responsible—"
"But I am, Duke. I’m supposed to look after everyone’s welfare, and then this happens—it makes me feel personally responsible." The older drake coughed and sighed. "I try to do right by all of you; but it turns out that the best thing I could have done for Martine was nothing at all."
Duke signaled the waitress to get his glass refilled. "Just bring the pitcher, sweetheart—Jezrael, you thought you were doing the right thing. We all knew how Falcone was. If you hadn’t gotten him that prison time this probably would have happened sooner."
"Hah!" The sound was plainly derisive. "If I hadn’t sent him to prison maybe he wouldn’t have gotten out and come after her. Good behavior! How a man like Falcone can—" His shoulders slumped. "You’re right, Duke. We all knew how Falcone was. We should have done something—more to the point, I should have done something. I should have dispatched him when I had the chance." God knows he gave me enough of them....
Duke didn’t speak at first; he was in the middle of a mouthful of beer.
But at last he said, "You mean, you wish Falcone had come after you when he got out, instead of Martine."
"Hell, yes." Jezrael was unequivocal. "I could have defended myself, Duke, I could have put him out of the way once and for all—"
"But what are you going to do about him now?"
It was a blunt question, but Jezrael only shook his head. "You know how slick Falcone is. We’ve got to find him first."
"Yeah." Duke fingered his eyepatch—a souvenir of the time that he himself, a few years earlier, had fallen afoul of the ill-tempered raptrin. "I know."
For a few minutes neither of them spoke; they just sat and drank their beer in silence. Then Duke said, "You know, old man, if one of us was going to do right by her, it should have been me—after all, she did give birth to my son."
Jezrael raised his eyebrows. "Do you mean you would have married her?"
"Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think so. Martine wasn’t the kind of woman you married." Duke frowned at the idea. "But I could have...you know...been there."
"You could have been there," Jezrael agreed; and then he added softly, "We all could have been there. Should have been there." He leaned forward and rested his chin in his hands. "It’s not just you or me, Duke. The whole Brotherhood failed her."
"Yeah." Duke looked away and drew a deep breath. "Listen, Jezrael...you think I should take Lauran to the funeral? Shakura says I shouldn’t, but Martine was his mother."
"In one sense of the word. No. No, I don’t," was Jezrael’s answer. "Tomorrow’s a school day, Duke. Let him go. He wouldn’t understand." The tall brown drake hugged himself as if the room had developed a sudden chill. "Anya’s staying home with all of ours."
"Yeah, but you’ve got a baby," Duke said, as if that explained everything; but his consternation was plain on his face, and Jezrael realized He doesn’t know what to do. I have to remind myself, he’s not like most of the rest of us, he’s still not used to social conventions.
But before he could say anything on the matter, Duke was adding, "Death’s a fact of life in this business, Jezrael. I know that better than anyone."
"Duke." I suppose I should try to reason with him.... "Your son is a child. For God’s sake, let him be a child."
But Duke said nothing; and after a moment of waiting for a reply, Jezrael blew out his pent-up breath. "You’re right, you know. Martine had asked me not to interfere with their relationship, she knew that Falcone would retaliate against her. But I—I thought I was doing the right thing, and...." For a moment his voice failed him utterly. "Now I don’t know anymore."
"Neither do I, buddy. Neither do I." Duke swallowed the last of his beer and gestured at Jezrael’s empty glass. "I know it’s late, and we should both be getting home, but—for Martine’s sake—one more?"
"Yes." Jezrael’s dark blue eyes were hard and glittery as he pushed his glass across the table. "For Martine’s sake, one more."