Chapter Fifteen
Annette awakes to the sound of water dripping into a little puddle, echoing politely across the cobblestone walls. Just a simple drip... drip... drip...
A different droplet of water falls across her nose, sliding down her face and over her lips before drifting down her chin. She scrunches up her face as it moves, reaching up to brush it away with one of her arms only to find them tied behind her, locked against a metal pipe. She struggles against it for only a moment, before Jarl's voice picks up from across the room. He sits perhaps fifteen feet away, lounging next to a modest fire set in an old metal barrel, leaning over and whittling a small piece of wood. On the ground next to him, easily close enough for him to swoop up with hardly a breath of time, is his revolver.
"My father was a unionist,"Jarl says, his voice low and thoughtful, "he worked at a steel factory all his life. He came to Bellchester with nothing and was given nothing."
Annette gazes around the stone room, seeing little trickles of water through small cracks in the walls and forcing herself to take steady breaths through the cloth gagging her mouth. The air is musty and damp, and if she were to wager a guess, she's somewhere in the sewers underneath the city.
"That factory beat the life out of him daily," Jarl sighs, "you could see it in his eyes, in the way he drank, in the way he yelled at my mother. It was killing him, eating up his soul and replacing it with soot and ash and coal." He takes a long breath, letting his shoulders rise as he does. "So, he figures something must change. He joins a forming union."
His knife makes a long stroke down the wood, smooth and skillful, shaving off a long strip of the grain. "Do you know what the Barons did?" He looks up at Annette, meeting her eyes for the first time and sending a cool shiver down her spine. "It's nothing wretched, have no fear. They moved the workers to a new factory across the river, a nicer one. They even set up a ferry across the river to get to and from work each day."
Annette listens quickly, though behind her back her hands fumble with her bindings. It's rope, thankfully, but it's thick and coarse. Even if she had a knife it would take some time to cut through, and Jarl's tied the knot in such a way that it is out of reach over her hands. She slowly rotates her wrists around the metal pole behind her, hoping to carefully shift the knot closer.
"One day," Jarl continues, "my father is going to work, taking the ferry like he's been doing the last couple weeks. He's involved in the union less and less, partly because some of them are snobs and partly because the new factory is an improvement. He even enjoys the ferry ride, despite the fact it takes longer. He says it's peaceful. Well, on this one day, the engine explodes and takes the ship down. Anyone not killed by the fire drowns in the river. No survivors. A convenient end to an inconvenient union."
He drops the piece of wood onto the ground and twirls the knife around in his hands, letting it dance across his palm effortlessly. He gazes over Annette's form, watching her struggle softly against her restraints. "We're well below the city, in parts of the sewers even the rats don't know about. Scream, fight, it doesn't matter. I have questions, and you're going to answer them."
Annette stares down the fire in his eyes and nods slowly, gulping back her fear and trying to let her mind work out an escape. Jarl stands, moving towards her and removing the gag over her mouth. He pulls his chair closer to her, scooping up the revolver as he does, and plops down into it.
"Who have you talked to about the Mallets?" He tilts his head, glaring at her.
Annette takes a steadying breath, fighting to keep her voice calm. "What sort of talking might I have done?"
"Anything."
"Outside of Mallet's members?" She asks and Jarl nods impatiently. "Cordelia Jones."
"And?"
"I negotiated with Mister Wemberley."
Jarl leans forward. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing that would incriminate anyone but me."
"Liar."
Annette shakes her head, nervously eyeing the revolver between his palms. "It's true. He was only interested in upkeeping collar service. The escapes we staged made his investors wary of his business, and in publicly recapturing me he could steady their fears. That was the deal we made. No information."
If Jarl has further thoughts on that, he remains quiet. He looks away, speaking as he gazes over the stone walls behind her; and somehow, as his eyes leave her form, he feels even more dangerous. "Everything you said about your owner; that she hit you, beat you, was a drunk - all a lie?"
"Recovering alcoholic."
"Chainlaid?"
"Technically," Annette winces. "We do box together for sport now, as well, so I suppose she does hit me-,"
"Shut up," Jarl rolls his eyes. He faces back towards her, raising the pistol and allowing it to ask his next question for him.
Annette shudders and fights her restraints for a moment, only to force herself to calm down and speak instead. She talks quickly, hoping to let her words be her defense. "Cordelia and I were investigating a death!" She exclaims, staring down the barrel. "Henry Rosen. His trail led us to you, so I joined the Mallets to find out why he was willing to die."
He points the gun forward, closer to her. "And you learned what?"
"Died in the 8th Street Factory Fire," Annette gulps. "He set it because he wanted to end the Baron's grip on labor. He was an idealist, ideological. His pseudonym was Maccabbe because he liked the stories of their revolution."
"And your investigation ended?"
"Yes," she nods quickly.
"How much does Cordelia know about our operations?"
"Very little."
"Define 'little.'"
Annette nods quickly, taking another hasty breath. "When I ran away from service I actually ran away. No contact with her until the raid on Wemberley."
Jarl leans back slightly, providing just a little reprieve from the threat of a bullet from his weapon. "I want specifics."
"She knows we freed collars. She knows about Bembrook's death and the fire."
"Did you tell her names?"
Annette grimaces and answers, "Yours, Failinis, Patrick, Guy, and Marian."
"Has she learned any real names?"
Annette shakes her head. "Only Marian, and only because she doesn't use a pseudonym."
Jarl purses his lips to think for a few moments. He stands, returning to the small fire as Annette shivers from both fear and the chill of the damp, dark room. The light flickers as the fire licks the edges of the barrel, and his form casts a large shadow over the wall. She returns to slowly trying to edge the knot closer to her, but with little success.
"So I am to believe," Jarl muses aloud, "that you remained because you were converted to our cause? I believe that's bullshit."
"It's true!"
He frowns at her. "You wish me to believe you spied on us for an owner, then joined because your heart was moved, then left and never came back?"
"You would have killed me had I returned!" Annette scoffs, leaping forward slightly only to feel her bonds hold her back.
"And I would have been right to do it," he mutters.
"I didn't return because you would have killed me, and now I'm a traitor for not coming back to die?" She furrows her brow, once again frustrated by the singularity of Jarl's focus. It was one of his great strengths, that he could compartmentalize and narrow his focus, and simultaneously it was his greatest weakness in Annette's eyes.
