In Which Tarpley Discusses Himself Reluctantly

Jem Tarpley to Nicholas Rafe:

Well, it’s kind of you to show an interest in my small past. If I hold it back it isn’t with the view of making it seem more interesting, but because I truly don’t believe it would interest you – you come from the glittering life of a court, and have been surrounded by people more fascinating than I could ever be. But I’ll tell you, since you ask, and I think you’ll agree with me in the end that it’s a waste of paper.

I grew up in the back rooms of the White Knight in Benford; my mother worked in the bar and ran her own flourishing business out of her bedroom. She was a jolly soul, who took things easy, and if it was a hard life for both of us she contrived to stand between me and the hardest parts of it. She never let a client in either of her professions raise a hand to me, and I know she resisted a certain amount of pressure as I grew older to send me to work in one of the seamier whorehouses.

Of course in a university town like Benford your clientele is going to have a larger proportion of educated men than it would here in the capital. My mother had one regular customer in particular, at the bar and upstairs, who was one of the poorest of the poor tutors, on the lowest rung in the university and unable to climb higher. She offered Master Otto free service and cost-priced ale in return for teaching me my letters: it was a decent bargain for both of them, and an excellent one for me, since I took to it immediately. I believe that eventually, the poor man started doing it for free, for the sake of having someone to talk to who appreciated him and wouldn’t put chamber pots in his bookcase and rats in his bed.

My mother died when I was twelve, and the whorehouses began to seem like a viable career choice, since I had no skills and was never going to be able to afford an apprenticeship. It was Master Otto who suggested the army, since it was at least respectable and they always needed people. There would be no question of a commission, but perhaps I could still become an officer eventually if I worked hard to better myself. At least it was a future.

At that age, the only place available in the army is completely menial. I scrubbed floors, peeled potatoes, fetched and carried in the mess hall, and when I occasionally had liberty from these tasks, I was able to drum and drill with the men. Still, I was fed and housed and received a meager stipend, and I would have been lucky to get off that easily in the whorehouse.

When I was fifteen, we attacked Bentlefay on our southern border. I was too young to fight, but I saw enough of the aftermath of fighting that I feel I know it well. It wasn’t the fighting itself that I learned to loathe – I admit to a patriotic solemnity about the nobility of war – but the effect it has the fighters. Either you were a man, and had your honor and fineness and faith in humanity beaten out of you by the brutality, or you were a beast, and you enjoyed it.

There isn’t much in the way of options for a soldier who doesn’t want to fight, but I tried them: first, the quartermaster’s staff, then, the bearers. But I was still seeing war, and warriors, and without any respect – and as much as I deplore it in myself, I disliked being without the status of a fighter almost as much as I disliked fighting in the first place.

I determined to try working in the prison just about four years ago, assuming it wouldn’t last long: I couldn’t imagine that I could see suffering every day and not either lose my humanity or go insane. But I was surprised to find it bearable. I can go farther to mitigate suffering here than I could anywhere else, and the duties are blessedly solitary. I can read; I can write; I can think. A prison is a place of silence and alienation, but so is a refuge in its way.

There, you see how poor a story it is. But it’s only fair; if I must write to you about my inner life then you owe me reciprocity, and if I have indeed haunted you since the torture chamber as you were so kind to say, then you have haunted me for longer than that. I saw you in the court once, weeks ago, when I gave a message to the majordomo for Master Bleake, and I have been unable to get you out of my mind ever since, no matter the change in your circumstances. Your physical grace, your laugh, the air you have of belonging exactly where you happen to be – you intoxicated me at first sight. I never expected to so much as draw your eye, much less that you would know my name. When I came in with Sneat and saw you hanging on the rack, I felt such a mixture of elation and shame that I still haven’t sorted them out. Since then, such inner life has I possess has been bound up in yours, and your letters have awakened me to such awareness as I never thought possible.

I don’t mean to imply that I’m glad you were taken; if I could give up this inner life of mine for you never to have lost your freedom or your hand, I would, without reservation. I don’t think I’m a particularly good person, but I wouldn’t sacrifice your freedom for my happiness even in theory. However, I can’t pretend that your misfortune hasn’t been my great good fortune, or that I could ever have hoped to aspire to your attention by any other means.

I am as anxious as you are to meet, and while there is a sergeant here most nights of the week, tomorrow after seven I will be here alone. I only have the key to your grille, but I think I know where the door key is kept – if I can find it, we can be face-to-face by this time tomorrow. I will bring the wine regardless.

Yours,
Jem Tarpley

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