Page 40

Gifts

Callum

The receiving room was meticulously clean, from the pristine painted walls to the imported ceramic tiles on the floor.

If he were on duty, Callum would have stopped by the standing room to dust off his coat, hang it, and utilize the shoe brush.

But he had never been one to stand on ceremony and had always found the custom impractical.

Dust and sand were everywhere.

Always.

A waste of time and dime for a measly show of control. Callum noted the prints his boots left as he crossed the floor, and satisfaction tugged at his cheeks. The sour look on Jarlsen’s face confirmed that he too was thinking about the extra duties Callum had created. Good. Quilyn’s receptionist was an ass. For as long as Callum had known him, his loyalty to Quilyn had been his only redeeming quality. Taking him down a peg was a win in Callum’s book.

“Can I help you?”

The man’s voice was pinched as tightly as his nose while he assessed Callum.

Cal made a show of glancing at the plaque on the man’s desk: “Jarlsen.”

He watched as the clerk’s eyes raised to meet his own, though his head still drooped over his ledger.

Of course, Cal already knew the man’s name.

There was no response, the man just stared as he hunched over his papers.

“I wish to schedule an appointment to speak with the magistrate,”

Cal told him.

“May I have your name, sir?”

The clerk’s pen hovered over the page and a drop of ink splattered on the line as he waited.

It would seem two could play at this.

“Colonel Callum Reid. R-E-I-D.”

“What is the reason for your visit, Colonel?”

He asked, his pen scratching over the page.

“Rumors have arisen that need to be put to rest, and I intend to do so here and now.

You may pass on to the magistrate that the accusations set against me are false, I have documentation to prove it, and I wish to correct this situation before it turns any uglier than it already is. ”

“Hmm,”

the receptionist murmured as he committed Cal’s words to the page.

Then he flipped open another ledger and scanned the page until he reached a blank square.

“The magistrate has availability in three days’ time, after midday.”

“There is nothing sooner?”

Cal was beside himself.

“I’m afraid not, Colonel.

His schedule is very full, though if I may inquire where you are staying—if anything changes, I shall send a messenger to alert you.”

Cal sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“As always, you’re still an absolute ass, Francis.”

Cal tipped his head and strode back out the way he came, his footsteps heavier than necessary, ensuring he left as much dirt across the tidy floor as possible.

Admittedly, it was an immature display of defiance.

And it didn’t make him feel any better.

He paused at the standing room, spotting a familiar figure inside.

Dark, shoulder-length hair, greying at the temples, was swept back into a low ponytail.

The man was bent, wiping his boots with a brush.

The magistrate.

How fortuitous.

Determined steps carried him into the small room, startling the other man.

“Reid?”

the magistrate straightened and turned to face him, his eyes darting around the room.

“Reid, what are you doing here?”

“Quilyn.”

Cal moved closer, keeping his voice low.

“I need your help.”

The other man was already shaking his head, but Callum interjected before he could get a word in.

“Listen, I know I should wait for an appointment, but this is urgent.

You know me well enough to know that I wouldn’t make a stink unless it was a big fucking deal.”

At Quilyn’s hesitant nod, Callum continued.

“I have a woman in my care who has been falsely accused.

My name is being dragged through the mud so I worry that I don’t provide a good character witness, but you know me.

I was hoping you could meet with the woman and help me get her charges dropped so she can get back home.”

Quilyn looked around the room again, moved around Callum, and closed the door, before turning back to him.

“You know I want to help you.

You saved my ass a few times so I owe you.

Consider this my favor.

I can’t help with that issue.

I can help you clear your name and restore your career, but in regard to the first problem, my hands are tied.”

“Your hands are tied? What the fuck does that mean?”

Callum dialed back his tone, bringing it back into a conversational one.

“It’s not an “issue”, Quilyn.

She’s a woman, and she needs your help.

She needs our help.

She’s innocent.”

“This goes higher than me, Reid.”

His shoulders bowed at the statement.

The admission seemed to age the magistrate by ten years.

“You’re the fucking magistrate! There is no higher authority here.”

He tried to keep his voice low, but anger gave it a cutting edge.

He shook his head at Cal’s words, a hint of irritation entering his voice.

“Believe me when I say, I’d bring the fire down on them, if I only thought they would get burned.”

His fists clenched, knuckles going white before he sighed and relaxed his hands.

“Cal, you know I would help you,”

he repeated.

“I want to help you, but this goes beyond me.”

Quilyn’s quiet statement only grated Callum’s nerves more.

“Let me get this straight.

You’re suggesting I should just abandon an innocent woman in the hands of a sadistic, rogue captain, who will hurt her, and then go back to work under the same people who allowed this gross miscarriage of justice, like nothing happened.”

“I wish it didn’t have to be that way.

Truly, I do.

If you choose to stay with the Arryvian, I wish you all the luck in the world.

I won’t say a thing to anyone, you have my word.

Just keep your head down, the Black Coats are out in force for this.”

Callum stared hard at him, his teeth clenched so hard they ached.

How did he know the woman was Arryvian? Quilyn continued through Callum’s silence.

“You know, I’ve received reports that the Black Coats are looking for a tan woman with pointed ears, facial tattoos, and waist-length curly hair.”

Quliyn gave him a pointed look, his eyebrows high on his forehead.

“Though, how they plan to see past ladies’ bonnets and cosmetics, I can’t be sure.

It seems like they’re looking for a native Arryvian sticking out like a sore thumb.”

The conversational tone slid away, and Quilyn turned his head, hesitating a moment before saying earnestly, “I wish I could do more.”

Callum opened his mouth to argue, to demand something, anything that could actually help them but a voice rose from behind him, a deferential tone setting his teeth on edge.

“Magistrate, your post-lunch appointment should be here any moment.

Shall we go over the notes?”

Callum stalked toward the door, the urge to kick it down nearly overwhelming.

“Jarlsen.”

Callum could hear Quilyn saying as he left.

“Scratch that last name from the appointment book.”

Without another word, Callum flung the door open and marched out of the building.

He had no idea where he was going, only that he had to keep moving, or he would end up punching something, or someone.

He stalked down the street of the courthouse, passersby taking one look at him and moving to the other side.

He must look awful.

He forced himself to slow down, taking deep breaths until the urge to smash someone’s face was less severe.

Now what were they going to do?

He could take her over to Brabaccus, speak to the magistrate there.

It was a journey, almost a week even if they pushed the sandstriders.

But really, there was no guarantee that the same issue wouldn’t rear its ugly head again.

Callum shook his head as he slowed, stepping into the shade of a nearby building and leaning against the warm stone.

He was sure Sullivan’s influence wouldn’t reach this far, that once they arrived the situation would be resolved.

But he was forced to admit that there was more to this. Some shadowy group or benefactor was backing Sullivan’s play, and if they could force a magistrate into compliance?

There was no hope for them at all.

Callum took off his hat, swiping a hand through his hair.

That wasn’t true.

There was hope— no, a chance for justice— for them.

For her.

But it wouldn’t be found here, or in any courtroom.

It would be found on a boat bound for Gallilian. It would be found as she was returned to her people.

Maybe the whole system was corrupt.

Perhaps by righting this wrong, he could absolve some of the guilt that had plagued him since he came home to discover Barlow’s death.

If they’d been wrong about him and still executed him anyway, then they could do the same to her.

Callum shoved the hat back on his head, his gaze grim.

If the law couldn’t pass a valid judgement, he would.

He had.

The trial began when he had her on the ship, and concluded today when she answered him with a clear gaze, that she had nothing to do with those crimes.

And now it was up to him to carry out her sentence; a return to her home, and freedom.

He had given her his word.

His mind made up, Callum glanced up at the sun, checking the time.

He still had a while before he would be missed, and now would be a perfect opportunity to get the supplies for his plan.

Rumi would be perfectly safe in the inn, and she was too smart to go wandering off.

The bells of the local church tolled as he emerged from the shadow of the building, the sound jarring to his ears.

He tried not to let it bother him.

It meant nothing.

Nevermind the way it echoed the warning bells in his head.

He turned down a narrow road and went to find the local brothel where he hoped to pay the mistress for cosmetics and a couple of nice dresses for Rumi to wear.

Funny that Jameson’s spontaneous idea would now be their way to keep Rumi safe.

Also, he could pick up clothes that actually fit her.

Callum rarely had much to spend his money on, and the thought of helping Rumi in this way was strangely exciting.

Perhaps, something with lace and a pretty parasol for the railway ride to the coast.

Maybe a quality brush and hair comb with flowers on them like he’d seen other ladies wear. A smile turned his lips up as he thought about how she might react to his gifts. It put a little bounce in his step. After the terrible reception at the courthouse, it felt good to have a plan. Felt good to finally feel like he was doing the right thing. His thoughts were brighter as he made his way to the brothel.