Cameron To Candy

Lanterns bobbed behind them as the Trevain manor vanished into the dark, its marble pillars shrinking to ghostly white slivers between the hedges. The carriage rattled gently as the mare took the bend, hooves clopping over frost-slick stones. Candy had the reins, sitting a little straighter than usual in the driver’s bench, the night air pinking her cheeks.

Marcus glanced at the turn ahead, brow furrowing. “You’re taking Branding Lane? That’s like ten minutes longer. We should cut through Old Guard Road.”

“No, this way’s faster,” Candy said firmly, flicking the reins.

Marcus face-palmed. “Yeah, you never were much one for maps. Remember that time you got lost east of Bellefemme? You were halfway to Drapeville before anyone realized.”

“Shut it,” Candy shot back.

“No, seriously,” Marcus said, laughing. “You were gone for two days. We thought a ghoul got you.”

“Hey, not all ghouls eat people, you know,” Candy retorted, grinning sideways. “And it worked out. I got a good investment tip. Long story.”

Marcus gave her a sidelong look. “You never did tell me about that one.”

“Well,” Candy shrugged, leaning into the reins, “it started when—”

The mare suddenly tossed her head, snorting. Up the lane, a string of lanterns moved in time with heavy steps. Nine prisoners came into view, six men on one chain, three women bound in bright cord like festival corsets, neat diamonds crossing shoulders and hips.

Between them marched Warders with lantern poles and battle paddles, the flat steel edges gleaming like mirrors in the light.

Marcus straightened. “Arrest knots,” he muttered.

Candy’s mouth curved. “Paddlewick loves a pretty punishment.”

One man dawdled. A Warder snapped the flat of his paddle against the seat of his pants, a sharp thwack, resulting in an almost cartoonish yelp. “Keep moving.” The Warder commanded.

Candy’s mouth tilted. “Oh, I think that's the Shibari Nine. They finally got them!”

“About time,” Marcus said. “They’ve been hitting hunters and tourists outside Paddlewick for a month. Maybe two.”

The line drew even with the carriage. Marcus tipped his hat, got a curt nod back, and the column moved on, the women’s ropes clipped to the rear of the men’s chain, tidy as a diagram.

“They tied plenty of folks up,” Candy said, watching the dawdler step livelier. “Now Paddlewick returns the favor.”

Lanterns slid by, faces went with them, and the road opened again to hedges and hush. From behind came a captain’s voice, flat as an anvil, “Take them to separate rooms, tie them to the interrogation chairs, wrists behind, ankles to forelegs. Utility Hemp only.”

“What do you think happens to them?” Candy asked.

“Hmm, Josh explained this all to me once.” Marcus said, “If I remember right, they'll start with interrogation, you know, find out where they camped, where the loot sits, any names they’ve got on other crews. Separate rooms, truth-oaths on Veriday so they’re compelled to answer.”

“And after all that?”

“The Parading begins.”

“Parade?” Candy asked.

“Oh yeah,” Marcus said, tone almost conversational. “It’s actually… well, you’ve never been? It’s a whole festival. The men go on chains with their charges posted around their necks, marched through the market. Citizens wag fingers, shake their heads, whisper 'shame' at them. And drop a coin or two for the victims’ fund box. But it's blessed by the All-Temple priest, so kids go up and make a wish before dropping it in."

"How festive," Candy said dryly. "And the women?"

"The women are set in stockades with their ropework left tidy over their dresses. The unmarried men line up for their turns to practice for managing the wives they want to train someday, and the crowds cheer like it’s the midsummer games. I did it once, actually. Nasty gang. What was their name? Oh... shoot. It's on the tip of my tongue... oh this is going to bother me all night."

"Anyway," Candy prodded.

"Right, well, I took my turn up on stage. Five swats with the paddle. My father was proud. My mother, too, and my cousins Penny and Lennie came along. It's sweet when the girls in your family root for you. Women like that; it shows you have potential. I got a few looks from some. I almost asked one for a stroll around the festival, but, well, I lost my nerve." He chuckled at the thought of his pubescent hesitation. "You should have seen the street meats, they slow-cook them for a day, dripping glaze, sweet enough to make you forget you’re outside in the cold.”

“Wait. You seriously practiced your paddling technique on a prisoner?”

“Yep. But again, just five swats per man though. Or it would be too much for them.”

Candy made a face. “You think that’s fun?”

“Uh, well yeah, I mean, it was… lively,” he said with a shrug. “Afterward, the Warders sort them. If there’s family in Paddlewick, restitution is arranged. If another kingdom has a writ, they’re handed over. If not, men go to the road crews to pay their debts, or in the worst case scenario off to Garmouth Confederacy on term-of-year contracts. The women are given a choice: same indenture, or to apply for the Trouble Girl placements here. One path or the other, the scales balance.”

Candy stared out at the last glow over the hedges. “So, slavery? I can't believe Paddlewick would deal in that.”

“Technically, more like indentured servitude,” Marcus said.

Candy had been studying the Gourmouth Confederacy as part of her cover story. It was one of the nations her fabricated father was supposed to have been stationed in as a diplomat. The goblins there were profit-obsessed. They took precious metals, gemstones, art for sure, but they also traded in personal measures. They might take five minutes of your life, a tiny hint of your hair color, a bit of a person's creativity, or the big one, your soul. So, quite the range there. Even if the terms of service were limited, few would navigate out intact. She felt a little sorry for this lot.

“Don’t worry,” Marcus said, picking up on her feelings. “They went out of their way to make sure none of their victims died. They left them tied next to well traveled roads. Paddlwick notes that. They’re not likely to be sent to the goblins.” Candy took some solace in that.

The last of the lanterns vanished into the hedges, and the mare settled into her steady clop. Silence stretched as they turned onto Old Guard Road, Candy adrift in her thoughts.

“DonkeyPunch Pack!” Marcus suddenly barked.

“Bwaaaa!” Candy jolted upright, clutching her chest. “What the ice hell?”

“The gang,” Marcus said quickly. “That was their name. DonkeyPunch Pack. Man, they were a nasty bunch! Oh, that was going to bother me all night.”

Candy slumped back in her seat, still huffing.

"I'm so happy for you," Candy replied sarcastically, still breathing heavy from the start.

By the time they rattled into their own lane, the lamps were lit in the windows, a small comfort after the spectacle. Marcus unharnessed the mare, Candy gathered the day’s post from the box and threw it on the table. Inside, Marcus set his gloves on the table and sorted the stack.

“Bill, bill, Ministry notice…” He paused. “Ahhhhhh. Here we are.” He slid a folded sheet across the table. “This one’s for you, Cameron.”

Candy’s head snapped.

“What?”

“It’s from Greg,” Marcus said, extending the letter to her. She took it tentatively, almost in disbelief. There it was. “To Cameron Ailistar, From Greg Hemble.” She cut the envelope open and proceeded to read.

Hey bud,

Well look who’s still alive. About damn time you sent a letter. I was starting to wonder if you’d been eaten by a war goose or buried under a paperwork avalanche. Glad to hear you’re breathing, even if it’s somewhere else, eating soup with strangers.

Honestly, we were all surprised you got tapped. I mean no offense, but well you just wouldn’t have been anyone’s first choice for military service. You always did take assignments worse than the rest of us. Marcus was out there marching like a proper Paddlewick poster boy, Owen was polishing boots until he could see his own smug face in them, and you were the one with a broken strap muttering, “This is how people die, one bad belt buckle at a time.”

Anyway, keep writing, let us know you're still alive, but if you can't, don't sweat it. Just know the old crew’s still here, still giving Owen hell for his polished boots, still laughing the same way you remember.

Oh, and you’re welcome. I dug out that dumb drawing you did years ago of Marcus in a tutu riding a mermaid. I fished it out of his trash after he’d crumpled it. It’s been in my attic for years. I framed it yesterday and hung it up right over the home bar. Gonna show it to you both when you get back.

Stay safe,

Greg

Candy sat back and smiled. Goofball Greg. He was the only one to write back so far. That she knew of anyway.

“Thanks, big guy,” she said under her breath.

“Everything okay?” Marcus asked.

Candy smirked. “That depends on how you feel about cartoon mermaids.”