So I puffed out my chest and started marching toward him, my tone low and menacing:
You'll regret this, carpenter! Oh, you're going to suffer for this insolence! You blind or just thick? I'm an official! I can strip you of everything you have. So stop playing the fool and pay what's due.
What happened next felt like a hallucination. Or something close to it. I can't explain it to myself — let alone anyone else.
Without warning, Jesh dropped what he was doing, took two quick strides toward me — and then placed the edge of his palm to his own forehead, then to mine.
I yelped. The heat of that touch scorched me — worse than a blacksmith's forge! Or maybe it just
felt that way because I was scared half to death by the weirdness of it. The fire wasn't just physical
it flared up inside me
My mouth twisted — in pain, in rage, in sheer indignity — and I stared into his eyes. Blue. Strangely blue. Not something you usually saw around here.
And what I saw in them? Absolutely nothing.
No ocean. No stars. No revelations that might set my soul ablaze. Nothing at all.
But then… I did see something. Something worse than the heat, worse than the shame. I saw pity.
That all-consuming, unbearable, stomach-turning pity. The kind that makes you feel like a beggar without even holding your hand out.
How did I recognize it? Oh, I know pity all too well. As well as a moneylender knows the absence of a conscience. My father used to look at me like that — when sending off his so-called "wayward" son into the world. My friend Raban, too, when he thought I wasn't looking. But he was allowed. He showed me the light, after all.
Now I saw that same look in Jesh's eyes. But something was different. His gaze wasn't pitying me exactly — it was pity for the role I played. As if he thought I was just forced to act like this because of my rank. That I didn't actually want to be this way.
But that's not true. This is who I am.
I wanted to tell him that. I was ready to shout it, to shove it in his face — but when I opened my mouth… the words caught in my throat.
And still, not a single word from him. Not one. Just that unblinking, unwavering stare.
I couldn't take it anymore. I had to get out. Or, as I told myself — make a "tactical retreat." Step by step, I edged backward, my eyes glued to the floor.
He never looked away. Not once.
Then I slipped out of the workshop and broke into a near-run across the courtyard, not even noticing the girl by the gate — still standing there, smug little smirk on her face.
Should I be ashamed of running like that? Maybe. But honor only matters when you're not this terrified.
A New Venture.
In the beginning was the Word. And that word… was Failure.
That's how I'd describe my latest endeavor — a fresh start that already went up in smoke like poorly dried cedar.
After that memorable encounter with the peculiar Jesh, I faked a mild illness and asked to be temporarily relieved of duty. A few days later, I returned to my tax work — made the rounds, visited a few debtors — but the old spark just wasn't there. No drive. No bite. Just me and my lingering humiliation.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the memory of that carpenter's son. Deep down, I was still burning with shame over my ridiculous retreat. It gnawed at me. I had to prove — at least to myself — that I was better than that smug little upstart. Not just in rank, but in skill. In business acumen.
His hapless father clearly hadn't taught him how to run a shop. That whole family was drowning in mismanagement. And so I, in a bold show of independence and bruised pride, decided I would open a woodworking business of my own.
I didn't need anyone's help. I could do it all myself. Well — almost all myself.
Having parted ways with my previous employers (with more drama than I'd have liked), I didn't have much in the way of savings. So I went to my old friend Raban, hat in hand. Word had already reached him — that I'd fled my post as tax collector before even warming the seat. That I was a washout.
I used to be attached to the House of Publican Zechariah, working the strip from the southern gate to the edge of the marketplace. And it was far from there, very far, that I planned to set up my new — and inevitably successful! — little enterprise.
I said all this to Raban while he watched me with deep suspicion. I explained that there'd be no trouble with Zechariah, that I was going solo now — ready to take on the world with honest private labor. Soon I'd have a booming workshop, strong financial muscles, a full crew, and orders pouring in like manna from winged sandals.