Renard Chaffa interview

We sit on a pair of empty crates with a third between us, upon which rests some bread and cheese and a couple cups of wine. We’re in a secluded alley near the glassyards of Circle Ashe. I’ve offered him a gold nugget the size of a redberry for an honest interview and promised him complete confidentiality.
His crutches are laid down beside him on the cobbles. His clothes are little more than rags and he reeks of stale sweat and piss. His left leg is a withered twig beneath the threadbare cloth of his trousers. He gives me a knowing look as I give a small cough and rub my nose. I fight the urge to move my crate further back, my instinct telling me that if I treat him like everyone else does I will lose his trust, and the interview will be topical at best. I can tell his shaggy hair used to be raven-black, but now it’s mostly grey. His beard has fared a little better, though it’s as wild-looking as the rest of him. Lice is crawling through both. He looks to be in his late fifties by the lines on his face. His cheeks are sunken, eyes a piercing green, deep set in dark hollows above a slightly bent nose. His color seems a bit off, and there’s a sheen of perspiration on his forehead although it’s nearly winter in this region. He may have been handsome at one time, likely very much so, but now he’s pretty much a wreck of a man.
I ready my stylus and begin the questioning.
WHAT IS YOUR NAME AND WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO YOU?
He stiffens and shifts uncomfortably on his crate, looks away, then back. “This is a private interview, yes? Your word you’ll tell no one about my true identity?”
I nod. “You have my word. This is purely for me to get to know you better.”
He stares at me as if gauging my sincerity, then returns my nod curtly. His back straightens and his chin lifts a fraction.
“I am Renard Chaffa, formerly Captain Renard Chaffa of Circle Greene’s Paladins.” I can hear the pride in his voice as he recalls the past. There is a twitch in his cheek, then he continues more softly in his smoke-roughened growl. “They call me… other things these days. Saphead, cripple, and old crippled bastard seem to be the most popular. But around the markets and taverns they call me Hobble, or Hob. What does it mean to me? Failure. Failure and misery.”
HOW OLD ARE YOU?
He has to think about this, head cocked and brow crinkled, scrubbing at his tangled beard.
“Forty-three? Forty-four maybe?” He shrugs. “I’m not sure anymore. I’ve kind of lost track of… well, everything.”
WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
“Circle Greene.” No elaboration and no hint of feeling one way or another about the answer.
DO YOU HAVE ANY SIBLINGS?
“I have a younger sister, though I do not think she would admit it to anyone. Her name is Llewellyn. She lives in Circle Greene with her husband. He’s some kind of government official, I believe. They had two sons last I recall, but they are likely grown and out on their own by now.”
MOTHER AND FATHER?
He nods. “Yeah, I had those, one of each.” He sees my expression and sighs. “My father died when I was fourteen. Passed into the After in his sleep, very peaceful. He was only thirty-something. No he wasn’t sick, he just… went. My mother is still alive I think. I don’t know. Haven’t seen her since…” He trails off and snatches a cup off the crate, takes a long draught. His eyes seem to weigh me over the cup’s rim. “It’s been a long time, say that.” I can see that he’s uneasy and I back off, resolving to come back to that one later.
YOU SPEAK LIKE AN EDUCATED MAN. WHERE WERE YOU SCHOOLED? Hoping this will give me more on Ma and Pa.
He acknowledges my effort with that knowing look again, grunts and shakes his head slightly. One hand keeps fiddling with something through the pocket of his coat.
“Parochial school to begin with, then after I didn’t present with the Lifemage sigil at testing time, Father bought me into the military academy.”
SO YOU HAVE NOBLE BLOOD?
“No, no.” He shakes his head and gives a wry chuckle. Takes a sip and smacks his lips. He seems to be warming to me a bit. I hope. “Not noble, but my family was well off. Father was a bureaucrat, an army procurist or some such.” His brow furrows. “Huh. I never really gave it much thought but… we did seem to be doing better than a government stooge’s salary would provide.”
DO YOU HAVE ANY OTHER FAMILY?
So much for warming up. He goes cold. Fucking frigid, like an icicle. In a glacier.
“No.”
I switch topics in a hurry.
DO YOU HAVE ANY HOBBIES? Gods, I’m a fool.
His eyes widen. I’ve surprised him. He chortles snot into his mustache, wipes it away carelessly with the back of one grimy hand, slapping his good knee with the other.
“Hobbies?” he gasps when he can talk again. “Not freezing my tommies off is a good one. I also enjoy digging through rubbish bins for supper.” He reaches for the crusty end of the loaf I brought, adds a piece of cheese to it and pops it into his mouth, chews and grimaces. Chases the mouthful with a gulp from his cup.
“My favorite ‘hobby’ I have to say, is playing ‘find my fucking crutches’ when some arsehole takes them as I’m sleeping.”
The humorous glint in his eye fades and he twirls a finger in the air, telling me to get on with it. The hand drops back to feel at whatever’s in the pocket of his coat, like he’s subconsciously reassuring himself that it’s still there.
I skip past the next few questions – favorite season, favorite physical activity, favorite food – I don’t relish the thought of getting punched in the mouth today. I decide to take a chance on the next one though.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE PIECE OF ART?
His lips purse and he stays quiet for a long time. I’m starting to get nervous, then realize he’s lost in thought, perhaps reliving an old memory. “The statue of Martan, the First Paladin. I believe the sculptor was Arwyl the Cutter. It’s in the park near the Walk of Heroes in Circle Greene,” he finally says. More silence, but I don’t push him. And he continues.
“It’s where I proposed to my wife, Freda. We used to take lunch there when I was in the academy, near to graduation. At first I thought to impress her with my lofty ambitions – would you believe I used to compare myself to Martan?” He lets out a snort of self-reproach then, “Gods teeth, I was an arrogant sprat. I remember once telling her that someday my likeness would grace the Walk too.”
He goes quiet again, fingers pressing at his pocket. Finally, I can’t resist anymore. I nod at the worrying hand and point with my eyes.
WHAT’S THAT YOU KEEP FIDDLING ABOUT WITH?
He jerks his hand away from his pocket as though stung. Then, looking a bit sheepish, he reaches into it and removes a small glass pipe. The bowl of the thing is black-scorched, well-used. I recall his first answer then: ‘They call me a saphead, a cripple…’
And there’s my next question.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE DRUG, RENARD?
He grimaces, turning the pipe over in his hands, then drops it back into his pocket. He fixes me with a deadpan stare, nothing sheepish in it anymore, no shame and no apology.
“Whatever I can get. Murk sap mostly, when I can beg enough for some. Fivepoint when I can’t. There’s always fivepoint butts on the ground around the taverns.” He nods down at his crippled leg. “The murk helps best with the pain, and it helps me… forget.”
His face hardens, eyes narrowing, and he leans forward a little.
“You’re not one of them damned do-gooders are you? Thinking now you’ll pay me in food and clothes instead of the gold you promised?”
I hastily reassure him that I’m not thinking any such thing, reach into my own pocket and place the little gold lump on the crate next to my cup. He doesn’t snatch it up right away, but leans back again with a nod. On to the next question then.
RENARD –SORRY – HOB, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU? WHAT BROUGHT YOU TO THIS STATE? I ASSUME YOU WERE WOUNDED IN BATTLE, BUT DOESN’T YOUR GOVERNMENT HELP OUT THEIR WOUNDED VETERANS?
He’s silent for a long time, eyes fixed on the gold nugget as though debating whether it’s worth it.
“They do take care of their wounded,” he finally said. “But not traitors. Traitors they take care of with noose or blade. Luckily for me,” another snort, “they think I’m long dead already. And I suppose I am, though my body doesn’t know it yet.”
His hand drifts toward his pocket again, but he it stops with a conscious effort. His chin lifts and he catches my eye, holds it firm.
“I am no traitor, whatever they say. I was set up. By whom, I have no idea, and have long since given up hope of ever finding out.” He releases my gaze and slumps back. “They took everything from me. My wife, my daughter… my life. My men – I commanded a thousand fighting men in a unit called the Bloody Roses, perhaps you’ve heard of them, heroes every one – were all executed, them that didn’t die when we were betrayed anyway. Their families, and mine, were exiled into the southern waste. And all know what that means.”
He glances at the nugget. “Next question, and be quick about it. I’ve things to do.” His hands are trembling, whether from emotion or need of the murk sap I cannot tell, but likely both.
DO YOU BELIEVE IN A GOD, CAPTAIN?
I’m not sure what his reaction will be to my use of the honorific, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He nods.
“Aye, there is a god. His name is Kol and I’m pretty sure he hates me. But he has certain rules, and that’s the only thing that’s kept me from ending this hell myself. If I hope to ever see my sweet Freda and Madalene in the After, I cannot take my own life. Beyond that, I don’t feel I owe him a bloody thing.”
He leans down to scoop up his crutches, leans them against the wall beside him.
“Last question, and make it good.”
I skip past all of the soft questions on my list, going to the most important one, the only one that really matters in my opinion.
WHAT DO YOU WANT MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD?
He gives a soft snort, looking down at his hands. “I’m tired. I just want to die. I want to be with my Freda and Madalene again, though I don’t know how I’ll be able to look them in the eyes. I failed them. When I think of how their last days must have been spent, it’s all I can do to keep from screaming and raging, pulling out my hair and tearing my flesh with my nails. I just want to be done with this pain, this crushing guilt. I just want to die.” He looks up, eyes hardening. “But if we are putting impossibilities aside, first I want to find out who did this to me. I want them in my eye, and in my hand. I want to know why. Then I want to make them suffer as I have, as I know they did. [Meaning his family] I want to make them pay. I want to hear them beg. Scream. Plead for mercy that I will not give. I want justice – no, that’s not true. If I’m being honest here… I want vengeance. Bloody. Fucking. Revenge.”
His eyes fall again to his hands, which are white-knuckle-clenched in his lap. He heaves a sigh, shoulders slumping, and opens his fists to reveal the nail marks on the palms.
“But if we are really talking of impossible wishes, I suppose I want a second chance. I want to go back. I want to go back, knowing what I know now, and do it all over again. I want to go back and slap my stupid, naïve, arrogant self in the face and tell him how things really are. I want this whole nightmare to never have happened.”
He stares over my shoulder into the distance for a few moments, then catches my eye, locks them with his own.
“If I had to encapsulate what I want into a single concept, I suppose I would say I want… redemption.”
Captain Renard Chaffa heaves himself lurching off his crate, pocketing the nugget. He drains his cup with a final gulp, places it back on the crate, and flashes me a lazy salute.
“Good day, Mr. Author.”
He turns to go, then stops, looks back at me over his shoulder.
“I take back what I said earlier. Write your damned book, use my true name, I don’t care. Just make sure you tell them all that my men were not traitors. That’s likely the only ‘redemption’ they or I will ever see.”
And he leaves the alley in a clacking, hopping, three-legged sprint, off to the nearest murk den I’m sure.