PORTCULLIS SANGUINE
(a Birthright Lord High Executioner Story: 4)
by Dru Pagliassotti
"Oh, what do you do with a drunken headsman?" the red-haired nobleman caroled off-key, staggering into his friend. The two young ladies with them giggled and screeched as Corbin straightened and looked at them. The girls' chaperones frowned with disapproval as the drunken singer picked up one of the ladies by the waist, carrying her a few steps toward the executioner's platform. "Look out, or he'll chop your head off!" She screamed and kicked until the nobleman let her loose.
They were attracting some attention from the townsfolk, who shook their heads and hurried on. Drunken young nobles did no honest commoner any good, and drunken young nobles who'd decided to bait Boeruine's Lord High Executioner were even more dangerous. The bartender of the Headsman's Rest, the small tavern that faced the platform across Executioner's Square, folded his arms over his barrel chest and leaned in the doorway, waiting for trouble to begin.
"Good morning, Lord Carvell," Corbin said darkly, giving the young drunkard a precisely executed bow. "Lord Feargus, Lady Aithne, Lady Arlean."
"See, now, he knows our names!" Feargus shouted, eyes wide with mock terror. "Look how he's eyeing our necks! Argh, he's going to chop them off!" The youth made a horrible ripping noise and pretended to swing a sword at Carvell, who clutched his throat and staggered.
Corbin tightened his lips and hid his disapproval. There were still two hours before noon, and the men were already drunk - and would be drunker yet before the execution, he expected. Well, with luck they would pass out soon, and the women's chaperones would convince them to spend the afternoon at some healthier pastime than watching a hanging. He turned back to filling a larger canvas sack with small, five-pound sacks of sand. The man to be hung weighed almost two hundred pounds. He still had thirty to go before he could test the trap doors.
Heels clattered on wood and Corbin straightened up again, letting his annoyance show as he glared at the noble walking up the platform steps. The aristocracy seldom had anything to do with him, but when they did, he had little choice but to put up with their whims.
"What a great view!" Carvell shouted. His friends cheered him on from the cobbled street, laughing. The nobleman stood on the edge of the platform and shaded his eyes with one hand. "You can see the whole town from here!"
As if you haven't been here before, Corbin thought resentfully, dropping another five-pound sack of sand into the bag. It was a common dare among the city's children to run up to the top of the executioner's platform and back down again. The bolder youths spent the night there, testing the old superstition that anyone who spend the night at the gallows would see ghosts. Corbin didn't mind it much, unless they carved their initials into the wood or played with the mechanisms. He didn't mind children playing on the gallows as long as they were gone when he had to work.
"So, Rook - how many people have flown off your perch here?" Carvell sauntered over and peered down at the bag Corbin was filling. "Fifty? A hundred?"
"Sixty-two, milord, since I've been working here." Corbin kept working, hoping the noble would get bored and go away.
"How many were women?"
"I've only hung three women, milord." He winced slightly at the memories that statement called up.
"Really?" Carvell seemed ghoulishly interested. "What's it like, hanging somebody?"
"It's my job, milord. I'm sure it's no different from any other job."
"No?" Carvell grinned. "Here, let me try!"
Corbin ground his teeth together as the noble tried to hoist the sack away from him and then groaned under its weight.
"Damme, but this is heavy! How much does it weigh?"
"A hundred and eighty pounds, milord. I'm not finished yet, sir." He was having a harder time hiding his impatience.
"Oh, you can have it back in a moment. I just want to see it fly." Carvell bent his knees, wrapped his arms around the sack, and heaved it up again. Staggering under its weight, he weaved around the platform. Irritated, Corbin stepped forward to stop him, grabbing the noble's velvet-clad arm with one gloved hand.
"I'm not ready -
Carvell jerked backward, out of his grasp.
"Don't you dare touch -"
Corbin drew a sharp breath as he heard the telltale crack of the trapdoors giving way. Without thinking, he lunged for the nobleman. The canvas bag brushed by his fingertips as Carvell gave a frightened shout and vanished. Corbin winced at the second crack.
When Corbin's grandfather had rebuilt the gallows after a storm had blown them down, he'd built the platform twenty feet off the ground for the merciful "long drop" being used in Brecht. Corbin's mouth was set in a grim line as he hurried down the platform steps.
Lord Feargus reached Carvell first. The young noble's face was white. Corbin took one look and felt his stomach clench. Carvell was sprawled beneath the dummy corpse, blood sprayed across the sand Corbin had just spread over the cobbles that morning. With a reeling sense of unreality, the executioner knelt beside the body, rolling the bag off his chest. The young lord's skull was broken, and blood streaked the side of his head and face. Corbin pulled off his glove and felt for a pulse. A faint tremor fluttered beneath his fingertips. In his professional opinion, it wouldn't last long.
"He's alive," Corbin said tersely. "Get a healer."
"By Haelyn, man, there's no time!" Feargus swore, face anguished. "He's going to die!"
Corbin felt the truth of the statement beneath his fingers. He leaped to his feet and grabbed Lord Feargus' doublet, yanking the other man upright.
"Get a healer!" he roared, fists clenched under the young man's chin. "NOW!"
Feargus' mouth opened, and then he turned, racing off into the crowd. Corbin spun around and glared at the townspeople who were gathering around the platform's base.
"All of you - get out of here!"
Nobody cared to get too close to the Lord High Executioner at the best of times. The townsfolk backed up a pace or two. Corbin turned and crouched beside Carvell again.
There was a secret in his family, one too dark for even a long line of executioners to speak about with comfort. A secret that could get them banned from the profession. A secret that could get him killed. A secret he was loathe to reveal for the sake of this young drunkard - but he didn't have a choice. He was an executioner, not a torturer or a murderer. As annoying as this young lord had been, he hadn't been a criminal.
Corbin stripped off his other glove and laid his hands on either side of Carvell's head, searching inside of himself for the cold, unpleasant fire that had tainted the Rook line since the Battle of Diesmaar. The family secret; the family shame. Proof of some ancient betrayal his forefathers had committed against the gods. The chill flame unfolded within him and licked through his arms, his hands, to touch young Carvell.
Carvell's breathing caught, and for a moment Corbin felt his own breath stop in sympathy and horror. Then the noble began to breath regularly again, and the executioner lifted his hands, wiped the blood from Carvell's brow. The physical damage was still there, but the bleeding had stopped.
He could only hope that it had worked well enough to keep the nobleman alive until a healer could care for him. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed what he'd done. The townsfolk still milled about in the square, staring at him, but none seemed alarmed. Good. He dipped his hands in the sand and wiped them clean.
"There!" Feargus shouted. A small group pushed their way through the crowd. Corbin moved aside as Feargus, Captain Bracken, another guard, and Maeve Aidhe, an elderly priestess of Nesirie, crowded under the platform.
The priestess frowned as she knelt next to Carvell, touching his face with her hand. She bowed her head in prayer. Feargus and the two guardsmen respectfully followed suit. Corbin pulled his gloves back on and looked up at the treacherous platform doors.
Normally they were held in place by a crossbar that could be dropped by a rope-and-lever arrangement from the top of the gallows. Corbin's grandfather - the engineer in the family - had installed latches on either side of the opening that would catch the doors as they swung open, holding them in place beneath the platform until they were manually released. The catches kept the trap doors from swinging back and hitting the corpse as it hung.
After pulling each body down, Corbin always reset the trap doors and put the crossbar into place. Always. And he hadn't yet released the crossbar for the day's hanging - he hadn't finished filling the body dummy.
Someone else had unlatched the trap doors.
The priestess looked up, lifting her hands from Carvell's head.
"That's all I can do," she said, looking grim. "The damage to his skull is serious. He needs to be put in bed, and constant watch must be kept."
Captain Bracken turned and pointed to two brawny men in the crowd. "You and you, get a board and carry Lord Carvell to his house." The elderly guardsman glanced at the cleric. "Will you go with them?"
She nodded.
"I will. He cracked his skull in the fall. I've seen such injuries before. There may be more damage than is apparent."
"Will he live?"
"I don't know." She turned and began directing the two townsmen. The captain looked up, then sternly addressed the others beneath the platform.
"How did it happen?"
"The cros-"
"This killer pushed him through the trap doors!"
Bracken gazed a long moment at Lord Feargus, then turned to the executioner.
"Rook?"
"The crossbar has been unlatched." Corbin narrowed his eyes as he gazed up at the mechanism. "No, weakened. Look, the catch is broken and its supports are nearly whittled away. It wouldn't have taken much weight to break the catch and drop the bar. It must have broken when Lord Carvell stepped on the platform."
"I saw you push him!"
Corbin gazed coolly at Feargus, struggling to hide his dislike for the young noble.
"This accident was the result of sabotage, not murder."
"Why, you -"
"Lord Feargus," Captain Bracken interrupted. "Are you charging Master Rook with attempted murder?"
Feargus' fists clenched.
"Yes."
Corbin stared at him, shaken out of his usual composure.
"But - he's alive," he protested. Bracken ignored him, looking grimly at the young noble.
"Are you sure, now?" the captain pressed. "This is a serious charge, especially against a man who's worked with me in the past. You're sure it wasn't just an accident?"
"He had his hands on Carvell!"
The elderly ex-soldier sighed, leaning a little more heavily on his cane.
"I'll investigate, you know," he said in warning. "There were a number of witnesses."
"This lout laid hands on a noble and pushed him to his death!" Feargus shouted, starting forward. Bracken held up a hand, halting him. "He's a bloody killer, just like everyone else in his family!"
Corbin struggled to control his temper, to maintain the famous Rook dignity under pressure. He'd never been as good at it as his father. Only the captain's presence kept him standing in place.
"Very well, my lord." Bracken frowned. "I'll arrest him and begin an investigation. Lord Feargus, I suggest you see to the ladies and to your friend."
"Do your job well, captain," Feargus warned, glaring at Corbin one more time before turning. "Just make sure you do your job well!"
"I always do," the captain said mildly. After a moment, he turned to face the executioner. Concern deepened the lines in his face. "Well, Rook. You know what comes next."
"You don't need manacles," Corbin said stiffly. "I'll go with you."
The captain nodded, and the two left Executioner's Square, followed by the whispers of the townsfolk.
***
"So, friend, what's your name?"
Corbin ignored the other inmate, sitting against the wall with his back straight and his legs pulled under his chin. They wouldn't allow a chair or a bunk in the cell - it was a bare room, with straw on the floor and chains embedded in the walls. Bracken hadn't bothered chaining him. He knew Corbin wouldn't try to escape.
The captain had promised to visit his mother and to investigate the issue as fully as possible. Corbin still felt worried. He knew the law nearly as well as the archduke's justices. Assault on a noble was a serious charge. If he were found guilty, the best he could expect would be a flogging - and the worst, a hanging.
The straw was dirty and smelled of rot and urine. He'd kicked as much of it away from him as possible before sitting down, but he knew that the smell and dirt was slowly seeping into his uniform.
"You can tell me - I'll be dead within the hour." The other inmate laughed bitterly. Somebody had slipped him a bottle of cheap wine, from the sound and the smell. Such favors were possible, for a price. Usually Corbin was the one who was approached with such requests, and if they were harmless, he often acquiesced. It was a way to supplement his scant income. "I'll start. My name's Duncan Goth, more often known as Duncan the Gallant, Highwayman."
"You shouldn't drink before you hang," Corbin said flatly, looking up. "You'll piss yourself."
"So I've been told. Doesn't seem very important. I mean, I'll be dead. Who the hell cares if I wet my pants?" Duncan stood and leaned against the bars of his cell, holding the bottle out. "Drink with a dead man?"
Corbin shook his head.
"No, thank you."
"It'd be a gentlemanly thing to do."
Corbin reluctantly unfolded himself and stood. He'd rather not drink out of another man's bottle, but neither did he want to break tradition. No Rook had ever denied any prisoner a last request, as long as it didn't interfere with the prisoner's sentence or their own duties.
Duncan sucked in a quick breath as he saw Corbin's face clearly for the first time. Then, to Corbin's surprise, he laughed and offered the bottle again.
"Well, if it isn't the headsman himself. You're on the wrong side of the bars, friend. Come to visit?"
"No." Corbin gingerly took the bottle and drank, then handed it back through the bars. The cheap red wine burned its way down his throat. He'd never been a drinking man, and when he did drink, he preferred better quality.
"Well, then, Master - Rook, isn't it? Of the great line of Rooks, who've lopped off heads and disemboweled and hung and drawn and quartered and burned and otherwise murdered hundreds of people for Boeruine for almost two centuries now?" The highwayman laughed. "You'll be hard-pressed to hang me in that cell!"
"I know," Corbin said, nettled by the man's sarcasm. "I suppose they'll have somebody else do it, or give you a stay of execution."
"Well, I can't imagine that there are many men interested in volunteering as an executioner, so I imagine it'll be a stay." Duncan grinned unpleasantly. "What did you do to get yourself arrested? I want to toast my reprieve!"
"Nothing. There was an accident. I was falsely accused."
"Sure, you and everyone else who's ever sat in one of these cells. Accused of what? Here, have another drink." He thrust the bottle through the bars again. "You look like you could use one."
For a moment, Corbin was tempted. At least the wine would keep him from thinking. Then he remembered where he was and shook his head.
"No, thank you."
The highwayman gave him a sharp glance.
"No eating or drinking twenty-four hours before the execution, eh? Just like you told me?"
Corbin turned away, back rigid as he gazed out of the cell. There was nothing to look at but the stone wall on the other side of the corridor.
"Who'd you kill?"
"Nobody."
"Me, either." Duncan gave a short, sour laugh. "And look what good it's done me. Duncan Gallant, Gentleman of the Highways. Never raped, never killed, just took a handful of jewels and coin off travelers who could afford it well enough. Didn't stop them from sentencing me to a dance at rope's end."
"Robbery on the archduke's highways is punishable by death." Corbin turned, lifting his chin challengingly. "Don't pretend you didn't know."
"Sure, and starving is punishable by death, too."
"You could have robbed once and then stopped."
Duncan gave him a lopsided grin.
"I had friends who needed feeding."
Corbin didn't deign to reply. Duncan shrugged and took another swig from the bottle.
"So, how's it feel to be a murderer? You look awful young for it."
"I'm not a murderer!"
"Don't give me that - you've killed plenty of men. How many?"
Corbin winced at the familiarity of the question.
"Sixty-two."
The highwayman whistled, a long, drawn-out note.
"Now, that's quite a number of souls to be carrying around! You must get a lot of company on the Eve of the Dead. The archduke doesn't like to let his gallows sit idle, does he?"
"Seaharrow is the last court of appeal. Most death sentences are brought to us one appeal and either deferred or carried out." Corbin couldn't help the trace of pride that entered his voice. "The Rooks are executioners for the entire realm, not just the city."
"And do you get a lot of respect, Lord High Executioner To The Entire Realm?"
"Respect?" Corbin felt a twinge of defensiveness. "The Rooks are professionals. The archduke himself gave us our title and coat of arms."
"So you sit in the archduke's hall and dine with the rest of the aristocrats, eh?"
Corbin turned away. Of course he didn't. The title had never been officially recognized, the coat of arms never placed on any herald's list. Nobody broke bread with the Rooks. Few even deigned to speak to them. That wasn't the point, though.
Duncan leaned against the bars, drinking again. The wine's sour smell was beginning to turn Corbin's stomach.
"And do you like your work, Lord Rook? Does killing people make you feel good? Do you look forward to it when you get up each morning?"
"It's my job." Corbin walked back to the wall and sat down again. "Soldiers kill, too."
"In battle, when somebody's trying to kill them." Duncan sneered. "Your victims are tied up like lambs going to slaughter. Don't compare yourself to a soldier - there's glory in battle. There's no glory in butchery."
"I don't see why there's any more glory in battle than there is in carrying out the law," Corbin said defensively. "I work for the archduke, just like his soldiers, and when I kill, I'm faster and cleaner than any half-trained mercenary swinging a bar of sharp steel around his head. What's more, I know that the people I kill are guilty and deserve to die. I don't kill innocent patriots just because their regent and my regent happen to be at war!"
"Why, Lord Rook," Duncan chuckled, "that's the most emotion I've seen out of you since I was dumped in this cell!" Corbin flushed and wrapped his arms around his knees again. "Now tell me, are you so sure that everyone you kill is guilty?"
"I believe in the archduke's system of justice," Corbin said stolidly.
"Even when you're on the wrong side of it?"
Corbin felt a twinge of doubt that he quickly banished.
"I didn't kill anybody. Captain Bracken will prove it, and I'll be acquitted."
"Good for you." Duncan looked up. "And speak of the devil, here he comes now! Good morrow, Captain Bracken? Time to go, is it?"
"You'll get your turn," the elderly soldier said tersely, limping to stand before Corbin's cell. Corbin stood, brushing in vain at his trousers, and walked up to face him. The captain lowered his voice. "Bad news, Rook. The boy went into seizures. Chaplain Aidhe stopped them, but she says something's wrong with his mind, that it's dying even though his body's still breathing. She says it's like he's got some sort of taint on his soul. He doesn't have much longer."
Corbin swallowed and grabbed the cell bars, feeling faint. Had he done that? He'd healed himself before, and it had never harmed him. But then, he was the one who carried the Shadow Taint.
"What do you mean?"
"I saw it in battle. Men like that - they're as good as dead. They go unconscious and they don't ever wake up again."
"Dead?" Corbin clutched the bars as though they were the only thing keeping him upright. Duncan's laughter cut across the turmoil of his thoughts, and he struggled to compose himself. "But I didn't kill him."
Bracken dropped his eyes.
"Someone may have tampered with the trap doors, but that doesn't get you off the hook. I've got three nobles saying you raised your voice to Lord Carvell and finally shoved him backward into the broken trap doors. Against them, I've got one bartender saying Lord Carvell was as drunk as an Avanil constable and reeled himself into the grave. Either nobody else saw the event or they're keeping mum." Bracken shook his head, glancing up at Corbin again. "Thing is, nobody wants to set their word against a noble's. It's too dangerous."
Corbin swallowed.
"You know I didn't kill him."
"I don't think you did." Bracken looked away, clearly ill at ease. "But Lord Feargus is upset, and he's pressing the accusation. Lord Carvell isn't likely to wake up and exonerate you, boy. Unless the young lord calms down or one of the ladies decides to change her story ...." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Rook."
"Th-" Corbin cleared his throat. "The sabotaged doors. There must have been a reason for them! Have you thought about that? About why it was done?"
"It won't make a difference," Bracken said heavily. "Prank, sabotage, accident - it won't make a bit of difference. You know you've got a temper. You should have learned to control it better. You shouldn't have touched him, Rook. You should have just let him do whatever he wanted."
"Would it have made a difference?" Corbin asked bitterly. "Or would they have accused me of killing him just the same?"
Bracken gave him a pitying look.
"I don't know, boy."
They stood in silence for a long moment.
"When will the archduke decide my case?"
"Tonight, I think. He's not pleased, I can tell you that." Bracken ran a hand over his grey-streaked beard, then sighed and looked up. "Well, boy. I'll come by tonight. And ... I'm keeping your mother informed, too."
"Thank you." Corbin slowly unwrapped his fingers from the iron bars of the cell. They ached. Another moment of silence, and then both walked away. The door swung shut behind Bracken, and a lock clicked. Corbin walked back to his wall, where he slid down and resumed his curled pose.
"Still believe in the archduke's justice?" Duncan drawled. "Kinda changes your perspective, being behind bars, don't it?"
Corbin didn't answer, resting his chin on his knees. There was very little left to say.
