SKELETON ROUSANT
(a Birthright Lord High Executioner Story: 5)
by Dru Pagliassotti
It was Emmanir, and the autumn air was cool and crisp, the leaves turning gold and scarlet. Carts clattered on the cobblestones through Executioner's Square, filled with the first fruits of harvest. The crowds had mostly dispersed from the square to go to market or to services, or to simply gather at taverns and wells and doorsteps to talk in hushed voices about the morning's events.
Corbin crouched on the gallows platform, head down, hands loosely holding a rag that dripped a deep crimson to rival any maple leaf. A pool of blood spread around his boots, sticky and surrounded by flies. Blood soaked the block that stood in the center of the platform, a few feet in front of the gallows arm. Blood smoked down the sides of the large, shallow brazier that stood on a narrow pedestal. Blood dripped down the stake that held the traitor's head upright at the front of the platform, staring blindly out toward the Sea of Storms. Blood soaked the knives and tongs and axe that Corbin had piled up to one side of the platform. Blood covered the split heart, the chunks of lung, the gobbets of liver and stomach that lay scattered around his feet. Blood covered Corbin's hands and arms and glistened across the front of his black uniform. And for the first time in his eleven years working on the gallows - in his three years as Boeruine's Lord High Executioner - Corbin felt ill.
He'd hung nearly seventy people himself and helped his father hang hundreds more, for murder or attempted murder or highway robbery or any number of other offenses against the archduke's justice. He'd castrated twelve criminals before hanging them, for rape or incest. He'd cut off the head of one lesser noble. He'd branded five criminals on the hands or foreheads. He couldn't even count how many people he'd been ordered to flog or put in the stocks for a day. That was his job. He'd been raised to it, trained for it, and was proud of it.
Today, the rag in his hands trembled.
"Rook?"
He opened his eyes and looked down into the square. Quentin stood there, subdued. As soon as he saw that the executioner had noticed him, the bartender held up a pewter tankard, then set it on the steps. He quickly walked away, back to the Executioner's Rest across the square.
Today, even someone who had known him as long as Quentin gazed at him with trepidation.
Corbin stood and slowly began walking down the gallows steps. Usually he didn't like the heavy, smoky flavor of ale and only drank to be polite. Today, the hops tasted metallic, like blood. He drank deeply. When he set the empty tankard down, gore streaked the grey metal.
He climbed back to the platform and stepped over the entrails that dangled from the block to the brazier. The smell of burned flesh still drifted from the cooling coals. At least there wasn't much left to clean up. The head would stay on the platform until the archduke ordered it down. The four quarters of the torso were already en route to their destinations - neighboring provinces where they would be publicly displayed to remind citizens of the punishment for high treason. All Corbin had to do was pick up the intestines he'd pulled from the half-hung traitor's gut, the ones he'd burned while the dying man had looked on in horror. That and wipe up the blood.
But there was so much blood.
His soaked rag shoved the gore from side to side, disturbing the flies.
* * *
"Just a minute - I'll get him."
Mhairi gently let herself into his room and rested a cool hand on his brow. Corbin was still in bed, staring up at the rafters and trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. For the last three nights he'd taken herbal draughts to get to sleep, to drive off the nightmares. Otherwise, when he let his mind drift, he could feel the heat of the man's entrails in his hands - smell burning intestine - hear the dull sound of his axe splitting flesh and bone, decapitating and quartering the man. The herbs helped, but he found it hard to think clearly the next morning.
The Rooks prided themselves on being executioners, not torturers. Now Corbin felt unclean, as though he'd crossed some line between righteous punishment and gratuitous paindealing. He didn't know what to do about it. There was nothing he could do about it. The punishment for high treason was in the lawbooks.
Corbin was the archduke's man. He did as he was ordered.
"Honey, it's Captain Bracken. He says he needs to talk to you."
Corbin sat up. The captain had been a regular visitor over the last few months, discussing cases with Corbin and continuing their lessons in swordplay and criminology. He hadn't been by since the execution.
"Tell him I'm coming."
Fifteen minutes later, Corbin left his room, washed, shaved, and trimmed, dressed in his newest uniform. His mother had already brewed and served tea for their guest. She poured her son a cup as he sat down across from the greying captain of Seasedge's constabulary.
Bracken gave him a long, searching look. Corbin tried to ignore it. He knew he looked terrible. The mirror had showed him the dark circles under his eyes, the unhealthy pallor to his skin.
Emmanir. In five days, it would be the Eve of the Dead.
"You did well up there, if makes any difference," Bracken said at last. Corbin felt his hand jerk, and he set the tea down before he could spill it. "You looked professional. My men couldn't handle it. They stopped watching."
"The crowd didn't."
"You didn't have time to look around. Most of them turned away, toward the end. Some left. Not many - not with the archduke there, watching - but more than you might have guessed."
"I was afraid that I'd forget something." He stared down at the leaves floating in his teacup. "That I wouldn't be able to finish."
"You did well," Bracken repeated. "The archduke was pleased."
"I know." Corbin looked up. "He paid well."
The house around them was new. Their old house had burned down in the spring. The masons and carpenters of Seasedge had been busy all summer, rebuilding the shops and homes that had been lost to arson. Corbin had captured the wizard who'd started the fires. As reward, the archduke's gold had paid for their new house, a small but solid structure with thick, stuccoed stone walls and a red-tiled roof. The archduke's gold had paid for the table and chairs they were using, the cups they were drinking from, the new clothes Corbin and his mother were wearing. The archduke had been very generous then, and he'd been generous again three days ago, paying Corbin twenty times the normal executioner's fee for carrying out the day's gory work.
Corbin couldn't say it to Bracken. He couldn't say it to his mother. He hardly dared say it to himself. But he was beginning to mistrust the archduke's gold. Each coin he took from his liege seemed to have been weighed against somebody's blood.
He sighed.
"So. What can I do for you?"
"The man you killed - he gave us some important information about where to find Arian Ousel."
"Kirche." Corbin rubbed his forehead. "I thought she'd crossed the border already."
"That's what we all thought. But it seems she didn't trust Khorien, not after the baron sent Flicke to kill Eloin. She didn't dare cross the border into Taeghas after that - she knew what would happen to her. Apparently she's got family in Fhoruile and fled there."
"She's a mage. You'll never find her."
"She's a traitor, Rook. She helped Eloin gather information about Boeruine's defenses and magically warded the documents he gave to Flicke."
Corbin shoved his chair away from the table, glaring at Bracken.
"I can't do it! I can't kill another one like that - Kirche, Bracken, not a woman. Not like that."
The captain gazed steadily at him.
"The archduke has decided that you and Magus Gereint should go out and find her."
"Why me?"
"He trusts you. We both do."
Corbin groaned, running a hand through his short-cropped hair.
"I'd go myself, but I can't ride that far anymore." A sword thrust had severed the muscles in the captain's leg, years before. The leg had never healed properly - he'd been in the battlefield, and the chiurgeons there had no healing magic to waste on a nonfatal wound. His injury had ended his military career, but he'd started a new one as Seasedge's captain of the constabulary. "There are other constables I could send who are better fighters and better investigators than you. But I trust you, and the archduke trusts you. We know you can't be bribed to let her go. And as far as I know," the captain said with gruff affection, "you don't have any dark secrets she can blackmail you with. And we all know that you won't flinch from killing her just because she's a woman."
Corbin slowly pulled his chair back up to the table. His mother gave him a sympathetic look, sipping her tea, but he didn't need to ask to know what she'd say. Mhairi had always insisted that duty was more important than personal feelings or preferences.
He took a deep breath and spoke as earnestly as he could. He had to make Bracken understand.
"I can't go through another execution like that, captain. It's not a matter of whether I want to or not - I - I just can't."
"Then don't bring her back alive," his mother said gently.
Bracken gave Mhairi a startled look. Unfazed, Corbin's mother set her teacup down and gazed at her son. He looked back uncertainly.
"She's been accused and found guilty of treason by the archduke. But the journey to Fhoruile and back again will take days. If she dies on the road, dear, she'll be just as dead as if she died in Executioner's Square."
Bracken opened his mouth, scowled, then tried again.
"I was going to suggest that to him," he said at last, his expression dark, "but not in front of you."
Mhairi turned her mild look on the captain.
"I'm not a naive court damsel, Halder. I know the ways of the world. There's more than one way for Corbin to do his duty to the archduke, and I'd rather he did it without destroying himself. Look at him - he hasn't been himself since that execution. He has nightmares, he's afraid to go back to the Square and see that head standing there - I won't permit him to go through that again, not until he's ready. He needs time."
Corbin looked down, embarrassed. His mother was right, of course, although he couldn't begin to guess how she'd figured out that he was afraid to go back to the Square. He hadn't said anything about it. But she always seemed to know everything. Which reminded him ... he glanced curiously at the captain.
"Halder?" he asked.
"Women," the captain growled, abashed, "don't like to use last names. Your mother's right, though. You don't have to go through that again. To tell the truth, I don't think the archduke wants you to. When people see too many executions like that, they start getting scared and restless. Once is enough. So don't bother trying to take Ousel alive, and if you do, well ... make sure she dies when she tries to escape."
"Th- that's murder," Corbin whispered, shaken by the coldblooded turn the conversation had taken.
"That's execution," Bracken said firmly. "You're just not doing it on the platform."
"But - I don't - even if I did - what about Gereint?"
The captain leaned back in his chair, sighing.
"I don't know what he'd think," he admitted. "I don't know much about him at all."
Corbin nervously tapped a finger on his tea saucer, remembering how the spying wizard Flicke had died. Bloodtheft - in his cell. Both the archduke and Gereint had been there, although Corbin didn't know which one of them had actually thrust the weapon through Flicke's heart and stolen the mage's bloodline.
"He's not afraid of murder," the executioner said softly at last. "But I don't think he likes me."
"He doesn't have to like you. He'll be there to counteract any sorcery Ousel uses. Your job will be to take care of the physical end of things. The gods know Gereint can't."
Corbin covered his face with his hands, thinking. Getting away from Seasedge for a while seemed like a good idea, even though it meant traveling with the sickly, prickly wizard. Maybe going away would clear his head, let him get a full night's sleep for a change. And as for Ousel ... surely killing her in cold blood could be no worse than what he'd just done. At least he could kill her quickly, cleanly. Without dishonoring his profession. But -
"The Eve of the Dead."
"You just stay indoors that night," his mother said promptly. "You'll be fine, dear."
"All right," he sighed, letting his hands drop. His stomach shifted queasily, but he really couldn't refuse his archduke's orders. "I'll go. You'll put a hold on all executions?"
"I'm sure as hell not going to execute anyone myself," Bracken said with feeling. Corbin wanly smiled. The captain hadn't enjoyed his one stint on the gallows platform, and he hadn't done a very good job of it. "I'll take care of everything here, Rook. You deal with Ousel."
***
Corbin slid out of his saddle with a sigh of relief. There wasn't much call for the Lord High Executioner to leave Seasedge, and from month to month he didn't spend much time on horseback. The first few days of the journey had left him stiff and sore, and even though he'd eventually grown accustomed to riding again, it still felt good to stretch his legs.
The journey hadn't been as uncomfortable as he had expected. Boeruine was a lovely country in the autumn, and the forests of brilliantly hued leaves and fields of neatly aligned haystacks had soothed some of the tension that had been knotting his shoulders, eased some of the acid that had been burning in his gut. Gereint had turned out to be a cold but quiet traveling companion, saying no more than was necessary and spending most of the time huddled in his layers of coats and scarves. He wasn't a healthy man. Sometimes his coughing fits were so violent that Corbin stopped and steadied the mage's horse, worried that each gasping breath might be the mage's last. So far Gereint hadn't collapsed, but crimson stained his lips and handkerchief after each fit, and the shadow of death was almost visible over his shoulder.
"Sir." Corbin took Gereint's reins and held the horse steady while the mage dismounted. Gereint stood with one hand on the saddle, coughing, then nodded sharply and headed to the inn to make arrangements. Corbin left their horses with the stableboys, then hoisted the saddlebags over his shoulders and entered the inn.
The inn seemed unusually crowded for such a small town. Corbin paused to let his eyes adjust and found Gereint sitting on a bench, waiting. The mage wordlessly got to his feet and led them back through a hall to the room he'd taken. Like most of the country inns they'd stayed at, the room contained only one large bed, wide enough to hold up to five people at once. And as always, Gereint had made sure that they'd rented the whole room to themselves. The mage didn't have any qualms about spending the archduke's silver or insisting that an innkeeper throw out the other guests to accommodate him.
Corbin would have rather slept in the main room, given the choice - the mage coughed all night and tossed and turned in his sleep. Besides, Corbin was an only child and had grown up with his own bed at home. He wasn't used to adjusting to somebody else's sleeping habits. But Gereint expected him to stay close, relegating the executioner to the status of manservant. The demotion should have rankled, but in fact Corbin didn't find the work onerous, and he certainly didn't expect the sickly mage to carry his own bags. He just wished he could sleep in his own bed instead of suffering Gereint's restlessness.
"Here you are, sir." He handed Gereint his bags. The mage negligently let them drop on the rickety chair by the bed. Corbin began methodically unpacking his own. "Do we start looking for her immediately?"
"No." Gereint sat heavily on the side of the bed. "Tomorrow."
"Is that safe? What if she recognizes one of us tonight?"
"Take off -" the mage started coughing, but Corbin didn't need him to finish the sentence. He pulled off his wool coat and unlaced his black jerkin, with its telltale embroidered badge. The red noose on a silver background would be recognized anywhere in Boeruine. He slipped the jerkin off and shivered. There was a bite to the air.
"Still looks like a uniform." The mage gestured impatiently at his black trousers, tucked into well-polished black leather boots. Corbin frowned.
"These are the only clothes I own."
The mage gave him a disgusted look.
"G -" Gereint paused to cough, shoulders shaking. "Gloves."
Corbin reluctantly peeled off his leather gloves and dropped them on his jerkin. He felt uncomfortable in his shirt and bare hands, looking like any common laborer - he liked his uniform and the sense of security it gave him. But orders were orders. Still shivering, he pulled on his battered coat again. Gereint dismissed him with a curt nod and laid down to try to get some sleep.
***
"Your master's not very talkative," the innkeeper said cheerfully, striding up as Corbin found a seat by the large fireplace. "Don't like company, either."
"He's ill."
"He sounds it. Not very nice for you, eh? Hope you don't catch whatever he's got."
"Me too," the executioner said with sincerity. He leaned his elbows on the tabletop. "He didn't inconvenience anybody?"
"Oh, nothing a little shuffling didn't settle. We're not full up yet, though tomorrow we will be, for the Eve celebrations. You want something to eat or drink? I've got a good leek and turnip soup on the fire, and your master's settled up your credit already."
The Eve. Corbin took a deep breath, feeling the tension return.
"That's tonight?"
"Tomorrow night," the innkeeper corrected him, amused. "You've been on the road a while, have you? You ought to stay here tomorrow. Your master only paid for the one day, but you won't want to be traveling come nightfall. The church here has dawn and dusk services and hosts a good feast, and there'll be a fair in the marketplace. Lots of dancing and music and masking. Besides, your master sounds like he could use a day of rest, with all that coughing. I'll hold the room until I see you tomorrow morning; you can tell me then if you want to keep it."
"Thank you." Corbin shivered despite the fire at his back. "I expect I'll be able to convince him to stay."
"Good - you'll enjoy the celebrations. So how about that soup?"
"Yes - fine. And tea, please."
The Eve of the Dead. Corbin stared down at his bowl of soup, listlessly stirring it back and forth. He'd never been to an Eve of the Dead celebration, although his father had taken him to the temple of Cuiraécen - whom their family still called Kirche - for Eve of the Dead services since Corbin had been old enough to walk and talk. He and his father had risen before dawn and washed in water infused with herbs and oils. Then they had pulled stiff, cedar-scented stoles off the top shelf of the wardrobe and draped them over their left shoulders. The heavily embroidered white stole had covered Raaf's executioner's badge, and with his somber black uniform underneath, he'd looked like some sort of clergyman. When Corbin had been small, they'd folded and pinned his stole up so that he wouldn't trip over it. As he'd grown they'd let it down, and after he began assisting his father on the gallows, the stole had hidden his executioner's badge, too.
He and his father had always arrived at the temple before anyone else except the chaplains. The clerics had ushered them silently to one of the small, candlelit chapels off the transept. There they would kneel, listening to the services and silently following along.
Corbin sipped his cooling soup, remembering.
When everybody else had left the church to put on masks and dance and feast all day, Raaf and Corbin had stayed behind, keeping vigil. When Corbin was young, he'd hated it. He'd spent hours kneeling on the hard floor, sickened by the bittersweet incense, his mind wandering and his legs falling asleep. But his father had always been so grim about the day, so intense about his prayers, that Corbin had never dared to protest. Instead, he'd wonder wistfully what everyone else was doing. The temple of Cuiraécen always held its Feast of the Moon outside, and sometimes Corbin could smell the strongly spiced food, hear the low buzz of conversation from the feasters, even where he knelt in the depths of the church.
He and his father wouldn't leave until after evening service, when they hurried with the rest of the worshippers to get home before the bells rang vespers, before nightfall. Then they ate their single spartan meal of the day, Mhairi silent and worried. After that they washed again, and Corbin and his father spent the rest of the night kneeling silently in the main room, praying. When Corbin had been young, he'd fallen asleep during those long nights. When he'd awoken the next morning, it was to find that somebody had carried him to bed. Later, when he was able to stay awake all night, he'd heard the pounding at the doors and shutters and the multitude of voices calling their name. He'd seen the cold sweat of horror trickle down his father's face and watched his father tremble and cover his face. But he'd been too young to understand. He'd thought that maybe he was there to protect his father, that as long as he stayed awake and nearby, his father would be safe from whoever was outside.
His father had died three years ago of a winter fever that had never broken. Corbin had been told the truth about the Eve of the Dead when he was twelve, but it wasn't until he took the job of Lord High Executioner himself, instead of simply acting as his father's assistant, that he had really understood what had make his father shudder and weep on those long nights - what had been outside, trying to get in.
"Is there something wrong with the soup?"
He looked up. The woman was tall and lanky, with brown hair cropped short and eyes the same color as her hair. She wore a roughout jerkin and a pair of men's trousers tucked into battered walking boots. A plain longsword was belted around her waist. She dropped a heavy leather greatcoat onto the bench across from him, shoved her sword out of the way, and sat down.
"Mind if I join you?"
"No." Corbin looked down at his soup, and realized he'd hardly eaten any of it. His stomach was churning uneasily at the old memories. "The soup's fine. I'm just not as hungry as I thought."
"You look like you stopped to think and lost your way," she said affably. Her sleeves were rolled up and scars criss-crossed her muscular arms. Her tanned skin and the lines around her eyes and mouth spoke of a lot of time on the road under the sun. "I'm Peren."
"Raaf," Corbin said, using the first name that came to mind. His father's name. She didn't look like Ousel, but the woman was a mage, after all - who knew what sort of veils she might be able to throw over her appearance?
"Are you in town for the Eve celebrations, Rafe?"
"Just passing through," he shrugged. "You?"
Peren paused long enough to order a bowl of soup and a mug of ale, then folded her arms on the table.
"Looking for a murderer called Emrys Ban. He killed six people in Nietier a fortnight ago and fled."
"Really?" Corbin frowned. "What does he look like?"
"Oh, about five foot nine, ten, blond hair, blue eyes, nondescript features. Maybe long hair, maybe short, maybe a beard, maybe not. He was traveling light and hard, though, and he was armed."
"That's not -" the executioner paused, then met her eyes. She stared intently at him, expression neutral and expectant. "That's not a very good description," he said stiffly. "It could describe hundreds of men."
"True, and if hundreds of men just like that were riding on this road, I'd have cause for concern." The innkeeper returned with her meal and she took a sip of the soup. "Not bad."
"I'm a stranger here and I don't carry any papers." Corbin frowned. "My traveling companion can vouch for me when he wakes up."
"Did I accuse you of anything?"
"Not directly." Corbin picked up his tea, which was growing cold, and drank it anyway. "Are you a bounty hunter?"
"That's right. I guess my reputation hasn't preceded me yet."
"No." The executioner gave her another sidelong look. He didn't recognize her, but then again, he'd hardly met all of the bounty hunters in Boeruine, much less Anuire. Less than a quarter of the criminals he'd hanged were brought in by professional catchers, and when they were, they were usually turned over directly to Captain Bracken. On the other hand, he was surprised that she hadn't recognized him. A lot of bounty hunters liked to stick around long enough to see their quarry dead - and Boeruine's capital wasn't a bad place to spend a bounty. Maybe she was from another realm. Bounty hunters traveled a lot.
Still - what had she called him? Nondescript? He'd never given much thought to his own looks, but he supposed it was as accurate a description as any. The thought irritated him, a little. For better or worse, he was used to being recognized.
"So what do you do, Rafe?"
"I'm...." he hesitated. He could hardly tell her what he really did, and claiming to be a constable would be no better. But he had to explain the sword around his waist somehow. "I'm a bodyguard."
She looked skeptical, and he wryly thought that he wasn't doing himself any favors, making up a story on the spot. In the future he'd have to be better prepared.
"For who?"
"My master."
"Who is?"
"Ill and sleeping in the room." Corbin gave her a bland look, pleased with himself. He didn't want to make up a story for Gereint until he'd had a chance to talk to the mage first. She tipped her mug to him slightly, acknowledging the evasion.
"Well, you don't look much like a killer," she said, taking a drink, "but then, they never do."
"That's true," he agreed solemnly. He'd often thought the same thing himself, face-to-face with the criminals he was about to execute.
"How many people have you killed?"
"Si -" he stopped in mid-word, flustered. As an executioner, he heard the question so often that answering it had become automatic.
Peren smiled slowly, looking like a cat that's cornered a mouse.
"Six?"
"Not your six." He felt his face going red. Thank Kirche he hadn't finished the number.
"We can do this easy or we can do this hard, Ban." She set down her mug and leaned forward. "I don't particularly mind killing you. I get a bounty either way. It's just a little higher if I bring you in alive, and then I don't have to worry about running into you tomorrow night."
Corbin sighed. This was becoming more complicated by the moment. It would be funny if the stakes weren't so high.
"Look - I'm not your murderer. I'm traveling with somebody, and your man is probably alone, if he's a fugitive. Mag - my master can vouch for me. I just don't want to wake him up right now because he's very ill and he needs his sleep."
"Maybe." She settled back into her seat, callused hand curling around the mug. "You don't mind if I sit with you for a while until he wakes up, do you? Just to be sure?"
"While you're harassing me, your real murderer is probably getting away."
"Maybe," she repeated, not looking too concerned. "But a bird in the hand...."
Corbin waved to the innkeeper and lifted his cup of tea. The innkeeper nodded and went back to fetch the teapot.
"All right." Corbin eyed her grimly. Might as well put the time to good use, he thought to himself. "So tell me what it's like, being a bounty hunter."
