The Executioner's Right (The Executioner's Song Book 1)

by D. K. Holmberg

  “There was no attempt on the viscount,” the other person said.

  He stepped forward, and Finn recognized him. The executioner.

  He was taller than Finn would’ve expected and solid, still muscular despite his graying hair at the wrinkles around his eyes. There was a hardness to him.

  “As you are well aware, I am traditionally tasked with obtaining confessions,” the executioner said, pressing his hands to his sides. His gray jacket and pants looked fancier than anything Finn had ever worn.

  “For which you have done well on behalf of the city,” the magister said. “We only thought—”

  “I’m quite aware of what you thought,” the executioner said without looking at the other jurors. “For this confession, I would prefer to be the one to procure the information the jury needs.”

  The Lion looked over. “I am more than capable. When the court sent me—”

  “I request one day with the prisoner,” the executioner said.

  The magister sat up and offered the executioner a placating smile. “I’m afraid we don’t have the time you request, Master Meyer. As King Porman will be visiting soon, the viscount would prefer to have this whole ordeal resolved as soon as possible.”

  Two thoughts came to Finn. One—the king was coming to Verendal? That would explain the curfew, at least. The second—that they wanted to resolve this quickly. That could work in his favor. If the executioner questioned him, he suspected he’d break even faster. So far, he hadn’t. Maybe this would serve as his lucky break.

  “He claims he worked alone,” the Lion said. “As that’s unlikely, given the circumstances of the attack, I think—”

  “If he’s working alone, then he should be sentenced alone,” Bellut said. “For such a crime, I would think banishment appropriate.”

  Finn’s heart sank. Exile. That meant leaving the city. Everything and everyone he knew. Starting over.

  “We need more time to know who else was involved,” the Lion said. “We discovered a silver statue in his known residence that had been stolen from a local merchant. More time would allow me to identify what else they have taken. If there are other crimes…”

  The statue.

  Finn had forgotten about that. Now it would help convict him.

  Stupid. Oscar would never have made that mistake.

  “I agree with Gerdan,” the executioner said, nodding to the Lion. “I will uncover the truth behind this before sentencing.”

  The magister leaned forward. “The viscount is most determined to see this resolved.” He looked at the other jurors. “Given the known crimes and his history, there is but one sentence the viscount would support given the king’s pending visit. The law supports it.”

  Finn had the sense that the jury would do whatever the magister requested. He served the king directly. His stomach sank. He had a sense the magister would not let him off lightly—if at all.

  “That’s not typically—” the executioner started.

  The magister raised his hand. “You are a servant of the crown, Master Meyer.”

  “As are you,” the executioner said softly.

  “Indeed. We have had far too many attacks like this of late. Far too many,” the magister added. “The viscount—and the crown—are determined to make examples out of each one until they cease. How do we know he’s not working on behalf of the Alainsith? It is therefore my recommendation that Finn Jagger be sentenced to death by hanging.”

  The words hung in the air a moment. Long enough for them to register with Finn.

  “Any opposed?”

  Finn prayed someone would oppose. Bellut. The juror the King had been speaking to who might be the Client. Other jurors. The gods knew even the executioner.

  None did.

  “It is so sentenced,” the magister intoned. “In three days, Finn Jagger will die by hanging for the crimes of thievery, breaking into the royal residence, and assaulting the viscount.”

  Finn felt everything begin to swim around him. His head felt heavy and light at the same time. He barely registered the iron masters grabbing him and dragging him from the room, and barely saw the executioner looking at him, a strange hardness mixed with some other emotion—disappointment?—in his eyes.

  All Finn could think of was that he would die.

  Chapter Eight

  Finn barely registered anything on the way back to Declan Prison. The streets seemed a blur of people, a mass of activity, but nothing he could keep his mind on. He kept thinking back to the way the magister had rushed through his judgment. They hadn’t even allowed him to say anything on his behalf.

  The stench in the streets alerted him when they reached Declan.

  Finn shook himself from his stupor. He had no choice but to do so.

  They were going to hang him.

  Three days. The crew wouldn’t have time to break him free. It was too complicated of a job in too short of a time.

  Unless he could find some way to escape.

  The pain in his legs meant it would be difficult now, but he couldn’t let that stop him. If he did nothing, if he let the iron masters bring him back into the prison, he would die.

  The prison loomed into view.

  A large building of black stone, it occupied one entire block of the city, with the shops across from it seemingly abandoned. Who would want to shop across from Declan? The slaughterhouse was nearby, which seemed fitting. The stench from the blood and the death drifted along the streets, though that wasn’t the only stench in this section of the city.

  Some of it came from him. From the fear leaving him struggling to walk.

  He looked up at the iron masters.

  They walked him steadily back toward the prison. They weren’t even holding on to him that firmly, not the way they had been before.

  His legs didn’t hurt the way they had before, either.

  Finn tested putting weight on them.

  He could run, but only if he could figure out where to run.

  All he needed was to get a little way from the prison. Then he could blend into the streets. It would be difficult in the prison clothing, but he would have to discard it and find something else. He was a thief, after all, and he could do that.

  Then where?

  Not to the Wenderwolf. That would come later. When the hunt for him died down. The Lion had proven they knew who he associated with, which would put the crew in danger if he went back to them. That meant he would have to stay somewhere else. Maybe even outside the city.

  Finn thought he could make it to the forest surrounding the city. From there…

  He’d have to go east. The road between Verendal and the next city over, Holaf, was difficult. The king claimed his peace extended throughout these lands, but his peace didn’t mean robbers and worse weren’t out on the roads, waiting for the first chance to steal. Traveling alone would make him an easy target.

  The forest itself wasn’t an option. The Alainsith magic meant he couldn’t go very far into the trees, but that also meant others couldn’t venture in after him.

  Maybe I could…

  Finn shook.

  The crew would protect him the way he’d protected those in it.

  He just had to get free.

  They neared the prison.

  If he was going to do something, it would have to be soon.

  He pulled on the nearest iron master. With a sharp jerk, he freed one arm.

  The iron master whipped his hand toward him. Finn reacted and dropped to the ground. His leg screamed at him.

  He had no choice but to ignore it. Doing anything else was certain death.

  The other iron master still held tightly to him.

  Finn jerked, trying to get it free, but the guard gripped him too tightly. Finn jerked again, straining to get his arm free, but he couldn’t.

  Gods! Help me.

  He offered a quick prayer to Volan, begging the thief god for help, not expecting an answer. Finn should have prayed more often.

 
The iron master reached for his other arm and stumbled.

  That was Finn’s chance.

  He pulled again, yanking his arm as hard as he could.

  It came free. He staggered forward.

  He could run.

  His legs screamed with each step, but he hurried as quickly as he could, trying to get as far along the street as possible. He raced toward the slaughterhouse. It would be a good place to lose the guards. From there, he could hide.

  Who would look through the slaughterhouse for me?

  Footsteps thudded behind him.

  Finn didn’t dare look back.

  He ran. Each step was an effort. He could feel them gaining on him, and he prayed again to Volan, begging the god for help. If any god were willing to help him, it would be Volan, the patron god of thieves—

  This time, Finn stumbled.

  His toe caught an irregular cobblestone, and he went flying forward.

  He braced himself, holding his hands out in front of him, catching himself and trying to push off and get to his feet.

  Finn rolled over.

  One of the iron masters flew past him.

  He started getting to his feet when the other iron master grabbed him.

  He struggled.

  There was no point in holding back now. The alternative meant death.

  He jerked on the iron master, twisting to try to get free, and found a small bit of space. Kicking, Finn sent the iron master back. He’d been tortured and starved, but panic gave him strength.

  He staggered to his feet. Then stumbled forward again.

  The pain from the leg screws into his shins made it so that he could barely stand. Running had put too much stress on them.

  Fight through it.

  He had no choice.

  He thought of his crew. His sister. His mother. Even his father.

  Finn willed himself forward.

  He reached a corner.

  Just a little farther. He could almost imagine what it would take for him to round the corner, get beyond the iron masters. Find a crowd and slink into it, never mind that he wore the distinct prison browns.

  Finn looked along the street. The iron masters were behind him. He could feel them.

  Rows of shops greeted him, but there wasn’t anyone heading toward the shops. He’d have to break into one of the buildings for him to escape, and even then, he might not be able to get away.

  An alley.

  He knew these streets. The alleys that ran through them. He knew how to hide.

  Finn ran forward…

  …and was slammed to the ground from behind.

  He looked up.

  An Archer stood across from him, his bearded face unreadable. He held one hand on the hilt of his sword, his gaze flicking from Finn to the two iron masters racing to catch up to him.

  “Looks like you lost a little rabbit,” the Archer said when the iron masters caught up to him.

  “We would’ve caught him. No place for him to go hopping off to and hide. Bastard kicked me!” The iron master grunted as he said it, his breath coming in a soft wheeze.

  The Archer brought his boot back, and Finn started to scramble away. He didn’t want to get kicked. The Archer looked solid. Strong enough that were he to kick him, Finn was sure that he’d feel it for a few days.

  The thought almost made him laugh.

  Why would it matter if I felt it for a few days?

  At this point, that was all he had left.

  He’d rather it not be spent hurting, though.

  “No,” the other iron master said. “Poor Bastard just got sentenced. Only has a few days.”

  The Archer lowered his foot. “What’s the sentence?”

  “Rope. Don’t give thieves like him an honorable death.”

  “I could do it here if you’d like,” the Archer said. “Maybe we put him down like we should be putting down those Alainsith dogs gathering in the forest.”

  The gleam in his eyes made a different sort of sense. Finn had known men like him before, men who reveled in death and had no qualms killing another. There were plenty of men like that in the work he did, though he made a point of steering clear of as many of them as he could.

  “Got to wait for the Gallows Festival,” the iron master said. He grabbed Finn, lifting him from the ground and jerking him to follow. They headed along the street. “Don’t you get any ideas about running again. They might want you pretty, but I can find ways to hurt you they won’t see.”

  The other guard joined and pinned Finn’s arms against his sides, making it so that he couldn’t do anything other than follow where they led him.

  They reached the prison. The stench wasn’t quite as bad on the upper levels as it was on the lower levels, but still awful. He tried not to breathe, and when that didn’t work, he tried to breathe through his mouth, but it seemed almost as if he tasted the foulness in the air. That might even be worse.

  The guards dragged him back down the stairs. They paused on the landing below, and there was a moment where he thought they might bring him to the chapel, but they descended farther. His heart skipped forward as the darkness swallowed him.

  This would be his fate.

  This would be all he would know in the remaining days he had.

  They reached the doors to his cell. Hector had his face pressed up against the bars of his cell, looking out. A wild expression filled his eyes, and he grinned at Finn.

  “Back so soon! The gods didn’t free you, which means they have more in store for you. I can only imagine how they’ll have you dancing soon—”

  “Quiet, Hector,” one of the iron masters said.

  The other prisoner laughed again and backed into the cell, his cackle wild and crazed and filling the cell.

  The iron masters shoved Finn forward into his cell, and he staggered, trying to catch himself, but he couldn’t. He fell to the ground.

  It didn’t matter how foul the ground was. It didn’t matter how disgusting the prison was. None of it mattered. Not anymore. All that mattered was that he would spend his remaining days there.

  Then he would die.

  The iron masters pulled the door closed and locked it. The sound of their boots along the stone thundered through him, a taunt at his captivity. He was trapped.

  Finn curled his knees up to his chest.

  What else could I do?

  He rocked in place, reliving the memory of what had happened to him in the sentencing. The executioner hadn’t wanted him to be sentenced yet. Maybe he could beg him to release him, override the sentencing. He had to have some pull with the magister.

  It wouldn’t work on the Lion. Finn didn’t have the impression the Lion would do anything other than try to torment him to get whatever information he thought he might be able to obtain from Finn.

  Pinch crawled forward from the shadows at the edge of his cell, looking out at him.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered. At least he had one friend here.

  He held out his hand, and the rat looked at him for a moment before inching toward him.

  “You can come here,” he whispered.

  The rat crept toward him again. When Finn reached out to try to touch Pinch’s head, the rat sunk sharp teeth into his finger.

  He jerked his hand back, biting back a cry, and the rat scurried away.

  Even his little friend betrayed him.

  “The long walk there with nothing to gain. The sigh of children and the cries of lost love. The Poor Bastard counts down all that remains. The gods listen to prayers but ignore from above!” Hector cackled as he finished his singsong poem.

  “Shut it,” another voice said, this one from farther down the hall.

  “The great Charon deigns to speak!” Hector said.

  “Is it true?” the other voice along the hall asked. “Are you a Poor Bastard?”

  When Finn didn’t answer, Hector laughed again.

  “He don’t have to speak for us to know. The gods know! I can feel their
excitement grow!”

  “Shut it, you crazed fuck!” Charon said. Hector fell silent for a moment. “What was your crime?”

  Finn didn’t want to talk. He wanted to sit where he was. Say nothing. Wait for the day when his time would come. When it did, he’d have to decide how he wanted to go out. Would he go willingly, repentant for what he’d done, or would he go out fighting the way that Dalton Pegg had gone out?

  Most repented.

  Finn hadn’t watched too many Gallows Festivals. That time was usually a good time for his kind to be doing other work. Those he’d seen mostly involved men—and a few women—who’d begged the priests for forgiveness. Finn hadn’t been a religious person, but he didn’t know how he would react when his time came.

  “You don’t have to talk, but the shit across from you is going to keep ranting if you don’t.”

  Finn shook his head, not opening his eyes. “Breaking into the viscount’s home.”

  Hector laughed again, this time wilder than before.

  Charon whistled. “The viscount? That’s a daring job.”

  “It didn’t work.”

  “Didn’t work, he says! The gods watched and decided you were wanting. They saw and chose—”

  “Shut it!” Charon shouted.

  Hector fell silent.

  Finn rested his head against the back of the cell, his eyes closed.

  “Mine wasn’t quite as dumb. Got caught on the northern side of the city. Said I was disturbing the Alainsith marker, as if I could do anything that would move something touched by their magic.”

  Finn looked up briefly. “What were you doing?”

  “Supposed to meet someone. Then I’d take a trip.” He shrugged. “They didn’t show. I got shoved in here.” He laughed bitterly. “To hear them tell it, I’m responsible for upsetting the damn peace with them. I got no magic and no reason to care about the Alainsith.”

  Finn said nothing, and Charon didn’t speak for a while. Every so often, Hector cried out, but none of it was intelligible.

  “You really a Poor Bastard?” Charon asked.

  Finn inhaled deeply and immediately wished he hadn’t. “Yes.”

  “How they going to do it?”

  “Rope.”