The Executioner's Rebellion (The Executioner's Song Book 4)
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The Executioner’s Rebellion
The Executioner’s Song Book 4
D.K. Holmberg
Copyright © 2021 by D.K. Holmberg
Cover art by Felix Ortiz.
Design by Shawn King, STKKreations.com
All rights reserved.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Author’s Note
Series by D.K. Holmberg
Chapter One
The iron master guarding the debtors’ prison was a dark-haired man with a sour expression, and the sunlight coming through the windows reflected off of his receding hairline. He’d been at the job for many years and had survived the purge of iron masters when Finn and Meyer had gone looking for rot.
“Wilbur. How are you today?”
The iron master cocked his head, frowning at Finn. “Didn't expect to see the Hunter.”
Finn snorted. He still didn't care for his nickname any more than he cared for the first one he’d been given. He supposed it was better than just being called Hangman.
“I’m here to see Reginald.”
“You mean the bastard they brought in last night?” Wilbur asked. “Can't believe he’d make a mistake like that. Swindling his way in that section? Gods, you’ve got to be stupid to pull something like that.”
In that part of Verendal, too many had money, the kind of real money that easily recognized somebody who didn’t really have it. When Reginald had decided to try not to pay someone he owed, they had quickly reported him to the Archers. It didn’t take long before he ended up in the debtors’ prison and drew Finn’s attention.
Even without having met with Reginald yet, Finn had an idea why he had caught his attention. There was a sense of pride in a man’s station, and if he felt his station was threatened, he would do whatever it took to maintain it. Sometimes, that meant going to extreme lengths.
“Can you bring him to the closet?” Finn asked Wilbur.
He nodded at Finn.
Finn headed into the prison. The air had a fragrance to it, a hint of rose or perhaps tulip. The distinction between the two was not so easy for him, despite his training with apothecary medicine. The walls were smooth stone, and windows high overhead allowed plenty of sunlight into the room. He hurried along, the steady clopping of his boots over the stone the only sound that carried.
The closet was similar to the chapel in Declan, though there wasn’t the same feeling of violence. It was almost comfortable.
He looked over to the cupboard. The closet didn’t even have any of the same implements for questioning. There simply wasn't the need.
He didn't have to wait long before Reginald was brought in.
Reginald had a neatly trimmed beard, a thick mustache with a bit of oil curling the ends, and close-cropped hair. He was dressed in prison gray. There was something almost dignified about him, as if regardless of where he was and how he was dressed, it didn’t really matter to him. It was as if he were the questioner, not the prisoner.
Wilbur put him into a seat. The chair was small and smooth, and it didn’t have the same straps as those in Declan. He didn’t expect Reginald to react with the same sort of violence that he often encountered in the chapel, either.
Finn nodded to Wilbur. “I can take it from here.”
“I can wait with you if you think he's going to be a handful.”
“Are you going to be a handful?” Finn asked Reginald.
Reginald cocked one brow, glaring at Finn. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You’re here now, but do you intend to cause trouble?”
Reginald leaned back, still glaring, and crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture that made it seem as if he were in control of the situation. It was an effective strategy, especially considering how he had pulled off his swindle. Give the appearance of wealth and make it easier for others to believe he was exactly what he claimed.
Wilbur stepped out, closing the door.
Finn pulled a stool over, setting it down in front of Reginald, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tell me what happened.”
“What’s there to say? I’m here. So, obviously, I owe someone money.”
“Obviously.”
“As I’m sure you’re aware, anyone can make that claim. That doesn’t mean it’s justified.”
Finn chuckled slightly. That was the angle he was going to take?
It might even work. At least, it might have worked had he pulled that on Finn earlier in his career. Finn had been an executioner for the better part of seven years now, and with that experience came a certain understanding of the kind of men he dealt with; he knew what to expect from them, especially when they were guilty.
“Perhaps the claim on you has more merit to it than you believe.” Finn leaned toward him, aware of the menace in the gesture.
“Why?”
“Because I’m here,” Finn said.
“They called you Hunter. You some kind of debt chaser?”
“You can call me executioner,” he said. It had the desired reaction. Reginald leaned back again, his eyes widening slightly.
“I didn’t do anything to bring the executioner here.”
“You did something.” He left it unsaid that he was here as inquisitor.
“Nothing I need to hang for.”
Finn shrugged. “It’s possible your stature would get you the sword, not the rope.”
Reginald watched Finn and crossed his arms over his chest again. His sleeve pulled as he moved his arm, revealing a tattoo of a black rose. “What am I accused of doing?”
Finn studied him. Given Reginald’s current predicament, he should be more concerned. “We’re going to start again. I don’t have any problem with having you brought to a different prison. Maybe you’d prefer to spend your days in Declan.”
He tensed but his expression didn’t change. “I haven’t done anything to be placed there.”
“At this point, I can’t say with any certainty what you have or have not done, especially as you’ve decided not to share any information with me. You can tell me everything, and when you do…”
Finn preferred to let the fear of what might happen be the reason Reginald decided to share, and whether he chose to elaborate was up to him.
Reginald looked past Finn, glancing at the door. “They would’ve told you.”
“They would have, but I find it better to uncover the answers myself.”
“Why? So you can let me hang myself?”
Finn chuckled, shaking his head. “Again with the hanging. As I told you, you wouldn’t hang. You might see the sharp edge of the sword, though, which many think is better.” That was assuming he deserved that status and hadn’t simply scammed his way to it.
“Many wouldn’t be facing the blade.”
“You might be surprised.”
“How many have you hanged?”
“More than you care to know,” Finn said softly.
“How many?”
Finn looked up, holding Reginald’s gaze. “This isn’t going to go the way you think it is. You aren’t in control of the situation. I am.”
Reginald glared at Finn again. Something in his demeanor shifted, and there was a flicker of the confidence he displayed when he’d first been brought back. “You have no right to hold me here.”
“The king would say otherwise.” He turned casually, looking toward the door. “And I’m thinking the accusations about you are accurate. In that case, you would get the rope.” He looked back at him. “Maybe you will do better in Declan. I have access to better tools there, and with someone like you, someone who’s been so belligerent so early on, I’m starting to wonder if perhaps I need those tools. Maybe it would serve both of us better if I had even more control of the situation.”
He started to get up when Reginald raised his hand. “Stop.”
“I told you. I’m in control here.”
“I know,” he said hurriedly. “I'm not trying to take control.” Reginald looked toward the door, then behind him, seemingly seeing the cabinets for the first time. Maybe that would be enough for him to realize that Finn had some items here he could use to interrogate. Not nearly as many as he had in Declan, though enough to intimidate him. “What do you want to know?” Reginald asked, his voice losing some of its hard edge.
“Let’s start with where you live.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m trying to determine how much you’re going to tell me, and how much of it’s the truth. If you decide to keep the truth from me…” Finn looked over to the cabinets. There really wasn’t much there for him to use, but the threat of something more, the threat of the possibility of a more enhanced type of questioning, had its value.
“I live on the edge of the Hamel section. Is that what you wanted to know?”
Finn smiled tightly. The Hamel section was one of the wealthier parts of the city, home to merchants and other people with money—many of them old money, the kind of place Finn and his crew once would have targeted.
But that wasn’t where Reginald really lived.
The edge of the section was different—home to new money, and those who wanted to play at having money. That was where Reginald lived.
“That’s a start. Now, for what reason are you here?”
“I’m here because somebody turned on me,” he said softly.
“You don’t think you're guilty?”
Reginald snorted. “Guilt. What did I do that hurt anyone?”
Finn had moved past arguing with people like him. There was a time when he would’ve explained the consequences, when he would have shared with somebody like Reginald how his actions had hurt someone else, but Finn no longer found it worth it.
If he didn’t see how what he did hurt someone, and if he couldn’t see how stealing from someone who couldn’t afford to lose what they took was wrong, then Finn wasn’t going to be able to change his mind. All Finn could do was acquire the details of the crime. Then, hopefully, the jurors would see fit to sentence him in a way that would help him grasp the severity of his actions.
“Again,” Finn said, “we can do this any way you like. If you want to make this complicated, that’s your prerogative.”
Finn waited a moment, watching Reginald.
Every so often, Reginald seemed as if he wanted to flash the same arrogance he’d had when he first came in, though the longer he was here, the longer that arrogance started to fade, disappearing to the point where Finn started to think Reginald might actually talk.
“What do you think I did that hurt anyone?”
Finn leaned back, his gaze lingering on Reginald. This was a man who didn’t even see what he had done, didn’t recognize the way his actions had hurt somebody else. This was somebody who felt as if he were above the law. Here Finn had started to think Reginald was some sort of a swindler, but maybe that wasn’t the case. Maybe Reginald was simply not smart enough to do that.
Arrogance. That was his crime.
Finn had been around plenty of people like that over the years, and while he didn’t like them, as a general rule, he at least understood them.
“Like I said, we’re going to go through this carefully, and you’re going to reveal to me what you did.”
“I didn’t do anything other than…”
Finn got to his feet. “I see. Normally when I come to the debtors’ prison, I find the people here are a little more accommodating, but occasionally I find someone like yourself—someone who thinks they’re beyond the rule of law.” Finn just shrugged. “I do have ways of handling men like that.”
He pulled open the door. Wilbur stood outside, resting his back against the stone, and he hurriedly stood up straighter. “Did you get what you needed, Hunter?”
Finn cast a glance over her shoulder. “Unfortunately, no.”
“Well, you know how those highborn folks can be.”
“Do I?”
“Seeing as how you’re highborn yourself, that is.”
Finn resisted the urge to laugh. “See him to Declan. I intend to question him more there.”
Wilbur’s eyes widened a little bit. “Declan? You sure about that?”
“Is there a problem with that?”
Wilbur blinked, turning to Finn, and he shook his head quickly. “Of course not, Hunter—I mean, Mr. Jagger. I can get him transferred this morning.”
Finn glanced back at Reginald. He didn’t take much joy in the idea of transferring a man like him to Declan, but he wasn’t about to have a man like him continue to challenge his authority, nor was he about to let him escape the arm of the law.
Finn turned, prepared to head out of the debtors’ prison, but changed his mind and made his way toward the warden’s office.
He hadn’t visited the warden that often. Ever since Declan’s previous warden had been involved with witchcraft, Finn had taken a very different approach to addressing the wardens. It was a lesson Master Meyer had wanted him to learn anyway, though he suspected Master Meyer would’ve preferred it be a lesson that Finn would have mastered in some other manner—through time and experience, not through the near destruction of the prison system.
There were paintings along the wall, most of them depicting the king and his predecessors, but there were a few of the previous wardens—serious men stylized to look regal. It reminded him of what he’d seen in the Heshian Palace when he had visited King Porman. There was no real malicious intent here, he didn’t think, but these portraits celebrated the wardens rather than the kings.
He stared at one of them. The man was older, with a balding head and piercing blue eyes that gazed out at him. A small silver badge along the bottom of the portrait revealed his name: Idathon Bruster.
Likely he was important, or had been, but was he so important that he should be immortalized within the prison? Finn doubted that he or Master Meyer would ever have a portrait of themselves hanging anywhere within the kingdom—not that he necessarily wanted one. He wasn’t sure how he wanted to be remembered, if at all.
“Can I help… Mr. Jagger?”
Finn looked down the hallway. Warden Arlington was an older man with graying hair, ruddy cheeks, and a thin nose. He had been stationed within the debtors’ prison for the better part of ten years, and as far as Finn had been able to tell, he still served well, despit
e the upheaval within Declan.
“Warden Arlington. I was admiring the artwork.”
Arlington joined him, keeping a few feet between them. “We have a long tradition of remembering our predecessors here at the debtors’ prison.”
“Only a few of the king and his family,” Finn said.
“The king has his own decorations throughout the city. He doesn’t need them here,” Arlington said.
Finn glanced over. “We serve the king’s justice here. In all things.”
Arlington opened his mouth before closing it again. He just nodded. “Perhaps a modification in our decoration is in order,” he mused.
“Perhaps.”
“Did you come to admire the artwork, or was there another reason for your visit?”
Finn smiled to himself. The warden supervised the prison, but the executioner supervised the wardens and the prisons. It had taken Finn a long time in his service as an executioner to feel confident in that role. Even now that he was a journeyman, Finn wasn’t always comfortable in that role.
“Should I have another reason for my visit?” Finn asked, turning to glance at Warden Arlington. He cocked a brow at him, regarding him with as much intensity as he could muster. Finn didn’t necessarily know Warden Arlington well, though he had taken the time to become more than passingly acquainted with him. It was what Master Meyer had asked of him. “Supervising the prisons is just one aspect of the assignment the king has given me in Verendal.”
“The king himself?”
Finn tipped his head in a nod. “Indeed. Does that surprise you?”
“I’m only surprised that the king has any interest in the prisons at all,” Warden Arlington said. “For years, he’s left us to our own devices. We are isolated, as you know.”