The Executioner's Rebellion (The Executioner's Song Book 4)

by D. K. Holmberg

  “Perhaps too much,” Finn said. “Though not nearly as isolated as some might think. We still must adhere to the rule of the law. And the king does make his presence known from time to time.” Lately, he’d made his presence known more often than Finn would’ve expected.

  Some of that had to do with the events that had transpired during the time Finn had served as an executioner, though some of it predated that. The role of the Alainsith certainly did. The treaty with them had required constant attention.

  “As you can see, the debtors’ prison runs quite smoothly. I have ensured that we follow the king’s rule of law in all things,” Warden Arlington said.

  Finn glanced over. “In all things?”

  Arlington clenched his fists. “In all things, Mr. Jagger. We have a measure of pride here you don’t see in all prisons.”

  Finn smiled, trying to reassure him. He didn’t need Arlington on the defensive.

  “I think all wardens pride themselves on how they run their prison,” Finn said.

  “Maybe, but not all do it nearly as effectively as I do.” Arlington smiled tightly, turning to Finn. “That is one advantage of us having this wall of previous wardens on display. We can see where we’ve come from and we have an obligation to fulfill the requirements of office in a way that would make our predecessors proud.”

  If that was the case, then maybe Arlington served the way he claimed. He was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “I came to visit with Reginald Smith. He was not the most forthcoming.”

  “He’s an arrogant man,” Arlington said, shaking his head. “As I’m sure you have determined. We can continue questioning him for you.”

  “There will be no need,” Finn said, waving his hand. “I’ve taken the liberty to have him moved to Declan.”

  “Declan? For that crime? You have no need to…” He trailed off as Finn shot him a hard look. “We can obtain the confession,” Warden Arlington said carefully.

  “What if it’s more than just a confession I’m after?” Finn asked.

  “What more would you be after?”

  Finn just shrugged. “That will be for me to determine. In Declan.” He glanced at the wall of portraits again. He noticed a heavyset man with beady eyes and a pointed beard, Arlington’s immediate predecessor. “How well did you know him?”

  “Warden Loran?” Arlington shook his head. “I served under him for a few years, but I didn’t know him well. He was like all of the wardens in the debtors’ prison. He wanted nothing more than to ensure we served the king in everything that we did.”

  “I should hope so,” Finn said softly.

  “If you would prefer to keep Reginald Smith here, we could convert the closet into a more conventional questioning chamber.”

  Finn looked over. “Is that what you think I want?”

  “I just assumed that was the reason you wanted to bring him to Declan.”

  Finn regarded the warden for a moment. He knew he had to choose his next words carefully, not wanting to anger him too much, but at the same time, he needed to squash any potential rumors that might have started to spread about him.

  Finn was acutely aware of how rumors could spread, and he was acutely aware of his role in those rumors. He had been a part of many of them over the years. From the moment he was first claimed by Master Meyer with his executioner right, Finn had been subjected to rumors. Some were fascinating—such as how Finn had survived his execution, which was the reason Master Meyer had to claim his right—while others were tawdrier, accusing Finn and Master Meyer of some relationship, and that being the reason. Some rumors, like how he had acquired his nickname the Hunter, were fitting. Finn did have a stubbornness to him, and it was through that stubbornness, and the desire for a mixture of justice and vengeance, that he’d uncovered the plot against the city, thwarting it before all of Verendal burned.

  Then there was the plot to try to drive a wedge between the Alainsith and the king. That was one Finn had unintentionally discovered, though he was prouder of it. It had revealed the depths of danger within the prison system, the depths of wardens’ involvement, at least within Declan and the iron masters, and Finn still struggled with it.

  Were there rumors that had started to spread about his interest in interrogations?

  He could understand how they might start. They would be tied to his progression as journeyman executioner. Meyer had permitted him to progress, grow, and to take on increasing responsibilities, which involved him handling most of the interrogations. That alone might draw the kind of attention that would lead people to accuse him of an interest in torture.

  “There are many reasons I would want him moved to Declan,” Finn said carefully. “First and foremost, it would ensure he was secured as well as he needs to be.” The warden stiffened. “Then there is the matter of Reginald Smith himself. Declan provides enough of a terrifying environment that a man such as him might be persuaded to share more openly.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  The warden frowned at him. “I do. I must say I didn’t realize Master Meyer was so near to retirement.”

  “I didn’t make that claim.”

  “If we are to cater to your needs, Mr. Jagger, then one must assume Master Meyer is nearing his retirement.” Warden Arlington cocked his head to the side. “Unless that isn’t the case, and he doesn’t know you’ve come here making these demands.”

  Arlington was pushing back. There was a part of Finn that actually relished that. He understood, and he thought perhaps it was for the best. Having a strong warden, somebody with a bit of a spine, was beneficial when dealing with prisoners. There was a danger in it, though. Some wardens might see themselves as above the supervision of the executioners—or worse, the law itself.

  “Perhaps you would prefer to ask Master Meyer. I can have him stop by, if that would appease you.”

  Warden Arlington held his gaze. “Why don’t you.”

  Finn turned back to the portraits. “Interesting that these are all here.”

  “Why is that interesting to you, Mr. Jagger?”

  “Well, they have served here and moved on.” Finn glanced over to Warden Arlington. “Where will you be moving on to when your time to serve is done?”

  Arlington looked straight at Finn, then turned to the portraits, biting back anything more he might say.

  Chapter Two

  The summons to the prison had come in the middle of the night. Finn got up, the knocking at the door alerting him, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His room was small, and the lantern had dimmed to a faint glowing, casting just enough light for him to see the outline of the door.

  He stumbled out of bed, heading toward the door, and grabbed a cloak from the closet to cover himself. As he pulled the door open, he frowned.

  “What is it?” Finn asked.

  A tall, slender Archer stood in the doorway. He had his helm tipped slightly to the side, and his face was lined with wrinkles, his inky eyes making them seem little more than hollows.

  “Are you the hangman?”

  “Finn Jagger. Did you need the master executioner?” The man looked past Finn for a moment before shrugging and handing him a piece of paper, which Finn took and unfolded. He scanned the page before looking up at the Archer. “When was this sent?”

  “Just now.”

  “Thank you. You may go.”

  The man’s gaze narrowed for a moment, but Finn ignored it as he closed the door. He turned to see Master Meyer standing at the bottom of the stairs, dressed neatly in his pants and jacket, his gray hair combed. “What is it?” he asked.

  “It seems my prisoner at the debtors’ prison has killed himself.”

  Meyer frowned. “At the debtors’ prison?”

  Finn nodded, explaining how Reginald stood accused of stealing from dozens of people in the city. “He didn’t strike me as somebody who’d kill himself.” And he was supposed to have been transferred to Declan for questioning. Fi
nn hadn’t been around too many criminals who had killed themselves. Some had tried, but Declan, in particular, made it difficult for anybody to choose their own exit. Most were forced to take the king’s justice, and for that, Finn felt a measure of pride. They had secured the prison, along with the clothing, and made sure there was no place men could hang themselves effectively. Master Meyer had done the same in the time before Finn had come, and Finn had worked with him to ensure he secured everything as much as possible.

  “You should go,” Meyer said. He was steeped in the shadows, only the faint light from Finn’s lantern giving off any visibility. Meyer was tall, though his shoulders were a little hunched, as if the weight of the lateness of night weighed upon him. Finn couldn’t see the deep wrinkles surrounding his pale-blue eyes, but he imagined the expression Master Meyer looked at him with. He’d seen it far too many times.

  “I plan on it,” Finn said. “You can get your rest.”

  Master Meyer chuckled softly. “I’d planned on it.” He started toward the stairs. “One of the benefits of being the master executioner.”

  He trudged up the stairs, his footsteps heavy with a steady thudding. Finn turned back to his room where he quickly got dressed, slipping on a shirt, jacket, pants, and boots. He pulled the cloak back over his shoulders and headed out into the night.

  He had no idea how late it was, but he could imagine the hour from how tired he felt. The air was cool, and a hint of a breeze carried the smells of the city, the sound of the water rushing along the Vinlen River, and even an occasional whistle that seemed to come from the forest on the edge of the kingdom.

  He made his way along the street. Most within the city had a curfew, primarily to prevent criminals like Finn had once been from having free rein over the city—though there were plenty of criminals who still operated within the city despite the curfew. Finn certainly had. The curfew slowed their work a bit, but didn’t stop it altogether—just made it more difficult.

  He hurried through the streets, passing a couple of patrolling Archers, nodding to them rather than slowing down and worrying about them. By the time he reached the debtors’ prison, he’d finally woken up. A faint sheen of sweat covered his brow. He pulled the keys from his pocket and tested them in the lock, pleased that the warden had found it fitting to lock the door.

  Once inside, lanterns glowed softly. The paintings on the walls were darkened, and Finn couldn’t tell whether the warden had removed the offending paintings Finn had called out earlier.

  He hurried to the row of cells and found the prison humming with activity. A half-dozen lanterns glowed within the area, far more than usual at this time of day. One of the iron masters turned toward Finn, but then relief swept over him.

  “Hunter,” he said. “We found him like this. We’d been watching, but we don’t know how this could have even happened.”

  “What could have happened?” Finn asked, striding forward.

  He didn’t need to ask, though.

  As he reached the cell, he realized just what had taken place.

  He found Reginald wearing only his pants, his shirt somehow tied to the top row of the bars, which weren’t nearly as thick here as they were in Declan, though they were thick enough to keep anybody from leaving. They ran from the floor to the ceiling, with the support bars high enough to the stone that nobody could slip anything between them to anchor to. It was equally difficult to do that where the bars met the floor. The cells were designed to make it impossible for anyone to do what Reginald had somehow managed to do. His shirt had bound up along the top of the bar, and he hung from it, his face contorted, eyes bulging, mouth slightly ajar.

  “Don’t know. Like I said, we found him like this,” the iron master said. Finn didn’t recognize the man, though he didn’t recognize many of them in the debtors’ prison. They recognized him, though. “He worked himself up there. Don’t even know how such a thing was possible.”

  Finn reached for the shirt and pulled on it. The cloth slid easily on the crossbar.

  Had he ended up in Declan, this wouldn’t have happened.

  “Let me in,” Finn said.

  The iron master hurriedly grabbed his keys. Finn could have let himself in, but he wanted to keep an eye on the prisoner. It was possible that Reginald had somehow made it look as if he’d died, though Finn had been around plenty of men who’d hanged over the years, and he recognized a distinct bulging of his eyes and an expression of death on his face that couldn’t be faked.

  The iron master pulled the door open and Finn stepped inside, watching Reginald as he did. He checked him for a heartbeat, for breathing, for anything that might indicate he could be saved, but he was gone.

  “I’m going to need to see all of his belongings that the Archers confiscated.”

  “We’ll have to wait until the warden gets in.”

  Finn looked over to the iron master.

  The man’s eyes widened, then he nodded hurriedly. “We will get them for you, Hunter.”

  As Finn prepared to leave Meyer’s home the next morning, the old executioner appeared at the bottom of the stairs, frowning at him. He was dressed in his formal clothing, as he often was early in the morning. Finn rarely saw Meyer poorly dressed. The old executioner felt they needed to maintain appearances.

  “You’re leaving early.”

  Finn nodded slowly. “Unfortunately, I need to look into what happened to my prisoner. I’m not sure why he would’ve killed himself.”

  “That’s the working assumption?”

  Finn smiled. “I don’t think anyone else at the prison did it. At least, not yet.” Meyer didn’t smile along with him. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but the most logical explanation is that, yes, he killed himself,” Finn said again. The alternative was that someone had managed to sneak into the prison to kill him, and though the prison wasn’t as secure as Declan, it would be difficult to do that without attracting notice. “I don’t know why. He was a swindler, but he didn’t strike me as the kind of man to sacrifice himself.”

  Meyer nodded, making his way toward the kitchen.

  Finn yearned to join him and have breakfast, but that would come later.

  “Warden Arlington wants to speak with you.”

  Meyer paused. “About?”

  “About your retirement plans.”

  Meyer cast him a sideways glance. “Am I retiring?”

  “I didn’t think so, but I had a few things to say about the portraits in the hall of the debtors’ prison. I suggested that they didn’t need to honor all of the old wardens.”

  Meyer’s brow furrowed. “I will visit with him.”

  Finn hesitated. He hadn’t been sure what Meyer might do or say, and didn’t know if Meyer might be angry with him. He was often difficult to read. “Was I wrong?”

  Meyer breathed out slowly. “You have an opinion about how things should be done. That is all I can ask of you.”

  He started back in the kitchen, and Finn frowned.

  That was all?

  He expected Meyer to say more, but he found it increasingly difficult to get much out of him these days.

  He stepped outside, closing the door behind him, and set off at a quick pace toward Reginald’s home. He knew the section, and he had taken time to check the maps Master Meyer had in his home to ensure he knew where to go. It shouldn’t be difficult to reach. At this time of day, there wouldn’t be too many people up and out, which meant he would be less likely to encounter any stray eyes watching him, questioning why an executioner was in a merchant section of the city.

  In the distance, one of the church bells tolled softly. It was a steady ringing, a gentle sound, and he paused long enough to look up and see the Shisen bell tower. From this part of the city, it was usually faint, but maybe in the early morning air it was easier to hear.

  As he passed through one section on the outer part of the city, before crossing the Vinlen River, a poster on a tavern caught his attention; it was small, at chest level and
slightly off-center.

  Finn stopped in front of it. Had there been more people out, he might not even have noticed it. It featured a painting of what looked to be a black rose on a white background. He had seen posters like that around the city quite a few times lately.

  He had no idea what their purpose was. Then there was the tattoo on Reginald’s arm, which looked very similar. It was something else to look into when he had time.

  Finn approached Reginald’s home and looked at the houses on either side of it. They were all nice and well-maintained. None of them were terribly large, which wasn’t altogether surprising—it was probably expensive to maintain property in this part of the city—and none had walls around them like some of the even nicer houses nearby did. Still, it was more than he would’ve expected from a man like Reginald.

  Now he had to get inside.

  There were some skills that still hadn’t faded from his days on the thieving crew. He knocked, but he didn’t expect anybody to answer. He slipped a lock pick set out of his pocket, having brought it for this specific purpose, and quickly pried open the door.

  He paused in the doorway.

  The air was musty. Reginald hadn’t been imprisoned that long, had he?

  He looked around the home and found it to be sparse: two chairs, a table, the trunk in one corner, and a layer of dust over everything.

  Finn popped open the windows, letting light in.

  He rummaged through the trunk, finding nothing other than a stack of blank papers. When he looked in the kitchen, the cupboards were empty, which was even more unusual. He didn’t have any food or utensils—nothing to suggest he even lived here.

  Only a bed and a table with a drawer furnished the back room.

  Finn pulled open the drawer, finding a small wooden object. It was smooth with a strange symbol on the surface. He’d been exposed to quite a bit of magic lately and knew to treat symbols like that carefully. He traced his finger along it but didn’t recognize it. He tucked it into his pocket.