The Hidden Coronet

5

Be public. Be brusque. Let the criminal choke slowly.

If the people feel a thrill they are ashamed of, so much the better.

WP6/489: Notes for the

Guidance of Executioners

EVERYONE WAS WAITING.

Shoving his way through the crowd, Raffi could feel the tension. Today the fair was full, crammed to bursting, and the noise was intolerable—loud talk, forced laughter, intense bargaining—as if people tried to drown out the fear inside themselves or argue it away. Music seemed sharper in the cold air. He was lightheaded with it all, his own terror a chill down his spine. Even the animals, sheep and marsets and boshorns, bleated and fidgeted and racked their stalls with restless energy, hooves chipping the frozen floor into tiny drifts of snow that the wind gusted into corners.

Out in the center of the solid lake the gallows waited too, black and gaunt. Around them stood a ring of armed Watchmen, faces muffled against the icy wind. One of them, he prayed, must be Galen.

They had separated outside the checkpoints, and Raffi had come in first with the pack—easy enough, as the crush had been fierce. Were they all so keen to watch people die? he thought in disgust. Or was it that the Watch would notice anyone who stayed away?

Already the front row of the crowd was pressing against the ropes, finding good places. Sellers of sausages and ale and hot cakes were doing a fast trade. Raffi chewed his thumbnail, anxious. Had Galen gotten in? Or had he been arrested already? He narrowed his eyes against the sleety wind and tried to see, but each Watchman was tall and dark and he could feel nothing from them. They all had crossbows too. Where would Galen have gotten one?

If the keeper was captured, then it was up to him. He squashed that thought away. There was nothing he could do on his own.

Then, like a cold touch, he felt something. A brush of knowledge, the edge of it like a feather against his mind.

Someone was watching him.

He turned. Around him the stalls were busy. He saw coopers, blacksmiths, singers, all sorts of peddlers and hucksters and hawkers, a man with a dancing bear, a gang of girl beggars. None of them seemed to have noticed him. He walked away quickly, weaving in and out of the crowd, anxious to lose himself, his heart thumping. It might have been Galen. That thought washed over him with relief, but still he sent a few sense-lines out, feeling instantly only the confusion of the crowd, its dizzying desires and anxieties and laughter.

Then the drumming began.

At once people surged forward, Raffi pushed along with them. Bargaining was abandoned; men and women elbowed for position, a better view. He tried to worm his way out, edging down the rope toward the nearest point to the gallows, as Galen had told him to.

The prisoners were coming out. They were filthy and bruised. Ten of them. Five men, two women, and three bedraggled-looking Sekoi, all with their hands tied loosely in front.

The crowd went quiet. Only the drums thudded like a heartbeat. Raffi looked carefully along the stumbling line, seeing an old woman, a young, white-faced boy. When he came to the third man, his gaze fixed, all the hairs on the backs of his hands stirring. He knew this was the keeper.

He was an elderly man, straight-backed, silver hair swept back to the nape of his neck, his face calm, despite its dirt and bruises. A smooth, noble face. He wore a long, ragged gray coat. Power was all around him; even Raffi could sense it. The others were terrified, yet this man felt nothing but compassion; Raffi saw how he turned to a bald, thickset prisoner behind him, obviously injured, and put an arm around his shoulders. Ignoring the angry yell of the Watch commander, he supported the man across the slippery ice, speaking to him quietly.

Raffi bit his lip. He had no idea what Galen was planning. It would be reckless; Galen always was. But how could they ever hope to get away, unless it was to try and lose themselves in the crowd?

The drums stopped.

Dead silence.

The prisoners gathered in a huddle, the silver-haired man looking out at the crowd. His eyes seemed to scan their faces, as if he was alert, sensing something. Raffi ducked under a woman’s arm and crouched in the front. The Watchguards held their bows ready, facing the crowd.

The first to be hanged was a woman; young, barely out of her teens. As two Watchmen dragged her forward she turned to the silver-haired keeper, arms stretched out. He put his hand out and gripped hers, then blessed her, the sign of Flain made clear and proud.

Around Raffi, the crowd seemed to become stiller, totally silent. The nearest Watchman fidgeted with his bow, his eyes nervous over the dark scarf that covered his face.

The woman was forced to the gallows. Above her the black ropes swung in the icy wind; she glanced up at them once. Raffi felt sick and panicky. He wanted to turn away, not to see. Where was Galen? What if he wasn’t even here?

Someone in the crowd yelled something. A guard aimed his bow ominously. The girl was pushed up onto the first step. She cried out, a great gasp of terror.

And at that instant Raffi felt a quiver under his feet, a faint vibration in the frozen lake growing quickly, forcibly; a tension building up like the pressure of a blocked waterspout. He glanced down, sensing with sudden amazement what Galen must be doing; then he was running, ducking under the ropes, dodging the guard, racing over the ice toward the gallows.

The crowd sent up a yell. Crossbows swiveled. One bolt shot past him and skittered over the frozen lake, but he was already at the gallows, almost with the prisoners.

And the ice heaved!

He fell, sliding on hands and knees, sprawled.

Behind him, the lake shattered with an earsplitting crack. Plates of ice tilted up, sharp-fanged. The Watchmen toppled, grabbed each other to stay upright. Between them and the prisoners a vast crevasse was opening, a gaping black chasm in the ice, and the whole surface under the fair was shuddering up. Booths and stands went crashing; terrified bulls trampled out of their stalls. People were shouting, screaming.

The prisoners stood as if in shock; then the silver man whirled suddenly, barging into the guard behind, knocking him off his feet.

Raffi tried to stand.

“Galen!” he yelled.

“Get him, Raffi! Get him to the forest!”

The voice was close, in his head. Scrambling up he raced over and shoved the other guard hard in the back, sending the raised crossbow out of his hands and whirling across the ice. One of the Sekoi dived after it.

The keeper had the guard’s knife; he was slicing the ropes. Crossbow bolts clattered around him. From the Watchtower a brazen horn rang out.

The keeper looked up. “Where?” was all he said. “The forest,” Raffi gasped.

The keeper caught the bald man, who waved him off feebly. “Leave me! Just get clear!”

“Oh no, my son. Not while there’s a soul to save.” With an effort he heaved the man up. “Go on!” he yelled.

Raffi ran. The lake was slipping away under him; the fringes of the forest seemed miles away. Furious yells behind them terrified him. The chasm must be wide, he knew, but he could already hear stalls being torn down, wood slammed on the ice. And still the lake buckled, splitting with enormous cracks, so that he went sprawling with the aftershocks, the surface crumpling beneath his feet.

He glanced back. The two men were close. All the other prisoners had already scattered; he saw a Sekoi firing a crossbow and another lying still on the ice. Panicstricken sheep were rampaging among the wreckage of the fair, but that was far away. And where was Galen?

Ahead, the forest loomed, the vast quenta trees spreading their roots far under the frozen water. Raffi scrambled through frosted reeds and turned to help. “I’m all right,” the bald man snapped, but the pain in his arms and shoulders shimmered out of him; Raffi caught the edge of it and gasped.

They fell over tree roots, the gloom of the forest enclosing them. A little way in, the keeper stopped. He eased the bald man down and spun around, breathless.

“Followers,” he gasped. “Need to deal with them.”

A twig cracked. Someone was close on their trail, and rounding the trees a Watchman came, low under the branches, the crossbow armed in his hands. He stopped instantly and said, “It’s all right. It’s me.”

Raffi grinned with relief.

Galen pulled the dark wrappings off his face.

“Can you still run?” he asked quickly.

The two men nodded, silent with surprise. Then the tall one said, “My name is Solon. This is Marco. Who are you?”

“That can wait.” Galen grabbed the bald man and hauled him up. “We have to get farther in,” he said anxiously. “They’ve got razorhounds.”

Raffi went cold.

Far back over the shattered lake, terrible snarls rang out.