Among the Dead and Dying

by A.R. Wise

  Chapter Four

  “I’m innocent,” said Tarik as the Sword escorted him from the prison wagon to the stocks where the Courts were gathered.

  “Right,” said the guard who gripped Tarik’s arm and guided him along the path that led to the Courts’ podium. This was Judgment Day, a monthly event that took place on the outskirts of the market square, where surplus prisoners were dragged out of the dungeons to face the Courts who would decide their fate. Any prisoner who could afford a barrister was spared this ignoble procedure, and would have their fates decided at the court house, but Tarik hadn’t been able to hire representation since the first time he was dragged off to prison. This would be the fifth time he stood before a Court.

  There were three Courts hearing cases, each of them seated at a long, wooden table. Tarik recognized all of them, having been judged by two of them in the past and meeting the third at a similar event. He silently prayed to be brought up before the one man who hadn’t yet tried him.

  Tarik could overhear the Courts passing judgment on the prisoners ahead of him.

  Bahrealle Third-Court unceremoniously stamped a page before him with his seal and then said, “Pellor Apprentice-Farmer, I hereby judge your crimes worthy of the noose.”

  Pellor cried out in grief as the guard beside him held the man tight. The doomed farmer’s strength gave out, and he collapsed, forcing the guard to lift him.

  “Sword, take him away,” said Bahrealle Third-Court.

  Someone in the crowd shouted out, “To the noose!” Others in the crowd cheered and echoed the farmer’s sentence, “To the noose!”

  It was a morbid affair that always drew a crowd. Judgment Days had the air of celebration, where merchants sold treats to those who gathered to watch as prisoners were hauled up to the Courts and sentenced. The unfortunate souls judged worthy of the noose weren’t given any reprieve. Those sentenced to death were immediately taken to a platform behind the Courts where they were hanged. It was meant as a way to instill fear in the other prisoner’s gathered, and it worked exactly as intended.

  Prisoners often lost control of their bowels while in line, waiting for their turn in front of a Court. It was such a common occurrence that three ditches were dug that the prisoners were forced to stand in. After the proceedings, the ditches would be cleaned and buried, and the Courts’ table would be hauled away. The only thing that would be left would be the hangman’s platform, a constant reminder to everyone at market that they were just one crime away from public execution.

  “No, no,” said Tarik as he waited his turn. “Not Bahrealle.” He’d faced this fat Court twice already, and had only escaped exile because of Bahrealle’s bad memory last time.

  Bahrealle Third-Court looked up at the lines of prisoners before the table and said, “Next.”

  The Sword beside Tarik, the same who’d caught him, began to carry him forward. “No, not me,” said Tarik, desperate. “I think this guy’s next.” His hands were tied, so he used his head to motion at the man standing to his right.

  “Ain’t me, kid,” said the other prisoner. “You’re up. Have some dignity.”

  The Sword forced Tarik along, pushing him the last few steps until he was standing before the grinning countenance of Bahrealle Third-Court. The Court’s fat neck jiggled as he smiled and tapped his hands on the table. He was dressed in the black vestments of The Order of the Nine, a throwback to a time when religion had a stronger hand in law. The gradual separation of The Order and law was the only reason Tarik had avoided being exiled any of the other times he’d been brought before a Court.

  “Tarik the Tinkerer,” said Bahrealle, pleased with himself.

  “Tarik Apprentice-Tanner,” said Tarik, correcting the Court.

  Bahrealle chuckled and shook his head, “Not what I hear. What was it last time you were here? Tarik the Thief, right? Isn’t that what they were calling you?” Bahrealle sighed and dipped his quill in ink before beginning to write on the parchment scroll before him. “You’ve managed to earn quite a few names for a man of your age. Not good, Tarik. Not good at all.”

  “I like to keep busy,” said Tarik, trying in vain to get the Court to smile.

  Bahrealle sneered and then looked at the Sword. “What’s the charge this time?”

  The Sword stepped forward and produced a bag filled with tiny gears, screws, hinges, and tools. The metal components of Tarik’s machines clattered on the wooden table, and one of the gears spun on the attached screw until Bahrealle stopped it by setting his finger down on top of it.

  “He was found with these, and I saw him in the Central Market pickpocketing earlier in the day,” said Abraham Second-Sword.

  “You can’t prove it,” said Tarik. “It’s my word against his. He was the one carrying those gears. It should be him on trial, not me.”

  “I had them because you threw them down when you ran away,” said Abraham.

  “Likely story,” said Tarik. “You’re a relic-hunter if I’ve ever seen one.”

  “I don’t even know what those things do,” said Abraham in reference to the gears on the table.

  “Pretending to be an idiot?” asked Tarik. “You’re doing a good job. Being an idiot suits you.”

  “We’ll see who the idiot is,” said the Sword, glaring down at the prisoner.

  “Tarik,” said Bahrealle, shaking his head in disappointment. “You know it’s illegal to bring old world relics into the city.”

  “They’re harmless,” said Tarik. “They’re not going to hurt anyone.”

  “And what of The Order?” asked Bahrealle. “You know their stance on machinery of any type.”

  “Are we still letting them tell us how to live?” asked Tarik, smirking as he looked across at the Court, hoping the man held a similarly anti-religious view.

  “We most certainly are,” said Bahrealle, offended. “Tarik, you’ve given me the distinct impression that you don’t respect our laws. I have no doubt that if I were to sentence you to labor in the fields again, it would only be a matter of time before some other Sword was dragging you up here and dumping yet another bag of garbage on my table.” Bahrealle grimaced, regarded the thief, and then said, “I’m afraid you give me no choice.”

  “Wait, Bahrealle,” said Tarik.

  The Court scribbled his sentence on the parchment, and then picked up his stamp. He pressed the wooden block to the square cloth that was wet with ink, and then he pressed the stamp hard to the scroll. “Tarik the Thief, or the Tinkerer, I hereby judge your crimes worthy of exile.”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” said Tarik.

  “Sword, take him away,” said Bahrealle. “Good luck in the plains, Tarik. Perhaps there you’ll discover the importance of religion at last.”

  Tarik was about to argue, but then he heard the distinct crack of a wooden platform being released, the snap of a rope being pulled taut, and the cheer of the crowd as Pellor Apprentice-Farmer met his end on the platform behind the Courts. The Sword led Tarik off, headed for the wagon that would take him to the gate, and all the exiled young man could think was how lucky he was not to be up there dangling from a hangman’s noose. Now he understood why they held court in front of the executions as he walked dutifully to the exiles’ wagon.

  Before nightfall, he would be headed out to the plains, far from the safety of any walled city. He would be left there to rot among the dead and dying.