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

by D. K. Holmberg

  He chuckled. “Long enough? That’s the kind of answer Meyer would give me, not the kind of answer somebody whom I have…”

  Esmerelda looked at him, waiting. “Yes?”

  “. . . Not the kind of answer somebody whom I have come to be friends with,” Finn said, picking his words carefully, “would give.”

  “There are some things even friends don’t care to talk about,” Esmerelda said. “Some memories friends would like to forget.”

  “What happened to you?”

  She shook her head. “As I said, it was a lonely time for me.” She leaned down, looking at the mug before taking a sip. When she set it on the table again, she rested her hands on either side of it. “Those of the people who have potential to learn the art are often separated from others. Not because we’re feared, but because there is something in the learning that requires isolation. Unfortunately, my isolation was almost more than I could tolerate.”

  “I’m sorry,” Finn said.

  Esmerelda smiled at him. “I don’t need your pity, Finn.” She laughed. “Besides, ever since I have come to Verendal, I have experienced a stronger feeling of welcome than I ever have before. Henry Meyer has ensured that. He has worked with the people in a way that very few others have.”

  “Are you afraid of what will happen when he’s gone?”

  “Are you?”

  Finn shrugged. “I don’t think Henry is going anywhere anytime soon. He’s still the master executioner in Verendal.”

  “All men must find a new calling,” she said.

  “All?”

  “Even if that calling is to pass on from this world,” she said.

  “So you’re saying that Meyer has to serve until he dies.”

  “Am I saying that?”

  “I don’t even know what you’re saying,” Finn said, laughing to himself.

  Esmerelda pulled out a card from her pocket and set it on the table. “I found this today. I do not know how to read it.” She showed Finn, and he saw the golden ink start to swirl before taking on the shape of a noose. “All I know is that it leads to you.”

  Finn stared at the card. “What should I do?”

  “Do what you always do, Finn. Do what is right.” She stared at the card, leaving it in the center of the table. “How long will you be staying?”

  “I had hoped to stay long enough to ensure my safety.”

  “I think the city has quieted down,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  She pulled another card out and slid it across the table.

  It looked like Verendal. The detail was strange, but it looked as if the city itself was normal. He could see the spires of the church of Heleth rising up over it, the palace, and even the newer church of Fell.

  “Then I should be getting back,” he said.

  “If you must. Be careful, Finn.”

  Morning came quickly, and when he woke up, he found Meyer in the kitchen. He was dressed for the day in a deep-brown jacket and matching pants, a pack resting on the table.

  “You came back late,” Meyer said.

  “I got caught up in one of the protests,” Finn said. He told him about visiting with Walter, heading out to the Brinder section, and encountering the three men, including the agitator. He skipped his visit with Jamie, however. Finn didn’t want Master Meyer knowing everything going on in his life. The more Finn shared, the more Meyer’s eyes narrowed.

  “Another dozen died last night,” Meyer said. “Most of them protesters. Another pair of Archers.” He slid a folded piece of parchment toward Finn. “I’ve been questioning the men we healed, but none of them know anything.”

  “Not even about the person behind it? The Black Rose themself?”

  “I suspect there is no one person who is the Black Rose. This is a movement, Finn. Not a person. As you’ve seen.” He flicked his gaze to the pamphlet that Oscar had given him.

  Finn picked up the parchment Meyer had offered, skimming through. It was a missive from Tolsten.

  “The magister wants to make a demonstration,” Meyer said.

  “Tolsten is going to use Walter,” Finn said.

  Meyer nodded. “Unfortunately.”

  “He admitted to the crime,” Finn said.

  “I got word from the warden that he acknowledged what he did. With an admission of guilt, there is no reason to delay his sentencing.”

  “Even if he was drawn into something that he didn’t really understand?”

  “Killing someone accidentally is still killing them, Finn. The king still demands justice. In this case, the justice has a different meaning. It has a different need.”

  Finn glanced back toward the door, looking for his sister, but she was not yet up.

  “Lena got back late, as well,” Meyer said. “Let her sleep.”

  “Maybe I’ll make breakfast today,” Finn said.

  Meyer chuckled. “Maybe that would be for the best.”

  Finn prepared their breakfast and they ate in silence. Only when they were done did they get to their feet. They headed out of the house, pausing at Declan for Meyer to head inside, with Finn accompanying him, to gather Walter Briggs. He glanced from Finn to Meyer, his eyes growing wider with each passing moment. They led him through the streets, which were strangely quiet this morning. There had been fires during the night—he had seen the flames when he’d left the city—but there was no sign of those either. No windows were broken like he’d seen in other parts of the city, and there was no debris to indicate any damage.

  By the time they reached City Hall, Walter had already started to babble.

  It started slowly, but the farther they went, the more he started to tear up, to the point that he was shaking his head, his eyes wide, his mouth working as if to say something he’d never said.

  “You’re going to want to speak on your behalf,” Finn said.

  “I’ve already told you that it was an accident.” He looked over to Finn, his wide-eyed expression begging him to help. “I told you that I didn’t mean to do it. I told you that—”

  “You are going to want to speak on your behalf,” Finn said again.

  Walter bobbed his head, nodding at him. “I… I didn’t mean to.”

  “Whether or not you meant to is immaterial now.”

  They climbed the steps to City Hall, the old stone of the Alainsith building giving a sense of weight to the proceedings. He looked to Walter, and his shoulders were slumped, his head bowed, and his hands clenched in front of him.

  Finn took a deep breath and pushed open the doors, guiding Walter inside. City Hall often caught Finn’s attention, much like it did today. There was something impressive about it, which was the intent of its design. It drew the eye, from the gleaming white floor, to the smooth walls, to the enormous wolf head emblem etched into the stone—a reminder of the king and his authority over all of this, despite how City Hall had once been an Alainsith structure. Pale light poured in through the windows and wall-mounted lanterns glowed, as if guiding the condemned toward their fate.

  Once inside City Hall, they headed toward the juror chamber, and to Walter’s sentencing. Finn knew what his sentence would be.

  The jurors were all present. As was the magister.

  They waited as he and Meyer guided Walter in.

  Throughout the time Finn had served as executioner, the jurors had changed. They all still came from wealthier sections of the city. Finn still found it troubling that the jurors were always wealthy, perhaps more so now that they would be deciding the fate of people with so little. It was the exact thing that the Black Rose railed against.

  Finn tried not to think about that, and tried not to think about the fact that all of the jurors were selected from the innermost parts of the city, the wealthier parts. Those from the outer sections, the poorer places, did not have any real representation. They relied upon the kindness of the others.

  Meyer nodded to Finn, who guided Walter forward.

  “Jurors. I present to you W
alter Briggs, accused of killing an Archer”—it occurred to Finn that he still didn’t even know the name of the Archer, or whether the Archer had actually died—“during the protest in the Brinder section. The accused has admitted to his crime, though he states he didn’t intend to harm anyone.”

  Finn looked up at the jury, taking them in. They sat behind a long table on a raised platform, giving them the appearance of looking down on others in the juror chamber. A lantern hung on the wall at either end of the room, spilling light inside—the flame of justice, as the magister had once called it. That light wasn’t fully necessary, as there was plenty of natural light coming in through a row of windows seated high in the wall, though the lanterns cast a warmer glow.

  The current jury was comprised of four men and three women. All looked as if they were displeased they had been asked to come to the City Hall for this, though Finn suspected it was more of a displeasure in what Walter would force them to decide. None of the current jurors seemed to take any satisfaction in the convicting and sentencing of criminals. That was better than enjoying the process, he supposed, especially as they were often the ones to decide who lived and who died.

  The magister leaned forward. Dressed in the black robes of his office, his flat, gray eyes looked out at Finn, then he turned to Walter Briggs with an expression of disdain before turning to the jurors.

  Finn didn’t know Magister Yolath well. Like all magisters, he had trained at the university in the king’s law and served as guidance with respect to sentencing. There were times when he inserted himself into the sentencing more than others, though this magister did so less often than his predecessor. From what Finn knew, the role of magister was supposed to be merely advisory, but seeing as the magister was the one position that rarely changed, that often didn’t happen. Too often, the magister defaulted to making the sentence and the rest of the jurors had to decide whether to go along with the decision.

  “As he has been accused and admits to his guilt, the decision is clear,” the magister said. “He would serve as an example to the others and—”

  “I have not had the opportunity to speak to the captain of the Archers,” Finn spoke up, ignoring the quick look from Meyer. He knew where it came from, and he knew it didn’t matter. If he didn’t speak on behalf of Walter now, there wouldn’t be another chance. “I have not confirmed that an Archer was killed during those protests.”

  The magister leaned back, resting his hands on the table in front of him. “That was not the report.”

  “I understand the report is that Mr. Walter Briggs killed an Archer, but I didn’t have an opportunity to confirm that before we were summoned here.” Finn preferred to be thorough, and not having that opportunity made it harder for him to feel as if he’d done everything he needed, especially when he didn’t know if there was something more he could do to help Walter.

  He didn’t even know if he should help, but there had been so few times when he had come across someone for whom he had a desire to intervene.

  That wasn’t what fully motivated him though.

  It was twofold.

  Walter could have been him. Gods, Finn practically had been him. If he had still been running the streets during the protests, Finn suspected he would have been caught up in them and pulled into many of the same actions as Walter. How could he blame the man—rather, boy—for actions like that?

  The other reason was harder.

  Finn knew him—not well, but he had known Walter’s name. And the boy was from Brinder. Like Finn.

  But it was about more than simply recognizing his name.

  It was about the fact that this was someone he knew—and someone he could offer a measure of help to. If he was honest with himself, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would do the same thing for Oscar if he were in this situation.

  That question had stuck with Finn ever since he’d come to his position. If his oldest friend in the city—and his father’s closest friend—had needed him because of a crime he’d committed, what would Finn do?

  There wasn’t a good answer.

  Finn thought he would serve the way he’d been instructed to serve—he thought he would want to fulfill the king’s justice—but there was a part of him that wondered if he would really do that. It had never been tested, and Finn didn’t want for it to be tested, but if he were to be challenged, he knew he would find it difficult to turn away from helping Oscar.

  “What is this about, Mr. Jagger?” the magister asked.

  “Nothing more than what I’ve told you.” Finn could feel Meyer’s gaze on him, but he continued to ignore it. “In most cases, I would have taken the opportunity to confirm all aspects of the accusation, but I didn’t have the time to do so with Mr. Briggs.”

  “Would you care to tell us why you did not and what you have been doing?”

  Finn finally did look over to Meyer at this point.

  Meyer didn’t have anger in his expression, as Finn feared he would, but there was worry, maybe a hint of sadness, and perhaps even disappointment.

  It was that last feeling that troubled Finn the most. He didn’t want to disappoint Meyer.

  That, more than anything else, was the thought that stuck with him.

  He couldn’t disappoint him.

  He turned back to the magister and glanced to the jurors, his gaze sweeping over them. “We have been investigating the Black Rose movement. That’s what is responsible for the protests.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not saying he didn’t commit the crime, only that I have not had the opportunity to fully determine the details of what occurred. He stands accused of killing one of the Archers, and given the current situation in the city, I think it prudent to ensure he actually did kill one of the Archers.”

  “The accusation is sound,” the magister said. “We have corroborating stories.”

  “From other Archers? Or from others within the crowd?”

  Finn had to be careful here, and even if he managed to get a stay of execution, a little more time, would it matter?

  Given what Finn had seen with the crowd in the street, how the protesters had converged as quickly as they did, he didn’t think he would even have an opportunity to uncover anything more than what he already had. It was unlikely to make any difference for him, and certainly not for Walter Briggs.

  “The other Archers who were on duty at that time,” the magister said. “They observed the violence, they grabbed the one responsible, and they placed him in prison. Surely you have pieced that much together, Mr. Jagger.”

  Finn looked over to Master Meyer, and knew he still needed to be careful, knew he shouldn’t be pushing so hard, but he felt as if he wanted to question more than he had.

  “I understand,” Finn said.

  “Good. Then it is decided.” The magister turned to the jurors. “In the matter of Walter Briggs, I recommend, on behalf of the king, that he be sentenced to hang. He can serve as an example to the entire blighted movement that they cannot oppose the king and his justice.”

  Finn closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. He knew this was the inevitable outcome, but he didn’t like it any better than he had before. Worse, he didn’t think the magister was right. Walter’s sentence wouldn’t deter the movement. It would only fuel it more.

  The jurors leaned back, speaking softly to themselves, but Finn knew it would only be a matter of time before they came back with the conviction, and when they did, there wasn’t anything he would be able to do on Walter’s behalf. He didn’t even know if there was anything he should do on his behalf.

  They finished their discussion and leaned forward, the magister leveling his gaze on Walter Briggs.

  “The jurors, serving on behalf of King Porman, have agreed that Walter Briggs will be sentenced to hang in two days’ time. May the gods welcome you back.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The days leading up to the execution had been fruitless.

  Finn had learned nothing more about the Black Rose, though he kept
searching, questioning the men who had recovered enough to answer—but they knew nothing. All were at the protests out of anger with the king.

  Finn hated his failure. The king had asked for the Hunter, but he had found nothing.

  Now he sat at the table, resting his hands in front of him and looking at his mug of tea. He couldn’t help but feel as if something was wrong, as if all of this was heading in the wrong direction, cascading uncontrollably.

  The mug of tea steamed in front of him, but Finn hadn’t touched it, his stomach roiling, leaving him with a hint of nausea that was unusual for him on a morning like this. He had a piece of toasted bread and a few bites of sausage, but nothing more than that. Normally, on the morning of an execution, Finn would eat more than this, but for whatever reason, he simply didn’t have the stomach for it today.

  Lena stood near the stove, her back toward him as she worked on breakfast for Master Meyer and herself, humming softly.

  “What’s that?”

  Finn looked up from staring at Reginald’s journal as Lena leaned over him, frowning. “It’s nothing—at least, it’s probably nothing,” he said.

  “It looks like it’s something.” She took a seat across from him and grabbed it, flipping through. Her brow furrowed. “Payments.”

  “No,” he said, reaching for it. “Debt owed.”

  Lena shook her head, tapping on it. “No. These are payments. Meyer uses something similar, but not quite the same. There is a different organization to this one. I’m not a bookkeeper, but if you follow it, these are payments received.”

  Finn frowned, pulling it back to him. Why would Reginald have killed himself if people were paying him?

  “I could be wrong,” she said, but from her tone, Finn could tell she didn’t think that was likely.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve given me something to look into.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the protests?”

  “Probably not,” he said.

  Payments might mean funding. What if it was tied to the protests? Then Reginald had been more tightly involved than he’d known. If that were the case, then Finn had overlooked something with Reginald. Perhaps much about Reginald. He needed to revisit the ledger, along with all of the shops listed within it, and go back and question all of them. It would take an incredible amount of work, but it felt like the right thing for him to do. It was the kind of thing that the Hunter would do.