By the time Sartori made his appearance, Sedric and Walter trailing behind him, over a hundred people from Portstown had gathered, including the Patris from the church, and nearly eighty from Lean-to, most the families of guildmembers, but a large enough contingent from Shay’s group to cause the Armory to shift forward, hands on pommels. The crowd parted as the Proprietor approached, Sartori taking to the platform without hesitation, as if it had always been there, not erected that morning. Sedric and Walter took their places behind him.
Tom did not see any sign of Signal Daverren, nor any of his assistants.
“People of Portstown,” Sartori said, breaking through the low murmur that had drifted through the crowd, “it is with regret that I stand before you to pass judgment this day. As you know, the Carrente Family has seen fit to grant me these lands in New Andover, to grant me the title of Proprietor of Portstown. Unfortunately, one of the duties as Proprietor in such a wild and unsettled territory such as this is as Judge. It is my responsibility to see that justice is carried out, that crimes are punished, and it is that role I am to play today.
“As most of you know, there was an incident at the docks yesterday upon the arrival of the Tradewind.” Sartori signaled Arten, who nodded toward one of the Armory guardsmen. Word passed, and as the Proprietor continued speaking, the barracks doors opened, another escort of guardsmen emerging, leading Shay, three other members of his group, and Colin toward the gallows.
Ana tensed, took an involuntary step forward, but Tom held her back.
“These men were the instigators of the riot that followed,” Sartori proclaimed. Voices rose from the people of Portstown. “These men brought blades to the docks and attacked the Armory that were there for protection. Three of the guardsmen died.” The growl from Portstown rose, a few cursing.
“How many from Lean-to died?” Ana asked, contempt in her voice.
“At least seven,” Sam reported. “Seven associated with the guild anyway. I don’t know how many of Shay’s men died.”
Tom didn’t care. His attention was fixed on Sartori, on Colin, who stood next to Shay and the other men, last in line, shorter than the rest by at least a foot, younger by more than a decade. His son searched the crowd desperately, eyes wide and terrified, and finally latched onto his father, onto his mother. He tried to rush forward, but the ropes that bound his hands and feet brought him up short, the guardsman that had followed the prisoners out of the barracks pulling him back into place roughly.
On the platform, Sartori turned toward Shay, toward the entire line of men, including Colin.
“Portstown cannot tolerate such blatant disregard of authority,” he said, his voice lowered enough that those from Portstown were forced to quiet in order to hear him. “Because of the needless deaths of the Armory, and the fact that you came to the docks with the intent to do harm, I sentence you to be hung until dead.”
There were gasps from the crowd, a minor uproar from those from Lean-to. Ana turned, gripped Tom’s upper arm tight. “Tom.”
“I know,” he said, and shot a glance toward Sam, toward Paul. Behind, the tumult from Lean-to grew as on the platform two guardsmen shoved Shay forward, over the trapdoor, beneath the noose. He moved stiffly, rigidly, his face blank, as if he hadn’t heard anything Sartori had said, as if he couldn’t believe any of this was happening.
But that paralysis broke when they dropped the thick rope over his head and around his neck. He began to struggle, snapped his head left and right, cried out, “No! You can’t do this! I’m Avezzano, a member of the Family!” as they cinched the noose tight, writhed as the guardsmen stepped aside. But he couldn’t move, his hands still tied tightly behind his back. His breath came in ragged gasps, and sweat broke out on his forehead. In a torn voice, he cried out again, “No!” and then tried to step aside, to leap away from the trapdoor. But his legs were tied together like Colin’s, and he tripped and stumbled, fell almost to his knees.
The cord from the noose brought him up short, jerked his head back as he emitted a strangled grunt. His legs pivoted beneath him and he swung back, but it still wasn’t enough for his knees to reach the platform.
His face turned a livid red and his eyes bulged as he began to choke. Flesh bunched up under his chin, dragged there by the rope. Harsh sounds, phlegmy and distorted, like a diseased dog choking on its own blood, stretched out over the square as he struggled to get his feet under him, his legs already buckling, already weakening. A woman in the Portstown crowd screamed.
Then Arten barked a curt order, hand chopping down in a succinct, final gesture—
And someone loosed the trapdoor.
Wood slapped against wood as it fell and Shay dropped. But the rope had been pulled taut already. His neck didn’t snap. Instead, he lost all hope of finding footing. He kicked at empty air, flailed, jerked back and forth, the hastily constructed gallows creaking, shuddering as he struggled.
His spasms ended, slowly and gracelessly, his face now a bruised and blackened purple, his features contorted, his neck strangely elongated. Dark stains spread over the front and back of his breeches as he pissed and shit himself.
The square had fallen utterly silent except for a few muted sobs and the low sound of the Patris uttering a prayer, crossing himself repeatedly. Women buried their heads in convenient shoulders; children hugged their parents’ legs or remained oblivious, playing in the dirt. The men stood, faces blank, bodies rigid.
Ana whispered a prayer, her tone ragged and shocked. Her hand had tightened so hard on Tom’s that his fingers had gone numb.
He hadn’t liked Shay Jones, had tolerated him because he’d thought he was a member of the guilds, but he would never have wished such an ugly death on him. He swallowed down the taste of bile in the back of his throat, fought back the nausea. Each breath brought with it the smell of salt, of ocean—
And with one gust, the stench of urine and shit.
On the platform, Sartori grimaced and waved the guardsmen forward. They snagged Shay’s body, hauled it back onto the platform, removed the noose and carried the corpse to one side as the trapdoor was reset.
The second man spat at Sartori’s feet before the noose dropped over his neck. He didn’t struggle, didn’t even speak, his glare falling over everyone in the crowd, from Portstown and Lean-to alike. Tom hadn’t met him, although he knew he’d come from a conscript ship.
Everyone in both groups flinched when the trapdoor was released.
The third man had been a thief. He wept without a sound, struggled only at the last moment, surging forward as Arten gave the command to trigger the trapdoor. He swung back and forth, his neck snapping as the rope pulled taut.
The fourth man collapsed to his knees before they’d even removed the third man from the noose. He begged, pleaded, fell down onto his side. “I wasn’t part of the riot!” he screamed as the guardsmen dragged him across the platform, as they jerked him upright. “I wasn’t part of Shay’s group!”
Sartori simply frowned.
“You have to believe me!” the man roared. “I was there looking for work! I was there to unload the ship!” The noose tightened around his neck and he heaved in a loud, noisy, ragged breath. “I was only looking for work,” he mumbled, snot coating his upper lip. His head sagged forward, hair falling down in front of his face—
And then the trapdoor cracked open.
Before the body had stopped swinging, the crowd grew restless, a low unpleasant murmur starting on the Lean-to side, drifting slowly to the Portstown side.
There was only one more prisoner left on the platform.
Colin.
“Tom,” Ana said, and this time her voice was sharp with warning, cutting deep.
Tom stepped forward, let Ana’s hand go, felt Sam and Paul step up behind him, along with a few others from Lean-to. He caught Arten’s answering movement from the side, saw Arten’s dark frown, hand resting on his sword in warning. But before either of them could do anything, Sartori turned back to the
crowd. His face was grim, hard, lines etching the corners of his mouth, his eyes. He looked over everyone gathered, letting his gaze settle finally on Tom.
“Before I handle this last case,” he said, and his voice fell into complete silence, into an ominous tension that prickled against Tom’s skin, “I have an announcement.”
No one in the square moved. Tom felt Arten’s presence at his side, like a lodestone, felt every Armory guardsman and every tradesman from Lean-to where they stood, felt Colin’s nervous glance as the guardsmen shuffled him forward, as they placed him over the trapdoor.
“As Proprietor of Portstown, I have only the town’s well-being in mind. I, and my father before me, have always felt that expansion of the town and the Carrente lands to the east is a necessity for our survival. He, and I, sent expeditions onto the plains in the past, but unfortunately nothing has come of those forays. We don’t know why those expeditions failed, but we must make further attempts, or our survival here in New Andover will be in jeopardy.
“To that end, the Carrente Family, along with the West Wind Trading Company, will be sending another expedition to the east, with the intent to establish a new town, one that will be the foundation of our expansion to the east in the future. We have already gathered the necessary materials for this expedition; however we are lacking in the men and women who have the skills to make the settlement a success.
“At the West Wind Trading Company’s request, I have extended a proposal to the guildsmen in Lean-to, to Tom Harten in particular.” Sartori motioned toward Tom, and everyone’s attention shifted, drawn to him, to Sam and Paul and all of the others that stood behind him.
“Tom Harten,” Sartori said. “Will you lead this expedition? Will you journey into the plains and start this settlement? The Carrente Family would be in your debt.”
Then Sartori lowered his head. Something flickered in his eyes.
And Tom stilled. Because in the Proprietor’s gaze he could see what was truly offered, what Sartori truly meant. He’d waited to make the announcement on purpose, waited until Colin stood ready to face judgment, until Colin stood over the trapdoor, the noose dangling over his head. The message was clear.
If Tom said no, Colin would hang.
And he wasn’t the only one to see the threat behind the words. The crowd at his back stirred, restless, uneasy. A dark, fluid uneasiness, like deep ocean.
To the side, he saw Arten frown with disapproval, with something deeper.
Discontent.
But the Armory commander didn’t move. No one moved, those gathered waiting. To see how he would react, to see what he would do. And he knew that if he said no, if Sartori threatened Colin’s life because of it, that those from Lean-to, even the guildsmen, would fight. He could hear it in the dark, swelling murmur behind him, could feel it. They hadn’t done so for the others, for Shay and his group, but that was because Shay and the others had gone to the docks with knives, had planned on violence.
Colin hadn’t. His arrest in Lean-to had been witnessed, and word had spread through the nest of huts and shacks and tents like wildfire.
Tom’s eyes narrowed. He glanced toward Colin, looked into his son’s eyes, saw the fear there, the stark terror, barely contained, then turned back to Sartori.
For a single, burning moment, he wanted to take advantage of the black emotions of the crowd behind him, wanted to release them, and Sartori and Portstown be damned.
But he knew what Ana would want, knew what she’d do, knew that she would never forgive him. They hadn’t discussed the matter of the expedition, had focused on Colin, on trying to get some sleep, on holding each other for comfort to get through the night.
But he didn’t need to ask her, didn’t even need to turn to look at her. He could feel her at his back.
Drawing a deep breath, everyone around him tensing, Arten’s hand tightening on the pommel of his sword to one side, Tom said, “Yes. I’ll lead the expedition to the east.”
He was surprised. There was no bitterness in his voice at all.
Colin didn’t begin to panic until the guardsmen brought him out into the sunlight, harsh after the dimness of the barracks, and he saw his parents standing at the front of the crowd. His father’s face was drawn, somehow stark; his mother’s was terrified.
And it was that terror that reached down into Colin’s gut with a cold hand and brought a shiver of sweat to his skin.
The Armory barracks hadn’t been that bad. After seizing him in Lean-to, after allowing Walter that hard punch to the stomach, the Armory had forced Walter aside and led Colin down to the town, stumbling with pain and weak with shock. He hadn’t thought beyond his attack on Walter, on his gang. He’d thought that would be the end of it, the end of all of the fighting, that Walter would back off now that he knew Colin would fight back.
That Walter would turn to the Armory had never crossed his mind.
When the guardsmen had thrust him into the cell inside the barracks, he’d worried about what they would do to him. But then someone charged into the room, barking orders, and everyone except a few guardsmen had thrown down their cards or dice, grabbed weapons, and rushed out of the building. Those that remained hadn’t been interested in Colin at all, pacing before the tables and cots that filled the majority of the room. They hadn’t even looked in his direction.
Nearly an hour later, a group returned, leading Shay and three others, their hands trussed behind their backs. One of the men was bleeding from a cut to his shoulder. Shay looked enraged.
The guards spoke for a moment, glancing in Colin’s direction, their new prisoners shuffling beside them. Then one of them opened up the cell, motioned Colin out, and thrust Shay and the rest inside.
“We don’t want you in there with the others,” the guard said, leading Colin toward an empty cot at the back of the building.
“What happened?”
“There was a riot at the docks.”
Colin’s chest tightened, his eyes going wide. “My father was at the docks!”
The guard paused, a strange mixture of emotion crossing his face. Anger and pity and concern. He hadn’t shaven recently, the stubble gritty and coarse, brown except for a patch of white at the base of his chin where a scar cut across the flesh. He stared at Colin a moment with hard brown eyes. “What’s your father’s name?”
“Tom,” Colin said, shifting on the cot, trying to see beyond the guard, to where the others were now settling back into place or seeing to their own wounds. They left the wounded prisoner alone, not even bothering to toss him bandages. “Tom Harten. He’s a carpenter.”
The guard relaxed, smiled tightly. He ruffled Colin’s hair, and because Colin was so concerned about his father, he didn’t even try to duck away. “Your father’s fine. Stay here for tonight. The Proprietor will deal with you—and the others—tomorrow.” Before Colin could ask anything more, he turned and rejoined the other guardsmen.
Colin settled onto the cot, lying down, but he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep. Not when he didn’t know what would happen to him tomorrow morning.
But he woke hours later to the sound of voices, close enough that he didn’t open his eyes. He recognized the voice of the guard with the unshaven beard but not the other man’s. They stood right over him, barely two feet away. The rest of the barracks was silent except for an occasional snore.
“What do you think, Arten?”
The voice he didn’t recognize answered. “I spoke to his father. He thinks his son was defending himself. And we all know what Walter is capable of.”
The other guard grunted. “I believe him. He hasn’t caused a lick of trouble since we took him in Lean-to. And did you see the bruises on him? I think Walter deserved whatever he got.”
Colin heard Arten shift. “You aren’t the one passing judgment on him.”
The guardsman didn’t answer. And after a long moment, the two moved away, their boots heavy on the plank flooring.
Colin’s apprehension faded aft
er that.
Until they woke him the next morning. Until they tied his hands and feet and led him out into the sunlight and he saw the newly erected gallows and the fear on his mother’s face.
The terror settled into his stomach like a living thing, small at first, as he squinted into the light and was shoved up onto the platform behind Shay and the others. The Proprietor was speaking, but Colin didn’t listen. He struggled with the growing nausea, with the increasing sensation of something writhing in his gut.
And then they hung Shay.
He almost puked, cold sweat breaking out all over his skin as Shay flailed, as he struggled, as his face turned purple and black and finally grew still. Colin’s knees grew weak.
And then the acrid scent of piss and shit hit him, and he stilled. The nausea didn’t fade, the writhing snake in his stomach didn’t halt, but he suddenly found the strength not to buckle and collapse to the platform. Because he remembered what Walter had done to him, remembered pissing his pants, remembered what that shame had felt like.
Colin glanced to where Walter stood behind his father, beside his brother and Patris Brindisi, who was muttering one of the litanies under his breath. The guards had removed Shay’s body, had strung up the second rioter, and as he watched, the trapdoor released.
Walter turned as the body jerked and spun, a thin smile turning the corners of his mouth. When he saw Colin, the smile deepened.
Colin frowned, straightened, fought the terror back as he stared out over the crowd. And for a brief moment he succeeded, the writhing in his gut abating.
But then the third man wept, and the man who’d stood beside him the entire time collapsed and screamed, had to be dragged to the noose.
The screams unnerved him. The sound of the man’s neck breaking sent a wave of tremors through his body, and he couldn’t make the trembling stop. Fresh sweat broke out, prickling across his back, in his armpits, rank with fear.
A guard prodded him forward, forced him to halt over the trapdoor itself. He saw his father step forward from the crowd, heard the Proprietor speaking, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. His breath came in ragged gasps, the sounds filling his ears, thudding with the panicked beat of his heart, with the pulse of his disbelief.
Well of Sorrows Page 9