The Seventh Execution

  Chapter One: The Watcher Watched

  Her or me. It was her or me.

  After the execution, after too many sleepless nights, afraid to face the waiting nightmares, I had to put the matter behind me.

  “It was her or me,” I declared, then made myself believe it. If I stopped, though, if I ceased whispering my mantra under my breath when I was alone, if I left off repeating it in my mind until I nodded off at night, the horror of the day returned. It seeped into my thoughts in sudden and startling ways. Firelight glinting on a kitchen knife recalled Razor Jenni’s blade. Wagon wheels rumbling on the cobblestone street brought back the murmuring crowd. Raw meat on the cutting block, waiting for dinner—

  Her or me.

  I had worked hard all day. Now that night had come I found that sleep would not visit. I lay motionless on my cot, eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening to the house settle around me. This used to be my favorite time of day, when I could rest my body and free my mind, letting my fancies take me to lands free from toil and fear. Now my fancies took me to very different places. I distracted myself by running through the list of chores for the next day: stop the wood-cart when it came around and purchase two bundles on account, put a roast in at noon so that it would be ready for dinner, take the curtains down in the library and wash and press them, clean the windows while the curtains hung on the line. I hated windows more than any other chore. While a stepstool and creative leveraging allowed me to do human-sized tasks in every other area of the master’s house, windows required a ladder and endless climbing up and down.

  I’d lifted a pot full of soup earlier that day and aggravated an old strain in my back. My head pounded like the drums before an execution. I sat up. The moonlight coming through the gabled window illuminated the old boxes and trunks piled in the room. Most halfling servants have to be content with half-rooms under stairs, attached sheds half the height of the rest of the house, or even cupboards. To sleep in an attic, even one with a close and slanted ceiling and mice that ran over me in the middle of the night, was luxury.

  I rose from my cot and stretched, trying to ease my aches. The floorboards felt cool under the curls of hair covering my feet. I padded to the window and leaned on the sill.

  The quiet streets of Edme stretched away, disappearing into a maze of stone walls and peaked roofs. I often stood here, looking for furtive movements or cloaked figures, any signs that Cheliax worked to invade our free nation with their bound devils and sorcery. My father had served my master’s father and remembered the start of the Red Revolution and the oppression that came before it. When others were in earshot, he would tell me stories of Chelish dominance and the nobles’ excesses, a time when halflings were downtrodden “slips” and not respected servants. When we were alone, he cautioned me that those without use to the nation were the first fingered as traitors.

  “As long as you keep finding spies and turncoats for the master, you’ll never find yourself in Razor Jenni’s arms.”

  “In Galt, it’s best to never be noticed at all. Fortunately, halflings are good at that.”

  There are always traitors in Galt. I had become an expert at spotting them by the darkness in their eyes and the rhythm of their gait. My master traveled to Isarn once a month to serve on the Revolutionary Council, and he used my eyes to improve his standing there. Together we had sent six traitors and Chelish sympathizers to their final rest. Six that I am certain were guilty.

  And one that I am not.

  My mind threatened to sprint down those familiar paths once more. I focused instead on the dark street below, watching for unusual activity. The moon was out, just past half full and waxing. My eyes quickly adjusted to the little light. Edme’s resources grew leaner with each passing season, and more than one citizen crept out at night to rifle through abandoned houses. My perch allowed me to watch for such activity, and my experience helped me separate desperate looters from dedicated traitors.

  I stayed at the window until I started shivering. I stretched, and was ready to return to my cot when movement in the street below caught my eye.

  I stopped in mid-stretch, holding myself still. A human figure crouched in the alley across the street, wrapped in a dark cloak and hood. I couldn’t see the figure’s face, but his height and manner of dress suggested it was a man. I watched, waiting to see what business the fellow had so late. He pressed against the wall of the alley, motionless save for small movements of his head as he surveyed the street. The man’s focus was not on the street itself, but only the building opposite him. The building in whose attic I stood, watching him in return.

  He was spying on my master’s house.

  He must have seen me, I thought, before recalling how difficult it is to see inside an upper-story window from the ground, especially when the person at the window stands only head and shoulders above the sill.

  The watcher looked up just as I stepped back. I hesitated, wondering whether he had seen me after all, fighting the temptation to step forward again and make sure I had gone unnoticed. No, no time for that. I grabbed my cloak from its peg near the door and hurried down the stairs.

  My sleeping clothes are almost identical to my working ones: a thin shirt and brown linen trousers. My cloak, though, is dark blue-gray, purposefully dyed to help me blend into the night. I threw the cloak over my shoulders and pulled it tight in front. I don’t wear shoes. I let myself out the back door not more than two minutes after I had first spotted the watcher.

  Halfling senses are sharper than human ones. We can’t see any better in the dark, but we’re attuned to details. Especially here in Galt, where we live so close to death, halflings must remain alert.

  I crept along the side of the manor until the mouth of the alley opposite me came into view. It stood empty. I could hear footsteps, though, muffled and growing fainter. I dashed across the street, my feet almost noiseless against the cobblestones.

  I had to work to catch up. Even at top speed I moved slower than humans did. My biggest advantage was that the watcher didn’t seem to know the city well, while I could navigate the streets with my eyes closed. The moon vanished behind clouds twice, and the tall buildings around me cut off much of the light. Several times I had to slow down lest I trip in the dark or splash through a puddle. My heart beat a little faster every time I had to slow. The watcher’s footsteps grew fainter. If I didn’t make up the distance quickly, I was going to lose him.

  The watcher’s footsteps doubled back. The remains of an old lecture hall loomed before me. It had burned down at the start of the revolution. Sooty timbers leaned drunkenly toward each other. Puddles of rainwater glimmered between piles of broken glass and charred rubble. I held my breath and listened. The scent of old fire stung my nose. The watcher was south of me, circling around the building. I tucked the hem of my cloak into my waistband and climbed into the ruins.

  I scrambled up one of the leaning timbers. The wood, soaked with countless rains, was rotten and soft as a carpet. The timber collided with one of its fellows at a crazy angle. I leaped from one to the other. My feet slid on the sodden wood, and I windmilled my arms to keep balance. When I’d righted myself I paused, listening. The watcher was still moving.

  The timber shifted a little as I ran down its length. A mess of fallen boards crossed the center of the room. I clung to the timber and slid over the edge. Carefully I dropped down onto the boards. Mud and broken glass lay thick around them. I hastened across, my breathing coming quick and ragged as I picked each careful step.

  One of the boards slid out from under me. I hopped to another, hoping it would hold. The planks clattered. I froze and listened.

  The watcher stopped. I bent my knees and huddled as close as I could to the ground, envisioning the faste
st way out of the building and back home.

  Then the watcher started up again. I gave him as much lead as I dared before continuing across the ruin. I reached the other side just as he approached. I breathed a little more easily. Now I could keep up with him for certain. I concealed myself behind a pile of rubbish and waited for him to pass.

  At the same time, I heard more footsteps from the other end of the street. Quiet boots, low voices, a sharp laugh. Looters. Most criminals in Edme were driven by desperation, but lately more sordid individuals had come to the city. They were violent men who followed rumors of abandoned treasure-vaults. I hesitated in the shadows. Before I could decide what to do next, the watcher darted straight for my hiding place.

  As I had guessed, he was a human man. The moonlight robbed his form of color, but it seemed his skin was a light brown shade similar to my own, and his hair and eyes were both dark. He pressed against the wall and slid down to conceal himself behind the refuse pile I was using. I held my breath and, for a wild moment, thought he might not notice me.

  Then the watcher looked down and saw me crouched next to him. His eyes widened.

  The sounds of the looters grew louder. I put my finger to my lips and shook my head.

  The watcher nodded and kept silent. The looters came abreast of us, three of them dressed in dark clothes with weapons held openly in hand. They carried empty packs strapped to their backs, waiting no doubt to be filled with artifacts of pre-Revolution Galt. The watcher held still next to me, so tense I could almost hear his muscles hum. After a dreadful minute, the looters passed by into the darkness.

  The watcher let out his breath in a sigh and straightened. He was short for a human, less than twice my height. “I appreciate your silence,” he whispered.

  “I’ve no wish to run afoul of that type,” I replied. “You take a risk being out so late.”

  “As do you.” He looked me over. “You’ve been following me, haven’t you?”

  I clenched my hands. The man had good ears to have heard me, and I had lost any element of surprise. I readied myself to run, but risked a direct question first. “You were watching the Mirford estate. I want to know why.”

  The watcher smiled. He crouched down to put himself at eye level with me.

  “I was looking for you.”

  Chapter Two: The Faithful False

  We retreated into a network of side streets where we could escape if necessary and where we’d easily hear anyone approaching. The night was cool enough to frost our breath. The smell of refuse lingered beneath the familiar city smells of dirt, sweat, horse dung, and boiled potatoes.

  When I thought us safe, I turned and held up a hand. “Speak quickly.”

  “First let’s make certain I have the right person. You are Tibeth, servant at Mirford Manor?”

  I nodded, never taking my eyes from the man’s face. A muscle in my calf twitched, as if reminding me that flight was still an option.

  “My name is Bradach,” he said. “I have traveled many miles and followed convoluted divinations to find Mirford Manor, and you.” He lowered his voice further. “I am on a mission, a dangerous one, involving the house at which you work. I had hoped—”

  I held up my hand again. “Before you speak further, you should know that whatever this mission is and however far you’ve come, you have the wrong person if you think I would do anything to betray my master. He is a good and patriotic man. I would sooner go straight to him with all you’ve said and risk punishment than be involved in a plot against him.”

  Bradach raised an eyebrow. “Your devotion is admirable, and unexpected. Are you not a slave?”

  My shoulders lifted and brow furrowed as I took a deep breath. “Servant, if you please. My family has willingly served the Mirford family for three generations. My master appreciates the qualities we bring to his household. In my youth, I was educated and trained in many skills beyond a simple kitchen slave’s abilities. So you see, I have no wish to betray the man who has been so kind to me.”

  “I do see.” Bradach rubbed his chin. “Yet I must ask, do you know what role your master serves in the city?”

  “He is a member of the Revolutionary Council,” I said. “Everyone knows as much. He assists the city in protecting itself and works to uncover those who would harm us.”

  “Those who would harm you.” There was no question or malice in Bradach’s voice, but I took offense nonetheless.

  “Traitors. Sympathizers. Rats that gnaw at the foundation of Galt. My master finds them and has them executed.”

  “And every executed person is guilty?”

  “Y-yes. Of course, yes.”

  “Bradach would undermine the very heart of the Revolution.”

  “Not a convincing reply.” Bradach’s voice was smooth and even, almost gentle. “You’re certain only the guilty lie with Razor Jenni?”

  “What do you want with me?” I spoke too loudly and cupped my hand over my mouth, hushing myself.

  Bradach glanced over his shoulder to ensure we were still alone. “I come from the River Kingdoms. I had expected to find a slave, ill-treated, who would sympathize with my cause. My case may now be harder to make.”

  “What,” I repeated, “do you want with me?”

  “The River Kingdoms are free, and I wish to spread their message across the land.” Bradach spoke as if he hadn’t heard me. “I have my own reasons for wanting to start here. I have researched a spell—it’s untested, but I believe it will help release many innocent souls.”

  “What is this spell?”

  “If you’re not willing to help, I’m not sure I should tell you.”

  “If you won’t tell me, I don’t know if I’m willing to help.”

  Bradach studied me. I flushed. My quick retort had shown my hand. I was entertaining the idea of helping him, or at least not hindering him. If only he hadn’t asked are you certain…

  It was her or me!

  “The spell,” he finally said, “should release the spirits trapped in Razor Jenni. Though those executed will remain dead, their souls will be freed to travel on to whatever reward or punishment they merit.”

  I drew in a sharp breath. The great terror of a final blade is not that it is an instrument of death. As the condemned marches up the wooden steps to where the weighty frame holds its razor edge aloft, his fear comes from the knowledge that there is nothing for him after death. His soul will remain trapped in that bloody blade. It is this fear, my master says, that deters so many from considering or attempting treason.

  Then why do so many die? I wanted to ask. If it deters them, then why do so many die? But I dared not ask. Those who ask make that grim march themselves.

  “Free their souls…” I whispered.

  “Yes.” Bradach’s voice grew eager, almost desperate. “To remain trapped forever in that horrible device—I cannot even find words to describe it. Some of those spirits may be guilty, yes, but they were people, people with families, friends… lovers…” He struggled to maintain his composure. “I am here to test the spell. If it works, I will use it to free all such imprisoned. Will you help?”

  “What do you need me to do?” I asked.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  He needed me to betray my master.

  Chores always filled my days, and I worked as hard as I could to distract myself from Bradach’s proposal. That afternoon I stood in the manor’s kitchen, trying to find comfort in the crackling fire. I had not committed myself to Bradach’s mission yet, but had asked for time to think about it. Now I wished I had given him either a firm yes or no; the internal debate that kept surfacing in my mind wore me out more quickly than washing windows.

  It seemed simple to say no, easy to say no, right to say no. The moment I fixed it in my mind that I would say no, though, Bradach’s question resurfaced: Are you certain they were all guilty?

  Then I would think of her, and my thoughts would fly apart again.

  More than two seasons had passed with no arrests or investi
gations led by my master. Panic had grown within me. “Those without use to the nation are the first fingered as traitors,” my father always said, and my master had many enemies.

  She had arrived in the city the previous week, a human woman traveling alone. I found no relatives of hers in Edme. I followed her. She visited unsavory elements in town, asking questions about noble families executed during the start of the Revolution. One night I observed her prowling around the ruins of an old manor house. She uncovered a book, one of the family ledgers in which the nobles recorded births, weddings, and deaths.

  Eager to present my master with someone, I turned her in without further investigation. She was obviously looking for a tie to her family, seeking to prove her noble lineage. The decadent nobility had condemned Galt to years of oppression under imperial rule. To willingly seek out a connection to them was indefensible.

  She tried to defend herself. She claimed to be the child not of the noble family, but of the servants who had worked in the manor and had helped overthrow their masters. Her parents, she claimed, were commoners lost in the Revolution, and she was searching for relatives who might have survived. Others had tried such stories before, but she spoke so clearly, so simply, that I believed her.

  Or did I? I gasped as I sliced the kitchen knife slid off the carrots and over my finger. Blood pooled on the chopping block. I had no proof of her innocence, but her calmness and certainty in the face of her accusers had caught in my memory.

  When she mounted the steps for her final meeting with Razor Jenni, I told myself it was her or me.

  “Are you all right?”

  I squeaked and spun around. The master stood there, looking at me with concern. He had changed out of his work clothes and into a simple navy robe and slippers. A wooden medallion displaying the flag of Galt hung from his neck. Though I remained young even after my many years of service, he showed signs of age. His face displayed new lines every year, and gray streaked his hair.

  “It’s nothing, sir,” I said. I wrapped my finger in a handkerchief. “A bit of carelessness on my part.”