Azure sky with white cotton clouds peered down on Duke Nathye of Bewic. He was strolling along a street in town, his guards in tow, though guards against what, he wasn’t sure. The world conspired to be pleasant, not to offend.
He took another swig from the bottle he was holding, one he had liberated from his father’s—no, from his—wine cellar, and looked at the shops that fronted the sidewalk. People were walking about, chasing small and unimportant tasks in their meaningless lives. They smiled at him, giving way and bowing, recognizing his greatness—he swayed to the side, almost crashing into a table on the sidewalk, stupid table—as was his due. He took another swig of the wine.
He was bored. There was nothing to do in Bewic. He knew all the shops and had sampled all that the restaurants had to offer. He had even dressed as a commoner once and gone to a gambling hall at night. Ser Dafeld almost had apoplexy at that but agreed to send a few guards, also dressed as commoners, to go with Nathye. The people were pleasant. He won. It was boring.
A pair of men was coming his way down the sidewalk, struggling with a large crate between them. One, wearing a stained red shirt, was walking backward toward Nathye. The men strained under the heavy load, probably some irrelevant thing that someone wanted somewhere else. Nathye kept walking forward, the sidewalk unsteady under him, drinking from his bottle.
The men were not planning on moving out of his way. Did they even see him? Nathye coughed, continuing to walk forward.
The man farther back, facing Nathye, raised his head and saw Nathye. His face, contorted under the effort, looked at his friend, then back at Nathye. “Passing through!” he called out.
Nathye was indeed passing through. He continued walking, almost up to the pair. Were they not planning on giving ground?
One of his guards called out, “Make way for the Duke!” as was proper.
The two men carrying the crate were almost upon them. The red-shirted man twisted his head to look back. The other stretched his neck, trying to figure out what was going on.
“Clear the way,” the red-shirted man yelled, sweat running down his face as his hands lifted the crate up and he took another step.
“Anthond, ’tis the Duke. We must stop!” said the other, a thick mustache serving as the resting ground for his large nose.
“Can’t stop, Wisym. If I put it down, it ain’t coming up again,” said the red-shirted one.
Wisym was slowing down, pulling the crate back. Anthond continued his backward walk.
Nathye, almost upon them, raised his bottle to order them around. He took a step forward and stumbled, about to crash into them. At the last second, he felt hands grab him from behind and move him onto the street, where he and his rescuer stood in a fragrant pile of horse dung.
Wisym, by now, had stopped moving, while Anthond had taken that last crucial step. The crate, making up its own mind, left Anthond’s hand and crashed to the floor. The weight proved too much for Wisym, and his side pushed down, leaving his hands and crashing into his knees on the way down to land spectacularly on his feet.
Wisym looked down in shock at his legs. Blood was starting to soak through his pants, covering his knees. His mouth opened, and a thin, high wail came out, barely audible. He tried stepping back, but the crate had landed on his feet and was holding him in place.
Anthond could not see the blood, the crate hiding his friend’s knees from him. He looked at Wisym’s face that was making a great impersonation of a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing, and barked a laugh. Pointing at Wisym, he said, “What are you about?”
Wisym tried bending down to push the crate off his legs, but since he couldn’t step back, the angle just made it so that he pushed the crate onto his feet even more. Yelping in pain, he finally folded on himself, falling down behind the crate to lie down, feet still stuck under it, knees sticking up. The blood soaking his pants became obvious.
“Help,” he cried, “help me!”
Nathye couldn’t help himself. He started laughing, bending over, clutching at his side. The bottle fell from his hand, falling on the ground, rolling in the manure.
His men moved to lift the crate, helping Anthond free Wysim. Nathye stopped his laughter and said, “I do not appreciate being dropped in manure. Let’s go.” He walked away, not looking back.
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Birds circled above the crowd in the big square, looking for the crumbs of food dropped by the gawkers who came to see the spectacle. The more adventurous birds would dine on more gruesome fare later. Nathye sensed the kindred spirits in their drive.
He was dressed in his black frock with its silver buttons, his sword buckled at his waist. His black shoes were polished to a shine, and he could see the sky and birds reflected in them. He let his long hair flow back from his head down his back. The crowd would get the show they expected today. They would see their lord in all his magnificence, delivering justice.
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“Your Grace,” said Ser Dafeld, standing next to Nathye on the raised platform, “I would entreat you once more to commute their sentence.”
“You forget yourself, Dafeld. I have made my decision.”
Nathye stepped forward, standing on the edge of the platform, looking at the people arrayed before him. Looking down, he saw their expectant eyes staring back up at him. He raised his hands, and the hubbub quieted down.
“My people!” he cried. “Today, justice will be served.”
He could hear murmurs in the crowd. They must be as anxious as he was to see this done.
He stepped back, looking to the platform. Three gallows had hastily been constructed in front of the platform from which announcements were made to the town, from which celebrations were carried out, on which the traveling troupes his father invited had come to perform. His father seldom executed anyone, and when he had, it was done quickly and privately. Nathye was going to change that.
The gallows were a solid constructions. He was not going to suffer a botched hanging, allowing a criminal to walk free on a technicality. He’d made it clear to the workmen who built it that if the condemned didn’t die, the builders would dangle there instead. They used strong beams and thick ropes, anchoring the frames to the platform with metal brackets. These gallows would likely remain here when the next troupe showed up to perform and would have to be incorporated into their plays.
Two men were standing in front of the ropes hanging down from the beams. Both had their hands tied behind their backs, both shaking. Nathye wrinkled his nose at the smell of fresh piss; one of them had not been able to face his punishment like a man.
“Thury,” Nathye called over his shoulder, “come up here!”
The guard, looking perplexed, climbed the steps up to the platform and came to stand by Nathye.
“You will assist,” Nathye said, waving the executioner away. The hooded executioner looked to Ser Dafeld, then just moved to the side.
“Yes, Your Grace,” said Thury.
“Any last words?” Nathye asked the two men.
“Your Grace, mercy, please. We did not see you. We could not move out of the way,” said Anthond, the red-shirted man who had walked with his back to Nathye.
The other, fingers on both feet broken from the crate falling on him and knees bloody, was swaying in place. His mouth opened, but only a pained mumble came out.
“I understand, but lessons must be taught,” Nathye said. “Thury, cover their heads and place the nooses.” He was not a monster, after all.
The executioner handed Thury two canvas bags. Thury put one over the red-shirted man. Nathye could now see the dark piss stain between his legs. The man kept mumbling, “Please, mercy, mercy. Oh, Dark Stuse, welcome me to your embrace.” The canvas muffled the annoying noise. Next, he placed the closest noose over the man’s neck.
Thury moved on to the second, mustachioed man. He placed the canvas over his head as well. The man was swaying, and Thury stabilized him, placing the noose over him as well.
The murmuring of the crowd had grown hushed now. Like Nathye, they must all be expecting justice now.
Taking a deep breath, Nathye took control of his destiny. “Thury,” he said loudly, “these men have not paid proper respect to their duke. I have found them guilty, their punishment death. Execute them!”
Thury looked at him, his eyes as wide as the tea saucers he remembered his mother using when Nathye was small, and she took him to her sitting room.
His mouth worked once, twice, then he got out a weak, “Your Grace?”
“Do it!”
Thury, looking around as if anyone would save him from carrying out his rightful job, dragged his legs to stand behind the first man, who was still mumbling incoherent prayers. One hand covering his stomach as if he were cold on this sunny day, he lifted the other to the man’s back, then pushed.
The man, who was standing on the edge of the platform, gave a yelp as he took a step forward into thin air. His body, trying to find stable ground, angled down, one leg still on the platform. As his head descended to almost the level of the platform, the rope stretched and reached its full length. A loud snap sounded, and the head bounced. His back leg slipped off the platform and allowed the body to fully dangle, now limp, arms and legs swinging independently like a marionette controlled by an artless amateur. His head smacked against the platform with a thud of finality, and his body kept swaying underneath.
Nathye was surprised. He’d heard people suffocated and kicked their legs, but this man died quickly.
Thury stood on the platform, hand still outstretched as if he were admonishing the crowd, eyes looking down to the head at his feet. Nathye cleared his throat, and Thury looked to Nathye. Nathye gestured with his chin to the second man.
Thury turned and walked behind the other man. He needn’t have bothered. The man, exhausted from his injuries, slid to his knees. On the edge of the platform, his knees met empty air, and he slowly slid off the platform, noose tightening around his neck. Unlike the other, this was a proper hanging. Choking sounds came from him as his legs started kicking, and he jerked on the rope this way and that, his body twitching.
Nathye stood there savoring the justice for the couple of minutes it took the man to stop moving. The murmurs of the crowd grew, probably commenting on Nathye’s justice to their neighbors.
Nathye moved over to Thury, guiding him by the elbow to move farther back on the platform. The man was not reacting well to the excitement of the day. That was fine. It would make the next part easier.
“Thury, there is one more thing we need to do, you and I.”
Thury looked at him, though Nathye could see there was little comprehension in his eyes.
Placing one hand on Thury’s shoulder, Nathye reached over and grabbed the third rope that was dangling from the beam with the other. Thury was looking at him and didn’t see what Nathye’s hand was doing. He brought it behind Thury’s head and paused.
“That day, when you moved me from the path of the men, you put me down in manure. Disrespect, Thury, will not be tolerated!” he said, screaming the last part so that the guards and the crowd would all hear.
He placed the rope over Thury’s head, the guard looking up at him, not understanding what was going on. He tightened the noose, then, in one swift motion, he swung Thury off the platform and into thin air.
The man, still looking at Nathye, fell down, neck snapping from the force. The rope returned his body to the platform, banging the head against the platform once, twice, until just the body kept swaying below.
There were gasps from the crowd, then silence. No one spoke. Birds cried above, and a baby joined them, audible in the sudden hush.
Nathye turned and walked off the platform, ignoring the stares of the guards, trusting them to follow him back to the carriage.