Chapter Fifty-Three

Gallows, in Speranzi’s experience, were typically impromptu things constructed in haste out of whatever materials were available and meant for a singular purpose, such as the hanging of a gang of criminals or traitors. In the larger cities there was sometimes one spot where there was always one noose at the ready.

But this one was different.

The steps and the platform were wooden, that much was consistent. But it was varnished to a brilliant shining black that reflected the light of the day. The wooden beam that went from one end to the next had a hook jutting out toward the crowd on which the rope was draped over for storage, keeping the view of the platform perfectly clear.

And rather than crude stools or chairs or boxes, there was a lever and fairly obvious trap doors. Worse, there was a line of elves, half elves, and even a handful of humans, all in a long corridor shaped cage of metal bars that led to a larger box shaped one in which dozens more stood or sat around waiting.

They were dressed in sackcloth, and all of the men had their heads shorn. Where the elves, male and female alike, had all their ears cut to half their length, the humans in chains had their ears removed entirely, giving their heads and faces a truly bizarre appearance.

In front of the gallows were three rows of seats, and around the gathered crowd other merchants were slowly gathering and hawking their wares. “Soap, two bars for six copper or three for ten!” A vendor called out, Speranzi caught sight of him, he was a little overweight, with receding hair, but he was clean at least. ‘I suppose his soap works, wouldn’t that be a thing, a dirty soap salesman.’ It was almost enough to make her laugh to picture the contradiction.

Other vendors were selling warm wine or skewers of meat, ‘Are all of those, criminals?’ She wondered as the almost carnival-like atmosphere went on, and not far beyond the crowd, quiet priests in white robes, as well as soldiers in armor, took up positions and scanned the crowd for trouble.

‘They must be familiar with this… so it’s routine, it must be, the little stalls and booths and performers all seemed to know to show up here.’

It was easy for Speranzi to move through the crowd, one of the few things about her appearance she counted a blessing, and it conveniently afforded her a place to view without issue, she hopped atop a low wall along with several other spectators to observe the city’s justice.

The humans came first, they were driven out by the pokes of long spears through the bars of their cage, prodded down the long metal corridor to trudge up the steps where they proceeded to stand beneath the hooks where ropes waited for their use.

Behind them a man in a long black robe with a pointed hood began to chant, and the crowd was quiet.

It was a low, throaty song and Speranzi sang it with them by instinct, even those who stood condemned in their chains with heads shorn of both hair and ears knew well enough to sing it, some even swayed back and forth as the low rhythm rose and fell until it died away at last.

When it was done, the hooded man held up his right hand above the scrawniest of the condemned whose courage faded when the music died. He was surprisingly thin, with a large protruding lump in his throat, and his teeth chattered as he shook with fear. “Piedran, candle maker, convicted of burning his wife to death for his survivor gratuity! Will any of the god’s most blessed children let him atone in sweat and gold for his sins?!”

Silence.

Sweat sprang to his brow.

“Will any man let him atone with an offering of fifty silver?!” The black hooded figure asked, then reaching up, he took the rope off the hook and held it aloft above the scrawny man’s head.

This was too much, droplets of yellow began to drip down onto the wood and he cried out in a half screech, “I didn’t do it! Please! You have to believe me!”

The rope found its way over his head, and for a moment to Speranzi it looked as if he might run, but watchful soldiers nocked their arrows and the crowd leaned forward as if they anticipated seeing him turn into an archer’s practice dummy.

“He can atone to the gods, then!” The black-robed man tightened the noose and moved to the next of them.

“Palatari, guilty of highway robbery!” The executionary shouted, though he raised his voice further to top the noise of the weeping, condemned candle maker.

Palatari was the opposite of the candle maker, thickly limbed, stocky, he could have passed for a fairly tall dwarf if he’d had to, if he grew out his beard a bit more.

The ‘bidding’ on him was not long. “Twenty silvers!” The cry went out from the crowd. The executioner, satisfied with the offering, answered at once.

“The blessing of the gods and the Lord of Wenmark upon you.” The executioner said, though whether it was to the prisoner, the buyer, the crowd, or all of them, she wasn’t sure.

The prisoner trudged away with an arrogant, smug smile on his face toward a set of stairs on the far side opposite the way they’d entered, and down to a waiting giant of a man.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

The next of the three fared no better than the first, and was likewise condemned. The tension of the crowd was quickly mirrored by the tension of the rope after the trap doors were opened and the sobbing stopped with the sound of snapping necks.

And while the ropes creaked and bodies swayed, the crowd cheered and jeered. The bodies were dropped into the hole, the trap doors were closed, and the process repeated itself until there were no humans left. Some were given their chance at ‘redemption’ easily enough, others had no chance regardless of their pleas.

There was however, a clear pattern. ‘The ones fit for manual labor are snapped up quickly, grain magnates, mine operators…’ She snorted at the thought, criminals or not, the sentencing was obvious in its bias. ‘If you can be profitable to somebody important, you are sure to get a second chance at life, if you don’t, you’re condemned, hardly equitable sentencing.’ She thought, though the ones condemned did nothing to earn her sympathy for their fears, the crimes were death penalties anyway.

It was then however, that she saw the mob begin to shift on their seats and the crowds grew substantially, the hawkers moving their wares were loud again while the executioner stowed the ropes, stepped back and an overweight man in silver gilded black suit went up atop the platform.

“Good day good day, one and all.” He said and gave a bow to the audience, sweeping his hand out in a grand, expansive gesture, “I hope you’re all ready to marvel on the fine goods of Sinbara Halora…” he paused to ensure the crowd understood that he was referring to himself, the silver hair on his head wafting in the breeze and exposing the bald head beneath, “and if you’re not… well I hope you enjoy the dream.” He smacked his lips as if he were about to devour a delightful dish.

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Brotus spent the hours after arrival in the city of Wenmark simply exploring, and in a strange way, that was the most exciting thing about it. In every direction he looked, the city was alive. He could smell the gold and opportunity that filled the air with every price and bargain hurled out for all to hear. Bolts of cloth from the Divine Kingdom. Sculptures and stonework from the Kingdom of Gelia, wine from the Auxkos Empire, rare runic enchanted equipment from the Understone Empire of the dwarves, even a few shady merchants who shouted that they had ivory wares from the Taurian craftsmen of Menowa and tapestries from the Devorian Empire to name just a handful.

But Brotus was not alone on this exploration, this walk-through a-

“A merchant’s wonderland, isn’t it, my boy?” Amberose asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“Yessir…” Brotus said, barely breathing the word out as the older man took his shoulder and steered him toward a stall where an elven woman stood, she wore only a thigh width strip of cloth that hung down the front of her waist, and a too thin strip of cloth that passed across the center of her chest.

Her ears were cut, and her eyes practiced and steady, her face wore the same look as the prostitute Brotus recalled losing his virginity to. “Perfume, masters? For your wives?” She tilted her head to the left and tapped her forefinger on the skin of her neck. Then tilted her head to the right and tapped the skin on the other side, “or for your servants. My master carries the finest perfumes… come… have a sniff.”

Brotus flushed red in the face at the brazen invitation and the crooked smile she gave to them both. She stood beneath a tent of heavy but bright golden cloth held open, and behind her sat a small wooden bench on which an array of glass vials sat which was staffed by a man in bright blue silk who gestured expansively to his wares.

But Amberose quickly steered Brotus away just as swiftly as he’d steered him towards it. “Too rich for this one’s blood.” He said, “But a fine advertisement.” He chuckled and walked Brotus away.

“Tell me, boy, who is the market there at that stall?” Amberose asked.

Brotus thought it over, then stopped, turned around, and watched as one particular clientele came on, and passed within the tent only to emerge with one more vial than they had when they went in. “Normally a perfume stall would be targeted toward women exclusively. But this one is targeted only toward men.”

“Right. The perfume is trash, not bad… which means not particularly good. But men still buy it for their wives after their senses are dulled by a salacious slut.” Amberose answered, “Show a little flesh and you can swindle a pauper out of his last copper for a sniff.” He snorted as if to mock the notion, “That’s a good observation on your part, boy. No wonder you’re my nephew’s apprentice.” Amberose said as they resumed their walk.

“I thought you two didn’t like each other.” Brotus said and scratched his head, then he blushed red in the face again, “Not that I’d presume anything about my master’s relationship to his family of course!” He hastened out, and Amberose let out a deep belly laugh.

“No, no you’re not wrong. My nephew is weak, soft, he has a good sense when it comes to coin, he could sniff out a piece of gold from up a miser’s ass and sell a candle to a blind man. But he’s got a soft heart, he’d be a hundred times wealthier if he’d just see reason.” Amberose groused. “That’s why I put him up in that hotel every year. A few nights with one of those two legged mares should make it obvious where the real money is.”

“The real money?” Brotus asked, and he began to wonder, ‘Is this exploration ‘not’ as random as I expected?’ But the second question was mere trivia, the first was the one that really mattered.

“Of course, m’boy, of course. It’s the flesh trade. That’s where the real money lies.” Amberose said and pointed to a stall where fruits were being hawked in a bowl of bronze, “There are slaves that make the dishes, slaves that work the mines, slaves that work the fields, clean the homes, warm the beds. And Wenmark has most of them, at least outside of Auxkos and the Divine Kingdom… I hear that the Understone Empire enslaves demihumans and dark elves, and some adventurers buy slaves as team members on their adventures. The gods put all these creatures under us to make our lives better, and here in Wenmark we know best how to use them.” Amberose rested a meaty hand on Brotus’s shoulder as he steered the young merchant down the road.

Brotus was quiet while they walked, at least for a little while, “Their half-blood get form the servant class and help keep their own mothers and half siblings in line, they’re a traitorous, faithless race. But as long as they fear their fathers, they make good workers, they’re smart and long lived so you don’t have to replace them often, get a few of their women and you can invest in a big labor force to look after your whole human family for generations.”

“Don’t they… you know, run away? Like the ones serving your nephew right now?” Brotus asked, and Amberose blinked several times, stunned to silence by the question before a little smile formed on his face.

“It’s possible… if they had anywhere else to go, but when the Divine Kingdom finishes crushing their country, there’s nowhere to go but the ground for them. But… tell me a little more about those elves with my nephew, I haven’t heard the story yet.” Amberose prompted, then pointed ahead, “Don’t bother telling me it’s a ‘long story,’ after all, it’s still a bit of a walk to the slave auction, and so I’ve got time to listen to every word.”

“Oh… alright then.” Brotus answered and began to explain everything as he understood it.