Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Misenchanted Sword

In the cold light of morning, however, as he struggled to pull his boots onto swollen feet, becoming an executioner did not seem quite so simple. Just how did one become an executioner? To whom did he apply? Could he just walk up to the Palace and ask? Or was that a military job, in which case he should ask at the gatehouse?

The gatehouse was certainly closer than the Palace; once he was dressed and had gathered his belongings he headed downstairs with every intention of proceeding directly to the gate—until the smell of cooking bacon reached him and reminded him that he had not eaten, save for some stale bread and cheese at bedtime, since reaching the city. He had doubts about any food that this inn might provide, but decided to take the risk.

In the actual event, the food was not bad at all, and the few patrons of the Gull who were awake and present were pleasant enough. The ambitious had risen early and were already gone, while the unsavory still slept. Valder considered asking one of his more talkative tablemates about the city’s executioners, but never found an opportunity in the conversation; beheading criminals is not a subject that springs readily to mind in cheerful breakfast chatter. Before he had managed to bring up the topic the sitting was over and the guests departing on their various errands, making way for the remaining late risers. He found the innkeeper, a huge, surly fellow, standing over him, a cleaver in one fist, and took this as a hint that his seat, too, was wanted—though he hadn’t realized the inn held that many people that it would be needed.

The innkeeper, however, seemed as likely an informant as any, and the cleaver brought the subject up as nothing else had.

“No need to use that thing, I’ll be going,” Valder said, trying to sound lightly amusing. “You’ve no call to chop off my head.”

The innkeeper stood and glared silently; Valder stood.

“Ah … speaking of chopping off heads, I’m looking for work as a headsman—I’ve been trained in the art. Whom would I speak to about such employment?”

His only training had been the standard army training in combat, and his rushed indoctrination as a scout, but he saw no need to limit himself to the absolute truth.

The innkeeper’s glare turned from simple resentment to puzzlement and wariness. “A headsman?” he said, uncomprehendingly.

“An executioner, then.”

For a long moment the Gull’s master stared in open disbelief at the master of the Thief’s Skull. “An executioner?”

“Yes; who must I talk to?”

“The Lord Executioner, I guess,” said the innkeeper, still baffled.

“Where do I find him?”

The city-dweller shrugged. “Don’t know; the Palace, I guess.” He turned away, losing interest.

Valder watched him go, wondering how the man had ever become an innkeeper when nature had plainly intended him to be a thug of some sort, then shrugged and departed. He glanced in the direction of the gate wistfully as his boots struck the packed dirt of the street, but headed for the Palace.

Half an hour later he stood in the Palace Market, on the only stone pavement he had yet encountered in Ethshar of the Spices, staring at the home of Azrad the Great.

The Palace was immense; Valder could not see all of its facade from where he stood, but it was several hundred feet long and three stories high for its full length. It was gleaming white, and appeared to be marble, ornamented with pink and grey carved stone. It stood on the far side of a small canal from the marketplace, connected by a broad, level bridge; at each end of the bridge stood huge ironwork gates, and at each gate stood a dozen guards.

The gates were closed.

That puzzled Valder; surely, he thought, there must be some way for people to get in and out in the ordinary course of day to day business, without having to open the immense portals. He could see none, however; the canal turned corners at either end of the palace grounds, wrapping itself all the way around. The bridge was the only visible entrance.

With a mental shrug, he decided that the direct, honest approach was likely to be the most effective. He walked up to the gates and waited for the guards to notice him.

When they gave no acknowledgement of his existence before he came within arm’s reach of the iron bars, he revised his plan and cleared his throat.

“Hello there,” he said. “I have business with the Lord Executioner.”

The nearest guard condescended to look at him. “Business of what nature?”

Valder knew better than admit the truth. “Personal, I’m afraid—family matters, to be discussed only with him.”

The guard looked annoyed. “Thurin,” he called to one of his comrades, “have we got anyone on the list for the executioner?”

The man he addressed as Thurin, standing in front of one of the great stone pillars that supported the gates, answered, “I don’t remember any; I’ll check.” He turned and lifted a tablet from a hook on the pillar. After a moment’s perusal, he said, “No one here that I can see.”

Before anyone could shoo him away, Valder said, “He must not have known I was coming; Sarai sent a message, but it may not have reached him in time. Really, it’s important that I see him.”

The guard he had first spoken to sighed. “Friend,” he said, “I don’t know whether you’re telling the truth or not, and it’s not my place to guess. We’ll let you in—but I warn you, entering the Palace under false pretenses has been declared a crime, the punishment to be decided jointly by all those you meet inside, with flogging or death the most common. If you meet no one, it’s assumed you’re a thief, and the penalty for robbing the overlord is death by slow torture. And that sword isn’t going to make a good impression; we can keep it here for you, if you like. Now, do you still want to get in to see the Lord Executioner?”

With only an instant’s hesitation, Valder nodded. “I’ll risk it; I really do have to see him. And I’ll keep my sword.”

“It’s your life, friend; Thurin, let this fellow in, would you?”

Thurin waved for Valder to approach; as the innkeeper obeyed, the guard knelt and pulled at a ring set in the stone pillar.

With a dull grinding noise, one of the paving stones slid aside, revealing a stairway leading down under the great stone gatepost; trying to conceal his astonishment, Valder descended the steps and found himself in a passage that obviously led, not over the bridge, but through it. He had never encountered anything like this before; in fact, he would not have guessed the bridge to be thick enough to have held a passageway, and wondered if magic were involved.

The pavement door closed behind him, and he realized that light was coming from somewhere ahead; he walked on and discovered that in fact the bridge was not thick enough to conceal the corridor, but that the corridor ran below, rather than through, the center of the bridge; this central section of the passageway consisted of an iron floor suspended from iron bars. It seemed rather precarious, but gave a pleasant view of the canal beneath.

At the far side of the bridge another set of stairs brought him up beside another stone gatepost, facing another guard.

“Destination?” the soldier demanded.

“I’m here to see the Lord Executioner.”

“You know the way?”

“No.”

“In the left-hand door, up one flight, turn left, four doors down on the right. Got that?”

“I think so.”

“Go on, then.” The guard waved him on, and Valder marched on across the forecourt.

Three large doors adorned the central portion of the palace facade; Valder followed the guard’s directions, through the left-hand door, where he found himself in a broad marble corridor, facing ornate stone stairs. He could see no one, but heard distant hurried footsteps. As instructed, he went up a flight, turned left at the first possible opportunity into another corridor—not quite so wide or elegant as the first, but lined with doors spaced well apart, and with figures visible in the distance. He found the fourth door on the right and knocked.