Robert Newcomb - A March into Darkness

But Lothar quickly saw what the old man did not. He saved every kisa he could-enough to eventually bribe the town burgher. Just before the old provost finally died, the crooked burgher awarded Lothar the post. That had been eight years ago, and Lothar’s wealth and stature had grown with each passing Season of New Life.

Other than his meager salary, there were illicit ways he profited from his position. The simplest was outright intimidation, such as he had just applied to the turkey vendor. He knew every shop owner who had outstanding debtors’ warrants filed against him or her. There were so many of them that he had paid for little from his own pocket for nearly five years. The understanding was simple. If they continued to supply him with what he needed, they remained free.

His many prisoners provided the other methods of profit taking. He alone had total control over who went in and who came out. Staying out cost a steep price; getting out commanded an even higher one. Oftentimes a person paid to remain free, only to be imprisoned anyway-especially if he or she had acquaintances that were well off.

Once inside, the prisoners’ relatives and friends would then be asked to contribute funds to secure his or her release, and the warrants would be quashed. Even a prisoner’s general treatment usually depended on yet more bribes, paid in the meantime. As one might imagine, these techniques yielded even greater profits if the internees’ relatives and friends had outstanding debtors’ warrants as well.

And so the vicious cycle went round and round, making Lothar not only wealthy, but feared. Having no wife or children to support helped his ill-gotten gains grow all the faster.

Pushing through the crowd, he wended his way to a small table that had been placed in the street. The town executioner, dressed all in black, sat there looking over some papers.

The fellow’s “civic responsibilities” included such talents as performing hangings, beheadings, slowly drowning victims in the dunking pool, and burning criminals at the stake. The crime determined the punishment. Today’s victim was a convicted horse thief, his crime punishable by a protracted, fatal dunking.

Lothar grinned down at the executioner. Even though the man wore a black hood, Lothar knew him well. Unknown to the spectators, the fellow was also an accomplished torturer.

Branding bare skin, flogging, precisely lopping off limbs and digits, and slowly extracting teeth and fingernails were but a few of the fellow’s favorite techniques. Lothar could attest to the man’s expertise, because on more than one occasion he had employed him for his own reasons. Kisa always flowed far more easily from debtor prisoners’ friends and relatives after watching him work on a loved one for an hour or so.

“Good morning,” Lothar said, being careful not to mention the fellow by name. The executioner looked up grudgingly from his paperwork.

“What’s so good about it, sir?” the hooded man asked. “It’s bleedin’ hot out here today. Dunkings take more time and effort than a quick hanging or beheading. A bleedin’pain in the arse, they are.”

Lothar turned to look at the dunking pool, lying off to one side of the square. The blindfolded horse thief was already tied to the chair. He was being roundly shouted at and pelted with rotten eggs, fruit, and vegetables-yet another custom performed at Eutracian executions. Lothar looked back to the executioner.

“Why complain?” he asked. “At least you’ll earn a fee today. And some extra as well, if you’re smart.” Hoping to put the other man in a more receptive mood, he reached into his pocket and jangled some coins together.

He knew that the executioner would possess the list naming the persons due for execution, and when they were to be killed. Always accompanying that list was another one-the next-of-kin list. Criminals facing execution usually carried unresolved debts; it was simply their nature. Such undisclosed debts might justify swearing out a new warrant or two. By Eutracian law, a recently deceased person’s debts became his relatives’ responsibility.

If Lothar could get the most recent lists, they would provide yet another income source. Not only would they reveal relatives belonging to the same family house, but also those who did not share the same last name-information he might not otherwise have. With the deceased’s debts later transferred to his relatives, after some added research Lothar could then swear out additional warrants. From there the process would go on. He and the executioner had done business this way many times, but usually not on an open street and certainly never just before an execution. He wanted those lists badly, and before it became too late for him to act on them.

“What do you want?” the hooded man asked. “I’m about to start the dunking.”

“You know what I want,” Lothar whispered.

The man in the hood looked around furtively, then back up at the grotesquely fat jailor. His eyes widened behind the hood’s peepholes.

“Now?” the man whispered back. “Are you bleedin’ crazy?”

Lothar looked around again. The crowd anticipating the dunking had grown larger. Some of the vendors had taken their wares afoot, wandering among the eager spectators while shouting out their prices. Curious children had been lifted atop their parents’ shoulders, so that they could better see what was going on. The atmosphere was becoming more carnival-like by the moment. The dunking would start soon. In fact, Lothar was counting on it. Given the rising sense of urgency, the executioner would have to decide quickly.

“I realize the timing isn’t perfect,” Lothar said. “But business is business.”

Removing a leather cinch bag from his trousers’ pocket, he dropped it on the tabletop. It fell heavily, the clinking coins inside providing an enticing tune.

“I understand your concern,” Lothar whispered, “so I have chosen to be generous. That bag holds twice the standard fee. Take it or leave it.”

The executioner thought for a moment. He glanced around again. “Twice as much, you say?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lothar answered. “I suggest you take it. For all I know, the fellow in the dunking chair might be a relative of yours and have outstanding warrants. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

After shuffling through his papers for a moment, the executioner selected two parchments and quickly folded them. He slipped them to Lothar. The leather cinch bag disappeared in a flash.

“Now go away!” he insisted angrily. “I have work to do!”

“By all means,” Lothar said smoothly as he secured the parchments in a waistcoat pocket. After giving the hooded man a slight bow, he again started wending his way through the crowd.

Inordinately pleased with himself, he started walking back toward the debtors’ prison. There was an especially appealing group of new inmates that he wanted to revisit. He had been looking forward to the occasion all day. They were about to provide him with his greatest coup of all time. For among his many other ventures, Lothar was also a slave trader.

As Lothar rounded a corner leading away from Bargainers’ Square, he heard the condemned man scream, followed by the first splash of the dunking chair. If the executioner did his job properly, it would take several hours before the criminal’s lungs completely filled with water. One must never disappoint the masses, he thought.

As Lothar took his fourth step down the side street, the crowd roared.

THROWING HER BLOND HAIR OVER ONE SHOULDER, MALLORYturned to look between the prison door bars. She and the others had been taken two days ago. Escape seemed a distant dream. When they had awakened here, their memories of capture had been a hazy blur. The only reason they knew they were being held in Tammerland’s debtors’ prison was because of the occasional bits of conversation gleaned from passing guards.