Before They Are Hanged

Line
    â€œDid you
sleep?â€

A Fitting Punishment
    It had been
raining, not long ago, but it had stopped. The paving of the Square
of Marshals was starting to dry, the flagstones light round the
edges, dark with damp in the centres. A ray of watery sun had finally
broken through the clouds and was glinting on the bright metal of the
chains hanging from the frame, on the blades, and hooks, and pincers
of the instruments on their rack. Fine weather for it, I suppose.
It should be quite the event. Unless your name is Tulkis, of course,
then it might be one you’d rather miss.
    The crowd were
certainly anticipating a thrill. The wide square was full of their
chattering, a heady mixture of excitement and anger, happiness and
hate. The public area was packed shoulder to shoulder, and still
filling, but there was ample room here in the government enclosure,
fenced in and well guarded right in front of the scaffold. The
great and the good must have the best view, after all. Over the
shoulders of the row in front he could see the chairs where the
members of the Closed Council were sitting. If he went up on his
toes, an operation he dared not try too often, he could just see the
Arch Lector’s shock of white hair, stirred gracefully by the
breeze.
    He glanced
sideways at Ardee. She was frowning grimly up at the scaffold,
chewing slowly at her lower lip. To think. The time was I would
take young women to the finest establishments in the city, to the
pleasure gardens on the hill, to concerts at the Hall of Whispers, or
straight to my quarters, of course, if I thought I could manage it.
Now I take them to executions. He felt the tiniest of smiles at
the corner of his mouth. Ah well, things change.
    â€œHow will
it be done?â€

The Abode of Stones
    The prow of the
boat crunched hard into the rocky beach and stones groaned and
scraped along the underside. Two of the oarsmen floundered out into
the washing surf and dragged the boat a few steps further. Once it
was firmly grounded they hurried back in as though the water caused
intense pain. Jezal could not entirely blame them. The island at the
edge of the World, the ultimate destination of their journey, the
place called Shabulyan, had indeed a most forbidding appearance.
    A vast mound of
stark and barren rock, the cold waves clutching at its sharp
promontories and clawing at its bare beaches. Above rose jagged
cliffs and slopes of treacherous scree, piled steeply upwards into a
menacing mountain, looming black against the dark sky.
    â€œCare to
come ashore?â€

Back to the Mud
    Dogman and Dow,
Tul and Grim, West and Pike. Six of them, stood in a circle and
looking down at two piles of cold earth. Below in the valley, the
Union were busy burying their own dead, Dogman had seen it. Hundreds
of ’em, in pits for a dozen each. It was a bad day for men, all
in all, and a good one for the ground. Always the way, after a
battle. Only the ground wins.
    Shivers and his
Carls were just through the trees, heads bowed, burying their own.
Twelve in the earth already, three more wounded bad enough they’d
most likely follow before the week was out, and another that’d
lost his hand—might live, might not, depending on his luck.
Luck hadn’t been good lately. Near half their number dead in
one day’s work. Brave of ’em to stick after that. Dogman
could hear their words. Sad words and proud, for the fallen. How
they’d been good men, how they’d fought well, how bad
they’d be missed and all the rest. Always the way, after a
battle. Words for the dead.
    Dogman swallowed
and looked back to the fresh turned dirt at his feet. Tough work
digging, in the cold, ground frozen hard. Still, you’re better
off digging than getting buried, Logen would’ve said, and the
Dogman reckoned that was right enough. Two people he’d just
finished burying, and two parts of himself along with ’em.
Cathil deep down under the piled-up dirt, stretched out white and
cold and would never be warm again. Threetrees not far from her, his
broken shield across his knees and his sword in his fist. Two sets of
hopes Dogman had put in the mud—some hopes for the future, and
some hopes from the past. All done now, and would never come to
nothing, and they left an aching hole in him. Always the way, after a
battle. Hopes in the mud.
    â€œBuried
where they died,â€

Acknowledgments
    Four people
without