11-340 Giza

  Patrik sat on a soft armchair wearing a luxurious, dark green shirt with a geometrical design done with copper stitching. The refreshments on the polished table were tiny delicacies, prepared and set out with superb culinary skill. Despite it being only early afternoon, the dark red wine flowed freely into carved glasses.

  Getting an invitation to meet Lord Wuxen in Giza had been easier than initially identifying him. The lord was known for his lavish parties and eager attitude towards all the pleasures life had to offer, including meeting new people. He was not a part of the Separatist league, the group working to separate the religious practices from the Khem government, but he was one of the knots connecting the Gizan aristocracy into a spreading network of acquaintances, friendships, and sworn enemies.

  Lord Wuxen had publicly announced having separated himself from both the government and religions, meaning his previous wives, who had ties to those aspects. Any lesser man would have been publicly scolded for such announcements, but Lord Wuxen enjoyed an extraordinary reputation that only grew stronger with each excessive action.

  “More wine, Master Merriweather?” Wuxen asked, filling Patrik’s glass without waiting for the answer.

  Patrik was in Giza as a legal trader, a role he had used many times, and the name Merriweather was on the trading license. “You pamper me, dear Lord. This excellent wine washes away all the hardships of my last travel. How has the beautiful capital fared in my absence?”

  “It is the same, same as always, but maybe a little different. I should say the worst is over, and the trade routes are opening up. Did I mention the politics? There is always politics.” Wuxen laughed aloud. He had a sharp chin, curly, dark hair, and an exquisite shirt, left fashionably open, revealing the faded tattoos covering his heart, inked in the skin in a healing ritual years ago.

  Viper’s death had unleashed a tsunami over the trade in the Shallow Sea, both legal and illegal, breaking the old alliances. Patrik had gotten his first grey hairs in the past years, trying to maneuver the situation to serve Northern interests. “It always returns to politics,” he agreed, savoring the taste of wine. It was beyond good: Gizan master brewers were peerless in their trade.

  A matron wearing a black servant uniform entered, carrying one more bottle. She curtsied at Wuxen, keeping the gesture small as was fitting her advanced age. Lord Wuxen’s household seemed relaxed, compared to some other lords Patrik had visited. “It will begin soon. Do you prefer to move over to the balcony?” The servant said.

  “Splendid!” Wuxen clapped his hands as a smile brightened his features. “Nowadays, you don’t see a public execution every month. What do you say, dear Merriweather?”

  “I’d like to see it,” Patrik said politely, keeping the enthusiasm out of his voice. The execution was his reason to be here today.

  “A great choice! Providing access to the best seats is my duty as your host. More wine? Oh, it’s already full. Drink up, dear guest, it’s impolite to watch sober when a man takes the final step towards the next life.”

  Wuxen pushed the terrace doors open, a glass in his hand. A fresh breeze carried the smell of sea and the sounds of a crowd gathered at the plaza, where Wuxen’s city house stood, between the ministry of taxation and the House of Silence, a gathering place to remember the end of the world and the reverend Olds. Opposite was the Justice Hall. Lord Wuxen had introduced his house as the much-needed spot of joy and celebration in the neighborhood.

  Patrik felt the ancient concrete under his soles. This building was old, built on remains that had survived the world-burning centuries ago. Patrik was not an imaginative person, but he noticed the small signs in the stone, like poxmarks. They were created when something hot had sprinkled the building, evaporating stone where the drops had landed.

  The decorative railing, carved to show naked people dancing, was a newer addition, smooth and faultless. Patrik set his glass down and let his gaze wander around the plaza, looking for the security measures and hidden observers.

  “So, isn’t this a grim exhibition to witness?” Patrik asked, testing the waters to manipulate Wuxen to where he wanted him to be. He had done his homework on his host.

  “Not at all. It’s quite a show. The vicinity of death heightens all the emotions, both for the wrongdoer and the ones who witness their passing. Death makes us grasp onto life with renewed vitality; it’s impressive.”

  “I take my curiosity is not cumbersome to you.”

  A platform had been built on the plaza and surrounded by the soldiers. A small orchestra waited in attention, carrying brass instruments and a drum. The plaza was full of people, all waiting for the clock in the tower to chime the hour, discussing nervously. Expectance was palpable.

  “Not at all. Remember what I said about death and emotions. Some of my most memorable receptions have taken the needed twist after a particularly impressive execution.”

  “I’ll take your word on that.” That was what lord Wuxen was: a proud hedonist with complex tastes.

  The bell tolled, its deep sound resonating in the air. When the third chime still vibrated in the air, the orchestra started playing a march, and the gates to the largest building opened. It was the Justice Hall, where the worst criminals were deemed guilty, a formidable building made of grey stone, decorated with pillars and statues.

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  A progression made way from the Hall and towards the platform. A young girl walked first, carrying a lantern that burned with blue flame, symbolising hope on rebirth, or so Patrik had educated himself. Behind her came the judges, the official witnesses, and the executioner. The last one was a chained man, walking between two guards.

  Darren Hanbricker was soon to be dead, and Patrik followed him with keen eyes, loathing the fate that sent incompetent fools to him one after another. Hanbricker had been tasked with the simplest mission: to convey one sentence, five words. That had been all, and he had spectacularly failed.

  The plan had gone wrong when Hanbricker had stopped for a drink and gotten into a jealousy-driven quarrel. Heated words had led to action, and the men had been thrown out of the bar. That was when Hanbricker had decided to show off to his rival. The idiot had ignited a small explosive dating before the war, and burned most of the woodyard by which the quarrel had happened. Only a lucky rain had saved the district.

  Hanbricker had ended up in the prison reserved for those whose crimes were, in a religious sense, related to the end of the world. The bad news for Patrik had been that the guards of the Justice Hall were impossible to bribe. Arranging a prison break would have been Kvenrei’s specialty, but the half-brother had disappeared into Giza’s bowels when he was needed, and Patrik had to deal with the mess.

  The message Hanbricker carried was priceless, and Patrik had worked day and night to secure the information, crossing obstacles he hadn’t known existed. The mundane jurisdiction would have been easy enough to deal with, but the end-of-the-world cultists were a barrier Patrik was not yet ready to break. To get those five precious words had driven Patrik into stressed action, resulting in this balcony.

  Patrik pushed his tiredness away and faked a relaxed pose, resting his hands on the railing. Brute force had its uses, but in the long run, slyness left less evidence.

  “Look, Vencesca arrived in person!” Wuxen pointed at the last person in the procession, hardly visible behind the guards. He was the one seeking justice, the owner of a large construction company, whose warehouses had burned down.

  “What is his role?” A sudden fear shadowed Patrik’s heart: what if Vencesca was to do the execution? It would foul all his preparations.

  Wuxen sensed something, but misread Patrik. “He needs to show that judges are in his favor. That the explosion was not a curse brought by demons to punish him for ill deeds. He must show that ash hasn’t touched him.”

  Patrik nodded. The southern obsession with Watergate being a purgatory where the people were locked in a cycle of rebirths to pay for the deeds that brought the end of the world was frustrating. It permeated the whole society, affecting trade, politics, and legislation. Ainadu didn’t believe in such nonsense; they knew their blood was forever tied to the great matrix, where the dragons moved.

  The idea had once been comforting to Patrik, and he loved Agiisha, his Dragon Lady. Still, every time a dead person’s memory touched his mind, and every time he spotted a glimmer of madness in his commander’s eyes, it eroded his trust in the dragon. But lack of trust didn’t mean Agiisha was not a worthy Lady to serve. She was so much more than anything the southerners had, not a half-forgotten legend, but a creature who had lived through the centuries.

  “How brave of him.“ Patrik raised his glass to Wuxen, who had no idea about the true power.

  The orchestra stopped the march and stood at attention as the girl walked to the brazier and set it aflame with her lamp. The flames jumped higher, bright and yellow, when the two judges took their positions on either side of the flaming pillar. One of them recited Hanbricker’s case in a smoothly flowing tenor while the other fanned the brazier’s fumes to the audience.

  “Darren Hanbricker found and used the old technology, working under demonic guidance. He has let ash inside his bones and mind, and is beyond redemption in this life. His soul will be seared from the tainted body.”

  The crowd cheered hysterically upon the words, and the lined soldiers had to push the nearest people backward as they reached to touch the platform.

  “They haven’t used that one for a while!” Wuxen grinned wildly, tapping the railing fervently.

  Guards helped the executioner to chain Hanbricker to a metal frame, spreading his arms and legs into sockets. Hanbricker fought weakly against them, but soon submitted to his fate, staring at the floor and mumbling a prayer. The executioner sprinkled Hanbricker with salty water before taking a branding iron from the brazier. He presented it to the victim, who took it with grim determination and pushed the hot iron to Hanbricker’s forehead. The man screamed as Old Tarasten’s symbol burned in his flesh, marking him a vessel of demonic influences.

  Patrik saw that the show had transfixed the people. All the eyes were on the stage, taking in every detail of suffering. The tension hung heavy in the air as the executioner clamped cables to the frame. Patrik didn’t pray to his dragons; he silently vowed to kill the executioner’s apprentice if he failed. The apprentice had been bribed to leave Hanbricker alive.

  “Your sins burden us, and you will be cleansed from them. In death, the curse leaves you, and you may be reborn pure,” the judge said.

  “May Watergate be merciful to your soul,” the other judge said.

  The executioner closed a large shutter in his equipment with a deep clonk, and sparks flew from the frame. Hanbricker screamed as his hair raised up and arcs of electricity connected his body to the frame. It looked like he had sprouted wings of light and would fly away. The wings moved, lightnings jumping along the frame, and the hair waved like an inky halo around the head. Instead of escaping, his smoking body dropped against his chains, and the orchestra started a slow, melancholy melody.

  The executioner’s assistant inspected the body and nodded to the judges. Without further ado, the girl led the procession away, and the executioner’s assistant started to remove the body from the frame. The audience seemed to wake from the trance and started to drift away.

  “A show, every time,” Wuxen said, emptying his glass.

  “A show indeed. Pity that they are taking the body away. I would have liked to see…” Patrik left his words drift into silence, looking at Wuxen. He had heard stories about this man; they were the reason he was here today.

  “A connoisseur in making, are you? A freshly deceased carries a special charm.”

  “They do, indeed. Would you help me here? I’d love to see him.” Patrik asked softly. He was considered a hard man, a competent commander, and a brilliant soldier, but his true strength lay in the fact that he knew when to play soft.

  “I’d love to be your guide. I know the state pyrocauterizer, but we must be quick. The judged ones are disposed of before midnight.”