Chapter 11: Bounties

“So I saw red, yeah? And the next thing I knew I stabbed my brother in the back, and then my hands were around my wife’s throat,” said the prisoner, Adam Carrow. “Before I could blink, it was over.”

The executioner nodded, understanding without judging. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that story and he doubted it would be the last. “It was like someone else was in control and when you woke up, it was done and it felt like lightning was in your veins,” he said.

Adam paused with a grape halfway to his mouth. “That’s exactly it. You’ve experienced it then. It’s a cruel joke,” he sighed, eating the grape and licking his fingers clean. “Some other bastard did it, and I’m the one sentenced to death. Is that fair?”

Shrugging, the executioner said, “Life’s unfair. Death isn’t.”

Four days had passed since the search for Razia. Three days of rest and then his wound was well enough to go back to work. The executioner healed quickly; the secret to a successful career. This time, there was only one prisoner and plenty of time to talk. Adam Carrow was about the executioner’s age, broad shouldered and tanned. He was in the prime of his life, and was no stranger to violence. The executioner was happy to trade some food and comfort in exchange for a good showing.

“What, because it comes for us all?” Adam shook his head. “That’s a cop out. My wife cheated on me, and chances are she’s living it up in the Darkstar’s gardens. When I die, what’s to become of me? Do you think this was bad enough to become a shade?” The prisoner took a sip of winning, leaning against the bars of his cell.

The executioner thought about it, then shook his head. Shades were stripped of their memories and barred entry from the Darkstar’s domain. They wandered as spirits, never resting. Only the very worst faced an eternity without an identity. “No. If anything, you’ll spend time in penance. I’d guess that you need a much higher body count to become a shade.” Like his.

Adam let out a long sigh. “I suppose that’s fair. That whore cheated on me and died for it. I killed her and now I’m going to die for it.”

That word. It was a common enough insult, but now it sounded wrong to the executioner. No, that was silly. No reason to take offense. He shook his head. “Unless you kill me. I have it on good authority I’m sloppy and have a death wish. This could be your chance.”

Adam blew a raspberry, laughing. “I’ve seen the executions before, mate. I know how it works. But maybe I can give you a little something to remember me by. As thanks for the hospitality.”

It was the executioner’s turn to laugh and look at the scars littering his arm. It was a blessing, being able to laugh and trade friendly barbs with a prisoner. Adam knew his fate and accepted it, and with an odd sort of courage the executioner respected and envied. Maybe it would change by the end, in the moments leading up to his death. He hoped not.

There was a knock at the door. It opened, and a guard came in holding up rolled up parchment. “I’ve got a message for you, Butcher. This comes straight from Amicus, about the prisoner.”

The executioner took it from him, and the guard left. He unrolled it and read it. “Huh.”

“What’s that? Am I getting a reprieve? Whoo!” Adam cheered.

“The opposite, I’m afraid.” The executioner rolled it back up and set it on the table. “There’s a bounty for how you die.”

Adam’s smile disappeared. “Oh. How do they want you to do it?”

“Dismemberment,” said the executioner evenly. “I’ll get an additional ten aquilos if I cut you into at least three pieces.”

“Fuck me,” Adam burst out into disbelieving laughter. “Who’s paying it?”

“Your late wife’s family. They want you to suffer, I’d guess.”

Adam shook his head, burying his face in his hands and rubbing at his eyes. “That’s more than the stingy bastards gave us for the wedding. Guess they’re making up for that. I bet her mother suggested it. She never liked me…” Adam looked over at him. “Are you going to take the bounty? You are, aren’t you?”

The executioner let out a short, bitter laugh. “It basically doubles what I’d get for you to begin with.”

Adam whistled. “I’m in the wrong business.”

“Kill me and you can have the job. If you can keep it.” The executioner snorted. “But that bounty...I want to make you an offer.”

Adam stood, pacing in his cell. “If it’s ‘cooperate and you’ll split the money with me,’ I don’t think that really works for me. What with the whole being dismembered and dead part.”

The executioner laughed again. “Good guess. Close. If you want to fix the fight and put on a show and be dismembered, I’ll give the bounty to someone of your choice. If you have family, I can have it delivered to them tomorrow.”

“You’d give up ten aquilos?” Adam said, disbelieving. “Just like that. Are you mad?”

“You’re about to die. I don’t need any more money. I could walk away right now and live the rest of my life comfortably on what I have.” No, he couldn’t. He may have had the money, but the executioner could never just walk away. He added, “so if it helps keep your family comfortable and alleviates their grieving, then I want to help.”

There was that look of disbelief again. And hope. Adam hadn’t looked scared until the bounty came in, but now there was something like hope on his face. “You’d really do this? Then...My father’s going to take this hard. He’s old and is looking after my little brother. He could...He could use some help after I’m gone.

“But I’m not going to just give in,” he added. “I’m going to fight you and I’m gonna try to see if I can dismember you instead. But...If I’m losing anyway, and you got a clean shot? Go ahead and take it and give the money to my dad.” Adam gripped the bars with shaky hands. There was the fear. The realization.

The executioner smiled. “It will be done. You have my word. If it makes you feel better, I’ll send the money before we fight.”

Adam stared at him as if he grew a second head. “And if you kill me before you hack me into pieces small enough to fit inside my mother in law’s shriveled heart?”

He got a shrug in response. “Then I guess I’m out tonight’s pay. And your father and little brother will be able to get by without you. Financially, at least. No doubt they’ll be lost without your colorful sense of humor.”

The prisoner let out a deep, genuine laugh that tapered off into a shaky, swallowed sob. “Thank you,” said Adam. He swallowed hard. “Butcher?” he said, sounding small. “I wish I hadn’t done it.”

“I know,” said the executioner, not unkindly. “I wish you hadn’t too.”

“...Kin killer and wife slayer, avatar of rage!” Amicus’ voice bellowed through the colosseum to a chorus of boos. The Colosseum was only half full that night. Or perhaps half empty. With only one execution and some of the less popular gladiators fighting, it was one of their off nights. But even their off nights still filled half the seats, the executioner noted with satisfaction.

He stood across from Adam, axe in one hand, shield in the other. He wasn’t much taller than the other man, but the arena was his. Most people looked small in comparison to the star. Adam himself wore battered leather armor with a dented helmet that covered everything but his mouth. He had an identical axe and shield at the executioner’s insistence. He stood at the ready, though he couldn’t stop himself from looking around the stands at all the people who came to watch him die.

“We present to you a final outlet for his rage! One last chance to strike back at a world he hates, one final contest to free himself and run loose in Orchrisus!”

“Ignore him,” the executioner called out. “He’s a bastard and just wants to get people riled. Keep your head on and fight well.”

“Y-you too,” Adam returned. He held his axe across his chest and bowed low. The executioner nodded to him and did the same. The moment he was bent in half, Adam launched himself forward and brought the axe down.

“FIIIIGHT!” Amicus screamed, a second later.

The executioner twisted out of the way in time for the axe to come within inches of his mask. He stepped back, swinging and colliding into Adam’s raised shield. Splinters flew as the fighters separated, circling one another. The executioner kept his eyes locked on his opponent, smoothly stepping sideways and waiting.

Adam feinted, like so many of his opponents tried. He raised his axe and moved as if he was going to attack and pulled back. The executioner didn’t blink. Adam moved again, and this time the attack was real. He charged at him, weapon raised high. The executioner darted in and slammed his shield into Adam’s helmet before the axe could fall.

Instinct kept him moving, pressing the attack. Adam barely recovered in time to block. The heavy blade sank in the wood. The executioner shoved, but Adam held on. It left him open to the knee slamming into his gut. His armor absorbed some of the blow, but it was still enough to slow him. Once more the executioner’s axe swung through the air. Adam twisted. The axe nicked his shield arm.

The crowd screamed as Adam tripped over himself to get away, blood pouring from the wound. It wasn’t enough to end the fight, but now it made it real. If Adam wasn’t careful, he really was going to die. He seemed to realize it and went on a desperate offensive.

Adam was nearly as big as the executioner and fit. What he lacked in skill and experience, he made up for in fury as he attacked, again and again. Any one of those blows would bite through the executioner’s armor and possibly drop him if they hit. Attacks like that may have been hard and fast, but they were predictable.

Years of training and fighting for his life made it into a dance. Adam would put his strength into the swing and the executioner would see the arc of the attack long before it went through. All he had to do was keep moving ahead of it. Life and death became the calm of a familiar and well practiced waltz.

Not even a minute passed before the prisoner’s attacks slowed and the dance shifted. One more dodged downstroke and the executioner struck back. A quick, sideways strike. Adam barely raised his shield in time. Splinters exploded between them. A sharp jerk back and half the shield came with it, falling from the executioner’s axe.

Adam lurched forward, slamming the broken shield into the meat of the executioner’s arm. Pain flared hot and bright as the splinters bit into his flesh, and again when he pulled the shield out. The executioner let out a sharp hiss, tightening his grip on his axe through the pain. This was nothing. He’d had worse during practice.

It was back to circling one another. The crowd chanted, calling out the Butcher’s name. Steady at first, but growing more fevered by the second. Adam panted heavily. His wounded shield arm dropped at his side, and he held his axe in a tight, white knuckled grip. The fight was about to end, for better or worse, and Adam knew it. So the executioner ended it.

He stepped forward, lowering his shield and giving his opponent an easy target. Adam took the bait, raising his axe one last time. The executioner was faster. He swung his axe sideways, not at Adam’s body but at his hand. His axe took the prisoner’s hand off at the wrist. The hand, axe still in its grip, went clattering to the ground as the crowd went wild.

Adam let out a pained, startled cry that ended short. He stood there, staring at the stump as blood gushed out. He looked up at his foe. Even through their helmets, the understanding was clear. This was over. This was their chance. The executioner struck out, planting his boot against the prisoner’s chest and sending him sprawling backwards.

He followed through, just as he promised. All of his strength went into the blow that took Adam’s shield arm off at the shoulder. The metal clanged against the stone beneath him. At this point Adam was too weak to cry out, too tired to do more than writhe on the ground.

“The money is sent, as promised,” Quentin shouted to be heard over the crowd. He kneeled beside Adam, heart pounding with the thrill of victory. “I’m ending this. May the Darkstar welcome you into her embrace, my friend.”

Calling Adam his friend hurt more than the splinters. The executioner jerked Adam’s helmet back and took off his head. When he stood up, he brought the helmet with him, holding it up for the crowd’s approval. Guilt struck him, as it often did when the fight was over. Friend, he said. Did Adam scoff at it before the Butcher killed him?

It was true, though. At least on his end. As the crowd screamed his name, the executioner walked back down the ramp. He had a terrible habit of killing most of the people he could call friends. Either way, the job was done and with only a scratch to show for it. The executioner would live another day, and Orchrisus saw its justice done.

“The boss wants to see you,” one of the slaves said to Quentin. James, he thought his name was. Or was it John? After a fight, the fatigue caught up to him and made focus difficult. “Up in his office.”

Quentin finished wrapping the bandage around his arm. Salim stood nearby, watching but not helping. There was no need, with a wound that small. He’d already pulled out the splinters for Quentin, the rest was his problem.

“What, he’s not going to come down here and yell at me himself?” Quentin scoffed and tied the end of the bandage off.

“He’s got a guest with him, and said to tell you it’s urgent. He wants you up there as soon as possible,” said the slave, keeping his head low. Even after the killing was over and all the blood washed away, they wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe Demetrius was wrong about why they avoided him.

“Fine.” the executioner put his helmet back on and stormed out of the infirmary.

Amicus’ office was at the top of the Colosseum, not far from the box where he sat and provided commentary for the fights. It was a long, slow climb, and the executioner had plenty of time to think about what Amicus wanted and dread the meeting. As a rule, the executioner did everything in his power to avoid the owner and manager of the Colosseum. His father had been a good man who looked out for his employees. Amicus looked out for himself.

By the time the executioner reached the door a dozen scenarios played out in his head, none of them ended well. He reached for the doorknob and hesitated. He knocked instead. “Enter,” a strong, calm voice called out. The executioner entered and closed the door behind him. His breath caught in his throat upon seeing who the guest was.

Sitting across from Amicus was Omar Faroukh, the supreme arbiter of Orchrisus. The most powerful man in the courts, and his direct boss. The executioner stood up straight. “Arbiter,” he said, heart pounding worse than it had during the fight. His boss was there, and he was still dressed like a murderous nightmare. “My apologies. If I knew you were waiting, I would’ve made myself more presentable.”

“It’s fine,” said Omar, standing up. The arbiter was a thin, middle aged Ramali man of average height. His skin was a rich, deep brown and his head shaved smoothly, save for some greying stubble around his temples. He had a calm, serene air about him and sharp, piercing eyes that missed nothing. “If it mattered, I would’ve sent warning. Please, join us.” He gestured to the other seat.

The executioner sat down in the chair next to the arbiter, fingers digging into the arm immediately. He looked between Omar and Amicus, waiting for one of them to start speaking. Whatever it was, he didn’t believe it was any good. Not with the smug smile on Amicus’ round face.

“I was just telling the Supreme Arbiter about your...What did you call them again, Quintius? Your courtesies?” He snorted.

The executioner’s blood ran cold. “Yes?”

“Yes,” said Omar, straightening up in his seat. “Amicus tells me that you go out of your way to do them a last kindness. And yet you almost never turn down a bounty. This intrigues me, and...Would you please take off your helmet?”

Reluctantly, Quentin undid the chinstrap and pulled the helmet off. He grimaced and tucked the helmet under his arm. It was more an excuse to grip something than to keep it safe. Without his helmet, there was nothing between and the only two men who had real power over him.

“Much better, thank you,” said Omar, smiling pleasantly. “This intrigues me. From what I understand, the bounties almost always involve inflicting more pain on the condemned. You feed your prisoners a good last meal, pass on a message, and then you mercilessly kill them in a way that gets you extra money.”

“He doesn’t keep the money,” Amicus added. His smug smile grew even wider. He leaned back in his seat, fingers folded over his large belly. “More often than not, it gets sent out with one of the Fleetfoot Couriers the Colosseum employs.”

Omar nodded, turning his chair further to look directly at Quentin. “Yes. Why?”

The thought barely entered Quentin’s head when it came tumbling out of his mouth. “It makes the job bearable.” As soon as he said it he wished he could take it back and say any of the other dozen reasons he could think of.

Evidently it was the right answer, for Omar cocked his head to the side. “That’s interesting. You’ve been doing this for nearly ten years, is that correct?” At Quentin’s nod, he pressed on. “That’s the second longest anyone’s ever performed the job, if I’m not mistaken.”

Quentin nodded. “Second only to the founder of the Colosseum, Gaius Volini. He made it fifteen years before the first prisoner to earn his freedom killed him in battle.”

“Exactly right,” Omar’s smile widened. “Are you saying that you’ve performed this role second only to the originator, and you’ve been miserable this entire time?”

Between the question and the look on Amicus face, panic surged in Quentin. This was it. They were going to get rid of him. Amicus had been looking for an excuse for a while now, and now the arbiter was going to be the one to do it and make it sound like they were doing him a favor. Caught up in his thoughts, Quentin didn’t realize he still hadn’t answered until Amicus cleared his throat.

“Answer the arbiter’s question, Quintius,” he said pleasantly, with a distinct edge underneath.

“Not miserable, sir,” Quentin managed with some difficulty. There were a dozen different answers he could have given, and none of them were coming out. “It’s complicated.”

Omar inclined his head. “Let me ask a simpler question, then. What do you like about your job?” His tone remained pleasant, even conversational. His eyes though, never lost their sharpness and never left Quentin.

“I like winning,” Quentin said immediately. This was indeed an easier question, and answering it was effortless. “I like testing myself and coming out ahead. If I’m good enough, I live another day. If I’m not, someone gets a second chance and I don’t have to bother with anything anymore.” Shit, that was too much answer.

Not for the arbiter, who threw his head back and laughed. “Good, good! I like that. Would it be safe to say that there is no chance you would ever throw a match or let someone beat you if you felt sorry enough for them? What about a bribe to your family? Similar to the deal you offer your prisoners.”

Quentin shook his head vehemently. “Absolutely not. I’m not throwing any matches. If I’m going to lose a match and die, it will be because they beat me. Besides, I have no one to give money to.” It wasn’t as if his father would take any money from him. He made it perfectly clear what he thought of Quentin’s blood money. “Why do you ask, sir?”

“Someone attempted to kill the emperor,” Amicus answered. “Just a few nights ago.”

“You’re kidding,” Quentin said, eyes widening. “What happened? Why isn’t anyone talking about it?”

Omar let out a dark chuckle. “We’re not in the habit of telling the populace of every failed assassination attempt. It would be too easy to sensationalize it. Most attempts are stopped well before they come close to succeeding. There’s no need to tell anyone about it. The emperor’s personal executioner takes care of it quietly and the world keeps on turning with no one the wiser.”

Amicus leaned forward, clearing his throat. “This time, they want to make an example of him. And they want to use our Colosseum to send that message in front of as many people as possible.”

“Tell me something, Quentin,” Omar’s eyes glittered with interest. “Have you ever killed a Savant?”