Abhorrent Practices - Book 1

Chapter 9.6 - Dicing with Death (Scene 6: Burn the Witch!)

Sandrine felt numb. The other three hangings had gone as horribly smoothly as the first. Playing to the crowd at every opportunity, Jerome had lived up to his name as Rhenn the Despatcher, performing his duties with clinical efficiency. His last victim, a man named Fawel, had been a String Islander, found guilty of murdering two prostitutes in a dispute over an unpaid bill. His death had been met with rapturous applause. With little else for the local smugglers to spend their money on, brothels were an important part of the Rock's domestic economy and prostitutes were held in high regard. Everyone had their favourites, and it seemed the two murdered by Fawel had been minor celebrities.

By the time the crowd's cheering had begun to subside, Sandrine's arms hurt from being held aloft, and her jaw ached from being continually forced into a smile. She raised them once more, directing the crowd's attention to Fawel's twitching corpse, as Jerome descended the mast, gripping it tightly with his legs, eking out the crowd's applause.

As he reached the ground, he vaulted towards Sandrine, tumbling across the Rotunda before finally coming to a halt by her side with an elaborate flourish.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he cried. "Tinners, seamen, and trench rats, that concludes the first part of this evening's entertainment. Put your hands together, please, for the beautiful, the deadly, Justina, the Merciless Mistress of Justice!"

He took Sandrine's hand, raised it above her head, and pulled her down with him as he bowed low.

"You killed those people!" she hissed.

"Executed," Jerome corrected her.

"But you were a Ferryman. How could you?"

Jerome grinned an infuriating smile.

"I only do what the Order of Charon trained me to do."

Sandrine stared at him in horror. The Order didn't execute; it helped! It relieved suffering. Death at the hands of a Ferryman was only ever an act of compassion. It was never about anything else, not even justice.

She wanted to rebuke him, right there in the middle of the Rotunda, to remind him of the principles he'd so obviously forgotten. Before she could speak, however, Jerome twirled her around and released her hand, sending her spinning across the floor of the Rotunda. A storm of cheers and whistles filled the arena, as Sandrine's skirt swirled around her, rising up around her waist, its glittering flames alive.

"And now," announced Jerome, "who's ready for the second half of tonight's entertainment?"

The crowd whooped in response, and two guards led a man and a woman into the arena. Their hands were tied behind their backs, and their mouths gagged. From the side of arena where the band sat hidden, a low chant began to reverberate around the stands.

"Burn the witch, burn the witch!"

Sandrine watched as the guards paraded the condemned couple around the Rotunda, before leading them back to the centre, to the two pyres raised on either side of Orrin's statue. So, these were the so-called witches. Sandrine had never been superstitious, and was sickened to think that anyone could be found guilty of a non-existent crime. The thought that they could be burned at the stake – and for entertainment – was even worse!

She listened to the baying crowd and realised she was powerless to help anyone. Any attempt to interfere, and she'd find herself in the Brig with the other condemned souls.

She watched the guards lead the witches up onto their respective pyres, and tie them securely to the posts. The crowd was working itself into a frenzy now, and Jerome was revelling in the adulation, whipping up the cheers, calling for the applause, challenging one side of the arena to make itself heard over the other, before somersaulting back across the oval and urging the spectators there to respond in kind.