If he wanted to lose the Archer, he’d better do it soon.
Or I could wait.
If he waited, the Blood Court would pass by, and he could get caught up in the crowd.
That might be the best option for him.
Finn maneuvered behind the cart. People passed by him, but he bent over, trying to look as if he were fixing his boots. Oscar had one good idea on him. He couldn’t linger there that long or he’d start to draw the wrong sort of attention—that of the hawkers.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the Archer moving slowly through the crowd. At least he was shorter. This man seemed to be standing on his toes, bouncing so that he could peer over the crowd.
The chanting got louder.
The crowd around him pressed toward him.
He wasn’t going to be able to stay where he was for much longer.
The crowd didn’t give him a choice. It was either stand or get trampled.
Finn stood.
The Archer was barely a dozen paces in front of him. Close enough that were he to turn, he’d be able to reach Finn quickly. The advantage Finn had was that the Blood Court and with the condemned were making their way along the street, and the crowd pressed forward so they’d be better able to see the procession.
Slowly, the Archer moved away, heading toward the gate. The crowd separated to let him pass, though not nearly as much as before the sound of the procession started coming through the streets.
Finn smiled to himself. He’d gotten away.
So long as he didn’t run into the same Archer, he wouldn’t have to worry about getting questioned. Seeing as how he rarely spent any time in that part of the city, and never in the palace where the Archer would be stationed, he didn’t have to worry about that.
He turned his attention to the Blood Court.
All of the condemned were known as Poor Bastards, and this one had to be about the same age as Oscar. He had a lean, almost haggard appearance, and followed the executioner with a halting gait. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, a haunted expression to his dark eyes.
Finn knew the man.
Knew might be a bit strong. He’d seen him. Heard of him. Dalton Pegg, a man he knew to be an incredibly skilled thief from the city's Unlear section. Finn hadn’t known he’d been caught. He really was a Poor Bastard.
The priest trailing after him continued his steady chanting from the Book of Heleth.
The sound of it was much more musical than the song he’d used to draw the Archer’s attention, though as it droned toward him, Finn didn’t feel the urgency within it he knew he was supposed to.
The Blood Court moved past.
The crowd veered after, peeling off and heading alongside.
A tomato came hurtling out of the crowd and struck Pegg in the chest. A chunk of it broke off and struck the executioner, staining his gray jacket and leaving a trail of juice dripping down toward his heavy boots.
Were that Finn, he would have reacted more than the executioner did. He marched forward, his eyes straight ahead, a look of concentration on his face that was not all that different from the one he saw on Pegg’s face.
Finn had met the executioner once. He’d been caught and accused of stealing meat from a pig butcher. He’d claimed innocence—though he was not—but the executioner hadn’t been swayed. The flogging had been terrifyingly painful—he still had the two scars on his back to remind him—but nothing like what Pegg was about to endure.
The priests passed.
Finn fell into the crowd.
A boy in front of him slipped his hand inside the satchel of the man next to him and fished out a few coins before moving on, sliding along the crowd. He grabbed another few coins from a woman clutching a bag, and when he accidentally bumped into another person, he reached into their pocket to pilfer still more.
One of the vendors caught sight of the boy and started toward him.
Finn grabbed him, shaking his head, and pointed at the vendor. “You don’t want to end up like Pegg, now do you?” he asked, before pushing him off and into the crowd.
The boy’s eyes widened, and he darted off, dropping the coins.
Finn scooped them quickly off the ground, stuffing them into his pocket.
When they reached the Teller Gate, Finn followed the crowd out.
In much of Verendal, buildings sprawled beyond the gate and past the wall, with the neighboring forest just visible. There were no buildings near the Teller Gate. Finn suspected the executioner had something to do with that—he’d seen him making preparations near the Raven Stone a few times—but there were still more shacks built closer to the stone than he would have thought would be comfortable.
The crowd slowed as the procession neared the Raven Stone, and the executioner forced Pegg to climb the stone.
Finn didn’t even know what kind of punishment Pegg had been given. Probably hanging, befitting a dishonorable like Pegg. The viscount and his lackeys wouldn’t offer a thief—even one of renown like Pegg—the honor of a quick death by sword.
The day had grown late, and he knew he should return to the tavern. He’d been gone long enough, and by now, he suspected Oscar and Rock would have returned. If he didn’t get back, the King would be annoyed at his delay, but then Finn hoped Oscar would regale him with the story about how he’d helped him escape. Maybe then Finn would be given the opportunity to be more involved with the next job. That was all he really wanted, anyway.
A murmuring overtook the crowd, and Finn looked over. In the distance, atop the raised stone platform the people of the city called the Raven Stone, the executioner had brought Pegg. A rope hung around his neck, and the chanting from the priests began to build.
Finn didn’t want to watch, but at the same time, he didn’t know if he could even look away. There was something strangely compelling about the whole ordeal.
Pegg began to argue.
It was the first time that he’d seen any sort of emotion out of Pegg, and as he watched, he couldn’t help but want to be closer to see what he might do.
The crowd around him didn’t let him get away. If he made a wrong move, messed up on a job—worse than had happened today—something like this might be his fate. Take the wrong job, upset the wrong wealthy merchant, and it would be the noose and not a flogging.
All for what? Taking a little from someone who had more?
The executioner probably enjoyed it, though from a distance, Finn couldn’t tell.
One of the priests came closer, ceremonially raising his hand, and Pegg leaned back before spitting in his face.
A gasp fell across the crowd.
The executioner started forward, wrapped the noose around his neck, and pushed away the small stool as he sent Pegg spiraling from the gallows, hanging. He kicked for a moment. The crowd remained silent, only speaking again when he went still.
Finn couldn’t take his eyes off of him, though disgust filled him. What had Pegg done that had warranted such a fate? The King probably knew, given the connections he had, though he might not tell Finn. He’d have to ask Oscar and hope that Oscar had heard something enough that he might find the answers.
Tearing his gaze away, he headed back toward the gate. A chance glimpse of an Archer sent his heart hammering, though he didn’t think it was the same Archer as before. He squeezed the silver sculpture in his pocket, the coins he’d taken from the pickpocket, and kept his head low to avoid attention.
When he reached the gate, he paused before heading in. A woman stood at the gallows, looking up at Pegg. She wiped her eyes, and one of the priests came over as if to console her.