“No.”
“So, no need for a professional then. You will do the execution yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s everything. It’s at the end of that hallway there, your highness,” he added, pointing to the hall opposite the one they had entered from.
“Thank you,” Relam grunted. “We’ll be finished shortly. Come on men, and bring him along.”
The guards dragged and jostled Narin across the room and frog marched him down the hall, gripping his arms tightly to prevent escape. Narin bore the rough treatment stoically, meekly following as a loyal soldier should. When they reached the door to the execution room, he hung limp in the guard’s grasp, as though utterly resigned to his fate.
Relam pushed through the door and held it open for the other guards. He did not look around until he had bolted the door shut behind them, releasing a deep sigh of relief as he did so.
The execution room was a bare, rectangular room. Four walls, a floor that was slightly bowl-shaped and centered by a drain. The far wall held a spigot and bucket, presumably for cleaning up after executions.
“It’s not as bad as it could be,” Narin observed.
Relam snorted. “And here I was expecting torture tools to be hanging on the walls, and flies and dried blood everywhere.”
“For once, your highness, I’m glad you were wrong,” Narin replied. “Shall we get on with it?”
“Of course,” Relam said, grinning. “Any last requests?”
“Not today,” Narin grunted. “Seeing as I’m not planning on dying yet.”
“Fair enough. Now, best get in your bag,” Relam said, gesturing for the guards to help.
They unrolled the bundle of canvas and found the open side of the bag. Then, laying it flat on the ground, they shoved Narin in feet first and tied it off. While they were doing this, Relam went to the spigot and bucket. He filled the bucket then dumped its contents across the floor. He did this several more times, trying to make it look like he had just cleaned up a messy execution.
“Not much air in here,” Narin complained as Relam rejoined the others.
“You’ll be fine. You won’t be in there too long,” Relam reminded him. “Right, move out.”
The guards took positions around the bag and hefted it with grunts, the handles straining and stretching. They waited a moment to be sure the bag would hold, then one of them nodded to Relam.
“We’re ready, your highness.”
The young prince threw the door open and marched out briskly, followed by the guards and their awkward burden. All too soon, they were passing the clerk on their way out. Relam raised a hand in farewell, smiling grimly.
“Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime, your highness,” the clerk replied, raising his head for just a moment before returning to his ledger.
Relam breathed a sigh of relief and hurried the guards out of the dungeons and up the steps. In another moment, they were leaving the Citadel through the main gate and marching through the rain once more.
“How are we holding up?” Relam asked the guards as they moved through the quiet streets.
“Pretty well, your highness,” one grunted. “Where are we headed?”
“North of the city, where criminals are usually buried,” Relam replied. “Does anyone have a shovel?”
“No,” the guards said in unison, looking around.
Relam sighed heavily. “Well, we can use your shields if that’s what it comes to. If anyone sees someone selling a shovel along the way, sing out.”
They continued moving along the River Road, passing Tar Agath’s training ground, Oreius’ house, and Bridge Street. Not far from the walls, they finally came to a small, dingy shop that sold a wide array of tools and offered repairs. Relam ducked into the small space and quickly bought a sturdy shovel. He paid the shopkeeper, who seemed a little confused as to why a prince would be buying a shovel from him, then headed back out onto the road. He tossed the shovel to one of the guards, who caught it easily.
“That’s better,” Relam muttered. “Now, let’s get this done. How’s it going in there, Narin?”
“It’s dry at least,” came the muffled reply. “But it’s getting a little hard to breathe.”
“We’d better hurry up then,” Relam replied. “Come on.”
The small band continued moving north along the River Road, passing impressive manors on the left and towering shops to the right. Occasionally, other types of buildings would appear, like a blacksmith’s shop, low and spread out by the river, a waterwheel turning in back to power a machine inside. On this rainy, dreary day though, the forges were dark and the smith was sitting alone on a low stool. He looked up hopefully as Relam and his companions passed, then hunched over again when it became clear they weren’t stopping.
When they reached the north gate, they found there was no line to enter or leave the city. Relam marched right up to the guards on duty, who saluted him crisply.
“Good morning, corporal!” he said briskly. “How are things at the north gate?”
“Wet, your highness,” the corporal replied, blowing water from the end of his nose. “And slow. Not much traffic today. Where are you bound?”
“Burying a traitor,” Relam replied, gesturing to the bag his guards were carrying.
“A traitor? I’d love to hear that story,” the corporal said hopefully.
Relam looked glanced around and saw the other city guards closing in, gathering round to hear the story. “Perhaps another time,” he said firmly. “This isn’t the sort of weather to be standing around talking in. Besides, we’ve got a job to finish before we go home.”
The corporal shrugged. “Ah, well, another time, then. You’ll be coming right back, your highness?”
“Yes.”
“Good, we’ll watch for your return.”
“Thanks,” Relam said, grinning.
“Open the gate!” the
