‘Do you have anything to say at this, the end of your life?’ the Seaguardian clasps his hands behind his back with the air of someone congratulating himself on a job well done.
Nestor’s at the front of the crowd with his line of Seaguardian comrades. That gold-trimmed jacket looks so proper now. It looked better draped around my shoulders.
I make sure I catch his eye as I say it: ‘I wish I’d fucked more.’
The crowd undulates, a barely perceptible shift as someone bobs and weaves between bodies. At first, I think it’s someone angling for a better view in the front row. Then I see that the person making their way to the front, right behind the line of Seaguardians, is a kid. They’re close to the scaffold now, dressed in a dirty white shirt and loose britches, a hat pulled down low over their face. I squint inthe sunlight and watch them creep a hand inside Nestor’s jacket and palm something shiny. My compass. All in the space of releasing a breath. Who the skies are they?
‘I have many regrets,’ I begin to say, conscious that the Seaguardian and the crowd are staring at me expectantly. ‘I have done many things throughout my time as a pirate that the law considers improper. But, my dear Paranishians, who decides the difference between a Seaguardian and a pirate? Don’t they both sail the open waters?’
The Seaguardian’s mouth turns down as if pulled by string, and his eyes flash.
‘The Bastion. Correct, my good friend,’ I continue, despite my stony audience. ‘And who resides in the Bastion?’
‘You dare to add treason to your roster of sins?’ the Seaguardian splutters.
I cock my head to the side. ‘I thought that was already on my docket, no?’
Laughter finally breaks out again among the crowd, and I incline my head, casting my eyes down. They’re right by the gallows, face peering out from the gap between Seaguardians. I give them a questioning look, and they flash me a fiendish grin and slide a dagger down their sleeve. I narrow my eyes.
‘Finlyr Pane, if you have nothing to say for yourself—’ The Seaguardian raises a hand to the executioner, who stands ready to release the trapdoor.
‘Wait!’
The crowd lean forward with bated breath.
‘I would like to apologise to anyone who has been hurt by my crimes. Nestor, I’m sorry you weren’t man enough to keep up with my swordplay—’
‘Cease this nonsense!’ the Seaguardian snaps. He brings a hand down sharply by his side.
The executioner pulls the lever, and I find myself choking on my words.
I’m crashing down from a large swell on a ship’s deck. That gut lurch, where your body anticipates the drop before your mind can even process what’s happening. I feel the centre of my being is no longer my core, but my throat. I don’t know if you’ve ever thought about how delicate a neck is, but images of tender flesh are seared in my mind in that moment. I consider all the throats I’ve slit. Grab them by the hair and expose that soft, bare skin and throbbing veins. It’s not an honourable death, but it’s a fast one. You bleed out fairly quickly.
This is not an honourable death. Neither is it elegant. I don’t know if it’s a blessing my neck hasn’t snapped, because now I have to wait to suffocate to death. If I could have de-gloved my entire body to get out of that noose, I would have. It feels like hours, my brain flooding my body with a punch-drunk cocktail of chaotic drugs, and my vision darkens. Then there’s a white blur, something shiny and silver spinning through the air and catching the light. I fall hard onto my side, gasping for air. Then the screaming starts.
It is absolute chaos in Umasa’s town square, people running wild, surging in all directions. People trip on the weight of their skirts. Others are crushed under trampling feet. I can see this from where I’m lying, panting, on the ground.
‘Don’t panic,’ a honeyed voice says close to my ear, and someone helps me up. The stranger. I try to focus on them, staggering sideways before I double over and retch.
‘We don’t have time for that, Fin,’ they say impatiently. ‘Let’s go.’
chapter five
ris
Biba lies in ourbed, clutching her old wooden doll Dodi as she returns to sleep. She’s getting too old for childish things, but it’s her father’s handiwork and she won’t let it out of her sight. I understand; he didn’t leave her much. It’s an ugly thing, roughly carved with baffling features, with scraps of gold thread I held back to give it hair. When she was little, she loved to say, ‘sunshine hair’ as she stroked it and then patted her own dark strands and declare ‘midnight hair’. I miss those days when she was smaller, her words softer. Mine were softer then, too – before the grief and rage had begun to devour me.
I head out of the door and the wind whips up my cloak, tugging at the ends as if to dissuade me from going. From the stoop, I gingerly pick up the otter-cat corpse by its tail. I’ve been swithering on what to do with it, but I can’t leave it here, a horrific reminder of what happened. I could bury it, but the idea of it rotting slowly on my land makes me shudder. I imagine the decay seeping in, infecting everything. Infecting everything even more, I think. The sheep bleat pathetically in the field, and I can’t deny it any longer: there’s something wrong with them. I’ve tried changing their diets, isolating the sick, but always the wool continues to thin. The batches are smaller and of poorer quality, requiring more hours and creative ways to weave the fine gold thread and garments, which are our bread and butter.
‘What will you do with it?’ Biba asks.
It takes me a moment to come back to myself, to the dank blight of the otter-cat held by the tips of my fingers, to my daughter’s words. She has pushed the door ajar.
‘Give it back to the earth,’ I say.
‘Why?’ Her face is open, her eyes wide.
I hate the why game. It carries on forever, until my answers are either satisfactory or I tire, her questions left unanswered.
