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Joss felt the weight of the coins in her hand as the man’s screams echoed from down the hall.
“What a waste,” Quinn mumbled as he entered the paid amount into the ledger. Another torturous scream erupted as he slammed the book shut. Placing it back on the shelf in a huff, he turned with his arms crossed, a glare evident on his face.
“He used to be the best, next to your father,” Quinn continued, and Joss perceived he was just speaking out loud, unhinged from the day.
“He is the best,” Joss reminded him. “Shouldn’t the men who put him in this state be punished? They hindered a man of the law from performing his duties.”
“I already pleaded that case to the magistrate, who denied that action could be taken,” Quinn confessed. “Master Hellis was supposed to be a professional and act accordingly, no matter what the course. He deserves to be down here.”
Joss kept quiet, finding the reason acceptable despite the unfairness of it all.
Another scream erupted, and Quinn stared after it. “All the dark souls come down here,” he murmured, lost in his thoughts.
Joss looked at her hand, the coins somehow losing their value. “You said there was a new one,” she said, trying to change the topic.
Snapping out of his thoughts, Quinn stood up straighter. “Yes,” he acknowledged, clearing his throat and recomposing himself. “He came in yesterday. His is a private ordeal; trial, sentencing, death. Clean and simple.”
Joss rolled her eyes but turned so the jailer wouldn’t notice.
“Oh, and the old man wants to see you.”
“Old man?” Joss asked as Quinn sat back down at his desk, unrolling a parchment for the next prisoner that was to be dealt with.
Quinn smirked as he straightened out the paper. “Charleston Ore. He’s tomorrow’s beheading. He wants to meet with you now. Fourth cell on the right.”
Pocketing the coins in her vest, Joss nodded a “goodbye” to the jailer as she left the room, passing the main stairs that would have taken her to fresh air and freedom. Instead, she turned the other direction, passing the rows of cells, the prisoners’ “Angel of Death” calls long exhausted. Some still whispered it, like ghosts reminding her of past deeds. Marching past them all, Joss made her way to the condemned cells, those whose deaths had long been scheduled.
These cells were much different than the rest, mainly due to the chaplains that frequented them, hoping to save the damned through repentance. There were also more guards stationed here to monitor for suicide attempts since some prisoners could become more creative than others.
So it wasn’t a shock when she rounded the corner and found two guards stationed in front of one of the cells at the very end, a rare but not surprising display. Often it was only one, so the sight of two made Joss wonder if an attempt had been made or if the prisoner had been extra rowdy. There were no shouts or calls, so she automatically assumed it was the former.
The only difference was that she didn’t recognize these guards. They didn’t look young enough to be new in their profession, which made their presence even more interesting.
Nodding a greeting to them, she passed the first three cells until she was faced with the fourth one. In between these cells were high, lit lanterns, caging the bulbs that spilled light into the hall and partly into the small cells, revealing the figures inside. Each prisoner was chained by the ankles and waist for security, with a bench and blanket to use as a bed.
Stepping closer, Joss looked at the old man who sat on the bench, back hunched and arms resting on his knees.
“Charleston Ore,” Joss called out.
The old man’s head swung slowly to the side, revealing a smirk before he straightened up and hoisted himself to his feet. “Master Brevyn,” he greeted her, coming to stand in the middle of the cell, the chains clinking and scraping as he moved.
“You asked to see me?” Joss asked, still taken aback that a prisoner had called for her.
“I did, yes,” he said. His voice was hoarse, the damp, stale air not agreeing with him. “Are you to be my executioner?”
“Yes, sir,” Joss confirmed.
“And what is to be the hour of my death?”
“Ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Ah,” the old man replied, succumbing to his fate. “Not a minute later, I hope.”
“I’m always on time,” Joss answered with a smile.
“I only ask, Master Brevyn, because I always knew a woman would be the death of me. I just didn’t know it would be someone so much younger.” He laughed, but she could see the fear there, the nervousness that was cracking into his otherwise high spirits.
Joss kept her smile, understanding where he was going with the conversation. He wasn’t the first nor the last to question her abilities. “I assure you, Charleston Ore, I will not let you suffer on my watch.”
“Says the person whose job it is to torture people into confessing.” He eyed her then, and despite his sincerity, his gaze revealed he didn’t fully trust her.
Joss was about to reply as the screams of Master Hellis erupted, much closer than before. It filled the hall with such wrath that even Joss shivered in its wake. Someone started wailing from somewhere, losing their courage while others cursed and groaned, tired of hearing yet another victim of Mortem Hall.
“Not always,” she replied, causing the old man to grin.
“So how will you do it?” he questioned. “How will a woman of your size take an ax and chop a man’s head off?”
“Much like how I chop wood,” she quipped back. “Your neck isn’t very thick, probably the size of a small log.” She made a circle with her fingers, judging his size. “I can split a log that size with one swing.”
“You’re comparing me to a log?” the old man gawked.
Joss tried not to laugh, knowing she was having too much fun at the expense of the man’s nerves. “If I can cut through a log that size with one swing, then you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
The old man stared at her, as if reality sank in. “How many have you killed?”
While there was nothing about the conversation she liked, she especially disliked the fact he was dragging her along with him on this quest of his, thinking the more knowledge he had, the less he would fear death.
“So far,” she began, “I’ve put 183 prisoners to death; 154 of them by beheading and 130 of those were men.”
“Very specific numbers,” the old man thought out loud. “You remind me of my days as a soldier. You would think after so many deaths they would all just blend together, but they don’t. Not for us, at least.”
“No, not for us,” Joss agreed. She knew of executioners who could forget the numbers, wiping away the life as easily as flicking their sword or dropping the noose, separating themselves from the deed. It was a practice she hadn’t been able to master yet.
“I thought for sure death would never come for me,” he continued, his mind wandering as he stared off into nothing. “I was in so many battles. I cheated it so often. And now that it’s here, I’ve realized that... I never lived.”
Those words caught her attention, and she eyed the old man intently.
“I fought for king and country most of my life, and yet, here I am. Nothing to show for it, not even my title.” It was then his voice cracked, the real emotions surfacing. If he had been allowed an honorable death, then a sword would be used. The fact the beheading was to take place with an ax only bruised the man’s ego more.
Joss grimaced, sensing the betrayal he had undergone. “A beheading is honoring you. Thieves are normally hanged,” she offered, trying to comfort him in the only way she could, given the two guards down the corridor, listening to the exchange since they had nothing better to do.
The old man silently agreed, knowing too well what a hanging did to a body. It was a much slower—often too slow—death.
“Would you do me one favor?” he finally spoke up, pulling himself back to the present. “Light a candle for me, so I can be remembered, even for a little bit.”
Unable to spoil someone’s hope, she agreed that she would.
“Thank you for your time, Master Brevyn.” The old man bowed his head, showing humility.
“Of course,” Joss replied, smiling one last time before moving away from the cell. She walked back the way she came, but not before looking over her shoulder at the two guards, who continued to stand on either side of the door, facing forward. Although she wondered about them, her attention diverted to where the torture chamber was just down the hall, realizing that Master Hellis’ cries had stopped. Whether he had passed out or died prematurely, Joss didn’t wait to find out.
Making her way back to Quinn’s office, she found him still in there, poring over his paperwork.
“I couldn’t help but notice the amount of guards you have for that new prisoner,” she mentioned. “New guards, it looks like.”
Quinn’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion before he realized what she was talking about. “They’re just here for him,” he mumbled.
“Anything in particular I should know about the prisoner?”
Quinn smirked but kept his eyes on the page he was scribbling on. “As I said, he’s a private ordeal.”
“They’re all private until they have to be made an example of,” she countered.
“I don’t make the rules, Joss.” Quinn moaned, exhausted by everything around him. “If I did, the first rule would be to get a new head jailer.”
His eyes rose up to meet hers, and in his stare she noticed the same truth she held in her own; that he had never wanted his job either.
“He won’t be dealt with for a couple days,” Quinn continued. “He isn’t your problem right now. Your problem is to make sure tomorrow’s beheading doesn’t get botched like today’s did.”
“You know it won’t be,” Joss affirmed, her own fear of becoming like Master Hellis unfolding in her tone.
“There’s always room for errors, just like today. Despite the crowd’s repulsion for inhumane acts,” Quinn replied as he sat back in his chair, “there’ll be more viewers tomorrow, secretly hoping it’ll happen again.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll stay away from the taverns,” she teased.
“It’s not about the taverns, Joss, and you know it.” Quinn grew serious, and while he was a serious person anyway, his tone became dark enough to silence her sarcasm. “Bigger crowds can cause bigger problems, and I need you to make sure you’re focused on the task. No matter the jeering, no matter the antics; get the job done.”
Her anxiety pressed into her chest, and she felt the tightness in her throat caused by his words. “I always do,” she said, keeping her voice flat so that her emotions wouldn’t show, something often seen as weakness by men.
Quinn pressed his lips together, and after a moment, he nodded in agreement. Without saying anything else, Quinn went back to his parchments while Joss turned away, escaping up the stairwell faster than when she entered.
