She pushed the flicker of sympathy aside. A dwarf might be nothing more than a figure of fun in Zangaria, condemned to little more than life as a circus freak, but he was still a sadist who found amusement in tormenting prisoners. An abuser who kicked down deserved no sympathy from her. She’d been abused too much herself to have any sympathy for someone who didn’t face his real tormentors.
Matilda watched, calmly, as Emily washed herself, then pulled on the new dress they’d given her. She couldn’t help thinking that it looked like a simple bridal gown, as if she were going to a wedding…or a sacrifice. It fit her perfectly, something that nagged at her mind until she realized that Matilda had probably gotten her measurements from Queen Marlena. Perhaps she should have asked the king about his wife, while they’d been talking…or perhaps that would only make matters worse. Marlena would have to be put aside if Randor wanted to rewrite history to claim that Alicia’s son was legitimate after all.
“Brush your hair back, but let it hang down,” Matilda ordered. “There’s no time to have it pinned up properly.”
Emily shrugged. She’d never really cared for elaborate hairstyles. Alassa might claim they helped mark a person’s position in society, if only by proving that the wearer was wealthy enough to hire maids to do their hair, but Emily had never seen the point. She normally wore her hair down anyway. She ran her fingers through her hair, silently wishing–just for a moment–that she had time to wash it. Her hair felt grimy and uncomfortable.
Matilda snapped her fingers at the cringing dwarf, undoing the spell. Emily shuddered at the look of fear–and naked malice–in the dwarf’s eyes. Matilda had better hope that she never ended up in Randor’s dungeons. The dwarf would make her life hell. His eyes traveled across Emily’s body, then looked away as Matilda took Emily’s wrist. A moment later, her hands were firmly tied behind her back. Emily tested the bonds as quietly as she could, cursing her mistake under her breath. If she’d thought to tense her arms…no, Matilda probably knew that trick. Unsurprisingly, she couldn’t weaken the bonds. Her hands were trapped.
“This way,” Matilda said. She put a hand on Emily’s arm to guide her towards the door. “If you do anything stupid, I will make you regret it.”
I’m going to my execution, Emily thought, dryly. What could be worse than that?
She shrugged as they walked through the door and up a darkened staircase. Emily had half-expected to see the castle staff, from the footmen and guards she’d barely noticed to the maids who’d tended her room, but she didn’t see anyone until they reached the main hall and started down towards the doors. The walls were lined with noblemen, wearing their finery; their eyes followed her, coldly, as she walked on. She saw no pity or sympathy in their eyes, nothing that might suggest they’d take up arms in her name. But then, none of the noblemen would be foolish enough to wear their hearts on their sleeves. Randor had eyes and ears everywhere. He’d be watching them.
A gust of cold air struck her as they entered the courtyard. There were more guards on the gates than ever before, carrying muskets and flintlocks as well as swords, spears and wands. Sir Roger’s men, Emily guessed. They were certainly organized by someone who knew what he was doing. She’d seen plenty of mistakes made by people who didn’t understand gunpowder–and heard horror stories about people who hadn’t survived their mistakes–but the soldiers looked competent. There was no risk of accidentally blowing down the castle gates, allowing the mob to enter the building. It didn’t look as if there was any risk to the defenders at all.
Matilda’s grip seemed to tighten, just for a second. A handful of young noblemen–landless, she guessed, judging by their fine clothes and exaggerated masculinity–started to jeer at her, laughing mockingly. Emily forced herself to show no fear, no sign that their taunts were getting to her; she knew, all too well, that they’d only be encouraged if they scented fear. It felt like hours before they were through the gates, leaving the noblemen behind. She had a feeling she hadn’t seen the last of them.
The air grew colder somehow, although it was early summer, as she started the walk down the Royal Mile. A trio of mounted horsemen appeared from nowhere, one leading the way while the other two brought up the rear; the streets were lined with people, watching soundlessly as she passed. Emily wondered, sardonically, if Matilda would be able to maintain her cover after today. She had no idea if a woman marching to her execution was entitled to a female escort or not–it happened so rarely–but people would ask questions about why Matilda had been ordered to escort Emily. Perhaps Randor would try to explain it away, somehow, or perhaps he’d reveal Matilda’s true role. It would certainly set the cat among the mice as everyone reassessed the balance of power in the kingdom.
It was growing harder to walk, her legs starting to stiffen. She had to concentrate to force herself to keep going, looking for a chance to escape. The crowds were steadily becoming more and more lower-class, bright robes and imitation finery giving way to handmade clothes and ill-fitting trousers. She breathed a sigh of relief as she realized there were no children, even though she suspected it was also a sign of trouble. Parents were encouraged to take their kids to executions, just to make it clear that anyone who broke the law would come to a bad end. Randor hadn’t even let her ban the practice in Cockatrice. He was a big believer in object lessons.
And my death is going to be the biggest object lesson of all, she thought. It looked as through the entire city had been invited to the show. The streets were jam-packed with civilians, watched closely by the guards. Or will I become a martyr?
She forced herself to keep her eyes open, searching for an opportunity to escape. But the crowds were too tightly-packed for her to lose herself, even if her hands weren’t bound behind her back. Matilda would freeze her in an instant, then carry out her threat to make Emily walk the rest of the way like a puppet on a string. And the guards wouldn’t hesitate to fire into the crowd if they thought she was on the verge of escaping. There would be a bloody slaughter…
A low hiss of anger ran through the crowd as they reached the middle of the Royal Mile and turned right, into the execution grounds. The last time Emily had seen it, there had been a set of gallows and a number of rotting heads mounted on spikes. The gallows were gone now, but the heads remained, their faces set in expressions of agony. She tried not to breathe through her nose, even though she suspected it was pointless. Dead bodies spread diseases–she’d taught the Nameless World how diseases spread–but she was going to die long before she could catch something awful from the rotting heads. She wondered, absently, who they’d been. Probably some poor bastards who’d annoyed the king. There was no shortage of them.
Or maybe someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, she thought, grimly. The soldiers would have been under strict orders to bring King Randor heads or risk losing their own. They might just have scooped someone off the streets, declared him a rebel and hung him before anyone could ask any awkward questions about due process. Those guys might not have been rebels at all.