CHAPTER THIRTY- SEVEN
Find theLady
It’s a beautiful day in Minkja, and I am about to die. “Good people of Bóern,” Adalbrecht booms, “we have two causes to celebrate today.” His voice echoes over the Göttermarkt, which looks like someone sucker punched the treasury and it spewed all over the plaza. (Adalbrecht. Adalbrecht was the one doing the punching.)
The ceremonial houses are tiny cathedrals unto themselves, one draped in Falbirg red, one draped in Reigenbach blue, and the open- faced altar house between them draped in cloth of gold. Gisele’s house is the only spot of Falbirg red; the rest of the decorations are an onslaught of blue and gold silk, great arches of hothouse flowers, fans of gilded holly and fir, Bóernische flags flapping in the gentle breeze. Thick carpets have been laid over the paving stones, and chairs arranged for the gentry, all facing the golden altar house at one end of the plaza. Braziers have been placed around the rows to keep the guests warm, and a glittering dome spreads overhead, the work of a streetwitch guild. It will keep any snow at bay, though even the weather seems to have bowed to Adalbrecht, offering nothing but unbroken blue afternoon sky.
At the other end of the plaza stands a gallows, the strange platform I saw them building last week. It’s a little humbling to know the margrave was planning this for a while.
And he’s savoring his triumph as he stands in the middle of the central aisle, which he will walk down with his bride once the vows are spoken. He’s borrowed the officiant’s ceremonial staff, which has another streetwitch guild specialty: a charm to amplify his voice. It carries over the seated nobility and into the standing crowds ringed around the plaza to watch.
“I am pleased,” Adalbrecht announces, “to tell you that, thanks to hard work and perseverance of the city guard, thePfennigeisthas been caught. She was masquerading as a servant of the princess . . .” He gestures to Gisele beside him. She gives him a smile as pale and hard as the pearls around her neck but does not look my way even once, not even as he tips his hand to me. “. . . and is about to learn what we do to thieves in Minkja.”
Oh,please.
“We have given her the honor of being the first guest to dance at our wedding!” Adalbrecht continues, grinning up to me on the gallows. “Albeit at the end of a rope.”
An uncomfortable laugh ripples through the crowds.
“Shitty wedding tradition,” I mutter. Everything aches in the chill; some of the jewels have grown so large they scrape against each other under my sleeves. The rubies are almost to my heart now. It doesn’t help that my hands have been manacled behind my back. “Whatever happened to ‘something borrowed’?”
One of the two guards on the platform gives me a look. I glare at him until he turns away.
Adalbrecht keeps talking, but I’m barely listening. I’m a little distracted by the hangman shoving my head through a noose. Perhaps I’m just being fussy, but the rope isawfullyscratchy. Trust Adalbrecht to be a cheapskate to the end.
Though I did get a perfect view of the barrel waiting below the gallows’ trapdoor on my way up. Apparently hundreds of nails are in the budget.
There’s a ruffle of applause. Adalbrecht tosses the officiant’s staff back to her. He and Gisele walk to the end of the aisle, then pace, solemn and stiff, to their respective houses as the band strikes up a garishly chipper wedding march. There are doors on either side of the house, one facing me, one facing the altar—another bit of (absurd) symbolism. Whatever ills cling to the spouses-to-be are meant to be shut in the houses with them, then left behind.
They stay in the houses, supposedly to give themselves a moment to pray to the gods for a happy marriage. I suspect Gisele and Adalbrecht are both praying for something else.
The wedding march comes to an end. The second doors swing open. Adalbrecht and Gisele emerge and proceed to the gold awning of the altar house.
All eyes are on them. I slip a hairpin out of my sleeve and go to work on the lock.
“Hey.” The same guard is looking again. He strides over and plucks the hairpin from my hand, holding it up for the hangman. “The little terror’s trying some foolishness.”
The hangman laughs. “Put it in her hair, so she’s pretty when she meets Death,” he suggests.
“I’ve already met Death,” I sneer. “She doesn’t care if I’m pretty.”
The hangman scowls. “Check her pockets. There should be nothing but the Ferryman’s due.”
The guard does a quick search and pulls out only the single red penny everyone gets before they’re hanged. “Nothing,” the guard says, returning the penny to my pocket.
“Keep an eye on her. If she doesn’t hang, the margrave will string us up too.”
“Yes, sir.” The guard stations himself at my back, the better to keep an eye on my manacles.
The officiant plants her staff on a stand, then reaches out and takes both Gisele’s and Adalbrecht’s hands.
“Gisele-Berthilde Ludwila von Falbirg,” the officiant begins. “Do you come to this altar of your own free will, to marry this man?”
I can’t see Gisele clearly from this far off, but I can hear the edge in her voice when she says, “I do.”
The officiant turns to Adalbrecht. “And do you, sir, come to this altar of your own free will, to marry—”
“I do,” he answers quickly.
