Dagger Key and Other Stories

There seemed no dividing line between consciousness and unconsciousness, or perhaps Hota never completely blacked out and, instead, sank only a few inches beneath the surface of the waking world, and was, as with someone partially submerged in a stream, still able to hear muted voices and glimpse distorted shapes. It seemed he was borne aloft, jostled and otherwise roughly handled, but he did not fully return to his senses until he stood beneath the remnant corner post of Liar’s House, something tight about his neck, surrounded by a crowd of men and women and children, all of whom were shouting at once, cursing, screaming for his blood. He wanted to pluck the tight thing away from his neck and discovered his hands were lashed behind his back. Dazedly, he glanced up and saw that a rope had been slung over the wedge of flooring still attached to the corner post, and that one end of the rope was about his neck. Terrified now, he surged forward, trying to break free, but whoever held the rope pulled it tight, constricting his throat and forcing him to stand quietly. He breathed shallowly, staring at the faces ranged about him. He recognized none of them, yet they were all familiar. It was as if he were looking at cats or dogs or horses, incapable of registering the distinctions among them that they themselves noticed. A woman, her thin face contorted with anger, spat at him. The rest appeared to think this a brilliant idea and those closest to him all began spitting. Their saliva coated his face. It disturbed him to think that he would die with their slime dripping from him. He lifted a shoulder, rubbed some of it off his cheek. Then the blond man whom he had beaten in the tavern stepped forth from the crowd. Hota recognized him not by his pink complexion or pudgy features, but by his mangled right hand, which he held up to Hota’s eyes, letting him see the damage he had caused.

The man waved the crowd to silence and said to Hota, “Speak now, if ever you wish to speak again.”

Still groggy, Hota said, “None of this is my doing.”

Shouts and derisive laughter.

Once more, the man waved them to silence. “Who then should we blame?”

“Griaule,” Hota said, and was forced to shout the rest of his statement over the renewed laughter of the crowd. “How could I have brought a dragon here? I’m only a man!”

“Are you?” The blond man caught the front of Hota’s shirt with his good hand and brought his face close. “We’ve been wondering about that.”

“Of course I am! I was manipulated! Used! Griaule used me!”

The blond man seemed to give the idea due consideration. “It’s possible,” he said at length. “In fact, I imagine it’s probable.”

The crowd at his back muttered unhappily.

“The thing is…” said the blond man, and smiled. “We can’t hang Griaule, can we? You’ll just have to stand in for him.”

Hooting and howling their laughter, the crowd shook their fists in the air. Some snatched at Hota, others clawed and slapped at his head. The blond man moved them back. “You’ve killed our horses, you’ve stolen from us. You’re responsible for that bitch tearing Benno Grustark to pieces. Any of these crimes would merit hanging.”

“What could I have done!” Hota cried.

“You could have talked to us. Helped us. Brought us food.” The blond man waved his damaged hand toward the hills. “Do you know how many of us died for want of food and shelter?”

“I didn’t know! If you’d told me, if you hadn’t threatened me…But I wasn’t thinking about you! I couldn’t! I had no choice!”

“Lack of choice. A common failing. But not, I think, a legal remedy.” The blond man moved the crowd farther back, warning that Hota might kick them as he was being hauled up. He turned to Hota and asked blithely, “Anything else?”

A hundred things occurred to Hota. Pleas and arguments, statements, things about his life, things he had learned that he thought might be worth announcing. But he could muster the will to speak none of them. The rope made his neck itch. His balls were tightened and cold. His knees trembled. His eyes went out along the street, past the drying mud and the crooked shanties and their rust-patched roofs, and he felt a shape inside his head that seemed to have some correspondence with the green mountainous shape that lay beyond, as if Griaule were telling him a secret or offering an assurance or having a laugh at his expense. Impossible to guess which. A desire swelled in him, a great ache for life that grew and grew until he thought he might be able to burst his bonds and escape this old fate he had avoided for so long.

“Hang him,” said the blond man. “But not too high. I want to watch his face.”