Elektrodrome
“Come on already! We’ll be late!”
“Alright, alright! I’m ready now.” My wife was unusually eager to get down to see the executions today. Gods know why! The way I see it, once you’ve seen one odious sod dance upon the airs to his foregone conclusion, you’ve seen them all. But I guess it’s as she says: tis educational, and we must do this for the sake of the children. And there is some sense in what she says. After all, people must learn the value and the cost of the evil they do, and isn’t it my job to see to it they pay every penny they owe? In their defense, these lost men shall provide one good thing for our children and the people of the City. They shall serve as an everlasting reminder of how good folk never behave towards one another. And that the price of the evildoer is too great for any man to bear!
I took out my spiffy new horologue — one of those new Barloff and Sprort jobbies. Ten hours o’clock. Let’s see, take away six, that makes four o’sun. Still an hour before we have to be in the street to hail a cuclos to take us across town. Two imps and a nicely engraved brass case, and it only cost fifteen dalers! Of course, I got it from one of those grey markets down in Underwharves, so who knows how long it’ll last or even if it’s really a B&S make! Anyway, Jhonam from the pawn shop across from my office says it is “bright as brass, squire!” So, I guess there’s some hope after all.
I paced for a while, as anxious as ever I was during by first times before the high dais in the court rooms of the City. Still no sign of wife or children! I looked down at the horologue again. Ten hours and a fifth o’clock. We’re really going to be late now!
❦
After a while I shouted up to the triacuclos driver, pedalling away at the great wood and bronze contraption, all gaily painted and having a nice silken sunshade of garish purple, green and black: “What’s the delay, there? We’re going to be late if this traffic doesn’t let up soon! Can’t you get em to move along faster?”
Few cuclos jockeys are Daine, but this one was, and just as serene as any monk, he turns back to me and says: “No worries, grav, will have you there in a jiff! Bit of a short cut ahead.”
Normally I’d holler back ‘no bloody short cuts!’ I know all about cuclos drivers and their leuyve-long short cuts. Take you all over the City bold as brass and then have the nerve to complain if you don’t give a handsome tip! Bloody grifters the lot of em. Anything to milk an extra penny from an honest customer. But not these Daine fellows — honest as the king’s own daler and straighter than any arrow.
Soon enough, we came up to an intersection. I saw the sign painted on the corner of the building. Ropetwisters Mew. Some clever fellow had painted a noose below the sign. Been down here a couple times. As a matter of fact, there’s an entryway down into Underwharves near here, down into the twilit parts of the City hidden from ordinary view. All sorts of folk live their entire lives down there and you never see them up in the light of the Sun. And you can get anything in the suqs of Underwharves! Exotic spices, precious woods, thaumic artifacts, slaves. But I usually just try to stick to the antiquities markets.
Our driver hoots his claxon a couple times and calls out to a friend: “Hey Canash!” The other turns and waves before entering a shop. Hm: Poupina Macoui Tourannias. Must be a new tavern. Never heard of it before; have to check that out some time. We take a couple more turns and before I realise it, we’re at the Plaza of Justice. Much more familiar territory here! The Kings Court, the back offices of the Magistracy. The very halls of power in the Empire. Drat. Wish I’d tried to remember which way we came — that was a short cut I’d like to remember to avoid future traffic blocks!
❦
And once there, we got out of the triacuclos and paid the driver his two dalers, though he wouldn’t take any tip. Strange fellow. Before us was the newest façade in the Plaza, red brick and white stone in stark contrast. In big bold runes, deeply carved into the stone lintel was a single word: ELEKTRODROME. On either side of the great brass doors — immaculately polished I might add — were two figural columns carved in the likeness of Elekra herself, the newest of the philosophical goddesses, the radiant Lady of Illumination. People were streaming in, and we fell into the queue.
Little Wulfstan asked: “Dada, why aren’t we going down to the harbour? I thought today was execution day? Aren’t we going to have our lesson on the cost of evil? Or are we going there later? I like the music they play for the deadmen to dance to. I like the hot hound sausages they sell there. Can we get a hot hound sausage here?”
In response to this, Mahhtrood and Blaohhraven piped up: “I want a hot hound sausage too!” “I like mine with kijap!” “Can I try a fried rat? You said time before last time we could try one next time but then you changed your mind and said next time again and now next time is this time and can we try a fried rat? Like the ones the Daine mongers sell? I’m sure it ain’t real rat –“ “Aren’t” said Mahhtrood, the eldest, giving his younger brother a playful whack on the back of his newly shaved head. Blaohhraven continued without missing a beat: “– probably only chicken or oliphant or something like that.”
Mother hushed them all with a single glance — I’ve no idea how she does that — and we quickly left the hot glare of a Dogsummer day and entered the unnatural coolth and dim light of the Elektrodrome. Once my eyes got used to the light level, I could see the place was actually rather well lit. There were windows high up in the entry foyer and those new luminiferous orbs set upon polished brass sconces. A smartly clad usher looked at the five tickets my wife held out and directed us to the stairs for the box gallery.
“A signal honour is that,” she cried. “The box gallery! To think, the murderer your dear father helped convict will be the very first man executed by the new magic of electrification!” Deep down I cringed. With every conviction I began to wonder what is it I’m really a part of. We went up to the box and took our seats. I could see the audience below very clearly. The theatre only seats about two hundred people, and most of them were Men. Only a couple Daine were present. It was odd, really. There were always one or two Daine in attendance at an execution, yet they never watched the penitent swing upon the gallows. They always watched the witnesses. Never understood that — why go to an execution and then end up watching everything but the execution?
❦
The red curtain drew back shortly to reveal the most macabre theatre I’d ever attended. The room itself was devised somewhat like an operating theatre, instantly familiar to every medical student, graduate of the surgical colleges, and a certain curious subest of the public as well: a large high roofed amphitheatre, ten or twelve rows of highly polished hardwood stands radiate in graceful arcs beyond the central dais, allowing for two hundred spectators to, at a penny a head, cheer on the proceedings.
The decor of the Elektrodrome was somewhat heavy on the brass and bronze for my taste, and was entirely over the top in its superfluous baroquery: carved and engraved brass fittings are in evidence everywhere, always polished; icons of Elektra and the various spirits of her City of Wonder, bolts of lightning and so forth; luminant tubes of Living Spirits glow balefully and zaps of pure djus arc from one twisted copper wire to another. The motifs are of light, illumination and progress. Yet the tableau they surround is one of the deepest barbary of our race.
The device in question took up much of the dais that comprises the stage. It seemed more like the glassworks of some mad alchemist: a large glass globe, perhaps three foot in diameter, suspended in the air above the dais within a dark wooden framework, craftily carved, lacquered and polished. Long copper rods extended from opposite poles of the globe and various glass coils and tubes surrounded them. Under the globe stood a simple wooden table with heavy leather straps designed to secure even the strongest of men. Heavy twisted copper wires were attached to the rods and to bronze straps that would soon be placed around the penitent’s wrists and ankles like manacles and shackles.
❦
THUMMMM! THUMMMM! A single kettledrum beat its slow tattoo and a silence unnatural to the citizenry of Auntimoany fell within the theatre. Four guards, their brazen aroumour gleaming and each bearing a long lance in one hand and a chain in the other, lead the penitent towards his doom. Two are in front and two behind. They enter the hall from the main doors below our seats in the gallery. I could if I had wished, reach out and touch the sharpened bronze of their leaf-shaped spear points. Three judges, vicars of the Kings Justice wait on the stage at the front, all wearing the same scarlet red robes and pointed hats the trial judges wear.
The little group made its slow, sad journeyup the center aisle. The white arcs of pure djus make a snapping BANG! as a particularly strong current discharges upon the wires. There’s a disagreeable smell of some kind of foul air that wafts throughout the room. A sharp, acrid smell, as if a storm were brewing. I’ve never smelled the like this strongly before. The penitent stumbles, looking up in dread towards the living spirits, doom written in his face. He’s heard about the power of the new magic of course, and is probably wishing the dread Judge had sentenced him to hang! The two guards behind him yank on the chains and haul him upright. They continue their slow procession — he the hesitant bride, unsteady before the terrors of the future, the groomsmen waiting ahead — yet they soon arrive at the dais and pause.
I can’t help but think of the dais with its heavy oaken table as a kind of altar of sacrifice dedicated to the old gods. But I wonder, which old god would accept this kind of sacrifice? They liked their men strangled and thrown into bogs; sliced with stone knives and thrown into a pit; burned in a cage; strapped naked to a horse. I glance up at the tympanum above the tableau: there is Elektra, a long flowing brilliant yellow gown tied jauntily round her waist, naked from the waist up, all in the latest fashion, her skin radiant, her face beautiful and munificent, a nimbus of living djus radiates from her face, rays of fire and lightning are in her hands, images of modern cities with their temples and libraries and even houses all lit with the living Spirits of Elektra’s City, flank her on either side. Aye. Aye, this is the sort of goddess that will accept: a new kind of sacrifice for a new kind of goddess!
❦
I looked down then from my reverie and saw that the penitent was now strapped on to the wooden table. The thick cow hide has him firmly in its grip. He can strain, but not move his arms or legs more than an inch or two. He can turn his head, though, and this he does. His eyes find mine. He must recognise me, I am sure of this. I tormented him long enough with a whole stream of innuendo and misleading questions before the seven judges. His eyes are blue, the blue of the Dogsummer sky outside. A colour and a sky he will never see again in this world. A tear runs down the side of his face. I understand his pain. His terror. Though I struggle to distance myself from it, not to empathise with the plight he finds himself in. He’s thinking: gravio, I only slit her throat before stealing her bangles and her wallet. She gasped once and slipped to the smooth round cobbles of the alley already dead. I never let her suffer! My eyes soften. I blink and cast my gaze aside. He is right after all. Very few murderers really cause their victims much suffering, and professional thieves to a one never do. Their need is stealth and speed — lingering over a suffering victim only prolongs the job and increases the likelihood of someone witnessing the deed. I turn my eyes back towards his. He offers me a little smile. Perhaps he can sense my own unease in this place, this theatre of justice. Two hundred grim faced and hard eyed people, my wife and young sons among them, are eagerly waiting to watch this man die for killing a young woman and stealing about forty dalers worth of cheap jewelry. And did I not help bring him to this place of justice and alone of them, my eyes belie the futility of it all. He mouths something. Words I can not quite make it out. I think I catch one: forgiveness. Is he asking forgiveness? Or is he forgiving me…?
THOCKCK! THOCKCK! THOCKCK! The chief vicar of the Kings Justice brings his heavy ironwood staff crashing down upon the wood of the dais. Recalling the three strikes of the Judge’s martell at sentencing, the penitent cries out in sudden terror and tries to get away from the dread sound. His hands clench involuntarily and the sound of the heavy leathern straps being pulled against the thick wooden table is but a dull thud. I too am startled, and both of us are fixed immoble. The sentence is read out again, the vicar’s voice booms out over the enraptured audience: “Sigulf the Thief of Ropetwisters Row! Know again that Justice is being done upon your body for the crime of murther, for the Law mandates it, Justice requires it and our Sovereign accedes to it. Hear now o Man and cower before thy terrible fate, as best you may being bound by Lady Justice’s irresistible bonds: for the Law commands me call down now upon thee for the execution of the Dread Sentence: that you be braced and banded, be transported from the place of Justice being Rendered to this place of Justice being Done, where your life shall be made forfeit. It was the sentence of his majesty’s Justice that thou be taken here to the Halls of Elektrodrome in which place shall thou be bound immobile and in which the living spirits of Elektra’s City shall cut through thy flesh, torment thy heart and consume thy body and at the last shall steal the last of your breath from your very lips. The cold Lady of Death whom none excel shall seize thy body; she shall enblind thine eyes and endumb thy tongue; she shall bind your hands and still your quivering heart. Thy mouldering litch shall then be taken from this place and be cast into the Pits by Nightsoil Field where it shall lie in the odious mank awaiting the Judgement and the End of All Worlds.” THOCKCK! THOCKCK! THOCKCK!
Gods how I hate to hear those words! And how many Men and Daine have heard them in my presence? I sigh deeply, my breath ragged. It is small comfort indeed to know that, to the best of my knowledge, every one of them was guilty.
❦
The large salamanders, sluggish creatures that appear to take no notice of their astounding part in the history of civilisation, are carried in by men wearing thick leathern gauntlets and long frocks of the same material. The great rods are slid away from the glass globe and the salamanders are very carefully placed within the thaumic field contained within. There they float oblivious to all else. Once in place, the bronze rods are reset and the fully charged salamanders are gently tapped upon their pointed noses with thin rods of wood or reed so that they slowly discharge their djus. The sphere begins to rotate slowly, acting as an accumulator of the Spirits of Elektra’s City and in short order begins to glow with a gentle blue light. By the time all the officials are seated in their places behind the great oaken table, the globe is spinning quickly and the blue glow of stored Spirits is quite intense, and I can’t even look into its heart without squinting, for it’s like the bright Sun at noon. Sparks and lightning bolts can be seen flowing about, whirling within the globe. It is not the blue of the sky, but rather the baleful blue of pure power. Of course, all this while, the penitent — the man Sigulf — has had ample time to consider both his crimes and his fate. And then, at last, the hangman throws a huge wood and bronze lever that signals the climax of the whole spectacle.
❦
The great glass globe is now spinning at a glorious rate and by some cunning magic it begins almost to groan, a curious and ethereal note emanates from its vibrating mass and that curious smell of a rarified air wafts throughout the hall. It’s the same smell as when the djus crackled earlier, only much stronger this time and more penetrating. There is a brilliant white flash within the globe as if the Sun cast aside dark clouds and revealed herself in an instant; the pent up Spirits are let out through the mighty twisted bronze wires. The wires scream in their agony and I think they must surely rip asunder! The djus roars through the twisted copper wires. Flows through the bands round Sigulf’s wrists and ankles. It strikes his ill prepared body like a Giant’s mace striking an armoured knight. His body convulses and shudders, the bones of his heels and shoulders thud against the polished wood of the long table. A low moan escapes his throat. The people in the audience continue to stare transfixed, their mouths agape in wonder. He opens his mouth wide and cries out once and a curious cloud of vapour rises from his naked body. Perhaps his soul is being torn from his searing flesh? At last the convulsions diminish and stop altogether. The blue eyes stare into the face of Elektra high above. The spent salamanders have no more djus to give and the blue glow within the glass globe dissipates. The screaming wires fall silent again and the dwimcrafty globe, no longer singing the death of Man, falls silent and slows its wild revolutions. At last, all is silent in the theatre. The almost sacred quietude within is broken at last by one of the witnesses beginning the Death Song. Others take it up and soon almost everyone is singing Sigulf’s soul on its way.
As the music swells and washes over me, I wonder as I have at times before if the Daine aren’t right about us Men after all. Today, though, I am left in no more doubt about it. There must be something broken in the very soul Man: one man thinks little enough of killing an innocent woman, and we think nothing at all of taking his life in turn. A tooth for a tooth, don’t the custodians of the old books say? And here we sit in this glistening temple of retribution. The song ends at last and the witnesses quietly file out of the Elektrodrome; hushed perhaps, but satisfied. Another successful theatre in the great city of Auntimoany, and one sure to be repeated this same time next week. The body of Sigulf lies still in its bonds. Men come, dressed in black kneetrousers and long duster coats, their peaked caps and coat buttons an incongruous and jolly red. They undo the straps and shift the first star of Elektrodrome’s stage onto a wooden cart. The dead face turns towards me. Its eyes are blue. The blue of a beautiful Dogsummer day. They jest quietly among themselves and wheel him out of the place, his arms hanging down the side of the trolley. I wonder at the futility of it all.
❦
Elektrodrome stands empty now. The goddess of the new temple has been given her first victim. I rise from my seat of hounour and go down to my young sons and my eager wife. The glare and heat of the Sun on a Dogsummer’s day is like the blast from a bronzesmith’s forge after the cool air inside. The hot hound sausage monger’s cart, painted a garish collage of purple and blue and red with gold trim, is down on the smooth brick pavements outside the doors, and he’s singing his wares in a jolly baritone. The aromas of steaming sausages and fried onions waft over the Plaza, selling themselves better than the monger’s chant. My sons are happily eating their sausages and Mother seems especially pleased with today’s debut at Elektrodrome.
