Egert had roamed the streets since early morning, and the unrelenting, strained searching of faces had caused his senses to dull, so he did not immediately recognize where the festive crowd was bringing him. Not wanting to go into the square, he managed to swerve down a side street, where he was once again swept up in a human flood, excited, smelling of sweat, wine, and leather, a flood that was straining to reach the courthouse, the scaffold.
He had never swum against a strong current in a tumultuous river, or else he would certainly have recognized the terror and hopelessness of a swimmer being mercilessly carried toward a waterfall. The crowd carried him away like a flood carries away trees, and the movement only slackened when the people, anticipating a spectacle, streamed out into the wide square with the monstrous structure in its center. People glanced at Egert enviously: such a beanpole would not need to stand on tiptoes!
He looked around helplessly: heads, heads, heads, an entire sea of advancing heads; they reminded him of chickens, stuffed into a coop. All faces were turned toward the scaffold; all conversations revolved around the forthcoming execution: the gossip was that the convicts numbered just two, both forest highwaymen and both guilty in equal measure, but one, as tradition demanded, would be pardoned. Fate would decide which man would be that fortunate soul; fate would decide: it would decide right now in view of all, ah, look, look, they’re already coming!
Drums started pounding. A procession headed by the city magistrate climbed up to the platform. Not yet old, but thin and sickly, he was obviously being slowly eviscerated by some illness, and his lackluster eyes were almost lost amidst the folds of numerous wrinkles, but his gait and bearing remained majestic and full of pride.
The magistrate was accompanied by a scribe and the executioner, who looked like twins, only the scribe was wearing a plain, colorless robe, while the executioner delighted the eye with his cape, as crimson as a summer sunset. The former was armed with a scroll covered in seals, and the latter held an ax in his lowered hand; he held it humbly, innocently, and rustically, just as peasants who have gathered together in the morning to chop firewood hold their tools.
Surrounded by guards, the convicts ascended the scaffold, and there really were just two. Egert looked at them, and could barely keep to his feet. The uncanny ability, which had appeared twice before this, returned to him suddenly and mercilessly.
The convicted men were holding on with their last strength: in the soul of each hope fought with despair; each wished life for himself and death for the other. The crowd was a congealed mass of indecipherable feelings, among which were rapture and pity, but curiosity predominated, the avid curiosity of a child who wishes to see what is inside a bug.
Egert tried to elbow his way out of the crowd, but his efforts were similar to those of a fly trapped in honey. The sentence echoed across the square.
“On behalf of the city … For revolting … impudent … robberies … assaults … murders … retribution and punishment … through decapitation and commitment to oblivion…”
These highwaymen were just like those scoundrels who had stopped the coach in the forest. Rapists and murderers, insisted Egert to himself, but he felt even worse.
Unwillingly, he again glanced at the scaffold: the magistrate held two wooden balls, exactly the same size, in his hands. The white ball signified life, while the black ball would bring certain death by decapitation to one of the two. The scribe spread open an ordinary linen pouch, the balls were tossed into it one after the other, and the scribe carefully shook this instrument of the lottery for a long moment. Inside the linen sack, death knocked against life with dull, wooden rattles. The hopes of both convicts reached their peak, their horror of death achieved maximum intensity, and the crowd hushed, tormented by curiosity; at a sign from the magistrate, both the condemned men simultaneously thrust their hands into the pouch.
A silent battle ensued. The faces of the contestants were sweating, and their hands compulsively ferreted about in the linen darkness, each trying to possess the ball that was already gripped by his rival. The strain of their hope and despair snatched a groan from Egert; those standing next to him in the crowd began looking askance at him.
Finally, both the condemned selected their fate and, breathing heavily, exchanged long glances.
“Withdraw!” ordered the magistrate. The crowd froze in anticipation.
They delayed for a second longer then simultaneously jerked their hands from the pouch. Each eyed the ball that was gripped in the hand of the other.
The public in the square exploded into a roar: in front of the numerous spectators, the possessor of the white ball collapsed onto his knees, stretching his hand toward the sky and soundlessly opening and closing his wide, round mouth; the man who squeezed the black ball stood motionless and, as if he could not believe his eyes, shifted his gaze from the empty pouch to his own doom, clutched in his fist.
The magistrate gave a sign: the one who was dazed with happiness was led away from the scaffold, while at the same time his comrade’s hands were jerked behind his back. The black ball crashed to the boards, and a piercing scream rattled around Egert’s head: No!
The unfortunate wretch had not made a sound, but his entire essence shrieked shrilly at the mistake, the injustice, the dreadful misunderstanding: How! Why? Why him of all people! Is this really conceivable; is this really possible?
The soundless scream that arose from the block forced Egert to double over in pain. The crowd oppressed him with two incongruous emotions, powerful as organ chords: passionate joy for the pardoned and intemperate desire to witness the execution of the other, the one who was now doomed.
Cast upon the block, the entire man exuded supplication, terror, and despair. Egert pressed his hands to his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, but the keen No! penetrated his awareness without the assistance of sight or hearing. The ax soared up into the sky—Egert felt goose bumps thrilling over the skin of hundreds of onlookers at that moment—and on a high, sobbing note the soundless plea broke off; it broke off in a convulsion and died, but was immediately followed by a whirling, troubled wave of loathsome excitement, of satisfaction at the rare spectacle, of pleasure at thrilled nerves.…
Egert howled.
Unable to restrain the horror and pain, he screamed, tearing at his throat. People in the crowd cringed away from him, but no longer seeing or hearing anything, he raved and yowled as he rushed through the gelatinous human wall, until the moment finally came when his consciousness mercifully left him in peace.
The rumble of the crowd outside hardly reached into the room filled with incense. Two men sat at a table made of polished wood, listening to a distant drum roar.
“We cannot wait anymore,” said an old man with a mane of silver hair.
“I will obtain it sooner or later.”
“Later does not suit us!” burst out the old man. “Later will not satisfy Lash! We will do it the way I wanted in the first place. And Lash will help us.”
Fagirra lowered his head. His hood covered half his face, and the Magister did not notice the contempt in his cold squinted eyes.
Toria could feel herself fretting over the appearance of the Wanderer in the city.
“Does Soll have a chance?” she inquired breezily that first day, following Egert with her eyes as he set out into the city to search.
The dean, to whom this question was addressed, merely shrugged his shoulders.