Most of the Holdless had swung over the past sevenday, in little batches of two or three. The gallows had been erected - in accordance with custom - by the hold’s woodworkers, all together with the sort of efficiency that was only normally seen in a barn raising. That way, none of the blame and no ill luck could fall on any individual man amongst them. Their leader, however, had claimed - and proven - a more noble blood line. It had turned out that she was the eldest daughter of a minor holder from Tillek, exiled due to her involvement in a plot to murder her own sister-in-law. As such, she claimed the right to a capping rather then the poor death that hanging could be (if not done right, if you had no friends to hang on your boots, if the executioner and his man were drunk).

Over the past few days, she had written her letters, begged forgiveness of her family, and - apparently - resigned herself to death. The proper rituals and forms had been observed, and all was prepared. The crowd numbered in the thousands (for what holder worth his salt would not turn out for an execution?) and she was lead through them in slow procession. Some of them threw things (soft fruit, mainly), and the guards looked unhappy and distinctly uptight: the Lord Holder was much liked, and it would not be the first time a mob had taken justice into its own hands before the executioner could get there.

“Akkatine of Sattle Hold, you are condemned to death for the crime of murder, the crime of robbery, and other lesser crimes” The executioner was a brawny man in his late forties, who had served High Reaches for almost a decade as executioner, torturer, and - perhaps surprisingly - journeyman Healer. “Do you understand your sentence?”

“I do” The big woman’s mouth was set in a hard line, but she swayed slightly as she stood there - no doubt more then a little drunk for the courage.

“Do you have anything to say?”

“I’ve made my peace, and I hope for the forgiveness of those I hurt” she said, though her eyes betrayed that that might not have been her real thoughts. The crowd roared, and an over ripe egg missed by inches.

“Then kneel”

It was done in a moment, the man making as much of a matter of it as twisting the neck of a wherry (perhaps in the hope of appeasing the crowd, which was beginning to turn ugly). Blood spattered on him, the woman’s head landing neatly, her eyes open wide in surprise. It was done.

Sometimes a Weyrling’s or prospective rider’s education demanded field trips. These were not always good fun. This one - reserved for senior weyrlings and for candidates aged fourteen or older - was especially not fun.

Venk had done what he could to prepare his charges and former charges for this but in the end there was only so much you could do. The senior weyrlings were now a part of the justice system that sometimes ended this way and the candidates might soon become so, and a good score of them had been wronged by her besides. It still wasn’t nice. It wasn’t supposed to be nice.

“You don’t have to watch the blade fall,” he’d told the large group as they’d prepared to leave the Weyr on dragonback. “I wouldn’t pressure any of you into that, I’ll be closing my eyes for one but you must be there, you need to understand what you are a part of.”

The blade came down. Venk closed his eyes and listened to the crowd cheer.