This is the short story I eked out. It should be out later this month.
A list of names.
"Barone Rosolen, for arson."
The executioner set up the noose, then gestured for the guards to bring the next man forth.
"Tamerighi Godori, for murder."
There was a brief scuffle on the scaffolding before the stool was properly occupied. During the delay people exchanged greetings, asked after business, and commented on any of the convicts who were arranged in a row to witness their last sunrise. A few citizens — relatives of the condemned, no doubt — stood stone-faced and silent enough to join the gargoyles perched atop the older palaces. Others leaned forward to better hear the herald's words. Elizabeta simply stood and waited.
The last man stepped forward without being dragged. Though young, he was tall, and the executioner had to adjust the rope. During the pause, his gaze swept the crowd and met Elizabeta's eyes.
The rest of the world faded against those black eyes. She tried to turn her head but couldn't move. Panic seized her and squeezed the cry in her throat stillborn. He didn't look away, even as the herald called out the last name.
"And Deo Miceli...for treason."
The square fell silent at this pronouncement. And so the raised voice of the herald riding into the plaza was as clear as Chidalien glass: "Stop! Take that man down! Deo Miceli has been declared innocent!"
Disbelief erupted. Someone jostled Elizabeta, freeing her from those eyes. She fled, slipping through the press of bodies, but before she vanished down a side street, she couldn't help glancing over her shoulder back at the scaffolding.
Through the uproar, Elizabeta watched Deo Miceli, standing on the stool positioned to put him in prominent view, smile and fold his hand closed, as though over a victory softly come.
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