Chapter 40: Part III-1

The girl tightened her grasp around Tristan's waist, sharp ribs poking into his back as they rode towards the public square. "Please hurry, milord," she said. "We don't have much time." Tristan nudged his horse into a canter, plowing into the crowded street. "Move!" he bellowed, nearly trampling several bystanders. He could hear Sam and Braeden cursing as they struggled to keep up. The public square was just a few streets over from the main thoroughway, but with the city's congestion, even a short distance took a long time to travel. Still, between Tristan's determination and expert horsemanship, they arrived within minutes. The city square was really more of a rectangle, 500 yards long and half that wide, surrounded by stone and brick buildings on three of its sides. The fourth side opened up to the street, but it was damned near impenetrable with all the people. It seemed as though the entire city had come out to witness the boy's punishment, though it was hard to say whether they had been summoned or had come of their own volition. Whatever their reason for being there, they were in Tristan's way and blocking his view of the proceedings. He dismounted his horse at the edge of the square and lifted the little girl from the saddle. "Here," he said, passing the reins to Sam. "You and Braeden stay with the horses." "But— " Sam protested. "No buts. This is my doing. I'll handle it." Tristan kneeled in front of the little girl. "I need you to be my eyes. Can you do that?" The little girl nodded emphatically, and he swept her onto his shoulders. "Do you see your brother?" She twisted, her knobby knees clocking Tristan in the chin. "He's up there, milord!" the little girl cried, pointing towards the raised stage in the middle of the square. He restored her to the ground. "Thank you, milady," he said gravely. She giggled at his formality, her cheeks dimpling. But her merriment quickly faded at the steady beat of a drum. "They's startin'," she breathed, her eyes wide with dread. "I'll fetch your brother, I promise you," Tristan said. "In the meantime, I need you to stay here with Sam and Braeden. Will you hold Braeden's hand for me while you're waiting?" Braeden paled. "I don't think that's a good idea, Tristan." Tristan leaned towards the girl. "I think he's afraid of you," he whispered, sotto voice. "Are you afraid of him?" She scowled. "I's afraid of no one, 'cept maybe the Paladins and me mam." She made a show of inspecting Braeden, staring at him openly. "You gots funny eyes and funny clothes, milord, but me mam would make you piss into your boots." "Your mam?" asked Braeden, fiddling with his hat. "Aye, milord. Well, me gran-mam if we's being exact. Lost her eye and half her face in a fire, but 'tis her remaining eye you need to be afraid of." She tugged on the sleeve of Braeden's robe. "I's not scary though, if you want to hold me hand like milord says." Braeden reluctantly unfurled his broad hand, and she laced her tiny fingers through his. Tristan almost laughed at the wild panic in his eyes. "Be safe," he told them and muscled his way through the thick of the crowd. As Tristan grew closer to the stage at the square's center, he could see a full grown man, a lad in his late teens, and – shite, the street urchin from earlier – kneeling on the wooden platform, heads bowed and hands tied behind their back. A gray-bearded man sat languidly in a throne-like chair at the rear corner of the stage, and another redheaded man of middling years, dressed in practical but expensive clothes, stood behind the kneeling men, brandishing a whip. The redheaded man untangled the tails of his whip and knotted each of the seven cords three times. "Gods," Tristan swore aloud, shouldering past a cluster of onlookers. The knotted thongs would hurt far more than a standard whipping. The seated man sipped at a glass of water, perusing the square distastefully, his cool eyes running over Tristan without pause. He raised his free hand, and a trumpet sounded, bringing down the noise of the crowd. He waved to the redheaded man, who dipped his head in acknowledgment. "People of Westergo!" the redheaded man boomed. "We have here before us three criminals of the worst kind. Do they deserve to be punished?" The crowd murmured a tepid assent. "This man stands accused of arson," he continued, hovering behind the teenager. He gave the lad an experimental tap with the ends of his whip. The lad flinched at the contact, but did not cry out. "And this man played truant on his taxes. A man of your advanced age should surely know better than to shirk his responsibility," he scolded, tickling the back of the grown man's neck with the corded rope. Tristan held his breath as the redheaded man came to stand behind the little boy. He clucked his tongue. "Ah, corrupted youth. There's nothing more tragic." He exhaled in an exaggerated sigh. "But youth does not exempt you from justice. We can only hope that a sound beating can cure you of your evil. This boy," he said, raising his voice. "This boy was in possession of a gold coin, acquired by nefarious means, and when confronted about his theft, dared to try to pass it off as his own. This boy tried to make a fool of justice. And so he must be punished." The redheaded man kicked the little boy in the back of the knees, and he sagged forward with a whimper. Tristan's blood boiled, his teeth gnashing together as he fought to keep his calm. These men, whoever they were, were making a mockery of justice. He wanted to punch them in their smug, self-righteous faces. But that would not help Charlie. The redheaded man turned to his seated companion. "What say you?" he asked. "What retribution does this call for?" The seated man stroked his beard, considering. "Thirty strokes apiece." Tristan sucked in air. The grown man and teenaged lad would survive such a beating, but thirty strokes could kill a boy of Charlie's size. His underfed body would give out before they reached stroke fifteen. Tristan shoved, closer still, to the stage. The redheaded man lashed the whip against Charlie's back, and the little boy squealed at the impact. The whip struck again, harder, tearing through fabric and flesh. "It hurts," the little boy sobbed. "It hurts!" Tristan vaulted onto the stage, catching the down-stroke of the whip in his hand. He rubbed his tingling palm against his breeches. "What in the gods' names is going on here?" The redheaded man's mouth gaped open and then shut. "I could ask the same of you. How dare you interrupt the hands of justice?"