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?"

"I see nothing on this stage that resembles justice, least of all your hands. Where are these men's defenders? Where is their trial?"

The redheaded man scoffed. "These men have no defenders. Who would come forward for the likes of them?"

Tristan folded his arms over his chest. "I would." He pointed at the little boy. "I gave him a gold coin just this morning."

"You lie."

"I speak the truth, as does the boy. But even if I weren't, a public flogging is hardly a fitting punishment for such a petty crime. By the looks of it, you and your companion have plenty of gold coins to spare."

The redheaded man flexed the whip. "Perhaps we ought to whip you, my lord."

Tristan raised a brow. "I wouldn't advise that."

The redheaded man took a step closer to Tristan. "And why's that?"

Tristan looked at him unflinchingly. "Well, for one, I'd beat the living daylights out of you before you laid even a finger on me."

The redheaded man guffawed. "You must be from out of town. You're speaking to a Paladin, boy."

So the little girl had been right about her brother's captors. Tristan's lip curled in disgust. "As are you, old man."

The bearded man rose from his chair, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "I am Paladin Parsall, and this is Paladin Boyle. We have been tasked with watching over this city by the High Commander himself."

"And a great job you're doing of it, too," said Tristan sarcastically. He retrieved his knife from his boot and knelt beside Charlie. "You'll be alright, boy." He slashed through the ropes that bound the little boy's wrists. Charlie rose shakily to his feet and then darted around Tristan, cowering behind his right leg.

"What do you think you're doing?" the redheaded man – Paladin Boyle – demanded. "What right do you have to interfere?"

Tristan rested his hand gently on the boy's head. "Like I told you, I gave this boy a gold coin. You would have him unfairly punished for my generosity."

"You might be a Paladin – and that is dubious," said Paladin Parsall with a sneer. "But we have been defending the people of Westergo for nigh on six years now. You don't know these people like we do. If we didn't use a firm hand, the city would dissolve into chaos. What are you, a year out of your apprenticeship? You're young, Paladin, but you will learn the truth of it soon enough."

Tristan gritted his teeth. "I may be young, but even among the Paladins, my name commands some respect. Paladin Tristan Lyons, at your service." He swept them a mocking bow. "And I swore the same oaths as you – to serve and protect the people. From demons, Paladins. You overstep your bounds."

Paladin Boyle spat at his feet. "Paladin Lyons? Prove it."

Tristan sighed, and removed his coin pouch from underneath his shirt, pulling out a neatly folded piece of parchment paper from the leather sack. "Here," he said, unfolding the document. "See the Seal of the High Commander for yourself."

Paladin Boyle grabbed the paper from Tristan and quickly scanned the contents. "It's addressed to a Paladin Tristan Lyons," he admitted. "But it permits you to pick up silks on the High Commander's behalf, not interfere with our business."

"Your business, as you call it," said Tristan, spreading his arms to encompass the stage, "is not the business of the Paladins. I suggest you take another look at your vows." He gripped Charlie's hand reassuringly. "I'm taking the boy with me when I leave this stage. The others, too."

Paladin Boyle's jaw tightened. "Perhaps the boy is innocent as you claim, but the others are guilty."

"Consider it a day of amnesty," said Tristan. He squatted next to the teenaged lad and freed his wrists and then tended to the older man. "I am not so naïve as to believe that a few harsh words from me will put a stop to your puerile justice system. The High Commander will be hearing of this."

"The more fool you, then, if you think he'll condemn our behavior," said Paladin Parsall.

Tristan crossed the stage until he stood toe to toe with the bearded Paladin. "How dare you cast aspersions on the High Commander's character," he said, his voice low with fury. "Your antics may not be his top priority, but he won't turn a blind eye to this." He leaned closer. "In the meantime, if I find out you've touched a hair on the boy's head, I'll deal with you myself. Do I make myself clear?"

Paladin Parsall swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Aye, understood."

Tristan smirked. Good to know his name carried weight even among those who had never seen him wield a sword. He'd worked hard to earn his reputation as a man not to be trifled with. "Now return the boy's gold to him."

Paladin Parsall's fists were clenched and his neck was red with embarrassment, but he did as he was bade, throwing the gold coin at the boy's feet. Charlie hesitated, and then snatched up the coin, depositing it into his breeches.

"We'll be off, then," said Tristan, reclaiming Charlie's hand.

The bearded Paladin's eyes narrowed. "You'll get your comeuppance one day, Paladin Lyons."

Tristan faced the Paladin with a smile that could freeze fire. "That well may be," he said. "But it won't come from the likes of you."