Lady Windemere was shouting at his father. "Thou claimest that the law demands my husband's death, Lord Mayor, yet even now, thou sparest a murderer from execution. What of the girl, Nyomae, she who admits to slaying her own daughter?"

"She did so only to save her from thy husband," the Lord Mayor responded, and for the first time, his voice hinted of anger.

"Yet she is a murderer nonetheless!" the Lady Windemere declared. "Why does she not face the axe of the headsmen?"

"She took the life of only one soul, and she did so in the name of compassion," the Lord Mayor said, softly. "Can thy husband claim that of the children he slew?"

Lady Windemere's followers quieted somewhat by that, yet the Lady would not relinquish. "A man who slays a hundred is the same as she who slays one. The law makes no distinction."

"True, my Lady," the Lord Mayor said, "but the law allows the jurors to make a distinction in their penance: Life-long imprisonment or, should jurors deem the crime fit, as they have in the past, execution. For Nyomae, the jurors, the highest justices in the land, chose imprisonment. For thy husband, they chose death."

"They chose?" the Councilor scoffed. "I think not! The jurors were split in their decision over the fate of Councilor Windemere. 'Twas thee, and thee alone, who broke the vote, Lord Mayor! The choice was thine!"

"As was my right as the judge who oversaw the trial," the Lord Mayor said, but his voice could be barely heard over the new tumult.

The Lady Windemere was screaming. "'Tis thee who sentences my husband to death!"

"'Tis thee who defies the Great Council!" cried the Councilor.

"'Tis thee who defies Lord British!" others called, and with that, the crowd surged forward. Several of the torches arced through the air, two bouncing of the cottage's walls, a third upon its roof where it smoldered briefly, rolled, then dropped to the ground, shedding sparks.

The boy Blackthorn sprang to his feet. "No!" he called. Sword held high, he rushed forward. "Father!" He had only run a few steps when someone tackled him from behind. His sword clattered to the ground. He tried to reach for it, but his assailant pinned him. "Father!" he cried again. Lady Windemere and her mob were no more than a body's length from his home.

"Halt!" The command cracked liked thunder, three crossbows twanged, and three bolts slammed into the earth before the Lady Windemere and the Councilor. "In the name of His Majesty, Lord British, I command thee to halt!"

The hold on the boy Blackthorn loosened just enough so he could look up. The figures he had seen earlier held the crowd at bay with long swords, cloaks thrown wide, revealing the emblem of the Britannian Guard embroidered on green surcoats. The guard whose command had brought the crowd to a halt now stood between Lady Windemere and the Lord Mayor.

"I thank thee, Captain," the Lord Mayor said. "I see that my summons were answered."

"A timely intervention, it seems," the Captain of Yew, a burly man with a curled mustache, answered. "I admit that I doubted thee when thou didst suggest that I be on my guard this evening."

"What is the meaning of this?" Lady Windemere demanded, kicking at one of the bolts.

"Thou dost trespass upon a man's property with a mob ready to set his house afire, yet thou dost wonder why the Britannian Guard is here?" The captain grunted in amusement. "Surely thy friend, the Councilor, he who doth make our laws, can explain it to thee."

"How canst thou protect the Lord Mayor?" the Lady Windemere demanded. "Even thou dost admit he is in the wrong!"