Alterith tried to count the strokes, but the searing pain made him lose all sense of reason. Somewhere during the lashing the leather fell from his mouth and he began to scream with each stroke. At the end he was hanging by his thin wrists, and sobbing like a child.
The guards helped him to his feet. One sponged his back. ‘Steady yourself now, sir,’ said the guard gently. ‘We’ll let the air get to the wounds. I’ve sent for some wine and honey. We’ll dab that on.’
Alterith felt humiliated by his screams and tears. ‘I am not a brave man,’ he said. ‘I’m not good with pain.’
‘Don’t you worry about it, sir. There’s all kinds of bravery. I haven’t the balls to stand in front of the bishop and speak like you have. Don’t talk yourself down.’
The second guard returned and bathed Alterith’s back. The mix of wine and honey stung at first, but then the pain eased. The first guard helped him put on his shirt and coat as the sounds of hammering filtered through from beyond the cathedral.
‘What is that noise?’ asked Alterith.
‘They’re building the scaffold and pyre to burn Maev Ring,’ said the guard. ‘We’re told it will be the day after tomorrow at noon.’
Alterith’s head dropped, and he felt close to tears once more. ‘We’d best be getting back, sir,’ said the guard.
‘I am so ashamed,’ said Alterith.
‘No need to be, sir. Most men cry out when the lash strikes.’
‘You misunderstand me. I am ashamed of being Varlish.’
Despite the pain from his raw back Alterith cross-examined each of the prosecution witnesses during the long afternoon and early evening, asking each of them the current state of his business, and the condition it had enjoyed before the arrival of Maev Ring. When faced with prevarication he produced figures showing the level of tax paid before and after Maev Ring’s involvement.
It was dark, the night wind cold as he walked back to the lodgings he had taken during the trial. As he had told the doomed Gillam Pearce, there was little chance that his advocacy would sway the Judgement Panel. Their decision had been made before the first words were spoken at the trial itself. Even so he had retained the faintest of hopes that decency would prevail. He knew now that this was not to be.
There was, he saw at last, an institutional evil at work, the might of which could not be overcome. The fat bishop was a corrupt lecher, the abbots at his side career clerics, borne upon whichever wind would carry them to comfort and riches. The dread Knights of the Sacrifice were killers who hid behind a shield of apparent sanctity. Yet by far the most depressing aspect for Alterith was the evidence offered by the many witnesses. These were ordinary men fuelled only by greed. Where, he wondered, in all of this could he find any indications of Varlish nobility of spirit?
The face of Gillam Pearce appeared in his mind. Yes, he thought. One good man.
He trudged on through the dingy alleyways. His back was a sea of fire, and it was lucky, he thought, that he had no intention of sleeping this night. There was too much to do. He had only one witness on the morrow, but after that he would give his summation. It was mostly written out already in his mind, but he felt it needed more power. He could not sway the panel, but his words, when they reached the authorities in Varingas, must be coherent and compelling.
It was while thinking this that he crossed the last road before the lodging house. As he did so two figures emerged from the shadows. One grabbed his arm, the other cracked a fist into his face. Half stunned, Alterith Shaddler was hauled from the road and into an alley. The side door of his lodging house was within sight, but there was no light shining above it.
In the moonlight he looked upon the faces of two of the Knights of the Sacrifice. The men were not wearing armour now, but dressed in black clothes, more suited, he found himself thinking, to the dark deed they planned.