"Do not dismiss us so coldly, Blackthorn," said an elderly man, one who the boy Blackthorn recognized as Ipocrisis, the Councilor from Yew. Already short, the Councilor crouched over a gnarled cane, his torch flaring below the plane of the others. He crept forward to stand next to the Lady Windemere, the frayed wisps of his hair barely reaching the height of her shoulders. His eyes gleamed shrewdly. "Thou dost know who we are."

The Lord Mayor's expression drew stern. "I see only a fool who believes that waving a stick of fire gives him the right to trespass upon my property." The elderly man recoiled as if struck, even as angry mutters unfurled from the mob. Shaana clapped her hand over her mouth to suppress her outburst of laughter. The boy Blackthorn wished he could join her. Steel had glinted when several men at the far end of the mob had stirred. He did not think his father could see them.

Meanwhile, the Lady Windemere had drawn herself up in rage. "How darest thou address a Councilor that way!"

Still peering at Ipocrisis, the Lord Mayor said, "So long as he stands uninvited upon my lawn without writ or summons, he is a criminal, whether his seat is upon the Great Council or not." The Lord Mayor then addressed the lady. "As art thou and thine other followers, many of whom I do now recognize." He raised his eyebrows as he surveyed several individuals. They shrank away from his gaze.

"Thou wilt not be able to frighten us with petty threats, Blackthorn," the Lady Windemere said. "What wouldst thou do? Have some of Britannia's finest justices and officials incarcerated for a peaceful demonstration? I think not. Thou wouldst not come to us today when we asked, so we have come to thee." Her eyes narrowed to slits. "We will have words with thee, Lord Blackthorn," the Lady Windemere said.

"We have had words," the Lord Mayor answered, "words and words again. Dost thou think that what will be said this evening will overturn what has been decided?"

Apparently, the Councilor believed so. "Thou didst go against the will of the Great Council, Lord Blackthorn," Ipocrisis said. "Councilor Windemere is not to be executed. The Great Council decreed it, as did Lord British." The crowd endorsed him with an enthusiastic roar. "Traitor!" cried some. "Usurper of justice!" And the Lady Windemere threw down the scales she held, and stamped upon them.

The Lord Mayor would not be intimidated. "What the Great Council believes to be justice and what the law demands as justice are not the same. The Great Council, even Lord British himself, as per his own decree, are not above the laws of Britannia. Laws, I might add, written by thy predecessors on the Council. And in this case, the law clearly indicates that Windemere is to forfeit his life. Unless, of course, the law changed overnight." He awaited the Councilor's response, but none came. "No, I thought not. Not even the Great Council would presume to change the law for a single man, though I have been assured that at least one councilor made the attempt."

Indignation swept through Ipocrisis. Giggling, Shaana turned to the boy Blackthorn and whispered. "Thy father is skilled with his speech. If only thou wert as skilled with thy sword, then perhaps thou couldst best me."

"Quiet!" the boy hissed. "There. Look." He pointed to the men he had seen stir earlier. Robed in heavy cloaks, several of them flanked the crowd, and at least one seemed to be edging closer to Shaana and Blackthorn. His pace was slow, a step every few seconds, but like the others, steel glinted beneath his cloak, the links of a mail coat. Shaana sucked in her breath. Blackthorn gripped the hilt of his sword, wondering what to do.