As I started back toward the inn, I heard a commotion behind me, from near the bridge over to the shantytown. A crowd was gathering, and voices were raised. Instinctively, I turned and moved closer. People had formed a circle around a young man. He couldn’t have been even seventeen, rail-thin, and dressed in rags. He cowered from them, hands raised to protect his head as they screamed at him, calling him haêg and wytch. They were throwing things at him: small stones and produce.
haêgwytch.The Steallere and several of her officers broke through the circle and shouted the crowd down. “Wot hath sê doon?” Steallere Brooklane asked the crowd as two of her officers grabbed the boy’s arms.
Wot hath sê doon“Sê corse mîn dohter, Steallere,” a woman said, pulling a young girl forward. The girl had
