The Deed of Paksenarrion by Elizabeth Moon

break free from his guards. “Strip them,” said Valichi. Two of the guards by the platform came forward and ripped the recruit tunics from neck to hem, then turned the prisoners to face the formation. The guards forced Jens to his knees, and the one with the razor stepped up behind him. When he felt the first tug at his cinnamon-brown hair, he yelped and flinched.
    “Hold still, ye fool,” said the guard. “If ye jerk around, I’ll cut ye.” Tufts of hair fell; Jens had shut his eyes and was rigidly still. The barber worked quickly and roughly; soon nothing was left of the thick hair and mustache. A few shallow grazes oozed blood on his scalp, which was pale above his tanned face. The guards hauled him up the platform to the posts and crossbar, and bound him to it, feet dangling. Then the guard with the whip mounted the platform behind him.
    “One,” said Captain Valichi. The whip smacked against his back; Paks saw his face twist in pain. “Two.” Another smack. He gave a strangled cry. “Three. Four.” The captain paused. “Sergeant Stammel—do you want the parting blow?”
    “No, sir. Not for this one.”
    “Five.” The last blow fell. Jens’s screams softened into sobs as the guards untied his arms and dragged him from the platform. Paks could see the welts standing out on his back; only one was bleeding. The guards moved him away from the platform and held him facing the assembly.
    It took four of the guards to hold Korryn as one of them took the brand from the brazier where it had been heating. Paks looked down. She didn’t want to see this. She could hear Korryn’s muttered curses, the scuffling feet, the hiss and sizzle as the brand etched his forehead. He gave a short cry, followed by gasping sobs. She glanced up for a moment. The guard with the razor was taking off his hair; Korryn’s face was white under its tan. The brand showed stark, a stylized foxhead. Without his hair and beard, his face looked different; he hardly had a chin. His eyes met hers; he snarled a curse at her, and the guards cuffed him. Paks stared over his head; she didn’t want him to think she could not watch.
    The guards dragged him up the platform—still struggling to break free—and bound his wrists to the crossbar after removing his chains. Then they bound his ankles to bolts Paks had not noticed, and the guard with the razor stepped up to him. Korryn paled even more.
    “What are you—?”
    “ Tinisi turin means shaved—all over—” said the guard, grinning. “Like a shorn lamb, remember?” And shortly the hair on chest, belly, and groin made a heap on the platform. When that guard was through, he stepped back, and the one carrying the whip came forward.
    By the tenth stroke, Paks no longer cared what Korryn thought; she stared straight at the mess hall windows. No one had reminded her that she might have been on that platform, but she remembered well enough what Stammel had said when he first came to her cell. She loathed Korryn—would be glad to see him gone—but she could not watch. The blows went on—and on—each counted out by the captain’s calm voice. They sounded different now. Korryn sounded different too. She tried not to hear that, and lost the count. Suddenly it was very quiet. She looked up. Korryn hung from his bonds, head drooping; she could see the blood streaking his legs and staining the platform below.
    “Well, Sergeant Stammel?” asked the captain.
    “Yes, sir, with pleasure.” Stammel left his place and mounted the platform. The guard handed him the whip, now glistening along its length. Paks watched, fascinated and horrified, as he braced himself and gave Korryn five powerful blows. Korryn’s body jerked, and he gave a last scream and fainted. Stammel ran his hand down Korryn’s back and returned to his unit, holding his bloody hand out. He faced Paks, and touched it to her forehead as her eyes widened in shock.
    “By this blood your injury is avenged,” he said, and took up