A bit of spittle splattered on the black hood.  The man didn't even try to dodge it, just laughed infectiously at the pitiful act of defiance.  "I expected more from you, somehow.  Martyrdom.  Killed attempting to escape. Or rather than be captured.  Not this childish petulance."  He leaned closer, daring her to spit again, not caring if she did.  "I heard what they did to you, in that basement.  It's going on my left arm," he showed the blank spot, "so everyone will know how your story ended."<br/><br/>He took a scrap of leather from his pocket and wrapped it around one of the metal rods, pulling the brand loose with the crackle of sparks and a cloud of dust.  "The first sentence - the mark of the Murderer!"  He held it aloft to the raucous cheering of the crowd as the flanking guards took a firmer grip on the yoke and pulled up the front of her shirt to display her bare stomach and black bra.<br/><br/>The end of the rod held in the Keeper's hands glowed a bright, cherry red; the patchwork assembly of scavenged metal, it was niether even nor artful.  It wasn't even spelled correctly, either from incompetence, a complete lack of concern, or petty cruelty: MERDRER.  "If you struggle and blur the mark, we do it again, bitch.  Hold still and show some of that fucking backbone you're supposed to have."  He waited a moment for anticipation, goading the crowd into a frenzy and gesturing more men into place on her legs if necessary, to lift them and pull them wide.  Then he stepped forward with a wordless shout and drove the brand into her stomach like a punch.  It was longer than necessary, and burned deep; charred skin stuck and tore free as he pulled it back.  The air reeked of burning meat.<br/><br/>"Two more, cunt."  The Keeper's delight couldn't be hidden behind his mask.  He left the shirt raised and  stepped behind her with a new brand, the guards both holding her in place and keeping her upright, now.  A free hand dipped low to cup her ass, felt between her legs where the spent cum of a dozen men had soaked through.  "The slut likes it.  She's wet as a bitch staked out for breeding!"  A chorus of laughter followed, almost blocking the sound of tearing cloth as he grabbed hold of the back of her shirt and pulled.  The cloth split open nearly to the base, exposing the smooth, pale skin of her back.  There was less pomp this time.  "The mark of the Thief!"  She'd caught a glimpse of it; again the horrifying joke of spelling, "THEAF".  The letters were larger on this one as well.<br/><br/>It didn't hit the center of her back, but slightly to the right and high; the bra strap burned away instantly, a bit of plastic clasp melting to a molten flow down her shoulder, and again the wet sizzle and charcoal smell of an overdone roast.<br/><br/>The Keeper laughed at her pain.  "Think of the widows you left us.  The children who starved because you took their food.  This is too good for you.  Drop her!"  At the command all the guards released their hold simultaneously, letting the sudden weight of the yoke drag her down.  Seeing a momentary struggle to stay upright - or simply a tottering balance - one guard kicked out at the back of her knee, collapsing it.  Without hands to stop the fall, the girl hit the stone hard, her skull bouncing of the rock.  Instantly they were on her again, turning her onto her stomach - the brand there grinding into the dust and pebbles - and sitting on her back.<br/><br/>A chain was wrapped around her left shin, pulled tightly by two men to hold it still.  The Keeper moved forward and made short work of the laces with a knife, tossing the shoe into the crowd where it was claimed as a souvenier.<br/><br/>"The mark of the Liar.  Let it haunt you every step of the way, bitch."  This time there was little to see past all the bodies holding her down, although she could hear the clatter of the bucket and the sparks when the brand was removed.  Then sudden fire erupted on the bottom of her left foot, burning into the heel - where every step would now drive the bare wound into the dirt, rocks, glass and infection of the street - and the delicate center, which it cut through like butter.  She would never walk without a limp again; even if she survived this night her days of clever sneaking were over.<br/><br/>"I'm done with the whore.  Send it out to die."