‘Same as the others. “Show him kindness,” he said, “or mercy if you can manage it”.’
I let the weight of the coin settle into my hand, then found my fingers closing tightly around it as my feet walked me down the hall and up the stairs, through the corridors of the keep and out past the guards, through the front gate where the morning sun was just beginning to reflect off the dew on what little grass had struggled up through the rubble left in the wake of a God’s destructive power.
I walked up and down the rows of tents for a while before I realised there was no point; there were far more soldiers now than when I’d first returned to the castle weeks ago and it would take me days to check all the faces slowly joining the queue for the meagre rations that passed for breakfast in this ragtag army.
How could anyone ask these people to die in a hopeless battle? They were smiths and crafters and farmers, not soldiers. The Greatcoats and the other Orders of the “Dal Verteri” might have been formed to protect the country, but these men and women were the country. They were the ones who stoked the smithy fires or shaped wood in workshops, who turned dirt and sweat into the crops that fed a nation. If the God of War himself descended from his chariot and demanded they march in his name, I’d duel the bastard on the spot.
I started back for the castle, but the coin was still heavy in my hand, so I turned and held it aloft. ‘Who brought this?’ I asked, my voice loud, the words echoing across the field.
People stared at me, no doubt wondering why I was shouting at them, but I went on shouting anyway. ‘Whose is this? Who here served on a jury and kept the payment unspent?’
A man in tanners’ leathers took a step forward. ‘I served on a jury,’ he said. ‘For Antrim Thomas – the King’s Memory himself.’ He reached into a pocket and pulled something out, holding it up high. It was a golden Greatcoat’s coin and it shone in the sunlight.
‘I served,’ a woman just a few feet from him said, and she too held up a coin. ‘Kest Murrowson, the Queen’s Shield, gave me this.’
‘I got mine from Talia, the King’s Spear,’ a young man declared proudly, holding up his own.
‘Mine from Brasti!’ another said. ‘Along with more beer than any one man should ever drink!’
Laughter, then boasting, and more men and women held up coins, each declaring the name of the Greatcoat who’d given it to them, along with their home town or village.
‘Whose coin is this, damn you?’ I shouted.
A boy, no more than fourteen and far too young to die serving in an army that had no hope of winning, came forward and mumbled, ‘It was my mother’s, sir. She was the town blacksmith in Uttarr.’
‘I remember her . . . she served on my jury on one of my first missions. Where is she now?’
‘Dead, sir – last year.’ He looked at the coin. ‘She gave me that before she passed, said it was my job now to ensure the verdict against Lord Myrdhin remained in force.’
‘But why didn’t she spend it?’
The boy gave me a queer look. ‘Spend it? She’d never do that, sir, not even in the hard times. Said it meant something: something that couldn’t be bought for mere gold.’
‘And yet you sold it for better food for a prisoner?’
‘I didn’t know what else to do, sir. First Cantor’s in jail, I just thought . . .’ He looked unsure of himself and muttered, ‘Didn’t know what else to do.’
I tossed him back the coin. ‘Don’t sell it so cheaply next time.’
‘Don’t you dare have a go at that boy,’ Feltock said, hopping up to me, supporting himself on his crutch. ‘You can’t blame him if people get all sentimental around you Trattari.’
‘Sentimental isn’t the word I’d use for the way most people view us in this country, Feltock.’
The old man looked at me wide-eyed for a moment, then he chuckled. ‘You really don’t know?’
‘Don’t know what?’
He turned to face the worn-down, filthy, malnourished volunteers and shouted in the voice that had no doubt served him well when he’d commanded his own troops, ‘Oi, you lot: how many of you served on a Greatcoat’s jury?’
By way of answer, men and women all over the camp ducked into their tents for a moment, or reached into pockets or pouches or bent over to remove something from socks or shoes . . .
Saints . . . Half the army is made up of jurors!
‘Falcio, there you are,’ Brasti said. Kest came up on my other side. ‘Nehra’s up my nose about you not making a de—’ He looked around and I watched as his expression took on the same mixture of confusion and hopefulness that was pasted across my own face. ‘By the infinite abundance of Saint Laina’s left tit . . .’
One by one those who had come to Aramor willing to sacrifice themselves in a hopeless war held their hands up high, gold coins pressed between thumbs and forefingers, catching the sunlight like a thousand stars shining in the dawn. This, I thought, overcome by the sight of them all. This was Paelis’ dream! Not some paltry hundred and forty-four magistrates with our swords and our coats, but the jurors: ordinary men and woman armed with nothing.
For a while the three of us just stood there and stared at them all. I dearly wanted to cling to that moment for ever, but now I had rather a lot of work to do.
‘Gentlemen,’ I said to Kest and Brasti, ‘I’m of a mind to attempt something rather daring and heroic.’
Brasti grinned. ‘I assume this preposterous venture of yours is doomed to fail?’
‘Assuredly. But we’re going to do it anyway. You know why?’
Kest had a broad smile, one I’d rarely seen before. ‘Because preposterous heroics are the only things we’ve ever been good at.’
‘Tell Nehra to summon the Orders,’ I told Brasti. ‘Tell her the First Cantor of the Greatcoats has ruled that we’re going to fight for this Gods-forsaken country of ours.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The Traitor
In a better world, the sight of all those jurors holding up their coins would have sustained me through the insanity to follow. Unfortunately, as I’d never declared war before, I found myself completely unprepared for what came next and barely had time to give those stalwart jurors another thought.
‘I really think there’s something inherently wrong with any country that lets Falcio decide if it goes to war,’ Brasti said as the three of us walked up the stairs towards the King’s private chambers.
‘That’s not technically what happened,’ Kest observed. ‘Falcio merely ruled that the Orders would support the King.’
‘Yes, which just happened to set off a war.’ Brasti slapped me on the back. ‘Can’t wait to see what all those Bardatti songs will say about you if this goes badly.’
‘Thanks.’
I waited for the two guards in Aramor’s purple livery standing outside the King’s chambers to open the double-doors to let us inside.
Neither moved.
‘Captain needs to speak with you first,’ the more senior of the two men said at last.