With his free hand, Evidalle grabbed at the front of Chalmers’ coat and tore a button free. ‘Is this what concerns you? These little symbols of their office?’ He tossed it on the deck and watched it roll away. ‘Come then, let us see who picks up the coin and swears themselves to the Trattari’s cause. Let us see what kind of jury she will find here.’
One by one, Evidalle tore off the remaining buttons, throwing them to the deck as the wedding guests watched in uncomfortable silence. He was about to throw the last button when he paused to look at it, then let go of the girl so that he could peel away the leather shell that covered the gold coin underneath: the payment every juror would take in exchange for their vow to uphold a verdict.
When nothing came away, Evidalle stared at the young woman’s coat. ‘This isn’t even a true coat of office!’
Chalmers looked stricken, but her voice remained defiant. ‘I may not have the clothes, you bastard, but I am as much a Greatcoat as any of you have ever known.’ She turned her gaze to the wedding guests. ‘I have come to enforce a lawful verdict against this man. Those few among you who still remember a time when your heart knew honour and duty are hereby summoned to serve as my jurors.’
Evidalle’s fury wiped out any trace of refinement as he screamed, ‘You stupid child, you’ve wasted my time! All my efforts, for nothing!’ He threw away the remaining button and it hit the seasick servant who had been doing his best to keep the guests’ goblets filled with wine.
The Margrave caught sight of the cleric in grey robes standing a few yards away. ‘You, cleric, what number is most sacred to the Gods?’
The hooded monk tilted his head slightly. ‘That’s . . . an excellent question. One could argue that six is the number most beloved of the Gods, for that is how many we recognise in Tristia. On the other hand, since by all accounts they’re now dead, it’s hard to say whether—’
‘Just give me a number, damn you! A bigger one.’
The cleric paused. ‘Twelve – if for no other reason tha—’
‘Fine.’ Evidalle turned to his guardsmen. ‘Release her.’
Chalmers immediately reached down to grab her weapon from the deck, but one of the guards kicked her in the arse and she fell to her hands and knees.
Evidalle turned to the audience, the smile returning to his face. ‘Well, my Lords and Ladies? The Trattari needs twelve jurors. Who among you will take up her cause? Who will—?’
A rustle of cloth nearby caught the attention of both the guards and the Margrave. The monk in grey was kneeling to pick up one of the buttons from the ground.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Evidalle asked.
‘Taking my payment,’ the monk replied, carefully examining the plain round piece of leather-covered wood as he held it up to the sun. ‘I’ll serve on her jury.’
One of the clerics in green, a servant of the dead God Coin, stepped forward and grabbed the monk by the front of his robes. ‘What heresy is this?’ he demanded. ‘Who are you, that you would dare risk the wrath of the Gods?’
The monk in grey shrugged. ‘Alas, I’ve never had much use for religion, your Holiness.’ He pocketed the button and then placed his hand on the cleric’s wrist and gently but firmly removed it. ‘However, if any deity wishes to register a formal complaint, they may meet me in the duelling circle at their convenience. As it happens, I’ve already seen at least one God die that way.’
The cleric in green drew away in disgust. ‘You’re no monk, to speak such blasphemy.’
‘I confess, you are correct, Venerati.’ The monk raised both arms above his head and his sleeves slid down, revealing that he was missing his right hand. With his left he tore off the robes, uncovering the long leather coat beneath and the shield strapped to his back. As he walked past the shocked guards to stand with Chalmers, he said, ‘My name is Kest Murrowson, a magistrate of the Greatcoats.’ He paused for effect, before adding unnecessarily, ‘And I am the Queen’s Shield.’
The guards began to close in on the two Greatcoats.
‘Thanks for the support,’ Chalmers said. ‘Though it would have been more helpful if you’d brought, you know, a sword or something.’
Kest removed the shield from his back and slipped it onto his arm. ‘I do all right with this.’
Lady Rochlan strode forward. ‘You see now, Margrave Evidalle? Already your arrogant scheme has put all of our lives in danger.’ To Kest she added, ‘I have no part in this, Trattari. I am loyal to the Duchess Ossia.’
Evidalle’s face grew ugly at this first tentative hint of rebellion. ‘You stupid cow – you think this one man changes anything? You think the Greatcoats will save any of you from my wrath?’ He reached to grab at her, only to scream with such anguish that the seabirds went fleeing from the topmast.
The Margrave stared down in horror at the arrow sprouting from his hand.
‘I believe this Chalmers person did, in fact, warn you about what would happen if those greedy fingers of yours went places they didn’t belong,’ said the cook’s assistant. In his left hand was a short bow made of pale yellow wood. His right reached down to pick up the remainder of a roast chicken.
‘You know, they have plenty of poultry at Aramor,’ Kest said.
One of the guardsmen strode over to the cook’s assistant. ‘Who the devil are you?’
‘Just a minute,’ the assistant replied. ‘Kest, chickens in the south just taste better. You know that. Besides, the new royal chef over-spices everything.’ He turned his attention back to the guardsman and tossed him the carcase of the chicken before wiping his hand on his shirt and absently pulling another arrow out from behind the spit. ‘To answer your question, friend, my name is Brasti Goodbow, and I am the Queen’s Jest.’
‘Treason!’ Evidalle squeaked, his voice breaking. As a squat man carrying a healer’s silver case started making his way towards the Margrave, several clerics fell in close behind, all muttering prayers to their various Gods. Evidalle’s eyes went to the guardsmen. ‘Kill them, you fools,’ he commanded. ‘There are only two real Greatcoats to deal with—’
‘About that,’ Kest said. He picked up another of the buttons and tossed it over the heads of the wedding party towards the back of the ship. The eyes of the assembled guests followed its trajectory until a hand reached up and snatched the button from the air.
Shocked gasps erupted from the crowd, who’d all risen from their seats to see who had dared to catch it.
I stuck the button in the pocket of my livery and returned to refilling Lady Rochlan’s wine before setting the flagon down on the table beside her, being careful to prevent its contents spilling on her fine white feather-trimmed dress. She’d been polite to me all afternoon, despite thinking me a servant, and besides, the wine looked like a decent claret and there was a reasonable chance I’d soon be thirsty. Also, I was still feeling a bit seasick. ‘Pardon me, my Lady,’ I said, and reached past her leg to where one of my rapiers was strapped under the table.