Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 by Sebastien De Castell

throwing knife was at his throat.
    ‘Not yet,’ I said, and let him step back.
    I wasn’t looking to start a fight with him, nor prevent one; I just wanted everyone to know that I was probably faster than they were. Saint Forza-who-strikes-a-blow, please let me be faster than them.
    ‘You do not frighten us, Trattari,’ declared the orange-robed cleric as he stepped up onto the horse-cart. He might not have liked that it had been my suggestion, but everyone enjoys being a little taller. ‘These good people do not fear you.’
    ‘Told you,’ Brell said, sharing a look with some of the others, preparing to rush me when the moment came. ‘You should’ve stayed cowering inside the martyrium.’
    ‘It’s funny you should say that, Brell.’ I glanced back towards the gates that now looked very far away indeed. ‘You know, I’ve spent more time inside castles and palaces and, well, pretty much every type of building you can think of in the past few months than I did in all the years King Paelis was alive.’ I turned back to the crowd. ‘Greatcoats aren’t really meant for hanging about, but it’s been a life indoors for me lately. What do you suppose that means?’
    ‘That you’re a coward,’ Brell said, his mouth hanging open, eyes eager.
    ‘You’re right. I have been afraid.’ I shook my head. ‘I’m not even sure of what, you know? I mean, some days I think I’m scared of everything.’
    I slid the knife back in my coat and drew the paired rapiers from my scabbard. ‘That’s why I carry these.’
    Brell and a couple of the people nearest him involuntarily took a step backwards.
    ‘You would attack an unarmed man?’ the cleric bellowed for the crowd, evidently not noticing the staff in Brell’s hand.
    ‘Me? Of course not.’ The clouds overhead shifted a little, allowing the morning sun to come out. I lifted up the rapiers by their blades, one in each hand, to catch the rays, turning them to shine the reflected light into Brell’s eyes, and he started blinking rather a lot.
    ‘Do you happen to know, good Venerati,’ I said to the cleric on his horse-cart, ‘from what principle the laws regarding trial by combat are derived?’
    Allister looked at me a little aghast . . . apparently he hadn’t really believed I was going to try the God’s Line.
    ‘All laws are derived from the Gods!’ the cleric declared, spreading his arms and clenching his fists as if daring me to contradict him.
    Nope, not even remotely correct. ‘Exactly so, good Venerati.’
    He looked surprised by my admission. So did everyone else.
    I turned a little, looking out at the faces in the crowd. ‘There are sixteen separate laws that mention trial by combat directly, each law governing different situations with different rules and sometimes even specific weapons. But did you know that every one of those laws begins with the same phrase? “Beatti feci forze Deato”.’
    ‘“ The righteous are made mighty by the Gods ”,’ the cleric said in a rapturous voice as I smiled approvingly.
    ‘Exactly. A lovely phrase, and one that makes perfect sense: the only way for trial by combat to be fair is if the Gods themselves are choosing the victor. They will give their righteous strength to the man or woman whose cause is just.’
    I tossed one of the rapiers to Brell who, having seen me hold it by the blade, caught it the same way. That’s a mistake, of course. If you don’t catch it just right you’ll slice your hand open.
    ‘My cause is— Ow! Hells!’ Brell swore, dropping the sword and sucking at the bleeding cut on his palm.
    ‘Careful,’ I warned. ‘People might think the Gods don’t favour your cause.’
    Brell looked around at the faces of his compatriots, all staring at him expectantly. To his credit, he knelt down and grabbed the hilt of the rapier and lifted it back up defiantly. ‘I’m not afraid of you!’
    I gave him an encouraging smile. ‘Nor should you be. The Gods will lend you their might,