For the third time that afternoon Ambrose rose to face the ring of men on the hilltop. As he did so, Aun caught him by the arm. ‘This time remember, don't be clever,’ he murmured. ‘Just tell them what they've decided. Then it will stick when you've gone – or when I'm not here to back you up.’ Ambrose picked up his ragged banner and held it in his left hand, like a king's sceptre. The ghost of Denke reminded him to take a breath before he spoke, and to touch his heart with his right hand. ‘Before the man Mar came to be ruler in Aclete,’ he began, as though reciting a lesson, ‘one of the boats in the bay belonged to Ham Graysson. Three boats belonged to Penn Cable.’ He nodded to the tall, sparse-haired villager who stood among the crowd to his left. He had to get the details right. In the last case they had put to him, about the goat-flock, he had muddled them, and then he had made things worse by trying to invent a way out. The judgement had been argued over three times until one of the older townsmen had managed to bring it to an agreement.
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