For three hours, the Great Ballroom became an actuarial counting house. Hester Quill, apprentice Olla, and four sworn registrars of the High Court trial spread sixty-four parish registers across the long dark wood banquet tables.
Apprentice Olla read the names carved into the second and third lead plates, her clear young voice calling out each conscript, his village, and his trade. Each name was spoken. Then, Hester cross-referenced the entry against the birth, marriage, and church burial rolls of the Marchland.
“Tomas Miller of Oakhaven!” Olla called out.
“Recorded,” Hester replied, checking the Oakhaven parish ledger. “Killed in the ditch, fourth of Autumn. Widow Martha surviving. Two daughters.”
“Jory Tanner of Mill-Ford!”
“Recorded. Survived with loss of right arm. Present in the hall today.”
Old Jory Tanner raised his empty sleeve from the third row of the benches. He nodded in silent affirmation.
Name by name, the two thousand four hundred conscripts of the Fourth Levy were weighed and accounted for. There were no phantom names, no falsified claims, and no fraudulent additions. Exactly one thousand eight hundred and twenty men had died in the mud of Bastion-Nine. Five hundred and eighty had returned to their villages with cut limbs, shattered joints, and scarred lungs.
