He glared out towards the dim lights of Preble, just visible on the southwestern horizon. The battle had been about even, which made it a Confed victory—and next time they’d have had time to study the new weapons, come up with countertactics of their own, and they’d still have the weight of men and metal on their side. Next time . . .
* * *
“The King was angry,” Adrian said judiciously.
Esmond drank and wiped his mouth. “The King was ripshit,” he said. “The King may have us all impaled before morning, if he doesn’t pass out first—he may regret it when he sobers up, but that won’t help us.”
probability of execution in the next 6 hours is 67%, ±7, Center said helpfully.
To be fair, Raj said judiciously, Casull really doesn’t understand the new weapons. He’s a fair to good commander with what he does understand.
Adrian looked around the small rooftop platform; he and Esmond, and their seconds-in-command, plus a scattering of Striker officers . . . Nobody was looking too cheerful. Frankly, I doubt anyone here is in the mood to be particularly fair, he thought.
“We’re the only ones who kick Confed ass, and we’re in line to be buggered by the Oakman,” Donnuld Grayn said. “Ain’t no justice in this world, not if you’re a hired soldier. Fuck all Islanders, anyway. If Lord Gellert’d been in command today, we’d be drinking Jeschonyk’s wine.” He grinned with a friendly malice. “And Lord Adrian here would be back diddling Demansk’s daughter.”
Adrian flushed. How that news had gotten out, the Gray-Eyed alone knew. Although letting it do so was more in Gellerix’s line, if you listened to the old stories.
“Esmond would have done better,” he agreed neutrally.
Because he’d listen to you, Raj said. I think that left to himself, he’d make a battle plan and then use the new weapons in it, not build the plan around their capacities. Of course, he doesn’t have Center to lean on. He’s a better than middling commander, with the weapons mix you have here—very good indeed.
There were times when the sheer objectivity of his invisible companions could get a little wearing, even to a Scholar of the Grove who’d striven for detachment all his days. All things in moderation, even moderation.
And we want the new weapons to make a difference, he observed.
correct, Center said. to break this planet from its stasis, the innovations must be shown to be decisively superior. it must be shown that the future is qualitatively different from, and superior to, the past—an essential shift in overall paradigm.
“The question before us now,” Adrian said aloud, reverting automatically to the elenchos of the Grove, “is what course of action can save us from being . . . ah, buggered by the Oakman.”
“Well, we could bring the whole Confed fleet back for the King to roast prawns over,” Esmond said morosely. “And all the captured ships, and all their cannon and hellpowder.”
“Gunpowder,” Adrian corrected automatically, and then froze. He was conscious of the others looking at him, but within his skull there was a blinding light; it was not unlike the near-orgasmic ecstasy of having an insight, but multiplied by three and with the resonances of three separate personalities added in.
“Wait, wait!” he said, holding up a hand. “Look, it’s a longshot, but it beats being impaled. Here’s what we’ll do—”
When the words stopped tumbling forth, the other four men were staring at him with the stars reflecting in their wide eyes.
“Suicide,” Esmond whispered.
“Oh, no,” Adrian said. The thought of what he proposed to do stopped him for a moment, and his smile was a trifle ghastly. All men are initiates of the mysteries of death, he reminded himself sternly. “Waiting here for the King to decide we’re to blame for his son getting killed, that’s suicidal. This is just risky.”
Grayn rubbed his chin. “Couldn’t we just run off and take up piracy?” he said.
“That’s slow suicide, with all the people we’d have pissed off at us,” Adrian snapped back. “Confeds and the King of the Isles after our asses? I don’t think so.”