One of the admirals snorted laughter. “The Southrons? They’d have trouble organizing an orgy in a whorehouse. They’re fierce and numerous, yes, but the Confeds slaughter them like pigs in a pen, when it comes to open battle.”
Adrian inclined his head. “My lord is acute,” he said. “Yet the ignorant may learn . . . and I have some things to teach them, I think.”
“Ah,” King Casull said, sitting up. “You wish me to send you to Marange.” The great, sprawling anarchic freeport that was the closest thing to a capital the southern continent had, and its only city. “Much might be done in Marange. The Southron lands are rich in men . . . and timber.”
“But not in seamen,” Adrian said. Well, I knew Casull wasn’t any kind of fool, he thought. “As Your Majesty knows, the Gray-Eyed Lady herself couldn’t teach the Southrons to sail a piece of soap across a bathtub.”
An unwilling smile bent the monarch’s lips; Adrian could hear a muffled snort from Esmond, where he stood at parade rest behind his brother with his helmet tucked under one arm.
“But fighting on land, that’s another matter. Yes, most of them are brainless yokels, and a century of defeats wouldn’t teach them not to run at the nearest foe like a greatbeast bull in musth running at a gate,” he went on. “Yet have not emissaries from some of their chiefs come here to the Isles, speaking of alliance?”
“Yes, from Chief of Chiefs Norrys,” Casull said absently; most of his attention was turned inward, to his own thoughts. “Or rather, from his kinsman, Chief Prelotta. Prelotta spent five years in Vanbert as hostage for a treaty, if I recall correctly.”
Adrian nodded enthusiastically. Exposing a barbarian to civilization might convert him . . . or it could just teach him technique, sharpen his appetite, and show him where the really good loot was. In either case, it usually made him more dangerous.
“Yes,” Casull said. “I will speak the truth; despite your services to me, the thought of my son comes between me and happiness when I see your faces. But this . . . yes, we must think upon it.” He rose. “You may go.”
Adrian and his brother knelt, rose, and backed out of the presence; Casull was already deep in conversation with his advisors.
“Phew!” Esmond said, in the corridor outside. “I’m getting nervous at these audiences—as Grayn would put it, my arse feels the shadow of the Oakman every time the King looks our way. I suppose that’s why you came up with this crazy stunt.”
“I haven’t gotten us killed,” Adrian pointed out. His brother’s hand clapped down on his shoulder.
“Yet,” he said. A cruel smile lit the handsome face. “But together we’ve gotten an entire shitload of Confeds killed—and this scheme sounds as if it’ll be even better. The Confederacy can be wounded at sea, but to kill it you have to go ashore.”
Adrian shivered slightly as he followed his brother’s tall form out into the brightness of the courtyard.
“Men,” the elder Gellert said to the waiting officers and noncoms. “Looks like we’re going on a trip.”
EPILOGUE
Helga Demansk turned in the saddle to look back at the wreckage of the Confed camp. Anger warred with pride as she looked at the ribs of the burned ships, stranded like the blackened remains of dead sea dragons on the shore. A brisk autumn wind brought the smell of the sea and soot to the rear of the Confederation column where the Justiciar and his daughter rode. She dabbed at her mouth with the back of one hand; she’d been ill, a little, lately. It was a cool brisk day, and waves were breaking high over the lines of rock-laden ships; in a month of storms they’d be driftwood and scattered stones on the beach. In two years, only mounds beneath the grass would show that men had ever come to make war here. For now there was a forlorn look to the empty barracks and the neat gridwork of roads, the lines of raw dirt where the earth walls had been spaded back into the ditches.