That brought an unwilling crooked grin. “Besides that,” Adrian went on, “somebody’s going to have to command the unit that actually uses this stuff . . . and the guards that make sure nobody spears us while we’re doing it.”
Esmond glanced over at him. “Nonsense. Redvers will never let a bunch of foreigners get their hands on something like this.”
“Redvers will,” Adrian said. “When he sees what they make of it.”
He nodded to the left of the manor house. The pasture there had probably been for the master’s riding velipads; right now it was covered with leather tents in neat rows, each just the right size for a squad of eight men.
“Marcomann’s veterans, joining Audsley,” Esmond said. “Must be about three battalions there . . . say, fifteen hundred men.”
“And there isn’t one single one of them who’s going to admit that he has anything to learn about fighting from a foreigner,” Adrian said. “Trust me.”
And my unseen advisors, he added. Never forget them.
* * *
“This little thing is supposed to kill somebody?” the soldier guffawed.
The hilt of his assegai jerked as his thick shoulders moved; he was in full fig: mailcoat, dagger, stabbing-spear, shield across his back, helmet with transverse plume. There was a fair bit of gray in the stubble on his square chin and in the thick hair on his scarred forearms, but he moved easily under all that weight of iron and wood and leather. This was one of Audsley’s elite, a hundred-commander in Marcomann’s wars; there wasn’t enough equipment to kit out all the volunteers gathering on the Redvers estate.
“Yes, sir,” Adrian nodded. “You light this”—he pointed at the fuse where it came out of the little wine jar—”throw it, and drop flat. Believe me, it’s dangerous.”
The hamlike hand tossed the bomb up and down. “If words were blades, you Emeralds would rule the world,” he laughed. “I’ve defeated plenty of Emeralds in my time, from the North Range to the sea—talking less, and hitting harder.” He shrugged. “Oh, well, the general says we’ve got to try this stuff, so by the cleft of Gellerix we will. Hand me that striker.”
A little way off a baker’s dozen of soldiers stood, leaning casually on their shields; Adrian saw one of them reach down into the calf-high grass and pull a stem to chew.
Adrian smiled and handed over the flint-and-steel, taking a few steps backward. The soldier grinned at that, and worked the scissorslike action. Sparks shot out, and on the third try the fuse caught in a sputter of blue smoke.
“Funny smelling,” the soldier said with mild interest, holding it up.
“Please throw it now, sir,” Adrian said calmly, backing off another few steps. “Right out there in the pasture, towards the crabapple tree, if it please you.”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” the veteran said. “Don’t get your loincloth in a twist, Emerald.”
The thick-muscled arm arched back and whipped forward and the jar soared out, trailing smoke. Adrian’s movements had put him behind a low swelling in the ground; he went down on his belly with prudent speed. Dew soaked into the front of his tunic, chill on his skin. As he’d expected, the veteran remained upright. He did bring his shield around, peering curiously over the rim.
Crack. The sound of the grenade exploding was a malignant snap; he knew what it would look like, too—a red snapping spark and puff of grayish-black smoke. This time he was far too close for that, and his face was pressed firmly into the grass and clover. Something hit the ground with a heavy thump; he looked up to see the soldier on his back, hands clapped to his face and blood leaking out between them. Then he went limp, with a final drum of heels on the turf. Over by the spectators, another was shrieking endlessly, louder than a wounded velipad.
Adrian moved over to the dead man. He’d felt like smiling, until he saw what was left of his face.
* * *
“Idiot! I ought to have you poled right now. Do you have any idea of how valuable four trained soldiers are?”