Luridly appropriate, he thought.
“The . . . grenade, did you call it? The grenade was very impressive. At sea, such weapons could be decisive—at least for the first few times, when the enemy were unused to them, and had none themselves.”
He spoke Emerald, the cultured version of Solinga’s gentlefolk, not the patois of the sea. The younger Emerald’s Islander was impressively fluent, but it wouldn’t do to let him think he was dealing with a boor, a mere jumped-up pirate chief. Casull’s mental eyes narrowed as he appraised this Adrian Gellert; outwardly he was very much a young Scholar of the Grove, but there was something else . . . Harder than one might expect, he thought. And more perceptive—he misses nothing.
The brother was more outwardly formidable. A fighting man, Casull judged, and not just an athlete. The reports from the mainland, and from the spies among the barkeeps, whores and gamblers who’d had contact with the mercenary troop the Gellerts had brought with them, all said he had the baraka, the gift of inspiring men in battle. Wits besides; and he certainly looked like an incarnation of Wodep, the ancient War God of the mainlanders.
The younger Emerald bowed. “O King, the grenades are the least of what can be done with the new . . . new principle involved in these explosive weapons.”
Casull raised his eyebrows. The Emerald word meant underlying cause, and he didn’t quite see how it applied.
“Speak on,” he said mildly, quelling a restless stir by his son Tenny. Let the boy learn patience; that’s not the least of a ruler’s virtues.
“If my lord the King would deign to look at these—the first is what is called a cannon, for hurling iron balls and giant grenades; to smash ships, or batter down the walls of a fort . . .”
Two hours later Casull leaned back again. “Interesting indeed,” he said. His eyes turned to Esmond. “And you, young sir, what have you to say?”
Esmond smiled, a gesture that did not reach the cold blue eyes. “My brother is the scholar,” he said. “What I do is fight. I’ve managed to kill a fair number of Confeds, over the past six months. I intend to kill a good many more.” His fist tightened on his knee; the scars and burns across the back showed white against his tanned skin. “For every slight, for every humiliation they’ve inflicted on me and my city, I shall take recompense in blood—and they owe me a debt beyond that. When the last trooper dies in the burning ruins of Vanbert and the Confederacy is a memory, then perhaps I’ll consider the account settled.”
Casull nodded thoughtfully; he’d seen hatred before, but none more bitter. Pity, he thought. A man that eaten with hate turned inward on himself; his luck might be strong, but it would run too swiftly, carrying out the current of his life. But I can use him.
He clapped his hands. “Hear the commands of the King!” he said, his tone slightly formal. The wakil leaned forward, pen poised over a sheet of reed-paper.
“It is the command of the King that the noble warrior Esmond Gellert’s-son of Solinga, be taken into the forces of the King, to command the Sea Striker regiment; he shall rank as a Commander of Five Hundred—which is about what they’ll come to, with the men he brought with him. The usual pay and plunder-shares.”
Esmond bowed again, and this time his smile was more genuine.
Casull turned his eyes back to the younger man. “You shall have a chance to demonstrate your new weapons,” he said. “It is the command of the King that Adrian Gellert be accepted into the Court with the rank of Scholar-Advisor, with the usual pay and perquisites. For the purpose of building his weapons, he may exert the royal prerogative of eminent domain, acquiring land, and requiring artisans and merchants to furnish the materials he needs . . . saltpeter, you said? And the metals. He may use a royal estate to be designated hereafter, and royal vessels, within reason. All goods and labor to be paid for at fair market prices, of course.”