seconds, filling the room with the scents of Calmar and Ridawan.
“Abeleyn has just fought a battle,” he said calmly at last.
“
What
?” Mercado cried, horrified. “Where? With whom?”
“Two squadrons of corsairs ambushed his ships as they were sailing south through the Fimbrian Gulf. He beat them off, but lost three-quarters of his men and two of his own vessels. He had to beach his remaining ship on the coast of Imerdon. He is intending to march overland the rest of the way to Hebrion.”
Rovero was grinding one fist into a palm, striding back and forth restlessly and spitting words out of the corner of his mouth as though he were unwilling to let them go.
“Corsairs that far north. In the gulf! Two squadrons, you say. Now there’s a happy chance, a synchronicity of fate. Someone tried to take the King, that’s clear. But who? Who hired them?”
“Why Admiral,” Golophin said with mild surprise, “you almost sound as though you care about the fate of our heretical ex-monarch.”
Rovero stopped his pacing and glared at Golophin. “Beat them off, eh? Then at least he hasn’t forgotten all I’ve taught him. Ex-monarch, my arse! Assault the person of the King, would they, the Goddamned heathen piratical dastards…”
“He sank three of them,” Golophin went on. “They were in galleasses, the older sort with no broadsides, only chasers.”
“How were the King’s vessels armed?” Rovero demanded, his face alight with professional interest.
“Culverins, sakers. But that was only on the carrack. The two
nefs
had falcons alone. The corsairs sank one and burned the other to the waterline.”
“Abeleyn’s bodyguard?” Mercado asked abruptly.
“Almost all lost. Most were in the
nefs
. They gave a good account of themselves, though. Abeleyn has barely a hundred men left to him.”
“They were good men,” Mercado murmured. “The best of the Abrusio garrison.”
“Where has he beached? How long will he take to get here?” Admiral Rovero asked, his eyes as narrow as the edge of a blade.
“That I don’t know for sure, alas, and neither did the King when… when I communicated with him last. He is in the coastal marshes, close to the border with Imerdon, south-west of the mouth of the Habrir river. That is all I know.”
The admiral and the general were silent, conflicting emotions flitting across their faces. “Is Abeleyn still your liege-lord, gentlemen?” Golophin asked. “He needs you now as he never has before.”
Rovero grimaced as though he had bitten into a lemon. “God forgive me if I do wrong, but I am the King’s man, Golophin. The lad is a fighter, always has been. He is a worthy successor to his father, whatever the Ravens might say.”
Only someone watching Golophin with particular care could have seen the tiny whistle of breath that escaped his lips, the imperceptible sag of relief which relaxed his hitherto rigid shoulder blades.
“General,” he said quietly to Mercado, “it would seem that Admiral Rovero still has a king. What say you in this matter?”
Mercado turned his face from Golophin so that the mage could see only the expressionless metal side.
“Abeleyn is my king too, Golophin, God knows. But can a king rule if his soul is damned? Who would gainsay the word of the Pontiff, the successor to Ramusio? Maybe the Inceptines are right. The Merduk War is God’s punishment. We all have a penance to do before the world can be set to rights.”
“The innocent are burning, Albio,” Golophin said, using the general’s first name. “A heretic sits on the throne of the Pontiff whilst its true occupant is in the east. Macrobius lives, and he is aiding the Torunnans in their battles to maintain the frontier. He helped them save Ormann Dyke when the world thought it irredeemably lost. The faith is with him. He is our spiritual head, not this usurper who sits in Charibon.”
Mercado twisted to meet Golophin’s eyes. “Are you so sure?”
Golophin raised an
“Abeleyn has just fought a battle,” he said calmly at last.
“
What
?” Mercado cried, horrified. “Where? With whom?”
“Two squadrons of corsairs ambushed his ships as they were sailing south through the Fimbrian Gulf. He beat them off, but lost three-quarters of his men and two of his own vessels. He had to beach his remaining ship on the coast of Imerdon. He is intending to march overland the rest of the way to Hebrion.”
Rovero was grinding one fist into a palm, striding back and forth restlessly and spitting words out of the corner of his mouth as though he were unwilling to let them go.
“Corsairs that far north. In the gulf! Two squadrons, you say. Now there’s a happy chance, a synchronicity of fate. Someone tried to take the King, that’s clear. But who? Who hired them?”
“Why Admiral,” Golophin said with mild surprise, “you almost sound as though you care about the fate of our heretical ex-monarch.”
Rovero stopped his pacing and glared at Golophin. “Beat them off, eh? Then at least he hasn’t forgotten all I’ve taught him. Ex-monarch, my arse! Assault the person of the King, would they, the Goddamned heathen piratical dastards…”
“He sank three of them,” Golophin went on. “They were in galleasses, the older sort with no broadsides, only chasers.”
“How were the King’s vessels armed?” Rovero demanded, his face alight with professional interest.
“Culverins, sakers. But that was only on the carrack. The two
nefs
had falcons alone. The corsairs sank one and burned the other to the waterline.”
“Abeleyn’s bodyguard?” Mercado asked abruptly.
“Almost all lost. Most were in the
nefs
. They gave a good account of themselves, though. Abeleyn has barely a hundred men left to him.”
“They were good men,” Mercado murmured. “The best of the Abrusio garrison.”
“Where has he beached? How long will he take to get here?” Admiral Rovero asked, his eyes as narrow as the edge of a blade.
“That I don’t know for sure, alas, and neither did the King when… when I communicated with him last. He is in the coastal marshes, close to the border with Imerdon, south-west of the mouth of the Habrir river. That is all I know.”
The admiral and the general were silent, conflicting emotions flitting across their faces. “Is Abeleyn still your liege-lord, gentlemen?” Golophin asked. “He needs you now as he never has before.”
Rovero grimaced as though he had bitten into a lemon. “God forgive me if I do wrong, but I am the King’s man, Golophin. The lad is a fighter, always has been. He is a worthy successor to his father, whatever the Ravens might say.”
Only someone watching Golophin with particular care could have seen the tiny whistle of breath that escaped his lips, the imperceptible sag of relief which relaxed his hitherto rigid shoulder blades.
“General,” he said quietly to Mercado, “it would seem that Admiral Rovero still has a king. What say you in this matter?”
Mercado turned his face from Golophin so that the mage could see only the expressionless metal side.
“Abeleyn is my king too, Golophin, God knows. But can a king rule if his soul is damned? Who would gainsay the word of the Pontiff, the successor to Ramusio? Maybe the Inceptines are right. The Merduk War is God’s punishment. We all have a penance to do before the world can be set to rights.”
“The innocent are burning, Albio,” Golophin said, using the general’s first name. “A heretic sits on the throne of the Pontiff whilst its true occupant is in the east. Macrobius lives, and he is aiding the Torunnans in their battles to maintain the frontier. He helped them save Ormann Dyke when the world thought it irredeemably lost. The faith is with him. He is our spiritual head, not this usurper who sits in Charibon.”
Mercado twisted to meet Golophin’s eyes. “Are you so sure?”
Golophin raised an
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