Oh, Aeduan couldn’t wait to exact revenge—somehow—when he saw that Threadwitch again.
Leopold staggered out of his carriage into the hot sunset. He wore a teal velvet suit that was far too fine for sailing, and at his hip was a cutting-rapier with a gold cage-hilt—more for flash than use.
But money was money, and Aeduan’s new lockbox of silver talers inside the carriage was easily worth baking in the sun and listening to this foppish prince’s endless stream of complaints.
“What,” the prince called out, a gloved hand over his mouth, “is that stench?”
When none of the Hell-Bards stepped forward to answer—when in fact they all stepped just out of earshot, as if intentionally avoiding conversation with their prince—the duty of a response fell to Aeduan.
“That stench,” he said flatly, “is fish.”
“And the feces of filthy Dalmottis,” hollered a bearded man striding down the pier. He wore the emerald green coat of the Cartorran navy and, judging by his high chin and the three men scurrying at his heels, he was the admiral that Leopold was supposed to meet.
The four officers formed a line before Leopold and popped curt bows along with four rounds of “Your Imperial Highness.”
Leopold smirked like a boy with a new toy, and as he adjusted his sword, he declared in Cartorran, “Board your ships, men. The fleet sets out with the tide and, according to this monk, it is a Nubrevnan that we hunt.”
The admiral shifted his weight, the captains traded glances, and somehow, the Hell-Bards slunk even farther away. For of course, there would be no sailing with the tide. A single ship sailing to Nubrevna was risky at best. An entire fleet was a suicide mission. Everyone here knew that except the one man who ought to: the imperial heir to Cartorra.
Yet none of the officers seemed inclined to speak up—not even the admiral. Inwardly, Aeduan groaned. Surely these people did not fear this vapid prince. Aeduan could understand fearing Emperor Henrick, but the Emperor was not here to loose his waggle-toothed ire.
Aeduan turned sharply to the prince and said in Dalmotti, “You cannot bring a fleet to Nubrevna.”
“Oh?” Leopold blinked. “Why not?”
“Because it would be useless.”
Leopold flinched, and his cheeks flared red—the first sign of a temper. So, though it killed Aeduan to do it, he tacked on a brusque, “Your Imperial Highness.”
“Useless, is it?” Leopold thumbed the edge of his lips. “Am I missing something then?” He twisted to the admiral, and in clipped Cartorran, he asked, “Isn’t this what navies are for? Reclaiming things that warmongering Nubrevnans take from you?” Leopold’s cheeks twitched as he spoke, and Aeduan amended his earlier thought.
Leopold might indeed possess a terrifying temper—particularly if one’s admiralty depended on his ignorant princely whim.
So with a harsh exhale, Aeduan spoke up once more. He had no admiralty to lose, after all. “Navies are for sea battles, Your Imperial Highness. Meaning at sea. Yet we do not go to Nubrevna for battles, because the domna will likely be in Lovats by the time your warships can even reach the Nubrevnan coast. Were I this Nubrevnan Windwitch, that is where I would take her.”
Leopold’s cheeks ticked again, and when he spoke, it was in Dalmotti and addressed to Aeduan. “Why does the girl’s arrival in Lovats make a difference? A Nubrevnan kidnapped my uncle’s betrothed. We claim her.”
“The Twenty Year Truce,” Aeduan said, “does not allow foreign vessels to touch down on a nation’s soil without permission—”
“I know what the cursed Truce says. But I repeat, they have my uncle’s betrothed. That is already a violation of the Truce.”
Except that it isn’t, Aeduan thought. But he didn’t feel like arguing, so he only gave a sharp nod. “The only way to access Lovats is to sail past the Sentries of Noden—and those stone monuments are heavily guarded by Nubrevnan soldiers. Assuming your fleet could get by—which they couldn’t—they would still have to contend with the bewitched Water-Bridges of Stefin-Ekart.”
“So,” Leopold’s voice was lethally devoid of inflection, “what am I supposed to do, then?”
The admiral, his captains, and the distant Hell-Bards collectively flinched—and Aeduan no longer blamed them. At least Henrick understood war and costs and strategy.
Not to mention basic history.
Yet, this was an opportunity for Aeduan. A good one, the likes of which he might never have again. It was a chance to gain the trust of a prince.
“A single ship,” Aeduan said slowly, twisting his wrists—inward three times, outward three times. “We need the fastest frigate in the fleet as well as every Tide- or Windwitch available. If we can intercept the Nubrevnans before they reach their homeland, we can claim the domna without affecting the Truce … Your Imperial Highness.”
Leopold eyed Aeduan, the Veñazan breeze lifting his pale curls in all directions. Then, as if coming to some internal decision, he tapped his rapier hilt and nodded at Aeduan. “Make it happen, Monk. Immediately.”
So Aeduan did just that, smugly pleased to have four officers and eight Hell-Bards—all of them eyeing Aeduan’s bloodied chest warily—now forced to take orders from him.
The experience was also … disconcerting. People rarely stared at Aeduan directly, much less stood in such close proximity. So when the planning finally ended and the men returned to ignoring him once more, Aeduan found himself relieved.