fringes.
Marcus wondered if the colonel would be overawed.
I doubt it. He’s a count himself, after all.
Technically, a count might not beat a prince in the hierarchy of nobility, but the humblest peer of Vordan considered himself far superior to any Grand Pooh-Bah from abroad, no matter what lofty title the foreigner might affect.
As they entered, Janus glanced around with an expression of polite but distant interest. The round-faced man, sweating freely, bowed low in front of the pair of them.
“Welcome,” he said, in accented but passable Vordanai. “I am Razzan-dan-Xopta, minister to His Grace. The Chosen of Heaven bids you to approach his magnificence.”
The prince, his face unreadable under the caked-on makeup, said something in Khandarai. He sounded bored.
“His Grace welcomes you as well,” the minister translated. “He is most pleased that you have obeyed his summons.”
This was the part that Marcus had been dreading. While he could understand most of the natives, the denizens of the royal court spoke a formal dialect that bordered on a separate language. He couldn’t catch more than one word in four, not even enough to be certain that Razzan was providing an accurate translation.
He leaned close to Janus and whispered, “The prince may be under the impression that the only reason you were sent is because he asked them to—”
Janus held up a hand for silence, thought for a moment, and said, “Give His Grace my greetings. I have the honor to be Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran, commanding the First Colonial Infantry. I believe His Grace already knows Senior Captain d’Ivoire.”
Razzan rendered that, and listened to the response. “His Grace is most gratified that his valued friend Farus the Eighth would send him so worthy an individual.”
Janus bowed again. “I will do my utmost to live up to His Grace’s expectations.”
The prince’s lip twisted, and he rattled off something that sounded unhappy. Razzan hesitated a moment, then said, “His Grace is curious regarding the whereabouts of the rest of his fleet.”
The colonel’s expression never flickered. “The ships are all arrived, and anchored in the bay.”
Exopter spoke again, at some length.
“His Grace wonders if perhaps there has been some error in translation.” Razzan licked his lips. “Only thirteen vessels are currently in the bay, he understands.”
“That is correct.”
“But that is insufficient. His Grace’s summons to his most beneficent ally King Farus the Eighth specifically instructed him to send one hundred thousand men. Thirteen ships could never carry so many.”
Marcus almost choked on a laugh. A hundred thousand men would be most of the Royal Army, and it would take every ship on the coast to carry them. Razzan was feigning incomprehension, but the royal eyes were watchful.
“The ships have brought sufficient replacements to bring the First Colonials to full strength,” Janus said. “Along with ammunition, supplies, and other necessaries.”
Exopter snapped something. Razzan said, “Are these men of the First Colonials demons, then? Does each fight with the strength of ten men? Are they impervious to bullets?”
No hint of a smile crossed Janus’ expression, but Marcus could hear the amusement in his voice. “They are brave and skilled, but I must admit that they are only men.”
“Then His Grace would like to know how you plan to go about regaining his kingdom with a single regiment.” Razzan said it politely, and looked apologetic, but there was a gleam in the prince’s eyes, as though he’d just delivered a killing stroke. “Or, perhaps, you plan no such thing? Perhaps our friend the king has abandoned his sworn duties?”
“His Majesty would never dream of it,” Janus said. “As for regaining your kingdom, you may rest assured that the matter has my full attention.”
The prince drawled a response, and Razzan turned pale. Before he could muster a suitably watered-down
Marcus wondered if the colonel would be overawed.
I doubt it. He’s a count himself, after all.
Technically, a count might not beat a prince in the hierarchy of nobility, but the humblest peer of Vordan considered himself far superior to any Grand Pooh-Bah from abroad, no matter what lofty title the foreigner might affect.
As they entered, Janus glanced around with an expression of polite but distant interest. The round-faced man, sweating freely, bowed low in front of the pair of them.
“Welcome,” he said, in accented but passable Vordanai. “I am Razzan-dan-Xopta, minister to His Grace. The Chosen of Heaven bids you to approach his magnificence.”
The prince, his face unreadable under the caked-on makeup, said something in Khandarai. He sounded bored.
“His Grace welcomes you as well,” the minister translated. “He is most pleased that you have obeyed his summons.”
This was the part that Marcus had been dreading. While he could understand most of the natives, the denizens of the royal court spoke a formal dialect that bordered on a separate language. He couldn’t catch more than one word in four, not even enough to be certain that Razzan was providing an accurate translation.
He leaned close to Janus and whispered, “The prince may be under the impression that the only reason you were sent is because he asked them to—”
Janus held up a hand for silence, thought for a moment, and said, “Give His Grace my greetings. I have the honor to be Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran, commanding the First Colonial Infantry. I believe His Grace already knows Senior Captain d’Ivoire.”
Razzan rendered that, and listened to the response. “His Grace is most gratified that his valued friend Farus the Eighth would send him so worthy an individual.”
Janus bowed again. “I will do my utmost to live up to His Grace’s expectations.”
The prince’s lip twisted, and he rattled off something that sounded unhappy. Razzan hesitated a moment, then said, “His Grace is curious regarding the whereabouts of the rest of his fleet.”
The colonel’s expression never flickered. “The ships are all arrived, and anchored in the bay.”
Exopter spoke again, at some length.
“His Grace wonders if perhaps there has been some error in translation.” Razzan licked his lips. “Only thirteen vessels are currently in the bay, he understands.”
“That is correct.”
“But that is insufficient. His Grace’s summons to his most beneficent ally King Farus the Eighth specifically instructed him to send one hundred thousand men. Thirteen ships could never carry so many.”
Marcus almost choked on a laugh. A hundred thousand men would be most of the Royal Army, and it would take every ship on the coast to carry them. Razzan was feigning incomprehension, but the royal eyes were watchful.
“The ships have brought sufficient replacements to bring the First Colonials to full strength,” Janus said. “Along with ammunition, supplies, and other necessaries.”
Exopter snapped something. Razzan said, “Are these men of the First Colonials demons, then? Does each fight with the strength of ten men? Are they impervious to bullets?”
No hint of a smile crossed Janus’ expression, but Marcus could hear the amusement in his voice. “They are brave and skilled, but I must admit that they are only men.”
“Then His Grace would like to know how you plan to go about regaining his kingdom with a single regiment.” Razzan said it politely, and looked apologetic, but there was a gleam in the prince’s eyes, as though he’d just delivered a killing stroke. “Or, perhaps, you plan no such thing? Perhaps our friend the king has abandoned his sworn duties?”
“His Majesty would never dream of it,” Janus said. “As for regaining your kingdom, you may rest assured that the matter has my full attention.”
The prince drawled a response, and Razzan turned pale. Before he could muster a suitably watered-down
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