The Fell Sword by Cameron Miles

Author:Cameron, Miles [Cameron, Miles]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2014-01-15T22:00:00+00:00

The defeat of the Etruscan Fleet has had every result that the Captain promised, despite our having failed to entice any part of their squadron into the arsenal after No Head loosed one of his precious engines too early. We captured a single over-bold galley, thus doubling the Imperial Fleet. But the capture of Ernst Handalo, the Etruscan captain, accomplished what his death would not – the near total capitulation of the Etruscans. Handalo is a senator of far-off Venike. Apparently, he has begun to negotiate a peace on his own behalf.

Closer to home, our little victory had procured a certain good-will – or perhaps, as the Captain likes to say, merely the foundations on which future good-will might be laid. The Captain also released all of our prisoners from our battles under the walls; he has arranged with the Princess Irene for all of the prisoners to be cleared of treason. If the knights of Morea have consequently grown to love us for our clemency, they are extremely adept at hiding it.

However, the gates are open, the markets are open, and the harvest is in. Perhaps most importantly, convoys have begun to reach us from over the mountains, via the Inner Sea and the lake country. The Captain has plans for the fur trade and for Harndon. And on that topic, the Captain has arranged a series of loans against our profits that have paid the men, which cured a good deal of grumbling.

And finally, our victory seems to have won us the approval of the Patriarch and the University. The Captain is to meet the Patriarch on Sunday after mass. We have collectively crossed our fingers.

Ser Michael leaned back and licked his fingers to get the ink off.

Kaitlin came and leaned heavily against him. ‘Could you carry this little bastard for a week or so while I have a rest?’ she asked.

Ser Michael turned. ‘Please let’s not call our child a bastard.’

‘He is, you know.’ She smiled. It was a pleasant smile, not a nasty one, and yet Michael knew she meant business. He’d promised marriage, and she, a peasant girl, was currently widely viewed as his whore.

‘Then marry me,’ he said.

‘When? Where?’ she asked. ‘And I really don’t have a thing to wear.’

‘I’m sorry, love,’ he said, and put his hands on her waist. He held her against him so he could feel the swell of her belly against his own stomach. ‘Sorry. I’ve been busy.’ Christ, that sounded lame.

‘There’s a rumour that the Knights of Saint Thomas sent us a chaplain,’ he added. ‘Why don’t we have him marry us when he arrives?’

She sat heavily in his lap. She wasn’t really big yet, but she felt she was the size of a horse – ugly, frumpy, and the very antithesis of all the slim, elegant, perfumed Morean ladies she saw every day in the markets. ‘I suppose that when you asked, I imagined we’d have a wedding in a cathedral, and I’d be – glorious. Somehow.’

‘My father hasn’t said no, but he certainly hasn’t said anything nice, either.

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