Nicator walked over to the rail and spat into the swift-running, cold water of the Tuola.
“That for dear Count Corvus, the cheap, power-grabbing bastard.” He spat again. “And that for his gods-cursed, arrogant brother.”
“As long as you’re there, spit once for the Heruls, too,” Grus said.
“Sure.” Nicator did. “Now tell me why.”
“Because I wouldn’t give better than about even money that they go kick King Dagipert in the ass once they’re on this side of the river,” Grus answered. “They’re liable to decide they’d have more fun murdering farmers and raping their wives and stealing their sheep.”
“Or maybe stealing their wives and raping their sheep,” Nicator suggested.
Grus rolled his eyes. “I don’t know anything about that, and I’m cursed glad I don’t. If you really want to find out, ask Count Corax.”
The Bream served as flagship for a good-sized flotilla of river galleys, smaller boats, scows, and barges—not a flotilla that could do too much fighting on its own, but more than good enough for taking an army along the Tuola and moving it to the other side. When the Bream’s oarmaster shouted out the command for them to leave the port where they were tied up, they all obeyed promptly enough to give Grus no reason to complain.
Their rendezvous with Count Corax lay downstream, and they would deliver the army farther downstream still. That showed good planning by those who’d put the flotilla together. Grus doubted whether a good many of the scows and barges could have gone upstream at anything faster than a crawl, if indeed they could have made headway against the current at all.
“What do you want to bet Count Corax and these savages aren’t even there when we get where we’re supposed to be?” Nicator said. “It’d be just like him to leave us stuck with nothing to do. He’s a noble, after all. Why should he care if ordinary people have to sit around twiddling their thumbs, waiting for him?”
But when the flotilla rounded the last bend in the river, there on the northwestern bank sat the Heruls’ encampment, large, messy, and unlovely. The wind wafted the stink of it to Grus’ nostrils. He coughed and wrinkled his nose. He knew what camps were supposed to smell like. This was even worse.
“Oh, by the gods!” Nicator pointed. “Look at ’em! They’re pissing upstream from where they drink.”
“Well, so they are,” Grus said. “Corax didn’t fetch them here because they were neat and tidy. He fetched them here because they could fight.”
“They won’t do much fighting if they all come down with the galloping shits,” Nicator retorted. “And if they keep doing that, they bloody well will. Don’t they know any better?” He answered his own question. “No, by the gods, of course they don’t know any better. That’s what being a barbarian’s all about, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” Grus did some pointing of his own now. “There’s the mighty Count Corax’s banner, see? I suppose we ought to pick him up. Then we can ferry the Heruls downstream and across, and then we can hope they do some good.”
He sent the Bream’s boat to the far bank of the Tuola. Count Corax, now, wasn’t grubby in furs and leather. He wore a golden circlet that wasn’t quite a crown on his head and a cloth-of-gold robe more splendid than any Grus had ever seen adorning a King of Avornis. Nicator muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” Grus asked.
“I said, now we know where all the money goes that Corvus and, looks like, Corax save by not keeping postal stations open on their lands.”
“Oh,” Grus said, and then, “Yes. He’s got his own army there, and he’s got his own raiment. When does he start stamping his own gold pieces and calling himself a king?”
“Pretty gods-cursed soon, by the look of him,” Nicator replied.
“Or here’s another question for you,” Grus said. “When does he take these Heruls, move on the city of Avornis with them, and start calling himself our king?”
The boat pulled up to the Bream. “Let’s see what Corax has to say for himself.” From their brief acquaintance, and from Count Corax’s being Corvus’ brother, Grus was ready to dislike him for any reason or none.
Corax scrambled up onto the deck of the Bream. “Hello, Commodore,” he said, striding back to greet Grus. “We meet again. Remind me of your name, if you’d be so kind.”
“Grus, Your Excellency,” Grus said tightly. He couldn’t order Corax flung into the Tuola no matter how much he wanted to. But, aboard his own river galley, he didn’t have to take that lying down—didn’t have to, and didn’t intend to. “Remind me of yours, if you’d be so kind.”
“What?” Corax turned red. “If that’s a joke, it’s not funny, friend. Everybody knows who I am.” The nobleman struck a pose.
“Not on the rivers,” Grus told him. “The rivers have buried men more famous than you’ll ever be.”
That might have been true, but it wasn’t calculated to endear Grus to Count Corax. From red, the Avornan nobleman went a dusky purple. “You had better hold your tongue, you insolent puppy, or I’ll paddle your backside for piddling on my shoes. I am in command of that army yonder, and I ought to turn them loose on you.”
“You’re welcome to try, Your Excellency,” Grus answered.
“I’m not used to having some jumped-up skipper from a fishing scow telling me what I can do and what I can’t. By Olor’s beard, I don’t intend to stand for it, either.” Corax set a hand on the hilt of his sword.
Nicator whistled shrilly. Several marines aboard the Bream nocked arrows and drew their bows back to the ear. The iron points on the arrowheads, all aimed at Corax, shone in the sun.
“You want to think about where you are and what you’re doing, don’t you, Your Excellency?” Nicator said.
The nobleman had nerve. He didn’t let go of the sword right away. Grus had rarely seen an Avornan noble he would have called a coward. A lot of them, though, sadly lacked sense. Corax proved not to belong to that school.
“Oh, good,” Grus said when Corax’s hand did at last fall to his side. “I wouldn’t want to see you all quilled like a hedgehog, Your Excellency, and blood’s hard to scrub out of the timbers. It will stain.”
“You are a funny man, aren’t you?” Corax growled. “Let’s see how funny you are when the King of Avornis sacks you.”
“I’m not losing any sleep over that,” Grus answered. “You’re the one who’s been robbing the king for years, not me.”
“Why, you lying sack of turds!” Corax shouted.
“You’re the liar, Your Excellency—you and your brigand of a brother.” Grus made Corax’s title of respect one of reproach. Corax gobbled and turned purple again. With savage relish, Grus went on, “I know the two of you don’t keep up the royal post on your lands. When was the last time you sent any taxes to the capital?”
“Taxes?” Corax’s gesture of contempt was, in its own way, magnificent. “You gods-cursed fool, taxes are for peasants!”
“Do you suppose the king would say the same?” By the king, Grus meant Queen Certhia and the rest of the regents, as Corax no doubt had before.
“You swine!” Corax yelled. “You rustic oaf! You—you enema syringe! You brawling, disobedient lump of guts! You pus-filled, poxy villain! You hairy-assed son of a whore! I piss on you!” He started to undo his fly.
“If he comes out, you’ll sing soprano the rest of his days,” Grus said through clenched teeth. Again, Corax stopped with the motion half complete. Grus gestured to the sailors and marines. “Take this foul-mouthed fool back to the barbarians. They seem to suit him well. May he have joy of them.”