HE SPEARS ANOTHER morsel of fish with the gleaming silver fork, slices it away with the knife. The delicate fried crust yields easily to the soft white flesh beneath.
‘Still no word from the goblin?’
Major Metcalfe shakes his head. He and the other commanders are standing to attention as best they can in the cramped cabin, but they have to bend to fit under the low ceiling. The day is already hot, and they are sweating in their uniforms. ‘Nothing, your grace. And our scouts’ latest report is that the merfolk remain gathered near their island.’
‘Interesting.’ So the Fayters have not yet found the mermaid princess.
The Duke of Garran dabs at his mouth with one corner of his thick white napkin.
‘There is one thing, your grace,’ says Major Garrick. ‘An hour ago our lookouts on the starboard flank spied a hobgoblin junk sailing due east, towards the Old World – too far north to intercept.’
More interesting still. Fayters abandoning their fleet? But if so, they would surely go west. Or Jeb the Snitch … ? But why should he run?
The answer comes to him at once. The goblin fears the wrath of the League. Fears it because he has failed.
Could it be that the mermaid is dead?
The Duke of Garran cuts off another piece of fish, conveys it to his mouth and chews, savouring it.
It is not perfect. He wanted her alive. A prisoner. Then the King would surely not dare to fight. But it makes little difference. The merman will not lead his hosts into battle now. Not if his daughter is lost.
‘Very well,’ he says when he has swallowed. ‘We shall delay no further. Majors, ready your vessels and attend my signal.’
The men salute and leave the cabin. Only Major Turnbull remains. She is leaning against the door frame, her blue eyes shining in the gloom, her long blonde hair let free for once, falling over her shoulders. She looks so innocent and beautiful, it is easy to forget the things she can do. The things she has done.
‘A chance to test out your blade on the demonspawn,’ says the Duke of Garran. ‘You must be delighted.’
She says nothing, of course. Not even a shrug.
He smiles.
‘You will stay with me, Major, aboard the Justice. As we agreed. And make certain there are no mistakes.’
She nods and leaves the cabin, the sword on her back gleaming as she steps out through the doorway.
The Duke of Garran sets down his knife and fork and lays his napkin on the half-finished plate of food. He reaches across the table and picks up his brace of pistols, so encrusted with silver and gold filigree that the wood beneath can barely be seen. He stands and stows them at his belt, ready for use.
It is time.