A pause. “It seems almost a shame to spoil it with fire and sword,” observed Foscar.

“Almost, your Highness. But this is war, and those are the tools available.”

Cosca had heard that Count Foscar, now Prince Foscar following his brother’s mishap in a famous Sipanese brothel, was a boyish, callow, weak-nerved youth, and was therefore pleasantly impressed by what he had seen thus far. The lad was fresh-faced, true, but every man begins young, and he seemed thoughtful rather than weak, sober rather than bloodless, polite rather than limp. A young man very much like Cosca himself had been at that age. Only the absolute reverse in every particular, of course.

“They appear to be most powerful fortifications…” murmured the prince, scanning the towering walls of the city with his eyeglass.

“Oh, indeed. Ospria was the furthest outpost of the New Empire, built as a bastion to hold back the restless Baolish hordes. Parts of the walls have been standing firm against the savage for more than five hundred years.”

“Then will Duke Rogont not simply retreat behind them? He does seem prone to avoid battle whenever possible…”

“He’ll give battle, your Highness,” said Andiche.

“He must,” rumbled Sesaria, “or we’ll just camp in his pretty valley and starve him out.”

“We outnumber him three to one or more,” whined Victus.

Cosca could not but agree. “Walls are only useful if one expects help, and no help is coming to the League of Eight now. He must fight. He will fight. He is desperate.” If there was one thing he understood, it was desperation.

“I must confess I have some… concerns.” Foscar nervously cleared his throat. “I understood that you always hated my father with a passion.”

“Passion. Hah.” Cosca dismissed it with a wave. “As a young man I let my passion lead me by the nose, but I have learned numerous harsh lessons in favour of a cool head. I and your father have had our disagreements but I am, above all else, a mercenary. To let my personal feelings reduce the weight of my purse would be an act of criminal unprofessionalism.”

“Hear, hear.” Victus wore an unsightly leer. Even more so than usual.

“Why, my own three closest captains,” and Cosca took them in with a theatrical sweep of his hat, “betrayed me utterly and put Murcatto in my chair. They fucked me to their balls, as they say in Sipani. To their balls, your Highness. If I had a taste for vengeance, it would be on these three heaps of human shit.” Then Cosca chuckled, and they chuckled, and the vaguely uncomfortable atmosphere was swiftly dispelled. “But we can all be useful to each other, and so I have forgiven them everything, and your father too. Vengeance brings no man a brighter tomorrow, and when placed on the scales of life, does not outweigh a single… scale. You need not worry on that score, Prince Foscar, I am all business. Bought and paid for, and entirely your man.”