He paused, as if working out his own sentence to be sure he’d stated what he intended. Wulfhere’s command of his native tongue was hardly a scholar’s; his Latin was ghastly, and so most men spoke, in this part of the world. At that it was better than when he and Cormac had arrived here awhile back, having fled the soldiery set on them by that Sigebert fellow whose pretty face they’d ruined.

“Rings around Romish triremes built by Vandals in Carthage,” he said again, savouring the sound and thought of it. “I suppose ye’d wish your own navy to do the same.”

Cormac mac Art’s dark, sinister face showed some small tension about mouth and jaw. Only Zarabdas, by watching him closely, observed it.

“You suppose rightly, Captain,” Veremund the Tall said. “I am answered.”

Cormac relaxed as unobtrusively as he had tensed for trouble. Few kings indeed would accept such truculently declaimed outspokenness so mildly. Veremund, though, was like unto no other king Cormac had met-and was the first the Gael had found whom a man might respect and like. The Sueve knew the uses of forebearance without being weak-or even appearing so, to intelligent men of craft.

How are these Sueves after having got a good man as king, anyhow? Cormac mused. Unique, Veremund is.

While the Gael thought thus, it was Irnic Break-ax who spoke. “What of the Basques, then? They have been seamen from ancient times, and surely they know Treachery Bay as well as heart could hope for! I am told they build goodly ships.”

Cormac was impressed even while his face went cold. From a commander of horse-warriors and kinsman of the king, it was a sound evaluation. Irnic spoke true. Basque shipwrights and sailors would be worth the having. Cormac did not like to disillusion the man with whom he’d developed camaraderie.

“True for yourself,” he said. “It’s better for the purpose the Basques are than Vandals would be-were there any getting them.