“The fields round the city are burned up to the gates, almost.” Monza scattered carnage across the countryside with a few waves of her finger. “Farmers driven off, livestock slaughtered. It’ll be a lean winter for fat Duke Salier, and a leaner spring.”
“He will have to rely on the noble Duke Rogont and his Osprians,” said Ganmark, with the faintest of smiles.
Prince Ario snickered. “Much talk blows down from Ospria, always, but little help.”
“Visserine is poised to drop into your lap next year, your Excellency.”
“And with it the heart is torn from the League of Eight.”
“The crown of Styria will be yours.”
The mention of crowns teased Orso’s smile still wider. “And we have you to thank, Monzcarro. I do not forget that.”
“Not only me.”
“Curse your modesty. Benna has played his part, and our good friend General Ganmark, and Faithful too, but no one could deny this is your work. Your commitment, your single-mindedness, your swiftness to act! You shall have a great triumph, just as the heroes of ancient Aulcus did. You shall ride through the streets of Talins and my people will shower you with flower petals in honour of your many victories.” Benna was grinning, but Monza couldn’t join him. She’d never had much taste for congratulations. “They will cheer far louder for you, I think, than they ever will for my own sons. They will cheer far louder even than they do for me, their rightful lord, to whom they owe so much.” It seemed that Orso’s smile slipped, and his face looked tired, and sad, and worn without it. “They will cheer, in fact, a little too loudly for my taste.”