A Plague of Giants (Seven Kennings #1) - Kevin Hearne Page 0,87

of that with you after this.”

He dips his chin. “As you say, Viceroy.”

“Korda, you will remain here as my guest. Your friend there will go back with the shipment of grain and some of my men to deliver my personal condolences and promises of continued friendship to Hearthfire Gorin Mogen.”

I pause to let Korda respond to my bald statement that I’m effectively taking him as a hostage. He’s a smooth one: he only blinks once.

“Of course, Viceroy.”

I turn to the red beard. “You will inform Gorin Mogen in the very plain terms that I am using now that he and all other Hathrim must be out of Ghurana Nent in two months’ time regardless of how much ash and molten rain may be ravaging Hathrir. After two months you are no longer welcome guests and the sad victims of fate we are happy to succor in your most dire hour. At that point you are trespassing and will be treated as trespassers. Is that clear?”

The shoals of Red Beard’s facial hair mash together in the space where his mouth is supposed to be. He’s biting back an angry retort. But Mogen has them trained well. After a moment, he gives a curt nod and says, “It is.”

“Do you have a ship?”

Korda answers. “No; our ship returned ahead of us with some emergency supplies. We were going to beg passage south on a merchant vessel in exchange for work.”

“Good. You’ll go on my ship, then,” I say to Red Beard. “I’ll have a room for you at the Pelican by the docks. They have Hathrim-size ceilings. These lovely gentlemen,” I say as I gesture to the crossbowmen on the right, “will escort you there.” Pointing to the crossbowmen on the left, I continue, “And these fine worthies will escort you, Korda, to our largest room here, and should you need anything in particular, please ask one of them and it will be brought to you.”

They make noises of gratitude and depart with their heavily armed escorts. Dhingra sidles up to me once the doors close.

“Load only ten bags of grain into the hold and call it a clerical error, assuring them that we’ll give them more.”

“Will we?”

“Of course not. But make sure Red Beard delivers that two-month deadline to Gorin Mogen. Take the best head count you can, especially of their military forces, and get back up here as soon as possible. Set sail tomorrow.”

“As you say, Viceroy.”

“And make sure Korda and Red Beard don’t leave their accommodations. They are still guests but guests with restricted access. Bring them whatever they need to be comfortable.”

“Aye,” he says, and then sneezes. “Sorry. Perfume.”

“Yes, I need some air.”

We part: he to work, I to the blessedly scentless Tower of Kalaad to compose a missive for the king. Something along the lines of “We’ve been invaded, send help.”

I’ll have to summon the tactician and tell him to get his boys ready to fight lavaborn giants wearing the world’s strongest armor. And I’ll have to resume my own military exercises. There will be a necessary diplomatic dance before we trade blows, and if Kalaad smiles on us, maybe it will work. But it is more likely to end in death and wailing families of the fallen. Giants aren’t known for backing down until you drop them on their backs by force; sooner rather than later I’ll have to ride out and trip them up myself. Can’t stay here in my tower if I want to rule the country from a more pleasant spot than this backwater town that smells of borchatta guts and cabbage ass. No, when I ride out to deprive Gorin Mogen of his throne, it will assure me of mine…so long as we win.

—

I chuckled softly as Fintan dismissed the seeming of Melishev Lohmet. That little vignette would annoy both the Nentians and the Fornish. He certainly wasn’t holding back for fear of criticism. Looking down at the bleacher crowd, I saw many of them shaking their heads and discussing the viceroy with their companions. His opinions were odious, but many had laughed at the image of offering small chairs to the giants.

“Elsewhere in Ghurana Nent,” the bard said, “Abhinava Khose was making a new friend.” When he took on the young hunter’s seeming, he was bloody and bruised and his field bag hung in tatters from his shoulder.

I cannot explain why I still live. It makes no sense. I should be making my way through the digestive systems of about thirty