This is a fan translation of The Treasure of the Kapitana (Сокровище «Капудании») by the Russian science fiction and fantasy author Vladimir Vasilyev.
I claim no rights to the contents herein.
Chapter 19
George Burroughs, Prince Moreau, the Euxine and Galita, summer of 864
Are we really going to have to sacrifice the cannon? Prince George thought gloomily. Or supplies? If we're stuck here for a long time, then supplies are more important than cannon. Itkal assures me that we're not going to be here long enough to regret throwing supplies overboard, even if we're in the middle of nowhere. But still…
They'd been sitting there for six days now. They tried shifting the cargo around the hold.
They tried offloading it into boats. It was useless. The Saint Lucy was stuck in the sand surprisingly firmly. But the barquentine's bottom remained undamaged. The captain and Lucius Miquela had every beam and frame examined almost personally on day one and found no serious damage.
All this time, George had been trying to put himself in Nazim Socrates's shoes and understand why the Viceroy of Galita had engaged in deception and why he'd lured them here onto this shoal that he and his Taurican minions had to have known about. Only one reason seemed obvious: Socrates didn't wish for the princes to reunite. By luring the Saint Lucy into a trap, he'd guaranteed the absence of King Terence and Prince George in Galita, Kerkinitis, and anywhere else Alexander might show up. It was a pretty strong move, and one that was, despite the seeming simplicity and naivete, fairly effective.
Where's the Iscah? the prince wondered. Miquela had to have arrived to Galita and sent someone to help us by now. Has the Iscah really ended up in trouble? But we prepared for a possible trap… Still, where is the help from Kerkinitis? After all, the entire Taurica can't possibly be in the hands of the Galitan viceroy!
George could feel that it was pointless to drag this out any longer. It was time to make a decision.
All that remained was formulating it, first mentally and then in the form of a clear and understandable order.
All right, George thought, concentrating. What are our options?
As fate would have it, a minute earlier, an observer on the crosstrees of the Saint Lucy saw the tops of masts to the northwest. It was Howard Freemer's squadron from Kerkinitis. The barque Saint Aurelius, the not much smaller schooner Ordovician, and two ketches, Tantalus and Irish, almost identical to the Iscah, which Lucius Miquela had taken to get aid. And also the seemingly tiny next to the other ships santona Cilicia. While the messenger was running to the prince's cabin, George Burroughs Moreau had come to the conclusion that they couldn't wait any longer.
Fortunately, they wouldn't have to.
"Your Highness! Ships on the horizon! Coming here!" the messenger let in by the valet spat out from the doorway.
George leapt to his feet. A moment later, he dashed towards the door.
Finally! the prince thought while walking briskly to the ramp and then climbing to the deck.
He couldn't see any masts from the deck, they were still over the horizon. The sailor up top assured him that the masts were far too high for local ships, but, having learned from bitter experience, George had cannon ready for battle, just in case, particularly on the port side, also giving the marine lieutenant the order to get the first company up to the deck.
Advisor Itkal met the prince's commands with silent approval.
George had long ago learned to read the moods of the wise old man — a lengthy voyage and a lack of space had a positive effect on getting people closer, assuming they didn't start hating one another.
In general, going overseas was a vastly different experience from a military campaign on land, like the recent pacification of the rebelling Eboracum. But George didn't regret having to go on such a distant voyage in the least. Over the past several months he'd gained valuable experience, which he hoped, as the future King of Albion, to make use of in the future.
"There! There!" someone with good eyes shouted from the bridge. The captain of the Saint Lucy immediately looked through his spyglass.
"It's the Saint Aurelius!" he exclaimed a moment later. "I don't see the pennant yet, but it has to be the Saint Aurelius!"
George felt relief but didn't rush to cancel the combat readiness. But he did order a boat prepared. The last thing he wanted was to have the Saint Aurelius run aground too! It was best to intercept her some distance away.
"Your Highness," the advisor inquired carefully. "Do you intend to personally go in the boat?"
Itkal really was wise and helpful. His questions typically contained sufficiently obvious advice. But George had no intention of doing something as dumb as rushing towards Captain Freemer's barque in person. After all, there was no way to know who was on board. Maybe the sneaky Socrates had gotten to Uncle Howard too. He was undoubtedly a brave and loyal man, but one that was, unfortunately, not particularly skilled in intrigues and not very insightful.
"No," the prince assured the advisor. "I'd prefer to have Captain Freemer come aboard the Saint Lucy. Think about it, Itkal, is Uncle Howard really going to stay on the Saint Aurelius while the Saint Lucy is stuck on a shoal? He's not going to say a word until he personally goes down into the hold to check what we've done over the past five days."
Itkal chuckled with the corners of his lips. Indeed, George had predicted Captain Freemer's behavior over the next several hours to a high degree of accuracy.
The advisor was satisfied with that. Despite his fears, the prince hadn't lost his head from either Socrates's unexpected betrayal or the forced idleness in a nervous environment. And idleness was a far more dangerous enemy than even the worst sort of trouble.
Willingly or unwillingly, but Advisor Itkal was again and again checking to see how well the crown of Albion sat on George Burroughs Moreau. And he kept finding that the symbol of royal power sat very well on that head.
Everyone happened as predicted by George: as soon as he stepped on board the Saint Lucy and greeted his nephew, Howard Freemer dove into the holds along with the barquentine's senior officers. George chuckled and glanced at Itkal, who merely spread his hands.
George decided to move his own residence to the largest and best armed ship of the squadron, the barque Saint Aurelius. While the captains were busy getting the Saint Lucy off the shoal, his effects were transported to the barque, which also helped in reducing the draft of the barquentine. Not waiting for the Saint Lucy to be freed, George relocated to the other ship. They decided not to move the ailing king.
Two and a half hours later, all six ships were already cutting through the insidious Euxinian waves, leaving the ill-fated shoals behind them.
Another six hours later, the squadron entered the Galitan bay. With great relief, George saw that the Iscah was anchored at the roadstead; the Saint Lucy, the Ordovician, the ketches, and the Cilicia immediately stood near the captive Iscah, while the Saint Aurelius docked at the farthest pier.
The shelia blocking the entrance to the bay had disappeared as soon as the Albionian ships appeared on the horizon.
The modest shore battery was silent. It might have been capable of holding a single ketch, but it could do nothing against the combined firepower of a barque, a schooner, and a barquentine. The Galitan port seemed to be dead; everyone was hiding in expectation of the coming events. Guards and marines armed with muskets and swords were unloading from the Saunt Aurelius. Howard Freemer wished to lead them personally and was only awaiting an order to march to the palace of Nazim Socrates that could be easily seen on the green slope overlooking the port.
George had plenty of time to think about his actions, but he didn't want to make a decision without first hearing out Lucius Miquela. So he held a council aboard the Saint Aurelius that included the prince himself, Minister Miquela, Advisor Itkal, and Captain Freemer.
The boat from the Iscah on which Miquela had arrived was pressed against the side of the Albionian barque. A sailor dropped a rope ladder and held it while the passengers were climbing on board.
"Minister, please follow me!" the officer of the watch proclaimed. "His Highness is expecting you!"
The minister was taken to the captain's cabin.
Howard Freemer, dressed in his uniform and tricorn hat, was sitting at the table; when he shifted to a new position, his sword clanged loudly against the floor. The prince was sitting at the table with his back to the porthole. The advisor was, as expected, sitting to the left of the prince.
Miquela entered quickly, as if his intention was to cross the cabin as quickly as possible and leap out the porthole.
"Your Highness!" he bowed after stopping at the table. "Glad to see you in good health!"
"I'm also glad that everything has more or less resolved itself, Lucius. Take a seat."
The minister pulled up a chair and sat across from the prince.
"How is His Majesty?"
"No change, I'm afraid," George answered evenly. "So let's not focus on that. The sun will be setting soon, and I'd like to show Socrates and his minion who the master of Taurica is before nightfall."
"Forgive my interjection," Itkal perked up. "Your Highness, no matter what you think about it, and no matter how much we'd like it to be different, the masters here are the Tauricans."
"That doesn't give them the right to mock royalty!" George replied harshly. "They can speak of the empire being dead all they want. Once the cannon speak up, then we'll see who's alive and who's dead. We've been insulted. It was practically a declaration of war. You know very well how the Moreaus wage wars, Itkal. I have no intention of indulging an enemy simply because this is Taurica and not Albion."
"I am not asking for your indulgence, Your Highness," Itkal assured him. "May I ask what you plan to do?"
"Of course you may. That is why we're gathered here, aren't we?" George was speaking calmly and measuredly, not giving way to the anger that was just itching to get out. The prince knew how to keep ahold of himself. "At first I wanted to shell Nazim Socrates's palace with cannon, no farther than half a mile from the shore and no higher than five hundred yards up the hill. But…"
The prince broke off, leaving the rest of the thought unspoken.
"But?" Itkal asked gently. "Then again, I can guess. In fact, I know."
"And?" George inquired.
"Nazim Socrates is not at the palace, that much is clear to even the lowest sailor in our crew. Who could be at the palace? Women, children, servants? I doubt you're going to wage war on women and children, Your Highness."
"You're right, Itkal," the prince didn't argue. "You have described my thoughts on this matter well. At this moment, I plan to send up to two hundred soldiers to the palace to confirm that Socrates is not there. All men over fifteen are to be arrested and brought to the Saint Aurelius to obtain information and act as hostages. The palace is to be burned to the ground, after first getting the servants out. Getting everyone out, in fact — we don't need civilian casualties. The ships belonging to Nazim Socrates and his family are to be captured. Any resistance is to be put down mercilessly and without delay."
"There are currently has two companies of soldiers and a platoon of guards on the Saint Aurelius. That's almost the two hundred you plan to send to the palace," the practical Captain Freemer calculated immediately. "To capture the port and the ships we need to request reinforcements from the Ordovician. There should be another a hundred and fifty men there. Shall I have the Ordovician signaled to dock?"
"Uncle, if Nazim Socrates returns with his ships and decides to attack us, do you think that the firepower of the Saint Lucy and the three ketches will be sufficient to repel them from the water?"
"I believe so," Freemer said. "Besides, the Ordovician doesn't need to stick around at the pier. She can offload the guards and return to the roadstead, which means we can count on her guns as well."
"Excellent!" George summed up. "Have the Ordovician dock!"
Freemer rose heavily, walked over the door, opened it, and shouted for one of the senior officers.
"Tell me, Lucius!" the prince addressed the minister in the meantime. "Is there a commandant or an overseer in these ports? Who is in charge of all this?" George swept the surrounding area, unseen from the cabin, with his hand.
"Of course, Your Highness. The port commandanta is called a maistro in Taurica."
"And where do we find this… maistro? At the port authority building?"
"Exactly. But it's evening now, he might not be there. Then again, I doubt our arrival escaped his notice, even if he is in the city. He might show up."
"We'll head there immediately! Uncle, have you already given the orders?"
"I have, George. What else?"
"We're going to the port commandant and need a suitable escort. Later, after we announce that the port is now under our control, we'll need to post guards. On the piers, at the port entrance, at the port authority building. And other places too, at your discretion. But make sure that everyone can see royal soldiers and, in particular, their loaded muskets from afar. Await us on the pier, by the ramp, we'll be right out."
"Aye-aye!"
Freemer once again headed for the door, this time disappearing through it.
Advisor Itkal spoke up again, "Your Highness, do you intend to personally take part in the… planned actions?"
"Naturally," the prince confirmed. "First we'll pay a visit to the port commandant and arrest him. "Then we'll head for Nazim Socrates's port."
"Are you going to be needing me there? Or is it better that I stay?"
"Stay, Itkal. I doubt the uphill walk is going to be good for your body, especially at the speed guards and soldiers tend to walk at. And since Captain Freemer will be coming with us, your advice will be of use to the remaining officers."
"Of course, Your Highness!"
"Lucius, are you ready?"
"I am, Your Highness!"
"Valet! My sword!"
At the port authority building, the procession—one that looked pretty fearsome—was met only by a frightened old watchman. He was holding an old straw hat in his hands.
Prince George wasn't bothering to hide his mild anger — the sort of anger that didn't cause him to lose his head but made him decisive. Howard Freemer in his uniform and tricorn hat did a great job highlighting the prince, who was dressed only in a white shirt with embroidery on the chest, narrow dark trousers, and short boots. The captain of the Saint Aurelius rose over the prince's shoulder like a guard tower. He could conquer half of the world with a tower like that…
Lucius Miquela was peering out from behind the other shoulder, while the handsome guards formed up in a wide semicircle.
"We need the port maistro," the prince stated coolly, looking away.
"He is in the city, milord," the watchman bowed, just in case. "The hour is late, he went home!"
"So much worse for him," George said with the same expression. "Is the building locked?"
"It is, milord! There are two guards inside, and the door is bolted. I'm out here keeping watch, so no one—"
"Have the guards open the door!"
"They're not going to listen to me, milord! I once offered them some wine from my mother-in-law, they didn't even open then."
"I see," the prince gave the guard lieutenant a pointed look.
The man immediately ran over to the door and knocked.
"Who's there?" came from inside.
"Open, in the name of the King!"
"What king?"
"King Terence of Albion!"
Either matching the prince's tone or just by virtue of having a calm demeanor, was speaking calmly, making his words even more menacing.
"We're not allowed to!" the guard inside grunted. "Only to the master, and maybe also to Mr. Socrates."
The guard shouldn't have mentioned the viceroy's name.
The lieutenant looked at the prince inquisitively. The prince nodded.
The lieutenant motioned to the guards; they walked up to the door and raised their muskets.
"You should go home, old man," Miquela suggested to the watchman kindly. "Don't want to catch an accidental bullet."
The old man nodded vigorously, put on his straw hat, and ran in the direction of the city.
The muskets boomed dryly; splinters flew in all directions. The door was torn apart significantly in the vicinity of the handle but held.
"Well, are you going to open, or should we continue?" the lieutenant inquired.
No one answered, but several seconds later the bolt clanged, and the door opened slowly. A fair-haired large man with a short club bound with metal plates in his lowered hand appeared in the doorway. The man didn't look frightened, more like confused. The lieutenant quickly pulled out his sword and pressed the tip to the man's stomach, "Drop the club, put your hands on your head!"
The sword and the muskets aimed at him left the guard no choice, so he obeyed. The lieutenant grabbed him by the collar and turned him to face the wall, motioning for a pair of guards to watch him.
"Where's the other one?"
"I'm here…"
The second guard stepped out from the gloomy hallway. He looked very similar to the first one but had dark hair. His hands were already raised and held close to his head, as if covering his ears. The lieutenant grabbed him just as nimbly and placed him next to the fair-haired guard.
"Anyone else inside?"
"Nobody," the guards said as one without turning.
"Where is the maistro's office?"
"The maistro's chamber," Miquela suggested, knowing the local terms.
"Down the corridor, to the right! There's only one door," the fair-haired one answered, either being more cowardly than his partner or the smarter of the two. But he answered eagerly, and that was all that was required.
"Lieutenant!" George tilted his head imperiously, indicating the open door.
Four of the guards remained outside; the lieutenant was the first to enter the building, passing something like an entrance hall with benches along the walls, a smoking urn in the middle, and a hat rack in a corner, finding himself in the corridor the guard mentioned that stretched left and right. Up ahead was a staircase that led upstairs.
The royal guards knew their job: following the lieutenant's precise gestures, they split up and started combing through the building. Doors slammed, boots pounded on the steps. But no one went right. The lieutenant was looking at George expectantly.
"Go ahead!" the prince ordered.
There was indeed only one door down the hall to the right. It was decorated with intricate carvings and was locked with a padlock of Albionian make.
"Unsworth!" the lieutenant turned. "Take care of it!"
One of the guards, red-faced and balding, immediately stepped forward, unstrapping a short axe in an intricate case from his waist.
"Hold on," Lucius Miquela intervened. "May I, Your Highness?"
"What is it?" the prince asked in surprise.
"Why ruin the door?" the minister pulled out something that looked like either a set of keys or lockpicks from behind his belt and got busy on the padlock. He spent some time staring up at the ceiling, while simultaneously digging in the keyhole with a mysterious tool that looked like an ordinary hook. "The padlock is Albionian, after all. It wouldn't do to give in to our own…"
There was a loud click. Pleased, Miquela put away the tools, opened the padlock, and tossed it in his hand.
"That's it," he said with a victorious smile.
"Impressive," George muttered. "You never cease to amaze me, Lucius. Let's go in!"
The red-faced guard returned the axe to his waist with obvious regret.
The commandant/maistro's office was spacious luxuriously furnished.
It looked more like the living room of a wealthy merchant's house: sofas, rugs, Hellenic sculptures, an expensive bar, a giant fireplace. A writing desk and a small cabinet for books and papers in the corner were utterly lost in all this splendor.
"Whoa!" the prince stated. "Taurican port masters seem to be living well!"
He walked up to the cabinet, picked up the first book he saw, opened it, and flipped through a few pages.
"All right, no time to dig through all this, and there's no reason to either. Lucius, please send one of your more knowledgeable people here. We need to take complete control of the port, but we also must not paralyze the city's commerce. All ships are to be allowed in, but no one is to leave without my knowledge. Uncle, provide guards and general armed support. Choose a smart officer for the command. Also, have them take one of those oafs outside, probably the fair-haired one, as a guide, go into the city, and arrest that maistro. When I return, bring him in for questioning."
"Aye-aye!" Freemer immediately turned and left.
Maybe he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was an excellent at following orders. By the time the prince and his retinue left the port authority building and headed towards the soldiers formed up into a column on the quay, two dozen musketeers under the command of a young lieutenant had already marched off to arrest the commandant, and just as many were spreading around the port area. A guard had already been posted at the entrance to the port authority building. He stood at attention smartly when he saw the prince. Two young civilian lads were hurrying from the docked Ordovician to the building, followed leisurely by a thin old man in pince-nez, a beret, and an old-fashioned brown cloak. The distance between the young and quick lads and him was growing with each step, but he didn't seem to be bothered by that in the least.
"It's Jacob," Lucius Miquela explained, just in case. "With his assistants. An expert in maritime trade, economy in general, and transport management."
"I know," the prince said imperturbably. "Thank you, Lucius."
Upon encountering the procession, the young lads paused for a moment and bowed, while Jacob stopped and waved his beret ceremoniously, "Greetings, Your Highness!"
"Good evening, Jacob," George greeted him warmly. "I see the port is in good hands!"
"Not to worry, Your Highness! Your father has never had cause to be dissatisfied with me and my work. I shall not fail you either!"
"I have no doubt of that, Jacob!" the prince saluted him with undisguised pleasure and resumed walking in the same direction.
"Incredible!" he told Miquela some time later. "I had no idea you'd brought the old man on this journey. I trust you didn't put him up in the berth, Lucius."
"Of course not, Your Highness! Jacob and his assistants have their own cabin on the Ordovician, with two rooms, in fact. I always take care of my valuable people."
George snorted in satisfaction. He held similar views: talented and knowledgeable people should want for nothing and live in comfort. Then they worked more willingly and with greater dedication.
It was useful for a ruler of any rank to create a dependent elite around himself. Naval minister Lucius Miquela was a clear example of this.
"Lucius!" the prince addressed the minister. "I trust you know how to get to Socrates's palace."
"I do," Your Highness. "I won't claim to know Galita extremely well, but I definitely know my way around the main streets."
"Excellent! In that case, we're not going to need a guide."
They approached the head of the column. Captain Freemer, accompanied by two lieutenants, was already hurrying towards them from the pier. The prince waited for them.
"Is everything ready, Uncle?"
"It is, George."
"Well then, Lucius, lead on!"
"Your Highness!" the guard lieutenant—the same one who'd been present during the taking of the port authority building—interjected. "Apologies, but it would be best for you to go with the second echelon…"
"I know, I know," George waved his hand in annoyance. "Give you orders!"
The royal guards formed the vanguard, followed by the prince, Miquela, Freemer, and the officers, including the lieutenant. Then was a dozen of specially-trained escort soldiers with large shields — in case of danger, they could quickly lock their shields and form a reliable cover for their august charges. Then walked the column of Albionian regular infantry in swamp-colored summer jackets and striped armbands. The barrels of their shouldered muskets were aiming into the evening Galitan sky.
"George, may I?" Freemer addressed the prince timidly.
The experienced captain was fairly comfortable with his youngest nephew Alexander (even though he had to deal with all his oddities and whims), but he was strangely timid in front of the third nephew despite their great difference in age. And yet Freemer remained the only man who still addressed the Albionian princes by their names instead of "Your Highness."
"Yes, Uncle?" George prompted.
"Would you be so kind as to explain my actions upon arrival to the palace? As they say, every soldier has to know his own maneuvers. Especially an officer."
"Of course, Uncle! Upon arrival, first and foremost, the palace needs to be cordoned off to make sure no one is able to slip away unnoticed. Afterwards, act in accordance with the circumstances. I think you'll know what to do without my orders. If necessary, I will come to your aid right away."
"Thank you, I understand."
Freemer immediately started telling something quietly to the officers walking behind them. George caught pieces of phrases: "The first platoon goes left, the second goes right… third and fourth at the portal… second company to await orders… the escort? With His Highness, of course!"
"Lucius," the prince called out to the minister. "Who is in charge at the palace in the viceroy's absence?"
"I have no idea, Your Highness! There are no rules on that account, even in Albion. Maybe the steward?"
"All right, we'll figure it out."
The prince thought about it.
What was happening at the palace in this late hour? Probably nothing special! With their master away, the servants were probably relaxing, drinking wine almost openly since the local climate encourages relaxation and a constant siesta. The mistress had probably invited guests over, primarily admirers from among the young impoverished aristocrats. Probably cooing somewhere under the rose bushes…
It's certainly beautiful here, George thought. Sunny. It's sad to burn such beauty down. The prince was looking at a tower between the cypress trees. But we'll have to.
The column was walking uphill along a hedge. The hedge was stretching to their right; to the left the road ended in a drop down the mountain, overgrown with pines, cypresses, and deciduous trees unfamiliar to George.
"Turn right!" Lucius Miquela informed the vanguard quietly.
The hedge ended maybe twenty meters up the hill.
After turning, George and his retinue saw an unexpected view: the palace's wrought iron gate was wide open.
At least a dozen fully-loaded carts were standing in front of the gate. The carts were harnessed to decent-looking heavy draft horses of a breed unfamiliar to George. Several large young men with shaved heads were carrying an enormous wardrobe into the gate at that very moment. They were coordinated by a handsome young man dressed either like a not particularly wealthy aristocrat or a merchant that hadn't had time to make something of himself. Some distance away the process was being observed by several older men, dressed as sufficiently wealthy aristocrats but still retaining the air of merchants. If there was one thing George Burroughs Moreau could tell right away, it was someone's breeding or lack thereof.
At the sight of the procession moving from around the corner, the faces of the people at the gate stretched out in surprise. Even the handsome young man turned around in confusion.
"Halt!" George said over his shoulder.
The order rolled through the entire column.
The royal guards stared devotedly at their prince. These lads knew that such general orders did not apply to them.
"Uncle, have the area cordoned off! Lucius, come with me."
George started walking decisively towards the people whom he'd mentally labeled merchants.
The royal guards were following him and the minister in a tight semicircle. Meanwhile, Freemer's soldiers quickly surrounded the palace, running past the gate and diving into the hedge by the road.
"I am George Burroughs, Prince Moreau, the loyal servant of His Majesty King Terence of Albion," George introduced himself coolly. "Explain what is happening here."
"Yo… Your Highness," the oldest of the Galitans muttered in confusion. "I am Mauro Verrentine, horse breeder. I'm simply moving in."
"Moving in?" George asked, not comprehending.
"Yes, Your Highness, moving in! I bought this palace from the viceroy two days ago!"
"Nazim Socrates?" the prince clarified in a downtrodden voice.
"Yes, Your Higness! The viceroy emptied out the palace last week before the inspection and the negotiations!"
Horse breeder Verrentine suddenly caught on, "Would His Highness like to go inside the palace? The kitchen isn't working yet, but I can have cold appetizers and wine served in a moment!" Then he shouted towards the gate, "Hey, Pietro! Set the table! Right now!"
George and Miquela exchanged bewildered glances.
"This is a surprise," the minister muttered.
"Please, Your Highness!" Verrentine seemed to have overcome his timidity in front of the unexpected guests. "Follow me!"
George wasn't hearing the disgusting servility and obsequiousness he hadn't been able to stomach from the people surrounding him since he was little. For some reason, the simple horse breeder, who'd clearly made his fortune with his own mind and labor instead of inheriting it, endeared himself to the prince.
"Well," George finally got ahold of himself. "Wine it is then! After all, we've been climbing this mountain, and wetting our throats would not be a bad thing. Would it, Lucius?"
Miquela, naturally, didn't object.
"Just don't take it amiss, dear host," the prince addressed Verrentine, "but the royal guards will come with us. And there's a reason for that."
The horse breeder's eyes grew wide.
"Not all of them!" George laughed. "Just this dozen. The rest will wait outside. Lead on!"
Damn it! George thought with involuntary respect. How much do you have to believe in the success of your endeavor to sell your palace even before the treasures of the Kapitana see the light of day?