“Why does your weak king send a filthy pirate to do his bidding?” sneered the Fjerdan ambassador, his words echoing across the cathedral.

“Privateer,” corrected Sturmhond. “I suppose he thought my good looks would give me the advantage. Not a concern where you’re from, I take it?”

“Preening, ridiculous peacock. You stink of Grisha foulness.”

Sturmhond sniffed the air. “I’m amazed you can detect anything over the reek of ice and inbreeding.”