"Let us have a clear understanding," said the barbarian chief. "You are
a prisoner on a warship already light-years from Llynathawr, well into
the Imperial marches and bound for Scotha itself. You have no chance
of rescue, and mercy depends entirely on your own conduct. Adjust it
accordingly."
"May I ask why you picked me up?" Flandry's tone was mild.
"You are of noble blood, and a high-ranking officer in the Imperial
intelligence service. You may be worth something as a hostage. But
primarily we want information."
"But I--"
"I know." The reply was disgusted. "You're very typical of your
miserable kind. I've studied the Empire and its decadence long enough
to know that. You're just another worthless younger son, given a
high-paying sinecure so you can wear a fancy uniform and play soldier.
You don't amount to anything."