Salute the Dark

‘Gone?’ he had asked, and the survivors had said, ‘Yes, gone.’ And the more they divulged, the more Major Krellak had felt a creeping chill rise within him, because the Szaren garrison had not been defeated in battle, had not fallen to some sudden surprise attack of the Bee-kinden: it had just… died. There had been a kind of fog, and men had dropped dead even as they began to notice it. The men who had found their way to Krellac had been those on sentry duty or patrol, minding the new artillery or keeping watch on the rebels: the men furthest from the governor’s palace and the garrison. Nobody else had escaped. Nobody.

Compared to that, the other news seemed nothing. Fly-kinden messengers had arrived at Myna, some mistakenly dropping into the city, but others realizing their mistake and diverting to find the nearest Wasp camp, which meant Krellac. They came from the provinces north-west of Myna: provinces that had become part of the Empire only after the Twelve-Year War against the Commonweal. They were sent to warn all standing forces that there was some manner of Dragonfly-kinden force massing beyond the borders, therefore after all this time it seemed that the Commonwealers were going to reopen the old wounds. Of course the Empire had a strong force stationed there, if for no other reason than because taking over further principalities of the Commonweal was constantly in the minds of some generals. But how would they fare now, with Myna and Szar in the hands of enemies, and their lines of supply severed?

Everyone was now waiting for him to come to a decision. Some of his officers had advocated pressing on to Myna; others said that he should return to Szar as quickly as possible. Some even said he should press onwards to Maynes, closer to the Commonweal, to combine forces with the garrison there. The decision was Krellac’s alone.

But he found he could not make it. He was a man who obeyed orders, and orders had suddenly abandoned him. He sent messengers to Capitas imploring instructions, and had his men set up camp, and then did nothing.

Thirty

Uctebri shifted in his seat, momentarily discomforted.

Tisamon would do. He had proved to himself long before that Tisamon would be the perfect tool. Now he wondered whether the man might be too good, too fit for the purpose. That had not occurred to him before. He had seen the way that Tisamon had looked at Alvdan, and he was not surprised. What had shaken him was the way that Alvdan had stared back.

He knows, Uctebri thought, followed by, He can’t know and then again, despite all logic, He knows. Not about the plot, of course. Not about Seda or Uctebri’s own perfidy, but about Tisamon. Alvdan knew that Tisamon intended to kill him.

It was impossible, of course. The best of duellists, the most determined of killers, could not achieve it. Yet Uctebri had seen Alvdan flinch when the Mantis’ gaze was turned upon him.

‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ he murmured, leaning forwards.

Alvdan did not return his gaze, but said, ‘That man, we do not like him.’

General Maxin gave a short laugh from the other side of him. ‘Then you are in an ideal position, Majesty, since you can watch him die.’

‘We have ordered it,’ Alvdan agreed. ‘If he does not die fighting, we shall have him executed.’

Uctebri saw Maxin’s brow wrinkle at the bad form of that, but he shrugged and nodded.

‘As your Majesty decrees.’

Alvdan’s mouth twitched. ‘Uctebri,’ he snapped, ‘slave.’

‘I am here, Majesty.’

‘It will be tonight as you have promised. I will accept no more delays.’

So that is it, Uctebri realized, and berated himself for not understanding sooner. The promise of death in Tisamon’s eyes was a final reminder of mortality. Alvdan had given himself over now to the dream of sorcerous eternal life that Uctebri had held out before him. The ritual that Uctebri had promised him was the removal of all worries about an heir and the succession. Uctebri had indeed assured the Emperor that it would be realized tonight, on the anniversary of his ascension to the throne. He had even prepared a room for the promised moment, with eldritch markings on the floor, with candles and bells and crystals, and an altar, of course, for the sacrifice. All of it dressing, all invention, for the ritual would take place sooner than Alvdan had guessed, and to a very different end.

Both Ucterbi’s pale hands were clutched about the Shadow Box, resting in his lap.

The Mosquito-kinden glanced to his right. Chained to the floor and crouching like a pet was the Mantis’ halfbreed daughter, just in case Tisamon should, at the last moment, need some additional persuasion.