It doesn’t matter, her mind insisted. She would invade the Tearling and do what she should have done years ago: take the sapphires. The reports from the Argive Pass, though still spotty and unconfirmed, made her course very clear. The Tear sapphires still had power, all right, and once the Queen had them, she would tear through the New World like a hurricane. She would light all the fires she wanted, and even the dark thing would cower from her sight.
But still she was worried. Thorne had vanished. It was a special gift of his, disappearing without a trace, but her guard captain, Ghislaine, had evaluated Thorne correctly long ago: “Dangerous, Majesty, always, even if he stands before you wearing nothing.” She wished she knew where he was.
None of her military men were brave enough to ask about the fireplace. Vallee’s mouth still held a hint of sullen displeasure at being silenced earlier, his pout that of a small boy denied a sweet.
Children, the Queen thought grimly. My soldiers are all children.
A throat cleared behind her, such a perfect mixture of signal and respect that it could only be Beryll. “Majesty, Ducarte has arrived. He will be here shortly.”
The Queen nodded, but her eyes remained on the darkened fireplace. She thought she’d heard something over there, a soft hiss like the sparking of a flame. Her patience had shortened, and she found herself unwilling to wait for Ducarte even a moment longer. “Let’s begin. What of Cite Marche?”
“The rebels are contained, Majesty,” Martin replied. “For now, at least.”
“Let’s not call them rebels,” Vise interrupted. “Let’s call them adolescents with too much time and money on their hands.”
Martin shook his head. “I would advise caution in that assessment. We found many overfed young people, yes, and most of these ran at the first sign of real conflict. But we also found a considerable number of idle poor, apparently directed by a man named Levieux. Several of those we took into custody died hard without even revealing his name.”
“What else?”
“Barely anything, Majesty. None of them had much information to give. No one had ever seen Levieux’s face, only received orders through intermediaries. He seems to be operating from outside Cite Marche.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all they had, Majesty, I promise you. They didn’t know anything. Thus, my caution: the rabble may have found a leader, someone who knows how to organize. That would be a serious development.”
The Queen nodded slowly, a thread of disquiet worming through her belly. Another low hiss came from the direction of the fireplace. She whirled, but there was nothing there.
Stop falling to pieces!
The double doors to the throne room opened with a creak of wood, and there, finally, was Ducarte, still wrapped in his traveling cloak. He dragged a prisoner behind him, chained and hooded.
“My apologies for the delay, Majesty!” he called across the room. “But I bring you a gift!”
“Bring it quickly, then, Benin. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Ducarte hauled the prisoner forward, heedless of the man’s groans as the manacles bit into his bloody wrists. Ducarte’s nose and cheeks were still reddened with the morning cold, and his black hair was beginning to thin on top, but when he reached the table and turned his heavy-lidded eyes to the Queen, she found herself comforted, as always, by the dark confidence she found there. Here, at least, was a man she would never need to doubt.
“What have you brought me this time, Benin?”
Ducarte jerked off the prisoner’s hood. The man straightened and blinked in the torchlight, and the Queen’s spirits lifted as though infused with helium. It was General Genot.
“I found him hiding out in Arc Pearl, Majesty,” Ducarte announced, tossing the end of the chain to Lieutenant Vise as he removed his cloak. “In the basement of a knockhouse, and not a wound on him, either.”
The Queen gazed at Genot, considering. Two thousand dead in a surprise attack on his watch. It would be good to make an example of him . . . but not a public example. As yet, few in Mortmesne knew of the disaster out on the Flats, and she wanted to keep it that way.
Still, it never hurt to remind her War Council who was in charge here. Sometimes they tried to forget.
“We behead our deserters, Vincent. But a general who fails so spectacularly and then deserts? I believe you’re a special case.”
“Majesty!” Genot protested. “I carry extensive knowledge of the army, of tactical planning. I did not want my knowledge to fall into Tear hands.”
“How noble of you. And which ignorant but well-meaning whore agreed to take you in?”
Genot shook his head, but when the Queen turned to Ducarte, he nodded.
“Good. Have her executed.”
“Majesty, there was nothing I could have done!” Genot cried. “The attack, it came so suddenly—”
The Queen ignored the rest. She had slept with Genot once, years ago, when he was only a lieutenant, and a different woman might have taken that into consideration. But the Queen was already sifting through her memories. Genot had been talkative after sex, babbling endlessly while she tried to sleep; it was one of the reasons she had never invited him back for a repeat performance. The Queen wasn’t the only one afraid of fire these days; Genot’s childhood home had burned down, and he had narrowly escaped being caught inside the flaming building, taking several bad burn wounds in the process. The incident had left its mark on the adult Vincent, who still had a deep-rooted horror of fire, of being burned.
The Queen leaned forward, lacing her fingers together, and stared into Genot’s eyes. He wrung his bound hands, trying to look away, but it was too late. Something had woken inside the Queen, a hungry, grasping rage that traveled her bloodstream, igniting individual nerves. She sensed Genot’s body, tasted the contours of it: a soft mass of vulnerable cells in her hands.
Dimly, she sensed her Security Council shifting uncomfortably around the semicircle. Martin crossed his legs, looking down at the floor. Vallee had actually turned away to stare into the dark fireplace. Only Ducarte was really watching Genot, his expression the same as on those rare occasions when the Queen allowed him to observe in her laboratory: alert and interested, curious to see what would happen next.
Genot began to scream.
He tore his gaze from hers, but the Queen had him now, and she bore down harder, feeling his skin as a thick, malleable fabric of flesh that darkened and burned in the oven of her mind. His body blackened before her, the skin charring and crisping until the Queen knew that she could turn him inside out and shed his skin as easily as if he’d been a pig on a spit.
The military men were unable to ignore the spectacle; even those who’d tried to look away now stared at Genot, transfixed, as his howls echoed between the walls of the audience chamber. The Queen went to work on his vitals, and Genot fell to the ground, his screams quieting until he could only emit a shallow gargling. His heart was the easiest thing of all: a thick wall of muscle that the Queen tore through as though it were paper, lacing it with fire and then shredding it apart. She felt the moment when he died, the connection between them breaking sharply inside her head.
She turned back to the rest of them, looking for argument. The fire inside her was ravenous now, difficult to control; it cried out for another target. But none of them would meet her eyes. Only a charred, vaguely manlike shape remained on the floor.
A throat cleared behind her. The Queen whirled, delighted, but it was only Beryll, his face expressionless, holding out an envelope. The Queen fought down the thing inside her, but it didn’t go easily. She was forced to tamp it down as one would extinguish a fire, stomping and kicking until it was only ashes. As her pulse returned to normal, she felt both relief and regret. She rarely used this particular talent, understanding that repetition would lessen its impact on others, but it was a wonderful feeling, to let go and give free rein to her anger. There were so few opportunities now.
She took the envelope fr
om Beryll, noting that he had already opened it, and read the enclosed note, unease deepening inside her with every word. All of the satisfaction of the previous few minutes had evaporated now, and she was suddenly afraid.
“You’re going back to the north, Martin. A fire has destroyed the central barracks in Cite Marche.”
“What kind of fire, Majesty?”
“Unknown.”
“How many dead?”
“Fifty-six so far. Likely more buried in the rubble. Someone barricaded the doors from the outside.”
Her commanders stared at each other in wide-eyed silence.
“You’re dismissed, all of you, except Ducarte. Go and take care of this mess, and bring me the heads of those responsible.”
Martin spoke up, an audible quaver in his voice. “The army needs a new commander, Majesty.”
“Dismissed.”
They leapt from their seats. Each took a wide path around the charred corpse of Genot, and the Queen restrained herself from smirking. There would be no more griping complaints or secret meetings from this bunch for a while.
“Shall I remove that, Majesty?” asked Beryll, nodding toward the corpse.
“After we’re done.”
Beryll ushered the soldiers out, the oak double doors closing behind him. Only the Queen and Ducarte remained.
“Well, Benin, you know what I’m going to ask of you.”
“I would have thought you’d want me in Cite Marche, Majesty. A barracks doesn’t burn flat without inside help. There’s conspiracy here.”
“What do you know of this Levieux?”
“I’ve heard the name a few times in interrogation. No one seems to know what he looks like or how old he is, which is a bad sign; whoever the bastard is, he’s prudent as well as cunning. The terrorist tactics we’ve seen recently are new, well planned, and designed to inflict maximum damage. These are severe security problems, Majesty.”
“Severe,” she agreed reluctantly. “And I know you’re the best man to solve them, Benin. But I can’t put any of them”—she gestured toward the door—“in charge of the army. It’s been too long since we went to war, and none of them are experienced enough. We can put that second-in-command of yours in charge of Cite Marche while you’re gone; he seems capable to assist Martin. But I need you on the border.”
“I’m getting a little old to go off to the front again, Majesty. And I’ve grown to enjoy my current job.”
She sighed. “What do you want, Benin?”
“Ten percent of plunder.”
“Done.”
“Not done.” Ducarte smiled, a vulpine smile that slid like ice along her spine. “Also first pick of the children from Cadare and Callae. There aren’t enough since the Tear shipment stopped, and I’ve been losing out lately to Madame Arneau; she’s made some sort of underhanded arrangement with the Auctioneer’s Office.”
The Queen nodded slowly, staring at the floor, ignoring the taste of bile in her throat. “You’ll have them.”
“Then we’re agreed. Any special instructions?”
“Push the Tear out of the hills and into the Almont. We can’t cross the border anywhere else.”
“Why not simply flank them? Go farther north, toward the Fairwitch?”
“No,” the Queen replied firmly. “I don’t want the army within a hundred miles of the Fairwitch. Steer clear.”
He shrugged. “You know best, Majesty. Give me a few days to tidy some loose ends here, and send Vallee to let the border know I’m coming. I don’t want to have to settle any questions of rank when I arrive.” Ducarte swung his cloak over his shoulders. “Incidentally, one thing does keep coming up about the rebel leader, this Levieux.”
“Yes?”
“His accent, Majesty. Several prisoners have mentioned it. It’s well hidden, but the man’s enunciation says he isn’t Mort. He’s Tear.”
“What would a Tear be doing fomenting rebellion in Cite Marche?”
“I could find that out for you, Majesty . . . but no, I’m heading to the western front.”
The Queen opened her mouth to reprimand him, and then closed it as he left the room in a swirl of cold air and black cloak. Yet even this exit, abrupt and disrespectful, was comforting. Ducarte would find a way to dislodge the Tear from the Border Hills; he was a ruthless strategist. Ducarte was the commander she needed now, but her unease resurfaced almost immediately after his departure. Why had the dark thing forbidden her to invade? Did it shield the girl? An unpleasant suspicion crossed her mind: perhaps the dark thing valued the girl. Perhaps it valued her the same way it had once valued the Queen herself. With the dark thing’s help, she had ascended to great dominion, but she had always known that this assistance was not free; in return, she was to find a way to set it free from its confinement in the Fairwitch. But she had reached the limit of her powers, at least until she got hold of the Tear sapphires. If the dark thing had no more use for her, then she held no leverage at all. Counting off problems in her mind, the Queen realized that she was in trouble. The Mort army had been humiliated out on the Flats. The dark thing was moving beyond its own borders. The rebels in Cite Marche had found themselves a leader, a cunning Tear leader with no face. The Queen’s mind gnawed away at these new developments, repeatedly biting down on each of them as one would bite down on a canker, relishing the pain but finding no solutions.
Around the corner, in the hallway that led to the stairwells, the slave girl, Emily, straightened from her crouch in the deep shadows. She had come to Demesne in the previous October’s shipment, but she had never faced the auctioneer’s block. Two men, both of them very polite, had chosen her from the cage, stripped her, and inspected her thoroughly—for lice or some deformity, Emily supposed—before placing her in a wagon with several other male and female slaves, all of them bound for the Palais. Emily was a tall woman, pretty but well muscled, just the way the Red Queen liked her female slaves. That was why she had been chosen. Emily missed her parents, her brothers and sisters, longed for them every day . . . but that longing paled in significance beside the fact that none of them would ever be hungry again. After a quick look in each direction, Emily moved lightly down the hallway, her face a pleasantly stupid mask in case she was intercepted, her mind already composing a message to the Mace.
Glynn Queen.”
Kelsea dropped her pen, startled. She was alone in the library today, a rare occurrence. Father Tyler was supposed to be here, but he had sent his regrets: unexpected illness. Pen was with her, of course, but he didn’t really cut into Kelsea’s solitude, and anyway, he had nodded off on a nearby sofa while Kelsea worked. If Mace should walk in, he would give Pen hell for napping, but Kelsea was just as happy to have him get some sleep. Now, as the thin, lisping voice spoke again, Pen jerked awake.
“You ride toward death, Glynn Queen.”
Kelsea turned and saw Andalie’s youngest daughter standing before her. The child was tiny, a pixie really, fine-boned like Andalie, with dark hair that grew in a close cap around her head. Kelsea hesitated; she was never sure how to deal with children. The best she could seem to do was talk to them like tiny adults. But then she saw that the girl’s eyes, as grey as her mother’s, were distant and unfocused. Her usually ruddy face—all of Andalie’s children seemed to have taken their father’s complexion—was pale now, a milky luminescence in the candlelight. The girl was no taller than Kelsea’s work desk, little more than a toddler, but Kelsea felt a sudden urge to back away.
“I see you, Glynn Queen,” Glee lisped. “I see you riding toward death.”
Kelsea turned a questioning glance to Pen. Glee was supposed to stay with Andalie or Marguerite at all times, but even Kelsea knew that there was a wraithlike quality about this particular child. Mace said she was a sleepwalker, and several times Glee had been found wandering the Queen’s Wing in unexpected places, even rooms that were supposed to be locked. But Mace had said nothing about what Kelsea was seeing now. The girl wasn’t sleepwalking, for her eyes were
open and staring. She didn’t seem to know where she was.
Kelsea got up from her desk. “Glee? Can you hear me?”
“Don’t touch her, Lady,” Pen warned.
“Why not?”
“She’s in a trance, just like you were a week ago. Andalie told us not to touch or disturb you. I don’t think we should touch the girl.”
“The queen of spades,” Glee murmured hollowly, staring straight through Kelsea to the wall beyond. “Crossing. The dead hand grasping and empty.”
The dead hand. Kelsea paused at that, for “dead hand” translated roughly into Mortmesne. Several members of the Guard, notably Coryn, had taken to asking Andalie when they needed advice on something uncertain, health or weather or women. Whether Andalie would answer was another matter entirely; she dismissed questions that she considered beneath her, and she adamantly rebuffed all of Arliss’s clever attempts to elicit information on coming betting events. Andalie had the sight, all right, but here was something Kelsea had never considered: that her children might have it too. Glee moved forward until she was only a foot away, and Kelsea reached out to block her before they collided.
“Don’t touch her, Majesty.” Andalie had entered the library just as soundlessly as her daughter. “Leave her alone, please. I will handle it.”
Kelsea scrambled backward. Andalie knelt in front of her daughter, speaking softly, and Kelsea, who had always assumed that Andalie loved all of her children fiercely and equally, suddenly saw that she had been wrong. Andalie did have a favorite child; it was clear in her face, her hands, the quiet tone of her voice.
“You’re in a dark place, my poppet,” Andalie murmured gently. “And you must come out. You can follow me.”
“I can follow you, Maman,” Glee repeated in her child’s lisp.
“Follow my voice, poppet. See the light, and then you can wake.”
The Invasion of the Tearling Page 9
