The Night of the Swarm

was better. There were always moments alone on a hunt. A blameless death, and the crown to his younger brother, a man unburdened by shame. It could happen. These nights of misery could end.

On 20 Halar, as quiet hands lit a fuse in the kitchen of the Lord Admiral of Arqual, King Oshiram send a page to inform his huntsman that they would be riding at dawn. He lay alone that night, sleepless. At ten that evening he sent his chamberlain by coach to a certain notorious address, with orders to bring back a courtesan; it had been decades since such women had lived in the palace. She arrived by eleven, and he took her to his bedroom and undressed her beside a roaring fireplace. She was very beautiful. When he touched her, he cried.

His weeping terrified the girl. Rising, he told her to dress. At the doorway he handed her a note for the chamberlain: she would be handsomely paid. Alone again, the king went to the window overlooking the little pond where in summer (legend had it) the frogs spoke in the voices of his ancestors. He stood there until he was chilled. Then he pulled off his remaining rings, the ones not given to Syrarys, and threw them into the pond.

At daybreak he ate standing up in the stables with the hunting party, as was his custom before such outings. It was perfect, this smelly, sweaty, anonymous end. Bitter tea, foul tobacco. Surrounded by horses and dogs and brutes who cared only that he rode well, and followed their lead in the woods.

Almost perfect, that is: the chamberlain had infiltrated the stables. There were papers to sign before a day of leisure. And a message that had come the night before, when His Majesty had insisted on no interruptions of any kind.

The king nodded, wolfing sausages: ‘Give it here, then.’ He took the parchment, wiped his hands on his leggings, broke the oxblood seal.

It was from the Archduke of Talturi. Oshiram smiled: a last sting before the drop of the curtain. He scanned the letter indifferently. Then he froze, and started over, reading this time with care.

Beloved Oshiram: I have just left a conference from which Your Majesty was, by necessity, excluded. If by chance you have learned of this meeting, I beseech your forgiveness. The circumstances, and the matter under debate, were quite extraordinary. .

He read on. Gods of death, they were ratifying the Simja Pact! He’d almost forgotten it existed: that framework for an alliance of the Crownless Lands against external aggressors. They’d dropped the initiative when peace between the two great Empires appeared to be achievable. Now the other kings had revived the pact — and wished him to lead it. They were asking him, begging him, to assume the role of Defender of the Crownless Lands.

They are not many, our forces — perhaps one hundred vessels, and twelve thousand men — if Your Majesty should see fit to contribute to its number. They cannot repel the invaders where they are already entrenched. But with skill and Rin’s favour they may prevent the next entrenchment, or at least slow the bastards’ progress across our lands.

All are in agreement: we must have you. Balan of Rukmast is losing his hearing, and brave Lord Iftan’s people cannot spare him: a volcano is bubbling and oozing across Urnsfich. There were other contenders. We argued long. But when the shouting ended there was relief in every face. Because we know you, Oshiram. Because in this time of infinite deception there is one sovereign who never chose aught but truth and courage, and who saw before any of us that the world was changing, and that we must change as well. If you had not called Arqual’s bluff, not let them bring their sham Treaty to your island, how else would the truth have emerged? And when word came that you, in secret, had harboured Admiral Isiq. .

Someone belched. Oshiram lowered the parchment and gazed at the hunters blankly. en a small, quizzical smile appeared on his face.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘it pains me to inform you that I cannot ride today. No, nor tomorrow either. Go and kill a buck without me. It seems the world has little intention of letting me go.’

Finally, to the rebels themselves. Maisa’s land forces were paltry compared to the great legions of Arquali loyalists brought in from the east, but once back in the Chereste Highlands they were relatively safe.

Officially, the Highlands had been annexed six years earlier, along with the city below; in practice, they were an afterthought. The Imperial Governor himself had never set foot in what he called ‘those dull, drowsy hills’. And they were drowsy — until they exploded.

One effect of this drowsiness was that, over the years, the governor had shifted more and more of his troops out of the Highlands and back to Ormael City, where they grumbled less and could be more cheaply maintained. By the time of Maisa’s declaration, the mountain checkpoints had become a form of punishment detail, and the total Imperial presence had dwindled to some five hundred men.

When the rebels stormed Ormael, those five hundred had no chance. A quarter were killed outright. Eighty or ninety defected to the rebels’ side. The rest were stripped of their arms and driven down into the plum orchards, and left there to hobble barefoot to the city gate.

But at sea, matters were very different. Power in Alifros has always meant naval power, and in sheer numbers of men and ships the loyalists had an overwhelming advantage. The murder of the Lord Admiral and his son had cracked the navy’s unity, but that crack would take long months to spread. Meanwhile, loyalist ships filled ports from Etrej to Opalt. The nearest squadrons were less than a day from Ormael.

Just three hours after Maisa’s speech in Tanner’s Row, a light sprang up across the Straits of Simja. It was a warning fire, lit by order of King Oshiram. Ships were making for Ormael from the east.

The scramble was chaotic. Men who had hoped for a day or two ashore were drummed back to the ships; food and water casks were all but tossed aboard. New recruits scoured the city for weapons, hammocks, sea coats, shoes. Romances just hours old fell to pieces, or were consecrated by marriages performed in Ormael’s ruined temples, the monks too stunned by circumstance even to object when couples appeared before them still reeking of love. Isiq and Commodore Darabik aborted their inspection of the boats of the Ormali volunteers, most of which were not swift or seaworthy enough to join the fight. No one seemed to know where the Empress was. Her ministers responded to the question with glares.

Soon lookouts on the Chereste cliffs were able to spot the enemy: thirty warships in the vanguard alone. Some miles further, a second wave was advancing, larger than the first.

Isiq and Darabik received the news on the Slave Terrace, as they prepared to board their separate vessels. The two men exchanged a look. They had made but one move in this campaign; their second would be a desperate retreat.

‘I should have married your sister, Purcy.’

‘The hell you say, my prince. You were destined to take the hand of the Empress. One day soon I’ll be kneeling before you both at Castle Maag.’

Isiq smiled and pressed his shoulders. One day soon.

Then he tightened his grip and looked Darabik in the eye. ‘You must do something for me. Protect Suthinia, if and when you see her. Do your best to keep her alive.’

Darabik’s black eyebrows climbed. ‘My word on it, Prince.’

That was as much as either of them could say. Darabik knew that the Empress meant to keep Suthinia at her side. But not even he and Isiq could discuss Maisa’s whereabouts. The Empress had a new task: to appear everywhere, to stir rebellion in port after port — and then disappear before the loyalists could seize her. To roar like a tigress and vanish like a ghost. The ship she chose to board at any moment was therefore the greatest secret of the whole campaign. Each man who knew where to find her was a man who might be taken and tortured into revealing the fact.

Maisa had shared just one point with Isiq: that she would not be leaving Ormael on his vessel. Isiq had all but revealed that fact to Darabik, with this talk of Suthinia. He did not, therefore, confess anything further: not his dark prognosis for the campaign, nor his terror of catching a whiff of deathsmoke, without Suthinia there to help him fight the urge. Nor his shameful inability to say goodbye to her, the witch he lusted for, and loved perhaps, the dreamer who saw Thasha in her dreams.

‘You don’t mind me taking over the Nighthawk?’ Isiq asked.

‘I suggested it,’ said Darabik. ‘She’s our finest warship, and belongs with the Fleet Admiral. And you should have pleasant sailing, too. The old men say it will be fine for a week.’

‘We are the old men, Purcy.’

‘Almost, my prince. And we made a great mess of things, didn’t we? All those years under Magad. Years of