would give the lie to that, and Gesa reckoned that very soon someone would be asking why a dead man had been dragged out and left so prominently within a mile of the camp. It was good odds that someone else — perhaps Kymene, the Mynan general, who seemed one of the sharper blades around when it came to mistrusting people — would guess that some manner of message was intended.
By that time, Gesa had already taken her turn carrying the body, and found the folded message hidden in the dead man’s boot. By the time anyone started asking difficult questions, there would be no evidence left for them to find.
It had all gone off very smoothly indeed, and she had experienced a flush of pride at being part of Army Intelligence, which had taken the time to devise dozens of such stratagems while the Rekef just bickered and carried out purges and suffered from internal unrest.
Then she had read the orders.
She had reported to them earlier on the structure and the leadership of the Collegium camp, stating that they were divided irregularly, Maker’s Own Company into larger units, the Coldstone into smaller, various hangers-on such as the Mynans operating each to their own; that they had no clear chain of command, with decisions being made by a council consisting of the Mynan leader, the big Khanaphir, the two Company chief officers, and whoever they chose to invite along; that their infantry was well armed, armoured and supplied, but that their automotives looked hastily converted for war. She had made plain, in her report, that she was well placed for a variety of mischief within the camp, as well as providing further reports when possible. There was no other Imperial agent within the camp that she was aware of. She had made of herself a prized asset.
And they had thrown it all away. Here then was her order, and it was a kill list of majestic proportions, nothing more sophisticated than the thug’s work that her compatriots were tasked with back inside the city. Amongst all the ingenuity they could have set her to, this was the result. All the names she had mentioned were echoed back to her, mocking. Kill them. Kill them all.
She was just one woman, and not a trained assassin. Yet here were the orders: kill Kymene, kill Amnon, kill Marteus, kill Elder Padstock, and a half-dozen other names along with them, work enough for a whole team of specialists. Suicide for a single spy.
And that was exactly what these orders were, she realized. They were a death sentence pronounced on her, and finally she understood.
Her service, her beloved Army Intelligence, had overstepped the mark. By virtue of its efficiency, by the way its successes showed up others’ past failures, it had come under the red and angry eye of the Rekef, and this was punishment for her and for who could know how many others. Orders that could not be carried out, inviting disobedience or outright failure. Elimination, therefore, of those Intelligence agents who had shown themselves capable servants of the Empire. I’ve been sold, she thought numbly. After all my work, just sold down the road, cast off. Cherten, she realized, must be a Rekef man after all, one of many, surely, ensconced within Intelligence ranks. Despite the stakes, despite the battle to come, the Rekef had not changed at all since the last war. It was more concerned with infighting than with the Empire’s success.
For a moment the mad thought gripped her — to run, head for Capitas, expose the whole shabby plot to… But there was nobody to whom she could go, and Capitas was the haunt of General Brugan, whose vengeful hand lay all over these orders.
She could ignore the commands. She could pretend she had never received them. Unless there was another agent, who had seen her take them. Now that the breath of the Rekef was on the back of her neck, she suspected everyone and everything.
Or she could obey, take at least a bite out of that kill list, and surely die in return, unknown and despised by friend and enemy alike.
She crumpled up the orders, then found a fire to consign them to, but she could not burn them out of her mind.
General Brugan had slept well last night, for the first time in months, in fact. The Empress had called him to her bed, but their lovemaking had been markedly different. He could almost persuade himself that all those memories, the nights of terror and helpless desire, had been just a nightmare. Seda had behaved as the demure Imperial wife that befitted a general’s station, anxious to please, demure and needful.
He had not gloated, nor mistreated her. What need to, when she was telling him that he had won?
With Vecter and Harvang, and Harvang’s man Ostrec, and all the other willing tools who had flocked to Brugan’s banner, it had been a simple piece of Rekef machination to isolate the Empress. Her favourites had been arrested, men such as Gjegevey now peopling the cells below the palace and waiting for Brugan to decide how best to dispose of them. Palace staff and higher-ranking functionaries of dubious loyalty had been redeployed, or sometimes just made to disappear. A silent coup had taken place, for the good of the Empire. Seda, who had momentarily escaped from the role that Brugan — and history — had intended for her, was now back in her place.
And the rest of it — the blood, the nights, the queasy, squeamish terror of it all — he could forget. He could write it off as an aberration, the pressure of office overwhelming the woman’s mind for a moment, but now put right. Even on his way to meet with Harvang and the others, with a half-dozen men at his back, Brugan paused a moment and shook his head, feeling unsettled.
All done with, he promised himself. All dealt with. It’s over.
And, of course, with the resumption of the world’s ways came the chance to deal with other irritations that had crept up on him while he had been distracted. It was true that the last war had torn some holes in the cloak the Rekef cast over the Empire and beyond, what with Brugan and his two rivals struggling against one another for control. Now it was time to stitch them closed again, to draw down the impenetrable Rekef veil of fear and secrecy, and to cut off whatever might try to crawl through the gaps. Such as Army Intelligence: those upstarts, the second sons, who had always been little more than a mouthpiece for the Rekef’s views, hands to undertake the tasks the Rekef disdained, and a source of convenient placements for Rekef agents. They had got above themselves. Without a stern Rekef eye on them, they had begun to imagine that they could actually do the Rekef’s job.
Brugan knew his proper priorities. The Empire must be protected from its enemies from without, of course — a task that was usually pursued proactively — but more importantly the Empire must be protected from internal strife. The status quo must be defended, and Army Intelligence had begun to make ripples. If they had simply been the clowns they were supposed to be, then no harm would have been done, but they had committed the cardinal error of succeeding, and too many people had been left wondering about the Rekef’s power and influence, and questioning the stranglehold it maintained on the Empire. Something had needed to be done, but thankfully there was a longtime Rekef man heading up Intelligence for the Second Army. As soon as Solarno was taken and General Tynan’s people took over the westward push, Brugan could ensure that Intelligence had its teeth pulled, firmly and fatally.
‘General.’
He acknowledged the salute of the soldier, one of the palace staff. ‘Report.’
‘Message from Colonel Harvang, sir.’
I’m on my way to meet the fat fool now, Brugan reflected. What is it that can’t wait?
‘He says to tell you, sir, the orders have gone to General Roder and the Eighth.’
Brugan stopped, staring at the man. ‘Orders to the Eighth from Harvang? What orders?’
‘Forgive me, sir, I don’t know.’ Receiving the full attention of the general of the Rekef was plainly more than the man was comfortable with.
What is Harvang playing at? The unexpected always put Brugan on the defensive, if only because there should be no room for it in a spymaster’s life. He waved the messenger away irritably, and doubled his pace. The possibility that, now the Rekef was firmly holding the reins again, there might be some challenge from the ranks had already occurred to him, and Harvang was certainly the leading contender, especially as he and his little catamite had done so much of the work in putting Seda in her place. But I had looked for more time to consolidate than this. Brugan ran a quick mental inventory of assets within the palace — those who were loyal, those who were for hire — and by his reckoning Harvang possessed nowhere near the support the man would have needed to strike now. Besides, Vecter would never back him, just as Harvang would never back Vecter: a rivalry that Brugan had always encouraged. So this is perhaps his first ranging shot, to see how I will react. And if it’s more, well… The men in formation behind him were a mere formality, of course, but a Rekef general’s orders would suffice to have them kill a mere Rekef colonel, of that he was sure.
