Che was a Diplomat, an imperial assassin. A great deal of his so-called negotiations involved powerful movers within the Empire itself. It was his business to get to know these people, for some day he might be ordered to kill any one of them.
They had the rank of general, mostly, so they kept their faces free of the usual ornate jewellery worn by priests of Mann. The exception was a single spiked cone of silver pierced through the left eyebrow in military fashion, as Che himself wore. Their clothes, too, were the plain ceremonial robes of the Acolyte order, though there was nothing otherwise plain about these men.
He scanned each countenance in turn. There was Archgeneral Sparus, 'the Little Eagle', small and quiet and intense, not long returned from putting an end to the insurrection in Lagos and minus his left eye, which he had covered for good taste with a black patch. Then General Ricktus with his badly burnt face and hands, ugly to look at, and his black hair sprouting in patches above ears that were little more than ragged flaps. Beside him, General Romano, still young, boyish even, though the most dangerous man in this gathering, and the one most covetous of the throne itself. And, finally, General Alero, the old veteran of the Ghazni campaigns, who had gained the Empire more territory than anyone save for Archgeneral Mokabi himself – and had been damned for it, for stopping when he did.
All of these men were possible contenders for the throne, key players in that subtle yet deadly game of political manoeuvring that was the backdrop to all that occurred within the Empire. Each had their own factions at hand. In relative terms, the Empire of Mann was still young, and it had been proved that anyone could claw their way to the throne if they were determined enough to do so. The Matriarch herself stood as living testament to this fact.
Three other figures occupied the room. One was young Kirkus, the only son to the Matriarch. He slouched in a chair, his eyes hooded from intoxication, though becoming lively for some reason whenever they glared towards Romano. The second was the young man's grandmother, mother to Sasheen herself, fast asleep in her chair or so it seemed. Around her sandaled feet padded a few scaly lizards wearing collars of gold chain. The last of them was Matriarch Sasheen herself, who stood before the map with a sparkling goblet in one hand, dressed in a long, green chiffon gown that hung loosely open from throat to ankles, save for the waist where it was cinched by a belt of the same material, and which showed her nakedness underneath. As she moved, flashes of soft belly, or pubic hair, or full swinging breasts caught the eye, drawing attention from her face, which was plain and without beauty; the dark eyes were a little too close together, the hooked nose too long, but still, there was something attractive about the woman. Perhaps it was the manner in which she flaunted herself, as though this world was all hers and she could do with it as she pleased. Or perhaps it was due to her smile, which she used often.
'But can it be achieved before winter?' she inquired of old Alero, as she studied the details of the map.
General Alero shrugged in his chair. 'Only if we commit to it now and stop wrangling over the finer points.' The aged veteran appraised the younger men around him, causing a pause in their discussions.
'And you still maintain it can succeed?'
The general chose his next words with care, as one might pluck the exact coinage from a palm where precious few remained. 'Yes, I believe so, though only with some good fortune. There are many things that could go wrong with the plan, and too little room to improvise. If it works, well, it will lead to a resounding and decisive victory. The Free Ports will be ours. If it fails…' he shook his head '… it will be Coros all over again.'
The rain could be heard against the group's overwhelming silence. Che stood motionless. He saw, from the corner of his eye, bright birds swooping high across the room. A servant padded after them, dabbing up their droppings with a cloth.
'I still say it is madness,' broke in Sparus, the Little Eagle. Leather squeaked as men turned to face him. He drew a long breath from his hazii stick, letting them wait for him to continue.
'Two separate naval actions against the Free Ports, not to mention the most important component, a sea invasion of Khos itself – and, by that time, with winter closing in fast. That's presuming the land force even succeeds in reaching Khos intact, and that's a huge gamble in itself, that our diversions will work, that the invasion fleet will avoid interception. Even then, if our land campaign falters in any way in the field, it will be mired helplessly until spring. The Mercians will have time to rally, while our First Expeditionary Force will be trapped with no way out. It would be worse than Coros.' He looked straight at the Matriarch, his one eye glittering. 'For I will say this. If the campaign fails, you will lose your throne along with it.'
'Is that a threat?' quipped young Romano, but Sparus ignored the remark and kept his eye fixed on Sasheen. What he said was true. The Mannian order despised leaders who failed in battle or betrayed signs of weakness. They tended to be disposed of rather swiftly.
The Matriarch glided across the floor between herself and Sparus. She placed a manicured hand lightly upon the Little Eagle's arm, and gave him a brief smile. She turned towards the others, the motion sudden enough to cause one of her breasts to leer from her thin gown.
'Well?' she demanded, directing a scowl at the assorted generals.
The scarred mouth of Ricktus opened to speak. 'Sparus is right,' he declared, in a voice as coarse as his burnt skin. 'The plan is a reckless one, and I cannot believe we are yet this desperate. Let us maintain our siege of the Free Ports. They will fall eventually, so long as we continue to strangle their trade.'
'No,' replied the Matriarch with her palm held up. 'I had good reasons for requesting solutions to the Mercian problem, and they are still valid. For ten years now, we have strangled their trade and battered at their doors. Yet still the Free Ports stand. Others are meanwhile beginning to gain courage from their defiance. We must defeat these Mercians, and do so decisively, if our Empire is to avoid appearing weak. Khos must therefore be taken. Without it, the rest of the Free Ports will either surrender or starve.'
She returned to the map again, which Che had been studying even as she spoke. Pencil strokes had been drawn across it, quite roughly, denoting fleet movements and land actions. He could discern the symbols of two fleets encroaching along the western isles of the Free Ports, one ranging along the archipelago, the other concentrating upon Minos. A third fleet could be seen far to the east, denoted by a heavily pencilled arrow sweeping from Lagos down to Khos. The Matriarch jabbed at this now.
'The Sixth Army remains in Lagos at Mokabi's suggestion. They are sharp from their recent work quelling the insurrection. It would be the perfect surprise, and Mokabi sees it, as he has always seen these things. We create this First Expeditionary Force from the Sixth and what other remnants we can put together, and from Lagos ship them straight down to Khos.'
'But Matriarch,' rasped Ricktus, 'even if their Eastern Fleet were to be drawn away by our two diversionary campaigns in the west, the Mercian squadrons defending the Zanzahar convoys would still remain active in the region. Our ships at Lagos are mostly transports and merchant vessels, along with two squadrons of men-of-war. The Expeditionary Fleet would be poorly protected, as Sparus has already noted. It would take only a handful of squadrons to send the entire force to the bottom of the Miders.'
Young Romano, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, sat forward now as though to pounce. 'Remember though, these diversionary fleets will be the largest yet seen in the course of this war. Mercia will be hard pressed to match their numbers even with the full extent of their navy. They will have to draw the Eastern Fleet away to defend the west.'
'So speaks the expert on naval tactics,' declared Kirkus unexpectedly, and received a glare from Romano in return for his own.
'The Expeditionary Fleet will not be tarrying to engage in any sea battles, gentlemen,' declared Sasheen. 'It will punch straight through any squadrons it encounters, and its men-of-war will sacrifice themselves, if they have to, in order for the transports to make it through. All that ultimately matters is that the Army reaches land.'
Sparus interjected, 'It is fine for Mokabi to sit there in his villa in Palermo, and sketch great campaigns of daring on parchment as though he was still the archgeneral. It is another thing entirely to see such a venture through.'
'He has agreed to come out of retirement, if we sanction it,' declared Sasheen.
'Aye, to lead his beloved Fourth Army while it's safely encamped beyond range of the walls of Bar-Khos. If the Expeditionary Force takes the city from behind, then they merely open the door for him, and he gets to parade through in triumph. If not, well, he can blame someone else for the failures, and assure himself of a safe return to his estate.'
'Mokabi is committed to this venture,' protested Alero, an old comrade of the absent general. 'He will risk his neck like the rest of us.'
'Aye, well, it's telling that he does not volunteer to lead the Expeditionary Force either. And I understand his
