'I have a new assignment for you,' it said to him now.
'I'd assumed as much.'
A wheeze, dry as tinder. 'You forget yourself, Diplomat. Restrain that arrogance, or I shall see it clipped from you.'
She mistakes my resentment for arrogance, thought Che. How typical of these people.
Che composed himself, enough at least to mutter an apology.
'Very well,' she said. 'Now, your assignment. The Holy Matriarch will be leaving Q'os soon. She will require a Diplomat to accompany her on her forthcoming campaign, as is our custom. In case, as it were, some diplomacy is required within the army itself.'
In other words, Che mused, in case one of the generals refuses his orders or tries to seize power for himself. Che was to serve as the Matriarch's bully boy, then – the threat that would keep everyone in line while in the field.
'The invasion, it goes ahead then?'
'Of course it does. The Matriarch has been politically weakened by the death of her son. A military victory in the field would do much to reinforce her position.'
'What do you need of me?'
'Ah, I sometimes forget how your instructors teach you on a need-to-know basis. Perhaps it is my age, and my faculties fading.' Again that wheezing sound. Che suddenly realized that it was a chuckle. 'I shall explain to you then. You see, we have a tradition in our order, a tradition which stems back to our earliest days of empire. When a Patriarch or Matriarch takes to the field, they in turn take with them a chosen Diplomat.'
'Why me?' he asked bluntly.
'You have never asked such a question before,' murmured the voice.
Che held his tongue. It was starting to disturb him, these things emerging from his mouth before he knew of them. His facade was fracturing; though, worse than that, it seemed that he could not bring himself to stop it from happening.
'It is you,' said the voice, 'because most of your fellow Diplomats have already been despatched to Minos to begin our early negotiations – and also to reinforce the belief that Minos, not Khos, is our intended target. You, Che, are the best that remains behind.'
Perhaps that was even the truth of it. 'My orders?'
'Simple. Obey the Matriarch in all things.'
'That is all?'
'There is one more thing.'
He waited, knowing by now that his handlers liked to leave the most important aspect of his mission to the very last.
'Matriarch Sasheen takes a great personal risk in this venture,' continued the voice, then hesitated, as though bolstering its will to say what must be said next. 'If it becomes apparent that she is about to fall into the enemy's hands… or, likewise, if she decides that all is lost and tries to flee for home… then you, young Diplomat, must kill her.'
'Kill her?'
'Kill her.'
Che glanced over his shoulder, as though someone might be listening.
'Is this a test?'
'No, it is an order. We cannot risk a Holy Matriarch of Mann falling into the hands of the Mercians. Nor can we have her turn tail and run. The prestige of the Empire would suffer too greatly from either occurence. Either she is victorious or she is to die a martyr's death. Is this clear?'
His breath had caught in his throat. He wondered how many previous Diplomats, accompanying a Holy leader in the field, had been given the same instructions. Perhaps all of them, he realized – for never had one of their leaders fallen into enemy hands, or for that matter fled from a battle.
Suddenly, everything Che had ever understood about the Empire's structures of power – and who truly ruled it – shifted in a fundamental way.
'Yes, it's clear.'
'Good. Then be on your way, my child.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Ministry For all the great size of the Ministry of War, its corridors and halls tended to have a deserted feel to them, so that one could make the long walk from one end of the building to the other and barely lay eyes upon another person. It was quiet like the hush of a museum or library. Occasional murmurs could be heard through thick doors of tiq, and in the halls the heavy strokes of clocks ticking. Dogs barked and children shouted in the park outside, though the sounds were muted as they passed through the white-framed windows that flooded the interior with light, the hundreds of glass panes shivering now and again with the distant rumble of cannon.
Guards were stationed at sensitive areas throughout the building. They stood as unmoving as statues, contributing little by way of presence, watching the rare passerby with slow, unfocused eyes.
Two did so now. They knew the man who strode towards them and the general's chambers, for he was Creed's chief aide and disposed to visiting the chambers several times in the course of a day, though this morning his face was paler than usual, and his steps hammered to the pace of a fast heartbeat. As he approached the men on sentry duty, they could see the small green squares of graf leaf still stuck to his face where he had cut himself shaving, and the rough shambles of his dark hair that had yet to be combed through with any order.
The general's personal secretary, young Hist, looked up as the man swept past his neatly ordered desk. The secretary opened his mouth to speak, but the two guards blocking the door intervened first.
'Your business, Lieutenant Calvone,' one of the guards intoned as the man came to a breathy stop before them.
'Not now,' Bahn snapped, and pushed through even before they had time to step aside.
*
'Urgent despatch, General,' Bahn announced as he entered the room with a slip of paper clutched in his hand.
General Creed, Lord Protector of Khos, did not respond. He sat instead with his eyes closed, on a reclining leather chair, while his ancient concierge, Gollanse, plaited his long black hair for the day.
'General,' tried Bahn again, and when again the general still did not respond Bahn sighed, and reminded himself: You cannot rush this man.
Gollanse hummed something tuneless as he finished braiding the man's hair. In the sunlight it looked black as crow's feather, only succumbing to traces of grey at the temples. The general was proud of his mane. He wore it loose during action, for he knew it lent him a youthful flair despite his advancing years. He sighed as Gollanse patted his shoulder to inform him he had finished.
General Creed rose from his chair and looked at Bahn for the first time.
'Report,' he said, from across the room.
'Despatch from Minos. From one of their agents, sir. In Lagos.'
'Read it for me.'
Bahn coughed to clear his throat. ' 'From the Ministry of Intelligence, Al-Minos, Overseas Section. General Creed, be advised we have learned that one of our agents has been successful in the interception of an imperial dispatch in the vicinity of Lagos. The dispatch congratulates Admiral Quernmore's part in quelling the island's recent revolt, but rescinds his previous standing orders relating to the speedy return of the Third Fleet to Q'os following such an outcome. Instead, the fleet is ordered to remain at Lagos for now, pending further instructions. We believe this may relate in some way to the Free Ports.''
Bahn had already read the letter several times. Still, his fingers began trembling again. Steady yourself, man. It might mean nothing. 'It was sent to us by carrier bird four days ago, sir. We received it this morning.'
General Creed betrayed no outer signs of alarm, though Bahn had been expecting such calm. Since the death of
