despise and outlaw from their lives when they have the choice to do so. Because they choose to believe in man’s capacity to be better than that.’
They blinked at each other as though from across an abyss. Bahn could barely see the seething anger beneath the general’s impassive features, so well did he hide it.
‘Now, ambassador, if you’d kindly get out my sight,’ Creed growled.
Alarum accepted his dismissal with a cavalier bow. He looked faintly amused as the guards pulled him roughly from the tent.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Bahn at last. He was studying the dagger in his hand again.
Creed ignored him. He remained standing with his eyes locked on the flapping entrance of the tent, his jaw muscles clenching.
‘The dagger,’ said Halahan with a wipe of his mouth, ‘is a ceremonial blade of Mann.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘For taking your own life.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Burning of Spire
On the fifth day of their march, the Imperial Expeditionary Force descended into the country known as the Tumbledowns, where they found themselves looking down upon the snowmelt rapids of the Cinnamon river.
To the north, high mountains stood black and ice-capped against the pale sky. To the west, the Tumbledowns ran on to the horizon. Beyond them lay fertile lands of rice paddies and orchards and vineyards, which rolled onwards past the Windrush into the flat western half of the island where most of its population could be found, and where fields of wheat rippled all the way to the Sargassi Sea.
The army turned south-west on a course that followed the Cinnamon, and which would take them into the Silent Valley and the lands of the Reach, and from there to the ancient city of Tume. The floating city was most probably heavily garrisoned by now. All knew it would need to be dealt with before they pushed on to Bar-Khos in the south.
It was here, along the Cinnamon, where the eager fighting force came across their first Khosian town. The guides told them it was called Spire, and the Imperials did not have to ask them why. It was a hilltown, situated on a high abutment of rock that protruded into the flatlands of the Cinnamon valley. A snaking wall surrounded it, rising and falling over the elevated crown on which its whitewashed buildings stood; the multiple spires of pale granite that stabbed upwards like petrified spears.
By evening, the gates of the town lay breached by cannon shots, and imperial infantry flooded through them into the winding streets within. The overwhelmed defenders fought on, soldiers of the town’s Principari in the main, though with a scattering of civilians amongst them, throwing rocks from rooftops or holding out behind barricades blocking the streets. The majority of the populace had already fled westwards, harried by imperial skirmishers.
For a while a Khosian skyship ventured above the violence of the sack. It even tried to land amongst the turrets of the citadel to evacuate the defenders, but the three heavy imperial skyships were quick to chase it from the scene.
In the pale twilight, Che dismounted from his zel outside Sasheen’s command tent, where she sat slouched on a field chair next to Archgeneral Sparus. Around them lounged members of her entourage, eating fruit pillaged from the orchards that covered the valley to the south-east of the town. Their faces glowed as the flames of the town shot high into the darkening skies.
An empty field chair sat next to Sasheen. As Che approached, he saw that the head of Lucian rested upon it; a grotesque, almost comical sight in the present setting.
Sashseen smiled as she saw him approach. ‘See anything of interest on your ride?’
Che had gone riding around the foot of the rock that Spire burned upon, to free himself for a little while of their company. He’d ridden all the way up the winding route that led to the town’s gates, and to the imperial infantry loitering around them, but had stopped at the heaps of bodies stacked just inside the broken gates, and the stink of death in the air, and the still audible shouts and screams from within.
He’d decided to turn back, and had passed Romano on his way down. The young general and his coterie had been on their way to enjoy the town themselves.
‘They’ve secured the granaries, I think,’ he told the Matriarch. ‘The wagons are coming out now.’
Beside her, Sparus gave a satisfied nod of his head. Extra grain could only be a boon to a general leading an army of this size.
‘Have a seat,’ Sasheen told him. ‘You look weary.’ She turned to one of her aides, and the man hurried to vacate his chair.
Reluctantly, Che settled himself into it, wanting only to return to his tent and his books. The heat of the burning town was palpable even from here. Sool and the three Monbarri inquisitors were amongst the entourage, as were the twins, Guan and Swan, though neither looked at him. Guan stood staring at Spire with his mouth working a silent wordbinding. He held a devotional grip in his fist, a ball of spikes which he squeezed as hard as he could. Behind him sat his sister Swan, stroking a brown-haired puppy in her lap.
No wine this evening, he noticed. The mood was a sombre one for once, as though the sight of the torched town had suddenly entranced them all.
A croak suddenly sounded from a nearby chair. It was Lucian, his forehead pinched from the pain he was in, or the anguish.
‘ Where. Are. We? ’ he belched slowly, his glassy eyes bright with the reflection of the fires.
‘I told you,’ Sasheen snapped as though to a child. ‘We’re in Khos. And over there, on the hill, that is Spire.’
‘ Not. Lagos. Then.’
Sasheen chuckled, and it was an ugly sound in Che’s ears just then. ‘Lagos is gone, Lucian. You made certain of that, you recall?’
The man rasped something unintelligible, and Che looked away.
A rider was approaching, leading a second zel behind him bearing something long and wrapped in canvas. As he grew nearer, Che saw that it was Alarum, his lean face shadowed by the beginnings of a beard. The spymaster greeted them with an upraised hand as he drew to a halt.
‘You’ve been busy,’ he said with a glance at the town. His face was bruised on one side, and his lip scabbed over where it had been split.
‘So have you, by the looks of it,’ Sparus observed. ‘You delivered the terms, then?’
Alarum nodded, then gently eased himself from the saddle. He steadied himself as his legs took his weight.
‘To Creed himself?’
‘Of course. And, yes. His answer was hardly a surprising one.’
Sasheen remained slouched in her chair. ‘He did that to you?’
‘No. That was Halahan of the Greyjackets. I baited them as much as I dared. Their moods became…’ he waved a hand for right the word, ‘… transparent.’
‘And?’ demanded Sparus.
‘A drink first. It’s been a long and tiring ride and I haven’t stopped in hours.’
‘Later. Tell me now.’
Alarum raised his eyebrows, then leaned an arm wearily across the saddle. ‘Creed is confident. Don’t ask me why, for his army is as small as we’ve been hearing it to be. I’d say he’s actually looking forward to meeting us in the field.’
Sparus was listening to every word with fierce attention. ‘His health?’
‘He looked trim. Fighting fit.’
‘What about my gift,’ interjected Sasheen. ‘How did he take it?’
The spymaster smiled, though it was more of a flinch. ‘Oh they took it well. First they beat me a little, then they lectured me on all our wrongs. Creed gave me this as his response.’ Alarum stepped to the pack zel as though
