The Invasion of the Tearling

“Much better. But we should refine it even further if we can.”


Oddly enough, the Queen owed this newest discovery to the Tearling. More than eleven hundred soldiers had died of snakebite at Lake Karczmar, and the recovered bodies had arrived in Demesne bloated black, pumped full of toxin. The toxin had been difficult to harvest, and several soldiers had died collecting specimens, but the rewards were worth it. Not only did the venom kill quickly via both injection and ingestion but it also had a sweet taste, easily hidden by wine or mead. So many poisons were bitter; this one would be a valuable addition to the Queen’s collection.

“Your Majesty.”

Beryll had come in behind her, his soft tread inaudible. He rarely came down to her laboratory; Beryll was the most efficient man the Queen had ever known, but he didn’t have the stomach for her experiments. He kept his eyes carefully away from the glass.

“What is it?”

“A rider from General Ducarte. The army has broken the Tear line in the Almont and begun to move down the Crithe. The Tear are in retreat.”

The Queen smiled, a more genuine smile than she had produced in weeks. There had been so little good news lately. “Send some heralds out to announce it, here and in Cite Marche. That should stop their squabbling up there.”

“The General estimates that he will advance at least three miles per day.”

“Ducarte’s estimates are always accurate. Send him my congratulations.”

Beryll consulted the letter in his hand. “He also reports that the villages in the eastern Almont were evacuated in advance of the army’s arrival. There was no plunder; all the army found were a few sick animals left behind. The rest of the Almont may be abandoned as well.”

“So?”

“Ducarte’s soldiers grow restless, Majesty. Spoils are a part of their compensation.”

“I don’t care about spoils,” the Queen muttered, her voice petulant. Gold, slaves, livestock, lumber … these things would matter greatly to the army, yes, but they no longer mattered to her. What she wanted was in New London.

Still, she reflected, this news had not come a moment too soon. Production had slowed in all sectors of the Mort economy, but the hardest hit came in mining, where the casualty rate among slaves had always been high. The Queen’s suggestion that the foremen drive their slaves a bit less harshly had been met with thinly veiled ridicule. Mining in Mortmesne was a numbers game, defined by dangerous conditions and heavy turnover. The mill needed grist, and each day it seemed as though a rash of new complaints poured in from the mining communities in the north.

Fingers tapped on the glass behind her. Medire, his eyebrows raised, motioned toward the woman, asking if they were done. The Queen nodded and turned away as he threw a cloth over the corpse. Beryll was still waiting expectantly.

“What?”

“Also a message from Lieutenant Martin in the north. Three more attacks in Cite Marche. His intelligence suggests that rebels are planning to move on to other cities, including Demesne.”

“Nothing about the man Levieux?”

“Nothing in the note, Majesty.”

“Wonderful.” The Queen wondered if she truly had made a tactical error in removing Ducarte to the front. Surely he would have produced some results by now. But it was too late; Ducarte was nearly halfway across the Almont, and he would not take kindly to being yanked back and forth.

“What do I have tonight?”

Beryll closed his eyes, consulting memory. He was over ninety years old, had fallen victim to multiple frailties, but his mind remained strong and regimented. “You have dinner with the Bells, but they won’t be here until six. You have plenty of time.”

“I need a nap.”

“You take too many naps, Majesty,” Beryll murmured, in a tone of heavy disapproval.

“There’s nothing else to do. I don’t sleep at night anymore.”

This was true. It was the dream, which never left her lately: the inferno, the man in grey, the girl. The Queen found herself unable to shake a sense of impending disaster.

“Why not take one of Medire’s concoctions?” Beryll asked.

“Because then I would need to take them habitually, Ryll. I have no wish to become dependent.”

“You are dependent on me, Majesty.”

The Queen chuckled. The rest of her servants maintained a formal distance, necessary but often tiresome, but Beryll had been with her since he was seven years old, when she had selected him from a pit of Mort nobles awaiting execution. His parents had already died in the uprising, and the Queen had been moved by the solitary child, his face full of a pain that the Queen recognized and still dimly remembered from her youth: abandonment and loss.