The Invasion of the Tearling

In an era rife with butchery, we must still make special mention of Benin Ducarte.

—The Tearling as a Military Nation, CALLOW THE MARTYR

“WHERE IS HE?”

The Queen heard the peevish edge in her own voice. That was bad, but she couldn’t help it.

“He’ll be here, Majesty,” Lieutenant Vallee replied in a quiet voice. The lieutenant was new to her Security Council, a replacement after the death of Jean Dowell, and he always seemed to be on the edge of things, afraid to speak up. The Queen, who usually valued restraint, found the new lieutenant’s tiptoeing manner irritating, and signaled him to be silent. “I wasn’t speaking to you. Martin?”

Lieutenant Martin nodded in agreement. “He’ll be here shortly, Majesty. The message said that urgent business delayed him.”

The Queen frowned. Ten men were seated in a semicircle in front of her throne. All of them looked exhausted, and none more so than Martin. For the past month, he’d been in the north, putting down unrest in Cite Marche. Hundreds of people had planted themselves in front of the Auctioneer’s Office and refused to move until the Crown addressed the economic conditions in the city. It was irritating, but nothing to really contend with. They had no leader, these radicals, and rebellion without a leader was like a tidal wave; it went like hell until it met a cliff wall. The rebellion in Callae had failed in a similar fashion when its momentum simply petered out. But the fighting in Cite Marche had been hard, with several soldiers killed. There was no doubt that many of these men could use some rest. After this meeting, she would give some of them a few days off.

But the meeting couldn’t begin without Ducarte. Her Chief of Internal Security was no doubt more exhausted than any of them. His men had spent weeks trying to figure out who was organizing the protests in Cite Marche, with no answers yet. But Ducarte would get results eventually; he always did. Physically, he was beginning to show his age, but there wasn’t a more skilled interrogator in Mortmesne. The Queen tapped her nails on the arm of her throne, her fingers going automatically to her breastbone. They seemed to go there all the time, of their own accord. It had, in fact, become a tic, and the Queen of Mortmesne had no tics. Such things were for the weak and mindless.

The invasion of the Tearling had begun in disaster. Word had reached the Palais a week earlier: her army had been taken by surprise and scattered throughout the Mort Flats. It would take weeks to reassemble the soldiers and clear the camp. The entire thing was a catastrophe, but there was no one on whom the Queen could unleash her fury; General Genot had simply disappeared. More than a thousand Mort soldiers had died on the Flats, but Genot’s body hadn’t been among the corpses.

He’d better pray he’s dead. If I find him—

Movement to her right drew her attention. A slave was kneeling in front of the fireplace, lining the base with paper.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The slave looked up, her eyes wide, terrified yet resentful. Tear, there could be no doubt of it; although she was dark-haired and quite beautiful, she had the sullen, stupid expression of a Tear peasant. The Queen switched languages. “No fireplace is to be used within this building.”

The girl swallowed and replied in Tear, “I’m sorry, Majesty. I didn’t know.”

Was that possible? The Queen had given a blanket order about fires. She would have to speak to Beryll about it. “What’s your name, slave?”

“Emily.” She even pronounced it in the Tear fashion, without accent.

“Be the last to know again, Emily, and you’ll find yourself for sale on the streets.”

The slave nodded, gathered up the paper from the fireplace, and stuffed it back in the bucket, then stood waiting with a bewildered expression that only irritated the Queen further.

“Get out.”

The girl left. The Queen sensed her Security Council’s eyes on her, questioning. The throne room was cold this morning; no doubt many of them wondered why there was no fire. But the only fires the Queen allowed now were torches and the ovens in the Palais kitchens, some twenty floors below. Not even to Beryll could she admit the truth: she was frightened. In the past two months, disturbing rumors had begun to trickle in from the Fairwitch: miners taken, children disappearing, even an entire family that had simply vanished from a home at the base of the foothills. The dark thing was always hungry; the Queen knew that better than anyone, but something had changed. It had always been satisfied with explorers and fortune hunters, those foolish enough to venture into the Fairwitch proper. Now it was expanding its hunting grounds.

But how?