The Invasion of the Tearling

“You’re dismissed, all of you, except Ducarte. Go and take care of this mess, and bring me the heads of those responsible.”


Martin spoke up, an audible quaver in his voice. “The army needs a new commander, Majesty.”

“Dismissed.”

They leapt from their seats. Each took a wide path around the charred corpse of Genot, and the Queen restrained herself from smirking. There would be no more griping complaints or secret meetings from this bunch for a while.

“Shall I remove that, Majesty?” asked Beryll, nodding toward the corpse.

“After we’re done.”

Beryll ushered the soldiers out, the oak double doors closing behind him. Only the Queen and Ducarte remained.

“Well, Benin, you know what I’m going to ask of you.”

“I would have thought you’d want me in Cite Marche, Majesty. A barracks doesn’t burn flat without inside help. There’s conspiracy here.”

“What do you know of this Levieux?”

“I’ve heard the name a few times in interrogation. No one seems to know what he looks like or how old he is, which is a bad sign; whoever the bastard is, he’s prudent as well as cunning. The terrorist tactics we’ve seen recently are new, well planned, and designed to inflict maximum damage. These are severe security problems, Majesty.”

“Severe,” she agreed reluctantly. “And I know you’re the best man to solve them, Benin. But I can’t put any of them”—she gestured toward the door—“in charge of the army. It’s been too long since we went to war, and none of them are experienced enough. We can put that second-in-command of yours in charge of Cite Marche while you’re gone; he seems capable to assist Martin. But I need you on the border.”

“I’m getting a little old to go off to the front again, Majesty. And I’ve grown to enjoy my current job.”

She sighed. “What do you want, Benin?”

“Ten percent of plunder.”

“Done.”

“Not done.” Ducarte smiled, a vulpine smile that slid like ice along her spine. “Also first pick of the children from Cadare and Callae. There aren’t enough since the Tear shipment stopped, and I’ve been losing out lately to Madame Arneau; she’s made some sort of underhanded arrangement with the Auctioneer’s Office.”

The Queen nodded slowly, staring at the floor, ignoring the taste of bile in her throat. “You’ll have them.”

“Then we’re agreed. Any special instructions?”

“Push the Tear out of the hills and into the Almont. We can’t cross the border anywhere else.”

“Why not simply flank them? Go farther north, toward the Fairwitch?”

“No,” the Queen replied firmly. “I don’t want the army within a hundred miles of the Fairwitch. Steer clear.”

He shrugged. “You know best, Majesty. Give me a few days to tidy some loose ends here, and send Vallee to let the border know I’m coming. I don’t want to have to settle any questions of rank when I arrive.” Ducarte swung his cloak over his shoulders. “Incidentally, one thing does keep coming up about the rebel leader, this Levieux.”

“Yes?”

“His accent, Majesty. Several prisoners have mentioned it. It’s well hidden, but the man’s enunciation says he isn’t Mort. He’s Tear.”

“What would a Tear be doing fomenting rebellion in Cite Marche?”

“I could find that out for you, Majesty … but no, I’m heading to the western front.”