When Ducarte walked through the door, the Queen knew it was bad. She had waited days for this report, trying to be patient—though it ran directly counter to her nature—understanding that it would take Ducarte some time to assess the situation. She had only sent him home from the border two weeks before. After the scene with the girl, Ducarte was no more use as a commander, for it seemed he could barely keep himself together. He jumped at loud noises, and sometimes the Queen had to speak his name two or three times to get his attention. She had hoped that a return to his old duties, the position that he had created and made his own, might bring him back to himself. But as soon as Ducarte entered her throne room, she saw that nothing had changed. If anything, he seemed worse than ever. Whatever the girl had done to him, she had done it well . . . perhaps even permanently. And without Ducarte, the Queen’s position became even weaker than before.
She was facing a revolt. Despite her best efforts, word had leaked out that she was gone, and the rebel leader, Levieux, had laid siege to Cite Marche. None of the overgrown prats to whom she had delegated responsibility had made even the slightest headway in stopping this Levieux, or even in discovering his identity. Her army had finally returned from the Tearling, but slowly, even more slowly than on the outgoing journey, and in this lack of speed, the Queen sensed treachery. Before she departed, she had given explicit orders to Ducarte’s replacement, General Vine, that any man caught looting in the Tear be hung from the nearest tree. But General Vine was not a man to make an army tremble. Only fear of the Queen herself was keeping her soldiers in line now, and she sensed that fear steadily eroding. Her colonels and generals were loyal, for they knew they would be compensated for their share of plunder upon their return. But the rest of the army . . . damn it, she needed Ducarte now! How could he go and fall apart when she could least afford to lose him?
But the Queen allowed none of this rancor to show on her face. Even half of Ducarte’s old competence, she reminded herself, was better than most men could boast. Behind him came two lieutenants, both of whom knew enough to take station behind Ducarte and stay quiet, their eyes cast respectfully to the floor.
“What news, Benin?”
Ducarte tossed his cloak away and collapsed into a nearby chair. Another disturbing sign. Ducarte had never liked to sit before; now he seemed to be constantly looking for the nearest support.
“Cite Marche is in chaos, Majesty. Last week, a mob broke into the Crown warehouses and removed everything, food and glass and steel and arms. The soldiers who were supposed to be on duty have disappeared. Mayor Givene has disappeared, and without him, no one has the authority to mobilize the city militia.”
“I have the authority.”
“Of course, Majesty. I didn’t mean—”
“Get the militia out there and find my property.”
“That might be a problem, Majesty. We’ve caught a few people with glass or steel, but only a piece or two at a time. That rebel bastard, Levieux, has already distributed all of the goods, and he seems to have done it citywide. The food is probably gone already, and we’d have to arrest half the populace to take back the rest.”
“He stole only to give it away?”
“Apparently, Majesty.”
The Queen remained still, but inside her muscles were jumping, galvanized by fury. It was not enough that she had expended a vast fortune to mount an invasion that had netted her nothing. Now she had to come home to this!
“When you find Givene, I want him hung from the walls of Cite Marche.”
“Yes, Majesty.” Ducarte hesitated for a moment, then asked, “His head?”
“His whole body!” she shouted. “His whole body, Benin! Alive! Once the crows have their way, we’ll see how good a rebel he is!”
“Yes, Majesty,” Ducarte repeated dully, and the Queen had to restrain the urge to leap from her throne and slap him. There had been a day once, almost twenty years ago now, when Ducarte had taken a traitor from Callae and skinned the man alive, working slowly and methodically, impervious to the man’s screams, shaving flesh with his knife as a sculptor would shave clay. The old Ducarte would not have needed clarification. The old Ducarte would simply have understood. The Queen took a deep breath, feeling everything tip precariously inside her.
“What of Demesne?”
“At this moment, Demesne seems relatively calm, Majesty. But I’ll wager not for long.”
“Why not?”
“I sent several of my agents out into the countryside, Majesty, to assess the likelihood of a slave revolt. They found little to worry about from that quarter.”