Lan looked at her, startled.
Azrael merely nodded, unsurprised. “So be it. Take them to the garrison. I’ll be along presently. And you, to your chambers,” he told Batuuli as the dead men were marched away. “There you will stay under watch until you have earned release.”
“Shall I? And here I thought I would be punished.” Lady Batuuli rose, looking over at the table where Lord Solveig sat and watched all this play out with a bored eye. “Will you join me in exile, brother? Unless you’d rather stay and enjoy our dear father’s company.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Solveig said, idly fondling a courtier’s breast while staring too directly at Lan. “I quite like the company tonight.”
Azrael’s eyes sparked brighter through the sockets of his mask. He raised a hand and every pikeman in the room came one step out from the wall.
Solveig looked at each one in turn, then sent a crooked smile up at the imperial table. “Still haven’t forgiven me, eh?”
Azrael waited, his hand motionless in the air, like the sharp points of all those pikes.
“If it’s any consolation, she wasn’t that good.” Solveig pushed his chair back and stood, taking the bottle of wine with him. “I was disappointed, in fact. You’d think a warmblood would be…livelier.”
Batuuli laughed with him and they left together, arm in arm, with their courtiers and servants trailing after. Azrael watched them go, glanced once at Lan, then looked at the last of his Children.
Lady Tehya masked herself again.
“Go, then,” said Azrael, taking up his cup.
Lady Tehya held out her arms like a puppet on strings and let her head tip to an awkward angle. She jittered, then swept up onto her feet and sketched a doll’s bow in the direction of the imperial table. When she straightened again, her arms dropped and suddenly, without moving at all, she was no longer a puppet. She looked at her father without speaking as the rest of the room ate and drank and laughed. Then she turned, beckoning to her statue-children, who all fell into two neat rows behind her and followed her away.
“Now,” said Azrael and turned his eyes at last on Lan. “Speak.”
“Lord Azrael,” she began.
“Am I?”
Again, she stuttered to a stop. “Huh?”
“Am I your lord? I have never been titled by the living. Indeed, when last I spoke with the emissaries of Men, I was told they would never acknowledge nor submit to my right of rule.” His gaze moved over his dead court. Where his eye lingered, dead men and women bowed from their chairs and showed him fawning smiles. “They were wrong, as things turned out. But if the living can bring themselves to at last admit their defeat, I suppose I can be gracious enough to accept their honorifics.” He looked at her again. “Am I now lord over the living as well as the dead? Shall I send my Revenants to hear the oaths of my full people? Shall they ask a tribute in my name? Or yours?”
“I…”
“I am not made foolish by empty praise, nor by titles no Man would honor. Do not insult me so again.” His claw tapped at the side of his cup. “Who are you?”
“Lan.”
Faceless, he nevertheless registered some modicum of interest. “I’ve not heard that one. I shall have to add it to the great book.”
“It’s short for Lanachee.”
“Even better.” He looked her over, dredging a bit of bread through the sauce that had pooled around the pig’s head before slipping it between the stone lips of his mask. Sauce, as thick and red as blood, oozed out through the dry edges of that gruesome wound and trickled down the side of his throat. “Does it have some meaning?”
“It’s where my mother lived as a child. The town or maybe the state, I don’t remember. She came over from America, before they knew it wasn’t just there.”
“How fortuitous. There is little left of that land.”
“There’s little left of any of them.”
A few courtiers murmured at this bold statement, but Azrael himself merely grunted and helped himself to the pig’s right eye. “I left them more than they deserve. You’ve come a long way, you say.” The left eye. “Whence?”
“Norwood.”
A smattering of derisive laughter let her know which of the courtiers knew where that was, but Azrael merely tipped his head. “Distance is relative, I suppose, but that sounds more like a long time than a long distance. How long have you been traveling? Do you know?”
“Two months. If I could—”
“How do you know?”
She blinked at him, flustered. “What do you mean?”
“How do you know it has been two months? I confess, I rather thought time would be among the first of Man’s conceits to be surrendered in the age of my ascension. One day is so much like another. How do you count them?”
He was making fun of her, he had to be…but she couldn’t see the joke and what little she could read of his masked face showed only curiosity. “By the moon,” Lan said at last. “I left Norwood at New Crow Moon and it’s past Full Milk Moon now.”
“Those are farming names.” Azrael eyed her with greater interest. “Do they farm in Norwood?”
“Yes. My mother and I had a small orchard.”
“Of?”
“Peaches. Lord Azrael, if you would—”
“In what state?”
“What?”
“The peaches,” Azrael said patiently as the members of his court snickered and whispered at each other. “In what state of growth did you leave your family orchard?”
“It…Fruiting,” she stammered, utterly nonplussed by this line of questioning. “There’s always some in fruit. We use greenhouses.”
“Ah. Yes, I suppose you’d have to, in this cursed climate. Did you bring any?”
“I…I traded them to the ferrymen.”
“Pity. I had a peach once. I remember it fondly.” He beckoned to a servant. “Fetch Deimos. All the same, two months is a suspiciously long time to travel from Norwood to Haven,” he continued as the servant left. “Did you walk?”
“Part of the way. Please, can I just—”
“How many days would you say you walked?”
Lan gave up with a stifled sigh of frustration and said, “Six. From Norwood to Ashcroft.”
“And afterwards?”
“I took ferries.”
“Ah.” Azrael tore a strip of meat from the boar’s head and dredged it through the sauce pooled on the platter, but didn’t eat it. “So in point of fact, you have neither come a long way nor traveled a long time. You have walked a little, rode a little and mostly waited.”
Laughter swelled again along the tables flanking her. Lan just stood there, feeling heat crawl in her cheeks.
“But never mind. You are here now, however it happened.” Azrael raised a beckoning hand, but not to Lan.
Marching boots behind her. Lan looked back and saw not a pikeman or a palace guard, but a Revenant in full uniform, the mark of the scythe in silver on his chest-piece and his rank indicated somehow in black braids and skull-shaped pips. He did not give her so much as a glance, but went directly to the dais and dropped to one knee beside her. Even at rest, his hand gripped the hilt of his curved sword, as if restless to draw and be about the slaughter for which he and his kind were so widely known and feared.
He was so young, or had been when he’d died. Younger even than Lan, maybe. She looked at him and tried to see someone’s son, someone’s older brother, someone’s sweatheart gone away to war and never returned…but couldn’t. He was a Revenant now, whatever he’d been in life.
“I require a vanguard of Revenants sent to Norwood,” Azrael said, breaking Lan from her sickened fascination. “Bring back peaches.”
“At once, lord,” said the Revenant, bending his neck in a curt bow.
Lan unthinkingly lunged to intercept the Revenant as he marched away, but her way was immediately blocked by crossed pikes. She swung on Azrael next and was forced to her knees before she managed a single step. “Stop it!” she shouted, straining against the pikemen who held her so easily. “You can’t do this! You can’t kill them!”