“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.”
The Queen opened her mouth to reprimand him, and then closed it as he left the room in a swirl of cold air and black cloak. Yet even this exit, abrupt and disrespectful, was comforting. Ducarte would find a way to dislodge the Tear from the Border Hills; he was a ruthless strategist. Ducarte was the commander she needed now, but her unease resurfaced almost immediately after his departure. Why had the dark thing forbidden her to invade? Did it shield the girl? An unpleasant suspicion crossed her mind: perhaps the dark thing valued the girl. Perhaps it valued her the same way it had once valued the Queen herself. With the dark thing’s help, she had ascended to great dominion, but she had always known that this assistance was not free; in return, she was to find a way to set it free from its confinement in the Fair-witch. But she had reached the limit of her powers, at least until she got hold of the Tear sapphires. If the dark thing had no more use for her, then she held no leverage at all. Counting off problems in her mind, the Queen realized that she was in trouble. The Mort army had been humiliated out on the Flats. The dark thing was moving beyond its own borders. The rebels in Cite Marche had found themselves a leader, a cunning Tear leader with no face. The Queen’s mind gnawed away at these new developments, repeatedly biting down on each of them as one would bite down on a canker, relishing the pain but finding no solutions.
Around the corner, in the hallway that led to the stairwells, the slave girl, Emily, straightened from her crouch in the deep shadows. She had come to Demesne in the previous October’s shipment, but she had never faced the auctioneer’s block. Two men, both of them very polite, had chosen her from the cage, stripped her, and inspected her thoroughly—for lice or some deformity, Emily supposed—before placing her in a wagon with several other male and female slaves, all of them bound for the Palais. Emily was a tall woman, pretty but well muscled, just the way the Red Queen liked her female slaves. That was why she had been chosen. Emily missed her parents, her brothers and sisters, longed for them every day … but that longing paled in significance beside the fact that none of them would ever be hungry again. After a quick look in each direction, Emily moved lightly down the hallway, her face a pleasantly stupid mask in case she was intercepted, her mind already composing a message to the Mace.
GLYNN QUEEN.”
Kelsea dropped her pen, startled. She was alone in the library today, a rare occurrence. Father Tyler was supposed to be here, but he had sent his regrets: unexpected illness. Pen was with her, of course, but he didn’t really cut into Kelsea’s solitude, and anyway, he had nodded off on a nearby sofa while Kelsea worked. If Mace should walk in, he would give Pen hell for napping, but Kelsea was just as happy to have him get some sleep. Now, as the thin, lisping voice spoke again, Pen jerked awake.
“You ride toward death, Glynn Queen.”
Kelsea turned and saw Andalie’s youngest daughter standing before her. The child was tiny, a pixie really, fine-boned like Andalie, with dark hair that grew in a close cap around her head. Kelsea hesitated; she was never sure how to deal with children. The best she could seem to do was talk to them like tiny adults. But then she saw that the girl’s eyes, as grey as her mother’s, were distant and unfocused. Her usually ruddy face—all of Andalie’s children seemed to have taken their father’s complexion—was pale now, a milky luminescence in the candlelight. The girl was no taller than Kelsea’s work desk, little more than a toddler, but Kelsea felt a sudden urge to back away.
“I see you, Glynn Queen,” Glee lisped. “I see you riding toward death.”
Kelsea turned a questioning glance to Pen. Glee was supposed to stay with Andalie or Marguerite at all times, but even Kelsea knew that there was a wraithlike quality about this particular child. Mace said she was a sleepwalker, and several times Glee had been found wandering the Queen’s Wing in unexpected places, even rooms that were supposed to be locked. But Mace had said nothing about what Kelsea was seeing now. The girl wasn’t sleepwalking, for her eyes were open and staring. She didn’t seem to know where she was.
Kelsea got up from her desk. “Glee? Can you hear me?”
“Don’t touch her, Lady,” Pen warned.
“Why not?”
“She’s in a trance, just like you were a week ago. Andalie told us not to touch or disturb you. I don’t think we should touch the girl.”
“The queen of spades,” Glee murmured hollowly, staring straight through Kelsea to the wall beyond. “Crossing. The dead hand grasping and empty.”
The dead hand. Kelsea paused at that, for “dead hand” translated roughly into Mortmesne. Several members of the Guard, notably Coryn, had taken to asking Andalie when they needed advice on something uncertain, health or weather or women. Whether Andalie would answer was another matter entirely; she dismissed questions that she considered beneath her, and she adamantly rebuffed all of Arliss’s clever attempts to elicit information on coming betting events. Andalie had the sight, all right, but here was something Kelsea had never considered: that her children might have it too. Glee moved forward until she was only a foot away, and Kelsea reached out to block her before they collided.
“Don’t touch her, Majesty.” Andalie had entered the library just as soundlessly as her daughter. “Leave her alone, please. I will handle it.”
Kelsea scrambled backward. Andalie knelt in front of her daughter, speaking softly, and Kelsea, who had always assumed that Andalie loved all of her children fiercely and equally, suddenly saw that she had been wrong. Andalie did have a favorite child; it was clear in her face, her hands, the quiet tone of her voice.