Skinner had selected Shimmer and one of his avowed mages, Mara, to ride out to with him to discuss terms with the Empress. Just after dawn on a slight rise south of her encampment he pitched the tall cross-piece standard with its long crimson banner and they waited. They had dismounted and Shimmer walked a distance off, her thoughts very far from the coming meeting. The Brethren of course were triumphant. Soon would come the fulfilment of the Vow. All they had dedicated their lives and deaths to. Not one whisper of reserve or disquiet could she detect among them. Smoky's and Greymane's case, so compelling at the time, now seemed utterly implausible, even shameful. Smoky, the Brethren whispered, jealous of Cowl now that he stands next to the commander, not him. Greymane — Outsider! — they sneered. Ignorant. What does he know of us? And yet, she wondered, what of Stoop? Deserter! He must have snuck away, abandoned the Vow!
‘Shimmer,’ Skinner called. ‘You have been quiet of late, reserved. I have noticed. Now is not the time to be troubled — we are close to achieving our ambition.’
She adjusted the fit of her silver-chased helmet, its hanging camail. ‘I wish we had more men to achieve it with.’
‘We Avowed will rule any engagement.’
‘Any engagements, yes. But our reception in Unta-’
A dismissive wave from Skinner. ‘We do not need their approval.’
Shimmer turned to study the man more closely. Approval? For just what… ?
‘Someone comes,’ Mara called, pushing back her thick wind-tossed curls. ‘Four. No mage.’
‘Has she any worth the name at all?’ Skinner asked, more to himself.
‘Very few. But Heng is close. And there are extraordinary presences there.’
‘Thank you, Mara.’
The Dal Hon woman bowed, adjusted her robes. ‘They come.’
Four riders closed. All four male, Shimmer noted. So, no Laseen. Not that she'd expected her to come, but still. It rankled. Surely she and her councillors must understand that they were not to be brushed aside. The lead rider was a Napan, as was common enough among the highest ranks of the Imperium — predictable cronyism, Shimmer knew — and rode under the banner of the Sword of the Empire. So, here the man was, the inheritor of Dassem's position come to treat with one of the very few opponents, if not the only one, who had survived a clash with his predecessor. She wondered whether this was a man capable of appreciating such finely layered irony. Probably not.
With him rode one surprise — a Moranth Gold — perhaps the very commander who had opposed Laseen yesterday. Ah yes, the notoriously businesslike, or perhaps adroit, attitude the Moranth take to alliances now showing through. The two others, one tall, poplar-slim older commander and one younger, appeared commonplace.
They reined in; the Sword drew off his helmet, inclined his head. He appeared flushed, sweaty. ‘Korbolo Dom, Sword of the Empire. Gold Commander V'thell, High Fist Anand, Commander Ullen.’
‘Skinner. I command the Crimson Guard. This is Mara and Shimmer.’ The four inclined their heads in greeting. ‘So, the Empress does not deign to speak with us. Did she give a reason?’
‘The Empress does not treat with hirelings.’
Skinner's arms uncrossed with a scraping of armour. The gauntlets clenched at his sides. ‘I wonder if you have any idea with whom you are dealing.’
‘To the contrary — I know a great deal of you,’ Korbolo answered, undeterred. ‘It is you who knows nothing of me.’ And the man glared his challenge, his hands twisting in his reins, his breath short.
Studying the man, the Crimson Guard commander slowly nodded his helmed head, re-crossed his arms. ‘I believe I now know all I need know.’ He raised his voice, addressing all four. ‘Our terms are these: The Empress Laseen is to formally abdicate all authority and to stand down as sovereign over any and all lands or holdings, or we will prosecute her forces in the field into unconditional surrender.’
The Sword of the Empire openly sneered his disdain. ‘And these are our terms, mercenary. You are an unsanctioned body of armed men and women, no more than brigands in our lands. You will throw down your arms to be escorted to the nearest port for transport or be crucified to a person. The choice is yours.’
Shimmer almost laughed aloud. Gods, could a greater gulf be found this side of the Abyss? This is the man the Empress sends to treat? Did she deliberately wish to goad them beyond endurance?
Skinner had gone still, as had the others of the Imperial delegation. The Moranth remained a mystery to her of course, but the older man, the High Fist, showed flinching reservation in the face of such a blunt statement, yet he did not dispute the terms. The younger commander, Ullen, made no effort to disguise his dislike of the Sword but his face held no reservations, only a measure of… regret. Reconciled to battle and his probable death this one was, perhaps all are, if for foolish or supportable reasons. A shame. They cannot win.
Nodding ponderously, as if in reluctant acquiescence, the Crimson Guard commander, raised a gauntleted hand in dismissal. ‘Very well. The Gods, it seems, are determined that blood shall be shed on this day. We must not disappoint them.’ And he bowed.
The Sword yanked his mount around. V'thell, the Gold commander, bowed as well, saying, ‘A privilege to meet with you upon the field.’ The older High Fist merely inclined his head, his mouth sour and tight. The young commander Ullen's reaction was the only one which gave Shimmer pause; he studied them for a time, an expression in his eyes that one might hold when seeing for the last time something rare or precious. She watched him go, wondering just what he had intended by such a regard. Was he saying goodbye to his own life? Or was there more here than she was aware of? These unknowns troubled her.
Skinner mounted. ‘We will deploy across the south. We must keep the Kanese force bottled up.’
‘Agreed,’ Shimmer said.
He turned to her, gathering his reins. ‘And I am in no rush. I hope to extend this into the night.’
‘I understand.’ Yes. The night. The men exposed, pinned down in the open field. The dread of Ryllandaras's return may alone win the battle for them. ‘Cowl, the Veils and the mages?’
‘Will all be unleashed. I mean to inflict the lesson here, Shimmer, that none should oppose us.’
‘What d'you think they're saying, Sarge?’ Kibb asked, his gaze shaded to the south.
They're steppin on each other's bloated ideas of their own self-importance and now we're all gonna die because of it! That's what they're talkin’ about!
‘Nothin’ important, Kibb. Just a formality.’ A formality before we all get buried by the Guard. Still, Nait had a hard time putting aside what he witnessed last night. Those two old veterans actually blocking Ryllandaras! How'd they do that? How could anyone? It was like the old stories of the clash of champions from before Dassem's fall. Like he'd heard some of the Talians saying they saw at Heng. Then the beast moving so fast — they only brushed it with their munitions — and it was gone like a ferret down a hole. How could anything that big move that quick? Because he's a damned Ascendant, that's why, Nait my boy. And those two stopped him cold for a time, think about that! It occurred to him that the survival potential of his own skin — and that of his squad — might go way up the closer he managed to get to those two. Something to keep in mind out there on the field. In the meantime, though, he had to select a corporal. He'd rather not — no need to give someone the actual authority to sniff at all your commands and dispute all your plans… but he had to select someone to take over when Hood finally managed to pin him down long enough to squash him. Not that he'd care after that anyway! He'd be holding tight with both hands to Hood's Gate then.
Other than Kibb on watch his squad was all splayed out, snoring. Let ‘em sleep a little longer — they'd earned it. None of the new recruits, that was plain. Not Martin or Tranter. Calling them saboteurs was like calling a shovel a jeweller's pick. No, have to be one of the regulars. May, he supposed. She was smart. Too smart, truth be told. He didn't like the way she watched him. Saw right through him, she did. So how was he gonna shut her up? Make her part of the hierarchy, that's how! Shame she was no Hands with her hair all hacked short, the old scars on her nose and chin, all bones and angles she was. Yes, he didn't think he'd be like to meet another like Hands; she'd been the one for him. What a Hood-damned fool he'd been! This May, though: a hard life, he supposed, before she'd joined. Beat on all her life growin’ up by her da probably. He'd seen it before.