THE WEEK OF CELEBRATIONS at last concluded, I retreated to orbit and the Tamerlane. I knew I would be called before Legion Intelligence to give further reports on Iubalu before long, on the disposition of the legions at both Gododdin and Nemavand, and on the recordings from what the propagandists in the Ministry of Public Enlightenment were calling the Battle of the Beast. I’d seen some of the film clips already. Composed perhaps of one part genuine footage to ten parts computer generation, they showed the heroic Devil of Meidua and his noble soldiers in their battle against the Cielcin—a battle equal parts cunning strategem and desperate struggle. The best of these was called The Demon in White, which showed a highly fictionalized account of my battle with Iubalu intercut with footage of the triumph in the Campus Raphael. The footage from the triumph, at least, was entirely genuine, and I was delighted to see that—though they had not been permitted to enter the Peronine Palace—Barda, Udax, and the other Irchtani had not been omitted from the war films.

A week of waiting dragged to two, then to a month. The calls came only rarely, and Alexander never came. There was no word from Selene, either, nor from any of the Imperial house. Caesar and his Olympian ilk had forgotten their pet hero, or so it seemed.

I slid back into my classic routine, arising early to take my breakfast alone in the officers’ mess before my exercise and my rounds of the ship—listening to my reading as I walked. By then Valka would awaken and I’d return to our apartments for lunch—her breakfast—after which we would talk or review some piece of work regarding the Quiet or pore over data recovered from Iubalu’s ship.

We’d disabled the vessel, and Mahendra Verus has remained behind to oversee the mop-up. It was not often that one of the Cielcin worldships was taken intact, and an enormous amount of arms and artifacts had to be sorted through, cataloged, and understood. We had much work to do, for I had requisitioned copies of all the texts we’d recovered from the ship and had combed over them with Valka for anything, any scrap that might better illuminate the connection between the Cielcin and the Quiet.

We found nothing.

Iubalu’s was a warship, and carried nothing that might light our way or answer our questions.

Reader, I shall not bore you with the details. The countless hours of reading, nor the longer hours of meetings I came to attend at the behest of Legion Intelligence and the Ministry of War. I shall linger only briefly with Director Breathnach and Lord Bourbon, for they return to our stage.

---

“And the beast knew you?” Breathnach asked, looming over me from his place in the center of the arc of table beside Augustin Bourbon.

Turning from the previous questioner to face the Lord Director of Legion Intelligence, I said, “I have already told you that it did.” There is a certain degree of redundancy packed into every military inquest, but sometimes I think the men like Breathnach enjoy it.

Lorcan Breathnach brushed the glowing holograph panels that hovered before him aside with the air of one sharpening an ax. “And did you know it?”

“As I indicated in my initial report, lordship,” I hooked my thumbs through my belt and stood with feet apart, happy to once again be wearing my customary blacks, “the creature and I had never met before. Its familiarity with me appears to have been a consequence of my reputation.”

Bourbon’s grumbling voice interrupted, “Your reputation?”

“Yes, my lord. You might have noticed it yourself.” It was all I could do to keep a wan smile from my face.

“You did not encounter this creature at Arae?” asked a senior logothete I recognized as M. Rinehart, one of Lorian’s compatriots.

“Messer, if I had, it would have died at Arae with the others.”

“Or perhaps on one of your sojourns among the Extrasolarians?” Rinehart asked.

Breathnach’s nasal tone cut through this cross-examination. “And yet you seemed to understand its frankly . . . insane statements easily enough.” He peered down at what I assumed was the transcript of my exchange with the vayadan-general. “This talk of Watchers . . . Makers and the like.”

Eyes shut, I took a measured breath before responding. “Your lordship will recall that I am an expert on the subject of the Cielcin and their culture—or near as any man may claim. You can find explanations for all of this in my report.” The last thing I needed was to face a Chantry Inquisition, and so everything I knew—and all Valka’s notes—were kept locked in a safe on the Tamerlane or encrypted in the neural lace within her head. There was more I could say, but nothing I should. I did not, for example, explain that I believed the references to Prince Syriani’s visions were genuine.

Better to be believed mad, or a charlatan.

“Nevertheless, the fact remains this prince, this . . . Aeta . . .” Breathnach stumbled over the alien word, “seems to have an unusual fascination with you. I don’t know what to make of that.”

I thrust out my chin and answered, “Neither do I.”

“I find that hard to believe,” said Augustin Bourbon, peering gimlet-eyed down at me. “You seem to have an opinion about everything.”

“Call it an occupational hazard,” I said stiffly, eyes sweeping over the panel before. Fifteen in all, a dozen men and three women arranged in an arc that closed about me like the limbs of an advancing army. Twice as many white banners hung on the wall behind them, each depicting the Imperial sunburst above the shield symbol of the Legion Intelligence Office. The impression given was one of superhuman impartiality and control—a strange backdrop for what felt so deeply petty and personal.

“According to the transcript this chieftain . . . Dorayaica, is that how you say it? Dorayaica intends to unite the Cielcin clans,” Bourbon said. “Do you think it can?”

I looked down at the tiles between my feet, marinating. “The vayadan-general seemed to think so, lordship. It speaks like a fanatic in the transcript, but I think we should take it at its word. The Cielcin dominate by acts of violence, but they break totally in defeat. If Dorayaica can best the other princes in warfare, he will find himself with new lieutenants and a larger and larger force with which to challenge us.” I held one hand out like a blade, palm up as I’d been taught. “This so-called Prophet is not like any other Aeta we have encountered. His attacks have been measured, calculated. He’s shown an understanding of our tactics, our infrastructure, our psychology. He is not simply raiding us like wolves might raid a sheepfold. The attack on Hermonassa, on the shipping lane across the Centaurine Gulf . . . these demonstrate a clear understanding of our methods, an understanding only compounded by his willingness to align with the Extrasolarians.”

“Could arrangements be made with the other chieftains? Alliances? In return for their independence?” asked Sir Friedrich Oberlin, the quiet, junior man who had always seemed so favorable to me.

I had to chew this one over a moment, one hand still tucked into my belt. “It’s possible. During the Vorgossos affair, Prince Aranata was willing to consider a joint operation to attack the other clans. Hasurumn and Koleritan were mentioned by name. Perhaps two of the larger clans? The Cielcin will never agree to an equal partnership, but it might be possible.”

“Decapitating this threat from Dorayaica seems like our best course.”

“You’re assuming we can,” I said acidly, raising my hand again. “With respect to Sir Friedrich, this talk of alliances is all well and good, but we have no means, no method for contacting the Cielcin, nor especially for locating a particular scianda. First Strategos Hauptmann saw to that.” I clamped my jaw shut. The sting of Hauptmann’s attack on Prince Aranata’s worldship still rankled despite the long decades. I knew perfectly well that we would never have made peace with the chieftain, but we had lost not only a temporary ally in the form of one Cielcin clan, but the aid of Vorgossos as well. And as much as the memory of Kharn Sagara chilled my blood, there was no denying the man had knowledge which no one in the entire Sollan Empire possessed.

“Perhaps the Halfmortal will find us a way,” Director Breathnach sneered. A few of the junior logothetes laughed nervously as the old patrician smiled. “Do you see no way forward with these visions of yours?” He looked left and right, soliciting further laughter from his compatriots. M. Rinehart, to his credit, only narrowed his eyes. Sir Friedrich looked down at his papers. “Did not this clairvoyance of yours deliver the enemy into your grip, Lord Marlowe? That is what they say.”

I opened my upraised hand. A kind of shrug. “I am not responsible for what they may say, Lord Director. I do not have visions. The Earth and her oracles do not speak to me. You gave me an impossible task, and I succeeded. Was I meant to fail?”

Neither Breathnach nor Bourbon answered me—nor any of their subordinates.

I knew the answer.

We all did.