‘It might be possible to proceed more gently in our invasion plans,’ the soft-voiced old man said. He was a freakish specimen, as all his people were: a whole head taller than any reasonable man, and with his grey skin marked by pale bands up over his brow and down his back. His eyes were lost in a nest of wrinkles. ‘These Lowlanders have much knowledge of, mmn, mechanics, philosophy, mm, logistics… that we might benefit from. A, hrm, gentle hand…’

Alvdan sat back and let the debate run, hearing the military argue about the risk inherent in relying on a slow conquest, while the Rekef insisted that foreigners could not be trusted and the Consortium pressed for a swift assault that would see their Lowland trading rivals crushed. All self-interest, of course, but not necessarily bad for the Empire. He held up a hand and they fell silent.

‘We have faith in our generals,’ was all he said, and that was that.

Before speaking, the next speaker paused long enough that Alvdan had a chance to steel himself for the words to come.

‘Your Imperial Majesty.’ General Maxin, whose frown could set the entire Rekef trembling, began carefully. ‘There remains the matter of your sister.’

‘Does there?’ Alvdan stared straight ahead with a tight-lipped smile that he knew must chill them all.

‘There are those who would-’

‘We know, General. Our dear sister has a faction, a party, but she has it whether she wishes it or not. They would put her on this seat of mine because they think she would love them for it. So she must be put to death like all the others. Are you going to counsel us now about the place of mercy in imperial doctrine, or lack of it?’

He heard nothing, but in the corner of his eye caught a motion that was Maxin shaking his head.

‘Do you remember General Scarad?’ the Emperor continued. ‘I believe he was the last man to counsel us about mercy. An unwise trait in a ruler of men, he claimed.’