"As you can see, we have taken over this country." The voice seeped through layers of blubber, setting the listeners' teeth on edge. "You're finished, Cynthians. Your army, your palace, your queen—all of it, gone." The crowd growled with anger, but spearpoints hovered barely a hair's breadth from their throats. "And I, the Marquess of Brennoria, by appointment of Emperor William Davidow of the Godma Empire, am now the ruler of your nation. Hmm..." He savored the terror flickering in their eyes. "You may look upon me as your queen—pah, your king." He extended his hand; a slave immediately pressed a handkerchief into it. "Gods, this infernal heat." Within seconds, the cloth became a sodden rag. "I wield a king's authority, and I expect you all to understand that completely. Do not even contemplate challenging my power—the Empire's majesty. Any revolt or revolution will bring consequences more terrible than you can possibly imagine." Another fresh handkerchief replaced the soaked one; by now the marquess was perspiring five milliliters with every two sentences. "Do any of you know how we deal with traitors in Godma? Anyone?" No one answered; no one even dared shake their head. "Fucking corpses, the lot of them." he muttered, shifting his massive weight until the thick wooden chair screamed in protest. "You know, don't you, Sir Lunedale?" he asked the knight at his side. "As a soldier of the Empire, you should be intimately familiar."

  Sir Lunedale Gil Assimo thought the marquess meant to settle accounts over his failure to capture Saint·Asini by the deadline, signaling bloody retribution. "My lord, I—"

  "Gil, why so timid today? Stop simpering like a maiden." The marquess worked his greasy lips. "I want you to speak for me! This damned speech is draining me of my precious nutrients!" There was no conceivable way Sir Lunedale could connect this mountain of flesh to anything remotely botanical. "You continue; I'll interject when needed—my meat!" He patted his chin and belly anxiously, as if fearing his sweat might carry away his precious fat.

  "In the Empire," Gil Assimo began after clearing his throat, "anyone convicted of insurrection, rebellion, or treason faces execution. But," he emphasized, "this is no ordinary death—not a clean beheading or a simple hanging. The skin and muscle are methodically sliced from the traitor's body in strips, continuing until only a skeleton remains." He swallowed hard, the words sticking in his throat. The marquess shot him an impatient glare. "Throughout this ordeal, the condemned will beg for death that never comes." Sir Lunedale had witnessed such an execution firsthand; his own father had ordered the sentence carried out. "Afterward, the flesh, skin, and organs are... are delivered to the family as..." He blinked rapidly, visibly distressed. "As their final meal." Horrified wails rose as people clasped hands over their mouths. "Every relation of the offender—from parents and children down to the most distant cousin—will perish. When a person allows revolutionary fervor to cloud their judgment, their entire bloodline pays the ultimate price."

  "Quite right. Precisely so." Even the simple act of nodding seemed to tax the Marquess of Brennoria. "So harbor no thoughts of rebellion. Not even a whisper of it. Is that understood? We are not unreasonable people. So long as you maintain your work and stay within your homes, we will not trouble you, my subjects."

  "We are not your subjects!" someone shouted with unexpected courage.

  Gil Assimo's heart hammered against his ribcage. He dreaded a massacre sparked by the marquess's wrath. Fortunately, the marquess suffered from partial deafness. "Hmm? Did someone speak just now?"

  No one responded. The bathhouse servant who had dared to shout stood in the front row, a spear already thrust through her throat.

  "Since none of you wish to speak, I'll take that as acceptance of my terms," the marquess declared, looking satisfied. "I've said all I needed to say. Now you may disperse—return to your homes if that's where you're headed, or to the bathhouse if you require cleansing." He flicked his hand dismissively, and the spearmen began herding the crowd away from the Plaza of Priests.

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  "There are far too many of them."

  "What?" Sir Lunedale asked, momentarily confused.

  "I said, there are too many of them." The marquess's smile carried ominous meaning. "You know Emperor's orders, Gil. To ensure our grain supplies remain adequate, sacrifices become necessary."

  "We've secured the royal granaries, my lord."

  "And that is woefully insufficient." With one fewer slave supporting it, the palanquin seemed to have gained several stone in weight. "Phyal's population must be reduced, or the remaining grain will never sustain the soldiers marching from Crivi. We must prepare for the next campaign."

  "How many shall we eliminate?" Gil Assimo asked bluntly.

  "Half. At least half." The knight immediately regretted his directness.

  "We've already slaughtered many in other cities," he ventured cautiously, attempting to sway his lord. "Perhaps here, we might exercise some restraint."

  "No restraint, Gil. None whatsoever." Marquess Gozi of Brennoria delivered a sharp slap to a dark-skinned slave because the palanquin had tilted slightly. "You've changed lately, Gil. Since Pafaheim, you've grown soft. I don't blame you for failing to capture Saint·Asini on schedule. If that's what's eating you, hear me now—damn the Magic Academy to the deepest hells." He raised his meaty arm with effort and clapped Sir Lunedale's shoulder. "I've always held you in high regard, Gil. Our bond won't be tarnished by such a trifling matter, will it?"

  "Certainly not, my lord." Avoiding trouble seemed wisest; flattery provided the safest path. "Your friendship with my family, and the generous favors you've bestowed upon us, remain forever etched in my memory, Lord Marquess."

  "Your father and I are like brothers—though physically nothing alike." He burst into thunderous laughter. "You bear little resemblance to your father either." He smoothed the cascading folds beneath his chin. "You're more levelheaded than he was. More efficient." The knight managed a strained smile. "So I entrust Phyal's population to your capable hands." The marquess ran his tongue across his lips. "Spare the young girls—especially the well-bred ones, the noble stock. Oh, and boys too. I want them fair-skinned and pristine. You know my tastes, Gil."

  "Of course, my lord."

  "What of my gold?" the Marquess of Brennoria demanded abruptly. "We control the palace treasury now... but truthfully, precious little remains. When Phyal surrendered, many palace occupants had already stripped it clean."

  "Fuck it all!" The marquess struck the palanquin violently once more. The bearers' knees buckled slightly, earning them another harsh blow. "That was my gold..." His eyes suddenly brightened. "What happened to Duke Snit of Cynthia?"

  "We discovered his corpse," Sir Lunedale reported, his nose wrinkling with distaste. "Floating in the Lunes River."

  "Ha! So the old fox is truly dead. Did our men dispatch him?"

  "I think not, my lord. No one reported such action to me."

  "Cynthia Palace overflows with noble corpses—we'd be waiting until they putrefy if you expected reports on each one. Hmph." The obese nobleman snorted derisively. "Without my explicit authorization, they shouldn't have dared. The miserable schemer was likely executed by the queen, or perhaps thrown in by some fleeing Cynthians during the chaos... no matter. I never intended to let him live long anyway. His followers were worthless. His gold, however, was not. Did you locate his personal vaults?"

  Gil Assimo nodded affirmatively. "But they contained very little."

  "Curse it all!" The marquess struck the palanquin violently once more. This time, the bearers dared not even flinch. "Position sentries tightly around Phyal's outskirts. If anyone attempts to leave carrying sacks of precious metal, interrogate them thoroughly—discover what remains and its hiding place—then execute them. Is that clear?"

  "Perfectly clear," Sir Lunedale responded with a respectful bow.