Chapter two

The Djang Tandu and his son Dalki stand watch

Deldar Hirvin staggered back, away from that reaching Djang sword. His eyes opened wide. His mouth thinned into a bitter line. He spat his words when he found his voice.

“The empress? What is that to us, now? If it is true, Tandu—”

The Djang swirled his sword to encompass the others. Young Nal, behind the bunk, froze, ashen.

“True? Aye, you nidges, it is true!”

“Then,” said Hirvin, spittle slobbering, “then we are all dead men. What I say is so!” He twisted away from the point of the sword, gestured to his men. “It matters nothing to us, empress or queen. If she lives — we die!”

“Down on your knees!” thundered Tandu. “Down on your faces in the full incline!”

He knocked the bowl of water over from the table, and sent the table flying after it. He bloated with the enormity of his own rage, his harness straining under the immense swelling of his ribcage. He looked — he was! — frighteningly formidable.

“Thank you, Tandu,” said Delia. She spoke levelly. She was in control of her breathing now, and fighting off the dreadful tiredness. She smiled.

At that smile Tandu almost exploded.

“Do we kill her first,” said Sly Oswalk, “or after?”

Tandu roared his contempt.

“First, nidges, you will have to slay me!”

“That, Tandu the Onker, we will accomplish,” said Hirvin, and leaped.

Delia threw the dagger.

Heavy, simple, cruel, it passed clean through Hirvin’s neck.

His eyes crossed as he vainly attempted to focus on the steel transfixing his throat.

“Hai!” bellowed Tandu, and then, remembering: “Dalki!”

Swords snapped up, and before Hirvin, tottering, fell under their feet, the men were at handstrokes.

It was a poor contest; when Dalki, a younger edition of Tandu, burst in raging, it was no contest at all.

Sly Oswalk, alone, managed to slip through the open doorway and escape into the night.

Tandu and Dalki were all for following and cutting him down without mercy.

“Majestrix! He deserves to suffer in the deepest of Herrelldrin Hells, to wander screaming among the Ice Floes of Sicce forever!”

“Aye,” said Delia. “Probably. But he snatched a bow before he left. I value you, Tandu, and your son Dalki, too much—”

Tandu, stumbling over a corpse, had the sense to make no otiose reply.

Delia sat herself down on the edge of a bunk. She put a hand to her hair, smoothing the wildness back. In that brown hair, caught and embellished by the lamplight, outrageous chestnut and auburn tints glowed. Tandu, breathing hard, beamed down on his queen.

“I remember you, Tandu. Yes, I assuredly do. It is Tandu Khynlin Jondermair, is it not?”

“Yes, majestrix, may Djan Kadji