The Lightnings’ afterburners flared, and with one final burst, were lost to the darkness.

Chapter five

CHAPTER FIVE

The fighters returned just as dessert was served.

I was the first to set eyes on them. Mizar’s eyes, anyway. I had coaxed the seer-skull into abandoning its pursuit, a challenge given its rambunctious machine-spirit. It was left suspended high above the château, sensors sweeping the sky for any trace of the Lightnings. From this vantage point it observed a surprising amount of activity, though none of it attributable to aircraft. Insects swarmed across distant swamps, their iridescent armour shimmering lilac in the borrowed light of the twin moons. At such distance it was hard to judge scale, but I estimated they were at least the size of my hand, excluding the trio of wings sprouting from their backs.

The estate was no more subdued. Ground crew hurried about their business, relaying messages and clearing runways, while Dolos’ servants fulfilled their functions and servitors hauled equipment. I spied three such machines heading for the château’s rear, the moonlight glinting from their bladed limbs. I feared an assault was imminent, until they halted and set to work on the château’s east wing, attacking a series of tendril-like roots emerging from cracks in the bark.

In other circumstances balancing reconnaissance and dinner might have proved challenging. Fortunately, Governor Dolos was happy to carry the conversation, regaling me with the glorious history of her household and the burden and joy she found in continuing their legacy. She spoke at length of the upcoming Harvest Banquet, the apparent jewel in Bacchus’ social calendar, and made a point of apologising profusely for being unable to extend to me an invitation.

As our main was served – barbecued grubs drizzled in a jus derived from their progenitor’s venom – she began discussing the military presence. Or, as she began to refer to it, the occupation. I pushed the food about my plate, nodding and making the occasional exclamation when it seemed appropriate. The questionable wine continued to flow, though primarily into her glass; I had endured all the bitterness I could stomach.

She was about half a drink from supine when Stylee entered, announcing the arrival of the dessert cart as if it were a distinguished dignitary. As a footman pushed it towards our table, Governor Dolos leaned forward, taking up her glass on the second attempt, sloshing wine about her fingers.

‘I would make a toast,’ she said, over-enunciating each syllable. ‘To your successful project, and the end to this sorry little war.’

As I raised my dregs, Mizar chirped in the back of my mind. No visual yet, but increased activity among the ground crews. It also registered atmospheric distortion at their approach. The fighters were incoming.