“It is impressive, Ikelis, is it not?” The autarch smiled at the giant gun with the doting pride of a father.

“Gunnery has never had a better tool,” said the Overseer of the Armies, looking sternly at Vash as though the paramount minister might dare to argue. “We will reach the citadel itself with that. We will send the dog Drakava scuttling.”

“Oh, I will not waste this beautiful machine lobbing stones at Drakava,” Sulepis said. “May my sacred father himself protect Ludis Drakava—I do not want him dead! That might slow this entire venture down to a fatal degree.”

“I’m afraid I do not understand, Golden One.” Johar’s latest look at Vash was a great deal more humble. He clearly did not have as much experience as the paramount minister at dealing with the autarch’s strange, sudden, and sometimes apparently mad changes of plan. “Surely you wish Hierosol to fall.”

“Oh, yes, we are going to knock the walls down,” said the autarch. “We are going to knock them down so that we do not have to waste time on a siege.”

“But, Golden One, I do not think even such missiles as those,”—Johar pointed to the huge, spherical stone being rolled up a ramp toward the cannon’s mouth by a dozen sweating slaves—“can punch through the walls of Hiersol. Those walls are two dozen yards thick, and the stonework is immaculate!”

For the first time, the autarch’s smile vanished. “Do you think I am unaware of that, High Polemarch?”

Like a man who has stepped one foot over the edge of a bottomless chasm, Ikelis Johar abruptly backtracked. “Of course, Golden One. You are the Living God on Earth. I am only a mortal and a fool. Instruct me.”

“Someone ought to, clearly. We will fire the cannons at a single place on the wall until it collapses. Then we will land our troops and send them in.”

“But…but trying to force through a single breach in those wide, wide walls? They will rain fire and arrows and burning oil on our soldiers. We will lose thousands of men in such an assault!” Johar was surprised enough to momentarily forget his own danger. “Tens and tens of thousands!”

“My destiny—the world’s destiny—rides on my shoulder.” Sulepis’ pale eyes glinted, impossibly alert, impossibly lively. “These men are happy to live for their autarch, why should they not die for him happily, too? Either way, they will spend eternity in the golden glow of my father Nushash.” The autarch laughed, the musical trill of someone contemplating with absolute, amused indifference the murder of thousands. “Now, let us see our first Royal Crocodile sing for his supper, eh?”

Johar, his brown face looking a touch more wan than usual, bowed several times as he backed away from the autarch’s chair and descended from the golden litter, then waved his arms and bellowed an order to his generals. The command was passed rapidly down the chain of command until the gunnery master bowed and ordered a last few creaks of the wheel, lifting the elevation of the snarling, reptilian muzzle. When he was satisfied, the gunnery master stood up straight, wiping at the sweat that covered his face on this chill day.