“The Emperor has not formally recognized the rebellion’s surrender. Therefore the rebellion is still ongoing. You will be dispatched to the rebellious duchies with absolute wartime authority to reorganize and rebuild as you see fit. The Emperor’s seal is on that letter and so you are Its emissary.”

Dziransi could not look at her without seeing treason, so he turned to Ake Sentiamut. “She has this power?”

“I suppose,” Ake said, slowly, narrow-eyed in thought, “that she does.”

“She has made you the Emperor’s warlord?”

“It’s like I’m a peace-lord, Dzir. I cannot move Governor Heingyl’s forces. I cannot send embassies abroad, or appoint judges. But in the North I have power over money, and courts, and trade … someone will come to take this power from me, Baru. Someone will see what I’m doing.”

“Let them come. You have my backing.” Baru clapped to get their attention. “You must get the North weaned off raw exports as quickly as you can, understand? You must use your position between the coast and the Stakhi to build up your wealth. Ake, do you hear me?”

Ake looked at Baru’s letter as if she might ball it up in her fist and cram it down Baru’s throat. “Tell me your angle.”

“I don’t have an angle. You should salary all the rangers. Don’t let them wander off as guides or hunters; you must salary them and send them north on expeditions.”

“My King,” Dziransi began, “he will not trust you; I do not trust you.”

“Trust Ake, then. Trust the money. Open trade with the Stakhieczi. They want food, so buy food from the south and sell it north. The south wants Stakhieczi steel and glass, so buy steel and glass and sell them south. The flow of money will prevent the flow of blood. That’s how we did it on Taranoke, for centuries—but you have more than we did, so invest the profits in mills and trading posts, invest in the roads, build dams and sewers—get yourselves on your feet before hard times come. You must be ready to survive if the trade stops.”

Faham Execarne came in carrying what seemed like an entire ship’s rudder loaded with steaming fish steaks. “It’s hot,” he said, “very hot, and don’t choke on the tiny bones. I’ll be back in a moment with beer. Has anything interesting happened?”

No one spoke.

“Not really,” Baru said. “I’ll be sending these people home. The pardons are here for your inspection.”

Execarne produced a huge knife with a flourish. Baru was the only one to recoil. “Interesting,” he said, and began to chop the fish with great sweeping strokes, the blade thumping pleasantly against the wood, “pardons all around, eh? In whose name?”

“Mine.”

“Ah. Is that so?” Execarne grinned at his guests. “You’ve got to be careful with this one. She’s a prodigy at lies.”