He looked at them all from face to face. The silence stretched on, but it had a different feel now. He sensed that with these words he had won them over at last.

Even von Horne, of the Mordians, allowed himself a nod of assent.

Bendikt smiled and took another gulp of amasec. ‘The line is here. The faster we can break this – this rock – the faster we can take the fight back to our enemies. The faster we can put our vengeance where it belongs – into the flesh of our foes.

‘By that day, Crannog Mons will have fallen back into Imperial hands. Major Brera, that is my promise to you and all the people of Malouri.’

Bendikt turned to Mere. ‘How long until the Feast of Sanguinalia?’

‘Fifty days,’ he stated.

Bendikt paused. The amasec was doing its work. He felt some of Creed’s bluff confidence, and buoyed up by it he declared, ‘By the Feast of Sanguinalia, Crannog Mons shall be ours!’

Eight

EIGHT

As commander-in-chief, Bendikt was assigned the principal suite in the commanders’ wing of the General’s Palace. The rooms came with their own household staff, all locals. They had the haunted look of a people years into a bitter civil war. They bowed and fawned and appeared terrified of the slightest mistake.

By the time Bendikt had finished talking to Mere and his personal staff, they had already turned his bed down and stocked the cast-iron stove with fresh fuel.

‘Anything else, sir?’ the servant asked. He was an old man, short and round with bowed shoulders, and wore a preposterous outfit of black hose and ornate brocade waistcoat.

‘No. Thank you.’

The man bowed and, remaining so, paced backwards towards the door. Bendikt looked up. ‘Wait. One more thing,’ he said. ‘Tell me your name.’

‘Servitore.’

‘Servitore,’ Bendikt said and waved his hand. ‘Don’t do that again. None of that frippery. From any of the staff.’

Servitore bowed, and stopped halfway. ‘I understand. The Mordians…’

‘I am not Mordian. I am Cadian. Do you understand what that means?’

The old man nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I shall pass on your command. Would you like breakfast served here?’

‘No. Thank you. We shall be out early.’

‘Will you be back for noon meal, sir?’

Bendikt sighed with tired irritation. ‘Servitore. Assume I will ­always be here. If I am not then I am sure there are many mouths who will be glad of the kitchen’s services. But I am here to win a war, not to eat your meals.’

Servitore bowed even lower. ‘Understood, sir.’ There was a pause.

It was clear that the servant had something else on his mind. ‘Is it true, sir, that you will free our planet of these heretics?’

‘Yes,’ Bendikt said, a little short. ‘That is true.’

The old man rubbed his hands together. ‘Forgive me. But it is said that you will take Crannog Mons by Sanguinalia.’