Mere nodded. ‘Ostanko and his men have already landed,’ he reported.

Bendikt nodded. ‘Let me know as soon as there is any news.’ He turned to the rest of the command staff. ‘I expect you all to engage with other officers.’

Gerent Bianca was just inside the doorway. She clearly enjoyed each officer’s attention. The fervour engine was chanting mantras of the Emperor. The Cadians listened to them as they approached the front of the line.

Bianca did not seem to notice Bendikt until he was upon her, when she lifted her hands. ‘General!’ she said. ‘I am delighted! I did not think you would be attending.’

‘How could I refuse?’ he said.

She lowered her voice. ‘Is all well?’

‘So far,’ he said.

In the dining room a buffet had been laid out with chafing dishes along a side table. The candles gleamed against the polished silver trays. Each one was embossed with the Imperial aquila and the Richstar coat of arms.

Prassan could feel the air in the room taut as a wire. The officers who had come in already were standing about in conspiratorial groups. The serving staff stood stiffly along the side of the room while a few fussed at the arrangement of spoons and lids and condiments. A bell rang outside the room and a butler came in balancing a tray of amasec in cut crystal glasses.

Bendikt took one and downed it in one shot. He replaced the glass on the tray and took another. After the third drink, Prassan noted that Bendikt’s stiff composure seemed to soften. He smiled for the first time in days. But there was little humour in his expression, rather the grim satisfaction of a job well done.

No one dared eat until Bendikt had done so. Prassan watched him down at least another five glasses before he moved over to the chafing dishes. Officers took their meal in strict rank order which meant that Prassan would have to wait.

There were a few other officers of the same rank as Prassan, but it was a matter of pride to them that they should go before him. Three of them sported the tribal weave of the Drookians. They were taller and more heavily built than Prassan, and vicious-looking – the kind of thugs who would think nothing of slitting a man’s throat at a moment’s notice.

One of them shoved Prassan. It was a clumsy effort, ill disguised. Prassan did not move.

When the Drookian shoved once more Prassan stamped on his foot. ‘I’m sorry,’ Prassan said, but his tone was about as unapolo­getic as it was possible to be.

Within a moment Prassan was surrounded.

‘Get out of the way, Cadian,’ the shortest of his foes said.

‘It’s always the smallest,’ Prassan said, picking up a fork.

‘Get out of the way,’ the big one said.

‘Tradition says that the staff of the same regiment of the commanding officer have precedence.’