At the encampment, predawn; inside the general’s tent. Through the canvas comes the sound of men and horses waking. Though the tent is roomier than the others, the sparse decoration gives it an empty feel; there is a single kerosene lamp, a standard armée cot, a lone travel trunk holding spare uniforms. Indeed, the only nod to the general’s status is the field desk, and the fine fountain pen in his hands.
GENERAL JULIAN LEGARDE is marking a map with the locations of last night’s attacks when his son, CAPITAINE XAVIER LEGARDE, steps into his tent. He waits for a moment—patient, even tentative, but the general does not look up.
XAVIER: Sir?
LEGARDE: Reportez.
XAVIER: I sent the telegrams and alerted the cavalry. They’re readying the horses. Your men should be ready to move before dawn. And I updated the recherche for the Tiger, adding these newest crimes.
LEGARDE: You distributed it via telegraph?
XAVIER: And in Chakran, sir. Before dawn, the country will know there were shadow players among the dead.
LEGARDE (nodding, satisfied): That should do some good. The locals love their storytellers.
XAVIER: Not only the locals. Speaking of which, a letter came.
XAVIER hands it over. LEGARDE looks at the envelope—weather-stained from long travel, but finely milled and sealed with gold-flecked wax stamped with a sunburst: the symbol of Le Roi Fou, LEGARDE’s half brother. He tosses it on his desk.
LEGARDE: Any response from Nokhor Khat?
XAVIER: Not yet, but it’s still very early.
LEGARDE: If anything comes after I leave, send it on downriver. Unless it’s from your sister.
XAVIER: Is there trouble?
LEGARDE (making a wry face): She keeps trying to get out of going to Aquitan.
XAVIER: If I may, sir . . .
LEGARDE: You too?
XAVIER: Her work here has been vital to the effort.
LEGARDE: Her marriage will be as well. And she won’t be gone as long as she thinks. What about the prisoners?
A flicker of distaste crosses XAVIER’s face.
XAVIER: The two dead will be put on display, as per your standing orders. What do you want done with the last one?
Now LEGARDE looks up, surprised, impressed.
LEGARDE: He’s still alive?
XAVIER: Barely.
LEGARDE: Hmm. (Idly, he taps the desk with his pen.) See if the docteur can patch up what’s left of him. He’ll set a different example.
XAVIER: Which example is that?
LEGARDE: We show strength in mercy, Xavier.
XAVIER: The questioneur is many things, but merciful is not one of them.
LEGARDE gives his son a look, his eyes dropping to the gold pendant XAVIER wears—a golden circle on a chain.
LEGARDE: I know at times our tactics are at odds with your beliefs, but this information will save lives on both sides.
Finally XAVIER’s frustration breaks through his calm facade.
XAVIER: What information? Every claim the rebels made contradicted the last! After the first hour they would have said anything. Besides, there’s no way a green farm boy knows what the Tiger himself is planning.
LEGARDE: Not his information. The information we send when his comrades see exactly what they’re risking.
XAVIER: I don’t think the threat of torture will sway the rebels.
LEGARDE: It isn’t just the rebels that concern me.
He leans back in his chair, regarding his son.
LEGARDE: These guerrilla attacks are cowards’ tactics. The Tiger’s men creep in the dark, strike as fast as they can, then throw down their weapons and melt back into the population. Unfortunately, they get the job done. The locals are intimidated. Maybe even impressed. Especially when the perpetrators escape with no consequences. This country is full of green farm boys, Xavier. Most who leave the fields join the armée. But the stronger the Tiger looks, the more likely they are to take his side. The rebellion is still relatively small. I’d like to keep it that way.
XAVIER: But one of the crimes on the Tiger’s recherche is torture, and you know how the locals feel about that. If we denounce him for that, then publicly stoop to his level—
LEGARDE: The difference is, he does it to his own people. We only do it to our enemies. Besides, it might boost morale in our own ranks. I’m not unaware of the . . . ugliness brewing.
XAVIER: It might help if you let the men pursue the rebels when they strike.
LEGARDE: We don’t have the numbers to chase them through their own territory. Or the ability to tell the Tiger’s men from innocent villagers, out in the jungle.
XAVIER nods reluctantly. Then he frowns.
XAVIER: If you know the rebels’ information isn’t any good, why are you going back to Nokhor Khat?
LEGARDE smiles a little, gesturing to the map laid out before him.
LEGARDE: Tell me what you see here, capitaine.
XAVIER approaches his father’s desk to glance over his shoulder. His jaw clenches, unclenches, as he considers.
XAVIER: Points of attack, all along Le Verdu.
LEGARDE: What kinds of attacks?
XAVIER: . . . Sabotage.
LEGARDE: And close to their own territory. Why? We know they hide all over the country. Farm the fields until they get their orders. Attacks like these only need half a dozen men. Why limit strikes to Le Verdu?
XAVIER (slowly): You think they’re trying to draw your attention away from the capital?
LEGARDE: Away from the wedding. The last thing they want is an Aquitan queen.
XAVIER considers this for a moment.
XAVIER: What if it’s only a ruse to get you to leave the area?
LEGARDE: They’ll have you to contend with in my absence. I’m leaving you in command.
XAVIER raises an eyebrow.
XAVIER: Not Pique?
LEGARDE: Certainly not. We want the locals managed, not terrorized.
XAVIER: He has seniority. Experience.
LEGARDE: Are you a coward now too?
XAVIER: No, sir.
XAVIER straightens his back, but LEGARDE sighs.
LEGARDE: Pique has been here too long. In war, there are some experiences that do more harm than good.
XAVIER hesitates, then, shifting on his feet . . .
XAVIER: Are the rumors true, sir? The rebels going south to . . . to—
LEGARDE: To free Le Trépas?
Now XAVIER shudders, fishing the gold pendant from his uniform and raising it to his lips in a motion that borders on ritual. LEGARDE only shakes his head.
LEGARDE: The Tiger is ruthless, but he isn’t mad. He wants the throne for himself.
XAVIER: Perhaps he hopes they can set their differences aside to fight a common enemy.
LEGARDE: Le Trépas can’t be bargained with. You were too young to remember—
XAVIER: I’ve heard the stories.
LEGARDE: Then you know the man was a zealot and his followers just as bad. Live burials. Dark magic. Abominations.
XAVIER: Why have you kept him alive all these years? Why not an execution? Or an unfortunate accident in prison?
LEGARDE does not answer right away. Instead, he steeples his fingers, watching his son over his hands.
LEGARDE: There is a story in this country. I saw it first in shadow plays, but as Le Trépas gained power, it kept cropping up in rumors. That through pain, certain spirits could gain powers after death.
XAVIER: I’ve heard those too. The n’akela. How they haunt their tormentors.
LEGARDE: Some of his disciples believed they could do more than haunt. I saw men cut their own throats because they were sure their souls could simply steal new bodies, dead or living.
XAVIER: And you believe that?
LEGARDE: The Chakrans do. You must have noticed that they won’t look you in the eye. The blue color scares them. They think it means we’re possessed.
XAVIER: I know. They’re superstitious. But what does that have to do with Le Trépas?
LEGARDE: If the old monk were dead, someone could claim to be him—or his soul. The King of Death reborn. Do you understand? And I won’t let anyone drag this country back into a dark age of mysticism. The king’s marriage to your sister sends a symbol—that Chakrana is wedded to civilization, not savagery.
XAVIER: Wedded to Aquitan, you mean.
LEGARDE: We are civilization, in this place. We will bring them into the modern age, whether they like it or not.
Then he frowns, glancing at the guns.
That reminds me. What did the last rebel say about the missing weapons?
XAVIER: Nothing believable. (He hesitates.) But the questioneur is Eduard Dumond—one of the men who lost a rifle. He says the story doesn’t make sense—that the guns must have been taken by a separate group of rebels.
LEGARDE: Have him keep asking.
XAVIER: I don’t know that the boy will live through more questioning.
LEGARDE shrugs, rolling up the map—clearing his desk, except for the letter XAVIER brought.
LEGARDE: C’est dommage. But isn’t that what you preferred? And it will save our docteur a visit.
XAVIER’s face is carefully bland, but he salutes and leaves the tent. At his desk, LEGARDE sighs. Then he breaks the elaborate wax seal and bends his head over the letter.