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When the queen finished explaining to the peacemaker that he was to make one last sweep of all cells in the complex, she turned to them and smiled.

“Thank you for joining me here,” said Queen Arathane. “It’s easiest for me to deal with this situation personally rather than let it become a project for the Four Stewards. Especially since I know I can count on your expertise to help me. I owe you all a great debt for putting down this threat to my rule, and the safety of everyone in Airspur.”

Chant bowed, as did Riltana and Carmenere to different degrees. Demascus cleared his throat and said, “We’re happy to help you however we can, Your Majesty.”

Then, so quickly he must have imagined it, Arathane winked at him. It took several heartbeats for him to focus after that as he tried to sort out whether he’d really seen it.

The queen went on, “As soon as we finish here, I plan to set aside an endowment to rebuild the Motherhouse. I’ve already sent rumors circulating that the Firestorm Cabal came under attack by an enemy of Akanûl, and that only the sacrifice of those who wear the red prevented a far greater evil from visiting the genasi of Airspur.”

“Which, from a certain point of view, is true enough,” Chant said.

Arathane gave the slightest of nods, and said, “To rule, a queen must be adept at seeing many points of view at the same time. And the Cabal, despite its shortcomings, is a weapon in my arsenal I’d rather not lose. The borders remain uncertain, sightings of Xxiphu over the Sea of Fallen Stars have increased markedly, and news out of Tymanther and Chessenta seems especially troublesome. But I won’t burden you with those details, at least not today.”

Chant said, “But such details sound fascinating, Your Majesty.”

“I’m sure. In any event, for today at least, the citizens of Airspur are safe from this particular threat. I think a reward of some sort is in order. And who knows—perhaps Akanûl, and I, will need your services again.”

“All you need do is ask,” Demascus said. His mouth seemed to have a life of its own, but he didn’t much care to stop it.

“Well, then—my first question: how shall we deal with these insects?” She used the spear tip to gesture into the pit. “My peacemakers tell me it’s some kind of swarm entity.”

“They’re right,” said Riltana. “The nightmare demon said the bugs in the pit were its ‘sibling’ and called it Scour. That leech-son fed people to …” She shivered and closed her eyes a moment, then continued, “It thought it could wake Scour up, whatever that means. Nothing good I’m sure.”

Carmenere put a hand on Riltana’s shoulder.

“So, an extermination, before it comes to its senses?” said the queen.

Demascus nodded. “We should have dealt with this earlier. We’re probably lucky it hasn’t already gained consciousness.” He didn’t volunteer the reason they’d left the bugs to fester was because they’d had to chase down Kalkan.

Riltana said, “Hey! I know where to find a few casks of lamp oil. Through there. We could burn the bugs out.” She pointed to the arrow slits where the cultists had monitored the chamber.

In short order, they produced ten kegs of lamp oil from the guardroom. Arathane pitched in, as if rolling casks filled with sloshing flammable liquid was common fare for a queen.

Everyone took a place around the pit: Demascus, Chant, Carmenere, Riltana, and Arathane, as well some Cabal regulars and peacemakers the queen selected. Everyone also prepared a smoldering torch, dripping with fresh tar.

“On my mark!” said Arathane. Then, “Mark!”

Ten casks smashed down into the pit, sending the insects into a frenzy of perturbed buzzing.

When the torches followed, a whoomp of fire and black smoke punched out of the cavity, forcing everyone back several feet from the heat and throat-scratching, acrid odor.

After that, it was just a matter of letting it burn.

Demascus stared into the pit as if the curling flames were from an oracle’s brazier. Black smoke from smoldering carapaces billowed up from