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man.’
    ‘How about his, um, love life?’
    Leone stared impassively at a point just to the right of Sandor’s right shoulder. ‘The First Son is well served, First Counsellor.’
    ‘Ah,’ replied Sandor. ‘His reputation is well deserved?’
    Leone nodded.
    ‘How does he treat his women?’
    The Coerl hesitated.
    ‘That badly?’ Sandor asked. Forty years as First Counsellor to the Thane had taught Sandor much in the art of nuance. The flicker in the eyes, the tightening of the lips, the slight straightening of her shoulders said as much as he needed to know. If Coerl Leone was surprised at his perception, she did not show it. She merely nodded.
    ‘Are there any children yet?’
    ‘Not that I am aware of, First Counsellor.’
    ‘Good.’ He stood. ‘Thank you, Leone. As always you are a comfort and a joy. That will be all.’
    Coerl Leone saluted by placing her right fist at her left hip to indicate her readiness to fight, followed by the raising of the fist to her chest, showing her willingness to die. Sandor bowed his acceptance. Leone turned and strode from his room, her sandals slapping the marble floor with a beat as regular as a drum.
    The First Counsellor sank back into his chair. When he was alone, he allowed the mask of gentle calm to slide from his face. In its place was the deep sadness that he kept hidden from the world. ‘Shanek,’ he whispered. ‘My son. What is to become of you?’
    Outside the palatial ancestral home of the First Counsellor, Domovoi and Shanek sat in the cool shade of a massive spreading lonat tree. According tolegend, the fruit tree from the far west of the continent had been planted by the then Thane Scyld III, in memory of a great victory. Shanek could, with a moment of thought, recall the year, some three hundred summers previous, the place of the victory and the name of the First Counsellor of the time, but he had little desire to do so.
    Domovoi, the Appointed One, glared at his student with what could only be described as deferential exasperation.
    ‘Shanek…’ he began.
    ‘Domovoi,’ Shanek interrupted. ‘We’ve talked about this before. As long as you are going to lecture me about the importance of my place and my duty, you may as well set me a good example by dispensing with the informality. I am First Son of the Empire. Surely you of all people should recognise the importance of correct forms of address.’
    The old teacher’s eyes revealed a sudden fire. He then displayed the skills developed over decades of devoted service by closing his eyes briefly, nodding in gracious submission and smiling gently.
    ‘Of course, First Son. You make a valid point. I shall remember correct address in future.’
    It was a small victory, and a disturbingly hollow one. Domovoi might be a pompous old fool, but his devotion to Shanek’s family was beyond question, proven by simple acts such as this one.
    ‘Please continue, Domovoi,’ Shanek said.
    ‘As you wish, First Son. You were asking about the place of slavery in our culture. Do you mean human slaves or the ritual slavery of the Skrin Tia’k?’
    ‘Both. Start with human. We’ll deal with the Skrinnies later.’
    ‘Human slavery deals with two main aspects of any civilisation—cost and labour. To keep defeated foes as prisoners is a very expensive proposition, and as we only ever keep combatant foes as slaves, they are usually in excellent physical condition, ideally suited to labour. This keeps them gainfully employed, thus reducing the likelihood of rebellion that comes from the boredom so often associated with long-term imprisonment.
    ‘It is the best use for defeated foes, non-violent criminals and debtors. And not only that,’ he continued. ‘As a deterrent, short- to medium-term slavery is far greater than simple imprisonment.’
    ‘But ritual torture? The elevation of torture to an art form? What of the Royal Torturers Guild? How does that fit? What purpose does that serve?’
    Domovoi frowned. ‘What