Paniour raised his arms as if to embrace a long-lost son. “My dear Dahoud. Welcome back from the dead.”

“Sir.” Dahoud snapped a salute with the right palm on his chest. “Kirral commands me to end the uprising in Koskara. Which stronghold do the rebels use?”

“Oubar. This time, you'll conquer it.” Paniour's voice exuded confidence. He glanced at the wooden sculpture on the low table: the war god Ikbour held his shield and short thrusting sword raised, poised for attack. “However inaccessible the location, however strong the walls, however vast the granaries and the water supply – no fortress can withstand the Black Besieger. Not even an ancient citadel like Oubar. It's good to have you back in the legions, Dahoud. You belong here.” He placed a hand on Dahoud's shoulder. It smelled of soapberries and mint. “Sit, and we'll talk about old times.” He gestured at one of the armless chairs facing the table.

Dahoud remained standing. Once Paniour had been Dahoud's commanding officer, his mentor, the closest to a father he had ever had. In leaving the legions, Dahoud had sacrificed the friendship, and he needed to stay detached now. “Tell me about the enemy troops, sir.”

“Much the same as last time: Mostly light cavalry in unknown numbers, skilled archers, javelins, throwing knives. Hit and run tactics, violence and destruction, civilian targets. No match for troops led by General Dahoud.”

Dahoud could devastate the land again, this time so brutally that the natives would not be able to rise for generations. But he had to shield women from war's violence and from the evil inside him.

There was only one way to protect Koskara from the worst: take out their leader. Without him, the followers might lose their fighting spirit, cutting the war short. “This sudden uprising suggested a charismatic leader. Who is it?”

“A man named Mansour. He wrestles like a leopard, rides like a desert storm, fights like a god of war.”

The usual legends surrounding a Samili hero. Dahoud had met no Mansour during the conquest, but even without solid intelligence, he could piece a picture together. The conquerors had killed all native nobles, so Mansour was a commoner. Samilis revered age, so he was old. Financing a rebellion took wealth, so he was rich. “I need a list of the wealthiest native families, with ages.”

“The Koskarans don't make lists. They can't write.”

“Satrapy tax records?”

“The late Lord Zetan collected taxes, but -” Paniour gave Dahoud a significant look. “He didn't care to document the money that flowed through his hands.”

Dahoud would find out about this Mansour in other ways. Storytellers, rumour-mongers, braggarts and renegades could be made to talk.

“Why did you leave?” Accusation swung in Paniour's voice. “Duty wasn't enough to keep you. Loyalty wasn't. Honour wasn't.”

“How many troops are in Koskara these days? Who commands them?”

“Nine hundred, not the Queendom's finest. The best troops are needed for the active fronts. Their commander is Gavinos. Let's say he's no Dahoud.”

“Our main garrison is less than half a day's ride from Koskara Town where the residency is under siege. How did that happen?”

“When the rebels attacked the residency, Gavinos withdrew his troops into the garrison, and sent a messenger requesting relief.” Paniour laughed. “He feared that the rebels might attack him next. With you in charge, these troops will soon learn to fight. Unless you've gone soft in your cosy civilian life.”

He placed a sand-filled tray on the low table between them, and with the manicured tip of his finger traced lines in the sand. “The Yellow Mountains in the east form the natural boundary against Darria. All this is desert. Grasslands here, here, and here. Oases.” He stuck green leaves into the tray and added wooden blocks, clay cubes and charcoal crumbles. “Native towns. Our garrisons. Sites of recent attacks. Will you free the residency first?”

“The residency isn't built for a siege, and its cistern is small,” Dahoud said.

“By now they're drinking their own piss,” Paniour agreed. “I bet those clueless civilians are regretting their heroics now they've had a taste of the reality of war. When you free them, they'll kiss your toes.”

“If they're still alive.” Faced with defiant civilians, the Black Besieger would have set fire to the house and ordered the people killed as they came running out. He expected Mansour to do the same.

He jabbed his thumb on the wooden cube in the south-east. “Once I win Oubar, the rest of Koskara will follow.” Oubar, ancient and impenetrable, a hundred times besieged, never taken. His passion for conquest stirred. This time, he knew what to expect, would be prepared, would batter its walls and starve the rebels into submission. He would execute Mansour, weakening their structure and their will. Then he would...the opportunities...

Won't that be the Koskarans' fault? If they don't want war, why do they rebel? When we take possession, shall we pick a proud one who'll resist and fight? Shall we teach her to give you the attention you deserve?

“You can do it, Dahoud. Even if the citadel doesn't fall to you at once, the rebel nest will be shut off from the rest of the population. In the meantime, I'll lead a legion and sweep the satrapy clean of insurgents. Once we're done, only obedient tax-paying citizens will be left. Unless...” The corners of Paniour's mouth turned down. “Unless the soft new satrap chooses a more merciful solution.”

The djinn would not allow Dahoud to be merciful, not after a siege, not to the women.

What difference does one more time make? What if we take just one rebel who resists us with all her strength?

Indulging the pleasure again, just this once, would take the edge off his need, would still his craving and give him peace. Then it would be so much easier to be a merciful satrap, a loving husband, a man in control of his lusts.

Just once, just Oubar, to punish the fortress for resisting him last time, to prove that he would not be defied.

Yet if he broke his abstinence, the control he had fought so hard to gain might vanish, and the djinn would again be his master.

Paniour rose, smoothing the fine folds of his embroidered tunic. “Enough of this. I have this jug of old Zigazian wine for us to sample. Tell me what you've really been up to these past three years.”

Dahoud slammed the palm on his chest for the military salute. “Thank you for the briefing, Sir. I will see you tomorrow when I present my strategy. Good day, sir.” He closed his heart to the flicker of pain in his old mentor's eyes.

To win Koskara, Dahoud would not think like a conquering general. He would not think like an aspiring lord-satrap. He would think like a Koskaran rebel.