As the feast wore on, drinking was encouraged. Not drinking was strongly discouraged. Dreadwolf raised toast after toast to the health of the Emperor, to the health of the warlords, to the health of his horses and dogs. He would stop, mid-sentence, and stare holes into anyone who hesitated to reach for their cup when he raised his own. If anyone was left holding their cup after he had drained his, he would ask them pointed questions that left his “guest” feeling awkward. He turned the politeness of the lords against them, and wielded his own lack of decorum like a weapon. It was like no feast I had ever been to and there was no question that in the mind of the Dreadwolf, “guest” and “hostage” were one and the same. I wondered idly if “feast” and “flogging” could be synonyms too.

  Throughout the ordeal, anger flared repeatedly in Noble Lion’s eyes, and I couldn’t help but worry that at any given moment, he might leap up and do something very brave and very stupid. I realized, through the haze of alcohol, that this was probably the wolf’s plan. Release inhibitions with alcohol, cloud the logical mind, prod the lords and needle their pride, then see how much they would take. Should any of the lords fail this test of humiliation, well, Dreadwolf would have flushed out an enemy.

  He wondered aloud if the Imperial concubines were bored with a boy on the throne, and I bristled but said nothing. He made casual comments about the widowed Empress’s ability to bear more children, and what Mandates her future children might have should they be born under the various stars. He surreptitiously mentioned that the Prince might make a better Emperor.

  “You go too far, Wolf!” Snow Fox leapt up from his cushion, as much as an old man could leap up from anything. He stumbled as he got to his feet and my Uncle steadied him by the elbow.

  There it was. He had found someone’s breaking point.

  “What?” Dreadwolf looked around at the nearest lords. “What did I say?”

  “Intoxication is no excuse to disrespect the master of all!”

  “It’s not so much a matter of respect, as a matter of strength,” said Dreadwolf. “I simply don’t think the boy has a drop of power in him.”

  “We have yet to determine-”

  “Oh, I’m not talking about the boy’s Mandate, old man. I’m talking about the other kind of power. The kind that matters. Force of will. Force of arms. Force of personality.” He smiled, wolfishly.

  “Then I will teach you how power begets respect,” said Silver Fox, casting his sword onto the table and uncinching his silver belt, “As a father teaches a son.”

  The guards at the edges of the room stepped forward, but Dreadwolf waved them back with a nonchalant smile, as the old man closed on him brandishing his impromptu whip. As soon as the old man laid hands on the villain, and began feebly beating him with his belt, Dreadwolf began laughing hysterically.

  “Oh no, grandfather, no please. Ho! Hoho! H-”

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  His laughing came to a close as blood suddenly washed over him. He looked, for the first time I had seen him, stunned. Dreadwolf looked down at his hands, placed a finger to the blood on his face and stared at it a moment. Then he looked up at the old man, as the head toppled from Silver Fox’s shoulders.

  The Demon stood behind the headless body, sword drawn and bloodied once again.

  As Silver Fox’s corpse crumpled to the ground, Dreadwolf burst out laughing even louder. “Ha! Haha! HAHAHAHA! Incredible, Demon. Impeccable timing! Why, I haven’t had this much fun at a feast in years! HAHAHA!”

  Impeccable… timing?

  “You’ll be right at home among my men, won’t you, Demon? Welcome to the pack.”

  Could the wolf be so bold as to be admitting to a betrayal before all of the assembled warlords? Did we pose so little a threat to him now that nothing could be leveled against him?

  The Demon growled and settled back into his seat to resume his drinking, bloody cuffs or no.

  In the aftermath of Dreadwolf’s insane laughter, someone else rose from the table. Or tried to. I could smell the earth churn up beneath me before I felt it. And as Noble Lion made to stand, I grabbed and all but forced him back to his seat. Stallion had her hand on her sword, ready to support Lion should he make a stand, here and now.

  “There’s nothing we can do right now,” I hissed, realizing that River had been right the whole time. “Throw your life away for pride and who will lead our armies?”

  I was sure that would work, but Lion only hesitated, his Mandate on the verge of erupting through the palace floor.

  “You will, Sparrow,” he snapped.

  “Be serious, Lion. We need someone of rank. We need your Mandate if we’re going to have a chance.”

  Noble Lion looked at me and made to protest but a voice cut him off.

  “Something to add, Lion?” shouted Dreadwolf. “Perhaps a head to the pile.”

  I growled in frustration. Noble Lion had been the first to challenge the usurper, in that first day the wolf had taken power. Of course Dreadwolf would be watching Noble Lion with special interest. It was too much to hope that our exchange could not go unnoticed.

  “I have better friends at my back than the likes of Lu Bu!” Noble Lion snapped, using the Demon’s personal name like an insult.

  “We’ll see about that,” Dreadwolf snorted, and lifted his cup to his lips, eyes never leaving Lion from above the rim.

  Noble Lion turned and strode out, daring someone to strike at his back. Dreadwolf held out a hand and no one did, but not a single other warlord had the temerity to follow him. Not even me or Stallion.

  One lord had attacked the villain, daring Dreadwolf to slaughter an old man in front of everyone. Another had walked out in protest. But the last warlord to rebel against the wolf’s rule was none other than my uncle, and he did so in a most unusual way: he asked for permission. He rose from his seat, arranged his robes before himself and then knelt formally before Dreadwolf as if he were the Emperor, or a king of old.

  If the wolf had been surprised by the decapitation of Snow Fox, this left him speechless.

  “I am old,” began Uncle, face pressed to the floor, “and ineffectual. All my friends have passed on without me. Allow me to retire to the country with honor. For I am afraid I cannot serve you. Accept my nephew in my place. He is intelligent, and driven, and above all, pragmatic. Please, my lord.”

  What was Uncle doing? Offering me up to save his own skin?! Asking me to serve this monster while he beat a retreat?!

  “Ugh,” Dreadwolf groaned. “Begone, then. In fact, all of you begone. None of you fancy lords are any fun.” He sunk back into his cushion, as many of the lords leapt to their feet and veritably fled, while others among us were able to accept a curt dismissal with just a bit more dignity.

  Within the palace, only wolves remained.