Blood of the Mantis

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  The Lowlanders had now drawn that line: it ran crookedly from Merro to Collegium, from Collegium to Sarn. The Empire had engulfed almost half of the Lowlands before it had even become a war worthy of the name.

  The Emperor walked amongst his generals, viewing the great map they had commissioned, first from this side, then from the other. It was a piece of art, that map, carved by the most accurate slave craftsmen. The mountains and the ridges, the rivers and the forests, they had all been laid in veneers of coloured woods, while the cities were bronze medallions cast especially, embossed with the name and emblem of each. Wooden blocks and little parchment flags showed the disposition of known forces currently under arms across the Lowlands.

  General Maxin watched Alvdan give the entire affair his blessing, pleased to see an expression of keen knowledge on the Emperor’s face, which boosted morale. Standing respectfully back from the table, as the Emperor made his inspection, were the chief strategists of the Empire: two retired generals, a senior factor of the Consortium, a field colonel attached to the Eighth Army, which was currently in its barracks in Capitas awaiting assignment, a major in the Engineering Corps and yet another in the Slave Corps.

  ‘This is our Winged Furies?’ asked the Emperor, pointing at the army located on the silver thread representing the rail line between Helleron and Sarn.

  ‘The Seventh Army, exactly, your Imperial Majesty,’ one of the old generals replied. ‘Here at Helleron is the Sixth, which is waiting for new troops before reinforcing General Malkan. Malkan himself is being resupplied and rearmed even as we speak.’

  ‘Rearmed? Is this the new master-weapon we have been told of?’

  ‘The so-called snapbow, your Imperial Majesty,’ the engineering major agreed. ‘Results in combat against the Sarnesh suggest that it is effective enough, but I fear reports may be greatly exaggerated—’

  There was a look of mischief in Alvdan’s eyes that the major missed. ‘Remind me again who is responsible for this new toy.’

  ‘It is the work of the outcast, Drephos the halfbreed.’ The major’s voice rang with disdain. ‘Amusing, no doubt, your Majesty, like all of his diversions, but no substitute for crossbow and automotive.’

  The Emperor smiled at him, and the retired general prudently stepped back, being wiser in the ways of rulers. ‘Major, we appreciate your professional opinion,’ continued Alvdan. ‘Therefore we have requested a sample of this new weapon to be brought to Capitas for our own amusement.’

  ‘I am sure that it will amuse you, Majesty.’

  ‘Excellent. Do you own a suit of armour, Major?’

  ‘I fail to understand . . .’

  ‘You dismiss this new thing so lightly, therefore you will surely stand by your own words.’ Alvdan was still smiling, as pleasantly as ever. ‘We shall therefore look forward to pitting the halfbreed’s craft against your professional opinion and, yes, Major, we do anticipate some amusement.’

  As the engineer stepped back, pale and shaken, Alvdan passed his gaze over the rest of them, and Maxin could almost read his mind: It does them good to remember what ‘Emperor’ means.

  ‘We are not pleased with progress in the Lowlands. We wish to spend the coming summer amongst our new subjects in Collegium. We trust this desire is clear.’

  There was a murmur and a nodding.

  ‘Explain to us where our armies shall assault,’ Alvdan directed, picking out the Slave Corps major to reply. The man was an old campaigner who approached with the proper mix of deference and confidence. Few career soldiers stayed in the slavers to reach his rank, and he had long carved his niche in the human trade that war turned up.

  ‘Your Imperial Majesty, we are facing a three-sided defence. You have been told, of course, that General Alder and the Fourth have been repulsed by the Lowlander savages along the coast. We have the Second Army marching to Tark from Asta, so as to set out along the coast once spring comes, thus making the best time overland. The Eighth is also listed to march to Asta, for deployment then where it is best thought fit. We plan to sweep down the coast as rapidly as possible, but at the same time we face the problem of the Spider-kinden.’

  ‘I have made my decision concerning the Spiders,’ Alvdan remarked. A frisson of interest passed through the assembled tacticians, for this was news. ‘We must assume that they have played a part in the destruction of the Fourth,’ the Emperor continued. ‘So I have instructed General Maxin here to have his agents destabilize the local cities of the Spiderlands. We intend to sow sufficient disruption at their borders to ensure that they shall not trouble our Lowlands campaign.’ He smiled at them. ‘The rest is a Rekef matter, and in General Maxin’s capable hands, but no doubt the Second or Eighth can spare time to burn the Spiders’ webs, if the Rekef so wish. Continue.’

  The slaver major gestured towards the map. ‘You have already heard how the Sixth and Seventh Armies will be approaching the city of Sarn, but agents in the Rekef Inlander inform us that Sarn is currently allied with a number of lesser cities in that area, making any advance into contested territory dangerous.’ He glanced at Maxin. ‘General, perhaps I range into your territory now?’

  Maxin stepped forward to the map, tapping the shining disc that represented Sarn. ‘The mixing of kinden that the Lowlanders are currently engaging in, in their attempts to find an alliance against us, allows our agents much more freedom to act than before. We are well placed to shatter this alliance of theirs by removing key figures and playing on their suspicion of each other. At that point, when the season turns, General Malkan will advance overland and by rail and destroy Sarn before heading north to mop up the primitives living there. Collegium will then fall either to the Seventh coming south from Sarn, or to the Second coming east along the coast, whichever seems most convenient at the time. So ends the war with the Lowlands.’

  ‘Not another Twelve-Year War then, we hope,’ said Alvdan.

  ‘We cannot promise on our lives that your Imperial Majesty’s flag shall fly over Collegium this summer,’ said one of the older generals, ‘but the Lowlands, though they have pockets of mechanical knowledge that matches our own, lack the unity and spirit of the Commonweal, or the reserves of manpower. We cannot but think that, by next summer at the very latest, all the Lowlands shall be yours.’

  ‘The Lowlands shall be yours,’ Uctebri murmured to himself derisively. He had not been present at the war council, but that was no barrier to him, for his mind gnawed through the fabric of this palace like a grub. Nothing ever escaped him, and meanwhile the Wasps remained so sure of their material world, so ignorant of the reality that moved invisibly behind it. He was back in his new chamber again, the one with the opening roof. He was allowed outside it only in the company of General Maxin or the Emperor, though he believed that, if need be, his own powers would secure his release. Again that blurring of boundaries and outlines, the hedging over questions of fact. Questions such as: Do I do this for himself or for my kinden?

  Originally, of course, the secret masters amongst the Blooded Ones had set him on this path, yet now he had developed a personal stake, a chance to grasp power with his own hands rather than simply bow to the will of his betters. His kinden had never been a unified race. They were individualists one and all. It was why they were now so few.

  He ordered his guard to winch the ceiling hatch open for, though it was a simple mechanical operation, he could not master it. The chill air fell into the room and made the fire tremble in the grate. Uctebri saw his own breath, and that of the guard, plume in the sudden cold.

  There were no clouds blotting the heavens tonight, but he would not have cared if there were. He could read the clouds as easily as the stars hiding behind them.

  He had dreamt long last night, seen many things. Now he stared up at the order of the heavens in order to help thresh through those visions and cast out the chaff of mere fancy.

  There had been Mantis-kinden in his dream, and many others of the Lowlands peoples. A man who fought under the badge of the
old Weaponsmasters . . . and a woman whose banner changed and changed, a spy in the way that the old races recognized that word. She was the holder of the Shadow Box.

  Last night had been full of faces and blood. He had seen the figure of Emperor Alvdan II cast in gold, presiding over the beginning of a new world. Perhaps he should tell the man of that vision, and whet his ego still further.

  The death of the mighty . . . that was something best left unsaid, but it had been clear last night, and was clear in the stars now. The fall of cities and armies marching. One did not have to be a seer to foresee such things in the future. The Empire had grown great, its borders overflowing with armed men. All the independent powers still left in this tract of world would be troubled by this next season of campaigning. He had seen last night the sails of the Spider-kinden; the white eyes of the Moths who had driven his own people into the wastes; a lame halfbreed crushed stone in a hand of steel; a dead man arose to rule over the lost, with the sun as his queen. Uctebri made his notes and observations, but so much of what he had seen was still shrouded in darkness, even to his penetrating eyes.

  He signalled to the guard and the shivering man gratefully winched the shutters closed. Even as he did so, Uctebri saw one last piece leap out at him. Blood, of course. Blood, which was the tide the world ebbed and flowed on, but blood particularly tonight.

  He gave a thin and lipless smile just at the thought. There were many traditions of the old magic, Moth-kinden and Spider and more, old and lost and abandoned. Only the Mosquito-kinden understood the true value of blood, and when to reach deep into the minds of others and lay their hands on the knife.

  Alvdan had spent the day unsatisfied. The mosquito slave constantly prevaricated and whined for his precious box. General Maxin counted over his agents and imagined that Alvdan did not notice the power games he played with the other two Rekef generals. He was getting ahead of himself, that one, taking imperial favour for granted. Perhaps it would soon be time for Maxin to discover, as so many others had, why the throne’s benevolence should not be presumed on.

  But if Maxin died, of course, his name could no longer be used to frighten Seda. Alvdan’s sister had now lived in Maxin’s shadow for eight years, after the general had disposed of all their other siblings. No, better to keep Maxin alive for now. Where else could such a convenient stick be found, to beat little Seda with?

  And the military, his ingenious strategists! I have an entire Empire to choose from, and this is what they give me! True, the Slave Corps man had seemed fairly competent, but what true soldier had ambitions as low as commanding the slavers? Profiteers and brigands, the lot of them, though necessary, of course. The Empire would always need slaves, and it ground them up at such a rate that it seemed impossible there could always be more. There were always more, though: prisoners of battle, criminals and cullings from the provinces or raids against savage peoples living beyond the borders. The Slave Corps did a fine job, really, for all that it was inferior work for a soldier.

  My generals just talk and talk. If there was no progress this spring then Alvdan would take his pleasure in devising torments for those men. For now he must take his pleasures elsewhere. He had eaten some small amount, drunk a little wine, his servants hovering around anxiously for his orders. Now he could at least slake his physical needs, though his mind would continue to worry and tug at all of his problems even then. With his entourage of guards and menials, he swept through the halls of his personal chambers and entered the rooms allotted to his concubines.

  Only the Emperor kept concubines. Other Wasps might have their women, their slave girls, whoever took their fancy, and he knew that some foreign kinden such as the cursed Spiders delighted in great slave seraglios where one of their noble ladies might rut every night for a year and not see the same body beneath her twice, but the imperial concubines here were something different to that. The Emperor could call upon any woman within the Empire, of any kinden, of any station, slave or free, married or not, and yet here he kept a collection of women for his personal use only. That use was partly for the physical satisfaction, but more for political ends. They were all highly important to him, because they were hostages of a sort.

  Most were Wasp-kinden, daughters of powerful families, governors, colonels; men whose loyalty to the Empire was paramount and yet not entirely guaranteed; men who commanded large armies out on the marches, beyond the close scrutiny of the throne, or Consortium merchant barons whose hands were often dipped in the imperial coffers – all had been required to contribute some close female blood-kin to the Emperor’s harem. It was a hard-edged honour but, still, the truly loyal gave without question, and for the rest there was always the fearsome spectre of the Rekef.

  And, of course, General Maxin’s own middle daughter was here. Alvdan had slept with her only once. In fact he slept with them all at least once. He knew Maxin was notoriously unsentimental but still he felt that, if it came to that, the death or disfigurement of his daughter might at least bruise the man’s iron self-possession.

  What am I in the mood for tonight? Alvdan asked himself. Something unusual, he decided.

  ‘Bring me Tserinet,’ he instructed the Warden of the Concubines, an elderly woman who had served in the post since his father’s time. There were no male servants allowed within the harem, and here, in their armour and with spears to the ready, were the only fighting women in the Empire, a dozen hand-picked female Wasp-kinden who were rumoured to be the equal of any elite duellist serving in the Imperial Army.

  When the woman was brought out, Alvdan nearly reconsidered. She was no great beauty, Tserinet. Short and dark, with a flat face and a lean body, he had lain with her four times and each experience had been the same: passionless, without any sign of emotion from her. She had let him stamp himself upon her, and clearly willed it to be brief. Even when he had struck her in frustration she had not reacted.

  Still, she now looked as forlorn as he could wish. When she met his gaze briefly there was something wretched and terrible in her eyes. Yes, she would do.

  He owed it to his Empire, after all, to visit every part of it, at least vicariously. That accounted for all his concubines of other races: women of importance from the Empire’s subject cities, serving as hostages to their families’ good behaviour. At the moment, none was more important than Tserinet.

  He wondered what news she had gleaned of her own city. The local governor worked them hard there, and work they did, each long day become a grind to produce food for the Empire, or armour and weapons and machines. Since its conquest, after the end of a long siege, Szar had become quite a pillar of the Wasp Empire, a city that practically ran itself for the Empire’s good – and more loyal than the Emperor’s own people because here was its queen: Tserinet, the ruler of Szar, adored of her subjects, queen of the Bee-kinden.

  Yes, tonight he would stamp his rule upon Szar once again. Those Bees should be honoured by the attention.

  He had been expecting the usual passionless and unresponsive coupling, but this was different. Tonight she met his attentions with a desperate fire, grappling with him like a real lover, locking her legs about him, moving with him as though she had a thirst only he could quench. He wondered at it, even as he thrust and gasped atop her, how this woman could have thus metamorphosed from the affectless creature he had known previously. When she grasped him now it was as though she was taking some great leap into an unknown and unplumbed void.

  She left him quite spent and, when he rolled off her, she stared at the ceiling with tears in her eyes. He did not understand her at all but he had no urge to scry into the minds of all the subject peoples of his Empire. Well satisfied, he left her, still trembling, for his own bed.

  It had been a farewell of sorts, that final act of hers, and not to the man she hated most in the world but to the world itself. For the next morning they found Tserinet dead. During the night, she had taken a broken shard of pottery and gashed at her own wrists, bleeding slowly to death. Tserinet, Queen o
f Szar and hostage for the obedience of her people, was no more.

  Five

  When Solarno came into sight it was as though a second sun had risen in the north. Che caught her breath and held onto the rail, seeing that field of white bloom and glow on the horizon, amongst the surrounding green hills.

  So much else she had seen: the familiar streets of Collegium, where she had grown up; the avaricious energy with which Helleron’s grime and vice trampled over its own poor; the stark simplicity of Myna, bitterly waiting for its revolution; the steadfast order of the Ants of Sarn. She had even seen the Spiderlands: the walled elegance of Seldis and the sprawling, unbounded luxury that was Siennis: its wood-framed spires and minarets defying the laws of architecture to soar into the sky, its bazaars roofed with a fortune in silks. Seeing this city for the first time, though, she decided that Solarno was the most beautiful place she had ever laid eyes on.

  ‘I never grow tired of it.’ The Fly aviatrix, Taki, was at her elbow. ‘I’ve seen places, you know. I’ve travelled all about the Exalsee, and there’s nowhere to match her.’

  The northern shore of the great lake was a gentle slope that plunged into the waters without beach or foreshore, and Solarno had been cut into it, tier upon tier, a broad but shallow band of the work of man extended against the rolling green of fields and pastures that rose steadily behind the city itself. Solarno was predominantly white stone with roofs of red and orange tiles, like surmounting flames, and it was brilliant wherever the sun struck it. Looking at it now, from the water, Che could discern its hierarchy at once: the great villas ranged closer towards the hills’ crests and the commercial district lining the waterfront. She could see the sprawling west side of the city, where the houses were smaller and shone less brightly, and the compact east where rose the stacks of factories that hugged the waterfront along the lines of two rivers, turning the great water-wheels that drove the machines inside.