Blood of the Mantis sota-3

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  ‘Well look at you, Sieur Nero,’ Taki said. ‘You’re now looking almost civilized – for an old man.’

  ‘And you, Madam Taki, are looking positively barbarous. Did I overlook some local custom about wearing the worst of one’s wardrobe today?’

  Letting that comment wash off her, Taki took her place at the table and signalled for Che to elbow herself a space. ‘If you wish to fit in here,’ she instructed, ‘you will have to learn a civilized city’s methods of addresses. None of your masters or madams. A man is “Sieur”, Sieur Nero, and a lady is “Bella” if she’s your equal, but “Domina” if she’s your better.’

  ‘What if a man’s your better?’ Nero asked.

  ‘How would I know? I’ve not met one yet,’ Taki said smugly, to snorts of amusement from her fellow Destiavel employees.

  ‘These words are very strange to me,’ Che said. Having made no attempt to look like a native she did not mind showing her ignorance. ‘And the place-names, too. You talked yesterday about… Princep somewhere.’

  The Dragonfly looked at her sharply, while Taki nodded. ‘Princep Exilla, yes. Bane of our lives, most of the time.’

  ‘Only, I know it’s just a name, but it sounds as though it should mean something too. I wondered… in Collegium there are some ancient tablets that are inscribed with letters nobody can read. These words you use sound almost like a different language, or…’

  ‘It’s all the Dragonflies’ fault,’ Taki interrupted. ‘Isn’t it, Dalre?’

  The scarred and branded man gave her a terrifying scowl that, Che realized later, was meant in humour.

  ‘Dalre’s people have been here a lot longer than we have – they came here way back in the bad old days to found their colony. They brought their own talk too, like a different kind of gabble to their everyday speech, so the words are close enough that you can almost understand them, but not quite. They use it only as a secret language now, but I think that way back it was kind of formal lingo for their bigwigs and wise men. It’s like one of those private clubs for the gentry, where if you don’t speak right you don’t get in. After the Spiders came to Solarno and heard it spoken, they tell me the titles and talk are all over the Spiderlands too. Poetic, you know, just how the great ladies like it.’

  ‘So Princep Exilla means…?’ Che asked.

  ‘The Exiled Princedom, or something like that,’ Taki replied. ‘And there are place-names like that all over. Even ordinary streets here in Solarno. Speaking of which, I need to go down to the machine shop to make sure the greasy-handed ones aren’t going to ruin my poor Esca. How about I take you and Sieur Nero to the Venodor, so you can get to watch how Solarno really operates.’

  There was a slight edge to her glance as she said it, and Che, while nodding in agreement, thought, She wants to get us out of here. To keep us out of the way of her Spider mistress perhaps, but why?

  ‘Who are they?’ Che asked, raising her voice to talk over the rain. Taki leant out into the street from the covered forecourt of the taverna to see the group she had indicated, and sighed theatrically.

  ‘You foreigners certainly know how to pick the best of our lovely city. Those, Bella Cheerwell, are chaotics.’ She glared at the little knot of blue-hatted men and women, mostly Solarnese but with a couple of her own kinden, who were standing at a street-corner within the Venodor and glaring right back at Taki and everyone else. ‘You have those too, where you come from?’

  The Venodor was Solarno’s chief market, Che now understood. It was not decently located in a single open space but in dozens of cluttered streets in which, it also seemed, ordinary people were attempting to reside. Nero explained that this followed a pattern found throughout much of the Spiderlands.

  ‘Agitators, you mean?’ Che probed and, when Taki nodded, she admitted, ‘We have a few ourselves, I suppose. Students in Collegium who want this or that changed within the city, or protesting about someone somewhere else doing something they don’t like. And in Helleron the protests can become quite violent, they say, but there’s usually an element of crime involved as well.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s what I hear, anyway.’

  ‘Near enough the truth,’ Nero confirmed. He had not even bothered to peer out at the chaotics, or else had already seen them as they arrived at the taverna. He just lounged on the wood-slatted bench at one corner of the low-walled forecourt, while above them the rain drummed on a waxed awning before sluicing off it in sheets.

  ‘Well this lot can become as violent as you like. They’re supporters of the Crystal Standard Party,’ Taki explained. ‘You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you? I can’t understand how you get on in your Lowlands, without politics.’

  ‘We do have politics,’ Che said, feeling obscurely proud. ‘In Collegium our citizens cast lots to elect the greatest of us to the Assembly, so the city is governed by its people.’

  ‘That sounds quite mad,’ Taki told her. ‘I may have to go there, just to see this prodigy for myself. Stories of faraway places are always strange, it’s true, but usually when you meet a traveller from those parts you find out it’s all nonsense and they’re just like we are. Apparently you’re not.’

  ‘So what’s all this business with rival parties here?’ Nero asked.

  ‘Now concentrate, as this will get complicated, you poor innocent foreigners,’ Taki warned them with a grin. She sketched a broad circle on the ground with her foot. ‘Here is the Corta Lucidi, which includes representatives from all the major families of Solarno. Each family has, oh, four, six, up to a dozen representatives, depending on their wealth, their status, the trades they control. And also the number of their supporters,’ she added, flicking an idle glance in the direction of the chaotics, who were now shouting out something hostile at several hurried passersby. The group of agitators was only half out of the rain but did not seem to care.

  ‘Now this,’ Taki continued, now delineating a smaller circle with the toe of her sandal, ‘is the Corta Obscuri, which actually controls the city. This is made up of the lucky ones from the Lucidi that the chief party chooses which, needless to say, are its own supporters. At the moment it’s the Crystal Standard that runs the Corta Obscuri, and so all the current Obscuri members are from Standard families. With me so far?’

  The two foreigners nodded dutifully.

  ‘Right, let’s see if I can lose you with this next bit,’ Taki went on. ‘Now the Lucidi can call for the Corta Obscuri to be reformed at any time. And, if they have enough voices in the Lucidi, another party can take over and appoint a new batch of Obscuri. I should mention now that, aside from their spokeswoman to the Lucidi, nobody knows who’s been picked for the Obscuri at any given time. Only those chosen know who’s really running the show, so all we lesser folks know is which party runs the city this tenday. It’s supposed,’ she added, with an ironic smile, ‘to prevent corruption.’

  ‘Why don’t your Lucidi call for a new hand on the tiller every day, then?’ Nero asked her.

  ‘Because, whoever does ask for that, if it doesn’t happen, that person is thrown out of the Lucidi and the ruling party can choose who fills their shoes,’ Taki told him. ‘So the important people’s supporters get out on the street to intimidate the lesser people, and perhaps a few houses change party, especially the smaller families, who basically have to whore themselves about the place to make ends meet. But a lot of it is down to the shouting, because a lot of people start to jump ship when it looks, out on the street, that someone is getting stronger than they used to be. So maybe our citizens do get to choose who runs them. Just like yours, in a way.’

  ‘In a way,’ Che agreed weakly. It still sounded a far cry from either Collegium’s polite power-jostling or the elegant, deadly games the Spiders played.

  ‘Anyway,’ Taki told them. ‘You two go ahead and take a walk about the Venodor, because I need to check on my Esca. Make sure you come back here, to Ahabi’s Three Pillars. If you get lost, everyone knows where this place is. Keep your purses tight and don�
��t get into fights. I’ll be back here before the next bell tolls.’

  ‘Taki,’ Che let the question out at last, ‘why are you so interested? Why are you helping us like this?’

  ‘I’m just a naturally friendly person,’ Taki replied cheerfully, but Che shook her head and the Fly girl grimaced. ‘It’s because of the Wasps. You obviously know a lot about the Wasps, and I want to know more because, some friends of mine and I, we’re getting just a little worried. Enough said for now?’

  ‘Quite enough,’ Che agreed, and the little Fly slipped away into the side-streets.

  ‘So, what do we know?’ Nero asked, after she had gone. ‘The Wasps are here and not everyone likes them,’ Che suggested.

  ‘And not everyone doesn’t like them,’ Nero finished for her. ‘That girl isn’t too sure about her own mistress – her Domina. Notice how she got us out of there before the Spider could start asking us questions. Believe me, it’s very hard not to come clean with them, when they’re putting their Art on you.’

  ‘So what do you think the Wasps’ agenda is?’ Che asked. ‘I don’t see any…’ She looked about her, and then looked again. ‘Actually there are a couple over there, just standing there, keeping an eye on things. It’s almost as though they’re a kind of…’ She looked at Nero worriedly.

  ‘Militia?’ he mused. ‘So maybe one of the parties has started hiring them. Maybe imperial soldiers are moving into this city as mercenaries. Good ploy, that – I wonder how many they’ve got in Solarno so far. But it would take a lot of soldiers to put the clamps on a place as mad as this one. Our next move then – what do you think?’

  ‘Gather more information.’

  ‘Right,’ Nero confirmed. ‘And I hate to say it, but I’m better placed than you, for that game. I thought you’d be a good bet, but I’ve not seen another Beetle-kinden on the streets save for the pale-skin local kind, and you’re not going to pass for one of them.’

  It was true, Che reflected gloomily. Not only were the Solarnese women all sand-coloured, with dark or red-dyed hair worn twisted up at the back of the neck, but they were also mostly taller than she was, and leaner. ‘So you’re off to trawl the gutters, are you?’ she asked.

  ‘While you get to be polite with all the lords and ladies. Make sure you stay close to that Taki girl. She’s obviously flying in from the same quarter as we are where the Stripeys are concerned, even though she’s got a bit of a mouth on her. Are you even listening?’

  Che had been staring past him, but now she nodded hurriedly. ‘Stay with Taki, yes. Sorry, it’s just… I had strange dreams last night.’

  ‘Bad ones?’

  ‘Anything but,’ she replied, and then found herself smiling.

  The shouting from the street-corner mob had increased over the last minute or so, though they had been paying it little heed. Now, Che leapt to her feet even before she had quite realized what she had heard: the unmistakable sound of metal striking metal. Without intending it, her own sword was clear of its scabbard.

  The arguing nearby had turned into a brawl, though nothing like the formal deadliness of the duel witnessed the previous day. Even as Che and Nero had been talking, another group had appeared from nowhere, most of them wearing the little red hat of yesterday’s successful duellist. Their jibes and accusations had suddenly sparked fire: there was one drawn blade and then they were all at it. Knives and daggers and the local curved swords appeared in every hand, and from then on an undisciplined and bloody skirmish was inevitable.

  Che saw immediately that most of them, even those that had brought swords, were not fighters by habit, perhaps even less so than she herself was. Tradesmen and servants, she guessed, with maybe a few who had shed a little blood before. They were now packed close, jostling and shouting, and trading overextended blows wherever they could, so that the daggermen had the best of it, and the whole sorry mess was coming right in their direction.

  Many of the other locals were trying to get out of the way, so that the narrow streets running down to the waterfront were abruptly packed with fleeing people crammed shoulder to shoulder. Others, however, were joining in with abandon and, only adding to the confusion, many of them wearing no hats at all. Across the street a band of the local militia had already arrived, but seemed content to stand back and watch rather than wade into the maelstrom.

  ‘Che,’ said Nero from somewhere above her. He had flicked aloft with his wings and was now perched precariously atop the awning, a foot resting on one of the poles. ‘Che, get out of the way.’

  She looked around, and saw nowhere to go. She was too heavy, too clumsy, to follow Nero. She had insufficient stamina to fly more than a short hop, and that could just land her right in the middle of them. Instead she backed away towards the door of the taverna. Then the fighting mob had swept into the little courtyard, constantly eddying and turning, but never quite getting to the taverna’s doorway, leaving a blade’s length of clear ground in front of her as Che put her back against the stone wall. Beside her, in the doorway, a man who must be the proprietor had emerged with an axe-headed pike levelled, and was glowering ferociously at the knot of fighting men and women.

  There were at least four bodies now lying further down the street, which the militia were picking over unhurriedly. Che looked around for the Wasp soldiers but they were nowhere to be seen. She tried to make sense of the scrimmaging throng, amazed that more people were not already bleeding to death on the muddy cobbles of the Venodor. A lot of the ‘chaotics’ wore leather cuirasses, and their style seemed to be for slashing strokes that left long, shallow cuts, rather than fatal stabbing. It was a style designed to prevail without demanding a death, and plenty of the combatants had already retreated to lick their wounds. It seemed pure madness to Che, but both sides seemed to have the same general purpose.

  She never saw the assailant coming but instead she suddenly heard the sound of ripping fabric close at hand, and then swift motion beside her as Nero dropped through the awning and was abruptly perched on a man’s shoulders. The man, who had been within arm’s reach of Che a moment ago, was now staggering back as Nero clawed for his eyes with one hand, drawing his dagger with the other. The Solarnese tried jabbing his own long knife up at Nero, but the Fly kept shifting position, wings buzzing in and out of sight, and then Che herself lunged forwards and ran her potential assassin through the gut.

  He convulsed and fell forwards, leaving Nero abruptly hovering unsupported as the man jack-knifed to the ground, taking Che’s sword with him. She felt a jolt of horror – how much blood had she seen shed, how little of it her doing – and then Nero cursed and spun out of the air, a spatter of red suddenly staining the white of his clothes. He had twisted aside, by sheer Art and instinct, as the blade came in, so it had gashed across his arm rather than into his ribs. As her companion hit the ground, Che found herself facing a lean Dragonfly-kinden, deeply scarred on both cheeks. In his hands he wielded a long-hafted sword, as much hilt as blade. In her hands was nothing.

  He took a moment to note her vulnerability, his expression set, and then he lunged for her. None of the local posturing for him, he was in for a quick kill. She retreated hurriedly, her calves striking the low wall of the courtyard, and then her world went toppling backwards. He turned his lunge into a charge, wings flaring for speed, and she saw that slender, lethal blade plunge straight towards her – and then jerk to one side.

  It drove itself into the ground right beside her face, as its wielder ended up with one knee on her chest, his expression bewildered. She gaped at him and tried to work out why he was not moving. Only as he toppled sideways did she notice the pommel of the short, hiltless throwing blade almost buried in his neck.

  Che leapt to her feet, scanning the crowd. The size of the brawl had shrunk to something the militia were now happy to deal with, and they began to wade in and club the remaining contenders apart. Behind them, the more opportunistic of the Fly-kinden were busy making hurried assays of the pockets of the fallen.


  She noticed there was one man staring at her. He was not a local, nor of any kinden she recognized, perhaps some manner of half-breed. He was lean, russet-haired, neither tall nor short, dressed in a cuirass of bronzed scales and a shabby tan cloak. She could read absolutely nothing into his stare, as impersonal and distant as the stars, but he wore a bandolier of throwing blades and one of them – just one, mind you – was absent.

  The thought made her stomach turn, but she went over to the dead Dragonfly and awkwardly withdrew the blade, a slippery and unexpectedly difficult task that had her hands slick with his blood. The stranger was still there, watching, when she straightened up. In the background Nero was swearing and wrapping cloth about his injured arm, demanding to know what she was doing.

  She had expected the man to be gone, or to avoid her when she approached, but instead he stood his ground, and she saw that a couple of the militia had noticed him too, but were studiously pretending they had not. Someone who was known, then, and regarded with that particular brand of respect that had nothing to do with being liked.

  Closer to, he was slighter of build than she had first thought: not much taller than Achaeos, though broader at the shoulder. His face was gaunt and weathered, impossible to put an age to, utterly unknowable.

  She held the blood-washed blade out to him and asked merely, ‘Why?’

  It was back in his hand in an instant, without her even seeing him reach for it. When he then smiled it was a window onto something truly alien to her – something ancient and sad and very dark. He reminded her, she found with a shock, of Tisamon. That same melancholy darkness was contained in both of them.