The slighter of the two infomancers stepped forwards and looked into the prisoner’s face. She presented no obvious kind of threat in her neat dark suit with her groomed hair and clean, relaxed features but as she approached the Spire kidnapper shrank back in her chains as far as possible, trembling noticeably. The infomancer’s voice was calm and even. ‘You may speak freely or I can take the knowledge without your consent, it’s up to you. I believe from your reaction that you are familiar with our methods.’ As she spoke, she shot her cuffs and flexed her fingers.
She had a perfect manicure, Tralane noted, and the hands of someone who hadn’t done more than touch the odd bit of cutlery in an entire lifetime.
‘Oh come on,’ Tralane muttered, desperate and already annoyed by the drama. Zharazin looked up from his seated place beside her and reached out to touch her hand.
‘Shamuit Torada is a threat to the Empire,’ the Spire woman hissed, unable to recoil further. Her panic increased as the infomancer laid one delicate hand on her forehead and she struggled pointlessly against the chains. Sweat sheened her face. ‘You are all under the mastery of a madwoman. Surrender and mercy will be—’ Her voice cut off sharply and her eyes rolled up in her head and began to dart around, up, down, left, right as a thin line of blood formed beneath the infomancer’s palm and began to trickle down beside her brow and over her nose.
The infomancer spoke calmly in bursts. ‘She knows only to come here and to take the girl away to a rendezvous point on the Eligan Plateau, coordinates… Hmm, there is only a vague placement on a map, this is not the navigator,’ the infomancer said, her own eye movements exactly tracking those of her subject. ‘Glimshard is not to be infiltrated but attacked by conventional warfare to preserve the city structure if a coup does not succeed from within by the time the army arrives… Ah, she had no idea about the Karoo being here, only that Glimshard is in contact with them at the southern forest… There is a great treasure there which should belong to the whole Empire but Spire believes Torada will try to hold it for herself and… Ah, Spire believes Torada is about to attempt to seize control of the Eight-Limbed and go for godhood… interesting… The city will be secured by joint forces from Spire and Dirt and the Empress will be deposed and replaced with someone who does not share her particular Influence. No other detail.’ The woman turned impassively towards the guards who were staring at her, slackjawed. She nodded at them and then looked at Mazhd. ‘You are to go to the palace and interrogate Alide immediately. The Empress awaits you.’
‘But are they going to harm her? What’s going to happen to Minna?’ Tralane demanded.
The infomancer’s eyes flicked, rapid as arrowshot. ‘She will be passed to a second team on the Plateau. After delivery, the kidnap group would be given new orders on site. She believes your daughter is a hostage who would be treated fairly and there is no immediate threat to her life, but, of course, who can say if any of what she knows is true?’ The woman withdrew her hand and revealed three red punctures beneath it, small but enough to cause the bleeding and cover her palm in red. As she did so the prisoner lost consciousness and slumped forwards in her chains. The infomancer drew a container from her pocket with her free hand and extracted a damp white cloth with which she carefully cleaned off every trace of blood from herself. She placed the kerchief into a sealed bag and placed that in a second pocket and turned to the guard as if already bored with them. ‘That’s all. Take her to the dungeons, she is not worth further time for us.’
‘What did you do to her?’ Isabeau asked in the silence as the guards moved forwards and picked up the prisoner between them, the commander grim-faced.
‘I read her,’ the infomancer said simply, watching the unconscious body being carried out. ‘It can cause brain damage. We won’t know until she wakes up. I regret, Huntingore, that there is little we can do at this point until the general and the Empress agree upon orders.’ She looked at Tralane and clipped her heels together, chin lowered in a mute gesture that combined respect, indifference and dismissal at the same time.
Mazhd got to his feet, pale and slow, his eyes half glazed with trance communication.
Tralane opened her mouth but the guard corporal beat her to it. ‘Professor Huntingore your presence is required at the portal and it cannot wait. You and the Consort must come with me immediately. Your equipment has already been sent ahead.’
‘But I can fly after them…’ She had a wealth of reasons, all of them, she saw instantly, far too flimsy to justify her delaying. If she did fly after Minna in the Flit then she would go alone and still only have a possibly outdated location to show for it, supposing she were not shot down by the other aircraft. It was impossibly foolish, and she wanted to do it with every burning bone in her body.
‘Immediately,’ the corporal said.
Tralane turned and seized Isabeau’s hand on her way past. ‘Come with me.’ Her tone was not to be disobeyed and for once Isabeau just did as she was told without a remark.
When they were in Tralane’s room and the door closed Tralane stripped off the remains of her dress and underwear and kicked them all away mid-stride to the bed where her going-away clothes of camouflage gear and pack harness had been laid out ready since the day before. She grabbed them up and yanked them on as fast as she could while she talked in a low intent voice, looking at Isabeau all the time to be sure she listened.
‘I want you to keep petitioning for Minna’s return, any way that you can. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone but until I get back you are the only Huntingore left to do everything that must be done. You run the house, look after the Flytes and the other families, understand? Make sure that Best recovers and give him the lab and whatever he can take out of the attics. Don’t give away anything to anyone but if you can use it, get it working and keep hold of it. I know you have responsibilities to your mentor but this comes first until we’re all back in one piece.’ She found she was done, clothes on, nothing left to say, almost. She was surprised to find Isabeau staring at her with tear-filled eyes although there was no other sign of emotion about her. ‘You’re not to say anything to Minna’s web other than everything is being done and that Minna is all right. Keep them out of the house. It’s bound to be a target if the city is invaded. If that happens you are to evacuate the building immediately with what you can carry and what you can’t must be destroyed if they would find it useful.’ She straightened and went to seize Isabeau’s slight, slow-reacting body with a fierce hug. With her nose in Isabeau’s soft hair and the feel of her solid and warm in her arms Tralane never, ever wanted to let go. Thinking of Minna she almost lost her grip on herself but then she straightened up. She whispered in Isabeau’s ear, ‘Go into the attic and open the spinning wheel seat when I’ve gone.’ Then she let go just as Isabeau clung to her arms and for once looked like an uncertain teenager, scared and unready.
Tralane picked the gun off the bed and paused, then tucked it at her belt where her multitool usually hung. She took a last glance around and bent to tighten the buckles on her heavy boots. The solid grip of the leather on her body helped anchor her in the present moment and gave her a false sense of security she badly wanted. When she straightened, Isabeau was wiping her eyes off on her sleeve, a cool, determined expression in place that set into stone as she watched. She envied that strength of purpose. ‘That’s my girl.’
Tralane walked out past her without another hesitation and found Tzaban standing at the door waiting for her. She glanced up into his face fearlessly for the first time, feeling that nothing could intimidate her now. Until Minna was home she was in a place of war. To her surprise he seemed no more than a painted man, not remotely beast-like. Behind him, Mazhd waited, his face gone ash white with shock. The medic was hanging on his arm, trying to persuade him to take something she held in a vial but his eyes tracked Tralane instead, delaying his orders until she would speak. She felt more touched by that than anything he had done but a cold resolve had formed in her and she had no smile.
> She had no choice but to go, but she would see Minna back safe and sound or someone was going to pay. A tiny voice at the back of her mind was trying to explain the actual probabilities to her but if she paid attention to it she would fall apart so she thanked it politely and told it to shut up. She had the strangest sensation that both Mazhd and Tzaban could see this happen. Their faces were all verticals, hard angles and bleak, unsheltering planes. Necessity must look the same in all faces.
She muttered an ‘excuse me’ as the Karoo stepped back to let her pass, and faced Zharazin. It was too soon for gushing goodbyes and the wrong time for a simple farewell as if they were mere travellers. She wasn’t sure what they were to each other and could not afford to consider that now, but even though she longed to rush away so that the job might be done the sooner and the search for Minna begun, she stopped and hugged him silently. His returning embrace felt strong, one-armed as it was. He gave no sign of pity or concern for her and she was heartened.
‘I’ll be back soon,’ she said firmly to whoever was listening. ‘If you find anything out, let me know.’
‘I will,’ he replied, and she knew he was talking about Minna, and not the Empress or the spy when he added, ‘I will pursue her in every way I can.’
She nodded and followed the Karoo, who had assumed matters concluded and was heading out. She didn’t seem to breathe out again until they were already halfway down the street, her on horseback, him walking. They glided down silently through the stem’s magelit trunk on one of the goods’ platforms, then the corporal escorted them to the city gates through crowded streets before surrendering to Tzaban’s command and turning back. Tralane assumed he had been accepted by their military somehow, or else this would not have happened, so despite the oddness of it she didn’t question it. They paced steadily down the road, flanked on either side by wagons. Families, riders and walkers burdened with heavy loads all trudged steadily in the other direction. Refugees, Tralane realised belatedly, all moving into the protection of the city walls. There was a long stream of them as far as she could see in all directions over the plain, the green tabard dots of the Empress’ runners here and there between them, ushering them faster. They looked frightened and weary, even their dogs.
A child riding on top of a wagon tarp stared at her with silent, resentful eyes. She felt a pang, turned in her saddle and looked north, hoping for a glimpse of the plane though there could be none. There was smoke on the horizon at several points. Circle signal fires, she thought with a shiver. They enjoyed a hunter and herder life and had no desire for Imperial things, though they liked looting as an entertainment and the collection of foreign treasures. Whatever they were saying she took it as a given that the Spire army had reached the plains’ edge at last. The Circle would join it or be swept away by it – for Glimshard and the Empire it didn’t matter which.
‘Come on,’ Tzaban said, in a grunt she barely understood as words. He made a subtle gesture and without her interference her horse broke into a trot and then a canter, following his easy lope downhill against the tide.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MINNABAR
Minnabar Huntingore felt truly afraid. The ground dropped away in an unnatural angle, the familiar flagstones of the roof quickly obscured by the edge of the flying machine’s deck and replaced by other roofs far below. The edge of the upper city wrapped in its bright mageglow slid beneath her, bathing the craft briefly in violet and white light. Blinded by it and still face down on the narrow platform of the flyer she couldn’t even see the lower town as they passed over it in a grinding hum through which her mind insisted it could hear the heartbeat of an eight-cylinder engine being driven a touch too hard, one head worn and too much oil in the firing mix giving that strange splutter and clack that was all but drowned in the drone of the propeller blades.
She felt her hands being tied up behind her back, one, two, three quick knots, then she was rolled over and saw that her sense of security in the airframe wasn’t at all shared by the other two passengers in the craft’s rear section, unless their pasty expressions were fear of something else, but Glimshard had no air defences and neither her mother’s Flit nor those of the weather service was a threat to a machine of this size. She looked up into older faces than her own, one man and one woman though they had very similar features, small and neat, their skins a pale olive tending to green and their hair a dark brown, cut uniformly close to their heads. They bent close to her, holding her down on the floor pan with their feet. Her legs were still free but fighting here was dangerous. She had nowhere to go except out the open sides of the flyer into a fatal fall. The pressure of their boots was a security against falling rather than an oppression at that moment. All she could do was catch her breath, swallow the humiliation of her capture and stare at them. Her heart pounded so hard she wondered it didn’t burst, but unlike the engine there was no valve weakness there and she had to live, for now.
‘Who are you?’ she managed after they had all stared at each other a while. Her voice sounded tiny and pathetic, gravely disappointing her. ‘Where are we going?’
In return they simply blinked at her and then looked forwards as cold air whipped through the cabin, thin and cruel.
‘Put your ’chutes on and get one on her.’ The command in strangely accented Imperial came from the front as if it didn’t care much either way about what happened. Then the voice added, ‘Settle down. We’ve a long way to go.’
That was all the talking there was for nearly her entire journey. She tried a few more questions but they met with blank gazes of indifference for which she felt grateful in that they were not an immediate harm. They tied a pack to her clumsily, and compensated for their unwillingness to do the job by tightening its straps ferociously across her middle and back. The steady flight, punctuated by turbulent jerks that made her captors yet more green and pale, was so dull that eventually her fear had no fuel remaining and leaked away leaving her to calculate their airspeed and distances covered based on various guesses. She knew from the sun angle that she was going roughly north and from some long forgotten lesson that their green-grey uniforms meant they must be from a region of the world controlled by the Empress known colloquially as Spire. When her calculations ran out she tried to remember what she could of Spire but she’d never paid much attention to what didn’t interest her and history and culture were in that category. They had a work ethic they valued over all things, she knew, and which guided their lives in rigid patterns very unlike Glimshard’s wandering days. She wondered what they could possibly want with her and guessed it may be to do with the gun her mother had restored, and those storm crystals, and whatever was going on with the Karoo. She wished she had paid attention. She wished for warmth as the icy metal deck temperature ate through her ordinary clothing and made her shiver helplessly there. Eventually, the female guard threw someone’s jacket over her but it didn’t make a lot of difference.
She held on to the slender hope that the person who had caught her unawares and marched her up to the roof with her arms twisted up her back had been left behind. Her mother had done for them, she thought. They might know things and tell what was going to happen to her. Someone would come for her. It was only a matter of time. Meanwhile her hands, crushed, cold and with restricted circulation, hurt until they went numb.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BORZE
Borze waited for Gau Tam and his prisoners in the throne room, alone except for the body of the would-be assassin and the Empress’ bodyguard, Jago, who had dragged it before the throne. A broad line of blood smeared the paving to mark its passage: Jago had carried it over the carpets but dropped it at the first opportunity here and hauled it by a fist knotted in the body’s hair. He stood over it now, face an iron mask that Borze didn’t try to read, nor meet his eye. The corpse was a mess, as if it had been scythed by one of the large agricultural machines that worked the lowland flat pastures: the Karoo’s doing. Borze was annoyed by it. Bodies didn’t talk, at least,
not to him. Ordinary palace guard lined the halls and stood at all the entrances, filled the gardens and could even be seen standing watch through the crystal skylights, their gold and rose uniforms fluttering in the sharp wind like fire. Somewhere within her private apartments the Empress also waited. He shucked his heavy dress coat and felt Jago’s gaze on him.
Without intending to he made eye contact with the man and saw what he hadn’t wanted to see there, the barbarian’s gore-soaked hair and streaked face set into a half snarl of resentful rage and the force of grief in him contained into a dark, brooding threat of violence. It wasn’t that Borze didn’t feel these things. It wasn’t that he thought the display of them was a weak sign. He simply knew that to let them out, even as far as his face or the surface of his skin, was futile. What good would it do? Deep inside his chest he felt so many of these things, collected across the years, that he didn’t know what would happen if they saw the light of day and he stood patiently with his head down and the smell of blood in his nostrils and met that gaze with silence. Jago was a man of a kind he didn’t trust, volatile, the kind of man you couldn’t rely on to hear any order to retreat. Like Hakka he was unfit for an army, perfect for a guard dog.
This image made him think of Tzaban. He’d said nothing about the Empress’ choice. She was so beyond him that it was merely something to adapt to that he didn’t think about. His faith in her was no more shaken than if she’d picked a fine officer or a prince. He thought it should be rattled, but the feeling of it wouldn’t come no matter what he pulled to his mind and at moments like these he understood his loyalty wasn’t his own. He was hers, like every other subject in the city, and in this he couldn’t only not choose but see no choices to perplex him. How much more so for Jago.
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