Empire in Black and Gold

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

Salma closed his eyes.

  The sound was more violent than he expected in the sudden silence of the room, a hissing crackle of violated air. He opened his eyes. The injured man was lying on his front, the back of his head now smoking and charred.

  ‘Alive!’ snapped Thalric at them. ‘Alive, I said! Not so difficult, is it?’

  Salma saw that Che was a captive too, and knew that would complicate matters.

  ‘Bind him. Use the Fly manacles,’ Thalric instructed. His lip was still bleeding and he wiped at it absently.

  ‘And the Beetle?’ one of his men asked.

  ‘Just tie her hands. She won’t be flying anywhere we can’t follow.’ Thalric took a deep breath. ‘Master Monger, your assistance is most appreciated and will, of course, be rewarded.’

  ‘You’re taking this man’s money?’ Che exploded. ‘You’re selling your own cousin for money?’

  ‘For contracts, Cheerwell,’ said Elias, as if that made it all right.

  ‘But they’re invaders! They’re going to come here and take over everything!’ she shouted at him.

  ‘You obviously have not heard of a little something called the Treaty of Iron,’ Elias said airily. ‘The Empire has no interest in us. And besides, nobody takes over Helleron.’ He settled back in his chair. ‘Helleron serves everyone best by remaining as a free city. Everyone has always known that. Here we do business with every city, every general, every merchant. Captain Thalric’s people are no different. In fact, they are some of the best customers Helleron now has.’

  ‘A lot of good that’ll do you,’ she snapped, ‘when they invade your city using your own weapons!’

  ‘Enough!’ Thalric was not loud, simply extremely authoritative. ‘I can have you gagged, Miss Maker. Don’t force me.’

  Salma had been securely tied, his arms pinioned tightly behind his back, contorting him enough so that he would not be able to summon his Art-wings. He caught Che’s eye momentarily with a look that said, Be strong.

  ‘Take them outside. We’ll be heading east tonight,’ Thalric ordered his men, and they bundled Salma and Che out of the dining room, twisting their arms painfully at the first sign of resistance.

  ‘Well, I’m glad that’s over,’ said Elias primly, looking around the devastated room.

  ‘We will pay for any breakages, of course,’ said Thalric. ‘And I think I will leave half a dozen men here, as well.’

  ‘I . . .’ Elias eyed him, for the first time with a little suspicion. ‘I’m not sure that will be necessary.’

  Thalric smiled sardonically. ‘For the Empire’s love, Master Monger, do you think I’m going to garrison Helleron house by house, starting with yours? You forget, Stenwold Maker has arrived in Helleron, and doubtless he will come here, and soon. I have a great respect for his abilities to follow a trail of information, especially information I have planted for him to find. When he does, my men will seize him and then he will cease to trouble you.’

  Achaeos lay back on the hay bale and closed his eyes. He was not sure what was happening, but he knew it was bad.

  The Beetle-girl, Cheerwell, had just been dragged out of the house as a prisoner, along with some unknown Commonwealer. There was a whole pack of soldiers about them, their black-and-gold striped armour gleaming. Even now they were hauling the Dragonfly about by his bonds, jeering at him, boasting of how many of his race they had killed.

  Achaeos tried to recall the wars the Commonweal had fought. He could have listed every major conflict of his own people in the thousand years before the revolution, but more recent history was hardly their strong point up in Tharn. Always fighting old battles. He cast the saddening thought away angrily.

  He had a dagger but he was injured. He did not know whether he could even fly. He had lost his bow and quiver in the fighting last night. The one had leapt from his hand when the crossbow bolt found him over the mine workings. The other he had cast off himself, for more speed, as he had fled – fled here, and some sanctuary it had turned out to be. Still, he had successfully evaded Beetle soldiers before and he would do so again if he must. They were clumsy things and even if a very few Beetles could see in darkness almost as well as the Moth-kinden, none could see so well as to see him.

  He peeked through the crack of the stable door and saw that the Dragonfly had fallen to his knees and been jerked roughly up again.

  There had been a war just recently. The Moths had seen some of it, by scout and by distant divination. There was some new tribe on the march in the east, but that had not been important to the Moths of Tharn, who had their own battles to wage. Battles lost a long time ago . . .

  He wanted to dash airborne from the stable, to put his blade to use and get the debt he owed off his shoulders. Moths were not bound to honour as the Mantids were. They would break a promise or let an insult slide if circumstances suited. Still, they never did so without knowing it was a choice they had made deliberately, to turn their backs on something significant. Achaeos wanted to act but his back was being turned by his very situation. He was in no condition to help the girl.

  And she’s only a Beetle. But that thought didn’t help. Strangely, he felt even more moved to help her, to show her that her people had no monopoly on good deeds. In some strange way his race’s reputation was now at stake.

  There were more soldiers than ever out there and one who seemed to be in charge was giving them orders. One squad went back into the house, the rest were moving off elsewhere.

  Achaeos bared his teeth. If I act now, then what?

  As always, he fished in his pouch for the bones. It was a habit for him, especially when cut off from his own people. Good or bad, the omens never ultimately decided his actions. Bad omens just made him more careful.

  He dropped to one knee and cast a handful of these shards of bone onto the floor, noting which sigil fell where, which of them touched another, which were alone. It was a bad spread but, unlike some of his comrades, he did not then try for a second opinion. The bones were warning him that he would not succeed if he ventured out now. Had he been already determined to go, this would not have stopped him, but here it merely confirmed his opinion. He let his hand stray from his dagger.

  Good fortune, Beetle-girl. I cannot help you. The bones spoke of the future. He hoped that meant she would have some chance to free herself before she fell victim to the fate of so many female prisoners. The thought did not sit well with him. But there is nothing I can do!

  He told himself that he would fly at nightfall, if he could. He could then look for her, even – if he felt his indebtedness stretched so far. Or he could simply go straight home and forget about Cheerwell Maker and her fate. No doubt his mentors in Tharn would find his quirks of conscience on this matter ridiculous. Five centuries ago their rule of the Lowlands had been shattered, defeat after defeat at the hands of their slaves’ new weapons. In the Moths’ minds a battle line had been drawn with the revolution, and they had been engaged in ideological warfare ever since.

  So he waited, patiently, after the soldiers and their captives had gone. He waited and he watched. Every so often a patrol of Beetle soldiers came round, but none thought to look in the stables, nor would they have spotted him now his strength was back.

  In the fullness of time the sky faded towards evening, the silhouetted bulk of the mountains bringing a premature sunset as the sun clipped them. Achaeos stretched, felt his side tug. He thought he could make it, fly at least part of the way, hole up somewhere in the foothills, as far away from these mine workings as he could find. In the first shallows of gloom he slipped from the stables, and froze.

  There was a figure crossing the yard before the house, another Beetle. Achaeos waited, very still, very quiet, and the man did not see him. This was a large, broad-waisted Beetle-kinden, clad in hard-wearing leathers, like many of their machine-priests, and he rapped at the door tiredly. Then he glanced around, almost looking straight at Achaeos. The Moth-kinden was a friend to shadows, and besides, he sensed the Beetle was lo
oking for something else, had been expecting something more. Certainly, before the door was opened, he cast a searching glance back the way he had come.

  ‘Sir?’ came the thin voice of the servant.

  ‘Is Elias Monger within? I need to see him,’ said the big man.

  ‘I shall check for you, sir. Are you here from the mines?’

  ‘No, I am not. Tell him Stenwold Maker’s here to see him.’

  The servant obviously knew the name, stiffening briefly at it, and was already retreating as he said, ‘I shall let my master know.’

  The door closed. Stenwold Maker glanced around again. He was clearly on edge, Achaeos saw. Something promised or hoped for had not happened as expected.

  Stenwold Maker? The memory came to the Moth belatedly but forcefully. Of course, she had mentioned the name: that of her uncle, whom some other Moth-kinden had healed once. And her name had also been Maker, had it not? Achaeos found the Beetle clan-names very similar: Maker, Monger, Shaper, all of a piece. But it was something like Maker . . .

  He had another choice, now and flexed his shoulders again. If he could fly, and this turned out to be a bad idea, he would be away before they could catch him, but if he could not fly . . .

  The door opened and the burly Beetle was heading inside. Achaeos would be detected now, if he moved: seen by the servant, by the guards.

  He moved anyway, swiftly, opening his mouth to speak.

  A hand was suddenly twisting his collar, choking him backwards. There was the twinkling point of a blade under his chin.

  It was a poor place that Sinon had sent her to, and not a safe one either, as he had warned her. Tynisa had her hand to her rapier at all times, and all around there were eyes, watching her. She was an intruder, unwanted, and they were all making that clear.

  Eventually she had slowed and held a coin in the air until a Fly-kinden boy of about twelve had run up to her. He had a knife in his belt, and his hand cockily on the hilt in imitation of her own stance, and he stared at her boldly.

  ‘What you want, miss?’ he asked. His eyes kept flicking to the coin, for all that it was just a ceramic three-bit.

  ‘Scuto,’ she said, and saw the name was recognized. ‘I’m here to see him. Where is he?’

  He licked his lips, and then pointed over at one shack, almost indistinguishable amongst the masses. She dropped the money into his hand and then stayed him with a gesture as he made to go.

  ‘Same again if you tell him I’m here. Tell him Stenwold’s ward is here. Got that?’

  He nodded and she favoured him with a smile.

  ‘Good lad, we’ll make a regular Messenger of you yet. Now off you go.’

  She watched as he pelted for the shack. There were still eyes on her, people in the shadows between buildings, in the overhung alleys. They were sizing her up, working out whether it was worth the risk to see what she carried. She kept her stance disdainful, not bothering even to return their scrutiny.

  A moment later the boy was out again, beckoning to her. Here goes. Sinon might have decided she was best swept under the carpet, now that she was out of his service. He might even have regretted it but it would be just business to him, and he was as much a businessman as Helleron’s greatest magnate. Tensed inside, relaxed to the outside world, she strode forward as if she had no care in the world.

  A thing of some sort came out of the shack. It was mostly shrouded in a cloak, but looked as though the man beneath was smuggling insects under it. A face she took for a theatre mask, until it moved, looked at her balefully. There was a crossbow in this apparition’s malformed hands. She started wondering whether she could dodge a bolt and get to him before he had recocked it, and decided that she could.

  Behind him was . . .

  Behind him was Totho, staring at her. The sight of him brought an unexpected rush of relief to her. That even one of her friends was still alive on his feet in this greedy city seemed amazing to her. She had not realized, until now, how little hope she had been husbanding.

  ‘Totho!’ she called and began to run forward, but the ugly man raised his crossbow threateningly.

  ‘You stay right there,’ he called. ‘Not a step, or you’ll have this beauty here to deal with.’

  ‘Totho, what’s going on?’ she demanded. Her hand was already tight on the rapier grip and, without meaning to, she had stepped forward. Instantly the crossbowman loosed, the bolt diving neatly into the dirt before her. She tensed, but the bow was already recocked somehow, another bolt gleaming there.

  ‘Ask her,’ the ugly man snapped at Totho, who swallowed visibly.

  ‘Tynisa,’ he called. ‘What was the name of the man you fought in our match against the Shell?’

  ‘What? Totho, what is going on?’

  ‘It’s really, really important that you answer me,’ he said. ‘Tynisa, please.’ She could see the man with the crossbow getting tense. Her calculations on reaching him had gone to tatters.

  ‘I fought Seladoris,’ she said, frowning. ‘You fought Adax of Tark, and drew. You broke his nose. What is going on?’

  The relief in the pair of them was visible. The ugly man lowered the crossbow and took the tension off the string. She approached carefully, and Totho came forward to meet her. She thought at first he was going to embrace her, lost friend to lost friend, but his nerve failed and they just clasped hands instead.

  ‘I’m so happy you’re safe,’ he said. ‘I felt terrible . . . leaving you there.’

  ‘We all left each other,’ she said. ‘Let’s just hope Che and Salma left us as well as we left them.’

  He hung his head, although she had not meant it as a reprimand. ‘This,’ he said, pointing at the ugly man, ‘is Scuto, Stenwold’s man.’

  Scuto looked even worse close-to than at crossbow’s point. He leered. ‘Come on in,’ he invited her. ‘You’ve got some catching up to do.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, when confronted with the story of Bolwyn’s death and apparent rebirth.

  ‘Shame. What with you being a Spider-kinden, I thought you might,’ Scuto said. ‘Seemed like your kind of thing, running off with other people’s faces.’

  She gave him a sour look, which was like spitting into the tempest. ‘I have lived most of my life in Collegium, so I’m not up on the latest cosmetic fashions in Seldis this season.’

  Scuto shrugged. ‘So it’s a worry, but not one we can do anything against.’

  ‘But you see why I had to ask,’ Totho put in.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Tynisa frowned at the array of incomprehensible mechanics around her. ‘This must be home away from home for you. You’ve landed on your feet.’

  ‘So what happened to you?’ he asked, and for a second she was about to tell him: the Halfway House, the gangsters, the deaths. For just a second she was proud of it all.

  Then she looked at his face and remembered who he was, and who she was, and where they had come here from. In Collegium criminals did not boast about their deeds but kept them secret. In Collegium there was a rule of law, and murderers did not swagger about openly in the street.

  ‘Just surviving,’ she said. ‘Just making my way. So where are Che and Salma?’

  ‘Best information suggests they took refuge with some of Stenwold’s family,’ Scuto said.

  ‘But I tried there and they said . . .’ But of course it had been Sinon saying it. She had not asked them herself. What if he had betrayed her, after all?

  ‘That they ain’t seen ’em,’ Scuto agreed. ‘That’s the line they took with my boys as well.’

  She nodded, relieved.

  ‘Thing is,’ the Thorn Bug continued. ‘I got definite witnesses who saw some fellow in a real fancy robe and a yellow hide go into one such townhouse. Now I ain’t sure myself, but I reckon that sounds like your man, ’specially when he’s got a Beetle-girl with dyed hair alongside him. Only now everyone’s claiming they ain’t seen ’em.’

  ‘Maybe they’re just scared the Wasps will find them,’ Tyn
isa suggested.

  ‘Stenwold’ll get to the foot of it, though.’ The prospect did not seem to delight Scuto.

  ‘Stenwold? He’s here?’

  ‘He got to Helleron today,’ Totho confirmed.

  ‘Some of mine met him at the usual place, told him the state of things,’ Scuto explained. ‘Wanted him to come here, but he’s always got to do things his own way. The only reason he keeps me around is he ain’t invented a way of being in two cities at once. No, he’s gone off asking questions himself, so cobblers knows where the bugger is now.’

  ‘But . . . the Wasps, they’re hunting him,’ said Tynisa.

  ‘Think I don’t know?’ Scuto said balefully. ‘Think I want him beetling off across the city? And it’s not as if he don’t know either. But there you have it. You just can’t tell a man his own business these days.’ He grimaced, exposing his yellowing fangs at them. ‘He’ll just have to deal with it himself, whatever it is.’

  There was a hurried hammering on the door. A boy, the same Fly-kinden boy Tynisa had spoken to earlier, called in, ‘Scuto, someone’s coming. Someone real big and heavy.’

  ‘Stenwold?’ Tynisa asked.

  ‘I’ll tell him you said that.’ Scuto picked his crossbow up again and cocked it. ‘No. They already know ol’ Sten, around here.’ He peered through one of the shack’s half-boarded windows. ‘Hell. Scorpion-kinden, and he’s big all right.’

  ‘Scorpion?’ Tynisa gingerly peered over his spiked shoulder. ‘I know him.’ It was Akta Barik from the Halfways. For a moment she wondered if he had been sent after her, but if Sinon had wanted her dealt with, he had been given far better chances than this. ‘Let me speak to him.’

  ‘He’s all yours.’ Scuto kicked the door open for her, keeping the crossbow handy.

  Barik stopped when he saw her, waited for her to approach him. He had his monstrous sword over his shoulder, its scabbard-tip almost dragging in the earth. She knew she could draw before he had even got both hands on it, but his hands were weapons in themselves.

  ‘Hello, Barik,’ she said cautiously. Behind the fence of his teeth, his expression was unreadable.