The academic contingent of the expedition was a triad of conflicting personalities who were either genuinely enthused by the project or indebted in some way to Jodry Drillen. Che was not sure which criterion applied to whom. Their leader was a staid old man called Berjek Gripshod. He had been better known to her simply as Master Gripshod since before Che started her studies, but she understood there to have been a first name attached to him at some point. He was a College Master who cared nothing for politics, therefore Stenwold had chosen him as a historian who would not twist the revelations of Khanaphes to fit his own pet theories. Drillen, for his part, had chosen him as a man whose academic and political reputations remained unsmudged: someone that people would listen to on his return. Those were his good points, at least. He was in his mid-fifties, hair grey and thinning, dignity etched over his face in deep lines. He had a desert-dry humour and no interest in conversing with people outside his own discipline. College students said the best way of attracting his attention was to have been dead for three hundred years.
In contrast was Mannerly Gorget, who was younger, broader, livelier and lewder. He eschewed College robes for brightly coloured Spider silks that strained over his stomach. Manny was a rising star in the Natural History department, Che understood, as well as being a better cartographer than Helmess Broiler. This was only the case when he could be bothered, however. He came from a rich family, and so work and discomfort were both unfamiliar to him. He had made a corner of their common room his own, where, at cards and dice, he fleeced – and was fleeced by – off-duty members of Parrols’s crew. He seemed happy about everything until halfway through the journey, when he exhausted his private stock of wine. That had since triggered his more or less constant complaints about their travel arrangements. He dressed his moans up as badinage, but it was clear that he felt hard done by that Drillen’s largesse had not extended to housing them in the upper berths.
Praeda Rakespear was a scholar of architecture and artifice. She did not drink wine, or gamble. Her first action, once the White Cloud was under way, was to definitively rebuff Manny Gorget and make it clear that she found him repulsive. The airship itself she found interesting, and she spent a tenday sketching the workings of its engine. She had a fine precise hand that would have been much admired, had she not made it clear that she valued nobody’s admiration or praise. She was somewhere near thirty, impeccably neat and attractive save that her face might as well have been carved in dark stone. The ship’s crew, as well as Manny, had begun to call her the Cold One. She cared not at all. She was abrupt with everyone, not from hostility but because she lived her life without any luxuries, including manners. Che’s attempts at friendship had not been rebuffed, just retreated from. Praeda had not lived a happy life, Che gathered. Collegiate scholars had a phrase, ‘the armour of the mind’, and Praeda wore it night and day.
Before halfway Che had decided that of the three of them, Manny Gorget was the only decent company. At some level she was even glad that her roiling stomach kept her out of everyone’s path for much of the time.
Then there were the other two: the Vekken. Stenwold had explained to Che why they were there, with apologies. ‘They should likely keep out of your way,’ he had advised – and they had. They stayed together, shoulder to shoulder, and said nothing. They wore real armour all the time, their swords always close to hand. They were ever waiting for treachery: Che could read it in their stance quite clearly. The concept of mounting an academic expedition to a far city, even one with a political undertone, made no sense to them. They had come aboard without names, and Che had eventually had to force her presence on them. ‘I need to know what to call you,’ she had said. They had stared. ‘I might have to introduce you,’ she had said. They had still stared. ‘I was told you were ambassadors,’ she had told them, now at her wits’ end. They had reluctantly given her names: Accius and Malius. They looked almost twins, but she gathered that Accius was the one who spoke infrequently, Malius the one who spoke not at all.
They spent a lot of time up on deck and stared down both the crew and Captain Parrols when asked to go below. Cheerwell saw them most often at the stern, and guessed they were looking towards their vanished home and wondering if they would ever see it again. Looking at them, and their fearful hostility towards everything around them, she decided that her uncle’s plan for conciliation with these people was doomed.
Captain Parrols was beckoning her over. He was a grizzled, unshaven man of near Stenwold’s age, dressed in garish finery. Rumour placed him as being a sea pirate, not so very long ago.
‘Look,’ he told her, gesturing grandly over the port bow. His paying customers were present too, and they oohed and aahed at the sight. Cheerwell, at least, had seen it before: Solarno, the city of white stone set before the silver expanse of the Exalsee. The sun was lowering in the west into a bank of clouds, and a shoal of rain was scudding across the surface of the lake like a living thing. Parrols was giving a rambling and mostly inaccurate account of the city’s history, but she ignored him and leant on the rail. Out here, with the wind in her hair and the cool fresh air all around, she found it almost bearable. The impulse to just spread her wings, to coast all the way to Solarno under her own Art, was very strong. She knew she was not flier enough for it, alas.
Even at this distance, she could pick out places that she knew. She saw the tangled street market of the Venodor and the mansions of the Spider-kinden families where she had once guested. She wondered which party now controlled the Corta, the city’s intrigue-ridden council. It all seemed so long ago that she and Nero had been Stenwold’s agents there.
So long ago, and so many gone.
They parted company with the White Cloud without much sorrow. Che engaged some locals to carry the surprising amount of luggage that three academics had been able to accumulate and found her way by memory to a Fly-run taverna where she installed them all in separate rooms. Manny Gorget was already talking about finding a bath and a whore, in no particular order. Praeda Rakespear and old Gripshod were talking in low voices about the merits of Solarnese building. In the morning it would be time for Che to find them a suitable road to Khanaphes.
*
‘Well, if it’s just a matter of the getting there,’ replied the bearded Fly-kinden, ‘then no problem. Tell you the truth, you don’t even need me. Just find yourself a caravan, find a ship. It’s not like people don’t ever go there.’
Che nodded. ‘It’s more than that.’ They were sitting on cushions around a very low table in something called Frido Caravanserai, which she understood was the place to go to find trading parties heading east. As well as the bearded man there was a Solarnese woman who looked as if she had been told something displeasing just before Che sat down, and was unable to forget it. Their quartet was rounded off by a lean, scarred Dragonfly-kinden who said not a word. In that restricted company Che and the Fly were making most of the conversation.
‘Tell me about Khanaphes,’ she said.
‘Ah, well.’ The Fly took out a clay pipe and filled it carefully with nimble fingers. ‘They’re strange over there.’
‘They’re my people, I hear. My kinden?’
He snickered, at that. ‘They look like it, sure. They ain’t, though. They’re a law to themselves, the Khanaphir. Very secretive.’
‘Will we have trouble getting into the city?’
‘I don’t mean secrets like that. No, they got secrets all over, absolutely everywhere, but because they’re secrets, you can’t see them. You just know that they’re hiding stuff from you – and you never get to see their leaders. There’s just this big pile of clerks running everything. And you have to be real careful what you trade with them.’
‘What do you trade in?’
The Fly looked to the Solarnese woman, who scowled at him. ‘In Khanaphes you buy food,’ she said. ‘Also gems and precious metalwork. They’re good at that. You sell raw gold and iron, unworked metals of any kind. You sell cloth, Spider silks especiall
y. Timber too.’
‘That doesn’t sound that odd to me.’
The woman made a despairing noise. ‘My dear, you see them working in the fields with draught-animals and ploughs, or else they potter about on their river with oar-galleys. They are, in a word, primitive. Now, I knew a fellow who imported the parts for an automotive, set it up outside the walls to demonstrate it. He was going to start his own revolution. But nobody would deal with him. Nobody would even talk to him. They all got busy elsewhere, like nobody could find the time. He went back the next year with a hold full of the best timber you could find – and nobody would buy. It bankrupted him. The same thing happened to a woman I knew who tried to fly out there and trade from her airship. They wouldn’t have it. They’re not just barbarians, they’re wilful barbarians.’
Che felt an odd feeling of excitement rise within her. Inapt Beetle-kinden? People who would understand her curse, perhaps even be able to help her? She looked to the Fly-kinden.
‘All true,’ he confirmed. ‘’Course, it doesn’t mean squat to me. I’m just the caravan master and trading’s what other people do. I just put them where they can do it. Which brings me to you.’ He smiled at her brightly. ‘Now, you’re looking for a caravan master, and I just happen to be one, and currently free of hire. What are you carting?’
‘Just passengers and their effects,’ Che said. ‘Six of us. And we’ll retain you to stay on with us in Khanaphes just long enough for us to learn the ropes.’
The Fly rubbed at his chin. ‘Don’t know if there’s enough time in the world for that. Don’t think outsiders ever do work out what Khanaphes is all about.’
Che smiled to herself and thought, Try me.
They were not the only party making business arrangements in the Frido Caravanserai. Two Spiderkinden drank and laughed amongst their Solarnese retinues, while their fingers flicked and spun loops of silk in a silent language. Across the room, three tattooed Dragonflies were making a secretive deal with a pair of armoured men who caught Che’s attention. Their tabards were dark grey, and the device on them seemed scarcely a different colour, and yet some trick of the cloth made it stand out plain: a heavy armoured gauntlet held open. An open hand meant peace, of course, except in the Empire it meant threat.
‘Who are they?’ she asked.
The Fly turned to see where she was pointing and made a dismissive grunt. ‘Can’t seem to go anywhere without seeing them these days. All over the Exalsee, they are. Iron Glove Cartel. New boys out of Chasme, but they fix up some good stuff.’
‘What do they make?’
‘Weapons,’ said their quiet Dragonfly unexpectedly. ‘Armour. Things of war.’ He lapsed into silence again.
Che regarded the two Iron Glove men, who wore armour of studded leather all over, even visored helms. They made her feel uncomfortable at some deep level, and for no obvious reason. With a little shiver she turned back to the Fly-kinden.
They haggled over money a little. She knew in the end that he had got her to agree to more than his services were worth, but it was Drillen’s money and she had no emotional attachment to it. Anyway, she reckoned that she could probably keep tapping the Fly for information by riding on the guilt of his good fortune.
‘I’m Cheerwell Maker of Collegium, by the way,’ she informed him. ‘What do I call you?’
He leant across the table to clasp her hand with his much smaller one. ‘You may call me te Rallo Alla-Maani, Bella Cheerwell,’ he said proudly.
‘That’s your name,’ she acknowledged, ‘but what do I really call you?’ She saw the surprise in his face, at a foreigner knowing this much. The Solarnese woman snorted.
‘He’s just Trallo,’ she said. ‘Nothing more than Trallo. And you’d better watch him, Bella. He’s a rogue.’
Trallo’s easy smile neither confirmed nor denied it.
When Che returned to their lodgings that night, she found Praeda out on the balcony, a silent figure against the raucous background noise of Mannerly Gorget and at least two Solarnese strumpets. The Collegiate woman could almost have been one of the Vekken, and engaged in their silent communion. They had not sufficient funds for a view of the lake, and so Praeda was staring blankly at the buildings just across the street. Che would have gone straight to her own bed and tried for some sleep, save that there was something uncharacteristic about the way Praeda was standing there.
‘What are you doing out here, Miss Rakespear?’ she asked, joining the woman in the open air. Fly-kinden buzzed overhead, either messengers or just late in going home.
‘Not stabbing Manny,’ Praeda said flatly, keeping her face turned away from Che.
‘He didn’t—?’
‘He decided to subject me to another broadside of his affection,’ Praeda snapped. ‘And I do mean broadside.’
‘Drunk, I suppose …’ said Che and then caught herself. ‘Meaning no reflection on you, save that he always seems to be.’
Praeda’s shoulders shook, just briefly, hunching forward about her feelings. Che suddenly felt horribly awkward.
‘I know what they say,’ the other woman said. ‘Don’t think I haven’t heard. I’d hoped to get away from … that kind of talk, save that wretched Gorget has brought it with him. Che …’ But she killed the thought, the reaching hand snatched away. ‘I apologize, Miss Maker. I will soon be myself again.’
‘Cheerwell, please. In fact, I’d prefer Che,’ Che told her. ‘And can I—?’
‘Praeda, please,’ Praeda confirmed. ‘Thank you.’ She turned, valiantly, and Che could see the redness round her eyes. ‘It’s been a long journey and I’m tired,’ she said with dignity, at which Che could only nod.
*
‘It’s a three-stage business, the road to Khanaphes,’ Trallo explained. Despite the warnings about him, he had been working hard for his money in making arrangements. ‘We may as well fly to Ostrander. There’s a regular run of airships making the jaunt there. From Ostrander we’ll fall in with a larger caravan, hiring pack animals and porters. There’s always a pool of villains there waiting for work. We go overland to Porta Rabi, almost the longest part of the journey.’ He had taken Che to a Fly-kinden chocolate house overlooking the water, and ostentatiously insisted on paying for everything. She was not sure whether this was business as usual for a Solarnese caravan master or whether he was trying to impress her.
‘Why not fly straight to this Porta Rabi?’ she asked.
Trallo laughed unkindly. ‘You’re a foreigner, so perhaps you don’t know about our neighbours in Princep Exilla.’
‘The Dragonflies – you mean air pirates?’
‘Any airship near Princep is fair game. So we go overland, and in company, since it’s not the safest of roads. From Porta Rabi we find a ship heading for Khanaphes: there’ll be one every few tendays.’ He shook his head. He had met Master Gripshod and the rest earlier that day and not seemed much impressed. ‘They don’t like questions in Khanaphes, Bella Cheerwell, so I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘So do I.’ Here in Solarno, such a long way from home, all of Stenwold’s plans and Drillen’s ambitions seemed weak and hazy.
‘Tell your boffins that we’ll take ship in three days,’ Trallo continued. He had not met the Vekken yet, which was probably for the best.
‘They’ll be ready. They’re keen to investigate new ground. Solarno has been the talk of Collegium for months.’ She hoped that was true for all of them, since Manny had shown a particular liking for the seamier side of this city.
Trallo stood up with a flick of his wings, then changed his mind and sat down again, abruptly waving to a servant for another bowl of chocolate.
‘I don’t know this place you come from,’ he said. ‘So I asked around – what’s this College place like, I ask them. Nice, they tell me. Busy, hard-working. A bit fond of the pomp and gravitas. They don’t tell me about the politics.’ His voice had lowered.
‘Politics?’ Che felt something uncomfortable stir inside her.
&n
bsp; ‘People here are taking an interest. Nobody’s been so crass as to offer me money yet, but I’m almost waiting for it. You’re being watched, and it’s not just cos you’re new in town. Anything particular I should know, is there?’
She shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t think that can be from back home. It’s too far, surely. Who …?’ She stared at him for a long time. ‘Tell me, does the Wasp Empire keep any … people in Solarno?’
‘Oh there’s an embassy, an ambassador,’ he replied lightly, but he was looking straight into her eyes and nodding. ‘I don’t mind, but it may cost extra, and it’s only right I should know.’
She shook her head. ‘It must just be because of the war. They probably still keep tabs on every Lowlander in Solarno.’ He was looking doubtful, though, and she hardly believed it herself.
‘Change the arrangements at the last minute,’ she suggested. ‘Make it two days, not three. I’ll pay for any inconvenience. If someone’s interested, let’s surprise them.’
Trallo nodded, already making the changes in his head. ‘Wise,’ he muttered. ‘Very wise.’
Across the mirror of the Exalsee, the glitter and dance of an aerial duel was takng place. Che leant on the rail, fascinated. She could just make out the combatants. The match was something peculiar to this region, uniquely uneven: a dragonfly-rider from Princep Exilla was flying against a mechanical orthopter. The insect was vastly nimbler in the air, hovering and darting in circles about the machine. Its rider had only a bow and throwing spears. Barring the luckiest shot, he would merely waste his arrows. If the orthopter’s rotating piercers found their prey then it would be over in a moment but the machine, sleek and deadly as it was, seemed to lumber through the air. Eventually it would run short of fuel and the pilot would have to break off from the contest. The Dragonfly would count that as a win.
The Scarab Path Page 7
