The guards were Solarnese, as were most of the slaves within the wagon. All were debtors, petty criminals or the plain unlucky. Their patient, uncomplaining presence made Che feel wretched. It was not just that slavery was outlawed in Collegium: it was that she herself had been where they were now. True, slaves of the Wasps were treated worse, for the Wasp slave corps cared little for the physical condition of its stock and more for head count, but slavery was slavery. Che was watching a crime taking place here, and she knew she should make some protest, but there was nothing she could do. She seemed to be the only one who cared. Praeda and Berjek studiously ignored the whole slave party, and Mannerly Gorget had a speculative look in his eye. He leant over the side of the automotive thoughtfully but, when Che challenged him on it, he shrugged his rounded shoulders.
‘They do things differently here,’ he said. ‘I mean, yes, I know it’s wrong. Morally wrong and economically unsound. I’ve been to all the same lectures as you. Only we of Collegium are rather the exceptions, because most of the world is quite happy about it. And you haven’t had the trouble with servants that I’ve had. Sometimes I do wonder whether the Spiders have the right idea.’
Che clambered forward to where one of the Solarnese stood beside the simple levers that controlled the machine. She was a lean, scarred woman with her hair cut very short. Her counterpart, a solidly built man, stood behind, ready with the next waterskin when it was needed. They both carried slender, curved Solarnese swords, and the driver also had a winch-crossbow slung across her back. She gave Che a wary nod when the Beetle girl reached her. The heat from the engine only added to the heat of the day.
‘This is a desolate place,’ Che said, trying anything for conversation.
The woman shrugged lopsidedly. ‘This is the edge of the Nem,’ she replied, one hand taking in a landscape that was merely scrub-covered hills and dust-filled air as far east as the eye could see. ‘This is friendly. Go east and you’ll know what harsh means.’ There must have been a sudden change in the tone of the engine that Che had not detected, for the woman now turned from her levers and rattled a hopper of coal down into the furnace, shouting at her colleague for more water. I should help, Che thought, and then recalled, I can’t. She had lost all sense of how things worked. She would only get it wrong, yet not be able to see why.
*
The road between Ostrander and Porta Rabi was like a string of three pearls, each pearl a water stop. The first was a great stinking steam-powered pump with a caravanserai enclosed by a palisade wall. The second was an oasis, where the land fell down almost sheer towards a sheen of dark water, fringed with an absurd riot of ferns and horsetails. Trallo’s party were not the first to take advantage of it. As they drew near, with evening visible already in the sky to the east, they spied two pitched tents, one gleaming white and the other painted in jagged patterns. Trallo hopped aloft and flew ahead, his arms out to indicate peace, to see who they would be spending the night with. By the time the slaver’s entourage had coaxed her huge beast to the water’s edge, there was a welcome ready, of sorts. Che saw two handfuls of hard-looking men and women with weapons to hand, but lowered. They were waiting to see if this was a trick, if they would have to fight. It was an insight into Trallo’s world, for all his smiles and banter. The caravan life was clearly an uncertain one.
There were a good eight Dragonfly-kinden there, reminding them how close they were to Princep Exilla, with its piracy and violence. They had long-hafted swords and recurved bows, and they wore loose clothes with cuirasses of leather and painted wood on top. Their faces were tattooed into scowls.
Beside them was a smaller knot of armoured men. They wore dark metal, with helms that hid their faces, and their shimmering tabards showed a dark hand prominent on a dark field. Iron Glove Cartel, Che remembered. There were only three of them, but their facelessness, their stillness, gave them a greater air of menace than the posturing Dragonflies. Che found her attention coming back to them over and over, as though their very presence was a secret she could not read.
The Spider slaver was helped down from her mount, giving both groups an impartial nod. Trallo flitted over to instruct his two hirelings where to pitch camp.
‘Once we’re all set up,’ he said, ‘we’ll pitch torch-posts around everyone, get us a fence. We’re about as far from home as you can get on this road, so I don’t think anybody minds cosying up.’
‘What are they here for?’ Che asked him. The Dragonflies and the Iron Glove men had gone into one of the tents, leaving a single painted warrior standing watch outside.
‘Not that they exactly told me,’ the Fly said, ‘but it’s the weapons trade. I hear the Monarch of Princep doesn’t like the Gloves and won’t deal with them. They make the best kit, though, so all the little chiefs are falling over themselves to set up deals like this. No need to say, we’ve none of us seen any of this.’
Wake up!
Che did. She started awake in the tent, shocked out of a deep sleep to utter wakefulness by the urgent command. Her eyes were already penetrating the dark without her summoning the Art. She sat up.
The others lay crammed around her. Praeda Rakespear was a sloping, blanket-covered form to one side, and the Solarnese teamster was curled up on the other, knees drawn up almost to her chin.
Wake up!
‘I—’ She stopped the words, realizing the voice was inside her, not in her ears. She formed the name in her mind, as tentatively as touching a wound. Achaeos?
Get up! Now! The voice inside her was harsh, impatient. She stumbled to her feet, shaking off her blankets like a landslide, colliding with the tent pole. Her hand found her scabbarded sword by instinct.
The voice was urgent. Now!
I’m going mad. She slung her grey cloak over her nightshirt and blundered from the tent, hearing the Solarnese woman cursing sleepily behind her.
Outside, the world was immense. The sky reached cloudless, star-studded, from every horizon. For a moment she could only stare. Is this what he wanted to show me? She had not guessed at it, how vast the sky was, out at the desert’s edge. It was well worth seeing.
Then: Hammer and tongs but it’s cold!
‘Bella?’
She jumped. The Solarnese, Trallo’s hired man, stood nearby, frowning at her. The two of them stood in the middle of their triangle of tents, and beyond was the big marquee of the Spider slaver and the pitches of the Dragonflies and the Iron Glove. She stared about at it all, trying to read a secret that the scene did not possess.
There was a shimmer and a shadow in the air. The Solarnese man clearly could not see it. It was there nonetheless.
‘Achaeos …?’ she said, and she reached out, and who cared what anybody thought. ‘Please …’
Draw your blade! the voice snapped, and the weapon was in her hands in the same instant. There was a startled shout from the Solarnese, a whisper of steel as his own curved sword leapt out. The shout further drew attention. A Dragonfly woman Che had not even noticed had abruptly stood up, drawing back her bow. One of the Spider’s slave-guards appeared, running round the edge of her tent with a crossbow at the ready.
Everyone was staring at her.
‘…’ Her voice was dry. There were words inside her, but she was fighting to keep them down.
Say it.
‘There’s …’ I don’t know this. I can’t say this. ‘There’s about to be an attack.’
They continued to stare at her. She saw that Trallo had put his head out of the tent he shared with Manny and Berjek, and that one of the Vekken was also looking out from their compact little billet.
‘There’s going to be an attack,’ she said helplessly. ‘An attack. Going to be an attack.’
‘Woman …?’Trallo said hoarsely. The Dragonfly woman let loose a shout, and abruptly their tent started moving as her kinsfolk began to rouse themselves. Everyone else was still staring at Che, but the Dragonflies were moving. They’re Inapt. They’re Inapt and so they …
&nbs
p; No. They can see better in the dark.
She turned, using her Art to penetrate the night, seeing the dust they were throwing, no matter how carefully they approached.
‘There!’ she shouted, a real shout now, born of true knowledge. ‘There! There! There!’
The camp seemed to explode with life. It seemed that Che was now the only still point in it, the hub of a spinning wheel. The two Vekken were kneeling before their tent, each buckling the mail hauberk of the other with absolute concentration. There were half-dressed Dragonflies spilling from their painted tent with spears and bows. The Spider-kinden woman stepped fully out, wearing a nightdress of silk and with a rapier in her hand. She snapped out single words, and her guards were hurrying past her. To safeguard her slaves, Che realized. Her slaves were the most valuable thing at the oasis.
The first of the Iron Glove men was out now, half-armoured, helmed. There was a slender weapon in his hands that Che barely registered at the time.
The raiders arrived, breaking into a run as they neared the camp. There was something monstrous in front, a shape that Che’s eyes could not piece together, rushing across the ground in a sudden scuttle, with something high above it. Behind it were men, huge men. She saw their blades first, great bludgeoning swords and massive axes that they held in hands jutting with claws. They wore patches of dark armour: hide and metal. Their skins were white.
Scorpion-kinden. For a moment she could only think of old Hokiak in Myna, but these were the wild version, the real thing, Scorpion raiders from the desert.
There was a rattle of crossbows as the Spider’s guards loosed their shots. Che saw at least one of the attackers go down, then the tide was on them. The vanguard thing was revealed as a scorpion longer than a man, its sting poised like a fencer’s blade.
Trallo knelt beside her, loosing a bolt from one small crossbow, then taking up a second. ‘Someone load for me!’ he snapped, and to Che’s surprise it was old Berjek who took the slack weapon and wound the string back.
The huge scorpion lunged forward, and the Spider’s guards scattered out of its way. Arrows seemed to spring off its carapace as the Dragonflies loosed, but it just shook itself once and lunged forward again. This time it caught a man in its claws. Che heard bones snap and then the sting darted in delicately, and stopped his heart.
A huge man loomed in front of her, drawing back his axe for a swing. The weapon was as long as she was tall and she stalled, sword loose in her hand, unable to strike. A crossbow bolt flowered in the giant’s side, slowed by his armour, and he turned on Trallo instead, bringing the axe down. The Flykinden abandoned his bow and darted up and away, the axe-head following him with surprising deftness. Che lunged.
She had not meant to. Her blade skidded and then dug in and she looked up into that furious white face, with its monstrous, tusked underbite. Another shortsword raked shallowly across the man’s ribs and he roared, turning with axe raised high. As it went up, the second Vekken rammed his own blade into the Scorpion’s armpit all the way to the hilt with effortless strength, and then the two of them were moving on, wordless in their teamwork.
The great scorpion had torn a gash in the Spider’s tent, and her guards had taken up spears to keep it back. Abruptly there was a series of harsh snapping sounds and the monster recoiled, claws raised high in threat. Che turned to see the three Iron Glove men calmly reloading, slipping finger-length bolts into the chambers of their snapbows.
Snapbows?
There was no time to wonder. Another Scorpion-kinden thundered past, another giant. They were all at least seven feet tall for sure. She stumbled back, seeing the huge man take a sweep with his greatsword, catching one of the Dragonflies and almost cutting the woman in half. The Scorpion roared in defiance, and then his head snapped back, the fletchings of an arrow jutting from between his eyes.
Abruptly there was nothing to fight, and Che was wandering amid a trampled camp with her sword in her hands. The Scorpions and their monster had fallen back into the desert. She spotted them regrouping, assuming themselves unseen, two hills away.
A lot of people were looking at her, with expressions she lacked the strength to analyse. She sat down heavily, feeling drained.
Achaeos? She said it in her head, but there was nothing but the echo of her own thoughts. Achaeos, thank you, but can you not give me more? Thank you for saving us all, but … But I love you and it is hard for me, with you dead and so close.
She found that she was crying, the tears streaking down her cheeks. Without warning the cold struck her, making her shiver uncontrollably. The sword fell from her hand. The two Vekken ambassadors were nearby, watching her doubtfully. She did not care. It was all too much. Her sobs escaped whether she tried to stifle them or not.
Trallo draped a blanket round her. It was hours from dawn but nobody would be getting any more sleep. There were five bodies to bury, and as many dead Scorpions to move from near the water. She heard the Fly give a businesslike sigh, steeling himself to his task.
There was no answer within her. Achaeos – or his ghost or her madness – had done his work and left without a word. Oh, you have grown cold, since you died. She felt like screaming for him to either stay and let her know he still loved her, or leave her for ever – and who cared if the Scorpions killed her? It was hard, it was so hard.
Eight
She was a prisoner in her own lodgings.
There were no guards. She was not bound. The door was not locked. Still, Petri Coggen felt her confinement as keenly as if the manacle was around her wrist. She had felt a sense of doom weighing on her since they had brought her back from the Marsh Alcaia.
They had given her servants, for the Khanaphir had been solicitous of her comfort to the point of patronizing her. The foreign lady must have everything. The servants cleaned her rooms and brought her food, and would have dressed and bathed her if she had let them. They ignored her when she told them to leave her alone. Shaven-headed Beetle men and women with fixed faces, they glided in and out of her life like tidy ghosts.
They made no attempt to stop her going out into the city. She had tried to escape their attention, to get her letter out, but the servants had followed at a respectful distance. She had tried running, but when she had stopped, wheezing for breath, they had been there still, or others like them, standing patiently by. There was no reproach in their faces, only polite concern for the stranger. She had run until heat and exhaustion had brought her to her knees, but they had been waiting there wherever she had run to, with slight smiles at her odd behaviour.
As her last resort, she had gone to the docks. Khanaphes traded all down the coast and across the sea, so there were always ships.
The first she had approached was a solid Khanaphir trawler. She had climbed halfway up the gangplank, already reaching for her money, before she saw the expression on the captain’s face. He knew her. He had been told about her. Standing there at the rail, eyeing her with the polite disinterest of his city, he informed her, without needing words, that there was no way she was leaving the city on his ship.
So she had then looked for foreign ships. Surely the sinister influence of the Ministers could not be absolute. There would be ships out of distant ports, and at this point she would take a berth for anywhere. Even the dubious hospitality of the Spiderlands would be preferable.
She found a Spider-kinden trader, all elegant swept lines. She looked around for the captain, and saw her in conversation with a mild-looking Khanafir man. The Spider glanced at Petri and gave a faint shake of her head. Petri stumbled away, ran back down the quays. She did not care who stopped to watch the crazed foreigner make an exhibition of herself.
There was a broad-beamed cargo-hauler at the very end of the quays. Its crew was a mongrel mixture, halfbreeds, Mantis-kinden, lean and sallow Grasshoppers. They looked as disreputable as anyone Petri had ever seen. She rushed up to them, noticing their hands drift instinctively for hilts and hafts.
‘Please, I need passage out,�
� she gasped. ‘I have money.’ She felt as though she was throwing herself from the jaws of one monster into the pincers of another.
One of the Grasshopper-kinden shouldered his way forward and crouched at the top of the gangplank, elbows crooked over his bony knees. ‘Come up,’ he said. He had a scar, jagged and twisted, down the side of his long face. In other circumstances she would have been terrified of him.
She made it up the gangplank, the villainous crew watching, narrow-eyed.
‘You haven’t been in Khanaphes long,’ the Grasshopper captain observed.
‘Long enough. Months now.’
He laughed quietly, shook his head. ‘The blink of an eye. You have the city’s interest, little helpless one. We have heard. There is no shipman who does not know.’
She felt a shudder go through her. ‘Please … I must leave.’
‘Anyone who took you away from here, while you bear that mark, would never trade here again, or ever be welcome. They carve their memories in stone here. They never forget. I could pass my ship on three times, and neither she nor I could put in safely at this port again, nor my sons, nor theirs.’
With a wrenching despair she realized that the incongruous tone of this vicious-looking creature was only sympathy.
‘They will kill me,’ she whispered. ‘Please …’
‘They might,’ he said. His shrug indicated that the incidence of death punctuated his life as regularly as meals and sleeping. ‘Or they might vanish you. Or they might lose interest and let you go. But we cannot help you. You do not have the money to compensate us for what we would lose.’
The Scarab Path Page 9
