She got back to Stenwold’s townhouse in good time. The smell of new bread was in the air, his servant making breakfast. Despite all that was on her mind, she felt hungry at once, passing straight through the hall and into the kitchen.
She stopped abruptly, for Tisamon was seated at the table, and before him lay her scabbarded dagger.
As his eyes met hers, a chill went through her. In Everis nobody had worried much about the Mantis-kinden. They were few, and across the water, and they were savages. Oh, dangerous enough out there in the wilds, but stout walls and civilized company, good wine and good conversation, could keep the threat of them at bay.
And here she was, and here he was, and although they were within Collegium’s walls it was as if he had brought the wilds inside with him.
Her eyes flicked down to her weapon, back up to his face. She, who was so skilled a reader of minds and faces, could see nothing past the shield of his dislike.
‘Good morning, Master Tisamon,’ she tried, her voice shaking a little.
He blinked, said nothing.
What did he know? And did it matter, for surely he would as easily kill her without a reason, or for such a reason as bedding his friend, as for the real one: the real reason that she was in the pay of the Empire, rather than the general cause that she was an ancient enemy of his blood.
The servant put down a plate of warm bread and a pot of the nut and honey mixture that Beetles seemed to favour. The man looked from her to the Mantis, and made a quick exit.
‘I hope Tynisa is well,’ she began conversationally, spreading some honey over a chunk of bread, while determinedly trying to keep her hands from trembling. Only when she had finished that did she reach out and reclaim the dagger, pushing it into the belt of her robe. ‘I had wondered where I left it,’ she said. ‘D-did you find it somewhere?’ Desperate attempts at normality in the face of that blank disdain.
At last he spoke. ‘You should be more careful.’ Was he warning her away from Stenwold? Was he acknowledging that her association had not harmed his friend? It was impossible to tell.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and looked away from him as she began to eat, aware all the time that his eyes were fixed on her.
Up above she heard the sound of Stenwold himself stirring. He would be down soon enough, adding one more layer of awkwardness to their little gathering. Then she would tell him how there were more students waiting to hear him speak, that they would be gathering tonight, and that he was eagerly expected.
She would announce it to him flawlessly. She would play her role without any catch in her voice or a single moment of doubt, even under the loathing stare of the Mantis. Whatever she might feel on the inside was quite irrelevant.
When Stenwold appeared, her story came out evenly, convincingly, over breakfast. He nodded at her animatedly, smiling widely at the prospect. He thinks he’s getting somewhere, she thought. But it was at her that he smiled most. It cut her more deeply than she would have thought, how much encouragement he took from the mere fact of her. Oh Stenwold, for all your learning, you are a fool.
‘Tonight then,’ he said. ‘And perhaps the Assembly will finally get the message. The longer they leave it, the more a meeting with them will become irrelevant. I’ll have the whole city up in arms soon enough, if they hold off.’ He grinned at Tisamon, who gave him a brief nod that contained all anyone could ever want of ready violence.
And you are right, Stenwold, Arianna thought, which is why we must do this to you. I’m sorry.
It was almost time to leave, with dusk stealing about the Collegium streets. Stenwold had his academic robes swathed about him, but wore his sword as well. The students liked to see him bearing it. It showed he was serious – not just some typical all-talk-no-action Assembler. He paused to examine himself in his mirror, a full-length Spider glass that had cost a fortune, and had once adorned Tynisa’s room.
Every inch the hero? he thought, Or are there simply too many inches to me? There was a barely contained excitement in him, for he had been wrestling with the city’s inertia for a tenday and now he was winning. The word had come, during the day, that the Assembly would deign to see him after all. That meant his loyal students would truly have something to celebrate.
He then reminded himself of the grim realities. This was no game he was playing, and all those who listened to his words might be signing their own death warrants once the Wasps came. Still, Stenwold felt light-hearted, too much so to brood on things. A new lease of life, is what I have.
He came downstairs to find Tisamon waiting at his hall table, less than a metre from the spot where his daughter Tynisa had killed her first man – an assassin sent by the Wasp officer called Thalric.
‘Where’s Tynisa?’ Stenwold asked him.
‘She said she would meet us there,’ the Mantis confirmed. He was eyeing Stenwold slightly oddly, so the Beetle paused a moment to make sure his robe was hanging straight, the sword not caught in it. A growing feeling that he ought to explain something overtook him and eventually, after some moments of awkward silence, he did.
‘Ah . . . Tisamon . . . last night . . . it’s only that . . .’ He was caught by that Mantis stare, not knowing what the man had seen, what he knew of the lines he had crossed with Arianna.
‘I was wondering whether you would mention it,’ said Tisamon. ‘I know, Sten.’
‘You do? Ah, well . . .’ Stenwold could not decide whether to smile or not. ‘And do you . . . what do you think . . . ?’
‘Whatever I think, it is not as it was with Atryssa and myself,’ the Mantis said, conjuring up his long-ago liaison with Tynisa’s Spider-kinden mother.
Meaning that this is not true love, just some old man’s foolishness. Stenwold’s heart sank at the implied judgement. But of course, he’s right. He opened his mouth for the admission, but a hand rose to stop him.
‘Whatever wrong you have done is nothing,’ said Tisamon flatly. ‘In clasping to Atryssa, in siring a halfbreed between our two peoples, I broke with my kinden and betrayed them.’
‘Tisamon, you did nothing wrong—’
‘It is between myself and my conscience.’ A wan smile. ‘It is a Mantis thing, Sten. You wouldn’t understand. But we were talking about you.’
‘You think I’ve been a fool?’
‘Of course I do, but we’re at war.’
Stenwold frowned, sitting down heavily opposite him. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You could easily die tonight,’ Tisamon told him. ‘Or in a tenday. In a month, we all could be dead – you, Tynisa, your niece and her lover . . . myself. My end could come, though I am better equipped to avoid it. War, Sten, and war such as the Lowlands has not seen since the Days of Lore.’
‘I still don’t see . . .’
‘So live,’ Tisamon shrugged, ‘while you can, while your heart still beats. This is no handfast, no building of the future together. So bed the girl and who should care?’
‘I . . . didn’t expect you to see things like that,’ Stenwold admitted.
Tisamon nodded. ‘My people, they would not understand. We also live as though we might all die the next day, but in our case it is so they may say, in our memory: he was skilled and honourable. Nobody says that this skilled and honourable dead man might have had a hundred other things he wished to do. I have been too long away from my own, Sten, and seen altogether too much of the world. Why do you think we keep to ourselves so much, we Mantids, save that there is so much outside that would tempt us? I envy you, Stenwold.’
It was an uncharacteristic speech, coming from regions in himself that Tisamon usually kept shut and barred. ‘You’ve been thinking about her,’ Stenwold guessed.
‘I have, yes. Last night, after I knew what you had done . . . I think I cannot be blamed for seeing Atryssa in my mind. And Tynisa is . . . so much her image. A mercy, I think, as I would not wish her to carry these features of mine. I envied you, last night, for having someone . . . anyone.’
‘You c
ould—’
‘Never another, Sten. It’s the Mantis way. When we clasp hands, it is for life. We do nothing lightly, and least of all taking a mate.’
Stenwold had never quite thought of such things. Even now, it was hard to contemplate. ‘But . . . seventeen years . . .’
Tisamon shook his head. ‘For life,’ he repeated. ‘And who could there ever be to stand in her place? But you saved us in the end, Sten. You preserved our daughter. And once I would have killed you for it. I’m sorry for that.’
It was embarrassing to see the man so maudlin. ‘She was beautiful,’ Stenwold recalled. ‘I remember, at the time, how the envy was all mine. Mine and everyone else’s. We were all in love with her, a little. Even Marius, whose true love was his city. But it was you she saved her love for.’
For a long while Tisamon stared at the tabletop, while Stenwold looked blankly at his own hands, and they both remembered friends gone and times past, all the moments that time’s river carries away, never valued until their absence is discovered.
‘We are,’ murmured Tisamon at last, ‘a pair of old men. Ten years older, surely, than our true ages. Just listen to us, gumming over the past.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘And tonight you have young minds to corrupt.’
Stenwold levered himself up, making the table groan a little. ‘I have indeed. And an Empire to foil. Shall we go?’
‘We shall.’
Arianna joined them at the door and Tisamon dropped back tactfully, at least nominally out of earshot. As they traversed Collegium streets towards the quay quarter and the docks, there was little enough said between them. She named those students she hoped would be appearing, and she spoke of slogans scrawled on the College walls that were strongly in his support – all the rigmarole of falsehood that was expected of her, until she became aware that he was saying nothing.
And at last, after many covert glances, Stenwold said to her, ‘About last night, Arianna . . .’
She cocked an eyebrow and walked on in silence, waiting.
‘I should not have done what . . . I mean, I had no right—’
But she was smiling now. There was an edge to that smile, of course, because, knowing what she did, the incongruity of the situation made it impossible to restrain. A smile, nonetheless, and she said, ‘Stenwold, what I did last night was by my will, no more and no less.’ At that she saw relief on his face and, yes, pleasure. A candle lit just for him that was about to be so brutally snuffed.
‘After all,’ she could not help adding, knowing that it would not be taken for the warning that it was, ‘I am Spider-kinden.’
And here was the warehouse she was taking him to. A secluded enough place on the edge of the docks quarter. Somewhat run-down and just the place for a clandestine meeting of the disaffected. Or an ambush.
She glanced behind, where the Mantis had now been joined by Tynisa. There was a puzzle there that Arianna had not been able to work out, because the girl was clearly as Spider as herself, and yet she had passed from being Stenwold’s ward to Tisamon’s. There would be no time now to work it through, and shortly it should not matter, not if the plan went right. Arianna bore Tynisa no malice, though she would shed no tears over the Mantis’s corpse. The plan demanded that both of them be laid in the earth and that was what must happen tonight.
She tugged at the door, and Stenwold stepped forward to help her open it. There was a young Ant-kinden waiting inside, who recognized them and nodded. He looked plausible for a student, one of the older ones at least, and there were hundreds of young scholars that Stenwold had never taught or even met. No clue therefore that he was no student at all but a mercenary on Graf’s books.
‘You’ll keep watch out here like last time?’ Stenwold murmured to Tisamon, and the Mantis nodded.
So Stenwold went in alone, just like the other times, leaving the Mantis with Tynisa under the evening sky, all of it happening as smooth as a blade drawn from its sheath.
Although he was not alone, of course, because Arianna was with him.
In the gloom of the warehouse three lamps were lit, and Stenwold stopped short, for the people ahead were not the youthful faces he had expected. A handful of men and one woman, but all with no need of any College lessons in their chosen trade. Scadran loomed at their centre, a large man even amongst large men. Arianna found the distance between her and Stenwold was growing as though a tide was pulling her from his side.
And it was Thalric himself who flared into view as he lit a fourth lamp. Two men lunged for Stenwold from the shadows even as he heard Tynisa crying out in pain outside. The first grabbed his left arm but he was already hauling himself away and the other man missed his catch. And then Stenwold had his blade out, lashing it across the arm of the Beetle-kinden mercenary who held him, making the man let go and fall back.
‘Master Maker!’ Thalric snapped out, one hand extended, fingers splayed. The sounds of steel on steel carrying from outside were increasing.
‘I can’t offer you a drink this time, Master Maker,’ Thalric said. ‘But I’ll have your sword.’
Eleven
There was smoke on the air but, at this distance from the walls, Alder knew that it was not the fires of the city in his nose, but the pyres of the dead. Many of the wounded had not survived the retreat, although the surgeons had this time at least been given a chance to work on them. It had not been the same scrambling rout as last time, having to abandon their fallen so shamefully.
There would be a lot of bloody faces to see, if and when he chose to. The dawn was lighting up an ugly scene in the camp, but that was the countenance of war. Alder had lived with it for decades now and it held few horrors for him any more. He was willing to bet that the scene within Tark was worse. At night, with surprise and three holes punched in the walls, the Ant-kinden losses had for once been greater than those of the attackers.
Which means that Drephos has done well, curse the man. Alder was a good soldier, though. He would happily postpone the pleasure of having the Colonel-Auxillian hoisted up on crossed spears, in return for the taking of this city. He would even add to the man’s long list of commendations, all equally grudgingly given.
Colonel Carvoc found him just then, thrusting a hurriedly tallied scroll into his hand. The assault was over and the Ants still held the walls, but taking them had never been the objective. The idea had been to inflict as much damage as possible whilst keeping the bulk of the imperial army intact. Alder surveyed the first lists of Wasp casualties and the estimates of Tarkesh losses, and found himself nodding. I can live with this. My record can live with this. We have done well, this past night.
‘Have we achieved enough, General?’
‘It wasn’t cheap, Carvoc,’ Alder admitted. He recalled that Captain Anadus had brought back less than a quarter of his men, bitterness etched deeper into his face at the fact of his own survival. The Moles he had sent out were all dead, and Captain Czerig was assumed dead as well, or at least he had not been seen amongst the living.
Colonel Edric was dead, for sure, though Alder found himself only mildly surprised that it had not happened before. When a man chose to live with savages he was likely to die like one, and they had died in their hundreds. The dregs of them that were left were barely worth using.
‘Send word to all captains involved in the attack,’ he told Carvoc. ‘I want the men congratulated for their discipline and order. Night attacks are normally a chaos, but they did well, all of them.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Alder’s eyes passed on across the list. ‘Half a dozen of the heliopters are down,’ he murmured, knowing that left eight still able to take to the air.
‘But they did their job, General,’ came Drephos’s voice in his ear, and Alder glanced back to see the hooded man reading over his shoulder. His instinct to strike the man or flinch away was ruthlessly surpressed. Instead he met the shadowed gaze calmly.
‘You witnessed it all, I suppose.’
‘I saw as much as I needed. What
will they be flying, when tomorrow comes? You have destroyed most of the artillery on their eastern walls, and the walls themselves have seen better days. Endgame, General. Their air cavalry, their flying machines – what remains of them?’
Alder nodded soberly. It had indeed been a bloody night. The Mercy’s Daughters were filling every bed, giving help to the less wounded and last comfort to the dying, but Drephos was right: the endgame was at hand. He was glad of it. He had seen the Maynesh rebellion a few years back and he hated fighting Ant-kinden. Still, he felt a glowing coal of pride that it was him they had chosen to crush this first Lowlander city. Even if I have had to rely on this wretched monster to do it.
‘What do you want from me, Drephos?’ he growled. ‘You’ll get yourself a fair report, don’t worry. They’ll know what you’ve accomplished.’
A little cackle of a laugh came from within the cowl. ‘Oh, General, not so soon. Write nothing yet, I implore you. I’ve only started. Write your eulogies when the city has surrendered.’
For he has his scheme, Alder knew. I’d ask if it will work, but when has he been wrong yet? The entire military establishment despises this man, and yet it seems we cannot do without him.
‘I was at Maynes,’ Alder said. ‘I remember Ant-kinden.’
‘Maynes was a lesson to be learned, General,’ Drephos told him. ‘A lesson I have learned from. Tark shall be yours in a fraction of the time.’
‘For a fraction of the loss?’
Drephos paused as though considering. ‘Imperial losses? Almost certainly. Tarkesh losses? Alas no, but in war one must always anticipate a little destruction, mustn’t one?’
He then went on his limping way, and Alder knew the man was fully aware of the stares of hatred he attracted, the narrowed eyes and curses from the other men. Aware, and enjoying it.
Later, Alder permitted himself a visit to the Daughters. They had lashed three long tents together end to end and the wounded were crammed into them shoulder to shoulder. There were Wasps here, and Ants from Anadus’s contingent, a few of the Bee-kinden engineers and a couple of Fly messengers who had been just plain unlucky. He caught the eye of Norsa, the most senior Daughter here, looking tired and drawn. She and her coven had been labouring all night, bandaging the lucky and holding the hands of the rest. It would do no good, he knew, to insist she took the Wasp wounded in first. The Daughters made no distinction between kinden, just as they accepted into their ranks any penitent who showed herself willing to serve. Norsa had all kinds here to help her, from across the Empire and beyond.
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