Heirs of the Blade

by Tchaikovsky, Adrian

  Sleeping beside Thalric was a strange experience. Achaeos had slept quiet and still, breathing so softly she could hardly tell he was there. Thalric seemed to take up all available space, and in the darkest pit of the night he would twitch and start, pursued by all the bad dreams that his varied career had gifted him with.

  Sleeping beside him was all that had happened, so far. Twice now they had come close to something else but, like a ship’s master suddenly seeing hidden rocks, she had steered away from it. She was a little scared of him, and feared what his effect on her would be. And then there was Achaeos, poor dead Achaeos, whose ghost she had been trying to exorcise ever since his death during the war. The revelation that the spectre that had formerly tormented her had not been his at all had not driven away that host of memories. The greater part of her felt that she was teetering over of an abyss of guilt, and that to give in to Thalric’s wishes would be to fall.

  And the rest of her, a minority vote, wanted to jump just so she could be rid of this burden of propriety that was tying her in knots. Would Achaeos truly have wanted me to be chained to his corpse for ever?

  The obvious riposte to that was: Achaeos would not under any circumstances have ever wanted to see me with Thalric.

  They hit the streets early, leaning into those ubiquitous hostile stares as though into inclement weather. They managed to get a street away from the boarding house before the first guard stopped them for their papers. Looking into the man’s face, Che had a sudden revelation: not hatred, not loathing, not a lust for vengeance, but fear. The man now staring at Kymene’s signature was of Che’s own age. He had never known his city be free, until the uprising a few years back. It must seem that the least breath of air could snatch it away from him.

  The guard had turned away, his initial interest subsiding into mere dislike, and in that instant Che had stumbled, leaning for support against Thalric, conscious of a ripple passing through the people around her, as they shrank away from her as though she had the plague.

  ‘Che, what . . .?’ Thalric had been asking, but she had only stared: bright sunlight, not Myna’s overcast skies; a beating heat she recognized. And the stone walls inscribed with legion upon legion of tiny carvings, spilling a thousand years of history across every surface . . .

  Khanaphes.

  And for a moment there had been a Beetle woman staring at her from amid the Mynan crowd, clad in Khanaphir peasant dress but with a Collegiate face. Praeda . . .?

  And Thalric was virtually shaking her, as the crowd ebbed back from them, and there were guards approaching, so they would be arrested again, or worse, if she did not . . .

  ‘I’m fine.’ She felt anything but fine, though. Each night she woke to find shards of her dreams scattered about her like broken glass. Ever since Khanaphes, where she had been changed. Ever since awaking into the presence of the Masters. She had gone to that city because the war – and Achaeos’s death – had robbed her of her Aptitude, stripped from her the mechanical inheritance of her people, and thrown her into a world of magic she had never entirely believed in. In Khanaphes she had begun to understand, however, and the ancient, callous Masters had taught her more. But more doors had been opened than she knew how to close: her mind was leaking visions every night, fleeting and unremembered, just bright but receding shards inside her mind as she awoke. But this . . . never before in daylight, not like this.

  She never remembered those dreams, save for one thing: they were dreams of Khanaphes.

  ‘Let’s move,’ she said shakily, wanting to lose herself in a crowd that would only reject her.

  With the Mynan authorities unwilling or unable to help them further, she and Thalric had fallen back on an old acquaintance. Hokiak’s Exchange had not been changed much by the city’s liberation. It still possessed the same shabby emporium at the front, a drinking den at the back, and no doubt the same constant flow of smugglers, criminals and fugitives looking to use the old man’s services. Che was vaguely surprised that the new, iron-handed Mynan leadership had not decided to curb their old semi-ally’s practices, but then, no doubt, the ancient Scorpion-kinden had gathered a lot of incriminating information over the years which would be awkward if made public. Whatever the reason, he was apparently still operating as freely as during the Imperial occupation.

  The man himself had barely changed, either. Che and Thalric had both encountered a great deal of the Scorpion-kinden in the recent past, in all their hulking and brutal glory. Hokiak was what happened when that glory burned out and withered away. He was a hollow-chested, paunchy, stick-limbed old creature, his white skin wrinkled and baggy, with one thumb claw become nothing but a broken stump. He walked with the aid of a stick, had developed a rasping cough, yet still exercised a remarkable amount of underhand influence over a great many people.

  That he remembered Che and Thalric was clear. He did not welcome them effusively, not quite, and indeed the circumstances of their last meeting had been ambivalent to say the least, but something lit up in his yellow eyes when they found their way into his back room after so long.

  Perhaps things are quieter here, with the Wasps gone, Che wondered. Perhaps the old man’s getting bored.

  ‘Well now, who’s this, eh? Maker’s girl, and the Wasp assassin.’ He leered at them through the stumps of his fangs. ‘Trouble coming, is there? For certain there is.’ He used his stick like a lever, prying his laborious way across the room before dropping down into a creaking chair. ‘Come join me,’ he invited. ‘Tell me what trouble you’ve brought us.’

  ‘No trouble, I hope,’ Che replied, and Hokiak chuckled.

  ‘They hanged two Beetle-kinden yesterday,’ he remarked, without further explanation.

  CheandThalricexchangedglances.‘Whodid?’sheprompted.

  ‘The militia. Said they were Rekef. For once I believe it. They were asking questions before they were caught, these two stretch-necked fellows. There’s a certain stink off them, more even than normal Rekef, and that stink goes all the way to Capitas.’

  ‘What questions?’ Thalric asked.

  Hokiak’s rotting smile was hideous. ‘You don’t need to ask it, assassin.’

  ‘I’m no assassin,’ the Wasp said irritably.

  ‘I know two governors of Myna who’d call you a liar,’ the Scorpion pointed out. ‘No wonder the Consensus is twitchy, if you’re back in town.’

  ‘What have you guessed?’ Che asked, annoyed at all this obfuscation.

  ‘Rekef from Capitas will be here looking for me – or they soon might be,’ Thalric explained. ‘General Brugan might not have given up. Which makes our business with you that much more urgent, Hokiak.’ He fixed the old man with a stern look. ‘Unless you’ve decided I’m merely a commodity again.’

  Hokiak scowled, less the villainous broker and more – or so it seemed to Che – the put-upon merchant. ‘You flatter me, assassin. Those were the days, eh? Sell the resistance and the Empire to each other, and have both of them paying you for the privilege. Good times, good times. The current lot lost their sense of humour when they took over, I’ll tell you that straight. Her up top, Kymene, who I personally kept out of Wasp hands, she came down here after they chose her to run the Consensus. No more deals with the Wasps, she told me. No deals with the Empire. Keep your smuggling, your racketeering, your private work – but the moment anyone looking like a Wasp agent heaves into view, it’s pass them over to her, and I can whistle for a profit.’ The old man shook his head disgustedly. ‘So, tempted as I am, I wouldn’t be selling you to the Rekef, Master Assassin, even if I could find one with his neck kept short.’ The ruined smile returned. ‘Though I thank you for giving an old man credit.’ He looked from Che to Thalric, and back. ‘A man could wonder, it’s true, how come the two of you are still on the same road as each other, so long after, and whether there wasn’t something in all those suspicions we all had about the pair of you last time. But me? I stay out of politics these days. Consensus wants to interfere with my business, then I�
�m damned if I’ll go an inch out of my way for them.’

  Che shivered, only now appreciating that narrow escape, for of course the Mynans had thought she and Thalric were Imperial agents last time, and Che herself had narrowly avoided being tortured or killed for it. And yet here the two of them were, together again, and it was bound to make Hokiak wonder.

  ‘We need a guide westwards,’ Thalric announced. ‘You must know someone. We have a little wherewithal.’

  ‘West?’ Hokiak grimaced. ‘West ain’t so easy these days, with troops on both sides of the border.’ Seeing their downcast expressions, he held up one hand. ‘But, yes, I do business with types whose work takes them that way. Easy enough to find one who’s willing to take a couple of friends over. There are a few kicking their heels in the city even now, waiting for a commission to take them back across the border. I’ll send word out, and you can just wait here. That’s it then, is it?’

  ‘Nothing more troublesome than that,’ Thalric started, but Che took a deep breath and added, ‘One more thing.’

  Thalric plainly had not expected this from the look he gave her, but she pressed on valiantly. ‘I would like to speak to a . . .’ She could not form the word magician before the old Scorpion’s pragmatic stare. Thalric might just understand, after all they had been through together in Khanaphes, but Hokiak? ‘Somewhere in Myna there must be someone . . . a fortune teller, or a mystic, perhaps . . .’

  But Hokiak’s expression was not encouraging. ‘Plenty of those where you’re headed, maybe, but in Myna?’

  ‘Do you have anyone Inapt working for you?’ Che pressed, ignoring Thalric’s doubting expression.

  Hokiak made an exasperated face, a feat in itself. He had one of his people run off, to return a moment later with a cadaverous old Spider-kinden in tow. Che recognized the man as Hokiak’s business partner.

  ‘Gryllis,’ the Scorpion said, sounding embarrassed to even be asking this, ‘you know any fortune tellers or quacksalvers or anything like that in this city?’ A thought obviously struck him. ‘Wasn’t there that deserter . . . what was her name, Wheezer?’

  ‘Uie Se,’ Gryllis pronounced it carefully, and Che reflected that there would be plenty more names like that to be found in the Commonweal. ‘She’s clinging on.’

  Hokiak gave him a sidelong look. ‘You don’t ever go have your fortune told, do you?’

  ‘Old Claw, when you get to our age, money spent on a seer would be money wasted,’ Gryllis replied drily. ‘Who wants to know about Uie Se, then?’

  ‘I do.’ Che interrupted. ‘Thalric, can you wait here for the guide? I won’t be long.’

  ‘So long as you know what you’re doing,’ Thalric cautioned her. ‘And so long as this guide of yours,’ he added to Hokiak, ‘won’t run a mile if they see a Wasp.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t reckon there’s a chance of that,’ the Scorpion replied, obviously finding the idea amusing.

  Hokiak’s opinion of seers and magicians was sufficiently low that even he threw in this Mynan fortune teller’s whereabouts for free. Che learned also that the mystic had been one of the Auxillian troops the Empire had used to keep the peace in Myna during the occupation, that the woman had aided the resistance and then deserted once the Wasps were driven out.

  It was an indictment of the current Mynan paranoia that all the risks Uie Se had taken on behalf of the locals had resulted in bare tolerance of her presence, rather than any true acceptance. She lived in a single room, in a house that had plainly belonged to a well-off family some time before the occupation, but was now falling to pieces a day at a time. The room itself was grimy, and the partitioning of the house’s interior had left the seer with a bare sliver of window, so that inside it was so dark that only by Art or magic could one see anything at all.

  Che, whose understanding of magic was in its infancy, fell back on her Art, exchanging the darkness for a palette of greys. Uie Se, she saw, was a tall, lean and angular woman, a Grasshopper-kinden as all the other Mynan Auxillians had been. Her hair was kept long and tied back, and she wore a simple and much-darned smock reaching down to her bony knees.

  The seer was staring at her bleakly. ‘You’ve come to the wrong room, Beetle,’ she said, her voice dry and hollow, and tried to close the door again. ‘Don’t bother me.’

  ‘Wait,’ Che said hurriedly. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do for such as you.’ Abandoning her attempt to close the door, Uie Se turned and shambled back to sit down on a filthy straw mattress.

  ‘I have money.’ Meaning yet more of Thalric’s, and she suspected he would not approve, but her need was great.

  ‘Oh, then come in,’ said the Grasshopper, with a loose-jointed gesture, and Che realized that the woman was drunk. ‘Buy me a chair, so you can sit on it. What do you want, Beetle? Are you a scholar come to record stories of a vanished age? I will talk. I will talk all you want.’

  Maybe this was a waste of time. ‘I want to talk about dreams.’

  Uie Se was abruptly more still. ‘You have aspirations for the future, rich lady?’

  ‘No, dreams. I am having dreams that I know are important, but they never stay with me. I know how important dreams are to seers and magicians, so there must be some techniques to help me recall them.’

  The Grasshopper eyed her edgily. ‘You have money?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘You are . . .’ The woman could not bring herself say it, but her fascination was that of someone observing some bizarre freak of nature.

  ‘Inapt, yes.’ Che could say the word with equanimity now. The admission no longer hurt as it once had. Spending time away from the eminently Apt city of Collegium had helped. No doubt Uie Se assumed she had been born different, a throwback amongst her own people, but of course most of Che’s life had been spent amongst the technical elite, trained in mechanics and artifice and dismissing all those old stories of magic as deluded Moth-kinden propaganda. Then Achaeos had entered her life and touched her with his very real magic, coming to find her when she was captured by her enemies, and then taking her to that ghastly, haunted Darakyon and forcing her to witness its hideous ghosts.

  And when he had needed her, when his people had been trying to raise their ancient magic against the Wasps who had occupied their home, he had begged her for her strength, and she had somehow found the capacity within herself to give it. Their minds had touched, and she had funnelled her stoic Beetle endurance towards him, given him the extra reach so that he could cast his net further.

  And his call had rung out from the mountain top above Tharn, where the ritual was being enacted, and the things of the Darakyon had heard and answered.

  If some magician had offered Che the chance to forget the feel of those cold, ancient, twisted things inside her head, but taken as his price all her memories of Achaeos, she would have thought a long time about the proposal.

  But the things had come when Achaeos called, charged him with strength, set the Moth-kinden ritual ablaze, terrorized the Wasps out of Tharn, driven them mad and set them against one another. And Achaeos, already badly wounded, dragged from his sickbed to join the Moth-kinden’s dark venture . . . Achaeos . . .

  She had felt his life wink out amidst the cackling and rustling of the Darakyon things. She had felt him leave her.

  ‘Dreams,’ she repeated to the Grasshopper seer, and there was a tone to her voice, dead and angry at the same time, that made the woman shrink back.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Uie Se scuttled into the further shadows of her room. ‘There are herbs. I have some. You shall know them by their smell. They have been used for ever as a net for dreams. There are talismans, and I shall ready one for you now, soon, soon, now. Only a moment, great lady. They shall be a spider’s web, yes, to catch your dreams, so that you may feast on them when you wake. You shall have your dreams.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘No money, none,’ the wretched creature told her instantly. ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘How m
uch?’ Che repeated. ‘Look, I will pay for your services. This is just . . . business.’ Something about her had so clearly rattled the Grasshopper, and she wondered if the rush of memories that had briefly overwhelmed her had bled out of her and into this woman’s head. From somewhere the words came: ‘I absolve and forgive, and will leave nothing behind me but footsteps.’

  The seer paused, staring back over her shoulder, her hands stilled for a moment where they had been sifting through pots and jars by touch. ‘Thank you, great lady, thank you.’ The tension was abruptly gone from her.

  What have I said, and why did it matter? Belatedly Che recalled from where she had pirated the words – a play, of all things: a Collegium play set back in the time before the revolution. Supposedly it had been adapted from an older Moth-kinden work, but updated for a modern audience.

  But they must have kept some of the original, nonetheless. She would have to be careful with that kind of trick. She had the unwelcome feeling that certain words and phrases uttered by her, that would have been just wind before her change, carried a mystical weight now, whether she knew their import or not.

  Uie Se had gathered together her herbs, and handed Che a pouch full of them. ‘You should steep them in water, let the water boil as you sleep. Do you keep to any of the Apt?’ she asked and, at Che’s nod, made a sour face. ‘They will complain, so ignore them. As for this,’ she held up a ring of twisted copper wire, ‘hang it near your bed – anywhere there are spiders smaller than your fingernail. Let one spin its web within it, and your dreams shall not escape.’

  When Che returned to Hokiak’s Exchange, the guide had arrived and, to Che’s surprise, turned out to be another Wasp-kinden. He was a big, broad-shouldered specimen, decidedly bulkier than Thalric, with a heavy jaw and hair trimmed close to his skull, looking every bit the thug. Thalric and he had been sharing a jug of wine, though and, given Thalric’s history among his own kind, were clearly getting on remarkably well.