Heirs of the Blade

by Tchaikovsky, Adrian

  ‘Except for all the bodies,’ their Spider-kinden pointed out.

  For a moment she went very still, fighting down a wave of nausea that rose up inside her, and she closed her eyes in case some spectre of her imagination should resurface, and plunge her back into that well of guilt she had only recently crawled out of. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘except for the bodies.’ When she looked up she wore a hard, bleak smile. ‘You and the Salmae can go tear each other apart straight away, for all I care.’

  ‘Not likely. It’s south for Rhael Province, for us,’ Dal decided.

  ‘Not staying to kill Princess Elass in her sleep?’ Tynisa enquired, shifting the last weight.

  ‘You’re a bloody-handed sort, aren’t you?’ At Dal’s signal, his people braced themselves to shunt the grille two feet aside. That gave enough room, and moments later they came crawling out into the dubious freedom of the prison chamber. Tynisa calmly picked up her bundle again.

  Dal was staring up the ramp that led to the courtyard. ‘Trust the Salmae to want to keep their prisoners nicely out of the way of their spotless private chambers. If we can make the courtyard, we’re free.’

  Tynisa knelt down and unfurled her burden, revealing a random collection of knives and swords, whatever she could take easily from the little armoury she had found. Dal knelt down and took up the shortbow she had found.

  ‘Just the one?’

  ‘Don’t complain,’ she snapped.

  He shrugged, and she assumed he would keep the weapon for himself, but he passed it, along with the slender quiver, to one of his Grasshopper-kinden. ‘Soul, you’re the best shot. You take it.’

  ‘You didn’t happen to find a replacement nailbow on your travels, did you?’ asked the Wasp-kinden.

  Tynisa gave him a narrow look. ‘You’ll just have to make do with shooting fire from your damned hands.’

  The Scorpion-kinden reached down and took up a short-hafted spear. When he straightened up, his pose had subtly altered, and she took a swift step back, whisking her sword from its sheath.

  ‘You killed my wife,’ the man rumbled through his tusks.

  The words threw Tynisa completely. ‘Your wife? I remember killing your nasty little pet.’

  ‘Where he comes from, you’re not considered a grown man unless you’ve a companion like that,’ murmured the Grasshopper, Soul. ‘They call them wives, because it’s a partnership for life.’

  ‘You killed my wife,’ repeated the Scorpion, his hands clenching the spear shaft.

  ‘Ygor, not now—’ Dal started, interposing himself between the pair.

  ‘Out of my way, Dala.’ The Scorpion hunched his shoulders, as if readying himself to rush at Tynisa.

  ‘No, not now,’ Dal insisted. ‘Look, she’s not running from us, and she’ll be happy to hack it out with you any other time. Right now we need to get out. Later, Ygor, later. She’s up for it, that I guarantee, but not now.’

  For a moment it looked as though no amount of calming words would do, but then something went out of the belligerent Scorpion-kinden, with a long hiss of breath. ‘Then let’s move,’ he snarled.

  ‘There’s some way of getting out front?’ Dal asked.

  Tynisa glanced at the doors to the courtyard, barred on the outside of course. She herself had come here via the narrow stairwell leading from the guards’ quarters. In truth her planning ended here: free the prisoners, undo the results of her meddling, then leave. She had not thought it through. Indeed thought barely came into it.

  Something in her said fight. Rouse the guards, slay the Salmae, avenge the insult. But surely she had done enough avenging already, enough for a lifetime and a half.

  ‘I will go out and open the doors. Just stay here, and be quiet.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Dal told her straight away. ‘You think this makes us your followers, to stay or go at your say-so? And what if this is just some game of yours, or of the nobles? You slip out of here and suddenly they come down on us, catch us trying to escape, have a little sport?’

  The Scorpion, Ygor, rumbled deep in his chest, and she sensed the brigands weighing up the odds, a pack of them against her, their stolen blades crossing with a single rapier. She felt her smile grow, and was helpless to stop it. Why not? Free them, kill them – what’s the difference? Be but true to your own nature, wherever it takes you, and then you need bear no guilt nor blame. She suppressed the insidious feeling, but something of it had communicated itself to the brigands, and none of them made a first move.

  ‘Soul, you go with her,’ Dal directed. ‘Besides, the bar on these doors is huge, a two-man job at least.’

  Tynisa looked the Grasshopper up and down. He was a tall, lean specimen with his kind’s usual lanky frame, but there was a stillness to him that marked him out as dangerous. He nodded to her and, when she ascended the stairs, he fell into step so naturally that it was as if they had worked together for years. He was silent too, padding past the sleeping guards with barely a scuff of his bare feet. The one sentry still awake saw Tynisa coming, recognizing her and not challenging her, just as he had let her pass through on the way down, no doubt imagining her to be on some errand of the princess’s. This time Tynisa made herself nod, forcing a smile, while Soul Je crept past unobserved, as though the pair of them had spent an hour planning the move.

  The castle beyond was quiet, at a time when only a few of the most menial servants would be abroad and about their tasks. Tynisa led the way, passage to passage, heading for the open air: not using the main gates, which were closed, with guards close at hand within, but a window on the first floor, the shutters drawn back and just large enough for her to squeeze through. In truth she was not sure if he would be able to follow her, but with a twist of his shoulders he was out, too. While she let herself down the wall hand over hand with her Art, he simply dropped straight down, crouching for a moment all knees and elbows, before straightening up and making his swift way across the courtyard to the hatch leading to the prison.

  They heard the fighting from the other side of the trapdoor even as they approached. Clearly, at least one of the Salmae’s guards had decided to see what Tynisa had been up to, or had simply wandered down to check on the prisoners. Sharing a glance, Tynisa and Soul Je took hold of the bar and hefted it out of its rests, letting the heavy wood thud to the ground. The doors burst open almost at once.

  Tynisa saw the Spider-kinden, Avaris, fall back with a mailed Dragonfly poised above him, his punch-sword drawn back to strike. She did not stop to think, and any distant guilt she might have entertained about causing the deaths of innocent servants simply doing their jobs vanished on the instant. Her blade took the man between shoulder and neck, where his armour was weak, and she killed him in that one surgical strike. Avaris scrambled out from under the corpse, and wasted no time running for the main gates to the courtyard.

  The brigands came piling out into the open air without plan or rearguard, spilling the Salmae’s guardsmen in their wake. Tynisa counted a mere half a dozen of the latter here, with a couple lying dead around the empty pit, and at least one of Dal Arche’s people fallen too. There would be more, though, for the alarm would have been raised, and Elass’s forces here were bolstered by the retinues of her early-arriving guests.

  Her sword lashed out again, and they fell back before her, even as the brigands rushed for the main gates. She was left alone to face the guards, but they stayed back and would not engage her, and their faces showed only fear. In that moment she finally saw what Salme Elass had made of her: not a champion, not a huntress, most certainly not a fit match for her son. Instead, a tame monster was what Tynisa had been cast as, to terrify the Salmae’s enemies and keep their allies in line; just a pet killer to be let off the leash for special occasions.

  Well, I am off the leash now, and she retreated back towards the gates, even as another flight of Dragonfly-kinden dropped down, armed retainers of the Salmae and her visitors.

  ‘Get the gate open!’ she shouted, and risked a b
rief glance over her shoulder to see that the brigands had the bar off, but were being attacked even now. Airborne guards began swooping on them, and she saw Soul Je’s little bow sing, spitting shafts through the night air with a calm, sure aim, backed by the fierce flash of Mordrec’s Wasp-kinden sting.

  She went after them then, turning her back on her opponents and trusting to her reputation and her reflexes to keep them at bay for just long enough. Half the brigands were already through the gates now, and running, and she saw Dal Arche trying to muster the rest to get them moving. She arrived in a flurry of steel, picking one of the attackers from the air even as he swooped down. ‘Go!’ she heard herself yelling. Dal’s expression made it plain that was exactly what he was attempting, but then his eyes fell on something behind her, and she read his face and turned.

  There was a pale figure emerging from the hatch leading to the prison: a white-haired Mantis-kinden that she knew well.

  The guards dropped towards them again in renewed numbers, and for a moment it was all they could do to defend themselves. Most of the brigands kept going, getting clear of the castle, putting more and more of a burden on those few that remained. The first few guards flying over the courtyard wall, in pursuit of the escapees, met with Soul Je’s bow as he kept watch and picked them off.

  ‘Go!’ Tynisa shouted, and then realized that they had, that even Dal Arche was now backing away as Isendter Whitehand approached, and that there was only one left there beside her to hold off the guards. It was Ygor the Scorpion-kinden, the short spear bloody in his clawed hands. Behind them there was a flurry of wings, an arrow singing through the air, as Soul Je waited on to keep the fliers at bay.

  A reverent hush fell over the guards of Leose, and they started backing off, giving room for Isendter himself. Imperial soldiers would have brought Tynisa and Ygor down by now, with these superior numbers, and sent Light Airborne out to kill the fleeing brigands, but they did things differently here in the Commonweal, and as the Salmae’s champion took the field, he was given time and space to act.

  Whitehand stepped to within a few yards of them, his face expressionless, and Tynisa had a moment of wondering what he was waiting for. Then she realized: Single combat, a duel of Weaponsmasters – that’s what he wants. The Mantis intended to accord her the honour due to her badge, before he killed her.

  Tynisa did indeed feel honoured. It was the right and proper way, such a fight, and such a death. For a moment she straightened up, directing her sword towards him, but then the crippling thought came, That’s what Tisamon wants as well, the spectre of her father pulling her strings just like before, tugging her down the road of Mantis tragedy. She faltered, and was not ready as Isendter’s stance shifted, impatient for the strike.

  They had both forgotten Ygor. The Scorpion moved in a sudden, ugly lunge that would sully the name of any Weaponsmaster. For a moment it seemed that he intended to spit Tynisa herself with his spear, and she had a split second’s glimpse of those eyes, mad with fury and vengeance for his dead pet, his lost wife. Then he was past her, throwing himself at Isendter.

  He hurled the spear, and that nearly won him the fight. Isendter was not expecting the enemy to disarm himself, and if he had simply swayed aside, then one of the Dragonflies behind would have taken the shaft in the chest. Instead he struck the spear to the ground with a swift motion of his claw, as Ygor charged him with taloned hands spread wide.

  Dal Arche was unexpectedly back, dropping down beside Tynisa. ‘Time to move,’ he said hoarsely. The Dragonfly was staring after his friend, his face creased with emotion, but he was already backing away, drawing her after him, putting distance between them and the fight.

  When they turned again, they saw Ygor strike twice, three times, savage and furious, but not one blow landed, and then Isendter killed him with a single clean strike to the throat, using the same deadly blow that Tisamon had always been so fond of. In that moment Dal made a single choked sound, the only grief to escape his control, then he was gone, his wings lifting him away, and Tynisa was running after him.

  Thirty-Nine

  The irony was that they had forgone the chance to make camp at nightfall. At Che’s behest they had pressed on after dark because Leose was so close, and now that she had regained the two Wasp-kinden she was anxious to catch up with Tynisa again and try once more to persuade her to return home. Had they simply been content to finish the rest of the journey in the morning, then they would probably have gone overlooked that night. As it was, however, the patrol swooped on them within sight of the castle itself, nine Dragonfly-kinden dropping out of the night with spears and swords and bows, forming a loose ring at a wary distance from the four travellers.

  Varmen’s pack-beetle started at their sudden appearance, so he lost valuable time hauling on its leash and trying to keep it to heel. Thalric already had his hands ready, an open palm extended to either side, whilst Che found her sword springing to hand, assuming these were yet more of the brigands Tynisa had been dealing with recently.

  Her Art sight leached any sense of colour and, whilst aware that they were well armoured, she could not distinguish their livery. It was left to Maure to state, ‘These are the Salmae’s people.’

  By now Varmen had his beast under control, and had also thrust a palm out threateningly. The Dragonflies, having descended on them so swiftly, now seemed to be unsure of themselves, or perhaps unhappy with the odds.

  ‘What is this?’ Che asked of them. ‘We’re no enemies of the Salmae. We’re travelling towards Leose even now. What’s happened?’

  ‘You’re the Spider’s sister?’ one of them challenged.

  ‘Foster-sister,’ Che clarified, for what seemed like the hundredth time. ‘Please, tell me what has happened.’

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ the man snapped. ‘The princess has ordered you brought to Leose.’

  ‘I was already going to Leose—!’ Che started, but Thalric interrupted.

  ‘What’s the charge? Or does Commonweal justice need no reasons?’

  Che was about to warn him that he was not helping, but the ring of Dragonflies had widened, slightly but perceptibly, as he challenged them, and she thought she understood why.

  ‘She has freed the prisoners, the brigands. She has killed our people,’ the leader of the patrol snarled. He gripped his sword in both hands, plainly readying himself to strike. Two of his followers were archers, both women with arrows already to the string and aimed, one at Varmen, one at Thalric, and each of them recipients of the Wasps’ attention in return. Che knew that there was only so long a bowstring could be restrained.

  ‘Tynisa did that?’ she asked hurriedly and, when the man gave a brief nod, added, ‘And you saw her?’

  ‘I did,’ one of the archers declared flatly.

  ‘We have to act now, to get the drop on them,’ Thalric hissed between his teeth.

  ‘Wait,’ Che said, for everyone’s benefit. ‘Hold, there’s no need for bloodshed.’

  ‘You have to come with us,’ the patrol leader insisted, but there was now a tremor to his voice, his eyes flicking between Thalric and Varmen. It was a familiar reaction from all through Commonweal lands, the scars the Twelve-year War had left on the minds of the losers. Three-to-one odds were not enough to overcome such a legacy.

  Still, something was likely to snap any moment, either one of the archers or one of the Wasps, and things had obviously gone badly wrong at Leose. I have to know what’s happened, Che decided.

  ‘You just want me, then,’ she informed them. ‘Your orders were to bring back Tynisa’s sister?’

  ‘Che—’ Thalric started angrily, but she silenced him with a look.

  ‘They meant . . .’ The patrol leader grimaced unhappily. ‘I’m sure . . .’

  ‘Take me to Leose. I have committed no crime, nor harmed anybody. I will come of my own free will to see what my sister has done, and to answer for her if I can. But my companions have no part in this, and if you attempt to take them, then . . .�
�� she almost said, they will fight, but decided a little more drama was necessary, ‘they will kill you.’

  She could see that they believed it, the same fear stamped on each face.

  ‘Che, not again,’ Thalric hissed.

  ‘I am not being taken prisoner,’ she insisted. ‘I am going of my own free will.’ This was more to save her pride than to reassure him, for he had mocked her about the number of different cells she had seen the inside of, his own included.

  I do not want a fight here, though, for the odds are not good, and besides, I do not want to make enemies of Salma’s own family. Surely there must be a sensible solution to this.

  ‘Trust me,’ she told Thalric, although she felt far from certain herself. She stepped forward, away from the others, a slow and careful movement, aware of the bowstrings loosening and hoping that the Wasps would not see this as an opportunity.

  ‘Take me to Leose,’ she instructed the patrol. ‘I have my wings, so I can fly at least part of the distance.’

  She had half expected to be brought before Salme Elass in her throne room, surrounded by the woman’s court and servants, to give whatever account of her sister’s actions she could. Diplomacy, she told herself, had always been one of her stronger suits – at least she had not been killed for it yet. A more pessimistic prediction anticipated stone walls and bars, and perhaps worse. Neither prediction bore fruit.

  When she was brought into the courtyard of Leose, the place was alive with hasty preparations. There were armed men on horseback, inside the gates and outside, and a ragged company of spearmen was being assembled even as she entered. Whatever had happened here at Leose, a great many people now seemed set to leave it. Aside from a handful of servants, everyone she saw was armed and ready for battle, and their faces spoke of bloody murder.