Heirs of the Blade (Shadows of the Apt 7)

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  ‘Is that so?’ Varmen shrugged.

  ‘You’re heading back to Leose, of course?’

  ‘No chance. Won’t let us through the doors of that place.’

  Lowre Cean sighed. ‘Prince Felipe Shah, my old comrade and friend, has asked me to look after the girl, Tynisa Maker. He believes he owes her a great debt. He also believes that she is travelling into darkness: that she is being led into it. I’m no fortune-teller myself, but he seems to think that she will need friends, and even a poor old man such as myself can sense that there is a storm brewing at Leose. So I think you should gather up your fellows and return there as swiftly as possible.’

  ‘I owe the girl nothing,’ Varmen challenged. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Her name was Felipe Daless,’ declared Lowre Cean, looking the Wasp right in the eye. ‘She was Felipe Shah’s daughter.’

  Varmen could only stare at him. ‘What did you . . .? How could you even . . .?’

  ‘I could baffle you with talk of mind-reading and magic now, could I not, Sergeant? But it was as simple as this: I knew her, and she told me of a duel with a Wasp Sentinel – of how you held her and her people off until more soldiers came to your rescue. It must have been you, for I doubt such events happened twice during all the war. And here you are – and no doubt you’ll say you were drawn here by blind coincidence.’

  Varmen’s expression had become very fixed.

  ‘She bore you no ill will. I even think she respected you,’ Cean continued. ‘The duel of champions is a proud Commonwealer tradition, after all, and she had not expected it in an Imperial.’

  Still Varmen said nothing, but Lowre Cean waited for him to conquer his internal demons to finally ask, ‘What happened to her?’

  The old man’s smile was sad. ‘She died, of course. Just one more casualty of the war.’ He did not say, your people’s war, nor did his gaze accuse. His expression suggested, instead, that they all of them were victims of the same vast and unthinking tormentor. ‘I envy you your unbelief, Sergeant, for I do believe in fate, and I have seen enough of its workings to know that it does not have our best interests at heart. Will you help the girl, Tynisa Maker?’

  ‘Did he know?’ Varmen asked hoarsely. ‘I spoke with the man . . . with your Prince Felipe. Did he know?’

  ‘I would not be at all surprised,’ Lowre Cean stated.

  ‘Bastard,’ said Varmen vaguely, and then, ‘And yes. Yes, I will.’

  But when Tynisa returned to Leose, Alain was gone, and instead she found herself summoned to meet Salme Elass. The princess received her in the same formal room as when she had first recruited Tynisa to her cause, where servants set out kadith and sweet cakes for them, everything in elaborate order. Elass finished writing something on a scroll laid out before her, her calligraphy elegant and unhurried, whilst Tynisa fidgeted and shuffled.

  ‘I have need of you, you must be aware.’ The scroll was finished with, apparently, for Elass handed it to a new servant whilst yet another bore away the pen and ink.

  Tynisa said nothing, which the princess apparently took for acceptance.

  ‘When I host my fealtor nobles, when they come to partake of our celebrations, they must see you here – especially those who were lukewarm in sending aid. They must see the fabled Spider Weaponsmaster. Perhaps you could challenge some of their champions? Or give some display of your skill, certainly. It shall be part of the entertainment.’

  An ugly scene was called glaringly into Tynisa’s mind’s eye: an arena, tiered seats packed with baying Wasps. Her father.

  ‘Where is Alain?’ she asked quietly.

  Elass made a dismissive snort. ‘He was getting fractious penned up here, so I gave him an entourage and sent him off to chivvy my guests along.’ She eyed Tynisa, calculating. ‘He will be back before long.’

  ‘Before long’ is unacceptable. With a start Tynisa realized that she had reached the end of her patience with the games of Salme Elass. Whilst they helped her towards her prize, giving her an opportunity to display her skill and to woo Alain, then she had played along at being the obedient tool of the Salmae. She had accomplished her purpose now. She had Alain. He had lain with her. He was hers. She did not need to waste her time with this woman any more. Her duty was to secure Alain and take him somewhere he could become the man she wanted him to be. Suon Ren, perhaps? After all, there was precedent.

  A distant part of her, the part that had talked to Lowre Cean and listened to Salma’s ghost, was aware that she was utterly out of control now, and that Salme Elass had no idea of this. The face that Tynisa showed the world was still unblemished. All the cracks – so many cracks – were still on the inside.

  ‘While you wait, I want you to report to my armourer,’ Elass told her. ‘It is fit that you dress like a warrior of the Commonweal. There is no time to fashion something to your measurements, but no doubt the castle has some spare pieces that may serve. You should be seen wearing my colours: the red and blue and gold.’

  And Tynisa smiled quite naturally, knowing that she would never put on that yoke, and she sought out Lisan Dea as soon as the princess had finished making her doomed plans.

  The steward was busily overseeing the castle’s servants in frenzied preparations for the festivities to come. Once she saw Tynisa, however, she perhaps read the girl better than her mistress did, for she sent the remaining attendants away and retreated into a storeroom where they might not be overheard.

  Tynisa wasted no time. ‘Where is Alain?’ she demanded. ‘You know all the comings and goings of this place. Where has he gone?’

  The Grasshopper-kinden stared down at her with a curious fascination. ‘And am I now obliged to answer to you?’

  Tynisa’s hand was at her sword-hilt. ‘Or else I will kill you. I will cut you until you tell me, and then I will kill you. If you tell me now then you will live, but only then.’

  ‘Have we come this far?’ the steward wondered, showing no fear. ‘Is your metamorphosis complete, now? Just a killer and nothing else?’

  ‘I want Alain. Tell me.’ Suddenly Tynisa scowled. ‘Oh, I know, you look down on me because I’m not part of your precious nobility. You’ve always tried to stand between us two. You think you’re protecting him.’

  ‘Oh, not him,’ Lisan Dea corrected her. ‘But perhaps that which I thought I was protecting has already been corrupted. Perhaps there is no reason for me to stand between the pair of you any more.’ Abruptly the seneschal’s reserve disintegrated, and something welled up from behind her broken mask that made Tynisa flinch, savage as she was. Behind the meticulous steward there was something raw and vicious, something that must have been festering impotently a long time. ‘Now you’ve shown what you really are, why should I try to prevent such a blessed union? Alain’s gone west, just a day ago, with half a dozen attendants and a couple of entertainers. They’ll not have made much time, so you could catch them by tonight, if you ride hard.’

  For a moment Tynisa stared with horrified fascination at the vitriol writ large across the woman’s face. Then her iron purpose reasserted itself: no matter what the woman’s motives, Tynisa knew what she needed to know.

  She was going to find Alain. She was going to take what was hers.

  ‘Gone west,’ had been so vague that it should have taken her longer than a day to find Alain’s party, but whatever had given her skill enough to ride a horse had enabled her to find a trail, too. The Commonweal had few roads, and her eyes soon picked out a track that looked recently used, and by a medium-sized party making no efforts to hide their progress. Indeed, casting her gaze across the ground was just like reading a book, a library of information set out for her. She was astonished that she had never noticed such evidence before.

  She pushed her horse to the limit, knowing she had a bad reputation amongst the grooms of Leose, after killing a half-dozen of the beasts during the war with the brigands, but then the dumb animals were there to serve. She could not understand how anyone could get too attached to them
. A handful of dead mounts was a small price to pay for the destruction of Salme Elass’s enemies.

  Alain would not be expecting her, of course, and she tried to imagine the look on his face. He would be glad to see her, and discover that she had come to take him away from the confines and restrictions of Leose. His retinue might not be so pleased, of course. They would have their instructions from the princess, so they would resist.

  She considered simply killing them all, but suspected Alain might not take kindly to that and, besides, it seemed inelegant, like a prostitution of her skills. Better that she stalked them, then took Alain from them without their noticing. That would satisfy her more. And if they gave chase, well . . .

  At the back of her mind were pangs of doubt that she had to quell from time to time. What would Che think? What about the things Salma said? Surely this is not what I meant? But she was now in the grip of a fierce and borrowed certainty: qualms could not touch her.

  Evening had drawn on, and her quarry obliged her by revealing its location with a campfire, which made everything so much easier. Of course, the Dragonfly-kinden could see well in the dark but, huddled close about their fire, they would be spoiling their own night-vision. There would be sentries, of course, in case some scraps of the brigand army remained, but they would not notice Tynisa.

  Their camp was situated in a hollow excavated into a wooded hillside, deep enough to retain the heat and stave off the cold. No doubt this was a place maintained by the local farmers and herders for just such a purpose. She approached sideways on, slipping from tree to tree, eyes picking out the individual members of Alain’s escort against the blaze.

  She crept close, closer than was wise, but she might as well have already cut out all their eyes. The armoured Mercers sat with the warmth of the fire at their backs and stared bleakly out into the darkness, unhappily waiting out the chill of the night with their breath pluming. A half-dozen others were huddled up close to the flames, and she picked out faces, builds, trying to identify her man. At the last she was forced to steal all around the site and approach it from further up the hillside, where the trees were denser, away from the main gaze of the watchmen. Their lax vigilance eventually allowed her to come all the way into camp, to stand in silence amongst them and mark each face. I could kill them all right now, and for a moment it was all she could manage to simply stand there without doing so. They deserve it for such poor service. Alain merits better followers. But her sword kept to its scabbard, and she had another matter to occupy her mind. Alain himself was not there.

  The firelight let her read the ground, and she saw a recent scuffed track heading up the hillside. No doubt Alain, too, was sick of his idle retinue and had taken himself away from them. Perhaps he was even waiting for her somewhere. She pictured him in the moonlight, standing tall between the trees, smiling a greeting. And they would leave this place and make their own life, and to the pits with the Salmae and the Makers both. His princely virtue, her mastery and skill: together they would hunt down bandits and kill the enemies of the Monarch, he shorn of the ambitions of his mother, herself rid of the concerns of her sister. It would be perfect.

  She left the camp, following his trail, each step a study in quietness, until she heard him up ahead.

  He seemed to be murmuring to himself, which surprised her. She could just make him out, a crouching form in the darkness, hardly touched by the moon. And, yet, was there not a dim radiance there, from beneath him, that picked out his form in silhouette?

  She waited until she was almost on his heels before she spoke.

  ‘Alain?’

  He turned with a start. And she saw.

  In that first moment she did not take in how the girl’s clothes were torn, nor the look of despair on her face. She saw only that Alain had been crouched over one of the Butterfly-kinden dancers, his robes open down the front, his abruptly shrinking genitals exposed to the cold night air.

  Thirty-Eight

  ‘Beheading, isn’t it, in the Commonweal?’ the Spider-kinden Avaris asked.

  ‘Beheading is just for their own, nice and quick and dignified. They’ll weight our heels and string us up,’ said one of the Dragonfly-kinden, a hard-faced woman named Feass, dropping down from her ninth inspection of the grille. No flaw in its workmanship had turned up yet. The weights still pinned it down at each corner, and the brigands were still securely imprisoned in the dungeon pit of Leose.

  ‘Just count yourself lucky you’re on this side of the border,’ Mordrec the Wasp growled. ‘They’d use crossed pikes in the Empire, and in the Principalities, too.’

  ‘I always wondered about that,’ Feass said, frowning. ‘I mean, do they just leave you to starve, after tying you to the pikes? What’s to stop someone coming to cut you free?’

  Mordrec gave her an odd look. ‘They don’t tie you to the pikes. They shove the pissing things in under your ribs, so the point of the pike goes right through your body into your arm on the other side, like so.’ He made a violent gesture for emphasis. ‘If they know what they’re doing – and it’s a valued skill, where I come from – then you hang there dying slowly for hours.’

  ‘Lovely relatives you have,’ Avaris remarked drily.

  ‘And things are better in the Spiderlands?’ Mordrec challenged.

  ‘Oh at least we have the benefit of variety. Hanging’s customary, but the local magistrate has free rein, you see. Anything goes: flayed alive, dismembered by machines, tied between four beetles and pulled apart, fed to the ant-lion, eaten alive by maggots, you name it. I once heard of a woman who had a wasp sting her – not your kind, just a little hand-sized one. Then, when they let her go, she thought she was the luckiest criminal in the Spiderlands. Of course a week later the grub starts eating her from the inside, and she’s history. So don’t you come your crossed pikes with me. We invented being cruel bastards. Your lot are just amateurs.’

  ‘You are so full of lies, you probably piss them,’ Mordrec retorted, but without much fire.

  ‘Have you not got some other topic of conversation?’ Dal complained, after that.

  ‘Of course, surely. So, what were you thinking of doing tomorrow, anyone? Because if the weather lasts I thought I’d go to the theatre,’ Avaris said, slumping down tiredly. ‘Or maybe a brothel, if it rains. I know this lovely place in Helleron, the Veil. You should come along. They cater for all tastes.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Dal told him sharply.

  ‘Well you’re the one who wanted to talk—’

  ‘No, shut up. We’re not alone.’

  That silenced them all, and they peered upward into the gloom. There was just a single torch up there, shedding precious little light.

  ‘Is it time?’ Mordrec asked softly.

  ‘It’s night,’ stammered Avaris. ‘They’ll make it public. Won’t kill us at night.’

  ‘Quiet,’ hissed Dal Arche, and then, ‘So, come back to gloat some more, have you? Or is it remorse? An odd thing for someone like you to be losing sleep over.’

  As he spoke, Tynisa’s pale face appeared above them, staring down. She said nothing, but would not quite meet the Dragonfly’s gaze.

  ‘Come on, out with it,’ Dal prompted. ‘What’s the bad news?’

  She twitched unexpectedly. Perhaps only Dal’s eyes were good enough to spot it.

  Tynisa backed away from the grille, out of direct view. A few grumbles of protest arose, but the bandit leader’s hiss silenced them. She put down her bundle and turned her attention to the nearest corner weight.

  For a long while she just stared, even the simple mechanics of it evading her. The mechanism had been designed by the Inapt for the Inapt, though, and she had watched it in operation. Eventually something fell reluctantly into place in her mind, and she saw that if she moved this piece of wood here, it would free the counterweight to swing aside. She could not quite see how that would make this corner weight light enough to be heaved aside into the appropriate channel cut into the stone, freeing that quarter of the
grille, but nevertheless that was what seemed to happen. Instead of trying to wrestle with cause and effect, she followed by rote what she had witnessed, as perhaps the jailers of Leose had done for generations, each in empty mimicry of his predecessor.

  That done, she paused, and realized that she would have to repeat this performance for each of the corners in order to render the grille movable at all, after which she would then have to find some way of actually shifting it. She moved on, and now the bandits were watching her, wide-eyed and bewildered, but with a dawning sense that all was not as it should be, and that some opportunity might come their way. She glanced down at them, as she moved the second weight. The burly Scorpion-kinden was glowering at her still, murder burning in his deep-set eyes, but the rest had hope writ large on their faces, all save their leader, Dal Arche, who remained profoundly suspicious.

  ‘What are you doing, girl?’

  ‘You’re mine. I caught you, more than anyone did, and I had a purpose for you, at the time,’ she said tiredly, putting her back against the third weight, which grated heavily across wood and stone before it fell clear. ‘But now I’ve changed my mind. You’re mine, all of you, so that makes you mine to set free, if I want.’

  She released the counterbalance for the final corner and, when she turned back, Dal was already crouching up against the grille, and others of his people were taking up position, too, using their wings or clinging to the walls, ready to jointly shoulder the confining bars out of the way.

  ‘That’s not it,’ Dal said patiently, as though he was not a prisoner, and she was not dangling his freedom in front of him. ‘What happened to all that truth and justice and the golden law of the Monarch? What happened to right and wrong? Or do you reckon we’re heroes, now?’

  Tynisa paused and stared at him. ‘Oh, you’re murderers and robbers and bastards, the lot of you. But you know what? I realize now that I can’t judge you. The right and the wrong of it seem to have slipped away when I wasn’t looking, and I see clearly enough, now, to understand that I can’t see clearly enough to sit in judgement. And why should you suffer because of my blindness, and why should the Salmae benefit?’ She paused, staring down at their hungry faces. ‘I’m undoing it. I’m undoing it all – all my interfering. It’ll be as though I was never even here.’ Her voice trembled over the last few words, and she clenched her teeth.