The Air War (Shadows of the Apt 8)

by Tchaikovsky, Adrian

  ‘The . . .’ And Drephos let the word trail off into a thoughtful pause that ended with, ‘So,’ and nothing more. His smile returned, and probably only Totho could tell that it was a little too fixed. ‘The Bee-killer, of course,’ he said smoothly, a moment later. ‘The formula did not survive the war. Do you think that I would not have made more, had I the means?’

  ‘The coffers of the Consortium—’ the man went on, but Drephos held up his metal hand again, imperiously.

  ‘It did not survive,’ he said curtly, and then turned away, his attention wholly directed up towards the balcony, where generals and other dignitaries were beginning to make their appearance.

  ‘We shouldn’t have come,’ Totho growled again, and this time Drephos said nothing.

  From the ranks, Esmail watched a conspiracy assemble, a web being strung. He – which was to say Ostrec – was simply another soldier at this point: an officer of the Quartermaster Corps amongst his peers, and ostensibly not a sniff of the Rekef about him. All around, the other servants of the Empire marched in to form their serried ranks, all the organs of the Imperial war machine falling, unit by unit, into an expectant hush.

  Esmail marked the faces: the newcomers, the absences. General Brugan was in place already, just left of centre, even now giving place to the Empress, though she had yet to appear. Further left was the bloated corpulence of Colonel Harvang, the impeccably turned-out Vecter lost in his shadow. There were a couple of new faces, too: majors in the Rekef Outlander arrived from the East-Empire, Brugan’s old stamping ground. True, there were a few up there, overlooking Armour Square, who were not Brugan’s, bought and sold: those who were too useful to dispose of, too doubtful to approach – engineers mostly. General Lien’s bald head gleamed in the sun, whilst beside him that bearded eccentric was presumably the genius aviation Major – no, Colonel, now – Varsec. Aside from these two, and a meagre handful of others, everyone up there whom Esmail could see was firmly in Brugan’s camp.

  There had been a very subtle changing of the guard at certain levels of the palace, as men loyal to Brugan had been summoned in from distant posts. Others had received surprising postings – mid-ranking officers sent west to the front, Rekef men posted to the Principalities to spy on the savages. Everything had been above board, nothing irregular; in some cases reassignment had even come with a promotion attached. Only someone with a deep understanding of the hidden loyalties of Capitas would have understood that everyone coming in was Brugan’s man, while everyone going out was not.

  The net was drawing tight, by the most delicate of stages. Esmail almost felt that he should hold his breath for it. Brugan was manoeuvring for a time when everyone around the Empress would be loyal to the general of the Rekef first, to the throne second.

  Esmail-as-Ostrec was already standing to attention, but he – and every soldier there – still managed to straighten still further, shoulders back and brimming with Imperial pride, for the Empress had made her appearance, walking into the heart of Brugan’s net without seeming to notice.

  To his eyes, she seemed to shine like the sun itself, the outpouring of her grand and unbridled power making him wonder that those others could simply stand so close without burning. Of course, they saw none of it: they were blindly Apt, and he must pretend to see none of it either, or else give himself away. Even so, he could not tear his gaze from her: Her Imperial Majesty Seda the First, Empress of all the Wasps, young and beautiful and commanding all eyes, all hearts. Esmail could almost hear the collective mental gasp of the soldiers all around him as Seda strode to the balcony rail and looked down on them. She wore a long gown of velvet, the sleeves loose so that they fell like wings and left her lower arms bare. Over this was buckled a cuirass and, although it was a fine piece of work, light and elegant, its resemblance to the banded mail of the Light Airborne was not by chance. She had a scabbarded sword at her side, such as no Imperial woman had ever openly worn before, and in her right hand was a slender lance, its narrow head a gilded dart. Her skin was like alabaster, her hair of gold. Esmail felt tears come to his eyes, seeing her, and did not know whether they were Ostrec’s or his own.

  The building she had commandeered for this address was a flat-roofed, three-storey counting house of the Quartermaster Corps, previously just an abode of clerks and their numerate slaves. After today it would be known as the Little Palace, never again to be profaned by the murky business of commerce. The clerks would have to find themselves another haunt.

  ‘My people.’ Her voice was strong and clear, and the great mass of soldiers, almost two thousand of them all told, kept silent for her. Esmail was well aware that there must be at least another thousand in the buildings all around the square, looking out from windows and lesser balconies, or listening intently from within: Consortium merchants, craftsmen, the wealthy of good family, retired officers, slaves and the women of all of the above – here was the Empire in miniature.

  ‘I am to ask great things of you,’ Seda told them, as if she was speaking to each Wasp individually. ‘Our Empire has fought through many trying times, but our trials are not over; indeed, they are barely begun.

  ‘Your blood and sweat has recaptured the Empire and returned it to its rightful ruler,’ she told them. ‘You have held your loyalty firm, when a dozen voices tried to prise you away from your convictions. You have marched on the traitor-governors, who fancied themselves a dozen little emperors, and who would have diluted the grandeur of our state until we had become nothing better than the Lowlands: so many little cities fighting one another. I speak to you, therefore, as heroes of the Empire, saviours of its pride and peace. Do you ask: is my work not done?’

  She actually paused for an answer, and Esmail felt it well up within him, despite himself. He opened his mouth, terrified by his loss of control, about to single himself out in all this great throng.

  ‘No!’ The shout arose from hundreds of throats all around him.

  ‘No,’ she agreed quietly, in the echo, but every man there heard her. ‘For there are those who look upon all we have built with envious eyes. There are those lesser kinden, little men, who know that they can never achieve what we have achieved, and whose only response is to try and tear down what we have made. They have worked against us, sometimes even amongst us, for many years. Perhaps there are even some here now whose loyalties are bought by the enemies of the Empire.’

  Esmail quashed a sudden up-welling of panic, feeling the mood of the men around him respond to the Empress’s tone, ugly and fierce. He wondered if there would be another purge soon, people dragged from their homes and workshops and barracks, branded disloyal, traitors. The men who stood here would cheer that to the echo. Until their own time came.

  ‘Do you think the traitor-governors worked alone?’ Seda demanded of them. ‘No! For there are those beyond our borders who encouraged them, and gave them aid.’ She let the words ring off the walls for a moment before continuing. ‘Do you think that Myna and its allies would dare raid our borders without help? No! For they were armed and instructed by our enemies. And now, now that we have regained our strength despite all of their schemes and machinations, they have declared their intent to destroy us utterly. They cannot abide to live in a world where we are strong, and where we are not dependent on them, as they have made their neighbours dependent upon them. They cannot tolerate the fact that we are stronger than them, and prouder than them, that we are better than them. My people, Collegium and its allies have declared war.’

  She left another pause there, but not for words, and the angry roar of the crowd sounded like thunder, like the leadshotters, like war.

  ‘So I must call upon you once again,’ Seda urged them, her clear voice cutting through the sound of their anger. ‘The Empire calls on you, for the Empire is beset on all sides by its enemies, by the envy of lesser kinden. The Empire must be defended, and there is only one way to defeat the Collegiate threat once and for all!

  ‘I call upon you, each and every one of you,
to return to your armies, to your subordinates, to your fellows. Tell them that the Empress has need of them. Tell them that the Empire has need of them.’ She thrust her spear into the air, and the sun flashed on its gilded tip. ‘Either we must spread our wings over the Lowlands and bring them within our shadow, or everything we have worked for will be for nothing. Either they will destroy us, with their cunning and their lies, or we must conquer them. Every soldier must do his duty if the Empire is to survive. The Empire places its trust in each and every one of you and all your comrades. Will you stand?’

  ‘Yes!’ There was no hesitation. Every throat was shouting out the word.

  ‘Will you defend the Empire?’ Seda cried.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Will you take war to the very gates of Collegium?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Then you are my heroes, and because of you the Empire shall last a thousand years!’ she declared. ‘Go from here now! March out and spread the word! You have a duty but, more, you have a destiny. The Empire cannot fall! The Empire will not kneel! The Empire shall prevail, and it shall prevail through you, its champions!’

  The roar of approval that followed must have been heard all the way across the city, and Esmail cheered too and, in that moment, forgot that he was not one of them.

  Part Two

  The Storm

  Nineteen

  The twin-rotored heliopter had been flying high, tilted nose-down at an unlikely angle as its pilot made the best of the headwind. It was an ungainly little craft, a wooden body like a squat teardrop with an outrigger either side for the blades and a box-kite tail. Someone had known a little about aeronautics when they built it, for it was swifter in the air than heliopters normally were but, when the Collegiate orthopter clipped past its nose to investigate, the visitor’s response was sluggish, lurching aside and then taking its own time to steady itself again in the air.

  Taki watched from on high, in her Esca Magni. This was only a routine patrol, but the newcomer’s approach had seemed a good opportunity to set one of her students loose, so she had flashed the order. Now a young Beetle woman was guiding her flier past the visiting heliopter, before bringing herself level with it and matching course and speed. Taki nodded, satisfied.

  She had not seen this model of heliopter before and it bore no markings, but it hardly seemed like something that the Wasps would use. Even now it was dropping towards Solarno, the pilot handling the craft ably despite its leaden response, and Taki used her heliograph to send another set of instructions to her trainee: break off, return to field. She could only hope that the girl would realize that Taki wanted her to advise people of the newcomer, because there was no signal for that in the code book.

  The Beetle pilot obediently let her orthopter drop, far swifter and better controlled than the heliopter. Collegium had its own standard model flier, which had gone into production after Taki herself had pitched up in the city with her Solarnese know-how and got together with the capable engineers of the College. The orthopter now vanishing down towards the city was built on the same lines as the Esca: a two-winged craft with balancing halteres, hunchbacked over the clockwork engine, a long, tapering tail behind, and a pair of rotary piercers before. At the start, they had not wanted to build them armed, but Taki had always been a fighting pilot, the cream of Solarnese pride, and she had held out over this until she got her way.

  She really was very, very glad now that she had won that particular battle.

  Collegium had a modest airfleet of these craft now, and Taki’s students had gone on to become tutors themselves some time ago for, in another stroke of fortune, the Collegiate– Solarnese trade that the end of the war had sparked up had led to an upsurge of interest in flying. The fighting aviators of Solarno had been much in vogue, heroes of books and songs and a play or two. Taki had done well out of that but, given all those young men and women who had found sufficient coin for flying lessons, so had the city.

  They called the Collegiate models Stormreaders.

  Taki let her Esca slide into the view of the heliopter pilot, close enough to peer through the broad windows of his canopy. Now his machine was not meant for combat, or at least she sincerely hoped not. It was no cargo-hauler either. She could not tell precisely what it was good for, and she was worried that the answer might actually be nothing.

  The pilot was a decent hand, though, and made a neat enough landing, after circling a few times while the ground crew wheeled a couple of Stormreaders out of the way, and she made one more circuit herself just to be sure there was no funny business, before making her own descent.

  When she had got the Esca down, dropping neatly onto its landing legs without anyone needing to clear anything aside for her, the heliopter cockpit was open and a man was already clambering out. The ground crew, some off-duty pilots and a pair of Merchant Company soldiers watched him dubiously, but Taki felt that she owed it to a fellow pilot to take the lead.

  ‘Hey, you there, welcome to Collegium!’ At the sound of her voice the other onlookers relaxed and let her get on with it, which irritated her. True, she was de facto an Associate Master of the College, teaching aviation to packed classrooms when she could be bothered to turn up, but she was not even a Collegiate citizen, nobody had given her a rank or a title, and away from her students she should have no authority whatsoever. Still, being a legend was a hard thing to live with, and anyone who had anything to do with the Collegium airfields knew te Schola Taki-Amre, and held her in high esteem.

  The heliopter pilot dropped heavily to the ground. He was a short man, which was to say he was only a foot taller than she was, wearing a flying helmet with a full-face mask, a military-looking piece of kit. He stripped it off as she approached, revealing an unappealing visage, a squat broad-mouthed face with small suspicious eyes, a flat nose and skin that was white enough to look dead. Halfbreed, she noted, Fly-kinden and . . . Ant, I think. Tarkesh Ant, with that skin.

  Still, some of his unhealthy skin tone was probably weariness, she guessed. There were grey circles about his eyes, and his sag-shouldered pose suggested a man who had been on the move for some time. ‘What brings you to Collegium?’ she asked him brightly.

  ‘Stenwold Maker,’ he replied, his voice flat and almost toneless, and abruptly he had everyone’s attention, including that of the snapbows the soldiers were carrying.

  ‘That’s a big name to be throwing around right now. He’s a busy man. Has to be him, does it?’ Taki asked lightly. It seemed highly unlikely that this individual would turn out to be Rekef, as she had yet to find any crowd that he would blend in with, and his instant annoyance at being questioned would not be a good survival trait in a professional spy. Nonetheless, she had lost a few nights to dreams of Myna burning, so she was not inclined to be trusting.

  ‘Yes,’ said the halfbreed wearily, as though even that one word was too much effort. ‘It really, really does. You’ve got him here, or do I have to walk somewhere?’

  ‘Maybe I can take a message,’ Taki suggested.

  The look the man gave her was venomous. ‘Is this what you do? Is this your job, to make my life difficult? Urgent top-secret message, eyes of Stenwold Maker only. How difficult is that to understand? News from Tark, all right?’

  ‘You know that Stenwold Maker doesn’t rule this city, I assume,’ Taki tried. Despite herself, she was fighting down a smile at the sheer magnitude of the small man’s temper. As she spoke, she had to admit that, despite everything the Beetles said about their government, she was not entirely sure that Maker did not run things here, but it would not be politic to say so.

  ‘Don’t care,’ the halfbreed spat out. ‘He could clean the privies, for all it would interest me. Now, is someone here going to do the decent thing and take me to him, or do I have to start asking people at random in the street?’

  ‘The forgemasters are all saying that they can’t do everything at once,’ Jodry declared mildly. He could afford to be amiable, as he sat in the expansive chair behi
nd his desk in the Speaker’s office. Stenwold, on his feet and keen to sort matters out and be gone, found the Speaker’s ease aggravating.

  ‘Jodry, I was there,’ he snapped. ‘I saw these monster machines the Empire are deploying. When they come for us or we go to them, we’ll need battle automotives. Since we don’t actually have any, the only thing we can do is armour up any civilian vehicle that could do the job.’

  ‘Yes, yes, and you have made many profligate promises where the Assembly’s purse is concerned, while confiscating private property on that account,’ Jodry returned sharply. ‘And – yes, requisitioning, if you must, if that makes what is basically theft sound more palatable – and, as I say, now the wretched machines are backed up all over the city like an overflowing drain, because the foundries are working on yet more orthopters. Because Mistress Taki, she also saw the same battle you did, and apparently came away with rather different priorities.’

  ‘Just . . . get them to strike a balance. I’m not saying Myna didn’t suffer from the air, but these Cyclops machines of theirs . . .’ Stenwold shook his head. ‘You weren’t there.’

  ‘For which I’m profoundly grateful. Worse luck, though, that you’re already proposing to go back, along with our Merchant Companies.’

  ‘We didn’t stop the Empire early enough before,’ Stenwold replied promptly. ‘If we can get to them while they’re consolidating in Three-city territory – or even at Helleron! – then we can win the war. If we leave them to come to us . . . the Sarnesh knew that was foolishness when they went out to meet the Wasps at Malkan’s Folly, Jodry. They nearly had the city the last time we let them march up to our gates.’

  ‘And what,’ said Jodry, with infinite patience, ‘do you propose to do about Solarno? You’ve heard the same reports as I have.’