The Scarab Path sota-5

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  'Well, then.' Hrathen drew his Imperial-issue shortsword. Against the axe it was tiny, and Kovalin roared with laughter.

  'A knife!' he cried. 'Of-the-Empire has a knife!' And then the axe was in motion, a great sweeping slash that sent Hrathen diving aside, rolling in the dust. He knew Kovalin would be coming straight for him then, the axe still in motion from that first swing, so he kicked himself back on to his feet. He thrust his free hand out and summoned his Art.

  The flash of fire struck Kovalin about the neck and shoulders but did not stop him. Hrathen made a circular parry that took the axe-blow just past him, then loosed his sting again and again. Kovalin was already reeling when the third bolt caught him directly in the face. He fell to one knee, began struggling to rise, whereupon Hrathen backed off and lashed out at him with his Art until at last the Scorpion collapsed.

  There was a silence, and Hrathen received a keen sense from his own people that they suspected this would mean foul play, that the Scorpions would descend on them.

  They have no concept of foul play, he thought. No codes of honour, no complex laws — no noble savages here. All they have is a fierce respect for strength in all its forms, and that includes cleverness.

  'I have no wish to take his place,' Hrathen announced loudly, 'for who would want to lead such wretches as these?' Again the Wasps behind him braced for the fight, but he was playing by Scorpion rules. He was proclaiming his strength. Flattery was only for the weak.

  A woman approached him, her face claw-scarred. 'He was food for the animals before you came. His death is nothing to boast of,' she said. 'Stay here tonight and we will send you on your way tomorrow. I think the Warlord will be curious to meet you.'

  She was tall, but not as massive as most Scorpions across the shoulders and back. Her arms and legs were long, and she stood with a poise that few of her kinden possessed. Just from her stance Hrathen could tell that this was an exceptionally dangerous woman. He would not want to try the same tricks that had killed Kovalin against her, and he was thankful that his plan did not call for it. If the Rekef men here with him intended to kill her, then, looking at her, he wished them luck.

  She was young, too, although Scorpions never got very old out here. Still he guessed she was younger than thirty, and yet already Warlord of all the Many of Nem. Her face was half-hidden behind a crested helm, eyes glittering from within it. She had capped her tusks with gold, and her white skin, wherever exposed, was decorated with twining patterns of black and red. They meant something, of course, but Hrathen was beyond his range of knowledge now. He would have to hope that these people had not diverged too far from the customs of their Dryclaw brethren.

  He saw how she had made the best of the equipment her people scavenged. She wore a mail hauberk of a fineness he had never seen before, the links silvery and flowing like water. Panels of cruder mail riveted at the front and sides showed where they had broadened it to fit her. She had steel greaves on her shins, plated leather guards strapped to her thighs. One arm was completely covered by interlocking metal plates, only the claws jutting forth from a ravaged gauntlet. She held a spear, its slender head comprising almost a third of its length.

  They had spent nine days in the desert, just to reach this place. Although Hrathen had made sure they would have ample supplies, he had traded with the Scorpions along the way. If he had not, they would have decided he had too much, and would have made a move to take it from him. Dannec, of course, had been critical of such expense, such waste. He had let the man simmer. They had attracted many Scorpion-kinden from the desert, come to stare and to question their guides about these intruding foreigners. Twice there had been attacks, but the Wasps' stings, and the resistance put up by what had previously been Kovalin's people, had driven their attackers away easily.

  A day ago they had come within sight of these ruins, and had expected to reach them sooner. The sheer scale defeated them: this was no fallen farmhouse or outpost. Here was a city of the old days, the days before the Nem had become a desert. Even Dannec's endless carping had faltered to a halt as they approached, to witness those great cracked walls, the massive plinths whose statues were severed at the ankle or the knee. It seemed a city built by giants, but however mighty the hands that had laid stone upon stone here, time and the desert had finally undone them. As they passed in through a break in the wall, they bore witness to a desolation that only the usurping Scorpions had brought to life again: streets and squares of fallen stones; stretches of wall so shot through with gaps that they looked like the teeth in a battered skull; pillars lying like so many sticks cast at random; the cracked and collapsed eggshells of fallen domes. The Scorpions had descended on this place with a scavenger's eye. They had dug out the ancient ruin's old wells and found the waters still clear. They had made fields out of the dust, now watered and tilled by their slaves. They had dug through the ruins for metal they could melt and reforge. Whoever had built here had been wealthy beyond measure, and what they had left behind, for the Scorpions, seemed riches worth taking. Hrathen had never known Scorpions to settle in one place. In the Dryclaw they moved constantly on and on through their desert, preying on each other, trading with the slave markets, raiding border farms and towns. Looking around the ruins, he could see that they had been here for generations, and any building still owning to three walls had become a permanent dwelling, now completed in cloth and wood. The children were everywhere underfoot, chasing and fighting each other. It had become a Scorpion city, as though the ghosts of its builders had stayed on to teach the newcomers some shadow of their old way of life.

  As with the camp previously, a crowd of the locals was fast gathering, but here there were hundreds of them, too numerous to count. Many scrambled atop walls and buildings to overlook the wagons, clasping axes and spears ready to throw. A few even held bows, but to make a good bow required suitable wood, and the desert denied them that.

  That's good, Hrathen decided. That fits with the plan.

  He jumped down from the wagon again, observing the woman who was their leader. Her complete mastery of them was evident in the way she stood, and in the way they gathered around her. He had to remind himself: This is not just any chief, this is the Warlord of the whole Nem desert. It would be a hard title to win, a harder one to hold. Something about this woman had brought them under her rule, and it must involve more than mere skill with a spear. He would have to be careful with her.

  'I am Hrathen of the Empire,' he declared. The other Wasps had again taken up their fighting stance, but if things went badly here it would not matter. 'I seek the Warlord of the Many.'

  'You have found her,' the woman replied. She approached, two or three steps at a time, and then stopped again, regarding him. 'I am Jakal of the Many, and my people have brought me word of you. I hear Kovalin lies dead in the sand.'

  'Do you mourn him?' Hrathen asked. Strength, always. There was no room for sentiment here.

  'You have spared me the chore of killing him myself. It would have been dull work,' she said. The words were for the crowd, and the crowd liked them. Behind that helm, though, her eyes were careful, wary. 'What brings you to the Nem, Hrathen of the Empire? What brings you to my citadel of Gemrar?'

  Hrathen heard Dannec snort at the mention of 'citadel'. The Rekef officer had a Wasp's eye for other nations, and he had decided from the first that the Scorpions were barbarous savages, and Hrathen little better.

  'The Empire brings you gifts,' Hrathen announced. 'There is nothing in these wagons that you may not have.'

  'That would be so, whether you willed it or not.' Jakal had moved closer, yet had not so much as glanced at the automotives. 'However, it is always pleasing to hear that we are known and feared by your Empire, who wish to bribe us so. You may join me at my fire tonight, and we shall discuss what you have brought me.' She was standing right before him at last, a few inches taller than he was, so that he had to look up to her. Hrathen was a man of instincts, and they were all telling him now to make a distan
ce between them, to take himself backwards out of the reach of her claws. It was entirely possible she would kill him right there, and he realized he could not discern, from her stance, whether she would do it. She was impossible to decipher.

  From the shadow of her helm her eyes challenged his. 'Good,' she said eventually. He had not moved or backed down. 'You are welcome amongst my people, until I change my mind. If any vex you, bring them to me and I shall remind them of their place — and mine.'

  'I would rather kill them myself,' Hrathen replied, because that was expected of him. He saw her fanged lower jaw curve in a smile.

  'Then perhaps we shall have some sport, later,' she said. 'We are not all as weak as Kovalin was.'

  'You think I am ignorant,' she said, when they had re-gathered after dark. 'I know of your Empire. My advisers have told me of it.' The bluish light of the burning oil made the Scorpions' pale skin gleam and glow.

  'The Empire's fame deserves to travel,' said Hrathen. He had called upon Dannec, of all his people, to sit with him at the Warlord's fire. The ragged circle was made up otherwise of Jakal's people, and he was surprised to see several there who must have been aged forty, fifty even, wrinkled about the eyes, with tusks missing or broken, skins spotted with time. Her advisers, then? Age had always been a death sentence in the Dryclaw but, with their more settled life, the Nemian Scorpions had clearly found some use for wisdom. A clay jar of something was being passed around, but it avoided the visitors scrupulously. Hrathen had meanwhile broken the neck on a bottle of Imperial wine, and was taking careless swallows of it, to Dannec's disapproval.

  'My advisers tell me the Empire is a great beast lurking to the north, that is always hungry. That each year it moults and splits its skin and grows larger by eating another of its neighbours.'

  Hrathen laughed at that, but Dannec drew his breath in sharply.

  'The Empire is not as you describe,' the Wasp protested. 'Those brought within our borders only benefit from our rule. So, many of our neighbours beg to join us.'

  'Fascinating,' Jakal said, dismissing with a word everything he had said. 'Tell me' — she returned to Hrathen — 'how long before we are your neighbours? We do not beg.'

  Hrathen glanced at Dannec, who replied, 'There will be no need for bad blood between us. After all, we are here now to strengthen bonds of friendship, are we not? Why talk of war?'

  'One cannot strengthen that which does not exist,' Jakal retorted, amidst a mutter of laughter from the other Scorpions.

  'But alliances are always to be wished for, are they not? We have things you lack,' Dannec pointed out. 'I do not believe your advisers realize what the Empire has to offer.'

  'Tell me,' Jakal said, pointedly to Hrathen, 'is this your lord, that he talks so much in your place, or is he perhaps your mate?'

  The other Scorpions loved that, and Hrathen smiled, too. 'You are right, of course. I shall have words with him.' He turned the smile on Dannec and, as the man opened his mouth to speak, he rammed a thumb-claw as far as the knuckle into the Wasp's throat. Dannec, words abruptly gone, stared at him. With faint interest Hrathen saw his own bloody claw-tip within the man's gaping mouth. He jerked his hand three times, feeling the sharp bone slice flesh and arteries, and then withdrew his thumb with a practised movement. He turned back to Jakal as the Rekef man's body slumped lifeless to the ground, thinking, Thank you, General Brugan. He was perfect for the purpose.

  The Scorpions were still laughing, but their tone had changed from mockery to appreciation. Strength again, and a strong leader did not tolerate weakness in his followers.

  'Very good,'Jakal said quietly. 'I admire your performance.' Her tone told him that she had seen through the device but still appreciated the effort. The next time the jar came round, she passed it over to him, and he took a great swig of the fierce, fiery liquor.

  He let the Scorpions talk amongst themselves for a while, let Jakal watch him and wonder, and then excused himself, wandering off into the dark to relieve his bladder. On the way back, he located the artificer, Angved, leaning on a capless pillar and carefully watching the group at the fire.

  'Well?' Hrathen asked him.

  'Well, I never liked the man, but even so,' the old man replied. He wore his armour still, even the helm. Field engineers seldom had to fly, and represented years of Imperial training, so they had better mail than anyone else except the sentinel heavy infantry.

  'All part of the plan,' Hrathen said. 'Don't tell me you didn't see it coming when I called him to the fire.'

  'I know he didn't,' Angved remarked. 'Tell me, sir, when do they descend on us with sword and axe and cut us all into pieces?'

  'When we're no longer useful to them,' Hrathen informed him. 'Have you guessed at your duties?'

  'Doesn't take much to work that out.' Angved spat. 'Can't see them as quick students.'

  'Living out here, you learn anything fast, so don't underestimate them,' Hrathen warned. He assessed the artificer as a level-headed man, someone who could be relied on. Considering the man would suffice, he headed back to the fire.

  'So why does the Empire seek out the Many of Nem?' Jakal asked him, as he sat down again. 'I am not such a fool as to believe you fear us. You are far away and strong, so if you are giving gifts to us, it is because you want gifts in return.'

  'Tell me about Khanaphes,' Hrathen said, and the Scorpions went quiet again. 'Are the people of Khanaphes your friends?' he persisted. 'Do they pay your warriors tribute? Do they send you gifts?'

  Jakal tilted her helmet back. The face she revealed was a hard one, even for a Scorpion. Her eyes were red, and the oil-fire made them shine with a mad light. 'We raid the Khanaphir all along the Jamail,' she replied. 'We strike at their farms, their merchants and tax gatherers. When they are strong they hunt us, but we are fast and they are slow. When we are strong, they fall back to their stone walls that we cannot breach.'

  'The Empire wishes an end to Khanaphes,' said Hrathen. The Scorpion laughter was derisory, but Jakal held up a clawed hand to quell it.

  'Why?' she demanded. 'What offence has it caused, being so far away?'

  'Who can say why?' Hrathen had asked himself the same question. It must be because Brugan wants to see if the Many can be put to work for the Empire, he had decided. Khanaphes is simply the most convenient testing ground. But there was more to it than that, and he guessed that the detachment of Rekef agents he had brought were to be involved in it. 'Perhaps some citizen of Khanaphir has insulted our Empress … It only matters that the Empire wishes it done.'

  'And the Empire wishes me to do it,' Jakal said.

  'Do you not wish to do it?'

  'If the riches of Khanaphes could be mine, I would already have taken them. Do you think I would have stayed my hand?'

  'You need stay it no longer, then,' Hrathen told her. 'For the gifts I bring you are weapons. I bring two thousand crossbows and more, supplied with bolts, and the men to teach you in their use.'

  'We know of crossbows,' said Jakal coolly, but he could see the interest in her eyes.

  'Also, we bring a dozen siege engines — leadshotters, they are called,' he continued. 'The walls of Khanaphes shall stand in your way no more than the walls of this old city here.'

  They did not cheer at that. Instead they stared at him avidly, whilst word of what he had said was passed back and back, until the whole usurped city knew it.

  Nineteen

  'What is this place?' Che asked, feeling as though she had stepped into another world. From the fierce, dry heat of the sun outside they were suddenly plunged into a thick, muggy, sticky humidity. The daylight had dimmed to a coloured gloom as it filtered through tight-stretched canvas, silk and linen. Ahead of them the emaciated Khanaphir had stopped again to wait for them.

  'The Marsh Alcaia,' Trallo pronounced. 'Even a city as polite as Khanaphes needs somewhere to break the law. At least when the guard come looking, they know exactly where to go. People will always have vices they need to indulge.'

&
nbsp; 'But this?' Che took a few steps deeper, beneath the cloth ceiling. It was like walking under water. She felt an almost physical resistance to her intrusion.

  'Don't worry about that, worry about why our friend seems so fond of you,' the Fly advised her.

  'What do you mean? I sought him out.'

  'I mean that he could have run while we were bickering in the open house, and he could still run now, and we'd never find him in here. Think about it.'

  She tried to, but here, in the stale heat, it was hard to match the pieces. Their guide was drawing ahead again, making them hurry to catch up with him. All around them were Khanaphir and foreigners intent on their purposeful errands. Amid the fragile aisles lined with people crying their wares, the sounds and smells were overwhelming.

  He always stayed just in sight, always paused by each new turning he took, and always looking back at them — at her — with that hollow, hungry gaze. Trallo was right: it was not because she was a foreigner, or anything to do with the money she might carry. Instead, something had sparked inside him, as soon as he had taken a proper look at her.

  Is this really what I am looking for? The stifling air was making her feel dizzy, while odd thoughts and feelings kept passing through her mind.

  'Wastes, but we're going in deep,' Trallo observed. 'Never been this far into the Marsh Alcaia.' He cast a glance backwards, teeth bared, and Che drew back, suddenly feeling trapped. She opened her mouth to suggest turning back, but then something twisted in her mind and she saw it. There, just beside the skeletal, hurrying figure of their guide, she saw the air seethe and darken: something of the night fighting to be seen, to make itself known to her. She imagined she even saw it pointing after him, urging her onwards. After that she had no choice.

  Again, the lean man was waiting for them at the turn, leading into yet another alleyway. Roofed with heavier cloth, it was cooler there, and the air was thick with darkness. Che let her Art cut through it, spying a tent at the far end, with four or five figures seated there.