Dragonfly Falling sota-2

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  Tisamon nodded shortly. Stenwold glanced from him to Arianna.

  ‘You’ve come at a good time, Tisamon,’ he said. ‘The Assembly has agreed to work against the Empire. Collegium is going to war. This is Master Gownsman Thadspar, the Speaker.’

  ‘It’s just as well,’ Tisamon said darkly. ‘Tell them, woman.’

  Arianna stood back from Stenwold, not meeting his eyes. ‘The Wasps have sent an embassy to Vek,’ she said quietly. ‘They are encouraging the Vekken to attack Collegium. And it will work, and the Vekken will come.’

  Silence fell throughout the room, from the guardsmen hovering in the doorway all the way across to Balkus at the far end of the table.

  ‘Tisamon, is this-?’ Stenwold started.

  ‘I found her on the run from her own people,’ Tisamon said derisively. ‘There’s been a falling out, it seems, and right now you’re the only thing keeping her from either assassination or execution. So, yes, I think it may well be true. I don’t know about Collegium going to war, but for certain the war’s coming here.’

  To Tisamon it all seemed a colossal waste of time. The War Council of Collegium, it was soon grandly known as, but precious little war seemed to be discussed. There were about forty members of the Assembly present. To the Mantis’s amusement they were using a classroom for their meeting, so only one person at a time could take the stand to talk, while the rest sat on the tiered wooden seating and listened like pupils, or more often talked among themselves.

  The first matter of business had been whether, after informing the Empire’s ambassador that they were now at war, the city should send envoys to the Wasps suing for peace, apparently on behalf of all the Lowlands. Almost half of the men and women there had been for that measure, which had only narrowly been defeated in the vote. They were very fond of such voting in Collegium. The Assemblers themselves were elected by a vote of the city, meaning by anyone of age born there, or who could acquire honorary citizenship. The members of the War Council had similarly been voted for from within the Assembly at large, although it seemed that several people were there, and quite vocal, who had simply been interested enough to come, while others thus voted for were absent.

  Stenwold had been hoping for whatever few Ant-kinden belonged to the Assembly to be present now. The duelling master, Kymon of Kes, had made an appearance, as well as a Sarnesh woman. The rest of their race were mostly gone from the city, because Ant-kinden loyalties lay strongest with their own kind. The Tarkesh had gone to help their home city-state, and the Kessen, Kymon excepted, to prepare for when their own time came.

  Yet here they were, still choosing roles as though the entire business was some grotesquely disorganized theatrical endeavour. Stenwold himself had become some kind of military commander dealing with the walls. Kymon had been given charge of some of the city’s militia. It seemed that anyone who felt himself an expert in war could bag some slice of the city’s defences, and any artificer with an invention that could be put to good use was being given whatever was needed to deploy it.

  To Tisamon it seemed an utter shambles, but he was only too aware that these were not his people. They had their own way of doing things, and in that way had built Collegium and made it prosper. Until now, at least.

  He fidgeted impatiently. Stenwold had wanted him to witness this, and so Tisamon tried to understand what was going on. There seemed to be far too many interminable speeches and not enough actually being decided or done.

  Now the talk had finally arrived at what, in his opinion, should have come first.

  ‘We must gather our allies,’ Stenwold said firmly, taking his place before the class, ‘not only against Vek but against the Empire. Unity or slavery, as I said before. We must impress upon all the Lowlands that their smaller squabbles must be put aside for now, until the greater threat is over.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ someone spoke up, and Stenwold invited the woman to take the podium. She did, looking as though she had not been intending to.

  ‘What I meant is, your pardon, Masters, but we know our neighbours only too well, do we not?’ She was some kind of merchant, Tisamon guessed, her bulky frame heavily festooned with jewellery. ‘We know them and their prejudices. We of Collegium are broad of mind; can the same be said for many others? The Ants of Kes are no doubt rejoicing to see Tark being invested. The Moth-kinden will not help us because we are Beetles. The Mantids care nothing for anyone save the Spider-kinden, whom they hate. You cannot simply tell these people to stand side by side. It won’t work.’

  Stenwold took the podium back. ‘I thank Madam Way-bright for her insight, which has made my point more clearly than I could. The situation of rivalry she describes is the one the Empire is most relying on to win its wars for it. If Vek saw clearly the threat they represented then, as rational human beings, they would not even now be mustering against us.’

  There was a rude noise from one of his listeners, and he picked up on it. ‘Not rational, you say? But they are, Masters. They are strict in their duty and their discipline, as Ant-kinden are, but they are human yet. Had we perhaps made more overtures to them, and not crowed instead about the strength of our walls, then they might not be marching against us now. You see? We are by no means blameless.’

  He stared down at his hands, balled them into fists, then looked back up at his audience. ‘Let us first speak of those we know will answer our call. No man here can dispute sending messengers to Sarn and Helleron. Helleron especially, for they are closest to the imperial advance.’

  There was scattered nodding, and he pressed on.

  ‘I have agents in Sarn already, seeking their help, but they will not know of the threat from Vek, which requires swifter action. Moreover, my agents in Sarn are attempting contact with the Moth-kinden of Dorax, who I know keep a presence in that city. I myself fought alongside the Moths in Helleron, against the Empire’s schemes there, and I have some hope that, as they profess wisdom, they will be wise enough to forget, for some short space of time, that they have such grievances against us.’

  His audience were less enthusiastic about that but, at the same time, he was asking for no commitment from them, merely unveiling his own existing plans. They could hardly turn down help from outside if it was offered.

  ‘Messengers to Kes, too,’ Stenwold continued. ‘They have never been our enemies, and they have no love for Vek. More, if they can see past their enmities they will realize that they are the next hurdle the Empire must clear. Their seas will not defend them against a massed aerial assault. A messenger to the island of Kes, surely? What do we stand to lose?’

  ‘The messenger,’ someone suggested, but he still had their attention.

  ‘And to the Spiderlands-’ he started, but there was a chorus of jeers even at the proposal.

  ‘The Spiderlands are not of the Lowlands, Stenwold,’ interrupted another of the College masters, a teacher of rhetoric and political history. ‘They will not care and, worse, if we ask for their help they will make us pay for it. If they become involved, they will keep this war going for ever simply for their own amusement. It would suit them well to have us daggers-drawn with our neighbours for generations to come. They would then deal with both sides and only become richer. We cannot invite the Spiderlands to intervene.’

  ‘And besides,’ said another, a quiet woman who had surprised everyone by turning up, ‘what help could they bring us? Do you think they will field armies for us? They deal in treachery and knives, and we would sully ourselves by inviting that kind of help, even if they could be relied on to turn it solely against the Wasps.’

  Stenwold recaptured the podium, hands in the air to concede the point. ‘Very well, no embassy to the Spider-lands.’ Then his eyes sought out Tisamon. ‘I. hesitate to ask this. I know the Ants of Sarn have fair relations with their Mantis neighbours, but-’

  ‘But we folk of Felyal are less approachable, is that it?’ Tisamon suggested.

  There was a murmur of amusement from amongst the War C
ouncil. ‘Can you deny it?’ Stenwold asked.

  ‘Nor would I wish to.’ Tisamon strode down the steps until he stood at the front, although he did not seek to take Stenwold’s pride of place. ‘And, yes, I will be your embassy to my own people, although I can promise nothing. Draw a line from Tark to Collegium, though, and the Felyal lies square in the way. I think my people would be even more unapproachable to the Wasps than to you.’

  When the debate was over Tisamon sought out Stenwold again. The Beetle was seated in a spare office of the College, three rooms down from where the War Council had been held, with several pyramids of scrolls stacked ready to hand for the scribes to copy.

  ‘You seem to be keeping them busy,’ the Mantis remarked.

  Stenwold raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s on your mind, Tisamon?’

  ‘You should know that I’m taking Tynisa with me.’

  ‘Absolutely out of the question,’ Stenwold replied without hesitation.

  ‘She wants to go.’

  ‘That’s not the issue.’

  ‘And you cannot stop her.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Stenwold admitted. ‘Tisamon, my past record in keeping members of my family from danger is poor, but just think for a moment. I know they are your people, but they will kill her. They will kill her because they’ll assume she’s Spider-kinden, and if they find out what she really is they’ll kill her that much quicker. You almost killed her yourself when first you met her.’

  ‘There is a way,’ Tisamon said, ‘though her stay will not be pleasant, I’m sure. All you say about my people is correct. but they will not kill her out of hand.’

  ‘Tisamon, please-’

  ‘She deserves it, Sten. Her own people, remember. For all they will hate her, and hate me too, no doubt, she deserves to see her father’s tribe, if only to reject it.’

  Stenwold grimaced. ‘I can see this means a lot to you.’

  Tisamon smiled bleakly. ‘We are not a numerous kin-den. If the Wasp army comes to the Felyal, with its machines and its thousands, my people will fight, you may be sure of that. They will kill ten of the enemy for every one of themselves that falls, and yet there will still be more Wasps in the end.’

  ‘You. think it will come to that?’

  ‘If the Wasps attack us, it may. I would say they would pay dearly, if only the Empire did not value its own soldiers so cheaply. I can see the Felyal cut and burned, the holds of my people shattered, and for that reason, if no other, I must warn them of their enemy’s scale and power. And Tynisa must see them as they are, in case, when this is all over, there is nothing left to see.’

  Something in Tisamon’s face shocked Stenwold, right then. Familiarity makes us forget these differences. Tisamon had been his friend for such a long time that he had become, in Stenwold’s mind, almost the tame Mantis, the man half-divorced from his wild people, his ancient, dark heritage. Now, in those angular features, he saw a weight of history that made all Collegium seem like a single turn of the glass, and it was receding, it was fading. It was falling into darkness.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stenwold. ‘If she will go, I have no right at all to say no. But, Tisamon-’

  ‘Of course,’ Tisamon said, a hand on his arm. ‘What harm I can prevent, I shall. Whatever harm that is in my power to prevent.’

  There was an abrupt rap at the door and Stenwold sighed. ‘More war business,’ he said heavily. ‘You’d better make your preparations.’

  Tisamon’s hand moved to his friend’s shoulder, exerting a brief pressure. ‘Be safe, Sten. You’ve now got what you’ve been wanting for twenty years. You’ve got them listening to you, so don’t waste your chance.’

  Stenwold nodded, opening the door for him, seeing the Beetle woman messenger waiting. He waited until Tisamon had strode out of sight before asking about her business, sure that it was bound to be another burden of the coming conflict.

  ‘Master Maker,’ the messenger reported, ‘a foreigner, a halfbreed, has come to the city looking for you. She said she has news of Tark.’

  ‘Of Tark?’ The wheels were already moving in his mind. ‘Her name?’

  ‘Is Skrill, she says, War Master,’ the messenger told him, and he felt a shock go through him. The blade that had been held over him, for so long he had almost forgotten it, was suddenly dropping.

  ‘Take me to her,’ he ordered. ‘Now!’

  ‘And so you left,’ Stenwold said heavily, after Skrill had told him her story, with all its wearisome digressions and diversions.

  ‘Weren’t my idea. Your man Totho did the plan,’ protested the gangly halfbreed sitting across the table from him. She scowled defensively. ‘What you think I was gonna do?’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ Stenwold said. ‘It wasn’t your fight. You were hired as a scout, not to fight for Tark.’

  ‘Straight up,’ Skrill agreed.

  ‘And so.?’

  ‘Once I got far out enough, I stuck around. I thought I’d see the big balloons go on fire like the plan was. Only they never did. Next night I weren’t so far off that I couldn’t see the city burning.’

  ‘And so they failed,’ said Stenwold. He felt physically ill with the strain of it all.

  ‘Looks that way,’ Skrill agreed, and then added, ‘Sorry,’ a little later.

  ‘Hammer and tongs, what have I done?’ Stenwold whispered. He heard a sound at the door, the clink of metal, and then Balkus opened it, peering in respectfully.

  ‘Master Maker?’ he began.

  ‘A moment,’ Stenwold told him, and the big Ant hovered in the doorway as he turned to Skrill again. ‘Where are you for now?’

  ‘Well, excuse me, Master Maker, but I hear you got all kind of trouble coming down on you here. I’m for home, which is a wasting long ways from here. This ain’t my fight. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I can ask no more of you. I’ll see you’re paid, and supplied as well.’

  She nodded, her narrow face unhappy. ‘I liked your boys, Master Maker. Salma especially. He was quite something. I’m sorry it looks like they’re gone.’

  Stenwold said nothing, and she stood up and slipped out past Balkus.

  ‘Are you. all right?’ the Ant asked cautiously.

  Stenwold shook his head slowly. ‘Another two of my own sent to their deaths. Attacking the Wasp camp! What were they thinking?’

  ‘They knew the risks,’ Balkus said philosophically. ‘I’m sure they knew what they were getting into.’

  ‘But they weren’t sent there as soldiers. They were just. ’

  ‘Spies,’ Balkus filled in. ‘Better they went as soldiers. That’s why I’d never do spy work for Scuto, only strong-arming and the like. Soldiers live rough and die clean, and if they’re captured, there’s a respect between us men who live with the sword. If they went like soldiers, on the attack, then that’s for the best, because spies who get captured don’t get any mercy. Everyone hates spies.’

  Stenwold shook his head. He wished, fervently wished, that he had a friend left, that he could talk to. Balkus was a loyal man, but blunt and simple of outlook, and Stenwold needed to sit with an old friend, and drink and vent his woes. He had nobody though. Che and Scuto were still north in Sarn. Tisamon, who he could have leant on, was heading east and taking Tynisa with him. He was being left alone here, and the weight of Collegium’s woes lay on his shoulders.

  ‘What did you want to tell me?’ he asked finally. ‘You had a message.’

  Balkus nodded. ‘Just a little one,’ he said with a dour smile. ‘They’ve sighted the Vekken army. Some of your village folk have come in telling of it. Everything’s about to spark off around here.’

  Greenwise Artector shuffled nervously, finding his lips dry, and aware of a knotting in his stomach. He had come out here in his very finest, his robes embroidered with Spider silk and gold thread, with a jewelled gorget tucked up against his lowest chin. Around him were a dozen others who had done their best to make a good first impression. Some had armour on, either ornately ceremonial or gleam
ingly functional steel. Many also wore ornamented swords at their belts. They were no soldiers and nobody could mistake them for it. These were the thirteen great Magnates of Helleron who made up its ruling council.

  They had chosen for their podium a raised dais in one of the better market places beyond the city proper. It had seen its share of meat, whether the ham of poor actors or the subdued tread of slaves. Now it bore a nobler burden. Twelve men and one woman, none of them young and none of them slender. The wood had never groaned as much when the slaves were herded across it.

  Behind the dais stood their retinues: a segregated rabble of guards and servants. Greenwise glanced back at his own followers, noting in the front rank one in particular.

  And they were coming now. A change in the way his fellow magnates stood drew his attention to the front again. Three men approached, a spokesman and two of those common soldiers in their black-and-gold banded armour.

  Behind them, off beyond the final tents of the extended city and onto the farmland eastwards, there were rather more than three, of course.

  The man flanked by the soldiers was surprisingly young, surely only in his late twenties. Greenwise guessed at first he must be no more than a junior officer or a herald or some such, but there was something in his bearing that gave the lie to that. He had golden-red hair and a bright, open face full of edged smiles. No doubt he was the very darling of the Wasp-kinden womenfolk.

  ‘Are we all assembled?’ he enquired, clapping his hands together. Although the city’s councillors were raised above him he showed no sign of discomfort. By that demeanour he made it seem that, rather than seeking an audience, he had driven them up there as a wild beast might drive a man up a tree.

  Greenwise glanced about him, because there was no spokesman in Helleron’s council. All were equal and as such none would trust the role to anyone else. One of his fellows was already stepping forward, though, a corpulent and balding man called Scordrey.

  ‘Young man,’ Scordrey said ponderously, ‘we are the Magnate Council of the great city of Helleron. Kindly give us the honour of your name and explain the purpose of. that presence.’ He waved a thick hand in the direction of the army to the east, as though it could all be dismissed so easily.