I am here to stay, and this is my world now. She hurled the thought out into the forest, and felt its answering response: approving, darkly amused and greedy for blood. She knew then that it would do its best to kill her, by the blades of its people, by the hooked arms of its monstrous beasts, by its sheer darkness – but it would do so with love. It would gather her to it, if she let it, and perhaps in a hundred years someone would come questing here to find her ghost.
But she was Seda the Empress, and she would master it, and make it hers, to enjoy or destroy as she saw fit. Here she had come at last into her true kingdom.
And, somewhere out there, Argastos.
There were few non-Ants in Sarnesh service, the lack of a mind-link proving an insurmountable failing for most. Ants could not fly, though, and whilst that link allowed them the coordination to move without error through the semi-dark of the Mantis forest, their vision could not pierce it the way those of the natives could. In their logical way, therefore, even the Ant-kinden kept a few outsiders on the payroll.
It must be hard, Che decided, as she stepped carefully through the tangled undergrowth. There’s nowhere in which to be an outsider quite like an Ant city-state.
The chief scout’s name was Zerro, and he must have lived amongst the Ants a long time, for he even had their look: that closed-mouthed, hard-eyed Ant expression that told of an untouchable internal world. No such world, of course, for a Fly-kinden like Zerro, but he almost acted as if there was, reading the thoughts of his comrades from their stance, from the minute traces of expression even Ants were prone to. As a scout, he led a weird backwards existence, creeping ahead of the line, but putting as much effort into remaining in sight of the Sarnesh as he did in keeping hidden from the enemy. If something happened to him, it was imperative that the Ants had warning, and being seen was the only way he could communicate that to them.
They had outstripped the main body of the Sarnesh – who were making a steady and careful advance behind them, meeting up with the Etheryen and skirting the locals’ concealed tree-villages, trying to create an expanding frontier to force the Nethyen back. The Ant commander, Sentius, had been at absolute pains to work with the Mantis-kinden, to humour them and to respect their wishes. No Beetle diplomat could have done a better job, Che thought, and it was all just another facet of Ant-kinden efficiency, the easiest way for them to achieve their goal.
Zerro and his Sarnesh scouts were meanwhile already past all of that and into contested territory, though Che had witnessed no fighting yet. The Fly had not been at all happy about bringing her and her followers along with him, seeing them as a noisy, clumsy liability. She thought that his opinion might have changed by now. With the exception of Helma Bartrer, who was still stumbling along at the back even though she had changed her Collegiate robes for a tunic and cloak of muted brown, the rest of them moved through the forest with surprising ease. Oh, no surprise that Tynisa was at home here, or even the Moth, Terastos; and Che supposed that Thalric had done enough sneaking about in his time, and Maure too. Even big Amnon had always had a smooth grace about him, whether hunting the Jamail delta of his homeland, or here so many miles away from it. I suppose it is just me that actually surprises me; Beetle stealth was the butt of a hundred Fly jokes. How do you know a Beetle’s breaking into your house? He knocks first. Here, though . . .
The forest was a dark, cruel place, stained with old blood, but it knew her. ‘Welcomed’ would be a step too far, but the anointing she had received in Khanaphes was good currency here. The forest might kill her, in the end, but it would do so with respect, and she moved through the chest-high ferns and briars with a dancer’s step, and her eyes knew no darkness.
The Sarnesh around them stopped, not a sudden jolt but a collective fading into stillness at some signal sent from ahead. Che closed her eyes and let herself take in the rhythms of the trees about her, the forest’s slow old heartbeat. There were Nethyen hunting parties out there, she knew. She could not have told Zerro quite where they were, but she felt them impinge on her mind like tiny thorns. None so close as to be a threat, although there was already blood on the air from skirmishes and brief flashes of violence between the trees.
It had been a long time since there had been so much killing within this wood, she discerned, and she could feel the whole place waking up by increments, something primitive and sluggish gathering its wits.
For a moment her mind touched something else, and in a start of panic she thought it must be the Empress, but the texture of the mind that she sensed was not Seda the Wasp’s. It lacked her fierce fire, but there was a great wellspring of power there nonetheless. Then it was gone in an instant, unlocatable, just a chance brushing of consciousness, but Che formed the name Argastos in her mind. And if I know your name, old Moth, does that give me power over you? Or have you transcended that?
She had asked Maure what might be left of this ancient Moth hero-sorcerer by now. The halfbreed necromancer had just shaken her head. ‘This whole place is just built of ghosts,’ had been her response. ‘I’d say “all of him” but I’ve a feeling that there might be more of him, now, than there ever was when he was alive. Just because we get to him first doesn’t mean that we’ll enjoy it a moment later. Maybe better to let the Wasp woman have that honour?’
But Che knew Seda’s strength and indomitable will. I cannot let her have Argastos – or whatever he left behind him. If that means I must take the risk myself, then so be it. And, in the wake of that, she reflected: I am thinking like a magician now. Where did all this ambition come from?
They were moving again, heading off at an angle, very slowly, and she tried to work out what was going on. At first she used her mere eyes, as any slave of Aptitude might, and there was nothing. Then the Ants had frozen again, and she saw them readying their weapons, crossbows mostly because those were quieter than snapbows. What is it? Tell me . . .
Tynisa was moving forwards ahead of her, and already identifying the problem, but Che caught up effortlessly. Now I see. A strange, reckless feeling had overcome her, a need to discover what she could do in this new place. There is magic concentrated here, layer on layer of old ritual and belief encrusted about the roots of every tree, far more than ever there was in the Commonweal.
Zerro was right ahead, but he was not looking back at her. Instead, he had one hand out to the Ants, fingers moving in a slow, deliberate code. His eyes were fixed on the beast.
It stood one and a half times the height of a tall man. The tree cover here was dense, and yet a lush, strangely pallid undergrowth extended all about them, as though living on something other than sun and air. The mantis itself had an ivory sheen to it, and was near invisible in its perfect poise. Tynisa was already limping forwards, and Che recalled she had faced down just such a creature in the Commonweal, but she put a hand on her foster-sister’s arm, stilling her.
‘Che, don’t play around,’ Tynisa murmured from the corner of her mouth, eyes fixed firmly on the insect. Its killing arms were still drawn in tight, and its vast, pale eyes saw everything.
Che was acutely aware of all of them in that moment. The scout, Zerro, was signalling her, but she did not know his sign language, and she was not under his command. She could sense the sharp scrutiny of the Moth Terastos, his fear and uncertainty, and something like a bitter envy from Helma Bartrer, frustrated Apt scholar. Here was Maure, calm amidst the darkness because she understood what Che was about, and here she felt Thalric’s concern, his slowly escalating tension that might lead him to do something rash . . .
She stepped forwards, one slow deliberate pace, and then another that put her closer to the mantis than either Tynisa or Zerro. She knew that the Ants all had their weapons levelled towards it, but the status of such creatures was uncertain. The locals held them in high esteem, so killing one might have repercussions. Or not: the Mantids never seemed to have the same attitudes towards death and killing as did civilized peoples.
From every facet of the creature’s vas
t eyes, the forest watched her.
Go, she told it. We are not your prey. You are not ours. We pass through like the wind. We leave not even footprints in our wake. The forest wanted blood, she knew. Like a crowd at a Wasp arena, it wanted them to fight for its amusement, but she was Cheerwell Maker of Collegium, and nobody’s pit-slave.
Its arms shifted, unclasping a little, reaching towards her in readiness for a strike, but she read the animal, and the immense semi-consciousness around her, as though they were a human face. My time is not now, and this is not the agent of my death. She stared into that compound gaze. Enough hollow threats. For a moment she actually felt a connection with the insect itself, a sharp and calculating mind with more understanding and contemplation than any simple animal should be able to own to.
‘Pass on,’ she told Zerro, just quiet words, but she could feel a faint shiver in the air and in the trees as she spoke, reacting to the authority she had taken on. Even the Fly and his Ants, the blind and deaf Apt, must have felt some change. From that moment on, she knew that they would look to her. She had taken command in a bloodless coup.
That distant presence, the eye of Argastos, had seen it all, she knew, and was evaluating her even now. What is he like? Is there enough left to even be thought of as ‘he’? Do we go to the man himself, or the ghost, or just his tomb?
They were moving off again, and Che found herself keeping pace some half-dozen yards behind Zerro, Tynisa by her side. Her sister was eyeing her as though she had gone mad or turned into a stranger. Che smiled at her, but she had the feeling that her smiles were no longer the amiable and reassuring ones she had once worn.
Thirteen
There was a drug they called Chneuma, which had become a standard part of the Air Corps kit. It kept a pilot awake and alert for days, strung tight like a wire and ready for action. Too ready, perhaps. Bergild was pacing constantly, twitchy and unable to sit, making circuits of the crate-table where Major Oski and his Bee second, Ernain, were trying to play cards. They had hollowed out a nook amongst the disassembled artillery in the back of one of the transport automotives and, at every jolt and lurch, Bergild’s wings would flower for a moment, ready to take to the air.
The Fly engineer cast her a baleful look. ‘I am blaming you for losing the last three hands, you realize?’
For a moment she stopped, clenching and unclenching her fists, blinking at him as though she had never seen him before.
‘Can’t keep your mind in your head, these days?’ was Oski’s verdict, and when she opened her mouth he added, ‘I know, I know, you’ve got worries. We’ve all got worries.’
Bergild’s worries were her fellow pilots operating in shifts over the Second’s advance, their minds touching hers moment to moment. They were overdue another visit from the Collegiate orthopters, so every Imperial pilot was on standby and plugged full of Chneuma. She did not want to think about coming down from the drug afterwards. Nightmares and shakes and dreadful cravings, they said, and none of the chemists really knew how long it was safe to keep using the cursed stuff. But necessary. We are so few that we need all of us, every time.
Then one of her pilots really did have something to report and, wings springing into being, she was at the back of the covered automotive immediately with Oski and Ernain leaping up behind her, for all the good they could do.
‘It’s . . . it’s . . .’ began her faltering response to their questions, and then, ‘one orthopter. Farsphex. Ours.’ But she was frowning because there was no mindlinked contact with the pilot. Not proper Air Corps, then. A trick? The incoming pilot was signalling with the heliograph codes that had been developed before the new breed of pilots had emerged, but Bergild and most of her people had never learned them. At last someone got hold of one of the older pilots who had, then interpreted an intent to land. Bergild instructed that the visitor be guided in far from anything critical.
So who’s got one of my Farsphex?
She and Oski and Ernain skipped out of the automotive, their wings carrying them above the great marching mass of the Second and its Spider allies, over the labouring transports – wheeled, tracked and walkers – and the articulated forms of the Sentinel automotives. The Farsphex had come down, with one of her own machines still wheeling overhead, and some sergeant had detailed a few squads of Light Airborne to deal with whoever stepped out. By the time Bergild and the others had arrived, the orthopter’s passenger had disembarked and presented his credentials – and was on his way to General Tynan post-haste.
The newly arrived pilot was still standing by his machine, and Bergild saw that his armour boasted a red insignia and pauldrons – nothing she recognized.
Ernain knew, though. The Bee-kinden was so well informed about goings on in the Empire that she would have taken him for Rekef if he wasn’t so free with the information. Although I wouldn’t know what other information he’s not being free with, I suppose.
‘Red Watch,’ the Bee identified. ‘Very new, the Empress’s darlings. Looks like special orders for the general.’
A section of the army had halted for Tynan to receive the orthopter’s passenger, and Major Oski was able to pull sufficient rank to get them within earshot as the man presented himself as one Captain Vrakir, also Red Watch. Looking up dourly after scanning through the newcomer’s papers, Tynan did not appear delighted by this indication that the Empress had not forgotten him.
‘So what does she want?’ the general demanded. ‘There are no orders here.’ He did not suggest that Vrakir had been sent to spy on him, but that was hardly a wild leap of logic. He should have had this meeting in private, Bergild reckoned, but then General Tynan was a blunt-speaking man who did his best to live his life in the open. The Spider commander, the Aldanrael woman, was close by Tynan’s side, though, and who knew what thoughts were passing behind her calm exterior?
‘There will be orders, General, in due course,’ Vrakir replied stoically. ‘For now, I ask you to accept me as the Empress’s voice here.’
For a moment Tynan looked as though he might argue, and surely everyone there was thinking, This is not how you run an army, but whatever the Empress had written on that paper in Tynan’s hand, it was sufficient.
Then the word came, and Bergild called out, ‘General, orthopters inbound!’ because he was right there and it would save time. Everyone was looking at her instantly – perhaps all the more so in shock at a woman’s voice daring to accost their leader – but she was already in the air and racing for the automotive that carried her machine ready for launch.
Behind her, Tynan was shouting out for everyone to get moving again – no stationary targets for the Collegiate bombs – and for the infantry to spread out as best they could. Everything fell into a well-rehearsed chaos, familiar from every previous day of this march. Bergild, herself, had thoughts only for the sky.
Taki had never flown a bombing run. She understood the necessity of the work, but it was not her work. She was a pilot of Solarno and she took her prey in the air. There was no glory in attacking an enemy that could not fight back. When she had explained that – the one time she had tried, anyway – to the Collegiate pilots, most of them had looked at her as if she was mad.
Beetle-kinden were a practical-minded lot. If they were forced to fight, then most of them would far rather build machines to do it for them, ideally in a way that precluded retaliation. That made Taki think of the Empire, the way it had brought Myna to its knees, with so little danger to its own side, by orthopter and artillery. Collegium would not be taken so readily, but the whole business brought a sour taste to the mouth. Where were those sunlit days in Solarno, when she would joust in the skies against her brothers, air-pirates, free pilots, Princep Exilla dragonfly-riders, and all bound by their common kinship? Here she was now at the cutting edge of Apt warfare and already mourning a lost way of life.
Mantis-kinden would understand, she thought, even as she adjusted her course to head against one of the Farsphex, as the Imperial machines rose o
ut of the great marching host. They wouldn’t understand the machines, but the thoughts behind them. Oh, for an Apt Mantis to teach to fly . . . Clouds of the Light Airborne were scattering upwards, wings aflare – not that they would be any real good in the fighting, but they would be out of the way of the bombs. The heavier infantry, the Spiderlands troops, and all the rest still shackled to the earth, they were dispersing as much as they could, losing cohesion and slowing their advance to do so. Well, fine, we’re not exactly here to bomb them to death, just to break their toys and kick over their larder. For there was a multitude of automotives with the Imperial force, though not half as many as when they had come this way the first time. All the important loads that the Empire could not do without had been split up across the army – more good sense from the Wasps – but it meant that any vehicle over a certain size became a target.
And this time they’ll know it. The plan was typical committee-born Collegiate nonsense, and Taki had argued fiercely against it, but it was a good plan nonetheless. Still doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Then the Farsphex was flashing into her sights, already turning aside as she began to shoot, obviously warned by some other Imperial pilot. Taki slung her Esca Magni into as tight a turn as she could, unhappily aware that she had managed it tighter in her time. Her prized craft had taken its share of knocks in the fighting over Collegium a month before and, although the mechanics had done their best, she was going to have to give up on it soon. Sentiment was something she had been indulging in, and could not truly afford. She needed a new orthopter.
The enemy pilot threw the Farsphex into a surprisingly nimble climb, but changed course suddenly, and Taki knew that the Imperial mind – the collected thoughts of its mindlinked pilots – had seen what new game Collegium had brought.
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