‘Then I ask that you pass my words on, to all the others, Nethyen and Etheryen alike. And maybe some will choose to live and some prefer to die. Or all to die. I don’t know.’ She tried a brittle smile. ‘And what do you yourself intend, now I’ve said my words?’
The old Loquae looked about the firelit clearing as though seeking volunteers, but there seemed no will for violence amongst the Mantids, for once.
‘We will talk,’ she said. ‘And you should go. Your presence is like salt on a wound. Perhaps that is what we need, but I am not sure.’
Che glanced at her fellows briefly, as though canvassing their unspoken thoughts. ‘You know where I must go.’
The Loquae nodded unhappily. ‘You go to Argastos.’
‘Not for myself but only because the Empress must not have him.’
For a long while the Loquae’s eyes searched Che’s expression over and over. Tynisa was waiting for Che to give some reassurance, to draw out some proof of her virtuous intent, and yet the Beetle girl seemed momentarily frightened that she could find no such evidence within herself. Magicians and power, came the unwelcome thought. Can she be so sure she will not use it?
The Loquae plainly saw the same, but merely shrugged. ‘You go wherever you must. The Nethyen will not stop you.’
‘Will they open the way for me?’ Che pressed.
The old woman’s eyes widened. ‘The way is open for you, Beetle Skryre. How can you not know that? The blood price has already been paid, for you and yours.’
Che mastered her expression quickly, perhaps with a queasy twitch over just whose blood that might have been, which had opened the gate.
‘Your followers, though, have further business with us.’ And was that the sharp edge of a smile on the Loquae’s lean face? Tynisa sensed the lurching moment that Che stumbled over her own ignorance.
‘Explain,’ the Beetle got out.
‘The duel,’ Amnon stated flatly, and Tynisa echoed him a moment later.
‘What have you done?’ Che demanded of them.
‘Bought time by issuing a challenge,’ Thalric drawled. ‘The Commonweal trick.’
And now we come to pay for the Commonweal trick, Tynisa decided. ‘Well that’s fine,’ she declared, loud enough to draw all eyes. ‘So let’s get it over with now, and we can be on our way. Which of you is champion?’
‘Tynisa . . .’ Che started, but this was Mantis business, and she could not prevent it.
‘Amalthae stands for us,’ the Loquae stated, and Che froze.
Tynisa had heard the name, and not quite connected it with a face. ‘Fine, so which of you is she? Let’s see her.’ She looked from face to pale Mantis face, as they shuffled aside, expecting to see a human opponent revealed by their eddying movement. Instead . . .
‘Ah.’
The cleared fighting ground stretched from her to the trees, and she saw the great mottled shape that swayed there, glittering eyes casting back the firelight.
Tynisa felt her bravado dry up. She would face any human opponent without flinching, but she knew full well the creature’s sheer speed and strength. She was Mantis enough to know the creature at once as something not merely physically powerful, but supernatural as well, an incarnation of her father’s kinden made armoured flesh.
But she stood, blade outstretched, and in a quiet, calm voice got out, ‘Well come on, then, for my sister would be gone.’
The long-haired Mantis beside the creature cleared his throat. ‘Amalthae bids you: go with your sister, for she will need you. A duel pledged cannot be taken back, and she and you shall meet. But not now, nor at dawn. Go, for she knows you will return to honour your word.’
Tynisa lowered her blade slowly, and the very character of the air seemed to change around her, the Mantids reacting to this validation of her badge and her blood. They might still hate her, but never again could they deny her.
Che glanced about, testing the quality of the silence. ‘Then there is one thing I will ask, then, if you can grant it.’
The Loquae’s eyes narrowed and she waited.
Che drew herself up as tall as she could – not physically, but gathering together the trailing folds of a power that, here at this pyre, Tynisa could almost see. ‘Give me your blessing on my journey,’ the Beetle asked. ‘Let my steps be light until I find the Empress, for if I catch her before she catches Argastos, then we need never know what I might do with him.’
‘Our blessing?’
‘These are your lands,’ and it was a recognition of sovereignty the Empress had surely never granted them. ‘I walk here as your guest now. Give me your blessing, wish me well, speed me on my way.’
And Tynisa saw, at last, something like approval in the old Mantis woman’s face, because Che had said the right thing. Just words, but words have power. Ancient compacts had been brought to light, a respect for the Mantis-kinden that the ages had not shown them – and so elegantly expressed.
‘I give you our blessing,’ the Loquae breathed, and the forest breathed with her. ‘Now go on your way.’
Twenty-Five
That morning, Major Oski turned up before his general. He was out of uniform, wearing dark, baggy clothes and with his face blacked like a comic artificer in a play.
‘General.’ The little man saluted. ‘Apologies, I’ve not had time to change.’
A horn sounded – in the last few days it had become a familiar and miserable call. It meant the Collegiate orthopters had been sighted on their way for another bombing run, under skies still grey with dawn. The Farsphex pilots and ground artillerists would be scrabbling to ready themselves, but those repeating ballistae with which the Empire had been threatening the slower enemy bombers had themselves become the prime targets, and each time the Collegiate machines flew over once again – several times a day now – the resistance offered was that much less.
Tynan kept an eye on the sky. ‘Explain.’
‘I’ve been over to look at the walls, sir,’ Oski told him. ‘Trick I learned from the Colonel-Auxillian – he always went for a look in the dark in person. Anyway, I thought I’d take a look at the closest gate, shooting arcs and the like. I’ve got a plan of attack now, if you’ll have it.’
Tynan gestured for him to continue. The first bomb fell, released too soon and impacting out in the earthworks. There was always someone too keen or too nervous, amongst the enemy. The growl of the Farsphex engines was all around them, too: Bergild’s pilots lifting into the air to do what they could. The numbers were stacked against them, though, and if they tried too hard they would find themselves shot down. Their game of feint and threat was growing more and more difficult, and most of the time Collegium could spare a score of Stormreaders to ward them off, whilst the rest got to work on the army.
And the Second Army was still spreading itself thin, but when the order came to press the actual attack, the Wasps would have to gather their soldiers, and then the bombing would begin in earnest. At this rate it seemed touch and go whether they could get close to the walls at all, given all the Collegiate artillery out there. And when they did, how long would they have to sit under bombardment before the ramparts could be taken or the wall breached?
Too long, was the thought nobody dared voice, for Captain Vrakir and his Red Watch constantly stalked through the army with their Imperial writ, just waiting for someone to express doubts about the Empress’s plans.
‘This airship,’ Tynan spat out, over the sound of the bombs.
‘Bergild and I, we calculate it’ll be in sight by late dawn tomorrow – and believe me, the Collegiates won’t miss it. That’s the other thing: Vrakir’s ordered all our fliers made ready for it – our artificers have been busy brewing up that muck that their Captain Nistic gave them the recipe for – and it’s nothing I recognize, I can tell you. Stinks, though, sir. Nobody wants a bed near where they’re boiling it.’
‘And you’re confident this will work, this scheme of theirs?’
‘No, sir.’ Oski looked profoundly unhappy,
enough so that the bomb that now impacted close enough to shake the ground beneath them barely made him flinch. ‘Sir, this is outside my profession, and I have no idea at all. But we all know we’ve got nothing else.’
‘Too true,’ Tynan agreed moodily. ‘So, tell me about the walls. What have we got left that will put a dent in them?’
‘The walls themselves? Nothing reliable unless we can undermine then and pack the tunnel with explosive. And I reckon those walls go down a way, too. The gate, I think we have a chance against if we’re left free to work. I can adapt some leadshotters as ramming engines, and they should get through it if we can bring them to bear. Other than that . . . well, the Sentinel handlers reckon that their machines might be up to it, but I’m not convinced. It’s not what they’re built for, and I just don’t know their specifications well enough.’
‘Get the ramming engines ready,’ Tynan told him. ‘Do what you can.’ Another explosion nearby left a fine mist of dirt sifting down on them.
‘I reckon we’ll receive at least one attack from their fliers overnight, if they’ve any sense,’ Oski ventured. ‘I’ll have the ground crew ready to refuel and patch up the Farsphex, once they’re down from that. Then it’s down to the chemical artificers and that stink of theirs.’
Tynan was not looking at him, nor at the wheeling orthopters, but instead somewhere off and away, towards the walls of Collegium, so that eventually Oski had to prompt him, ‘Sir?’
‘Do what you can,’ the general repeated. He looked as if he was trying on the face of his own corpse: a general faced with the choice of sending thousands of his soldiers into a catastrophic attack, or else disobeying an order. Then he gestured for one of his officers. ‘Send out messengers. The advance commences at dawn, battle order unchanged.’ Then, more thoughts spoken aloud. ‘If their fliers are likely to be occupied with this airship, even for a moment, we’ll make use of that time.’
Awkwardly, Oski backed away, and turned at a respectful distance to fly off and get his hands dirty, because some hard and absorbing engineering was just what he needed to chase the image of General Tynan’s face from his mind.
The Vekken were all within Collegiate walls now, and nobody had complained about it. That seven hundred of the city’s oldest enemy were suddenly being welcomed with open arms, and nobody – not anybody – had stood up and remarked on the fact, was perhaps the most telling sign of how the world had changed.
There had been word from Sarn, too, but nothing good. The Eighth Army was not as far advanced as the Second, but there was only so much the Sarnesh could do to slow it, and they would inevitably clash soon. With the Mantis question still unanswered, who would prevail remained anybody’s guess.
And then there’s the other aspect of the Sarnesh. Both Laszlo and Balkus had tried to corner him on the subject of Tactician Milus and the liberties he took, but Stenwold had waved them both away. After all, there was nothing he could do.
Laszlo was kicking about the city, sulking, but he would get over it. He was probably commiserating with the rest of the Tidenfree crew even now. The ship itself remained in harbour, given that the Empire had precious little way to strike at it, but the former pirates would be taking their leave soon, Stenwold knew. As for Balkus and Sperra, for all he knew, they were forming a Princep government in exile or something similarly impolitic.
Or they don’t have anywhere else to turn but to call on me. An unhappy thought, given that he had nothing for them. After the war, we can sort it all out. Although Stenwold had an uncomfortable feeling that, if Sarn decided to take control of Princep now, the Ants would not be so easily dislodged later.
The Second Army had held off, still spread out and hard to damage with bombs; also still just outside artillery range – a distance established after a few incautious Imperials came too close and Madagnus showed them the new teeth the city had. Waiting for something . . . Or perhaps Tynan was just frozen with indecision, knowing how bad his position was. But Stenwold did not believe that.
‘Maker.’
It was after dark now, but he had plenty of paperwork to keep him up, enough to fill the time until this diminutive figure slouched into his current office, still wearing grease-dirty pilot’s leathers, with a chitin helm and goggles hanging from her belt.
‘Taki,’ he nodded.
The Solarnese woman looked worn out, but then she was well known for pushing herself far further than any of the pilots who served under her. She found a footstool and sat down on it, and Stenwold poured her a bowl of wine.
She took it in both hands and sipped, wrinkling up her face. ‘Maker, back home the only way you’d find wine this bad is by pissing it out after a heavy night.’
‘It’s all I’ve got left. There’s a city-wide shortage. We’ve asked the Tseni if they could ship some in, but apparently they don’t drink it off the Atoll Coast.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘We’ve had some interrupted harvests, what with . . . everything, you know. A few years that won’t have a vintage. What did you find?’
‘Nothing,’ she told him tiredly. ‘I went up the coast, halfway to Tark, I swear. No reinforcements, nothing coming in by sea, no automotives . . . not even a supply airship. The only thing is if maybe they’ve got another twenty Farsphex coming from somewhere – and they could get here overnight. We’ve got the Great Ear listening out for their engines, if they do. But nothing yet, Stenwold.’
She tried the wine again, and forced down a throat-full. ‘Not got anything to eat, have you? I came straight here.’
‘I appreciate it.’ Stenwold had some bread and goat’s cheese left, and shoved it across his desk towards her. ‘What about their army?’
‘They’ll come for you tomorrow, I reckon,’ Taki confirmed. ‘They’re still all over the place, but by evening we could see how each detachment of them was pulling itself together, forming up. Maybe they’ll try a night attack, but I know that the Companies and the artillery are ready for that. We’ve got lights all along the wall and people watching the air, I think – and an extra guard on the gatehouse just in case. And it’s not as if they could really sneak up on us.’
‘You should get some sleep,’ Stenwold advised.
‘I should have got some sleep last night,’ she corrected. ‘Tonight we’re going to stop the Wasps getting any sleep instead.’
‘Let someone else lead the flight.’
‘I see better in the dark.’ She sagged, looking very small, almost flimsy enough to blow away. ‘Pits, maybe you’re right, at that. When I came here, you remember what the deal was? You made me a new flier, I taught at your College – Associate Mastership or whatever. Didn’t say anything about commanding your air defences and fighting wars for you.’
‘I know, we owe you a great deal and we take you for granted,’ Stenwold confirmed. ‘At the moment I can’t afford not to take for granted those people I know can be relied on.’
‘Pisspoor compliment that is,’ she muttered. ‘Anyway, not as if I can exactly go home any time soon.’ Solarno, her home city, was held between the Wasps and their Spider allies: one of the first conquests of the war. ‘Might as well be here. At least I get to fly.’
‘Seriously, though, get some sleep. Those are War Master’s orders,’ he told her gently. ‘If they’re going to march tomorrow, we’ll need you fresh.’
She was cramming bread into her mouth and just nodded vaguely, dipping it into the wine to soften it, seeming almost too tired to chew. When she found him staring at her, she met his gaze with raised eyebrows, and that irreverence, at least, was something of her usual manner.
Then there was another Fly-kinden appearing at his door, with a brisk knock. Jodry’s secretary come to fetch him to deal with some new disaster of bureaucracy. Stenwold shrugged at Taki. ‘Finish the wine, if you can stomach it,’ he suggested, and then bustled out, only hoping that Taki would actually take his advice and get some sleep.
‘What’s this?’ Bergild demanded. She had been kicked out of fitful sleep by
the complaints of her pilots that the engineers were tampering with their Farsphex. Most of her team slept beside or even inside their craft these days, what with the alarm ready to be sounded night or day. Also, many were so strung out on Chneuma that they barely slept at all. Any long period of inactivity just resulted in a sort of slack-jawed trance plagued by horrible, nightmarish daydreams, breaking into instant wake-fulness the moment the call to arms went up.
Now the engineers appeared to be set on making even their waking hours as unreal and unpleasant as possible.
‘What are you doing?’ she shouted. She had been in Oski’s tent, having been left there after nodding off in the small hours. The anticipated Collegium night attack had come and gone, but casualties had been lighter than expected. Although the Second was mustering for their attack, the enemy pilots had been put off their aim by the thick dark of cloud cover, and had wasted most of their cargo.
‘Orders,’ one of the engineers yelled over his shoulder. He was only a lieutenant and so there should have been a “sir”, but she was used to not receiving it. What she was not used to was the smell.
The engineers wore masks to exclude the worst of it, but a wide berth was already being given to her craft – and all the others, her mindlink confirmed – as a reeking mixture was slopped over every surface of the flier. It was . . . she found it hard to say just what it was like: acrid and sharp, bringing tears to the eyes, and biting at the inside of her nose.
‘Whose orders?’ she wanted to know.
‘Captain Vrakir’s,’ and then, because the lieutenant registered how close she was, and that she had her hands open and slightly directed towards him, he added, ‘Sir.’
‘It’s the new plan, sir. Captain Nistic, that came a couple days ago, he gave us the recipe for this,’ another engineer explained. ‘We’re to paint it onto every flier we’ve got. And no, we don’t know why, sir, or what it’s for. But you’ve seen how the Red Watch faces up to the general. Empress’s own words, that’s what they say.’
And what makes you think the Empress knows the first thing about air combat? Bergild reflected. What makes you think she knows the first thing about what Captain Vrakir’s doing in her name, either? But this last observation sounded hollow even in her own mind. Whenever Vrakir spoke, there was some authority leaking out in his words that she could not account for. Certainly it was true that Tynan himself listened to him, even if he was plainly unhappy about it.
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