Perhaps it was that pity that gave him away, for Ostrec had never allowed any for anyone save himself.
He was almost in reach of her when he saw her eyes widen. . and abruptly Ostrec was in tatters, the falseness of his guise showing through at every edge. Seda cried out in shock and Esmail lunged forwards — one Art-edged hand extended to cut her heart out.
It was the old man that got in the way. He had that much idiocy left in him, or perhaps it was courage. Whatever the Empress had been to him, he threw his tired bones before the Assassin’s stroke, so that Esmail’s hand cut his staff in two, and then sawed into his ribs, shearing them apart, opening his chest in a sudden rush of ruptured blood. Gjegevey collapsed like a bundle of sticks, and Seda screamed in rage and grief. Esmail, trying to close those last paces of distance, was braced for the magical lash of her temper, but the flash of light he saw was something far more prosaic than that. Her sting struck him about the shoulder and side, with a searing blow that staggered and stopped him, slapping him to the ground, and he knew he had failed.
Not dead, though — not dead yet. And he was lurching up on one elbow, knowing another sting must come, and desperate to live despite it all, even as Ostrec was sloughing off him like moulting chitin. And then he opened his eyes to see her standing there, a hand thrust out to kill him, but her temper restrained by reins of iron. Her eyes were the coldest things Esmail had ever seen.
‘Show me your true face, spy,’ she spat. ‘Before you die, let me see my enemy, I command it.’
And he felt her magic take hold of him with clumsy fingers, prising and straining, so that he screamed with the pain of violation that was worse even than the burning of her sting. But in the midst of it, a little jewel of calm remained, because resisting pain, staving off torture, was part of his training, and Seda was not skilled enough to break his mask with mere force alone.
But if he did not give her something, she would simply kill him, destroy his mind by trying to unlock it. He must choose a face for her.
He almost showed her the grey skin and white eyes of a Moth. It would have been appropriate, for it would have placed blame where it was due. He had no love for the people who had been his jailers for all those years, in all but name.
But his family, his wife, his children, they were still under the shadow of the Moths. Whatever else he might wish, whatever vengeance might be his due, he could not endanger them further.
When he gave her a face, just another face that was not his own, he saw Seda recoil, but she accepted it. It was one of the few options he had that would be believed implicitly, and he put all his skill into it, presenting such a perfect and polished likeness that it would have been accepted over the real thing. He gave her the lean and elegant features of a Spider-kinden.
Tegrec was kneeling by Gjegevey’s side, but his expression showed Seda plainly that the ancient man was past any help that magic or surgery might offer. When the turncoat Wasp stood up, he was backing away, retreating from her, fear and misery running rampant across his face.
Seda stared at the assassin now revealed to her: ‘Ostrec’ had been a Spider all this time, and it made sense. It made far too much sense. Oh, she had read about the old Inapt spies and their face-changing magic, although she had never thought to encounter one. Whilst they were not an exclusively Spider elite, it was from that kinden that most of them derived. And here she was, with her armies marching alongside the Spiders, and surely she had known there would be a betrayal, a reckoning at some time. And, of course, General Roder had warned her: never trust a Spider. Everyone knew they were treacherous.
And so, after Roder’s advice, she had made provision for that. She had given special orders to Captain Vrakir, sending the man off to keep an eye on General Tynan and the Second, had she not? And, with that, a thought went out to the Red Watch, who were bound to her in blood. Vrakir would know what to do.
But as for this traitor before her, who had killed her beloved slave and who had come so close to killing her-
And Tisamon came bursting backwards into the clearing, and she realized that she had allowed herself to be distracted, perhaps fatally, for here were her other enemies.
It was a Spider girl that the revenant Mantis was duelling with, and Seda saw, with a lurch of her heart, that she was somehow managing to hold Tisamon off, landing no blows but keeping him at bay with the blurring passes of her rapier, and there, breaking away from the fight in a brief flurry of wings, to drop down ten feet behind Tisamon, was-
She froze. She had not known.
‘Thalric?’
Of course she knew that he had not died in Khanaphes, as General Brugan had tried to claim, but she had not tried to find him. She had thought that he would come back to her of his own accord. He had been her consort, after all, when she had needed one. He had shared her bed. .
And he had a hand out towards her, palm open, and she looked him in the eye and waited, but his sting never came. He was just staring at her, and she wondered how he might remember those nights spent together. She saw his jaw clench.
Somewhere beyond their collective notice, Tegrec found the very limit of his courage, and a moment later he was running for the trees, and nobody even spared him a glance.
Then she was there, the loathsome Beetle girl, dark and squat and ugly, blundering out from the trees with some ragged half-breed as her handmaiden. And, at Seda’s merest thought, Tisamon had broken from his opponent and gone for her, in a frantic attempt to rid the Empress of her most pressing problem.
Thalric kicked back into the air immediately, and his sting-shot punched the armoured revenant in the side, sending Tisamon off balance for two seconds. Long enough for the Spider woman to catch him and force him to face her. Long enough for Thalric to drop between him and his prize, defending the Beetle girl with his own life.
‘Thalric!’ Seda shouted in rage and despair, seeking out the magic with which the Beetle had bound him to herself, but unable to grasp it. How has she done this?
In a lightning rush, Tisamon disengaged and fell back towards her, putting himself between her and her enemies. Seda’s eyes found the Beetle girl’s — Cheerwell Maker’s — and the hate crackled and spat between them. And yet only one way: her own spite breaking against the girl’s placid resistance. Beetles endured, was that not what they said? Oh, she could sense that the girl had grown as a magician, just as much as she herself had, but in different directions: less suited to attack, more to defence.
And still an impasse, but Seda already knew what she could do about that. Right here, within that mound, there was as much power as she could ever want, ready for her to overwhelm the Beetle girl entirely, destroy her, destroy her followers, destroy Thalric if she so chose.
She reached out and began gathering that power, dipping into that well beneath them, drawing it out to herself as though she was hauling up an endless bolt of cloth. As Tisamon turned and readied himself, as Thalric and the Spider girl spread out, slowly stalking in, Seda stood quite still and drew it all to herself, pulling and pulling and. .
And she met resistance, and in a fury she dragged harder and harder at it, aware only that at any moment the Beetle girl would realize what she was about and step in to stop her, and so she hauled and hauled, with all the might the Khanaphir had endowed her with, and then, abruptly, there was no more resistance and, had it been a physical struggle, she would have fallen backwards like a fool. As it was, she found herself reeling, unsure what had happened, until she realized there was someone new amongst them, someone who demanded the attention of everyone. A dark figure with pale eyes and a thin smile like a razor blade.
Argastos.
And all the power she had thought she was gathering to herself was still attached to him and under his firm command, far stronger than she had thought. This was no treasure to be pillaged, but a weapon in hands that still knew how to use it, no matter how many centuries had gone by since they had possessed life.
And Argastos laughed, an
d the world fell away.
Twenty-Nine
The wall top was still firmly in Collegiate hands when Laszlo arrived, lurching through the air as he towed a heavy sack behind him. The Airborne kept striking, fighting to keep the attention of the defenders off the infantry below, but the Coldstone Company and the Mynans were holding them at bay. A scattering of surviving hornets was visible in the sky, but the blood-lust that had motivated them seemed to be waning, and more and more were simply departing, or swinging off over the city. Outside, the Sentinels continued their inexorable ramming, four of them taking it in turns, and loosing leadshot whenever they had a clear shot. That the gate had stood firm even this long was a tribute to Collegiate engineering.
Laszlo dropped down and started asking where Stenwold Maker was, but nobody seemed to know, so he worked his way along the wall, ducking away from any skirmishes, putting a knife into any Wasp that he managed a clear stab at, and occasionally loosing his cut-down snapbow or his shortbow at targets of opportunity, depending on range and inclination. The world of the wall top was an alien one to him. Not that he was a stranger to a fight: he had killed men from a ship’s rigging during a storm, and still this random, brutal chaos of a battle was enough to make him wish himself elsewhere. And where the pits has Maker got himself to?
He made a quick hop over to the next maniple of Collegiates, nearly getting himself impaled for his pains.
‘Easy! Easy! I’m just looking for Mar’Maker!’ he shouted.
‘What?’ The Spider halfbreed woman with the quick sword frowned.
Laszlo was about to clarify, when a particularly savage crashing from below stopped his words in mid-flow. He scrambled to the crenellations, looking down to see those gleaming, segmented bulks as they took rapid turn at the gate. When he looked up, something had drained from his face. ‘Oh, piss,’ he said. ‘That looks ugly.’
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ the swordswoman demanded. They were unengaged for the moment, and half of her maniple was standing at the wall’s edge, shooting down futilely at the plated machines, whilst the rest watched the skies.
‘Name’s Laszlo, M- Stenwold Maker’s friend.’
‘Antspider, officer,’ the woman introduced herself. ‘Maker went below.’ She was pointing down at the arch of the gateway. Laszlo had seen a real festering fight going on there, and Wasp soldiers were still darting down to join the fray, risking the raking shot of the Collegiates up on the rooftops. So, of course that’s where he is. Laszlo crouched for a moment: he had not imagined it would be like this. When Tomasso had sent him to find Maker with that pointless, idiotic offer, he had envisaged soldiers in neat rows and the Wasps still on the far side of the wall; a nice, orderly defence befitting Collegium sensibilities.
‘What do you want?’ the Antspider demanded of him.
‘That’s another leadshotter crew down,’ one of her people said expressionlessly.
‘Anyone got spare bolts?’ from another.
‘I came. .’ I came because Tomasso’s about to cast off and there’s a berth for Stenwold Maker if he wants it, but what a stupid thing that would be to say right now. I told the skipper Sten Maker’s no runner, but he wouldn’t listen, oh no. . ‘I’ve got something for the defence, from ship’s stores. I thought. .’ and it had seemed a grand idea, a present for the gallant defenders. Now, though. . He tugged open the sack, revealing the grenades he had taken from the Tidenfree, dated weapons from Spiderlands artificers that the ship’s crew had used when boarding actions went bad, inferior to Beetle make in all ways save that they were made for Fly-kinden hands. ‘I thought. .’ he managed, looking the Antspider in the eye and unable to articulate just what he might have thought. With desperate courage, Laszlo grabbed one and threw the little munition over the wall, aiming for the jostling Sentinels. His aim was perfect, taking it just where one plate slid over another, and at the sharp impact the weapon detonated instantly, a bright flash of fire leaving not even a fresh mark on that scarred carapace.
‘No more useless than our snapbows,’ the Antspider told him, and from below there came a catastrophic cracking sound, enough to shiver the stones beneath their feet. Then a storm of Wasp Airborne were all about them — but these had come up from below, where they had ceased disputing the ground inside the gate. Snapbow bolts darted through their number, picking some off, but they were keeping low to the wall — close enough for the Antspider to have stabbed one if she had been quick enough — denying the Student Company snapbowmen across the street an easy target.
Laszlo and most of the others risked a glimpse over the parapet, despite the sporadic snapbow shot sleeting up towards them. The Sentinels were still in motion, the barrels of those single eyes flashing fire as they cast leadshot at the gate, whilst one was now stepping backwards, almost dainty despite its size, lining itself up for what looked like a final charge.
Laszlo stared at them, watching ballista bolts and shot rock the heavy machines without harming them, seeing those leadshotter eyes blaze. His career had been a varied one, with all the resourcefulness of a pirate who has to make do with whatever’s to hand. He had seen a great many tricks tried, during his young life, and heard of many more. Most of all, he had never given up. Even as a prisoner at the bottom of the sea, surrounded by the killing ocean on all sides, he had not lost heart. It would take more than the Wasp Empire to break him.
‘Antspider, you’ve got archers? Real bowmen?’
Stenwold was out of bolts, but there were handfuls for the taking wherever he looked, in the quivers of the fallen, or just spilled onto the ground. He dropped down beside a dead Wasp soldier and, as his hands worked to strip the man of his ammunition, he considered the convenience of Collegium having inherited this weapon from the Empire in the first place. The standard for snapbow ammunition was more universal than the Helleren mint.
Elder Padstock’s voice came to him from close by — she was trying to shout her soldiers into some sort of order, but the Wasps were not cooperating. They were everywhere — each man operating on his own, striking and flying, keeping on the move, refusing to stand and fight. A couple of their giant insects remained, too, wings shattered and their chitin cracked by shot, but still scissoring their mandibles at every enemy within reach. Enough of the Imperials were getting in the way of the Vekken to ensure that the gates had barely been reinforced, just a few more girders fitted in place before the Ant-kinden had turned to defending themselves. In the close confines of the gateway, their shortswords claimed more of the enemy than the Collegiate snapbows, while the Maker’s Own soldiers resorted to swords of their own, trusting to their heavier armour to counterbalance their lesser skill.
The gates were crashing and shuddering under a solid rhythm now, like a bar of metal being hammered into shape by three smiths all at once. Ordinary rams would not have achieved so much, with their slow, patient battering. Of all the malevolent wonders of artifice this war had brought with it, only the Sentinels had endured to this bitter end.
We should have a gatehouse here, not just a square and a broad avenue, was Stenwold’s desperate thought. Even with soldiers on every rooftop, it should not be so easy to break into our city. But, of course, Collegium’s gates were primarily built to welcome in trade, with defence a distant second. Did we have time to change that, since the Vekken first attacked?
‘Through the Gate!’ Padstock was bellowing, sounding ludicrous really, but it was the war cry of Maker’s Own, and her men took it as the inspiration it was meant to be. Stenwold emptied his borrowed snapbow into the first Wasp he saw — missing even at this range, shooting too high in his fear of hitting his allies. Then another dozen Airborne had crashed into the group of soldiers beside him, and someone kicked him in the chest as he crouched there, bowling him over. He lost hold of the snapbow again and simply picked up a discarded sword, seeing Elder Padstock hack her blade into the neck of a Wasp, bludgeoning him down by main force rather than any attempt at fencing.
The next impact
on the gates thundered through the enclosed space like a grenade explosion, carrying with it the snapping of wood and the shrieking of metal wrenched beyond its capability to resist. Stenwold stood there, unused sword in hand, and his eyes registered what the gates had become. The bracing had been uprooted by the impact, a mess of jagged-ended metal that had torn into attackers and defenders alike, and the heavy shutters backing the gate had been twisted apart, revealing the abused and splintered timber beneath, with a dozen gashes of daylight already ripped in them.
The Airborne were instantly departing, and it seemed a victory, a momentary, ridiculous victory, because it would have made more sense for them to stay and try to hold the breach so that their infantry comrades could break through. But their losses, and the anticipation that the gates were about to give way, triggered something in them that had them funnelling back into the open, braving the Collegiate shot to flee back to their own lines. The Vekken and Maker’s Own were left in sole possession of the gateway.
The ravaged gates shuddered and spasmed like dying things under the Sentinels’ leadshot barrage, but still they held, doing generations of Collegiate engineers proud. The Vekken — those that were left — formed a solid shield wall backed by cross-bowmen, a tight-packed formation five men deep, and Stenwold was shouting for them to back off, because that was the previous generation’s war, which Vek — and the Ant-kinden in general — should have discarded by now. He saw a dark face look back at him — perhaps it was even Termes — but they did not shift, instead just bracing themselves and leaving space before the gate for the ram to come through.
But when it did come through, it was far more than a ram of course. The blunt prow of the Sentinel hammered home, and this time the gates parted, wood and twisted metal slamming back against the walls and the voracious machine shouldering through, its front a map of dents and scars, but its armour intact despite that. Its eye opened and the leadshotter spoke, mounted too high for the enemy facing it, but the sheer explosive sound of it staggered them all, and the ball whistled overhead to smash into the front of a building directly across the square, punching out an extra, rough-edged window.
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