Blood of the Mantis

Fourteen

It was more than Stenwold had expected, and it gave him more hope than he had seen in a long time. In this hall within Sarn, all the Lowlands were gathered against the storm the coming year would bring. The Sarnesh had reworked a barracks, taking out its internal walls and installing seats and a grand table for the greatest war council the Lowlands had ever seen. The men and women standing about it now showed that this had not been a wasted effort.

Stenwold himself represented Collegium. He watched the other ambassadors watching him. It seemed incredible to him, but his name was on all their lips. He was known across the entire Lowlands, as though he were some great hero of history.

This is history, he reminded himself. We make it in this very room.

The Queen of Sarn was there in person, a gesture which displayed the great faith and trust she placed in this council and in what it meant for the future. She had half a dozen of her Tacticians ranged behind her, for immediate advice, and even protection, if need be, and of course she had the whole of her city to call on if she needed more of either. Still, she had made a statement, taken a vital step. In refusing to delegate her presence, she had shown the world how much importance the Sarnesh placed on this.

There were two Mantis warlords here too, one from Etheryon and one from Nethyon, standing pointedly separate without staff or assistants. From their stance it was clear to see that they did not like one another. They were both women, and so was the slender, aging Moth who stood between them. In a move unprecedented, Dorax had sent a Skryre to Sarn for this purpose.

There was also a Tactician from Kes, with half a dozen soldier-diplomats behind him, and that was far more than Stenwold had hoped for. There had never been a Kessen ambassador in Sarn ever before. About a dozen blandly dressed Flies had come from Egel and Merro. They looked the sort to act irreverently but they were serious now. Their warrens were directly on the coastal invasion path. Beside them, Parops stood for the currently occupied city of Tark.

No one from the Felyal. Nobody from Vek either, but then the Vekken were still licking their wounds. Nobody from Helleron, although the Moth Skryre claimed to speak for her kin in Tharn.

A white-haired and bearded man, belonging to a kinden Stenwold did not immediately recognize, caught his eye. He was taking his place at the table, to the baffled looks of the other delegates. Stenwold caught at a passing Sarnesh servant and asked who this stranger was.

‘His name is Sfayot,’ the Ant reported, after a moment’s silent conference. ‘He speaks for the renegade prince.’

‘The…?’ Then Stenwold suddenly realized. Salma! Salma has sent an ambassador? What does he think he’s doing? But, then, the fact that the Sarnesh Queen had allowed it spoke volumes. Just what exactly had Salma discussed with her?

‘Feeling proud?’ a sly voice asked in his ear. He looked about and found an elegantly dressed Spider lounging beside him, eyeing up the two Mantis-kinden.

‘Teornis.’

‘Of the Aldanrael, at your service, and apparently that of the whole Lowlands.’ The Spider Lord-Martial sketched a bow. ‘Well, Master Maker, this is an impressive piece of artifice, but will it run?’

Stenwold looked about him at the faces, both familiar and strange, and then back at his own staff, consisting only of Sperra and Arianna. ‘All these people have not come here for nothing,’ he declared, and knew that he was right.

Two hours later, and he just managed to leave the room on his own feet, although, if Arianna and Sperra could physically have carried him, he might have requested it.

They had not come there for nothing at least. So far so good. They had come there, it seemed, for the snapbow. How glad he was that he had been so honest with the Sarnesh on the subject, for it seemed that everyone, even the blasted Moth-kinden, knew that Collegium had engineered one. Instead of any serious debate on the Wasp Empire, everyone had come with their demands for it, regarding who should have it and who should not.

The Sarnesh wanted it, and perhaps, as its first victims, they even had a right to it. He had known that. Of course, the Sarnesh did not want anyone else to have it. The Kessens, on the other hand, demanded that the Sarnesh should not be given access to the weapon unless they could have it too, and Stenwold could see their point. How long would Kes stand if the Sarnesh gained such a military advantage? He was so used to seeing Sarn as Collegium’s staunch ally that he must now learn to view them as an Ant-kinden city-state in their own right.

Teornis, having lounged through most of the proceedings with an amused look on his face, had then taken the opportunity to say that, if Kes got it, then shouldn’t the Spiderlands have the thing as well, whatever it was and whatever it was supposed to do? On the other hand, if the Lowlands could not agree on how to deploy this wretched machine, and yet still needed it in order to defeat the Wasps, he had suggested, mockingly, that perhaps it would best be given into the sensible hands of his people alone.

The Moth-kinden had, with a sharp word, restrained her Mantis allies from attacking Teornis across the tabletop. The Ancient League’s argument was that nobody should have the snapbow, that the Wasps, as its sole holders, should be immediately defeated, and then all plans and examples of the weapon must be destroyed. They were obviously considering what great effect the device might have, employed against their own forces afterwards. The Fly-kinden seemed divided on the subject, but one of them did have the initiative to ask whether a smaller version might be constructed. Only Parops and the white-bearded Sfayot had shown no great interest in the device, for the disposition of their forces was such that it barely mattered to them.

Of actual diplomacy, of alliance, of the war itself, precious little had been discussed. Instead Stenwold had become the anvil for all the hammers of the Lowlands, and his head was still ringing.

‘They will change their tune when spring draws close,’ Arianna assured him, ‘Then they will realize.’

‘I am not sure this council will last until spring,’ Stenwold told her. ‘If I cannot solve this, then the snapbow may turn out to be the weapon that destroys the Lowlands after all, and before the Wasps even get a chance.’

Elsewhere in Sarn, a servant waited in the Foreigner’s Quarter. He was waiting by the rail-line leading to Collegium, but not for a train. Instead, he glanced at the sky. He seemed, though was not, Sarnesh Ant-kinden, dressed in a simple servant’s tunic, therefore nobody paid him much heed.

The messenger came without a word: a fat black fly the size of his fist, meandering over the bustling crowd of locals and visitors until it caught the scent the man had dabbed on himself. It dived for him, and he caught it in his hands, to scattered admiration amongst those standing nearest. He took it away to one side.

He was no Sarnesh, or at least not quite. A half-breed, but one of the rare kind where the face was that of either one parent or the other. He could walk unsuspected amongst the Sarnesh. His given name, Lyrus, was an Ant name. He could even hear their mind-speech, but he was none of them. He was Rekef.

He held the insect long enough to pluck the tiny rolled message tied between its legs. An uncertain way of communicating, this, but his handler was only a mile outside the city walls, a short enough sprint for a well-trained animal. He let it go, and the fly blundered aimlessly about the nearest wall for a moment, before buzzing away, understanding, in some crude fashion, that its task was done.

Lyrus had been well schooled. It only took a moment to decode the message.

Lowlander alliance must be stopped soonest. Destabilize Sarn as alliance centre. Sarnesh Queen must die. Approach Avt depot for details and wherewithal.

He folded the note and went over to a Fly-kinden food vendor, feeding the paper to the charcoal flames even as he haggled over the price of a meal. He then set off for the city gates. The Avt depot was two miles south down the Collegium line, a brisk enough walk for any Ant-kinden, or even for one who just resembled them. There he would take a delivery from one of the station’s traders, and in that delivery would be included his further orders. As a servant attached to the palace, he had many duties that took him to many places. The beauty of his pretence was that no suspicion would attach to him. He was, even in the minds of his foes, a dutiful son of Sarn.

It was evening by the time Lyrus paused at the gates of Sarn, just another Sarnesh Ant coming in with a basket on his back, just another Ant doing the everyday business of the city. There were plenty of soldiers about, but they were all for keeping their eyes on the new influx of foreigners and nobody spared a second thought for Lyrus. After all, he was one of them within his mind. They addressed him as brother and he hailed them in turn, smiling derisively at them in the hidden recesses of his head. They had no idea they were deceived, and most of them could not even conceive of it.

Loyalty: it was ingrained into the Ant mind. There were always mavericks, rogues, those who could not live inside the tight lattice of orders and duty. They left or were cast out, but they never quite lost their loyalty totally. Even those who were hunted down across the Lowlands, to die in some seedy alley on the swords of their brothers, did not quite lose that tie. In the moment of their deaths, Lyrus had no doubt, they found themselves reunited with what they had given up.

But he was different: Lyrus the halfbreed and son of a halfbreed sire on a Sarnesh mother. That part of him that was not Sarnesh was so mongrel that he had never bothered to untangle his antecedents. The one thing he had known, growing up in the Empire, was that the halfbreed side of him made him automatically a slave, but the Sarnesh side of him got him cursed and whipped.

It had been easy enough, after that, to associate Sarn with all that was worst in the world. Then he had been found by the Rekef, and they had explained that he could yet serve the Empire and thus blot out the stain of his heritage. The younger Lyrus had been desperate for the chance.

He had spent seven years in Sarn since then, just being one of the locals, becoming known. He had worked patiently and tirelessly, a true Ant indeed, but all for the Rekef cause. He loved the Rekef. It was not just that they had given him a purpose, but he also loved their ingenuity, their resourcefulness. He knew that, back in the Empire, it was the Rekef Inlander they feared more, but the Outlander branch had to be twice as clever and find its tools in the most unlikely places.

He had met with his masters as instructed, outside the city. A few words had been exchanged, and a gift. As soon as he had hidden himself away in a storeroom at the palace, he took a closer look at it. It was a beautiful example of the weaponsmith’s art: dark wood bound with brass, possessing four arms of sprung steel. It was a double-strung repeating crossbow, and the finest example he had ever seen – a fit weapon for a regicide. It was Collegium-built, and that could hardly be accidental. He was to be dubbed a Collegiate assassin, then. He knew there were already tensions between Sarn and its old ally, and this was where a wedge was to be inserted.

He knew that the Queen would want to meet with the fat man from Collegium soon. That would be his moment. He would have everything ready for then.

For Lyrus, being as quick as they came, it had been easy enough to secure himself a position within the palace. Always so eager to put in extra hours, always diligent, always careful beyond even the exacting Ant-kinden standards. The overseers placed real value on him, until gradually he had the run of the place. He had even attended the Queen herself before. Really, for someone with a devious brain, and the Ant-kinden Art to link minds, it was easy to achieve anything in this city.

And, of course, he would not be alone. His masters were sending two men to assist him. Not Wasps, for no Wasp could walk the streets of Sarn undetected, but a pair of Fly-kinden killers. Lyrus knew not to rely on them. They would be merely a distraction for the guards. Here, in his own hands, was the machinery for the alliance’s destruction.

He was aware that he was not expected to survive but perhaps he could surprise his masters in that. If the business was swift enough, he might be the only witness whose story would be believed.

‘How many soldiers do you have, back in Collegium?’ Stenwold asked.

‘Twelve-hundred and seventy-four.’ Parops did not need to waste a moment thinking about it. Following the Vekken siege of Collegium, word about a renegade Tarkesh army had passed across the Lowlands and, one-by-one and squad-by-squad, Tarkesh citizens had started to come out of the woodwork. Some had managed to flee after the death of the King, as the Wasps were finalizing their hold on the city. Others had been garrisoning villages or dispatched on other assignments beyond the city walls, and therefore had not been back in time to help defend their home. A few had even been Collegium residents or students at the Great College. Parops had thus become, without ever intending it, a rallying point. Some of his men were already, in their idle mental talk, promoting him to the rank of tactician.

Twelve-hundred and seventy-four disciplined and motivated Tarkesh infantry, Stenwold considered. Of course, it would probably be more than that by now. That figure was the one that had come to Parops by the latest train from Collegium, therefore already a few days cold. It was an expensive proposition for Collegium to retain so many, but the Tarkesh were second to none as soldiers and Stenwold’s people were only now starting to levy a real army of their own. The Beetle-kinden’s numbers and equipment would be there, by spring, but not the discipline or the skill.

‘Tell me,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘will they be prepared to fight for Sarn?’

‘Well, there’s a question,’ Parops admitted. ‘And if you’d asked me whether they would fight against Sarn I’d give a quicker answer. But defending a foreign city-state…’

‘Against the Wasps? Against the people who conquered Tark?’ Stenwold pointed out.

Parops threw him an annoyed look. ‘Don’t patronize me, Master Maker. Don’t try to lead me by the nose. I know that in Collegium it’s all peace and harmony and living alongside your fellow men, but remember we are Ant-kinden. We have us and we have them, and the Sarnesh have been them longer than the Wasps have. Would your Mantis friend stand up to defend a Spider city?’

‘Yes,’ said Stenwold, surprising himself with the thought. ‘Yes, I think he would if I asked him. I’d never hear the end of it, though, and he would do it only because he sets our friendship so ruinously high. You, however, are not so bound to me, and you have your own people as your first responsibility. So if your answer is no, I will understand.’

‘My answer is that I would have to ask. We are not so very rigid as you foreigners think: it is simply that all you see is the order and the obedience. The debate between us is invisible to you. I will ask my soldiers, if you wish. So, it will come to that, will it?’

‘Sarn is the front line now,’ Stenwold confirmed. ‘Wherever else the war may come, it will come here first.’

‘And if Sarn falls… then Collegium, the Ancient League, Vek… all the way to the western coast,’ Parops agreed. ‘Hence why we’re here, and hence what you’re trying to accomplish. I understand, Master Maker, and I can promise only that I will put all this to my officers, and they will put it to their men.’

Sperra and Arianna came back just then, looking weary. They had spent most of the morning out and about in the city, Sperra waiting on the Royal Court, and Arianna gathering rumours.

‘They told me that the Queen will desire another audience,’ the Fly told Stenwold. ‘She says for you to bring the snapbow.’

Stenwold sagged. He had been standing up to talk with Parops, because that was part of the Collegiate debating style. Now he slumped into a chair. ‘I think we’re where the metal meets,’ he said.

‘I think you’re right,’ Sperra said. ‘They weren’t very polite about it either. I think they’re running out of patience with all this talk.’

‘They’re not the only ones,’ said Stenwold, but it sounded hollow. He would rather have spun it all out even further, in the hope that something would happen to rescue him from this stand-off. ‘She’s going to want to go into the next council with a snapbow in her hands, and to tell everyone that Sarn now have it, as a deal done. At that point we’ll instantly lose from half to all of our alliance.’

Parops shrugged. ‘If I were in her position, I would do the same. It is a tool she needs to defend her city-state, to counter her enemies.’

‘And after the war it will become a tool with which to attack her enemies in the Lowlands – or that is what they’re all thinking,’ Stenwold said. ‘Everyone thinks that you can just stop history…’ He looked at his hands miserably. ‘The fact is that, win or lose, the cursed thing is here. He built it, and it’s here, and the world is different for it. Worse for it, too, I’ll freely admit, but once a few have gone astray, once the Wasps lose a battle or if a thief makes off with one, then it won’t be long before everyone has engineered their own.’

‘Everyone Apt,’ Arianna pointed out. ‘Some of us wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘I thought your kin employed… people to do that sort of thing for you?’ Parops said.

‘But the Moth-kinden? And the Mantids? They’ve been trying to hold back time for five hundred years,’ she said. ‘You can imagine what they think of this.’

‘Is that what they’re saying out in the Foreigners’ Quarter?’ Stenwold asked her.

‘They’re saying all manner of things, Stenwold, but it’s a pattern I recognize. They’re saying that the Vekken are going to attack here simultaneously when the Wasps do, and that Sarn should finish Vek off for good. They’re saying that the Assembly of Collegium will fold if the Empire comes against it, and will then make a deal to betray Sarn. They’re saying that the Ancient League will try to bring back the bad old days, and then make everyone slaves of the Moths.’

‘Nothing unexpected then.’

‘It’s exactly the sort of thing we were spreading, back when…’

She did not finish the sentence, but he understood. Perhaps Parops did not know that she had been Rekef originally, but he was the only one in the room that did not.

‘So you think the Wasps are active here.’

‘It would be surprising if they weren’t,’ she said. ‘They’re no fools, after all. They’ll want to use our age-old enmities to break up this alliance, and they’ve got a lot of raw material to use. Half of the ambassadors are only here to keep eyes on their old enemies.’

‘I won’t believe that,’ Stenwold said, with more force than hope. ‘I can’t believe that. This must work. We have no other option. Everyone is thinking about what might happen after the war is won, but without an alliance we won’t win the war! How can they not see that?’

‘Because they’re Lowlanders,’ said Arianna. She went to stand behind Stenwold, putting her hands on his shoulders and kneading the tension there. ‘I hate to say it, Sten, but you Lowlanders all look out on the world with one eye closed. Even you, Sten. You look a little further, but it’s still mostly inwards. In the Spiderlands we look in all directions, see all possibilities. Our brand of politics teaches us that. Even the Empire looks outwards: it’s young, aggressive, pushing at the borders all the time. That’s why it’s here.’

‘So what are we going to do?’ he asked quietly. ‘What do I say, when the Queen of Sarn demands this wretched invention? Who do I betray?’

‘So long as it’s not me, and it’s not yourself,’ Arianna told him, ‘I trust you to make the right decision.’

A Sarnesh servant arrived then, almost on cue.

‘Master Maker,’ he announced, ‘the Queen is ready for your private audience.’

Stenwold glanced at his fellows and took up the prototype snapbow. Who do I betray? There was no answer, and yet he was running out of time to avoid that question.

‘Lead on, Master…?’ he said, because he had no idea which of the Sarnesh this servant was.

‘My name is Lyrus, Master Maker,’ the servant said cordially. ‘If you would please come with me.’