Empire in Black and Gold

Twenty-one

Two lamps, turned low, lit the quartermaster’s quarters, and the quartermaster had prudently agreed to absent himself. It was only a fraction after dusk when Thalric made his entrance, and yet there they were, already waiting for him. Four of them, all Rekef, no doubt, though he only recognized the one.

‘Colonel Latvoc.’ He saluted, which was something he had not needed to do for some time. The greying Wasp-kinden, dressed in loose and nondescript civilian clothes, gestured for him to find a seat.

‘Major Thalric,’ he said, his face giving no hints, ‘this is Lieutenant-Auxillian Odyssa.’ His moving finger picked out a Spider woman lounging against a sack of dates, which she pillaged occasionally. ‘And Lieutenant te Berro,’ the Fly-kinden who had summoned him. The Rekef, particularly the Rekef Outlander, made much use of foreign recruits. Their promotion prospects were limited.

The fourth man was a Wasp, thin faced and patient looking. He watched Thalric carefully. The fact that he had neither been named nor referred to was not lost on Thalric.

‘You seem nervous, Major,’ said Latvoc.

‘Not at all, sir.’ Thalric sat down, feeling his heart stutter. He was sure that his veneer of calm was fooling nobody.

‘Very well, in accordance with our charter I declare that we, in this room, are the Rekef presence in Asta, and that our decisions made here shall bind the Empire, and be for the Emperor.’ The formality brushed aside, the old man smiled. ‘We have a problem, Major, that you can help us with.’

‘Of course, sir.’ And is it me, this problem? He had seen what happened when the Rekef got its sting into someone. There was no mercy or kindness. He had himself been its agent, and he had known Rekef officers to fall from grace in the past. The Rekef watched the Empire and the army, and the Rekef also watched the Rekef.

But I have done nothing! And he knew it would not matter.

‘You are familiar with a Colonel Ulther, are you not?’ Latvoc had let him stew for long enough, it seemed.

‘Colonel Ulther? I knew a Major Ulther, some years ago, sir.’

‘The very man. You knew him well, did you not?’

‘He was my commanding officer. In the regular army, that is.’ Thalric’s first promotion: it had been in Myna, after the taking of the city, and it had been just before the Rekef had decided he would best serve the Empire from within their cloak of secrecy. ‘I haven’t seen him for some years, but I would say that I knew him well. I heard that he had governance of Myna some while back.’

‘Just so, in which position he remains.’ Latvoc looked over to the Spider, Odyssa, who took up the thread.

‘Would you say that you respected Ulther, Major?’ she asked.

‘Yes, when I knew him.’

‘Did you like him?’ He felt her Art at the edges of his mind, trying to draw him out, seeking weakness.

‘I respected him. As an officer. This was years ago and-’

‘That is understood, Major. When you were raised to the Rekef, you did not note any concerns about him?’

‘I had no concerns.’ He felt a sheen of sweat start on his forehead. Something had gone wrong with Ulther, apparently. What remained to be seen was whether someone had decided that his, Thalric’s, time in the Rekef’s favour was over, and was using his past association to hammer in the spike.

‘There will be war with the Lowlander cities soon,’ said Latvoc slowly. ‘This is not news to you, I am sure. You have been faithfully ensuring that the path to victory for the armies of the Empire will be as smooth as possible.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It has come to the attention of the Rekef that others are not so dedicated to their duty,’ Latvoc explained.

Odyssa glanced at Latvoc, and then at the unnamed, silent man, who nodded ever so slightly. Thalric found that he was flexing his fingers as if freeing his palms for battle, and forced himself to relax.

‘We have received some reports from agents in Myna that the governance of that city is subject to certain irregularities,’ said Latvoc. ‘Supplies and manufacture that is required for the Lowlands campaign is slow in coming and short in measure. It may seem trivial, and no doubt to the perpetrators it is intended to seem so, but an army cannot march without rations, cannot fight without weapons. Small acts mount up and become large ones, so an army that should have been in readiness at Asta is behind schedule, missing everything from boots to hard tack to spare parts for the fliers.’

He seemed to be waiting for Thalric to comment, but Thalric had nothing to say, was waiting still for the catch.

‘When a man is appointed a governor of a city by the Emperor, Major Thalric,’ Latvoc continued at last, ‘he is put into a position of responsibility and power beyond even that of an army general. It has been known for such power to turn an officer’s head. There is a temptation to consider those resources, the money and the goods that the Empire requests of him, and to hold them back and stint us with excuses. Such things are known, and it is unfortunate that Colonel Ulther has now become the target of some of these rumours. Do you understand me?’

‘I understand you, sir,’ said Thalric wearily.

‘Although you are technically Rekef Outlander,’ and there was a slight admonition there in him appearing to be content with the lesser wing of the service, ‘your past association makes you the obvious man for us to send. Lieutenant Aagen of the Engineering Corps is heading to Myna to collect supplies in the morning. You will go with him, investigate the situation with your old friend Ulther. Take what action you feel appropriate. Resolve matters. Report to us.’

Thalric permitted himself a breath.

‘Any questions, Major?’

‘I have two prisoners. I had hoped to interrogate them here.’

‘Aagen is already transporting livestock. Take them with you, if you must. The facilities in Myna are superior. You could give that to Ulther as the reason for your presence. Any further questions?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Dismissed.’

Thalric stood, saluted, and left. It was a good twenty yards before he permitted himself to relax, and even then the thought remained. Not this time. Maybe next time. Or the time after that. He had never scrupled about taking the Rekef’s reputation by the hilt and using it. He never put that weapon down, though, without knowing that, the next time it was raised, it could be at his own throat.

Why do I do this? The question surprised him, because he already knew the answer. He loved the Empire. Still, inside his head, where even the Rekef could not catch a treasonous thought, he wondered what sort of Empire they were building, where even the watchmen must fear being watched.

It was not yet dawn when the voices came from above them. Asta had an uncompromising system for the keeping of slaves. Che and Salma, along with some dozen others, were confined in a sheer-sided circular pit. Salma and any others who looked as though they might take to the air were hobbled, chains drawing their elbows tightly behind their backs. They had not bothered with Che, so she had spent much of the night trying to free him, with no more success than she would have had flying out of the pit herself.

If only I had concentrated more, dreamed less. That Art still escaped her and, besides, Beetles were poor fliers and everyone knew it. And now it was too late.

The first voice she heard from above was Thalric’s. She had listened to him talking long enough to know it. ‘Attention!’ it called, then, ‘And is this Aagen of Dinas I see before me.’

‘Spit me, but it’s Captain Thalric,’ said another voice, a Wasp with more of an accent than Thalric himself. ‘Well, that’s a five-year spell of good luck broken.’

‘Lieutenant Aagen of the Engineering Corps, I see,’ came Thalric’s unseen voice. All of the slaves were awake now, but only she and Salma seemed to be really listening.

‘Battlefield promotion during the Maynes rebellion. What can I do for you, Captain?’ asked the faceless Aagen.

‘You’re setting off for Myna?’

‘Soon as it’s light. You could build a whole new automotive out of the parts I’m missing here. I’m going to take my rank badge and shove it in people’s faces back at the depot until I’m happy.’ Despite the accent and the context, this was so like one of the College artificers speaking that Che felt dizzy.

‘Good,’ said Thalric. ‘Are you heading there with an empty hold?’

‘No waste in this man’s army, Captain. Got a special delivery to make. I hear you might want in on that.’

‘And two prisoners. You’re set up to carry prisoners?’

‘I’m carrying prisoners already. One prisoner, anyway.’

The noises from above now sounded like men moving large crates. There had been a ragbag of automotives up above, as the slaves were being housed, so Che guessed they were loading one of them prior to Thalric’s mooted journey. That she and Salma would be unwilling travelling companions of the man seemed overwhelmingly likely.

Thalric had been silent a moment, and now he asked, ‘Just one prisoner? I thought they didn’t waste space in your army, Lieutenant?’

‘Don’t make the rules, Captain, just follow the orders. Special delivery, like I said.’

The artificial lights of the workmen above had given a little definition to their prison pit’s mouth, but now Che saw that there was a growing greyness there. Dawn failed to enliven her. Her very recent life had made her long for the rest that night brought. At least in dreams she was not chained.

There was a shape silhouetted up there, cutting into the rim: a head looking down. When it spoke, she picked it as Thalric.

‘Clear for the hoist,’ he called down, and ducked out of the way as a wooden platform was winched across and began descending on them at some speed. There was a scatter of limbs withdrawn and bodies moved, and then the lift touched bottom.

‘Cheerwell Maker and Salme Dien,’ Thalric called. ‘And don’t make me go down and fetch you.’

Salma exchanged glances with Che. ‘Later,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll have our chance.’

She shrugged and wasn’t sure she believed him.

They had to cling together on the platform, or rather, she had to cling to him as his arms were pinioned. The chance of escape remained conspicuously absent, too. The field above, of which the slave pits formed only one edge, was a bustle of activity. The Wasps rose early.

Salma started, and she followed his gaze across the field to see a ripple of halted motion as working Wasps paused to gawp. A figure was now being led towards them, and Che identified it as the Butterfly-kinden, Grief in Chains.

‘So that’s your special delivery, is it?’ Thalric asked her handler as they approached.

‘None other,’ said the man leading her, who must be Aagen, from the voice. ‘They told me she should get the hold all to herself, but your orders are over any other, Captain.’

Thalric clapped him on the shoulder, which surprised Che. It was such a casual, human gesture from this harsh man.

Grief in Chains was not pinned like Salma, but there was a collar at her throat for the slender chain in Aagen’s hand. The Wasp artificer went to a vehicle nearby and was unlatching a hatch at the back. This machine was a squat, ugly-looking thing, large and brick-shaped, entwined with the swept funnels of a steam engine. It had a pair of propellers at the rear, and one huge prop underneath, only inches from the ground, almost clipping against its four stumpy feet. Che found it incredible that anyone would inflict such an ugly thing on the air.

The space within would clearly provide more room than they had been allowed for some time. Grief in Chains stepped in first, for all the world like a Spider-kinden princess escorted to her carriage, and then Aagen secured her chain to a ring on the interior.

‘Good job you’re coming with us, really,’ said the artificer. ‘If it were just me and the stoker alone with her, who knows? She’s quite a piece of work, isn’t she?’

Thalric looked unmoved, or at least affected to be. At a signal from him, Che and Salma were bundled inside. The Wasp looked at them critically: the bound Dragonfly, the awkward-looking Beetle.

‘Chain them anyway,’ he told the soldiers. ‘Necks to the wall, like the woman. I’m not a man for gambling.’

‘Will you look at that,’ Stenwold breathed, peering through his telescope. He had known, he should have known, what he would see here, but it still shocked and frightened him. All these years he had been preaching it, and now here was proof, but how much he would rather have been wrong.

‘Is that Asta?’ asked Tisamon, hunching over his shoulder.

‘If they still call it that.’

‘What’s Asta?’ Tynisa asked. Beside her, Totho stirred in his sleep. He had been working on the automotive the whole night through.

Tisamon went instantly quiet, and Stenwold sighed inwardly. To his knowledge neither of them had even tried to reach out to the other. Such reticence, at least, Tynisa had inherited from her father.

‘When we passed through here last, this was a tiny village, little more than a caravan stopover point. It was fairly cosmopolitan, more Beetle-kinden than anything else, though the name’s from the Scorpion. There’s an oasis there, you see. Northernmost one of the Dryclaw. Now. . well, just look at it.’

They were now at the very bounds of the Lowlands. Whilst to the south and the west the Lowland world was bounded by sea, and to the north by the great landslip of the Barrier Ridge, the eastern edge of its expansion had been checked by the desert. The great barren waste of the Dryclaw stretched for hundreds of miles, and there were only two ways round. South of the desert lay the narrow coastal Silk Road that led to the Spiderlands, and north. . well, north was here.

Passage north of the Dryclaw was never easy, but it had been easier in the past. The land had left its people only two roads. One led south of the Tornos mountains and north of the Darakyon Forest, a rocky and unappealing path of steps and leaps. The other ran south of the forest, where the land turned from wood to scrub, from scrub to desert, and here was Asta, this little caravanning town, the oasis.

Except that Asta was no longer little, nor was it trade that drove so much traffic between it and the eastern world. The original mud-brick buildings of the village were now surrounded by a great host of sheds and long, low halls, all with the appearance of having been hastily constructed. Beyond them extended a veritable tent city and all of it was rendered in black and gold. The Wasps had come to Asta and it was no longer a village. It was a staging post.

‘This is an invasion in the making,’ muttered Stenwold. If only the old men of the Assembly were here with me now! If they could see this then how could they doubt me? He was suddenly afraid for his home city, for poor blind Collegium with all its flaws. Would realization come to the Assemblers only when the Wasps were at their walls?

He silently watched the automotives and pack trains coming in, the dash back and forth of the flying sentries, and the thunder of the orthopters, the drilling squads of soldiers. Even for the Imperial Army there was a huge concentration of troops down there.

‘How are we going to find them, in all of that?’ Tynisa asked.

‘Nightfall,’ said Tisamon. ‘I’ll go.’

‘You’re sure?’ Stenwold asked.

The Mantis nodded. ‘In the meantime we have another problem. Any closer and they’ll see us. Especially in this device.’

‘We’ll leave it here for now,’ Stenwold confirmed. ‘We can use the cover of the trees to get closer.’

He sensed a sudden change in mood behind him. Craning back to look, he saw that Tisamon was shaking his head slowly. ‘You forget,’ the Mantis said, ‘this is the Darakyon.’

‘Oh, not this again-’

‘It is not a place that we should go,’ Tisamon said implacably. ‘Any of us.’

‘I told you,’ Achaeos had been silent all day, hunched in the rear of the automotive with his hood up. Now he pushed it back, eyes narrowing in the sunlight. ‘My people know more of this than any of you, and they do not venture into the Darakyon without good cause.’

‘That’s because your people are superstitious,’ Tynisa told him. ‘It’s just a forest.’

Tisamon did not look at her. ‘My people once claimed the Darakyon: a hold of we Mantis-kinden. No longer. Now no man may live there, and only fools travel its paths unprepared. You are all unprepared.’

‘What. . what happened?’ she asked him, but he just shook his head, still turned away from her.

‘Don’t just-’ she started, but there was a sudden light touch on her arm. Achaeos’s expression had lost some of its aloof distance.

‘Crimes were done there,’ the Moth said, ‘by my people and his, together. After the revolution, when we feared to further lose our waning power. More than that is a secret held only by the Skryres, who know and see all. But this is known: those who did these terrible things, they have not left. They are still there and they do not receive visitors well. Why do you think the Mantis-kinden will not live here any more? Why do you think the Wasps or the Beetles have not already felled these trees for their furnaces? Time has been stilled within these trees for five hundred years.’

‘I. .’ Tynisa wanted to mock him, but he so clearly believed what he said, and she could tell that Tisamon did as well. ‘This is ridiculous.’ She contented herself with that.

In the end, they made a compromise by clinging to the very forest edge. Even here the shadows lay heavily on them. Totho seemed oblivious to it all, but Stenwold cast a few anxious glances about him as it grew dark. Tynisa remembered his dealings with Dr Nicrephos in Collegium, and guessed that he was a Beetle of unusual experience.

They set the lowest of low fires, embers stoked merely to blunt the chill that seemed to hang about them. As the night approached, while the trees behind them seemed to draw the darkness to themselves like a mother summoning her children, Tisamon stood up.

‘Don’t take any risks you don’t have to,’ Stenwold warned him. ‘That’s not a town, it’s a military camp and they’re going to be watching.’

‘Don’t lecture me, O historian,’ said Tisamon, and Tynisa guessed he was eager for his skills to be put to use again.

‘I’m going with him,’ she told Stenwold.

A chill descended between the two older men.

‘I don’t think that’s wise-’ started Stenwold, but she folded her arms.

‘It’s my sister we’re going to find, near enough. She’s not even going to know who. . who this man is, so I’m going.’

Stenwold grimaced, glancing at Tisamon, whose shadowed face was unreadable. Then, after a moment, the Mantis nodded curtly. No words, no encouragement, but at least that. A moment later he was gone, buckling his claw gauntlet to his arm. Tynisa took one more look at Stenwold, who was looking unhappier than ever, and then followed him into the gathering dark.

‘Well. .’ he began, and had nothing to follow it with.

‘I’m sure that. . Tynisa can look after herself,’ Totho said awkwardly.

‘I just feel there’s an explosion waiting between those two. I didn’t ever want to leave them alone.’

‘She’s right about. . well, if the first thing Che saw was your man there. . He’s not exactly. .’

Stenwold conceded the point. ‘It’s an imperfect world.’ A moment later he frowned. ‘Where’s Achaeos?’

For the Moth had vanished.

Sitting with them in the shadow of those trees had taken courage he had not known he possessed. It had been the fat Beetle and the grease-fingered Totho that had been the spur. They had made their little camp, as happy as anything, and even Tynisa had joined in and had not cared. She was Spider-kinden and she should know better. It pained him to see how they had blinded her by bringing her up amongst the Beetles.

Oh, Tisamon knew, of course. This place must stir up more dread in Tisamon than even Achaeos could imagine. It was the cautionary story that Mantis fathers raised their children on — warning of the price of hubris, that ancient corruption. His hands twitched instinctively for his bones, but they were gone. He felt as though he had lost a sense.

Now the Mantis and the Spider girl had gone off, a ridiculous pairing, into the camp below to find Cheerwell Maker. So let them find her, and let this be over with. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Prepare, magician, he addressed himself. It was a title he had scant right to. He had never been a great champion of the lore of his own people. He knew enough of it, though, and it struck him now that if that same lore could do nothing to find Che, then the Beetles’ scepticism might as well be justified.

I am a seer of Tharn, he told himself. So let me see. Away from the fire again, and yet not deeper into those appalling trees, he felt about for the strands of the world around him. He had touched Che. She even had his blood on her hands from the wound she had healed. There was a cord that ran between them — oh was there not! The cord that would not let him walk away.

His awareness cringed from the tangled mass that rose behind him, but the Darakyon seemed quiet at least. The ancient wrongs that had been poured into the place were sleeping.

There was a host of thousands of souls in Asta, but they were chaff. They were Wasps or the slaves of Wasps. Here and there was a spark of quality, some luckless scion of an elder race held in imperial servitude. If he had wished he could have found Tisamon and Tynisa easily enough, just by their heritage: Moths, Spiders and Mantids, the ancient rulers of the world.

Che had no such Inapt heritage, but he felt for the cord that must have tied his fate to hers, through her ministrations — linked through more than that? He stamped on such thoughts. He reached out towards the makeshift town of Asta, the grey deadness of its machines, the legion of sleeping soldiers and slavers and artificers. Che!

His powers were weaker even than he had thought. To find an acquaintance was surely not beyond them, not when he was as close as this. Was it all those machines that were confusing his magic? Or was he really such a poor seer after all and a burden on his people? He hunted, but there was no trail, not the faintest mark to lead him to her.

His heart lurched. What is the first mark of the fool? his people asked, and the stock answer came back, That he listens to fools. So it was that fools clustered together to make their plots and their machines, and so it was that Achaeos had been drawn into fools’ company. Stenwold says they have taken her to Asta, but she is not there. Tisamon will waste his stealth, while we all waste our time. The answer brought a rush of relief to him, that at least his powers were not so atrophied — and then another of despair. So she is further, further than I can reach her, and I shall not be free.

As he stood and made to return to the fire, he felt the Darakyon at his back flex and stretch and come awake.

Oh we should not be here! and he hurried back towards the fire, and saw that he was not the only one.

‘Maker! Halfbreed!’ he called out. But he saw them already springing up from the fire and both reaching for their weapons. ‘Get away from the fire, you fools!’ Achaeos yelled sharply, and they blundered towards his voice, in the darkness that blinded them and was nothing to a Moth’s sight. It was so clear to him: the trees and the buckled land, the fire and his two clumsy allies. Clear, too, the Wasp soldiers who had been silently approaching, drawn to the dim glow of the embers.

Stenwold and Totho were already into the pitch dark between the trees before the Wasps reached their fire. One of the intruders unshuttered a lantern instantly and cast the beam across the forest, till the others shouted at him to put it out. There were a half-dozen of them, Achaeos saw. One was kneeling to study the surrounding ground in the firelight. He heard, ‘I told you I saw a fire out here,’ and, ‘Smugglers, you reckon?’

‘Further into the woods,’ Stenwold murmured, ‘but quietly.’

‘No, not further into the woods. .’ Achaeos began, but Stenwold and Totho were already retreating deeper into the Darakyon. All around them Achaeos felt the forest stir, not the trees themselves, but the blood that had been spilt there, the pain and terror of those who had died. He felt his breathing ragged, his heart racing. The Wasps were following after, though, creeping forward as silently as they could, listening for the crack of twigs.

‘Lantern now, then, and rush them!’ one whispered.

‘Fall back!’ Stenwold hissed, and they were ploughing deeper, running and stumbling away from the sudden light of the Wasps.

The light passed across Achaeos, the sharp beam of the lantern. There was a shout, and a sting crackled out, flashing fire past him. He fled, almost sobbing with the sense of the Darakyon stirring all around, and the Wasps gave chase with a savage cry.

He could see Stenwold and Totho ahead of him, staggering like blind men through a landscape Achaeos could see perfectly. He tried to catch them up. It should have been simple.

Achaeos tripped. Those vines had not been there a moment before. He staggered on, the Wasps shouting behind him, letting loose their stings and crossbow bolts. The dense, thorny undergrowth seemed always in his way. He tried to push through it, but it raked at his hands, tore his sleeves. He turned aside, searching for another way round. Stenwold and Totho were further off now, and he realized that their path was curving back towards the forest’s edge whilst his own was only going deeper.

I woke it up. I caught its attention. A horrible sense of inevitability had caught him. Better to be killed by the Wasps. But it was too late to make that choice. The trees around him were vast and twisted, their bark creased and stretched tight about their bulging trunks. There were thorns and briars everywhere, whole nests of them. Wherever he turned, only the path leading into the centre of the wood seemed clear.

He heard a scream behind him, and he stopped running. He did not want to turn round, but something, some morbid curiosity, drew him to do it. There was enough of the forest to obscure his view, but the Wasps’ voices were now rising in panic, in horror. He heard, ‘What is it?’ and ‘Kill it! Kill it before-’ For just a moment he saw a shape, one that was not quite insect, or human, or plant, but possessed thorn-studded killing arms that rose and fell with lethal speed.

Then there was quiet, and he thought of all the blood that was soaking into the soil of the Darakyon, and he closed his dark-seeing eyes and just waited.

And the Darakyon waited, and when he opened his eyes there was no monster, no terrifying chimaera rising before him. There was a darkness, though, between the trees, that his eyes could not penetrate. There were shadows, and the shadows were shapes, and once he had understood that, he did his best not to look at them.

‘What do you want with me?’ he asked, his voice little more than a rattle in his throat, and still they waited, until he realized that whatever it was was posing the same question to him. He had been so bold as to catch its notice, and it wanted to know why.

Nobody has spoken with the Darakyon for a hundred years.

His people forbad it, and for good reason. Time and dark deeds had clawed away at this place, festering in it for centuries.

There was a thought that was coming to him now, because he was standing, alive, in this ever-dying place, and it was waiting for his words. Nobody has spoken with the Darakyon for a hundred years, so what do they know — what do they really know — about what this place might do? The tales of his people regarding this place were all horrors to scare the children with, but the one thing they agreed on was that the Darakyon was strong.

I came here for a purpose. It was while looking for Che that I felt the forest awake. I am a weak seer, unequal to the task of finding her, but I am standing at the heart of the greatest magic I have ever known.

The night had lost its reality. He was outside time, outside all rules. In that moment he felt that he could accomplish anything, that he could overcome the losses of his race and turn back the revolution. and who knew what else?

‘Give me your power,’ he told the trees. ‘Loan me your power this night.’ And he reached forth to take it.

And the Darakyon answered him back, Who asks? in a voice that was like a dry chorus of a hundred voices. He could not tell whether it came from the trees themselves or from between them, but the sound of it froze him. A voice like dry leaves and the dead husks of things, and the passage of five hundred years.

Who would draw upon what we have hoarded? gusted the voice of the Darakyon, and Achaeos could barely speak. His breath plumed in the air, as the temperature plummeted instantly away. His great pride, that a moment ago had seemed to hold the world in its palm, had withered within him, like leaves when the winter comes.

‘I am Achaeos, a seer of the ancient paths of-’ he stuttered out.

Hist! You are no more than a neophyte. What could persuade us to lend you our strength?

He fought in vain to summon an answer, and then they said, What could save you from us?

‘I am a seer. .’ he tried again, but there was laughter now, and it was worse than the voice itself had been.

None would miss you. You are a stray leaf fallen far from your tree, little neophyte.

He felt himself trembling from fear and cold both. His arms were still outstretched, but the power beyond his fingertips was so vast and so other that he could no more compel it than he could command the sun.

Do you think the bearer of the sign can still ward you from us, you who have conjured us into wakefulness and come into our heart?

‘No. .’ He choked, his fear was so high in his throat that he could barely speak. ‘I only sought. . I was only trying to find. .’

Did you think these sacrifices would glut us in blood, little Neophyte?

Sacrifices? ‘The Wasps. . Yes, they are yours,’ he stammered out. A dry crackle of laughter echoed around him.

And the other two, who now stumble within our borders, seeking a way out? The two slaves — are they also ours?

It was a moment before Achaeos understood, and when he did the temptation was painful. Buy the Darakyon with the blood of Stenwold and Totho, a Beetle and a half-breed? If it were only that ill-favoured creature Totho. . but Stenwold was her family. More, Stenwold was the only one who could control the Mantis, and the Mantis surely would know.

‘They are not for you!’ he choked out, and that rustling laughter came again.

Such demands you make, who have so little power to stop us. Such dictation of what we may and may not do. What will you buy their lives with, little Neophyte? What entreaties have you for us?

He felt his stomach lurch at this abrupt change of direction. ‘I just wanted to. . to find her.’ It sounded pitiful, even to him.

We shall see what you would do.

The shapes between the trees shifted, and something infinitely cold seared through the inside of his head from front to back, hissing like acid. His mouth snapped open, unable even to scream. Bent backwards, choking, he fell to the ground, his limbs pulled in, every joint locked.

And then it was gone, and he was left gasping, shuddering, lying on his side amongst the tangled roots of the Darakyon.

You are pathetic, the phantom voice told him. You will not even own to why you seek what you seek. But we have seen. We have seen all, and the pain that you will suffer for the road you take. We cannot be commanded to lend you our power.

Achaeos lay and trembled, crouched into a ball, and waited for the axe to fall.

But we have seen through you, little neophyte. The shapes between the trees were more distinct now, though he knew that he did not wish to see them clearly. You show spirit, and we have always valued spirit, courage. Always.

In that last word, lingering over it, there was contained a window opening onto a centuries-old loss, a betrayal, the end of an era. He remembered how the Mantis-kinden had dwelled here and that, although they lived here no longer, yet they were not gone.

We cannot be compelled, by you or your betters, little neophyte, but we shall lend you what you ask. This forges a debt between us. We shall remember it.

He opened his mouth to protest that he did not want their gifts, but it was too late. He had asked and he was given what he asked for. The cold that before had shrieked in his skull now hammered into his chest, infused him. He keened with it, burned with it. It shattered its way into him.

He had so little time. On his back, in the bowels of that terrible place, he called out, not with his own voice, but with the vicarious power that filled him.

Cheerwell!