Heirs of the Blade

Thirty-Seven

‘Pride of the Sixth,’ pronounced Lowre Cean carefully. ‘Oh, yes, I remember that.’

‘You were at Masaki, sir?’ Varmen asked him, sipping at the kadith the old man had poured. They were sitting, not in some formal audience hall, but in a little wood-carving workshop, with curls of sawdust underfoot and, on shelves to either side, ranks of miniature figures that the prince himself had whittled: peasants, craftsmen, dancers, all compact and stylized and yet bursting with frozen energy.

‘Some way from the front lines,’ Cean admitted. ‘My son led the charge.’ He was watching the Wasp-kinden carefully. ‘And you were not there?’

Varmen only nodded.

‘Of course you were not. The Imperial Sentinels never run. They fight to the last. Can’t run, in all that armour, I’d imagine. But Darien, my son, told me how the centre held, even when all the rest, all the Light Airborne and artificers and support and the like, had been blown aside. They stood and fought to the last man.’

The Wasp grunted. ‘They’d sent some of us off after some scouts that got holed up. We fought, as well. Pair of your nobles tried to flush us out, over and over. We heard from them that the Sixth had gone.’

‘I recall hearing about that,’ Cean acknowledged. ‘You must have been relieved by the Seventh, I think?’

‘The Second, sir – the Gears, General Tynan’s command. And wasn’t that just a joy for us, to be beholden to them? Almost as bad as fighting with the Seventh at Malkan’s Stand. That time, I didn’t miss the action. Most everyone else of the heavies died. I sometimes think

…’ Abruptly he decided that he had said too much. The old man’s mild voice had led him into letting his guard down, and now he stood up rebelliously, feeling tricked and trapped. ‘Why have you even let me in here? What if I killed you? We’re enemies, after all.’

‘Once,’ Cean admitted. He had not moved or reacted, save to look up. ‘But now, years later, we have more in common than you might think. We were both there, after all, and although your army won, perhaps you have more right to hate me, as a commander, than I do to hate you, being just a soldier. Would casting you out of my house bring back a single dead man or woman from the war? Would killing me with your sting redeem the fallen Sixth? We are united, Sergeant, by the memories of our dead. That is something we share. You ask me why I let you in, and I ask you why did you come here?’

‘Avoiding the crazy Spider-kinden girl,’ Varmen explained, but Cean was shaking his head.

‘I meant here to the Commonweal. Here to revisit your past and your losses?’

Varmen stared at him stubbornly, but sat back down. ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time.’

Cean poured more kadith, watching him with slightly raised eyebrows, but saying nothing.

‘Should have died at Masaki, I reckon, sometimes,’ Varmen added unwillingly. ‘You know how that feels, that one blind bit of chance takes you out of the way of the axe?’ Seeing Cean nodding, he went on, ‘And at Malkan’s Stand, I nearly did. Got a snapbow bolt through me, armour and all. Should have died there, too. After that, the army had no use for me – the Sentinels were being recalled. No point in all that armour if it couldn’t stop the shot. They just cut me off, like I was an embarrassment for surviving. A freak. I kicked about in Helleron some, but I used to dream of the Commonweal, of the Sixth as it used to be, before that useless tinkerer Praeter got put in charge. I used to dream of being holed up with them scouts, and… there was a girl, can’t even remember her name now. One of your lot, nice voice. I ended up going one on one with her, because I had to buy time for my men. I dream of that a lot. Seemed like my life went downhill from there, really. Now doesn’t that sound stupid, eh?’

Cean regarded him solemnly. ‘To a Wasp, perhaps, but my own kinden would understand. Mantis-kinden, too. There is a time for all things, especially for people. You and I, our time was then – that year, that month, at the height of our powers. We have neither of us ever been quite who we were then, do you not think?’

Varmen regarded him bleakly, but at last he nodded tiredly. ‘Reckon you’ve got the right of it, sir.’

‘We lost our purpose, after that. No matter that the war still had a few years left to run, our great work was done, and all we had left was to preside over our decline in the face of progress. It is a terrible thing to outlive one’s destiny.’

‘I don’t believe in destiny,’ Varmen said automatically, and then, ‘but, yes.’

‘You won’t believe in guiding spirits, either,’ Lowre Cean decided, ‘but in the Commonweal it can happen that a man whose destiny has passed him by may yet find a way to make something of himself. He may find himself taking strange paths, in order to seek out that elusive sense of purpose. Such as a Wasp coming to the Commonweal, perhaps? Who knows?’

‘Is that so?’ Varmen shrugged.

‘You’re heading back to Leose, of course?’

‘No chance. Won’t let us through the doors of that place.’

Lowre Cean sighed. ‘Prince Felipe Shah, my old comrade and friend, has asked me to look after the girl, Tynisa Maker. He believes he owes her a great debt. He also believes that she is travelling into darkness: that she is being led into it. I’m no fortune-teller myself, but he seems to think that she will need friends, and even a poor old man such as myself can sense that there is a storm brewing at Leose. So I think you should gather up your fellows and return there as swiftly as possible.’

‘I owe the girl nothing,’ Varmen challenged. ‘Why should I?’

‘Her name was Felipe Daless,’ declared Lowre Cean, looking the Wasp right in the eye. ‘She was Felipe Shah’s daughter.’

Varmen could only stare at him. ‘What did you…? How could you even…?’

‘I could baffle you with talk of mind-reading and magic now, could I not, Sergeant? But it was as simple as this: I knew her, and she told me of a duel with a Wasp Sentinel – of how you held her and her people off until more soldiers came to your rescue. It must have been you, for I doubt such events happened twice during all the war. And here you are – and no doubt you’ll say you were drawn here by blind coincidence.’

Varmen’s expression had become very fixed.

‘She bore you no ill will. I even think she respected you,’ Cean continued. ‘The duel of champions is a proud Commonwealer tradition, after all, and she had not expected it in an Imperial.’

Still Varmen said nothing, but Lowre Cean waited for him to conquer his internal demons to finally ask, ‘What happened to her?’

The old man’s smile was sad. ‘She died, of course. Just one more casualty of the war.’ He did not say, your people’s war, nor did his gaze accuse. His expression suggested, instead, that they all of them were victims of the same vast and unthinking tormentor. ‘I envy you your unbelief, Sergeant, for I do believe in fate, and I have seen enough of its workings to know that it does not have our best interests at heart. Will you help the girl, Tynisa Maker?’

‘Did he know?’ Varmen asked hoarsely. ‘I spoke with the man… with your Prince Felipe. Did he know?’

‘I would not be at all surprised,’ Lowre Cean stated.

‘Bastard,’ said Varmen vaguely, and then, ‘And yes. Yes, I will.’

But when Tynisa returned to Leose, Alain was gone, and instead she found herself summoned to meet Salme Elass. The princess received her in the same formal room as when she had first recruited Tynisa to her cause, where servants set out kadith and sweet cakes for them, everything in elaborate order. Elass finished writing something on a scroll laid out before her, her calligraphy elegant and unhurried, whilst Tynisa fidgeted and shuffled.

‘I have need of you, you must be aware.’ The scroll was finished with, apparently, for Elass handed it to a new servant whilst yet another bore away the pen and ink.

Tynisa said nothing, which the princess apparently took for acceptance.

‘When I host my fealtor nobles, when they come to partake of our celebrations, they must see you here – especially those who were lukewarm in sending aid. They must see the fabled Spider Weaponsmaster. Perhaps you could challenge some of their champions? Or give some display of your skill, certainly. It shall be part of the entertainment.’

An ugly scene was called glaringly into Tynisa’s mind’s eye: an arena, tiered seats packed with baying Wasps. Her father.

‘Where is Alain?’ she asked quietly.

Elass made a dismissive snort. ‘He was getting fractious penned up here, so I gave him an entourage and sent him off to chivvy my guests along.’ She eyed Tynisa, calculating. ‘He will be back before long.’

‘Before long ’ is unacceptable. With a start Tynisa realized that she had reached the end of her patience with the games of Salme Elass. Whilst they helped her towards her prize, giving her an opportunity to display her skill and to woo Alain, then she had played along at being the obedient tool of the Salmae. She had accomplished her purpose now. She had Alain. He had lain with her. He was hers. She did not need to waste her time with this woman any more. Her duty was to secure Alain and take him somewhere he could become the man she wanted him to be. Suon Ren, perhaps? After all, there was precedent.

A distant part of her, the part that had talked to Lowre Cean and listened to Salma’s ghost, was aware that she was utterly out of control now, and that Salme Elass had no idea of this. The face that Tynisa showed the world was still unblemished. All the cracks – so many cracks – were still on the inside.

‘While you wait, I want you to report to my armourer,’ Elass told her. ‘It is fit that you dress like a warrior of the Commonweal. There is no time to fashion something to your measurements, but no doubt the castle has some spare pieces that may serve. You should be seen wearing my colours: the red and blue and gold.’

And Tynisa smiled quite naturally, knowing that she would never put on that yoke, and she sought out Lisan Dea as soon as the princess had finished making her doomed plans.

The steward was busily overseeing the castle’s servants in frenzied preparations for the festivities to come. Once she saw Tynisa, however, she perhaps read the girl better than her mistress did, for she sent the remaining attendants away and retreated into a storeroom where they might not be overheard.

Tynisa wasted no time. ‘Where is Alain?’ she demanded. ‘You know all the comings and goings of this place. Where has he gone?’

The Grasshopper-kinden stared down at her with a curious fascination. ‘And am I now obliged to answer to you?’

Tynisa’s hand was at her sword-hilt. ‘Or else I will kill you. I will cut you until you tell me, and then I will kill you. If you tell me now then you will live, but only then.’

‘Have we come this far?’ the steward wondered, showing no fear. ‘Is your metamorphosis complete, now? Just a killer and nothing else?’

‘I want Alain. Tell me.’ Suddenly Tynisa scowled. ‘Oh, I know, you look down on me because I’m not part of your precious nobility. You’ve always tried to stand between us two. You think you’re protecting him.’

‘Oh, not him,’ Lisan Dea corrected her. ‘But perhaps that which I thought I was protecting has already been corrupted. Perhaps there is no reason for me to stand between the pair of you any more.’ Abruptly the seneschal’s reserve disintegrated, and something welled up from behind her broken mask that made Tynisa flinch, savage as she was. Behind the meticulous steward there was something raw and vicious, something that must have been festering impotently a long time. ‘Now you’ve shown what you really are, why should I try to prevent such a blessed union? Alain’s gone west, just a day ago, with half a dozen attendants and a couple of entertainers. They’ll not have made much time, so you could catch them by tonight, if you ride hard.’

For a moment Tynisa stared with horrified fascination at the vitriol writ large across the woman’s face. Then her iron purpose reasserted itself: no matter what the woman’s motives, Tynisa knew what she needed to know.

She was going to find Alain. She was going to take what was hers.

‘Gone west,’ had been so vague that it should have taken her longer than a day to find Alain’s party, but whatever had given her skill enough to ride a horse had enabled her to find a trail, too. The Commonweal had few roads, and her eyes soon picked out a track that looked recently used, and by a medium-sized party making no efforts to hide their progress. Indeed, casting her gaze across the ground was just like reading a book, a library of information set out for her. She was astonished that she had never noticed such evidence before.

She pushed her horse to the limit, knowing she had a bad reputation amongst the grooms of Leose, after killing a half-dozen of the beasts during the war with the brigands, but then the dumb animals were there to serve. She could not understand how anyone could get too attached to them. A handful of dead mounts was a small price to pay for the destruction of Salme Elass’s enemies.

Alain would not be expecting her, of course, and she tried to imagine the look on his face. He would be glad to see her, and discover that she had come to take him away from the confines and restrictions of Leose. His retinue might not be so pleased, of course. They would have their instructions from the princess, so they would resist.

She considered simply killing them all, but suspected Alain might not take kindly to that and, besides, it seemed inelegant, like a prostitution of her skills. Better that she stalked them, then took Alain from them without their noticing. That would satisfy her more. And if they gave chase, well…

At the back of her mind were pangs of doubt that she had to quell from time to time. What would Che think? What about the things Salma said? Surely this is not what I meant? But she was now in the grip of a fierce and borrowed certainty: qualms could not touch her.

Evening had drawn on, and her quarry obliged her by revealing its location with a campfire, which made everything so much easier. Of course, the Dragonfly-kinden could see well in the dark but, huddled close about their fire, they would be spoiling their own night-vision. There would be sentries, of course, in case some scraps of the brigand army remained, but they would not notice Tynisa.

Their camp was situated in a hollow excavated into a wooded hillside, deep enough to retain the heat and stave off the cold. No doubt this was a place maintained by the local farmers and herders for just such a purpose. She approached sideways on, slipping from tree to tree, eyes picking out the individual members of Alain’s escort against the blaze.

She crept close, closer than was wise, but she might as well have already cut out all their eyes. The armoured Mercers sat with the warmth of the fire at their backs and stared bleakly out into the darkness, unhappily waiting out the chill of the night with their breath pluming. A half-dozen others were huddled up close to the flames, and she picked out faces, builds, trying to identify her man. At the last she was forced to steal all around the site and approach it from further up the hillside, where the trees were denser, away from the main gaze of the watchmen. Their lax vigilance eventually allowed her to come all the way into camp, to stand in silence amongst them and mark each face. I could kill them all right now, and for a moment it was all she could manage to simply stand there without doing so. They deserve it for such poor service. Alain merits better followers. But her sword kept to its scabbard, and she had another matter to occupy her mind. Alain himself was not there.

The firelight let her read the ground, and she saw a recent scuffed track heading up the hillside. No doubt Alain, too, was sick of his idle retinue and had taken himself away from them. Perhaps he was even waiting for her somewhere. She pictured him in the moonlight, standing tall between the trees, smiling a greeting. And they would leave this place and make their own life, and to the pits with the Salmae and the Makers both. His princely virtue, her mastery and skill: together they would hunt down bandits and kill the enemies of the Monarch, he shorn of the ambitions of his mother, herself rid of the concerns of her sister. It would be perfect.

She left the camp, following his trail, each step a study in quietness, until she heard him up ahead.

He seemed to be murmuring to himself, which surprised her. She could just make him out, a crouching form in the darkness, hardly touched by the moon. And, yet, was there not a dim radiance there, from beneath him, that picked out his form in silhouette?

She waited until she was almost on his heels before she spoke.

‘Alain?’

He turned with a start. And she saw.

In that first moment she did not take in how the girl’s clothes were torn, nor the look of despair on her face. She saw only that Alain had been crouched over one of the Butterfly-kinden dancers, his robes open down the front, his abruptly shrinking genitals exposed to the cold night air.