Blood of the Mantis sota-3

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  And there’s the joke because, a month before, Collegium’s

  own diplomatic staff wouldn’t have let me in the door. ‘You were right,’ he told Sperra. ‘She’s a tough one.’ The Fly nodded. ‘Rather you than me, chief.’

  ‘I take it not so good, Sten?’ This came from the last man there, a fleshy creature with pale, bluish skin – an Ant from some western city-state at the fringes of the Lowlands proper. His name was Plius and he was nominally Stenwold’s man here in Sarn. Stenwold had been in the game a long time, cutting his teeth on agent-running in a half-dozen cities, and way back when he had first recruited Plius, Stenwold had taken him for what the world usually saw: an outcast trying to make his difficult way in a hostile city. Now, his customary pipe in his hands, Plius managed a wan smile at Stenwold, who smiled back and nodded.

  With his extra years of experience, Stenwold had known as soon as he reacquainted himself with the man. He knew the telltale signs now of a man with divided loyalties. Either he had been blind to it before, or Plius had been turned fairly recently. They were still both playing the game as though it was not so but, somewhere along the line, someone else had put their mark on Plius, and Stenwold knew he could not trust the man any more, only keep him close and wait.

  Who is this man? the Queen asked, and this time the silent answers came more hesitantly.

  – A nobleman from the northlands. He has been a student at the College.

  – Reports suggest he was at Tark during the siege.

  – He may be a spy.

  – We have heard unconfirmed reports of irregular resistance to the imperial advance being linked to his name.

  – Our knowledge of the Commonweal is almost nonexistent.

  – Save that they, too, have fought the Wasps.

  With no clear vision from her Tacticians, she used her own eyes, seeing a young man, too young to be standing before her in this weighty role. He wore a long leather hauberk reinforced with metal plates that would ill become the worst of her own soldiers, and yet he carried himself with a casual authority. Apart from that he was golden-skinned, handsome, clear-eyed, and he stood before her war council as though he was the lord of a realm and not just the chief of a ragged pack of bandits and refugees.

  ‘Prince Salme Dien,’ she said, pronouncing the foreign name carefully. She was aware that he was studying her in return, unsurprised at seeing nothing but a woman of Sarn of middling years, with the same close features, brown skin and short-cut dark hair as all her kin. No doubt the lords in his homeland wore gaudy flowers of gilt and gems, compared with the token regalia she bore to identify her. Her look told him flatly that in Sarn they valued other things.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ He sketched a bow that was obviously a shadow of something more formal.

  ‘Your name is known to us, to my council and myself,’ she told him. ‘It has therefore won you this time, when our time is precious to us. Who are you, Dragonfly, and why should we heed you?’

  ‘In the Commonweal it is customary to bring gifts when currying the favour of great men and women,’ Salma declared. ‘I have something you should appreciate, and also may serve as your answer.’

  She sent out a query, but discovered no aide awaiting him with bundles in the antechamber. ‘Speak clearly,’ she advised.

  ‘In the Foreigners’ Quarter I have, under lock and key, three Wasp scouts my men have caught. I have questioned them all I need to. They are now yours.’

  There was a murmur in her head, a sound of cautious re-evaluation. ‘You are in the habit of catching Wasps without being stung?’ the Queen asked.

  – This may yet be a trap. Misinformation is easy to plant. – Wasps are hard to take alive. They are more mobile than our own scouts.

  ‘There is,’ said Salma, ‘a knack to it.’

  The Queen frowned at him. ‘And who are your men, exactly? Do you hold yourself a tactician now?’ She said it with a glance of mockery at his travel-stained dress, the stitched repairs to his armour.

  ‘Yes,’ Salma replied, quite seriously.

  That stilled the voices in her head for a moment, and he let his voice step into the breach.

  ‘The Empire has wrought a great change east of here. They have displaced hundreds, thousands, from their homes: people from Tark, from Helleron, from all the little communities between there and here. The roads are full of refugees, escaped slaves, wilderness folk: a great tide of humanity that the Wasps have driven before them, to shiver and starve through the winter. Now the Wasps have halted their advance so that they can accumulate more reserves of men and weapons, and we have regrouped too. We are the dispossessed, your Majesty, and we fight.’

  ‘You fight the Empire.’

  ‘We turn upon our creator.’

  – This is preposterous.

  – There is no precedent for this.

  – He is no more than a brigand with ideas above his station.

  Because she was Queen of Sarn, one mental word silenced them. ‘And what are your plans, this winter, Prince Dien?’

  He smiled at her. It was a smile baked hard and sharpened to an edge. ‘We are attacking the Wasps, your Majesty. We are attacking them, even as I speak, in all the little ways we can. My soldiers have disrupted their supply lines. My artificers have broken up the rails between their camp and Helleron. My Fly-kinden pass over their camp and lure out their soldiers into ambush or capture. My foragers take everything from the land before the Wasps can harvest it. My spies become their slaves in order to discover their plans. Can you say as much of your own people, your Majesty?’

  The outrage about the table was almost tangible to him, loudly audible to her, but she felt as though, despite the others present, there were now only the two of them truly there in that room: the Queen of Sarn and this young man with his disturbing smile.

  ‘You are here with a proposal, young prince,’ she informed him.

  ‘Certainly,’ he agreed. ‘For the moment, the city of Sarn presents a line across which the Wasps dare not go, not until they are fully ready for their great battle. I have with me thousands who cannot fight: the young, the old and the wounded. I know Ant city-states well enough, and you will have hoarded enough within your walls to withstand a siege lasting years. You have therefore enough to provide for those of my people that I cannot.’

  ‘And in exchange you will make yourselves soldiers of Sarn?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Under no circumstances. We know what that would mean: to be the least valued, the first sent into the fire. We are free, your Majesty, no subjects of yours, nor of any ruler’s.’

  ‘So, in return, what?’ Her Tacticians were now hanging on her words, trying to keep up with the way the world around them had suddenly shifted.

  ‘In exchange we will do what you cannot. We will tell you all that we discover about the Wasps. When they advance, we will harry their vanguard and ambush their baggage train. We are woodsmen, trackers, thieves and brigands, your Majesty, and we will become the very land about them, which turns upon them. We are not many, but we are still an army. More, we are an army without shield-wall or formations, an army that moves swiftly, that has no home, that cannot be pinned or broken against a solid line. They do not know how to fight us. This is what you shall have, in return.’

  ‘And where will this proud independence of all rulers take you at the last, young prince?’ she asked him, and he knew from the question that he had won, that she would agree.

  ‘A city, your Majesty. A city west of here, where my people can stop running. We do not know where it is, yet, or what it shall be called, but when we see the land just so, we shall build there.’

  The flurry of conflicting voices in her head rose high, some saying that he should be instantly destroyed, others that he should be used, but still more that he was an ally worth having, now and for the future.

  For the future, she agreed, If there is to be one for any of us, a new community built by those who have cause to love us is no bad thing. And it
would not be hard to commandeer, if that were to become necessary.

  Nine

  ‘Who else is aware of this?’ asked Alvdan, revealing just a hint of uncertainty that was unbecoming in an Emperor. The news had shaken him a little.

  ‘The servants within the harem, and of course the other concubines,’ General Maxin said. ‘Two other servants from the palace proper. They are presently being held to my order.’

  ‘Let it be known they have incurred our displeasure,’ said Alvdan, which meant death, of course: he had taken a liking to the phrase recently. ‘General, this could have just as easily been our throat laid open.’ He splayed his hands anxiously, feeling the charge of his sting build in them. The news was so fresh that he was still in his nightshirt, alone with General Maxin in his bedchamber, even his personal body servants having been dismissed.

  ‘The chief of the harem guards shall be disciplined, your Imperial Majesty,’ said Maxin smoothly.

  ‘She shall be more than disciplined, General!’

  ‘Your Imperial Majesty, we must not draw unnecessary attention to this.’

  Alvdan looked at him, narrow-eyed. ‘You mean the situation in Szar?’

  ‘I do.’ General Maxin’s mind was spinning, laying the pieces of his plan into place. Another step intervening between the Emperor and his Empire. Another few bricks in the wall he was building around the man, until it was General Maxin who would have sole access to the throne – and thus become the power behind it. ‘The Bee-kinden of Szar are extremely important to the war effort. You must know how much we rely on their foundries and forges. The presence of their queen here has so far guaranteed their loyalty. As a result our Szaren garrison is currently one of the lightest in the Empire.’

  ‘Have it strengthened then, and damn their suspicions,’ Alvdan snapped. ‘Who would inherit now? How do the Bee-kinden manage their idiot succession?’

  ‘By simple primogeniture in the female line. There are two princesses and a prince, my records tell me.’ Maxin said. He had known of Tserinet’s death for less than an hour but he had the most efficient clerks in the world within the Rekef’s administration. ‘Maczech, the eldest princess, is currently a house-guest of the garrison commander, Colonel Gan, treated with all honour but still a hostage to her mother’s good behaviour. The prince, her junior and not eligible by their customs anyway, is an Auxillian captain garrisoning Luscoa near the Commonweal border. The younger girl is about twelve and lives in Szar with her family. She is not of the direct royal lineage but a niece to the late queen. We must move carefully, your Majesty, and meanwhile I will ensure that Maczech is kept secure.’

  ‘Do so,’ Alvdan agreed, ‘and think up some excuse for tripling the garrison at Szar. Tell them we are suspicious of another Mynan rebellion or something.’ He sighed. ‘It seems today shall no longer be mine to dispose of. The Sarcad was to examine my sister once more, was he not? Let him know he should proceed in my absence, because I shall not have time to indulge myself.’

  As if suddenly struck by a thought, or hearing a voice otherwise unheard, Uctebri grinned to himself, needle teeth stark white against withered lips. He was such a repulsive little man when he was not concentrating on impressing her, she decided, with his head bald and veiny, and his scant, lank hair thin and grey. His features were hollow, his lips wrinkled and the few fangs they concealed were like needles of bone or the lancing teeth of fish. On his forehead, beneath his translucent skin, was a red patch that constantly shifted and squirmed, and his eyes… his eyes were evil. Seda had not believed in evil before she met him. His red and piercing eyes seemed to stare into her very being, flaying her layer by layer.

  But he claimed to be on her side, so that must be all right.

  Seda, youngest and sole surviving sibling of the Emperor, did not trust Uctebri the Sarcad one fraction, yet still he was more on her side than anyone else she knew. He had a use for her, clearly, while to the rest of the world she seemed simply to be filling space. Or at least until Alvdan had decided on the succession, whereupon she would finally incur his displease, as her brother was now phrasing it. She would be then seen no more in the world of men, which was Uctebri’s phrase, and one she marginally preferred.

  Uctebri called her Princess sometimes, too, a Commonwealer title she had no right to, but that was pretty enough. In truth she could not even claim to be a Chattelaine, the half-derogatory term for an influential Wasp’s wife. She had neither husband nor household. Her life, her bloodline, had left her nothing but fear as an inheritance.

  Seda had never known her grandfather, and her father had spared no time for her, but here was a surrogate relative of an older generation for her: Uncle Uctebri of the fabled Mosquito-kinden that they frightened children with. When he made the effort, he showed her exactly how his grotesque kind had survived so long. When he put his mind and his Art to it, he could show himself so engaging and compelling that she found herself forgetting his grotesque appearance and provenance.

  He claimed he was preparing her for the ritual that her brother so much desired, a ritual that would gift Alvdan with eternal life. She believed none of it. What she did believe, though, was that Uctebri did not trust her brother. It was a sentiment she easily concurred with.

  And so, by delicate stages, they had become conspirators.

  She was supposed to be strapped to a couch, laid out for him to hunch over and probe and touch. When her brother was watching they would play the charade out. In his absence, however, Uctebri would use his Art to muddy the mind of her guard, then she could be unstrapped and sit up for a more civilized encounter.

  ‘Your brother needs more to think about,’ the Mosquito informed her. His voice was a soft rustle.

  ‘If he is growing impatient, surely you can baffle him, O Sarcad,’ she challenged. She liked to play at games of strength with Uctebri, and he gained a distant enjoyment from them that he would never draw from any experiment upon her body. Despite her royal bloodline that all but touched the throne, she was in fact alone and had nothing. He enjoyed seeing her test herself against him. In fact he encouraged it.

  He had plans for her.

  ‘Yes, he will grow impatient if my anticipated services are all he can expend his thought on,’ the Mosquito admitted. ‘I will have the Shadow Box soon but, until that oaf Maxin has recovered it for me, I shall attempt no ritual, either for you or for him. Until my wages are paid I shall have to take his mind off things.’

  ‘What do you propose?’ she enquired.

  He gave her a smile, a quick flash of those needle teeth. ‘Would your brother be distressed to discover one of his concubines was dead, do you think, Princess?’

  ‘No, why would he care?’ she almost laughed at the thought. ‘I can’t think of a single man, woman or child whose death would discomfort him. Not even that bastard Maxin’s.’

  Uctebri steepled his delicate fingers. ‘You do him an injustice, for at this moment he is particularly distressed. The death of one of his harem has just upset many of his plans.’

  She stared at him. ‘Explain yourself, Sarcad.’

  He drew close, raising one cold hand to softly touch her face. ‘I have known both kings and queens in my time, and in my long experience they are quite unsightly. What a bloodline you have! Your brother, so regular of feature, handsome and well proportioned – quite the hero-king of legend. And you, my dear princess, what a queen you might make.’

  She shivered because, although the thought was not new to her, it was still the worst treason to express it. ‘The Empire has no queens. No woman can inherit.’

  ‘So says a history all of merely three generations old.’ Uctebri’s lips twitched. ‘I am older than your Empire, and I know how these things can change. Maybe, if a certain bold young woman should begin to unfurl her wings… especially with her brother so distracted.’

  ‘Distracted by what? Tell me plainly, will you?’

  ‘The Queen of Szar killed herself last night.’ His protuberant red eyes glin
ted, bleakly pleased. ‘She had been oppressed by dark thoughts for night after night. It was inevitable, really.’

  ‘You are a monster,’ Seda chided him.

  ‘You disapprove, O Queen-in-waiting?’

  She realized that, beneath it all, she did not. It meant so little to her, the fate of some woman she had never met. How like him I am, at heart. ‘Speak on.’

  ‘Naturally, the news is confined to the harem, and it is your brother’s intention that it should stay there.’

  ‘I understand the nature of the hold we have on Szar and the Bee-kinden.’ She forced herself to look into those bloody eyes, but his Art had started working on her now, so that they appeared almost benign – the malice in them dissolving before her gaze.

  ‘I rather think the sad news may become known in Szar sooner than might otherwise be expected,’ Uctebri said, delicately.

  ‘You can… But of course you can. But this will damage the Empire.’

  ‘Which is a merely a weapon in your brother’s hands at present. Time enough later to whip your subjects back into line,’ he told her. ‘For now, I think it best that your brother finds himself ever more deeply involved in matters both within the Empire and without. It is only to your benefit, Princess, because you will need all the space for manoeuvre that you can muster. You have a great deal of work to do, I believe.’

  ‘And should I start by granting the boon I see you about to request of me?’

  Her remark left him absolutely silent, his red eyes gleaming as he examined her.

  ‘I read it in your face, monster,’ she said softly. ‘Have I not done well?’

  He suddenly bared his teeth in a smile of true approbation. ‘Oh, well done, Princess. My kind are not so easily read, after all. Your skills are impressive, but then you have survived by them these last several years, have you not?’