‘I don’t think that. Not you.’ She made a single painful sound of amusement. ‘Who would trust you to do that? You have only recently turned your back on the Lowlands, turned your weapons on your friends. You’re a spinning wheel and nobody knows where you’ll stop. Why else would Drephos point me at you?’
The cruelty of it cut him. He pressed his lips together and said nothing.
‘Oh Totho, I’m sorry,’ she said after a moment. ‘I’m sorry, but I am frightened – who can I trust? What do you think of me, you, who love this other?’
‘I don’t know. I… I like you a great deal…’
‘Totho…’
‘What? Tell me, please. I need to know-’
There was something cold now at his throat. A blade? It was the work-knife he had left beside the bed, as sharp as any artificer could desire.
He felt no fear at all.
‘Are you going to kill me, then?’ he asked her. ‘For what reason?’
Her hand was shaking, which worried him more than the knife itself. ‘How could you turn yourself on your own people?’ she asked.
‘You mean the Battle of the Rails? They weren’t my people. They were Sarnesh,’ he said, almost without thought, but the subsequent response he came up with was hardly better: I have no people. In the end he just continued, ‘You’ve worked with Drephos for how long, now? You can’t say you didn’t know what he was doing. You were up there with him – with me – watching them bombard Tark into ash. What did you imagine he wanted your skills for?’
He was getting angry, which was unwise considering the knife, but he could not see what the problem was, why she had suddenly broken out of her shell like this.
‘I am safe with Drephos,’ she whispered. ‘So long as I serve him, I shall never see his weapons turned against me. I need never fear.’
‘So?’ he prompted. Gently he reached up to take the knife but her grip on it was too tight.
‘They say there is trouble come to Szar,’ she said heavily. ‘They say the Queen is dead. They say there are soldiers now coming to my own city. They say that… there will be an uprising, and that it will be put down.’
‘And you think we’ll be sent there?’
‘I know it. I can feel it. Totho,’ she said. ‘But I can’t do it. Not my own. I’m not as strong as you.’
Strength? Is that what it was?
At last she released the knife, and he cast it aside, hearing it clatter against the wall.
‘Will you tell him about this?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said, shocked. What does she think I am, some kind of traitor…?
Quite.
‘Never,’ he insisted. ‘Trust me, please.’
‘Totho, I cannot find a way out,’ she whispered. ‘I have worked for him for too long. Now I will pay. He will kill me.’
He had nothing to say to that. He knew Drephos was a man devoid of most emotions, but that his march of progress was a mechanized inevitability whose wheels would grind up anyone who stood before it. Instead, he held Kaszaat close, wanting to reassure her that Drephos would not harm her, or that he, Totho, would protect her. Both statements stuck in his throat, and he could not get them out.
Twenty
Colonel Gan was, by his own estimation, the luckiest man in the Empire. Not only had his family connections ensured him a colonel’s rank at a very young age, but, for the last seven years, he had revelled in the governorship of the most profitable yet docile city in the Empire.
The palace at Szar was magnificent, larger even than the great eyesore that the old governor of Myna had installed. As the local Bee-kinden built either single-storey or underground, it easily overlooked the entire city of Szar, and if the Bee-crafted architecture was more elaborately carved, every wall finished with intricate frescos and designs, then still Gan believed that the sheer scale of his palace showed his kinden’s superiority over them.
Colonel Gan made a point of taking his breakfast each morning on a different side of his great multi-tiered edifice, surveying his domain. Sometimes he entertained his officers there, or imperial dignitaries passing through, also Consortium factors or men of good family, but once a week he allowed himself a special treat. He had observed, when he last visited in the capital, that the Emperor Alvdan II – a man whom Gan admired above all others – ate breakfast with the rather pleasant-featured Princess Seda once a week. Such fraternal devotion was much noted and debated in the courtly circles Gan preferred to move in and, though Gan himself had no well-born sisters, the city of Szar had nevertheless provided him with a suitable alternative. He considered that he was bringing a very imperial touch of sophistication to this city when he dined each tenday with its native princess, Maczech.
Maczech herself was not exactly the most becoming of women. Compared with the Wasp women that Gan favoured, she was distinctly short and dark and round-faced. She was a genuine princess, though, adored by the local populace with that slavish devotion they awarded to all their royal family. In thus showing her to her own people, as a guest at the mercy of imperial hospitality, Gan was demonstrating his hold on their city. Not that they needed such a reminder, of course, the Bee-kinden being so wonderfully spiritless. Left on their own, they worked twice as hard as any Wasps would have done, hammering away at their forges, their furnaces and machine-shops, churning out armour and blades and machine parts that they then dutifully shipped off across the Empire. The final capture of Szar had been a considerable leap forward for the Empire’s industrial capability, and here was Colonel Gan looking out over the dawn-touched city and relishing the spoils of it. Who cared that he himself had neither lifted a blade nor shed one drop of blood in its capture?
And here now came the princess: these Bee-kinden had no idea of how to dress, not even their royalty: the dark-featured girl wore only a drab tunic with a black and gold gown open over the top. He insisted she dress in imperial colours on such visits. He knew it rankled with her, but it was important that there be no doubt about whose wishes were counted more important.
But after all, Iam not a tyrant, he reminded himself, and smiled at her. She smiled back, a little stiffly. She had learnt that her smile could be valuable currency, sometimes. He did not believe, of course, that she held any affection for him, but she needed things from him and she knew that she had to play the game to get them. If she kept him in a good mood, then she could ask him to intervene on behalf of her people, to lessen any punishments, lighten workloads, or even have messages passed on to her brother, who was off on Auxillian duty elsewhere in the Empire. She met a lot with her people, he knew, even the lowliest of them. She seemed to visit at random across the city, though dogged always by her imperial guards. Gan knew that such movements were guided by the thoughts of her fellows, for many of the Bee-kinden could speak mind-to-mind, as the Ants did. It was an Art even some Wasps could boast of, although Gan himself had never bothered to master it.
She demurely sat across from him, whereupon a Wasp came forward to pour some watered wine. Gan glanced up at him curiously.
‘Since when do those of my own kinden do such menial work?’ he asked, wanting to add the man’s name and then realizing he could not remember it. ‘When you’re finished here, go and get a local to serve us. I’m sure you must have other matters to attend to.’
The Wasp server hesitated, glancing at Maczech. She was watching him through half-closed eyes, but Gan had the odd feeling she was actually more alert than usual.
‘Well, speak, man. Is there something concerning you?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, Colonel,’ said the servant reluctantly. ‘I understand there is currently some disruption amongst the household servants, so I volunteered to serve you rather than force you to wait until they are put in order.’
‘I approve,’ Gan said and, as the man turned away from the table. ‘Disruption, you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The servant turned back and glanced at Maczech again but Gan waved him to continue. ‘Well, sir, they seem
ed… rather unruly this morning. Suddenly unwilling.’
‘Nonsense,’ Gan snapped, his good humour evaporating. ‘The Princess’s people are the most sweet-natured in the whole Empire. Why, I’ll wager that Colonel Thanred in Capitas does not have a city as well ordered as mine.’
‘Of course, sir,’ the man said, retreating.
‘I will have to review the service arrangements,’ Gan remarked. ‘Perhaps I have an overzealous overseer or some such problem.’ He turned to his guest. ‘Or perhaps you should speak to the staff here at the palace, as you often do to your people throughout the city, Princess.’
‘Perhaps I should,’ she agreed almost casually.
An officer came stepping out onto the balcony, not even pausing to glance at the view but stomping over to the table and saluting sharply.
‘Is this urgent?’ Gan asked him. His morning was being thoroughly spoilt, he decided.
‘Colonel,’ replied the officer, whose insignia proclaimed him a captain. ‘Orders directly from the Emperor.’
Gan froze, goblet halfway to his lips. If there was anything that could ruin his day it was a communication direct from the capital. The Emperor could strip him of everything he now enjoyed with a single word. He took the proffered scroll carefully, as though it might be venomous, and broke the seal. A moment later he glanced up at the captain and asked, ‘What in the wastes is this?’
‘A present from Capitas, sir,’ said the captain, with a hard smile. ‘Five hundred men for your garrison. I came ahead with my staff to prepare billets, because they’ll be marching into Szar any time now, sir.’
‘What am I supposed to do with another five hundred soldiers?’ demanded Gan. ‘Considering all the places in the Empire that surely need reinforcements-’
The captain actually had the gall to cut him off. ‘Not my business, sir. If you’ll excuse me, but I need to prepare lodgings for five hundred men.’
He saluted again, then turned and left without waiting for Gan’s say-so.
‘Someone at the capital has gone quite mad,’ Gan declared. ‘Perhaps they’re having another shot at the Commonweal, and need us as a staging post. Still, since the war pushed the borders further out, we’re a long way from anywhere troublesome.’
Princess Maczech was still looking after the captain thoughtfully.
When the five hundred soldiers finally arrived at the gates of Szar they did not find it the cheerful, hard-working city they had been led to expect. As they marched down the Regian Way towards the palace, they saw Bee-kinden come out of their little six-sided huts, or stop the hammers of their forging, and just stand and watch. The further they went into the city, the more the numbers of the watchers grew, until there were scattered groups of fifty or sixty men and women all standing, silent and surly-looking, to see them pass by.
There were no words uttered, no raised fists or shouts of defiance, just that eerie silence as though they had walked into an Ant city by mistake.
And the thought in the minds of all the citizens of Szar was, So, it is true, then, what the strangers say.
Sergeant Fragen and his handful of men moved idly through the great market at Szar, scowling at the locals. Something was up, Fragen knew. First that new captain had turned up with half a thousand troops, all now jostling for space within the governor’s barracks. Now the order had come through that patrols were to be upped to five men each. Fragen had been used to walking the streets of Szar with just one other soldier for company. The locals were a docile enough breed. This was not like Myna or Maynes, where you could get a knife in the back if you ventured down the wrong alley alone.
A Bee-kinden youth crossed close before his path and he cuffed the boy angrily. Szar was a nice assignment for a middle-aged sergeant and now someone upstairs was trying to provoke things. That new captain, no doubt. Everything had started going wrong since he arrived. And the new soldiers, they didn’t understand how things worked around here, how a man could more readily take his ease a little more. All fresh and shiny-new out of the capital, they were too keen by far.
Fragen decided that there were probably a few Rekef boys amongst them, too. He knew the governor had always kept his nose clean, but perhaps those days were gone. Perhaps some other big noise from the imperial court wanted a bite of Szar. Whatever it was, it was bad news for the ordinary soldier on the street. Fragen preferred easy assignments.
He and his men meandered on between two rows of stalls, watching the Bee-kinden slip out of their way hurriedly. They were like slaves, these locals, only you didn’t even have to chain them up. They had somehow enslaved themselves. Fragen grinned at the thought. When he was younger he had considered the Slave Corps as a career, but it had seemed to involve too much travel, too much dealing with dubious characters like the Scorpion-kinden. This kind of life was far better.
He stopped by a fruit stall, where a sullen-looking old man had baskets full of oranges and peaches set out in the wan sunlight. The peaches must come from the north, Fragen guessed, out of the new Dragonfly provinces. Absently, he drew a knife and dug an orange out of the pile with it, biting through the rind.
He had done so a hundred times before, but now the old man was actually glaring at him. As far as Fragen was concerned, any imperial soldier could help himself to what he wanted. It was an attitude backed up by the Empire itself.
‘What?’ he snarled at the old fruit-seller, and the man looked down, now unwilling to meet his gaze. It helped that they were not exactly impressive physical specimens, these Bee-folk. They had broad enough shoulders, and they worked hard, but Fragen was a good five inches taller than the loftiest of them. They were an inferior breed, to be sure: a dirt-grubbing little people in their squat, many-cellared houses, and if their craftsmanship was skilled, then it was wasted on them. They should be grateful that the Empire was here to teach them about the benefits of a grander life.
‘Sir,’ one of his men warned, in a slightly uncertain tone. Fragen looked round to see a pack of the locals standing further along the row of stalls, somewhere between a dozen and a score of them, young and middle-aged men, and even young women. They were clustered together for mutual support, but they held staves and sticks, and he saw a couple of axes in there too, and even a poleaxe near the rear.
For a second he hesitated but he was, after all, a sergeant of the Imperial Army. He could hardly back down from a mere rabble of Bee-kinden peasants. Instead he led his men straight towards them, seeing the wretches shuffle back a little, yet hold their ground.
‘What’s this, then?’ he demanded, as he approached them. ‘This looks like a riotous assembly to me. Clear off, the lot of you. Get back to your work before I take it out of your hides.’
He was forced to a halt. They were drawing closer together, but going nowhere. Their dark, flat faces remained inscrutable. He saw a few knuckles tighten, fists clenching on their stave-hafts.
What is this? For a moment he was baffled. Are these really locals, or have they come in from elsewhere? The next nearest Bee-kinden were miles off in Tyrshaan and Vesserett, though, and yet the men and women of Szar had never behaved like this, never attempted to question imperial rule.
‘I gave you an order!’ he shouted at them. Behind him, his men had drawn their blades, and he saw that sudden show of steel send a ripple through the little band of locals. ‘You disperse right now or I’ll make an example of you, you just watch.’
He levelled his hand at them, and he saw them trying to muster courage, and failing. They would not go, yet nor could they act. He would obviously have to make their minds up for them.
With a curse, because it had been a reasonable day until then, he loosed his sting, punching one man off his feet into the arms of his fellows, with a blackened circle in the centre of his chest. The victim was dead before his friends could let him go, and by then Fragen and all his men had their hands levelled, making it plain that they would kill every man and woman of the mob unless they broke up.
One man,
the man with the poleaxe, abruptly dropped his weapon and backed off, and then they were all going, suddenly running off and scattering amid the stalls.
‘Right,’ Fragen said vaguely. He looked at the petrified stall-holders about him, at the peasants with their bushels and baskets. ‘Someone clear that filth away,’ he ordered them, pointing at the corpse. ‘Give it to its family or throw it on the waste-heap, I don’t care.’
‘Sir!’ called out one of his soldiers, more urgently this time. Fragen turned to see another band of Szaren citizens approaching, filtering between the stalls, in groups of three and four, men and women of all ages.
He saw steel there, a lot of it: enough arms and armour that at least two in three were equipped as soldiers. Where could they…? But it was obvious enough. A few had the heavy russet-painted breastplates that the old Szaren army used to wear, but most of them were now wearing imperial armour and carrying army-issue cross-hilted shortswords or crossbows or spears, all crafted in Szar by the Bee-kinden. Others had the traditional Szar axes, each broad, curved blade balanced by a wicked back-spike. Many had squat triangles of sharp bone jutting from their knuckles, the gifts of their own Art.
Fragen tried to estimate their number but stopped when he realized there must be over a hundred of them, and more still coming.
‘Sir! Pull out, sir?’ the soldier enquired nervously, already backing off.
‘Stop where you are!’ Fragen shouted at the mob. ‘This is an imperial city, and any attempt at resistance will be taken out of your hides and your families! You know that, surely, you stupid peasants! Now back to your jobs! Back to your factories! Who do you think you are?’
The crossbow bolt lanced through him just as he finished speaking, causing him to spit the last word out with a spray of blood. Fragen stared at the fletched end of it jutting low down in his chest, and then he toppled over.
His men, already thoroughly unsettled, launched themselves into the air, wings unfurling to dart them towards the governor’s palace and the safety of the garrison.
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