Empire in Black and Gold

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  He said nothing, but she could see he was thinking how his people might rejoice in the fall of Helleron, even if it meant their own homes burned.

  ‘Take my hand.’ She held it out beneath the moonless sky, her Art-sight, still so new to her, making a dark silver of her skin. ‘Take it now, while you can.’

  His own hand seemed only a lighter shade of the same colour when it finally ventured from within his robes. As it hesitated, she reached forward impulsively to grasp it. She had expected to find it cool, but it was surprisingly warm.

  ‘I am Cheerwell Maker of Collegium. I do not speak for my family. I do not speak for my city or my kinden. I speak for myself, though, and I say that I owe you more than I can ever repay, for in my time of greatest need, you were there for me. I do not know why. I have no answers. Still, you were there, and you came into the place of our enemies and you shed their blood to free me.’ The words were just tumbling out, and she had a strange feeling that they were only partly hers.

  Certainly Achaeos’s expression was stricken by them. ‘Do not say such things so lightly,’ he said, for a moment trying to pull away. ‘You do not know how strongly oaths can bind us!’

  ‘I say nothing lightly,’ she told him, and he ceased resisting, staring into her face.

  ‘You can see me,’ he said, and she realized that, save for a guttering torch across the square, there was no illumination here but starlight. His blood and kinden gave him the eyes to see her, and her Art the eyes to see him.

  ‘Yes, I see you,’ she confirmed. ‘I spent so long calling out to the Ancestor Art, but it was only your . . . only the dream that woke it in me.’

  He did not know what to do with her now she could see. All masks were gone within that moment. She scared him, drew him, shocked him. Realizing that, she became scared herself, acutely aware of the warmth of his hand in hers, of how close he suddenly was to her.

  ‘I—’ she started, feeling the line between them – the line that had played out its length all the way from Helleron to Myna – draw tight. A moment later she had released his hand and was stumbling back, hurrying inside before whatever words now arising within her could escape.

  A few ragged hours of the night were all Thalric was given to sleep in. Once Che and her compatriots had made their escape, there had been order to restore in the palace, and only then had he sought out a field surgeon of the garrison to attend his wounds. He could have summoned a doctor from the city, but Thalric’s experience had led him to rate the hard-won skills of a field surgeon over the most educated physician in the world.

  Now it was late after dawn, and the whole palace was up and about. Order, in a greater sense, was being restored to its pedestal. He knew that the Rekef would have things well in hand, that whispered voices would pass throughout the imperial staff in Myna informing them of the true state of things.

  He had meanwhile sent for Aagen, and now met the man in a small anteroom set aside for waiting guests.

  The artificer gave him a cautious nod. ‘Still alive then.’

  ‘Only just. Any trouble?’

  Aagen shrugged. ‘I heard that some soldiers were looking for her – the Butterfly girl. The locals round here aren’t exactly Empire sympathizers. Odd what counts in your favour, sometimes, isn’t it?’

  ‘This city is working itself towards revolution,’ Thalric decided. ‘Ulther didn’t see it, he thought it was still tame in the palm of his hand. He’d lost sight of the realities.’

  ‘Let’s hope we’re both well clear before that happens,’ Aagen said, and Thalric nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry I had to use you, Aagen. I had nobody else.’

  ‘Well,’ the artificer said with a sheepish grin, ‘I’m not complaining, you know?’

  ‘She danced for you?’

  Aagen tried to suppress the smile, but it spread regardless. ‘She did, as it happens. Just danced, nothing else, but . . .’

  ‘I know. I’ve seen her.’ Thalric stood, clapped his comrade on the shoulder, feeling glad that here at least was one friend that he had not been forced to turn against. ‘I’m glad you came through this safely. I owe you, as a comrade and as an officer. I’ll remember.’

  With dragging footsteps he made his way to the throne room, for he knew there was bound to be a reckoning. The doors were opened for him by fresh-looking soldiers, and closed again as soon as he had gone through. The room itself was almost empty. Much of Ulther’s finery had already been removed.

  It did not surprise Thalric at all to see the central throne occupied by the same nameless man who had been at Latvoc’s council. He now regarded Thalric keenly, his thin face creased into calculating lines. Colonel Latvoc was there, too, standing to one side of the throne, a scroll half unfurled in his hands. Odyssa the Spider was absent, but Thalric noticed te Berro lounging to one side, almost hidden behind a pillar.

  ‘Colonel,’ Thalric managed a salute, ‘you’ve made good time.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ Latvoc told him with a smile. ‘In fact I haven’t officially arrived yet and, indeed, will not for some time. The handing over of the governor’s power will be as seamless as if Colonel Ulther himself had effected it. However, someone must oversee matters until then – in an unofficial capacity of course.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘You appear to be one of those rare officers who delight in leading the charge, Major Thalric,’ Latvoc observed. ‘It is a mixed blessing but I can only congratulate you on your work here.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘It can’t have been easy for you.’

  Thalric blinked once, considering. The wise course was to disavow all personal feelings in this, but they were weighing him so heavily that he did not think he could. Not quite. ‘I am loyal to the Empire, sir. I made my choice.’ But his voice was not as steady as he would have liked.

  ‘Good man,’ Latvoc said. ‘Of course, this resolution will not be entirely without benefit to yourself and—’

  ‘That’s not why I did it, sir,’ said Thalric, more firmly than he meant. He was aware that after the previous night he was not as in control of himself as he would prefer.

  There was a flicker of annoyance in Colonel Latvoc’s face. ‘I was not suggesting, Major, that you did. However, as far as the records show, you are ranking Rekef officer in this city. If you have any decisions to make, as de facto governor, then make them.’

  It was a harsh question to put to a man unprepared for it, but Thalric guessed that he would be given no second chance.

  ‘The Butterfly slave, Grief in Chains.’ He looked keenly at Latvoc for a reaction.

  ‘I hear she’s quite the performer,’ the Colonel said mildly.

  ‘She belonged to Colonel Ulther. I would like to give her to Lieutenant Aagen, who was instrumental in aiding my work here.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Colonel Latvoc without even a batted eyelid. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Another chattel of the colonel’s, a slave of our own kinden named Hreya, was of some assistance to me. I would like her freed.’

  Latvoc coughed into his hand as though Thalric had made some error of etiquette at a social gathering. ‘The Empire does not free its slaves, Major. It may gift them, reward them, treat them finely, bestow responsibilities on them, even suffer them to render advice, but never grant them freedom. What a precedent to set! However, the Empire will gift her to you, Major. If you, as an imperial citizen, wish to free her, well, I’m sure your eccentricity will be overlooked this once. Anything else?’

  ‘Just that I would also like to mention Lieutenant te Berro’s good work on my behalf.’ Thalric saw the Fly flinch at the mention of his name, but then raise his eyebrows at the compliment.

  Latvoc nodded approvingly. ‘Recognizing the worth of subordinates is a good trait in an officer. It breeds loyalty. Duly noted.’ From te Berro’s unguarded expression Thalric had the impression that this was not a trait Latvoc himself possessed. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, sir.’ />
  ‘Nothing, Major?’ Latvoc frowned. ‘Colonel Ulther had a great many more chattels than that – a whole palace full of them, in fact.’

  ‘I leave them in the safe hands of the Empire, sir. I would like only to return to my work in Helleron. The plan must be nearly at fruition now and my agents will need my leadership.’

  ‘Well.’ Latvoc glanced briefly at the enthroned man. ‘Major, there has been a proposal made concerning your future. General Reiner has noted your abilities and sensibilities and decided that they are just what the Rekef is seeking in its officers.’

  Thalric stood quite still because, by the naming of that silent, enthroned officer, he had been admitted to some greater and more secret world. The generals of the Rekef were themselves almost never knowingly seen beyond the imperial court.

  ‘Sir?’ he said.

  ‘You have done sterling work for the Rekef Outlander in your time, Major,’ Latvoc said, as the general’s eyes bored into him. ‘However, your skills could also be of use to the Rekef Inlander. The Empire must be constantly guarded from within as well as without.’

  This would be more than a promotion, Thalric knew: the Rekef Inlander, the older and more favoured sibling of his own service branch, answered to nobody but the Emperor. They were a law unto themselves. They feared nothing.

  Except each other murmured a treacherous thought.

  And everyone feared them. They were the shadows within the army. No man knew if his neighbour was writing reports on his ill-chosen words or if his slave had passed on his drunken confessions of the night before. Every man felt the eye of the Rekef on his back, whether he was an enlisted soldier or a great general of the Empire. No man was immune, and anyone could disappear without warning or trace.

  This task here, with Ulther, was Inlander work. It had been a test, then? They had set him at his old mentor’s throat to see if he were cold enough for it. He was cold, ice cold.

  ‘I appreciate the honour, sir, but my plans in Helleron—’

  ‘Can be completed by another, I am sure. Think it over, Major.’

  And in the Rekef Inlander it would always be his own people who were under the knife. He would protect the Empire from treason like a surgeon saving a body from rot, by cutting out the infected part and everything close to it. Every day would be like last night then. And no doubt the call would come, one day, to set him against Aagen or some other loyal man he had once called friend.

  ‘If the Empire orders it, sir, I will do as I am ordered,’ he said, knowing that these next words could see the fear of the Rekef landing on his shoulders, could see him gone as surely as Ulther was gone. ‘However, if I am merely offered an invitation, I must decline. My work in the Rekef Outlander is precious to me and it will falter without my guidance.’

  There was a long silence. Latvoc glanced at General Reiner, and Thalric watched for a message to pass between them, but none came that his eyes could divine.

  And at the last, ‘That will be all, Major,’ said Colonel Latvoc, and Thalric turned and left the room still not knowing what their thoughts were.

  Dawn had come slowly to Myna, as the sun told it, but there had been a starlit dawn that had swept across the city like wildfire. It said: Kymene is free. It said: Ulther the Bloat is dead. In the minds of the people of that city, these two events were inextricably bound.

  In the cellar where Chyses’ cell kept its headquarters there had been a steady influx of visitors, ambassadors arriving from other cells. Some were his old allies, others had opposed him, even fought against his people. Now they were here to see Kymene again because, of all the people in the city, she could unite them. Ulther had known it, too, but Ulther had been just as taken with her as her own people were, so had not done what he might to deprive Myna of its Maid.

  Tynisa sat and watched the resistance come and go, or cluster in small groups to await their leader. Chyses went from one to another, shaking hands, clasping wrists like a soldier should. She could see he was working hard to bury old enmities, for the men he spoke most words of encouragement to were those who liked him least.

  Che was taking a while to recover, or at least something was on her mind, and Salma was still sleeping despite the mounting fuss around him. He had been bound almost all the time he was imprisoned, Che had said. That must have stopped him getting much rest. She imagined him with arms dragged behind his back, sitting through the night and watching over Che. Idly she stood up and walked over to his pallet.

  Tynisa had always prided herself on being independent, relying on no one. It was an easy thing to take pride in when she had never needed to do so. Her relationship with Salma had always been a joking, teasing one, underscored by an annoyance that her charms had never been quite enough to conquer him. Her relationship with Che had been, she admitted, a vain one. It had been a pleasant situation to have a plainer sister, one so earnest and good natured, and graceless.

  Only when they were taken away from her had Tynisa realized how she loved them both, how they had become part of her. She knelt down beside Salma, seeing in sleep a face that he never usually presented to the world. Asleep, he looked five years younger, and it struck her that she had always assumed him older than her, and never known different. Absently she smoothed the dark hair from his forehead, and watched as his eyelids fluttered for a moment. Dream dreams of freedom, she urged him silently.

  She heard no tread but suddenly felt Tisamon’s presence beside her. He wore his usual grave, melancholy expression, and she wondered whether he ever relaxed it, even when sleeping.

  ‘I have something to speak to you about,’ he said softly. ‘If you will.’

  Where am I with him now? The fight in the sewers had broken down the wall surrounding him, but he was still exploring the new world that she presented for him. She sensed that he had now come to some decision.

  She followed him over to the patch of floor that he had slept on, where his pack and few belongings lay.

  ‘You have something of mine,’ he said, and she did not understand.

  Seeing her blank expression, he smiled bleakly. ‘Nothing I would wish on another, but it is within you. You have Atryssa’s face, her clever mind, I think, her skill, but you have something also of mine.’

  Something of the Mantis, she realized. ‘I . . . my Art shows nothing of your kinden, I think . . .’ she said. ‘I cannot fly. I have no spines like yours.’

  Mirth now, in that smile, of a wintry kind. ‘And is all Art worn so openly? Tell me what races in your veins when you fight, Tynisa. Tell me the lust in your heart when you scent blood. Tell me of your joy when blade meets blade.’

  His words felt like a blow.

  ‘No—’

  ‘But yes,’ he said. ‘I have seen you fight. With a Spider’s poise, yes, but you have my people’s Art behind you, and it makes you deadly and it makes you alive.’

  She recalled that moment in Stenwold’s house, standing over the slain assassin with her victory singing in her ears, and fighting the Wasps and the street thugs in Helleron, the men of the Gladhanders, the guards she cut through to get to Che and Salma. She could pin motives to all of those – to save herself, to save her friends, to pay her debts – and yet her heart had taken fire once the steel was out. Something had come to possess her then, that coursed through her like a fierce poison, that made her mad. It also made her brave and swift and fierce. She thrilled with the knowledge of her own skill even as she cut lives from bodies like a gambler shuffling cards.

  ‘I . . .’ Her heritage, her Mantis heritage, was lurking behind this Spider face of hers, and with it all of its blood-greed, its oaths and promises, its ancient traditions and its long memory. All of this she was inheritrix to.

  And it was terrible, to find that heritage inside her like a cancer, but when she met his eyes he looked as proud of her as nobody had ever been, and it was wonderful, then.

  ‘That sword does not fit you,’ he said. It was a Mynan shortsword she had borrowed, a heavy, inelegant th
ing.

  ‘It’s better than none,’ she suggested.

  He knelt by his gear and gestured for her to do the same. She felt an odd shiver as she did so. She stood now on the far side of some barrier or threshold that he had long kept her from.

  ‘When we came to this city before, I had expected to meet your mother here, as you know,’ he said, not quite looking at her. ‘And I did not, and the truth of why that was so is recent for both of us. However . . .’ He spread his hands, and she saw the spines on his forearms flex with this small motion. ‘I had meant . . . I had thought, while we were apart. I wanted to make some gesture, to bind her to me, to bind me to her. Just something.’ A faded smile. ‘We could not wed. For my people it is a ceremony sacred, and they would slay me rather than see me united with her kind. For hers, however, their women may take many men, as they will. But I wanted to show what she meant to me. I am not good with words, as you can tell. So I found her a gift.’ One hand made a movement towards his rolled blankets and his pack, but he withdrew it. ‘And then she did not come. But I could not cast the gift away. It was . . . important, valuable, to me. I have carried it ever since, wherever I went. I have put it above my bed and hoped that some rogue would steal it, and rid me of it, for it has always reminded me of her. And every night, when I came back to whatever low place I lodged in, there it still was. And now you are here, in this city, her daughter and her very image – and my own blood as well. And you have lost a sword.’

  At last he looked her straight in the eye. ‘You don’t believe in fate,’ he stated.

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘You have a heritage. In truth you have two. You have been brought up by Beetles, surrounded by machines and ideas you cannot ever grasp. You try to think like them, but your blood says otherwise. My people believe in fate, and in many other things the Beetle-kinden do not teach, and your mother’s kinden likewise. I believe this is fate.’