Dragonfly Falling

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  Betrayed. He had known it would happen eventually, because he lived in a world of betrayal. He had been ready to kill his mentor, poor Ulther, after all, and lied to himself that it was for the Empire’s good. Am I any better than Daklan, for all my protestations? Worse, perhaps. At least Daklan had accepted the true darkness of what he did, while Thalric had blithely convinced himself that he was still a loyal servant of the Empire, and not just the tool of some faction.

  He stumbled, and the wound flared in his side, and for a moment he could not breathe. Inside him, something howled for his lost Empire, like a child ripped from its parents. Where did I go wrong? What can I do to make them take me back?

  But it was too late for that. There was only one thing the Empire wanted from him, and he would oblige it shortly and settle his account. All he had accomplished through his conscientious loyalty was to make himself expendable, and ultimately be expended.

  He did not feel he had the motivation to get up again. He had always been a tough and leathery creature, and he would spend a long time over dying. He felt he deserved it.

  But there were footsteps approaching, cautiously. No doubt the Vekken had tracked him. They might put him out of his misery, or take him back and try to save him. He wanted neither option.

  Thalric lifted his head to see who was coming. He saw booted feet, shimmering blue-green greaves and the hem of a cloak.

  With a great groan he fell onto his back, staring upwards, his gaze following the armoured lines until he came to her face. The sight of it stripped raw something in his mind, something branded into his memory, never to be forgotten. He heard a wordless, ragged cry, and knew the voice was his own.

  Fate, he realized, had truly found a fitting end for him.

  ‘I’ve found you at last,’ said Felise Mienn. That was the last thing Thalric heard for some time.

  A pain in his hands woke him, shooting cramps that let Thalric know his clenched fists were bound shut so that he could not use his sting.

  Everything seemed unexpectedly, appallingly bright. He had been trying to find somewhere to hide. Now there was sun so dazzling he could hardly open his eyes. Though his hands were bound, his arms were free, but he could barely lift them. He tried to sit up,

  The stitches now inserted in his side pulled alarmingly, and he remembered.

  Ah yes, Daklan. Daklan and his far-distant general, and the Empire.

  He could barely even remember the name of the general who had ordered his death. It hardly mattered, what with so many generals and so many agendas.

  Forcing his eyes open, he saw that he was not alone. He lay in a room that had been recently looted. The shutters were torn from the windows, a chest at the foot of his bed had been smashed open, and the wooden panelling had even been ripped off one wall. The design was Beetle-kinden, and he guessed that it was some farmhouse within sight of Collegium that Vekken soldiers had gone over whilst encircling that city. The man sitting beside the bed was no Beetle but a Spider-kinden with long greying hair, wearing a Beetle robe that was smeared with blood.

  ‘Who?’ His voice was a dismal croak. ‘Who are you?’

  The Spider smiled, his features lined with a weary humour. ‘You have a remarkable constitution, Master Thalric. I don’t think many people in your position would even be breathing, let alone talking.’

  ‘You . . . know my name, but who are you?’

  ‘My principal knows your name, and she’s been most anxious to meet you. However, she wanted me to get you in a state where you would be fit to meet her.’

  ‘Curse you!’ With a supreme effort, Thalric forced himself into a sitting position. He saw a flicker of surprise in the man’s face. ‘Tell me who you are!’

  ‘My name is Destrachis, Master Thalric, but does it mean anything? No? Are you happier now? Or let me elaborate: I am a traveller, something of an opportunist, a scholar, and a doctor of medicine, which is why you are even in a position to ask these questions.’ Destrachis stood. ‘You’ll be leaving soon, when you’re strong enough to walk. A day or two, who knows? You are remarkably resilient, and I see from the patchwork you’ve made of your skin that this is hardly the first time you’ve been wounded, although perhaps the worst.’

  Thalric hissed in rage. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded, ‘what is going on.’

  Destrachis, pausing at the door, smiled back at him. ‘She wants you to run, Master Thalric. She wants to feel her victory over you. She wants you dead, but she wants you to appreciate just why – and by whose agency – your death will occur. I can’t claim to understand it myself, but she wants satisfaction, and skewering a sick man while he’s dying on the ground is not apparently very satisfying. So, after chasing you all the way across the Lowlands, she ordered me to make you well enough to run again. Perhaps that makes some sense to an imperial mind?’

  ‘The Empire and I have parted company,’ Thalric muttered. ‘But she . . . ?’

  ‘Her name is Felise Mienn,’ the Spider informed him. ‘A Dragonfly-kinden noblewoman. I have no idea why she hates you quite this much.’

  Thalric slumped back heavily in the bed, feeling his strength drain away all at once at the very sound of that name. She had been hunting him. All this time, she had been hunting him, and he had never been aware.

  The Commonweal during the Twelve-Year War . . . when the Rekef Outlander agents such as himself were moving ahead of the army, disrupting any resistance the Dragonfly-kinden could mount: raids, sabotage, rumours.

  And assassination – dark deeds that he had performed gladly, knowing that the impenetrable shield of the imperial will kept him safe from guilt or blame.

  ‘I killed her children,’ he recalled hoarsely. ‘And I made her watch.’

  ‘Yes, that would do it,’ Destrachis said, quite unmoved by the thought, and left him there to reflect.

  Thirty-Four

  ‘We’ve been seen,’ Tynisa said. The black shape in the sky had wheeled back past them and was now darting off.

  ‘Some time ago,’ Tisamon confirmed. ‘Fly-kinden, which tells us little because even the Empire uses them as scouts sometimes.’

  They took refuge in a hollow that was carpeted with shoulder-high thorny bushes. Out here in the hill country east of Merro there was little enough cover.

  ‘Just a local, do you think?’

  ‘Any local would be keeping his head down, with an army on their doorstep,’ Tisamon remarked. Except, of course, that it wasn’t. By all reason and logic, the Wasp army that had sacked Tark should already have been all over Egel and Merro, and probably at the gates of Kes by now, but aside from those possible scouts, there was no sign of it.

  Felyal had provided a boat, a little one-handed skiff that Tisamon had handled ably enough, with the air of a man for whom old skills came back easily. Mantis-kinden made swift boats, this one with such a broad sail and so little hull that Tynisa was constantly clutching at its mast for fear of the water. They had kept close to the coast, running easterly in good time, creeping past the lights of Kes one dark night and then beaching in a secluded bay, all the while looking for signs of the imperial advance.

  From then on they had just been watching and waiting, but it was almost as if the Wasps had simply decided to head back north after taking Tark.

  ‘We couldn’t be behind their lines, could we?’ Tynisa asked.

  ‘If so, we’d know it. Wasp-owned land has a feel to it. And they’d be all over here, taking stock, taking slaves. No, they’re still ahead, and I can’t understand it.’

  They rose from the hollow and soon put another two hills behind them. Lying flat on the crest of the second hill, Tisamon squinted into the distance.

  ‘Is . . . that looks like a camp. A big one.’

  Tynisa joined him, spotting a dark blot on the horizon. The land was more wooded around here, patches of cypress and wild olives and locust trees that sketchily followed the lines of streams, with cicadas half the size of a man screaming like torn metal at irregular intervals. It se
emed to Tynisa that the darkness Tisamon was pointing to could just be more of the same green, but he seemed convinced that it was an army.

  ‘And camped there, in broad daylight,’ he said. ‘And it’s just a field camp, a temporary pitch-up. No fortifications, nothing. The army’s just sitting there eating up its rations. So what is going on?’

  ‘The scout’s back,’ Tynisa noticed.

  Tisamon risked a look upwards. They were both wearing green and earth tones, camouflaged against the dusty ground. So had he detected them again? Yes. The scout circled a moment and then seemed to be coming down.

  Instantly, Tisamon’s claw was in his hand, but Tynisa murmured, ‘Wait.’

  The Fly landed twenty yards away, glancing about cautiously. He was dressed outrageously, they saw, and certainly no imperial soldier.

  ‘Is that what they’re wearing in Merro these days?’ Tisamon wondered. The little man was approaching them nonchalantly, pretending that he was just meandering and had not seen them. As he passed by he let a paper drop from the hands clasped behind his back. He was actually whistling tunelessly as he stared out with apparent satisfaction across the hillside. Then he took a deep breath, exhaled it, and was in the air again, darting off eastwards.

  ‘What in blazes was that all about?’ Tisamon demanded, but Tynisa had plucked up the discarded message and was reading it curiously. It was elegantly written in a florid script, and seemed so familiar from her College days that she wanted to laugh.

  ‘It’s an invitation,’ she said. ‘Someone wants to speak with us. It says to come down to the big grove.’ She pointed. ‘They must mean that one way down there.’

  Tisamon did not seem amused. ‘It’s a trap,’ he decided.

  ‘A long way to go for a trap.’

  He shrugged. ‘Some people think like that.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘This is Spider-kinden work – the clothes, the details, I know it.’

  ‘I suppose we are a bit close to the border up here,’ Tynisa allowed. ‘Are we going to go down?’

  ‘We are – but with weapons drawn,’ he decided. ‘I don’t trust any of this.’

  Approaching the grove they saw there was a sizeable body of people within it, and making no attempt to hide themselves. There was enough armour visible for them to see that none of it was in the Empire’s black and gold. They paused at the very edge of the trees, uncertain whether their stealthy approach had been observed or not.

  ‘Head west as fast as you can if this goes badly,’ Tisamon decided. ‘If it goes really badly, get yourself to Merro and send a messenger to Stenwold.’

  ‘Assuming Stenwold is in any position to receive one,’ Tynisa said, remembering the Vekken army.

  Tisamon shrugged. ‘We must make that assumption.’ Then he stood up and walked forward openly, his claw folded along his arm. Rapier held loosely in her hand, Tynisa followed.

  There was an instant stir amongst the guards on the perimeter, but they obviously knew to expect visitors. The Ant-kinden there drew a little closer at the sight of Tisamon, and the Spiders lounging beneath the sideless tent smirked a little, and murmured barbed comments to one another. But when Tisamon stood proudly before them, looking down his nose at them all, not one was willing to challenge him.

  ‘I believe someone wanted our company.’ Tisamon pitched his voice so as to carry to all of them. Tynisa looked about them, reading their stances, their faces. They were not expecting a fight, she noted. Not an ambush, then, or not immediately. She turned to see a richly dressed Spider-kinden stand up from amongst his fellows. He was a strikingly handsome man, neatly bearded and with a very white smile. Something about him sent a shiver through her, though, not one of attraction but of warning. If it was her Mantis blood that governed her battle instincts, now her Spider blood took over. This was a man to be reckoned with, she knew. He was Aristoi, therefore political through and through.

  When he smiled at her, though, she liked him despite herself.

  ‘Won’t you come a little closer?’ he offered. ‘It would be crass of me to conduct my business at the top of my voice, but I’m loath to scald myself beneath this wretched sun.’

  ‘I do not fear you,’ Tisamon informed him, and stepped on until he was just outside the little pavilion. He left enough room around him for fighting unhampered, Tynisa noticed. The legendary Mantis dislike of the other man’s entire race was rigidly evident in every line of his body.

  ‘My scouts shall be disciplined,’ the Spider said. ‘They told me two Mantids, but I see only one, albeit as much a Mantis as one might wish to encounter, and one remarkable woman. Pray allow me, sweet lady, to have the honour of naming myself.’

  He was expecting a response, but she did not know what to offer, and so she shrugged. He took that as satisfactory, and made a remarkably fluid and elegant bow while never quite taking his eyes off her. ‘I present myself as the Lord-Martial Teornis of the Aldanrael, and I offer you the solemn bond of my hospitality.’ He saw the twitch in Tisamon’s face and his smile turned rueful. ‘Ah well, I admit that in certain circles the Aristoi’s iron word bears a trace of rust, but you would accept wine, surely, if I offered it? And some refreshment. If you will not trust my open intent, you may rely on my love of indulging my own luxuries.’

  Tynisa smiled at him despite herself. ‘I am Tynisa, and this is Tisamon of Felyal. I will drink and eat with you, Master Spider, on the condition that you do not ask my companion to.’

  ‘A lady of compromise,’ Teornis observed. ‘Delightful.’ With a gesture he caused a cloth to be laid out on the ground, with silk cushions strewn around, and a low table bearing an assortment of dishes, most of them not immediately familiar. The other Spider-kinden had moved back a little to make space, and were now sitting or lying, watching the two newcomers slyly.

  Tynisa knelt at the table, knowing that Tisamon would stand there like a hostile statue until this ritual was done, or until something went wrong. She decided it would be best if she herself spoke for them.

  ‘This seems an unusual place, and time, for an Aristos of the Spider-kinden to ride out merely for pleasure,’ she remarked. A Fly servant put a goblet in her hand and she sipped, finding wine as rich and potent as any she had ever tasted.

  Teornis settled down facing her across the table. His gaze on her was still admiring, though just as certainly she knew that it had been donned with as much care as his shirt or his boots. ‘Pleasure, my lady Tynisa? Why this is a military outing. Surely you won’t deny we make a fearsome spectacle?’

  ‘Military? To what end? Have the Spiderlands been invaded as well?’

  ‘Because my curiosity is raging, first please tell me how a Spider-kinden lady comes to be travelling with one of those who have, all unjustly, declared themselves our mortal enemies?’

  Best not to put any further weapon in his hand. ‘We are simply old friends, Tisamon and I.’

  ‘You are rich in your choice of friends, obviously,’ Teornis remarked. His fingers hovered over the spread of food, and he plucked at a mound of candied somethings. ‘Tisamon of Felyal, you say. Is it Felyal you have now come from? I have an ulterior motive in asking, as you see. I seek someone to carry word for me. I fear Felyal would be of little use, since none there would credit a word I have to say.’

  ‘Surely you have followers enough to bear a message, Lord-Martial?’

  At the sound of his title, no expression crossed his face, no pride at her using it. ‘Alas, I am caught in my own nets. These are wicked times, and when word comes from the Spiderlands, who will accept it at face value? Hence I hoped to convince you of my pure heart and true motives, and send you back to your home or your employer with my news, and hopefully your own words to plead my suit for me.’

  ‘Well then,’ she said. ‘I am come here from Collegium, my home.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Far abroad indeed, and shame on me, I should have marked the accent. I now see how you must have overcome the age-old hatred of my kin to allow this man into your confid
ence. Collegium? My lady Tynisa, perhaps you may be of use to me, if you would?’

  He is very carefully stopping himself from calling Tisamon my servant or slave, or my possession in any way. It had been a long time since she had sat and sparred like this, weighing every word spoken, but the skills came back to her, as much part of her as the lunge of a sword.

  While she considered, Tisamon interrupted shortly, ‘What do you want of us?’ His tone made it painfully clear that his trust was far from won.

  ‘I cannot believe that you’re travelling in these parts and have not heard of the Wasp Empire’s recent actions,’ Teornis explained. Noting their reactions he nodded. ‘More than merely heard, I see. Well then, if you were, in a moment of childish enthusiasm, to climb to the top of the tallest tree in this grove, you would see from there some thirty thousand Wasp-kinden soldiers and their followers, who have been camped for some time, and whose destination is Merro and Egel first, Kes second, and one imagines the world, from then on, in any order they please.’

  ‘What keeps them there?’ Tisamon growled.

  ‘You are a Mantis, and therefore a fighting man,’ Teornis observed. ‘Yet I claim a glorious piece of military history for my own kinden, since I have stood their thirty thousand off in open country with just two hundred men – and I still do.’

  That breached Tisamon’s reserve, and for a moment he forgot that he was talking to an enemy, a hated deceiver. ‘It can’t be done.’

  ‘All the same, I have done it. If my kind were remotely impressed by such entertainments I would be taught in the academies. My problem now is simply that I cannot go on doing it for ever. They are currently waiting, I am informed, for word from their leaders. My people are meanwhile doing their best to make sure that word is slow in coming, but come it will, and then they will move.’

  ‘And you and yours will be swept away like chaff,’ Tisamon finished, sounding unnecessarily satisfied at the prospect.

  ‘All things are possible,’ Teornis allowed. ‘Have you means of returning to Collegium, my lady Tynisa? Because if you would sail today and inform them of the events transpiring here, I would count myself in your debt.’