He controlled his momentary scowl. ‘What the Empire will do, I can only guess. I’m more than happy to keep you off the streets, Bella.’
‘Hover-fly. Your round, hover-fly,’ Laszlo told him.
‘Don’t call me that.’ Their needling him about the Empire was the only thing that got a rise out of te Riel, and the more he denied it, the more they believed it.
‘Brandy, was it?’ Laszlo kept on. ‘Pick a good year.’ Everyone knew the best brandy was Wasp-export.
Te Riel stood, turning the angry motion into a curt wave at one of the taverna staff. ‘If you truly thought I was Rekef you’d not be so free with me.’ He had said it before, and it was the unconscious stress he put on ‘Rekef’, that sudden passion, that had decided the others about his allegiance.
‘I see Lorchis isn’t in his seat by the corner yet,’ Breighl observed, changing the subject as naturally as he could. ‘And no sign of Raedhed either.’
A fresh bottle came, not brandy but local sweet wine, and they got to discussing their peers, presences and absences and speculation, trading gems of information that spies in other cities would have had to shadow and lurk and burgle for and still end up with nothing more reliable at the end of it.
The Empire was out there, a formless shadow on the northern horizon, a vast storm-front that could head south at any time. There were Aristoi families, just the far side of the Exalsee, that had designs on Solarno, and probably on the wider world. There were Ants whose only plan for defending their sovereignty was the systematic beating down of their neighbours. There was a Beetle spymaster who had readied himself so much for the next Wasp attack that he might just end up precipitating it. Laszlo knew it, and everyone in the Taverna te Remi knew it.
But Liss was sneaking him a grin, even though she was hanging on to te Riel’s arm. Her expression seemed to say that she was forced to pander to the Imperial, with his ready money and his arrogant manner, but they both knew who she would rather be touching.
The spring was warm, the promised summer hotter. The prospect of war, always alluded to but never spoken of outright, seemed a long way away just now.
She had left on te Riel’s arm that day, but two days later towards nightfall she dropped into Laszlo’s lodgings, where he was keeping a desultory eye on the civic hangars. Letters of introduction from some Fly aviatrix in Collegium had secured Laszlo a small third-storey room within sight of the city’s upper classes, and this place was more than most foreign agents could have boasted. Besides, small and high up only meant that it was perfect for a Fly-kinden.
‘I can’t stay,’ she warned him, even as she flitted in through his window. He was lying on his side, stripped to the waist in the evening’s muggy heat, trying to balance his telescope so that it would support itself while he looked through it.
‘Top-secret orders come through at last?’ he asked her drily.
‘Breighl wants me to go to the theatre with him.’
‘You’d rather have orders?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘And I’m not suggesting that Painful feels that way about you, but some orders, hm? From whoever you really work for?’
Laszlo shrugged. ‘Nice just to take stock, sometimes.’
She had been poised in the open window all this time, and now she darted over to the bed, landing demurely beside him. Laszlo was lean and strong, for a Fly, having spent much of his life wrestling with sails and lines, and she put a hand on his arm with a mischievous expression. ‘Stories, stories,’ she murmured, for it was his bad arm, the one he had broken, and the mottling of injury was still to be seen.
‘You’ve seen mine, do I get to see yours?’ he asked her gamely.
A snort was all that got him, and a change of subject. ‘Anything to drink? If I’m going to sit through three hours of Spider opera, I need a lining to my stomach. Brain, too, probably.’
He had a bucket of water in the lee of the window, where the sun never quite chased the shadows away, and the bottle he extracted from it was still cool. He was quite aware that this was not what Stenwold Maker had sent him here for, and that a proper spy would probably know all sorts of ways to seduce te Liss and get her talking. He could only imagine te Riel trying and — in his mind’s eye — abjectly failing. With Laszlo himself, however, she seemed more than willing to be seduced, and by unspoken accord neither of them asked awkward questions. Take good weather where you find it, as Laszlo’s old sailing master used to say.
They would talk often of te Riel and Breighl, or of other agents, the individual personalities of the Solarnese intelligencing crowd, but nothing of the causes, the nations and powers. We are living in the moment between one wave and the next. Long may it last.
She did not make the theatre that night.
Later, close to midnight, there was a crash from outside, a shattering of glass, and Laszlo leapt from the bed, whipping a knife from his discarded belt without thinking. A moment’s pause and he heard drunken laughter outside, and someone else cursing — just late revellers bound for home. He looked for Liss’s sleeping form and found her already halfway to the window. The blade in her hand was hiltless with a weighted pommel, perfect for throwing. For a moment they faced each other, armed and deadly, waiting to see if something had changed.
Liss breathed out a shuddering sigh, casting her weapon aside. She sat on the bed, looking abruptly tired and human, not the grinning little tease who kept three men on their toes at the Taverna te Remi. ‘Laszlo…’ she began.
He was beside her on the instant, and she leant into his embrace gratefully, even though he only remembered to drop his dagger a moment later.
‘It wasn’t-’ he started, but she just shook her head. War. It wasn’t war.
Three
In the last days of spring, the high paths of the mountain were still treacherous with snow. When she walked, she skidded and slipped, clinging to the slick rock face with both hands for purchase. When she flew, the wind made a plaything of her, whirling her about the stone as though she was flying through a maze of knives and bludgeons.
She was Moth-kinden, though, and this was her home. The peaks around Tharn had been a stronghold of her people for thousands of years. One of the last few since the Apt had driven them from the Lowland cities.
Grey-skinned, grey-robed, her eyes featureless white, her hair a sheet of black falling past her shoulders: a monochrome woman, a shadow or a ghost, slipping silently at midday through the high passes, unnoticed.
She hoped unnoticed. She had a great deal of practice in passing unseen past living eyes, but she was no great magician — certainly as her people measured such things — and if the eyes that were seeking her belonged to her own kinden, then no amount of stealth and secrecy might suffice to hide her.
Her name was Xaraea, and she was a woman of fragmented loyalties. Loyal to her kinden, of course, or at least to those that called Tharn their home, or to their secret service, the shadowy Arcanum that could evoke the same fear as the Imperial Rekef in the right circles. But even that was not quite true, for the Arcanum had been riven with factions and rivalries since long before some barbarian Wasp chief ever thought of building an Empire. She was loyal to a handful of Skryres — the high magicians of the Moths — who were her superiors in her chapter of the Arcanum, men and women of implacable, unquestioned authority whose names she did not even know.
There was a sudden flurry of white, not fresh but blown from above, and she crouched, drawing her cloak about her, displaying stone colours against the stone. Moth eyes could still be blinded by snow, so she remained huddled, looking over her shoulder and waiting to see if the passing of the gust revealed any untoward movement behind her.
She had done good work during the war, had contributed to the costly victory that had seen the Empire driven out of Tharn. The price had been high, though, and the architects of that freedom had found themselves under attack from their enemies within the city, and even from those who formerly had not been
their enemies. Xaraea knew that her masters were on the defensive on the home front, but she knew also that their main focus had not wavered. As they wrestled with rival factions, in fierce debates that she would never be admitted to, they never lost sight of the enemy without. The Empire could come back at any time.
Xaraea had the sense that other factions were considering the Empire, too. She knew well that there was a surprisingly large Tharen diplomatic delegation at the Empress’s court. Wheels were in motion, and hers was the frustration of every intelligencer: that she could not know everything all at once. Sometimes she wondered if she knew anything at all.
Her orders still rang in her ears, though: clear, simple words from a cunning old man normally given to riddles and circumlocution. On no account must you be discovered. Nobody must know of what you have done. Implicit in the words was the knowledge that those he was warning her about were not foreign agents but others of her own people.
The phalanstery loomed before her without warning. It had been carved from the rock by her people long ago as a retreat, austere and understated, just a doorway and some narrow slits of windows cut into a span of rock that barely seemed the work of human hands. The door was new, though, crafted of heavy wood bound with metal, and with the look of being cut down from something larger. How the current occupants had hauled it all the way up here was beyond her, but then they were likely to feel the cold more than her mountain-loving kinden.
About to reach for the iron ring set into the door’s surface, she had a sudden moment of suspicion, looking about her in every direction. But she knew that, if she had been followed here, such caution came too late, and she had failed.
The place was a well-guarded secret, its very existence buried deep within the great libraries in the heart of the mountain, lost in plain sight as only the Moths could conceal their lore. Her masters had installed the current residents here a generation ago, and helped them become self-sufficient, teaching them all that the Moths knew about growing crops in the thin soil of the high fields. Those who lived here owed a great debt to her masters, and she had come to collect on it.
The door swung open, and she looked into the face of a Wasp-kinden.
She had been properly briefed and she did not even flinch. Fully three-quarters of the phalanstery’s residents were Wasps, and almost all of them former soldiers. That was essentially what this place was all about.
Perhaps he saw something in her face indicating the purpose behind her visit, for he hesitated before stepping back and letting her in. He wore a long robe, brown like a Way Brother’s, belted but without the sword that must have travelled with him most of his life. The calluses on his hands were born of the rake and hoe now.
‘Your name?’ she demanded of him. Names had power, everyone knew, except the Apt, and therefore perhaps the names of the Apt had no power after all. Still, old habits died hard.
‘Salthric,’ he told her flatly, not hostile but not welcoming either. ‘We were not expecting visitors.’
I should hope not. ‘Never mind that. I am here to see one of your people. Who must I speak to? Who is your… commanding officer.’ She pronounced the Wasp-kinden words precisely, and saw them strike him like a blow.
‘You may speak with me,’ Salthric said firmly. ‘I am Father here.’ In the Empire, his order organized itself into cells, brothers under the hand of a Father. She sneered inwardly at the patriarchy of it, but the Broken Sword cult was almost exclusively male. It was well known that the Empire did not tolerate societies, philosophical orders or sects within its hierarchy. No two masters: that was the Imperial creed. In reality a fair few were diplomatically overlooked, such as the Mercy’s Daughters, who trailed the armies and brought succour to the injured, or the Arms Brothers duelling societies that had such clandestine popularity amongst the Imperial officers. Of all the sects that the Empire hated, however, and rooted out wherever it was found, the Broken Sword was the most reviled. Its very existence was anathema to the Empire, for it dared to speak against war, the Empire’s lifeblood. Its members were mostly soldiers who had seen too much, done too much, lost too many friends, gone too long without seeing their families or homes. Most of them worked secretly within the Empire, within the very army, but one of their projects was to smuggle out those who had simply had too much of war, and this phalanstery in the mountains of Tharn was one such destination.
She faced up to Salthric, a slender, grey young woman against a strong-framed man whose very hands could kill. ‘Esmail,’ she said. ‘I’m here for him.’
His expression told her that he had been expecting something of the sort. He took a deep breath, and said, ‘No.’
‘It was not a request.’
‘No, he is at peace here. He does not deserve to have it taken from him,’ Salthric replied, with surprising vehemence.
‘You have no understanding of what he is,’ she told him flatly.
‘I may only be one of the Apt, but I know,’ he hissed. ‘I understand. I know how much he has lost — to your people. I will not let you have him.’
They were not alone now. Three other robed Wasps had heard their voices and drifted in: two were middle-aged, one old enough to have retired if he had still been with the army. They looked from her to Salthric warily, not sure what was going on.
‘You owe my people,’ Xaraea stated, staring Salthric in the eye. ‘Who brought you here? Who gave you this place? Who let you live unmolested in the mountains? Who taught you our ways so that you could survive?’
‘I know all this-’ he started, but she was not done.
‘And when the Empire came to Tharn with its machines and soldiers, who was it said nothing about our guests here in the phalanstery?’
Silence fell, her eyes boring into his.
‘The politics of Tharn are very fluid at the moment, Salthric — especially where the Empire is concerned. Who would you want to be the next visitor knocking at your door?’
In his face was not fear for himself, but fear for everything else there, for the other exiles, his precious order.
She had no time for respect or pity. ‘Take me to Esmail, if you please.’
She saw his hands twitch at his sides, fingers clawing as his stinging Art surged within him, and as he fought down generations of Wasp anger. He could kill her, without doubt, but then what? The Broken Sword’s existence here was precarious enough as it was. At last, he turned, storming off into the deeper halls, and she stepped lightly after him.
There was a little light within, from shafts sunk into the rock, but mostly they relied on torches and lanterns fixed to the walls. She suspected that the older residents no longer needed them, finding their way through the buried rooms by touch and memory. That Salthric took a torch with him was, she suspected, a wretched attempt to warn her target that they were approaching.
The faces she passed were almost universally Wasp men, but not quite all. Some were women; the luckiest escapees had managed to bring their families away with them. There were a few Ants as well, a Bee-kinden, the grey-blue of a Mynan Beetle. The Broken Sword was for broken soldiers, and they made no hard distinctions as to kinden.
Esmail, the man she had come to see, was no Wasp, and — despite Salthric’s words — Xaraea was unconvinced that the Broken Sword truly knew what his heritage was.
Salthric guided her to a doorway hung with a curtain, in the Moth style. For a moment he just glowered at her, then he stalked off, leaving her alone.
Perhaps he hopes Esmail will kill me, she considered. It was certainly a possibility.
She pushed aside the curtain and went in. There were two rooms beyond, square boxes of stone one after the other, and Esmail stood in the archway between them, ready to fight her if necessary.
Xaraea smiled, for she saw her path clearly now. They taught cruelty early, in the Arcanum.
He was a lean, poised man with a gaunt face and a high forehead, eyes deep as wells, dark enough to defeat even a Moth’s sight. His mouth was a narrow
line. Not a Wasp, and yet most would find it hard to say quite what kinden he was. Some halfbreed, perhaps, save that he bore none of the signs of crossed heredity. His hair was the colour of iron, his skin a tan that could have been inherent or just the work of the sun. His hands were empty, no weapon in sight, but he was only a moment away from killing her. He would always, she suspected, be a moment from killing her, or anyone he met, for it was his blood and his nature. Right now he was ready to kill her because he was defending something. Esmail was not alone.
There was a woman behind him, a Dragonfly-kinden from the Commonweal, and Xaraea wondered idly what her history must have been to bring her here and in this company. At their feet clustered the children. The eldest was a girl of perhaps five, and looking very like her mother. The younger two could have been two or three, surely born together and yet how different! One boy was as much a Dragonfly as his mother, but the other had his father’s features, his father’s entire kinden — as unlike his siblings as a total stranger.
‘Ah, look,’ Xaraea said sweetly. ‘One has bred true. Another generation secure, hm?’
Esmail’s eyes looked loathing at her, but he was scared. Not scared of her but of what she represented, the same threat that had cowed Salthric. Esmail had lived in peace here because Xaraea’s people had arranged and permitted it: not the Moths, not Tharn, nor even the Arcanum, but that small section of it that she served. Skryres loved their secrets, and some of those secrets were men.
It was a strange quirk of Esmail’s kinden that their offspring were always true-bred, following one parent or the other. If not for that, they would have died out centuries ago, for they had been near-exterminated and the few survivors scattered across the world. The chances of a suitable pair of them meeting and raising children was tiny, and yet the kinden itself clung on through a precarious chain of mixed-kinden matings like Esmail’s.
‘We call on you,’ Xaraea told him. ‘The time has come for you to go out into the world once more, Assassin Bug.’
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