A moment later she was pelting towards the transports herself, aware that she had left her escape surely too late. Even as she thought it, though, one of the rugged wheeled vehicles slewed to an untidy halt next to her, its open back crammed with her soldiers. She saw a young Beetle-kinden girl pedalling the mounted ballista around to face the enemy, while Gerethwy had his mechanized snapbow resting on the back rail.
She leapt up, caught at an outstretched hand and was hauled in, even as the driver kicked the vehicle into motion again, wrestling with the gearings until they were grinding away satisfactorily once more. She heard Gerethwy’s weapon discharge with a hammering snap-snap-snap. She had already opened her mouth to tell him to stop, that there was no point wasting ammunition at this range, when the first of the enemy automotives had ploughed alongside them, clattering past on its nest of pistoning legs, in pursuit of one of the other transports.
Her mouth remained open.
Gerethwy trained his weapon on it, the snapbow bolts ricocheting hopelessly, without a chance of penetrating those thick armour plates. A moment later, the ballista loosed, the explosive bolt leaping the narrow gap between the vehicles, to bloom and burst against the side of the enemy, knocking it off course a little but leaving only a soot mark and a shallow scar.
‘Down!’ someone called out, and then their own automotive rocked, veering dangerously towards the enemy machine beside them with its port wheels off the ground. Behind, receding, ascended the plume of a near-miss, and beyond that another of the implacable enemy, getting up speed again.
‘Incredible!’ Gerethwy shouted. ‘Look how fast they accelerate! We couldn’t get up speed in twice that time!’ He shook his head, the student artificer in him clearly taken by the things, however deadly they were. ‘Still, I’ll wager we’re faster on the flat-’
There was the sound of thunder from ahead and to their right, and they saw one of the other transports abruptly flip sideways, its rear axle and wheels disintegrating as it was caught by a low shot from one of the pursuing enemy, and Gerethwy shut up, long face ashen. There had been bodies flung up in that moment, human ragdoll shapes revolving in the dust. Fellow soldiers, comrades, people they knew.
The ballista was shooting again, loosing bolts back at the machines in their wake, every distraction or deviation winning them a few seconds’ grace. If they did not have to stop to shoot, we’d be done for, Straessa realized. But Gerethwy had been right: now they had got up to speed they were pulling away, the two transports. Although a few more geysers of dust and dirt fountained up nearby, the enemy was falling behind.
All they had won here was their lives. They had lost the earthmovers, lost the chance of preparing their ground properly, lost a third of their force or more.
And we have seen the enemy. It was an uncertain blessing at best.
A small hand touched her arm, and she looked down to see Sartaea te Mosca. There was blood on the Fly’s fingers, and Straessa was surprised to find it was her own, from a shallow line cut into her forearm by some errant shard of metal or broken stone.
‘Tell me something comforting,’ she said to the Fly, sitting down and letting the little woman smear a stinging ointment on the wound. But Sartaea te Mosca had nothing to say.
Thirty-Five
The woman who called herself Gesa — who had for most of her life borne the name Garvan and dressed like a Wasp-kinden man, but who was currently painted and disguised as a halfbreed Beetle woman — was nothing if not a creature of dutiful field-craft. She had been given the means by which to leave messages for her superiors, and by which to receive orders. She was not to be simply a maverick agent working on her own recognizance.
This she now regretted.
It had been imperative that she entered Collegium as a refugee carrying nothing to mark her as a spy. Once in the city, however, she had been able to buy or steal parts, working to a plan that she had memorized. A little dirigible, its airbag no larger than a human head, was easy enough to arrange, and it seemed almost half the army around her was composed of students and engineers and idle tinkerers. She had assembled her toy within plain sight.
That night she had crept to the camp’s perimeter and taken a turn as sentry. The Collegiates were not entirely lax in their security, and indeed their sentries, volunteers mostly, were more diligent and keen than would be the bored, resentful Imperial regulars pressed into such a tedious job. However, they looked only outwards, and were more than happy to be relieved by another. Gesa knew that the Collegiate camp was watched by Spider-kinden agents of the Aldanrael, who had kept pace with the Beetle force’s advance. Now she simply sat with her lantern on the ground beside her, and moved her foot in front of it, just a nervous habit to any watcher within camp; but to the dark-adjusted eyes out there, it provided a simple code of bright and dark that told them to expect a message.
At the third repetition, she’d had to hope that the spies had noticed her, for certainly no answering signal would be risked. As she had chosen a camp boundary with the breeze at her back, she had simply let the tiny, dark-ballooned dirigible drift away, her crabbed reports tucked into its little basket.
Two days later, and she had received her orders in response. She had watched the little trench-digging force return in a great hurry, and depleted, all the eyes of the camp watching them. A few hours after that, the camp still reeling from the news of the Imperial automotives, a further body was picked up by the Collegiate scouts. It was one of those who was believed left dead back at the trenchworks, so the assumption was that the man had managed to stagger and crawl back towards his home camp, dying just out of sight of it. Any medical examination would give the lie to that, and Gesa reckoned that very soon someone would be asking why a dead man had been dragged out and left so prominently within a mile of the camp. It was good odds that someone else — perhaps Kymene, the Mynan general, who seemed one of the sharper blades around when it came to mistrusting people — would guess that some manner of message was intended.
By that time, Gesa had already taken her turn carrying the body, and found the folded message hidden in the dead man’s boot. By the time anyone started asking difficult questions, there would be no evidence left for them to find.
It had all gone off very smoothly indeed, and she had experienced a flush of pride at being part of Army Intelligence, which had taken the time to devise dozens of such stratagems while the Rekef just bickered and carried out purges and suffered from internal unrest.
Then she had read the orders.
She had reported to them earlier on the structure and the leadership of the Collegium camp, stating that they were divided irregularly, Maker’s Own Company into larger units, the Coldstone into smaller, various hangers-on such as the Mynans operating each to their own; that they had no clear chain of command, with decisions being made by a council consisting of the Mynan leader, the big Khanaphir, the two Company chief officers, and whoever they chose to invite along; that their infantry was well armed, armoured and supplied, but that their automotives looked hastily converted for war. She had made plain, in her report, that she was well placed for a variety of mischief within the camp, as well as providing further reports when possible. There was no other Imperial agent within the camp that she was aware of. She had made of herself a prized asset.
And they had thrown it all away. Here then was her order, and it was a kill list of majestic proportions, nothing more sophisticated than the thug’s work that her compatriots were tasked with back inside the city. Amongst all the ingenuity they could have set her to, this was the result. All the names she had mentioned were echoed back to her, mocking. Kill them. Kill them all.
She was just one woman, and not a trained assassin. Yet here were the orders: kill Kymene, kill Amnon, kill Marteus, kill Elder Padstock, and a half-dozen other names along with them, work enough for a whole team of specialists. Suicide for a single spy.
And that was exactly what these orders were, she realized. They were a death sentence
pronounced on her, and finally she understood.
Her service, her beloved Army Intelligence, had overstepped the mark. By virtue of its efficiency, by the way its successes showed up others’ past failures, it had come under the red and angry eye of the Rekef, and this was punishment for her and for who could know how many others. Orders that could not be carried out, inviting disobedience or outright failure. Elimination, therefore, of those Intelligence agents who had shown themselves capable servants of the Empire. I’ve been sold, she thought numbly. After all my work, just sold down the road, cast off. Cherten, she realized, must be a Rekef man after all, one of many, surely, ensconced within Intelligence ranks. Despite the stakes, despite the battle to come, the Rekef had not changed at all since the last war. It was more concerned with infighting than with the Empire’s success.
For a moment the mad thought gripped her — to run, head for Capitas, expose the whole shabby plot to… But there was nobody to whom she could go, and Capitas was the haunt of General Brugan, whose vengeful hand lay all over these orders.
She could ignore the commands. She could pretend she had never received them. Unless there was another agent, who had seen her take them. Now that the breath of the Rekef was on the back of her neck, she suspected everyone and everything.
Or she could obey, take at least a bite out of that kill list, and surely die in return, unknown and despised by friend and enemy alike.
She crumpled up the orders, then found a fire to consign them to, but she could not burn them out of her mind.
General Brugan had slept well last night, for the first time in months, in fact. The Empress had called him to her bed, but their lovemaking had been markedly different. He could almost persuade himself that all those memories, the nights of terror and helpless desire, had been just a nightmare. Seda had behaved as the demure Imperial wife that befitted a general’s station, anxious to please, demure and needful.
He had not gloated, nor mistreated her. What need to, when she was telling him that he had won?
With Vecter and Harvang, and Harvang’s man Ostrec, and all the other willing tools who had flocked to Brugan’s banner, it had been a simple piece of Rekef machination to isolate the Empress. Her favourites had been arrested, men such as Gjegevey now peopling the cells below the palace and waiting for Brugan to decide how best to dispose of them. Palace staff and higher-ranking functionaries of dubious loyalty had been redeployed, or sometimes just made to disappear. A silent coup had taken place, for the good of the Empire. Seda, who had momentarily escaped from the role that Brugan — and history — had intended for her, was now back in her place.
And the rest of it — the blood, the nights, the queasy, squeamish terror of it all — he could forget. He could write it off as an aberration, the pressure of office overwhelming the woman’s mind for a moment, but now put right. Even on his way to meet with Harvang and the others, with a half-dozen men at his back, Brugan paused a moment and shook his head, feeling unsettled.
All done with, he promised himself. All dealt with. It’s over.
And, of course, with the resumption of the world’s ways came the chance to deal with other irritations that had crept up on him while he had been distracted. It was true that the last war had torn some holes in the cloak the Rekef cast over the Empire and beyond, what with Brugan and his two rivals struggling against one another for control. Now it was time to stitch them closed again, to draw down the impenetrable Rekef veil of fear and secrecy, and to cut off whatever might try to crawl through the gaps. Such as Army Intelligence: those upstarts, the second sons, who had always been little more than a mouthpiece for the Rekef’s views, hands to undertake the tasks the Rekef disdained, and a source of convenient placements for Rekef agents. They had got above themselves. Without a stern Rekef eye on them, they had begun to imagine that they could actually do the Rekef’s job.
Brugan knew his proper priorities. The Empire must be protected from its enemies from without, of course — a task that was usually pursued proactively — but more importantly the Empire must be protected from internal strife. The status quo must be defended, and Army Intelligence had begun to make ripples. If they had simply been the clowns they were supposed to be, then no harm would have been done, but they had committed the cardinal error of succeeding, and too many people had been left wondering about the Rekef’s power and influence, and questioning the stranglehold it maintained on the Empire. Something had needed to be done, but thankfully there was a longtime Rekef man heading up Intelligence for the Second Army. As soon as Solarno was taken and General Tynan’s people took over the westward push, Brugan could ensure that Intelligence had its teeth pulled, firmly and fatally.
‘General.’
He acknowledged the salute of the soldier, one of the palace staff. ‘Report.’
‘Message from Colonel Harvang, sir.’
I’m on my way to meet the fat fool now, Brugan reflected. What is it that can’t wait?
‘He says to tell you, sir, the orders have gone to General Roder and the Eighth.’
Brugan stopped, staring at the man. ‘Orders to the Eighth from Harvang? What orders?’
‘Forgive me, sir, I don’t know.’ Receiving the full attention of the general of the Rekef was plainly more than the man was comfortable with.
What is Harvang playing at? The unexpected always put Brugan on the defensive, if only because there should be no room for it in a spymaster’s life. He waved the messenger away irritably, and doubled his pace. The possibility that, now the Rekef was firmly holding the reins again, there might be some challenge from the ranks had already occurred to him, and Harvang was certainly the leading contender, especially as he and his little catamite had done so much of the work in putting Seda in her place. But I had looked for more time to consolidate than this. Brugan ran a quick mental inventory of assets within the palace — those who were loyal, those who were for hire — and by his reckoning Harvang possessed nowhere near the support the man would have needed to strike now. Besides, Vecter would never back him, just as Harvang would never back Vecter: a rivalry that Brugan had always encouraged. So this is perhaps his first ranging shot, to see how I will react. And if it’s more, well… The men in formation behind him were a mere formality, of course, but a Rekef general’s orders would suffice to have them kill a mere Rekef colonel, of that he was sure.
It was a slightly depressing thought, that he might well have to do away with Harvang’s talents. Although at least I get that vermin Ostrec with him. We’ll see how much of a pretty boy he remains after a few rounds with the interrogators.
Seda always liked this level of the palace, he thought drily, as he mounted a final set of stairs and headed towards sunlight. No dingy Rekef cellars for the conspirators now, but an airy room with a balcony overlooking a muster square. After all, there was no need for secrecy any more.
He stepped through the doorway with the word, ‘Harvang…’ on his lips, and stopped dead.
Colonel Vecter sat on a couch across from the door, or at least he was propped there: his spectacles askew on his nose, eyes wide, his skin deathly pale. Brugan made a sound, just a wordless noise.
The Consortium magnate, Knowles Bellowern, sprawled to his left, lying on his back, dark skin gone an ashen grey. To Brugan’s right, as if struck down while rushing for the doorway, was an army major who had been privy to the plot. Only yesterday he had been nagging to receive a reward for his services. Someone had ensured that he had been given it. He lay face down, frozen fingers clawing at the stone floor.
Despite himself, Brugan took another two paces into the room.
There were others, but in the far corner, slouching in a chair, was the vast dead-leviathan bulk of Colonel Harvang, an appalling sack of flesh bleached white like some sea-thing dragged into daylight. Bloodless like them all, his sagging, flaccid face bore an expression of horrified disbelief.
Seda stood beside him, and she was not alone. At one shoulder stood a young Wasp with a fai
nt smile on his face, the one notable absence in the corpse-conspiracy that now surrounded them.
‘Ostrec!’ Brugan hissed, and then, without pause, ‘Kill him! Kill Ostrec now!’ for he himself could not raise a hand, not with her there.
Something moved very swiftly behind him, and he was spattered by a warm spray. Someone’s elbow struck Brugan in the back, staggering him, and there was some small scuffling, no more than that. Reeling back, turning with his palm raised, he found himself facing a figure in full armour of ornate Mantis construction, its only weapon a clawed metal gauntlet on one hand.
His men were dead. All his men were all dead. Brugan’s mouth moved, wordlessly. This was one of the Empress’s bodyguards, but had they not all been women? The faintly glimpsed face within the helm seemed as pale as the drained corpses around them.
He turned, hand directed now at the Empress but shaking so wildly that his true aim would have been unguessable. He could not loose, though. His sting was a prisoner of his hand and her eyes. Her feigning of the night before had been cast aside, as had all his assurances to himself that she was his, that she was just a Wasp woman, that she was in any way natural.
‘Do you fear, General Brugan?’ she asked him sweetly. ‘Do not, for you are dear to me, after all. I would not harm you. Come.’ She gestured, stepping out onto the balcony, Ostrec a step after her. The presence of the Mantis loomed large behind him, and Brugan felt himself shepherded, driven until he stood out in the open air.
‘We have much to celebrate, General,’ Seda told him. ‘The Empire is to become great in ways you cannot imagine. Drink with me.’
Ostrec held a goblet to him, and Brugan felt keenly aware of all those pale bodies in the room at his back. He knew what the cup would contain.
He saw soldiers out there on the muster field, perhaps a hundred of them in slightly unfamiliar uniforms, the pauldrons and gorgets of gleaming red offsetting the traditional colours of the Empire. Each one of them held a clay beaker, and when Seda lifted her own goblet high, so did they.
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