The Scarab Path sota-5

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  'So what is he?'

  'Oh, he's a spy,' replied Thalric. 'Probably not a professional, but he's a government man who's keen to know what the armed outlanders are doing here.'

  'Lucky for us he came along just now,' said the Beetle, but with a noticeable stress on the first word.

  'Tax gatherers must be passing up and down this river all the time,' observed Thalric, a little hollowly. 'It's just coincidence.'

  Of course, it's just coincidence. He made himself sit down calmly beside the drowsing Osgan, as if he couldn't care less. Inside, his instincts were shouting at him: He knew. He already knew. He was waiting.

  They kept him in darkness.

  It had now been three tendays since they caught him, that was his best guess. Denied the sun, the moon and stars, awareness of time slipped away from him. He tried counting meals, but they fed him unreliably. He slept only fitfully, always startled to wakefulness every time the guards tramped overhead.

  They had brought him to Capitas in chains, shoulder to shoulder with a gang of slaves. He, who had enslaved hundreds of wretches while he was in the Corps, now tasted the irony in blood and sweat. They had even displayed him in Armour Square, for the good people of Capitas to jeer at his deformities. Then they had cast him down here.

  His name was Hrathen. It was about the only thing they had not taken from him, and they had left it because it was of no earthly use. A Wasp name, from his mother.

  The bolts rattled overhead. These were the deep cells situated directly beneath the Imperial garrison. You had to be distinctly bad to end up here, but being Rekef and biting the hand that fed you was a good enough qualification. They had made sure his guards knew he had once been Rekef, as well as Slave Corps. It was rare that the ordinary army soldiers got to take out their fear and hatred on a real live Rekef, so Hrathen was stiff with the bruises.

  He did not miss the light, the air, the freedom, so much as he missed the game. When he had been what he had once been, standing between his mother's people and his father's, he had been unique. He had been a servant beyond the reach of his master. He had been part of the game, and he missed the thrill of it more than he ever missed the sun.

  He had already turned his head away before the searing beam of light lanced from the opened hatch above. He flexed his arms, his hands, against the leather bindings that had been his constant companions since they threw him down here. He possessed killing hands, so they would take no chances. Still, he constantly flexed and strained, working against the tension of his bonds to keep himself strong. He had been taught to believe in opportunity. His father's people were strong believers in such.

  He heard a whir of wings as two guards dropped down beside him.

  'This him?' one asked. 'Ugly bastard, isn't he?'

  'Just get the harness on him. Hey, halfbreed, you're going places.'

  Hrathen squinted at the pair. After all the pitch dark even the glow of lanternlight from above seemed glaring, but he had the eyes for it: eyes bred for the fierce desert. He met the gaze of the first guard, and saw him take a step back without wanting to.

  'Oi, enough!' The second man shoved a fist into his back and Hrathen grunted. He was tough all over, though: leathery skin and solid bones that had taken worse.

  They put a strap around him, under the armpits, and two men above began hauling him up with much complaining. Once they had him up top, which meant a corridor buried deep beneath the cellars of the garrison, they stepped back from him.

  'Big bastard, isn't he?' the first guard remarked, noticing how Hrathen topped them all by a head. The prisoner rolled his shoulders, eyes still half closed against the light. Now he was up and on his feet they kept their distance, firmly bound as he was. The sight of their uncertainty brought back some of his much-abused pride. Let them come close, I'll put my teeth in them. He obligingly bared his tusks at them, that motley snaggle of jutting fangs that had worn scars into his lips.

  'Just move him out. He's not our problem any more,' urged one of the guards. A spear-butt jabbed at his back and he stepped briskly forward, almost leading the way. He made his stride, his demeanour, offer no admission of captivity. You cannot cage what I am.

  They led him up two levels until he could see sunlight and sky through a window. Further still they led him upwards. Servants stopped and stared when they saw him, richly dressed courtiers shied away from him. He leered lasciviously at every woman he saw. After all, if he was going to be executed, he had nothing more to lose. The guards kept him moving, embarrassed at the attention.

  He had lost track of where they were now. Suddenly the corridors became nearly empty, with only guards and more guards to mark his passing. Hrathen began to reconsider his immediate fate. Any execution would occur publicly, or they might decide to torture him instead — though he had not imagined he knew anything worth ripping out of him by such methods.

  Perhaps some scholar wants to anatomize me. He was not such a fool as to think that he could withstand torture for ever, or even for very long. The Rekef were very good at it, and possessed all the latest machinery to help them. Over the years, Hrathen had learned a few tricks to stave off pain, but they had their limits. He would give his tormentors a run for their money but, as with most hunts, the end was predetermined.

  They hauled him into a side office that he thought maybe he should recognize. A moment later it caught up with him: it was a spymaster's den, the desk and papers and scrolls and carefully ordered documents. The guards jabbed him in the back of the knee until he knelt on the floor, and then they retreated to the edges of the room. He kept his head lowered, but from the corner of his eye he kept watching. If only my mother had given me better wings.

  'Well now,' he heard a voice, 'what kind of monster have we here? My sources were sparing in the details, when I thought they exaggerated.' Boots passed within Hrathen's range of vision, and then a man sat himself at the desk. He was a strong-framed Wasp-kinden, his hair just starting to turn grey and his eyes the colour of water and steel. He studied Hrathen with fascination: after all, halfbreeds of Scorpion and Wasp were not that common. Hrathen had inherited his Scorpion father's bulk, his tusks, his small, yellow eyes and waxy skin. Otherwise, he had features like a Wasp, disfigured by the snaggle of teeth and the narrow eyes. His captivity had endowed his heavy jaw with a tangle of beard, and his scalp sprouted patchy tufts of hair that he was itching to have cropped. His hands were his finest feature, but they had bound them palm-to-palm to smother his sting, and then tied together the thumb and forefinger claws as well.

  'Do you know why you were arrested, Hrathen?' his inquisitor asked.

  Hrathen looked straight back at him. 'Well, if you don't,' he said, 'can I go now?'

  A slight smile quirked the man's mouth, then one of the guards kicked Hrathen in the side hard enough to send him sprawling, cracking his head against the stone flags.

  The man behind the desk sighed. 'You were once a Rekef agent, as well as a captain in the Slave Corps. That's a heady rank for a halfbreed, but the slavers are a law unto themselves. You were given responsibilities by the Rekef, which you did not take seriously. Instead you indulged yourself. It is believed that you let yourself … go native.'

  Hrathen struggled back into a kneeling position, saying nothing.

  'It happens, of course. Officers who must work closely with the Auxillians, especially the more savage types, have to make adjustments. Men who are assigned to the Hornet-kinden, or the Scorpions, say, must develop within themselves a commensurate savagery, just to ensure the willing respect of their men. That is well known, but when such men begin to act against Imperial interests, in favouring the lesser race, then we step in. Particularly if such men are also Rekef.'

  Hrathen tried to shrug. 'What do you want?' he demanded.

  'What do you want?' the man asked him. 'To go back to your desert and vanish? Or would you serve us once more, if the Rekef found a use for you?'

  All through the dark hours, Hrathen had been cling
ing to one thought: They have not killed me yet. Behind that lay another thought, seemingly the only explanation: I am of use to them. He was not a man endowed with so many talents that he could not immediately see why. In all the Empire there could not be many individuals who knew the Scorpion-kinden as well as he did.

  'Terms?' he enquired.

  'Do you believe that I can harm you?' the man asked. 'Do you realize that I have at my disposal all that man has ever discovered of pain and persuasion?'

  'I believe it of the Rekef,' Hrathen agreed, staring the man in the eyes.

  The half-smile had reappeared. 'I am the Rekef,' the Wasp announced softly, holding Hrathen's gaze as he said it. The conviction evident in his eyes was absolute. 'I am Lord General Brugan of the Rekef and there is nowhere you could go that would prove far enough to escape my personal wrath. As you fear the Rekef, then so fear me.'

  Hrathen felt a cold shiver run through him despite himself. The words had been uttered quietly, understated, for Brugan was a man who did not need to shout. Still, there was more in that shiver than just fear. A general of the Rekef? And the General, if I hear right. What does he want with me? Because underneath it all, despite the tainted blood and the sliding loyalties, Hrathen was still Rekef. He was Rekef through and through because it was the best game in the world — invitation only.

  'Tell me about the Scorpion-kinden,' Brugan instructed.

  Hrathen grinned despite himself, displaying a nightmare of bristling teeth.

  'So you're a tax gatherer?'Thalric began.

  'I have that honour,' the old man replied. Akneth was reclining on his cushions beneath a tautly fastened awning that screened out the sun. His six guests now occupied the somewhat cramped section of deck between himself and the labouring oarsmen.

  'You don't seem to be interested in collecting any taxes,' Thalric suggested, exchanging a glance with Marger. They were both of a mind that this much-needed offer of transport was all too convenient.

  'One collects the taxes during the journey upriver,' Akneth explained. 'If one then collected them downriver also, I daresay there would be complaints.' It was impossible to tell from his expression whether this was a joke.

  A subtle people, these Khanaphir, Thalric thought. It's more like talking to a Spider-kinden than a Beetle. He felt as if Akneth was speaking two languages at once, and that Thalric could only understand one of them.

  'Surely anyone who wished could just watch out for your ship on the return journey and rob it,' Marger put in. Aside from the eight oarsmen, and a young girl who had served them grapes and wine, the old tax-collector travelled alone.

  Akneth put on a shocked expression. 'But who would dare defy the Masters of Khanaphes?' he asked. 'To raise a hand against me is to raise a hand against them, too.'

  He means it, Thalric decided. It would have been the work of a moment for them to kill Akneth and his people, and seize the boat. They were trained Wasp soldiers, even Osgan — a flurry of sting-shot and it would be over.

  Akneth met his gaze with that ever-present smile, mock puzzlement, polite curiosity, utter self-assurance.

  The banks of the Jamail were lined with fields irrigated from the river. They were dotted with villages, and each village, amongst its reed huts that looked flimsy enough to blow away in the wind, boasted at least one structure of stone. It seemed to Thalric that these were the markers to show where original villages had stood centuries before, and around them other buildings had come and gone, but the village itself had lived on.

  They had passed the town of Zafir the day before, with its twin walled fortresses situated on either side of the river, joined by a spanning arch that rose high above their ship's mast. The higher reaches of the twin forts had been decorated with statues, although Thalric had not been able to discern, from midstream, what they might represent. He had leant in to Corolly, who had been staring up at the bridge with his mouth half open.

  'Could we make the likes of that?' he asked.

  'We could bridge this river,' the Beetle artificer replied defensively. It was not the same thing and he knew it.

  'What do you want to know?' Hrathen asked.

  'Think of me as a wide-eyed scholar eager for knowledge,' General Brugan said. 'Indulge me.'

  So you can see how fondly I still hold them, Hrathen decided. Well, scholar, a lecture you shall have.

  'We divide the Scorpion-kinden we have met so far into two,' he began, 'the Aktaian Scorpions who live in the Dryclaw desert, south of the West-Empire, and the Nemian who live in the Nem south of the East-Empire.'

  Brugan nodded, showing neither interest nor boredom.

  'The Scorpions of the Dryclaw have dealt with civilized nations for a long time. They have preyed on the eastern edge of the Lowlands and the Silk Road, and they have traded with and been employed by the Spiderlands since time immemorial. They have also worked with our Slave Corps for two generations.'

  'In which capacity you yourself were introduced to them,' Brugan noted.

  'Indeed.' A pause. Brugan nodded his head for him to continue. 'Well,' Hrathen went on slowly, 'their way of life revolves around others now, whether it is through their raiding or their slaving. Between the Empire and the Spiders, they work for the highest bidder and take whatever they can.'

  'Including Imperial supplies,' Brugan remarked. 'Tell me, Captain Hrathen, did you fall from the path of duty by action or inaction? Not that the difference is material.'

  Hrathen scowled before he could stop himself. 'You … do not understand what it is like, to live amongst them.'

  'So tell me.'

  'Strength,' Hrathen explained. 'Power is all they value — the power of the arm's reach. If I had cried foul when they took the supplies and killed the men, they would have turned on me. To run with them, you must live as they do, believe as they do.' Brugan was now staring at him as though he was something in a menagerie, but he pressed on. 'But if you can run faster than they, kill more swiftly, carry more spoils, care less, dare more, then they will welcome you in and make you theirs, without care for either kinden or blood. Any man may be free, amongst the Scorpion-kinden, if he is a greater monster than they are.' He paused.

  Brugan's smile showed delicate distaste. 'Are you such a monster?' he asked softly.

  Well, what does he expect me to say? 'Look at me, sir,' Hrathen said. 'I am the Empire's monster, but I am a monster.'

  'Tell me about the other Scorpions,' Brugan prompted.

  'They are … not so used to civilized nations,' replied Hrathen. 'The tribes of the Nem call themselves "the Many" and, unlike the Dryclaw Scorpions, they are unified, most of the time, under a single warlord — whoever is the strongest of the strong, both in mind and body. They are not so nomadic as the Aktaian, either. The Nem had cities once, before it dried up. There are ruins in the mid-desert, beyond the fringes, and the Many dwell in some of them, wherever the wells still give water. They even raise some crops there — or at least their slaves do. There are cities in the deep desert, too, but even the Many do not dwell there. The reasons for that are … confused. The desert of the Nem has never been mapped. The Imperial scouts never penetrated it. It is said to contain … unusual threats.'

  'Would you venture amongst the Nem, if I asked you?' Brugan said.

  'Yes.'

  'Would you hold the Empire in your heart, even so? Look at me as you answer.'

  Hrathen met his eyes, but the answer was long in coming. 'I am Empire,' he replied. 'I am Rekef. I shall do what is needed to fulfil your tasks, but I must do it in my own way. It may be that this seems to harm the Empire, but I know the Scorpion-kinden, of whatever tribe, and I know how to deal with them. General, will you trust my judgement?'

  'Why else would I propose to send you?'

  'Then give me men and supplies, and perhaps, as my second, an officer you are not overly attached to. With that I shall go to the Nem and accomplish whatever you wish.'

  Brugan smiled widely then, his teeth very white. 'I shall give you
soldiers, and artificers. I shall give you siege engines and better weapons than the Many of Nem will ever have held. I shall give you all of this, Hrathen, and for one purpose only.' Abruptly he was on his feet and walking round the desk. There was a knife in his hand.

  Hrathen knelt very still. The knife flicked once, twice, and the bindings about Hrathen's hands and arms were severed and he hissed in pain as his long-constrained joints were shocked into motion.

  'I shall send you now into the desert to destroy a city: to have your precious Scorpions shatter its walls and slay its people and feast in their halls. I give the Many of Nem the city of Khanaphes to play with. I buy them with that coin. Do you understand me?'

  He was still smiling, and Hrathen matched his grin despite the pain, his fangs bristling in delight.

  'General,' he said, 'I do.'

  Part 3

  The Sacred City

  Thirteen

  Accius of Vek made sure that he was one of the first to reach the quayside. It would not do for the city-state of Vek to be thought fearful of these foreign lands. Inside, he was fearful: no Vekken had ever travelled so far, unless perhaps some luckless slave sold to the Spiderlands. He had no clear idea of precisely where he was. They were off all Vek's maps.

  At the rail of the ship stood his brother Malius, watching over him. Only the contact of that one other mind gave him strength. Around him was a seething, babbling bustle, the unscripted chaos of this Beetle-kinden city. Numberless hordes of the locals, bald and indistinguishable, were heading in all directions, jostling and pushing, carrying loads and setting them down, meeting and talking. The air was full of it. Accius was amazed that anybody could hear anybody, that all those thronging words did not choke the whole dockside with their din.

  I wish we were in Vek, he thought.

  I know, came Malius's answering thought. I too, but we have our orders.

  Accius stood by the gangplank, a hand on his sword-hilt, feeling the weight of the chainmail beneath his tunic. It was not precisely concealed, for the sleeves and the hem of it extended beyond his civilian garment. The latter was his concession to being polite, and beyond that he would not go. He was a soldier. Yet they have made me an ambassador. It was an empty title, but the Beetles of Collegium were mad and an ambassador was what they wanted. Somewhere in Vek was Collegium's own ambassador, being treated civilly, enjoying the tranquil, industrious quiet of a properly ordered city-state. Accius envied him.