Dragonfly Falling sota-2

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  She was not really a princess, of course. That was a Commonwealer title that one young officer, desperately gallant and politically naA?ve, had once given her. What fate had befallen him since she did not know, but he had been a brief ray of sun through the clouds that perpetually clogged her life.

  The prisoner’s reception chamber was lit by great windows, latticed with metal bars, that extended across almost an entire wall, and opened up part of the ceiling as well. There were no curtains, she saw. The sun flooded unopposed across the floor until it met the doorway into the sleeping chamber. That room was quite dark, muffled in drapes, and impenetrable to her gaze.

  ‘Your Emperor is here,’ one of the guards announced. ‘Present yourself!’

  For a moment it seemed that nothing would happen, and then Seda heard a shuffling from within the darkness, and at last a hooded figure in tattered robes came forward tentatively to the brink of the dazzling light. One hand, pale as death and thin as bone, was raised against the sun.

  ‘Come forward, we command it,’ Alvdan instructed, and Seda saw how he was enjoying himself, watching the wretch quail before the sunlight.

  The guard began uncoiling a whip from his belt and, with a shudder, the slender creature crept forwards, head turned away from the windows. She could see nothing of him yet but those two delicate hands, long-fingered and sharp-nailed.

  ‘We have brought our sister to you, since we thought that you might be of interest to each other,’ Alvdan sounded pleased with himself no end. The cowl shifted and sought her out, and she imagined watery eyes within were trying to focus on her.

  ‘Introduce yourself, creature,’ Alvdan said. ‘Have your kinden no manners?’

  The robed thing gave a long, tired hiss and crept closer, until it was almost within arm’s reach. There were blue veins prominent against the translucence of its arms, and something about the creature sent a deep shiver through Seda.

  ‘This is Seda, youngest of our father’s line, as we are oldest,’ Alvdan announced. ‘Name yourself.’

  The voice was hoarse and low. ‘Uctebri the Sarcad, Your Imperial Majesty and honoured lady.’ It was a man’s voice, as accentless as though he had been born here in Capitas city.

  ‘And is it good-mannered to conceal yourself behind a cowl?’ Alvdan demanded. ‘Surely my sister deserves better than that? Come, unmask yourself, creature.’

  The figure that called itself Uctebri shuddered again, one hand gesturing vaguely towards the windows. The voice murmured something that might have been a plea.

  The crack of the guard’s whip made Seda start. Uctebri flinched back from it, though it had not touched him. She feared that, had the lash struck his wrist, it might have snapped his hand off.

  Trembling, those hands now rose to draw back the cowl.

  The sight was not so bad, at first. An old man, or an ill one. A pale veiny head with a little lank hair still clinging behind it. A thin, arched neck bagged with wrinkles. The lips were withered, his nose pointed, and there was a florid bruise on his forehead.

  Shading them with both hands, he painfully opened his eyes to stare at her. They were protuberant, with irises of pure red, and they stared and stared at her face despite the glaring daylight. Seeing those, she saw also that the mark on his brow was not a bruise after all, but blood, a clot of blood constantly shifting beneath his waxy skin.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said to her brother. ‘Who is this old man?’

  ‘Do you hear her, Uctebri?’ Alvdan smirked, as though he and the withered thing were sharing some joke at her expense. ‘Well even we were unsure when first we looked upon you. Even with General Maxin’s urgings, we were slow to believe — and yet here you are.’

  Uctebri’s head turned to squint at him, and then his crimson attention focused back to her. He would have been just some old man except for those eyes. They seemed to look through her. She could feel the force of that crimson stare as a queasiness in her stomach, an itch between her shoulder blades.

  ‘Touch her,’ Alvdan commanded. Seda drew back at once, but the guard, the man who had spent all morning at her shoulder, was now gripping her arms. Uctebri shuffled forwards, those unnatural eyes craning up at her, and she saw his tongue pierce between his lips, a sharp dart of red.

  Something terrible was about to happen. She could not account for the premonition but she began to struggle as hard as she could, twisting and writhing in the soldier’s grip as the old man approached her.

  And then he was before her and she saw his mouth open slightly, the teeth inside sharp and pointed like yellow needles. One of those slender hands reached out to pincer her wrist.

  He was not strong, but stronger than his frailty suggested nonetheless. She wrenched her hand from that cool touch, and Uctebri said, ‘I must feel the blood, your great Majesty,’ in that same calm, low voice.

  She heard the whisper of Alvdan unsheathing his dagger, and then the cold steel at her throat. The old man raised his hands urgently.

  ‘A point, the prick of a pin only, Lord Majesty. Just for the savour of it. No more, not yet. All in good time.’

  They had surely all gone mad. If there was any fraternal feeling in Alvdan’s heart she would have pleaded with him. Instead she closed her eyes and turned her head away as he seized her hand and cut across a finger.

  Uctebri grasped eagerly for the weapon, but Alvdan only presented the blade of it.

  ‘Have no ideas above your station, creature,’ the Emperor said. ‘You know what you are. Now act as you should.’

  The crabbed old man craned forwards, hands cupping beneath the stained blade to catch any drips, and then licked the steel, his sharp tongue cleaning her blood from it in scant moments. Even that small taste of her seemed to bring a new strength to him. His next glance at her was nothing other than hungry.

  ‘Will she serve?’ Alvdan demanded of him. ‘Or must we mount a hunt for more distant relations?’

  Uctebri smiled slyly. ‘She shall more than serve, your worshipful Majesty. She is. perfect. A most delicate savour.’

  ‘Brother-’ Seda’s voice shook but she did not care. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Some small diversion,’ he told her. ‘Merely an entertainment. Fear not, dear sister. You have your part to play, but need learn no lines or dance-steps. Come, bring her.’

  She was bundled after him back into the antechamber, where the pale servants waited.

  ‘What is he?’ she stammered.

  ‘Can you not guess, sweet sister?’ Alvdan’s smile was now broad indeed. ‘Think back as far back as childhood, when we sat by the fire together and listened to stories.’

  And it was worse that she knew what he meant, that he did not need to explain. ‘He cannot be. ’

  ‘Quite a discovery by General Maxin’s Rekef, is it not?’

  They come at night for the blood of the living, the ancient sorcerers, the terrible night-dwellers, who steal bad children from their beds, never to be seen again.

  ‘But there are no Mosquito-kinden. There never were. They were just tales. surely?’

  But confronting that gleeful smile of his, she knew otherwise.

  Eight

  Collegium was a city of laws. The underhanded could not easily purchase respectability, nor were they of great service or use to the Assembly. Such businesses as Lieutenant Graf had been practising were therefore done by word of mouth and behind closed doors.

  Graf’s office sat behind a small-package exporter run by a copper-skinned Kessen Ant who had long been renegade from his native city. The exporter’s own work was on the shady side of the legal line and he asked no questions nor answered them. Behind his store was the back room where Graf bought and sold the talents of swordsmen to whoever required them. He was well known. He had a good reputation amongst buyers and sellers of blades.

  Regular business was now closed for the evening, though, and he set out five bowls, poured wine into only one. His true line of work was a more uncertain business. There
was no telling which of the chairs would sit out the night empty.

  Thalric came first, unpinning his cloak and casting it off. ‘Concerns, Lieutenant?’ he asked, straight away.

  ‘All going like clockwork, Major,’ Graf confirmed. Thal-ric took the bowl of wine he was offered and swallowed deeply.

  ‘Local?’ he asked, and when Graf nodded, remarked, ‘They have good vineyards hereabouts.’

  Graf shrugged. ‘Never was much of a man for it myself.’ The lieutenant’s speech and accent told Thalric that here was someone who had risen through his own efforts, without any help from family or friends. A doubly useful man, then. Mind you, merit got you further in the Rekef than it did in the regular army.

  Scadran and Hofi, large and small, arrived together. At a gesture from Graf, the Fly-kinden barber hopped up onto a stool to pour two more bowls of wine.

  ‘We’ll start,’ Thalric decided. ‘Your report first, Scadran.’

  ‘Arianna’s not here, sir?’ the big man asked.

  ‘I’ve had word from her. She’s in place and the plan is working well enough, but she decided it was best not to arouse any suspicion by breaking cover. The hook is set and the fish looks to be gaping for it, so to speak.’ Thalric shook his head. He had only met Stenwold the once, and he had rather liked the man — as much as he could like any enemy of the Empire. Stenwold was a man who took his duties seriously, even when they might endanger those closest to him. Admirable, perhaps, but he was a tired old man, whereas Arianna was Spider-kinden, born to be devious, sly and cunning from her first breath.

  Poor old man, but who would not be flattered to have an innocent young girl like that hanging on his every word? Who would not be swayed?

  But it was for the good of the Empire, and that was the first rule of Thalric’s life. Stenwold was altogether too much of an obstacle to ignore.

  ‘So, Scadran, report,’ he said, slightly irked that he needed to ask twice.

  ‘Lot of news about Tark,’ the dockworker began. ‘Spider ships are coming in saying the north road from Seldis is cut, impassable. They’re saying that they can sell to the. well, to us as well as they could to the Tarkesh. The slave trade and the silk trade haven’t been dented. That’s what they’re most bothered about.’

  ‘Anything more?’

  ‘Nothing but the usual trouble,’ Scadran continued, and then, as Thalric gestured for him to explain, ‘Mantis longboats from Felyal are on the rise. Spider shipping is being attacked. That happens every few years, then the Spiders get some mercenary navy in and everything quiets down.’

  ‘Could be to our advantage, Major,’ Graf remarked, and Thalric nodded.

  ‘The more little wars being fought in the Lowlands right now the better,’ he agreed. ‘Hofi, the news with you?’

  ‘All good as gold.’ The Fly-kinden barber grinned happily. ‘I snip a few grandees from the Assembly, in my place, and they love to boast about their doings. With a few words dropped, I can have them talking about anything I like. In this case, I got them — two or three of them waiting for the curl — talking on the subject of our dear friend Master Stenwold Maker.’

  ‘In your own time, Hofi,’ Thalric said, finding the little man long-winded.

  ‘Of course, Major, of course. He’s not a well-liked man, because they don’t appreciate troublemakers. They don’t think he takes the College seriously enough. There’s even a motion tabled to strip him of his Masterhood. That’s not the first time, but it could be passed.’

  ‘Are they going to give him a hearing?’ Thalric asked pointedly.

  ‘Oh, of course they’ll see him, in the fullness of time. For now, though, they’re still debating just when. That debate alone could last thirty days.’

  ‘Or?’

  Hofi blinked. ‘Or what sir?’

  ‘Or it could be decided tomorrow?’ Thalric suggested. ‘And then they’d see him in a day after that?’

  ‘Not likely, sir.’

  ‘It’s just as well I don’t deal in likelihoods, then, when I can avoid it. I’ll let Arianna know that the trap needs to be ready to spring at any time. Let’s hope she has had the chance to worm her way fully into Stenwold’s graces.’

  ‘Rely on her,’ Graf told him. ‘She’s a good agent.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Thalric nodded again. ‘What about your duties, Lieutenant?’

  ‘I have men for you,’ Graf confirmed. ‘This city’s never brimming with fighting men, but I have a dozen confirmed reliables so far.’

  ‘Let’s hope they’re better than those last two you sent at him,’ Thalric said.

  ‘They’re as good as I can get without compromising our position here, Major. And I have one special treat — one with a particular grudge against Stenwold’s girl.’

  ‘Against Cheerwell?’ Thalric frowned. He could hardly imagine it.

  ‘Not her, sir. The Spider girl. I’ve hired us a Mantis duellist.’

  Thalric felt his heart skip despite himself. No of course he hasn’t hired that Mantis-kinden. But the reaction was automatic. He had taken that man down, he had burned him and yet, after the Mantis’s wretched daughter put her sword through Thalric’s leg, he had seen the same man get up and fight like a monster.

  He forced himself to stay calm. They would meet again, he assured himself, and the Empire would triumph over the backwoods belligerence of the Mantids.

  But secretly he hoped they never met again.

  ‘Our man’s name is Piraeus. Apparently the daughter, or whatever she is, gave him a public whipping at one of their little fencing games, and for once we’ve found a Mantis who doesn’t care just how he gets even. He’s more than happy to stick her from the shadows. Or her old man, come to that. He’s not particular.’

  ‘Thalric,’ she said, ‘a Wasp-kinden. That is who I’m looking for.’

  The paunchy Beetle-kinden looked down on her from his throne. It was meant to be a throne, anyway. A built-up chair atop some steps with gold and stones hammered into it. Perhaps he had been aiming for barbaric splendour.

  ‘Name rings a bell,’ he allowed. This seated dignitary was known as Last-Chance Fraywell. Felise understood this name came from his final words to those who crossed him. ‘I’m going to give you one last chance,’ he would say to them, and then proceed to kill them in whatever way appealed to him. So she was led to understand, anyway.

  Fraywell leant down from his throne, peering at her suspiciously. She was standing a fair way back and she had come without her sword but, even so, there were a dozen of Fraywell’s bullies carefully watching her. She looked from face to face: Beetle-kinden, Ants, halfbreeds. there he was, the man she was told to watch out for: a tall Spider-kinden, the only one here of his kind. His was the face she knew.

  She moved in worlds far from home these days, always amongst the faces of strangers. It was better that way, for she could not have guaranteed recognizing faces from the Commonweal any more.

  ‘Why do you want him?’ Fraywell asked her. ‘I’ve got no brief for Wasp-kinden, but this doesn’t ring true.’

  ‘Why I want him is my own business,’ she replied flatly.

  ‘Well then maybe where he’s gone is mine.’ Fraywell sat back, looking pleased with himself. He was one of the smaller gangsters in Helleron, and his fief, as they called a criminal’s holdings, was pitiful, but it had been expanding recently. The word was that he had done well out of the recent visit by imperial troops, peddling all kinds of muck to them: drink, drugs, women. Certainly he had the clout to jostle for elbow room now.

  ‘I must know,’ she said. ‘I will know. I have followed Thalric a long way and I will not give up now.’

  ‘Well maybe your business can stay your business if only you’ve got the wherewithal,’ said Fraywell, sounding bored all of a sudden. ‘Come on, let’s wrap this up. You’re taking up my valuable time, woman. Show me the stamp of your coin.’

  She found that she was smiling, and it was disconcerting Fraywell and his men. ‘I am not here to b
uy,’ she explained. It was such a simple concept and yet the Beetle had still not grasped it. ‘I am here to make payment.’

  Fraywell glanced at his men, baffled, and she now was advancing on his seat smoothly, so smoothly that two of his people barely got in her way in time. Her hands flashed out, the razor edges of her thumb-claws folding forwards, and she cut them down with swift economy.

  Fraywell screamed and kicked away from her so hard that he toppled his would-be throne backwards, leaving only his boots showing. She turned, looking over the room of stunned thugs and held a hand high.

  The Spider-kinden that she knew stepped back and took her sword from within his cloak, pitching it to her above the heads of his fellows in a smooth arc. She hardly had to move her hand at all to catch it.

  With her blade restored to her, she let them all draw their own weapons. That seemed only fair. Ten of them, and they tried to rush her, but she was already leaping forwards from the steps, descending on them with blade first.

  They were not skilled but they were many. She made their numbers her ally, as they crashed into one another, fouling each other’s blows. Her blade moved among them like lightning, like sunlight. She sent them reeling back in bloody arcs, and moved — quicksilver past lead — to evade their clumsy thrusts and grasping hands. Behind them the Spider-kinden traitor had a long dagger out and was picking and choosing his targets, putting the point in with the care of a surgeon.

  And suddenly there were none left. It was so sudden she could not quite work out where they had gone until she saw the bodies. She was used to that now: the jarring of cause and effect, the sudden returning to herself to discover blood on her blade and the fallen around her. There was some part of her, some innocent part, that had come loose inside her head, leaving only cold skill to hold the reins and whip her on.