Dragonfly Falling sota-2

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  ‘Whatever wrong you have done is nothing,’ said Tisamon flatly. ‘In clasping to Atryssa, in siring a halfbreed between our two peoples, I broke with my kinden and betrayed them.’

  ‘Tisamon, you did nothing wrong-’

  ‘It is between myself and my conscience.’ A wan smile. ‘It is a Mantis thing, Sten. You wouldn’t understand. But we were talking about you.’

  ‘You think I’ve been a fool?’

  ‘Of course I do, but we’re at war.’

  Stenwold frowned, sitting down heavily opposite him. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You could easily die tonight,’ Tisamon told him. ‘Or in a tenday. In a month, we all could be dead — you, Tynisa, your niece and her lover. myself. My end could come, though I am better equipped to avoid it. War, Sten, and war such as the Lowlands has not seen since the Days of Lore.’

  ‘I still don’t see. ’

  ‘So live,’ Tisamon shrugged, ‘while you can, while your heart still beats. This is no handfast, no building of the future together. So bed the girl and who should care?’

  ‘I. didn’t expect you to see things like that,’ Stenwold admitted.

  Tisamon nodded. ‘My people, they would not understand. We also live as though we might all die the next day, but in our case it is so they may say, in our memory: he was skilled and honourable. Nobody says that this skilled and honourable dead man might have had a hundred other things he wished to do. I have been too long away from my own, Sten, and seen altogether too much of the world. Why do you think we keep to ourselves so much, we Mantids, save that there is so much outside that would tempt us? I envy you, Stenwold.’

  It was an uncharacteristic speech, coming from regions in himself that Tisamon usually kept shut and barred. ‘You’ve been thinking about her,’ Stenwold guessed.

  ‘I have, yes. Last night, after I knew what you had done. I think I cannot be blamed for seeing Atryssa in my mind. And Tynisa is. so much her image. A mercy, I think, as I would not wish her to carry these features of mine. I envied you, last night, for having someone. anyone.’

  ‘You could-’

  ‘Never another, Sten. It’s the Mantis way. When we clasp hands, it is for life. We do nothing lightly, and least of all taking a mate.’

  Stenwold had never quite thought of such things. Even now, it was hard to contemplate. ‘But. seventeen years. ’

  Tisamon shook his head. ‘For life,’ he repeated. ‘And who could there ever be to stand in her place? But you saved us in the end, Sten. You preserved our daughter. And once I would have killed you for it. I’m sorry for that.’

  It was embarrassing to see the man so maudlin. ‘She was beautiful,’ Stenwold recalled. ‘I remember, at the time, how the envy was all mine. Mine and everyone else’s. We were all in love with her, a little. Even Marius, whose true love was his city. But it was you she saved her love for.’

  For a long while Tisamon stared at the tabletop, while Stenwold looked blankly at his own hands, and they both remembered friends gone and times past, all the moments that time’s river carries away, never valued until their absence is discovered.

  ‘We are,’ murmured Tisamon at last, ‘a pair of old men. Ten years older, surely, than our true ages. Just listen to us, gumming over the past.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘And tonight you have young minds to corrupt.’

  Stenwold levered himself up, making the table groan a little. ‘I have indeed. And an Empire to foil. Shall we go?’

  ‘We shall.’

  Arianna joined them at the door and Tisamon dropped back tactfully, at least nominally out of earshot. As they traversed Collegium streets towards the quay quarter and the docks, there was little enough said between them. She named those students she hoped would be appearing, and she spoke of slogans scrawled on the College walls that were strongly in his support — all the rigmarole of falsehood that was expected of her, until she became aware that he was saying nothing.

  And at last, after many covert glances, Stenwold said to her, ‘About last night, Arianna. ’

  She cocked an eyebrow and walked on in silence, waiting.

  ‘I should not have done what. I mean, I had no right-’

  But she was smiling now. There was an edge to that smile, of course, because, knowing what she did, the incongruity of the situation made it impossible to restrain. A smile, nonetheless, and she said, ‘Stenwold, what I did last night was by my will, no more and no less.’ At that she saw relief on his face and, yes, pleasure. A candle lit just for him that was about to be so brutally snuffed.

  ‘After all,’ she could not help adding, knowing that it would not be taken for the warning that it was, ‘I am Spider-kinden.’

  And here was the warehouse she was taking him to. A secluded enough place on the edge of the docks quarter. Somewhat run-down and just the place for a clandestine meeting of the disaffected. Or an ambush.

  She glanced behind, where the Mantis had now been joined by Tynisa. There was a puzzle there that Arianna had not been able to work out, because the girl was clearly as Spider as herself, and yet she had passed from being Stenwold’s ward to Tisamon’s. There would be no time now to work it through, and shortly it should not matter, not if the plan went right. Arianna bore Tynisa no malice, though she would shed no tears over the Mantis’s corpse. The plan demanded that both of them be laid in the earth and that was what must happen tonight.

  She tugged at the door, and Stenwold stepped forward to help her open it. There was a young Ant-kinden waiting inside, who recognized them and nodded. He looked plausible for a student, one of the older ones at least, and there were hundreds of young scholars that Stenwold had never taught or even met. No clue therefore that he was no student at all but a mercenary on Graf’s books.

  ‘You’ll keep watch out here like last time?’ Stenwold murmured to Tisamon, and the Mantis nodded.

  So Stenwold went in alone, just like the other times, leaving the Mantis with Tynisa under the evening sky, all of it happening as smooth as a blade drawn from its sheath.

  Although he was not alone, of course, because Arianna was with him.

  In the gloom of the warehouse three lamps were lit, and Stenwold stopped short, for the people ahead were not the youthful faces he had expected. A handful of men and one woman, but all with no need of any College lessons in their chosen trade. Scadran loomed at their centre, a large man even amongst large men. Arianna found the distance between her and Stenwold was growing as though a tide was pulling her from his side.

  And it was Thalric himself who flared into view as he lit a fourth lamp. Two men lunged for Stenwold from the shadows even as he heard Tynisa crying out in pain outside. The first grabbed his left arm but he was already hauling himself away and the other man missed his catch. And then Stenwold had his blade out, lashing it across the arm of the Beetle-kinden mercenary who held him, making the man let go and fall back.

  ‘Master Maker!’ Thalric snapped out, one hand extended, fingers splayed. The sounds of steel on steel carrying from outside were increasing.

  ‘I can’t offer you a drink this time, Master Maker,’ Thalric said. ‘But I’ll have your sword.’

  Eleven

  There was smoke on the air but, at this distance from the walls, Alder knew that it was not the fires of the city in his nose, but the pyres of the dead. Many of the wounded had not survived the retreat, although the surgeons had this time at least been given a chance to work on them. It had not been the same scrambling rout as last time, having to abandon their fallen so shamefully.

  There would be a lot of bloody faces to see, if and when he chose to. The dawn was lighting up an ugly scene in the camp, but that was the countenance of war. Alder had lived with it for decades now and it held few horrors for him any more. He was willing to bet that the scene within Tark was worse. At night, with surprise and three holes punched in the walls, the Ant-kinden losses had for once been greater than those of the attackers.

  Which means that Drephos has done well, curs
e the man. Alder was a good soldier, though. He would happily postpone the pleasure of having the Colonel-Auxillian hoisted up on crossed spears, in return for the taking of this city. He would even add to the man’s long list of commendations, all equally grudgingly given.

  Colonel Carvoc found him just then, thrusting a hurriedly tallied scroll into his hand. The assault was over and the Ants still held the walls, but taking them had never been the objective. The idea had been to inflict as much damage as possible whilst keeping the bulk of the imperial army intact. Alder surveyed the first lists of Wasp casualties and the estimates of Tarkesh losses, and found himself nodding. I can live with this. My record can live with this. We have done well, this past night.

  ‘Have we achieved enough, General?’

  ‘It wasn’t cheap, Carvoc,’ Alder admitted. He recalled that Captain Anadus had brought back less than a quarter of his men, bitterness etched deeper into his face at the fact of his own survival. The Moles he had sent out were all dead, and Captain Czerig was assumed dead as well, or at least he had not been seen amongst the living.

  Colonel Edric was dead, for sure, though Alder found himself only mildly surprised that it had not happened before. When a man chose to live with savages he was likely to die like one, and they had died in their hundreds. The dregs of them that were left were barely worth using.

  ‘Send word to all captains involved in the attack,’ he told Carvoc. ‘I want the men congratulated for their discipline and order. Night attacks are normally a chaos, but they did well, all of them.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Alder’s eyes passed on across the list. ‘Half a dozen of the heliopters are down,’ he murmured, knowing that left eight still able to take to the air.

  ‘But they did their job, General,’ came Drephos’s voice in his ear, and Alder glanced back to see the hooded man reading over his shoulder. His instinct to strike the man or flinch away was ruthlessly surpressed. Instead he met the shadowed gaze calmly.

  ‘You witnessed it all, I suppose.’

  ‘I saw as much as I needed. What will they be flying, when tomorrow comes? You have destroyed most of the artillery on their eastern walls, and the walls themselves have seen better days. Endgame, General. Their air cavalry, their flying machines — what remains of them?’

  Alder nodded soberly. It had indeed been a bloody night. The Mercy’s Daughters were filling every bed, giving help to the less wounded and last comfort to the dying, but Drephos was right: the endgame was at hand. He was glad of it. He had seen the Maynesh rebellion a few years back and he hated fighting Ant-kinden. Still, he felt a glowing coal of pride that it was him they had chosen to crush this first Lowlander city. Even if I have had to rely on this wretched monster to do it.

  ‘What do you want from me, Drephos?’ he growled. ‘You’ll get yourself a fair report, don’t worry. They’ll know what you’ve accomplished.’

  A little cackle of a laugh came from within the cowl. ‘Oh, General, not so soon. Write nothing yet, I implore you. I’ve only started. Write your eulogies when the city has surrendered.’

  For he has his scheme, Alder knew. I’d ask if it will work, but when has he been wrong yet? The entire military establishment despises this man, and yet it seems we cannot do without him.

  ‘I was at Maynes,’ Alder said. ‘I remember Ant-kinden.’

  ‘Maynes was a lesson to be learned, General,’ Drephos told him. ‘A lesson I have learned from. Tark shall be yours in a fraction of the time.’

  ‘For a fraction of the loss?’

  Drephos paused as though considering. ‘Imperial losses? Almost certainly. Tarkesh losses? Alas no, but in war one must always anticipate a little destruction, mustn’t one?’

  He then went on his limping way, and Alder knew the man was fully aware of the stares of hatred he attracted, the narrowed eyes and curses from the other men. Aware, and enjoying it.

  Later, Alder permitted himself a visit to the Daughters. They had lashed three long tents together end to end and the wounded were crammed into them shoulder to shoulder. There were Wasps here, and Ants from Anadus’s contingent, a few of the Bee-kinden engineers and a couple of Fly messengers who had been just plain unlucky. He caught the eye of Norsa, the most senior Daughter here, looking tired and drawn. She and her coven had been labouring all night, bandaging the lucky and holding the hands of the rest. It would do no good, he knew, to insist she took the Wasp wounded in first. The Daughters made no distinction between kinden, just as they accepted into their ranks any penitent who showed herself willing to serve. Norsa had all kinds here to help her, from across the Empire and beyond.

  They exchanged a look, he and Norsa, that was familiar to both of them, and then he turned to that part of his duty that he felt signified a true officer: to walk amongst the wounded, to acknowledge their whimpers and cries and not to shy away from them. To take ultimate responsibility for the inevitabilities of war.

  In dawn’s unforgiving light, Totho found himself wandering along the line of the ruined wall, trying to find some way in which to account for what he was seeing. The smoke gusting past him was a fickle mercy: for every scene it concealed there were a dozen more clearly visible wherever the eyes turned — the tangible testament to the events of the night.

  The sheer numbers of the dead! The dead were everywhere, all across the city, but mostly here by this stretch of wall and non-wall. To his right were three houses staved in like eggshells by the twisted hulk of a crashed heliopter. The metal of the machine and the stone of the buildings was smoothed off into one tangled whole by the soot, with a single rotor blade jutting proud like a standard above the jagged roof-edges. The ground that he picked his way across was a litter of windfall dead, some savage encounter between the light airborne of the enemy and the defenders’ crossbows. Fallen to the earth like so much rotten fruit, Wasp soldiers and the savage Hornet bolt-fodder lay twisted all over the place, so that he had no clear footing, but stumbled on over broken limbs and the spines of quarrels, spears snapped like matchwood, swordblades sheared from their hilts, and everywhere the vacant, empty faces of once-angry men. Wasp-kinden, certainly, but here in death that stigma was gone from them. They were brothers now with the fallen of the city: all members of that great and inclusive society of the dead.

  Totho paused beside the corpse of a great ant, its wings shattered to shards, its legs curled in on themselves. The crossbow had been shorn from the saddle-mountings, the rider also. Not so far from it lay most of the wing of a Tarkesh orthopter, and for a moment Totho stopped, unable to conceive of any string of events that could leave just the wing, with the bulk of the craft falling elsewhere. He crouched by the great twisted vane, examining where its cables and struts had sheared. Just one more casualty, but it came to him that this wing could serve again, could even be reunited with its original body to fly again, unlike the broken wings of the insect. Thus the artificer became a magician beyond the dreams of the Moth-kinden.

  But in the end it had been those Moth dreams she had preferred.

  And here was where the giants had broken through the wall, the gap they had excavated with their Art and their hands. Their bodies lay, overlapping, where the quick swords of the Ants had found the gaps in their armour. In death, sadness still ruled their faces, not the anger or hatred of the other combatants. The breach they had carved still supported itself, a rough but perfect arch within the wall. Around them the bodies of the defenders and of the Wasp soldiers who had followed after them seemed paltry, like children.

  Now the footing became trickier because here was where the gate had been and gone. The charred corpse of the great ramming engine was still here and Totho looked for, but did not find, the body of the man he had dragged clear — the artificer. It had seemed strange to him, then, that artificers should go to war. Now it was all beginning to make sense.

  Despite their engine, the Wasps had not made it through the gate, though the gap between the strained hinges was choked with their c
orpses and their enemies’. Besieger and besieged lay over and beside one another in a frozen jumble of black and silver, black and gold, pale skin and the dark stains of dried blood.

  And beyond there, the wall gave out entirely of course. Here was where it had started, and at the broken edge of stone closest to him he could see some of the lower stones squeezed out of shape where the reagent of the Wasps had softened and distorted them. Here was where the defenders’ main force had met the Ants of Maynes, and the slain were piled so high that Totho could not see past them to the field beyond. There was no sense to be made of it, this tangle of arms and legs, shields and swords. It was like one of those clever pictures where a series of shapes interlocks so perfectly that there is no gap between them that does not form another shape, another Ant body. He found himself backing away from the sight but, even as he did, he was thinking, Meat, just meat. The Ant-kinden had been killing each other like this since history cared to record. If the Wasps wanted to join in that pointless bloody round, why should they be dissuaded? The Tarkesh were fighting for their homes now, but how many years would he have to track back before he found them assaulting another city’s gates? Certainly, had Totho been caught outside their walls at any other time, halfbreed and foreigner that he was, he would have been chained as a slave here without hesitation. There could be no special plea for Tark’s virtue.

  Something was moving amongst the dead: he saw children, searching over the bodies of both their own kin and the enemy. He watched them, saw them gathering crossbow quarrels that had not been broken, saw them pulling swords from cold hands, meticulously undoing the buckles of armour. They called out to each other to announce their finds. It shocked him at first, to hear those thin, high voices in this silent place. They were too young, he realized, to have learned the Ancestor Art of the Ants, so they must have been taught these words by their parents, mouth to ear, before they would be able to speak them back mind to mind.