The Air War

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  He would also be as close-mouthed as his Moth-kinden masters, Gjegevey knew, and there was no time to woo him subtly to the cause. Only a direct approach would serve.

  ‘The Empress is seeking to break the Seal of the Worm.’

  The words hung between them like a corpse, and Gjegevey left them turning there for a long while before continuing.

  ‘I am, hm, telling this not to the Tharen ambassador, but to a fellow magician who must know’ – and it was plain from Tegrec’s pale face that he did – ‘how unwise this might, ahm, turn out to be.’

  Tegrec took the offered seat after all. Gjegevey wondered what the man really knew, for surely he had only been allowed to burrow shallowly into the Moth mysteries. Enough to know of the Worm, apparently, and the danger it represented.

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  Gjegevey sighed, seeming just the doddering old scholar, his fingers pattering idly on the desktop. ‘Oh, well, she is, ah, responsible for her people. She seeks to defend them from all dangers and, hm, now that her eyes have been opened to our wider world, she wishes to be able to protect them from such threats as might be brought by the, hrm, Inapt, even as she does threats from the Apt.’ It was a necessary equivocation. ‘She sees the Seal as the means to that end. I, hm, have taken it upon myself to find her an alternative.’

  Tegrec’s look suggested that he did not envy Gjegevey this role. ‘What is this to me, in whatever capacity? What do you ask for?’

  ‘Knowledge,’ Gjegevey said simply.

  ‘Not something freely given, anywhere.’

  ‘Then consider me in your, hrm, debt, if that helps. Or perhaps consider just what might be waiting behind the Seal, if she goes ahead with her plans.’

  ‘Perhaps nothing.’ Tegrec tried a flippant shrug, and did not quite manage it.

  ‘You don’t believe that,’ Gjegevey observed. ‘I have combed every scrap of old Lowlander lore that I can lay these old, ahm, hands on. I have listed each fount of power, each totemic site, each haunt of, hem, ritual, but we both know that your adopted people are unreliable in what they, hm, commit to paper. Help me, Ambassador: guide my hand.’

  For a long moment Tegrec looked at him, his expression as arch and distant as any Moth’s, but then he rolled his eyes. ‘Let’s hear your list,’ he said.

  And Gjegevey took him through it, some nineteen leads teased from the appendices of history, each one seeming a flower waiting to be plucked by one of sufficient pedigree and will, and each time Tegrec shook his head, sometimes dignifying the suggestion with a terse dismissal, sometimes not even that. The situation was worse than Gjegevey had thought.

  The Tharen Moths themselves would have their secret caches of strength, of course, if their ritual against the Imperial occupiers had left them any, but Tegrec was hardly about to assist him in that direction. For the rest . . . the golden history of the pre-revolution Lowlands was merely fool’s gold, it seemed nowadays, and he should have known not to trust his sources. The Moths did not set down their losses, as the tide of history turned on them. Oh, they would know what to credit and what to discount in their writings, a secret code that must have misled and bewildered a hundred scholars and fortune hunters prior to poor Gjegevey, but, as their influence had shrunk, their glorious places of power grown dim or built over by the Apt, they had simply not updated the maps and gazetteers that showed their world. To put such matters in writing would have been a symbolic concession of a defeat that even now they refused to admit. Tegrec’s knowledge might only be limited, but it was enough to snuff out each item on Gjegevey’s list in short order, leaving the two men staring glumly at each other.

  And then Tegrec said a name: ‘Argastos.’

  Gjegevey frowned, ill-tempered after constant fruitless searching. ‘There is no mention of an Argastos anywhere I’ve looked.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Tegrec replied grimly. ‘I’ll bet there’s no mention of the Darakyon, either, but you can’t deny that place had power. The Moths do not openly chronicle their failures.’ He smiled slightly at the Woodlouse-kinden’s expression. ‘Oh, you’re thinking along the right lines, but against the Worm, what can we do? He was a Moth . . . warlord is perhaps the best word, if you can imagine that. He dwelt amongst the Mantis-kinden of the Etheryon and the Nethyon before they were two separate holds. He was a lord there, and he led the Moth war-host, I think, but he was beholden to nobody.’

  ‘A magician of power?’

  ‘Oh, yes, one of the Great Names, and you know what weight my people place on names.’ And if the Moths were not genuinely “his” people, Gjegevey said nothing of it.

  ‘He left something of his power behind?’ the Woodlouse pressed.

  ‘Gjegevey, he’s still there, the way they tell it. There is a heart of the wood between Etheryon and Nethyon where the locals don’t go, where his stronghold stood, or stands – or his tomb perhaps. They don’t write of it, but something happened: either the other Moths came for him, or he himself did something, but now . . . he is still there, in some manner. You understand me.’

  For a long while, Gjegevey considered this, and his face clearly indicated the thought, But better than the Worm, surely. Then he asked, almost brightly, ‘What is the attitude of the, hm, Ancient League and Tharn, regarding this?’

  He saw immediately that Tegrec had deliberately steered the conversation this way, and wondered just how much of a Moth the man had become. ‘Divided, old man, all of it: Tharn from the League, Tharn within itself, the League within itself, and its attitudes to the Empire likewise not yet finalized. But becoming more united with the progress of the Eighth Army. Every step that General Roder takes is turning them against you.’

  ‘Then . . . ?’

  ‘Are you asking for an intercession from Tharn? Are you asking the Moths of Tharn to assist you in this quest of yours? Then halt the Eighth while we negotiate or, Worm or no, she will not get what she wants.’

  Gjegevey regarded him with half-lidded eyes. ‘You are well appointed by your masters, Ambassador. They have a shrewd agent in you.’

  ‘I learned more of that right here in Capitas than I ever did in Tharn. So, can you do it?’

  ‘The Empress will trust my advice,’ Gjegevey declared, with all the confidence he could muster, before opening the door to usher Tegrec out. A knot of Wasp soldiers was revealed beyond: hard, scowling men in the armour of the Light Airborne.

  And Gjegevey thought only, It’s happened at last, then, But not now!

  There was an open palm aimed at him, and he retreated back into the study, the soldiers pressing in too, crowding the small room.

  ‘Well, now, two traitors,’ said their leader.

  ‘The Empress—’ Gjegevey got out, and then the open palm was suddenly in motion, slapping him hard enough to pitch him over the desktop, scattering fragile books and scrolls onto the floor.

  ‘Take them both,’ the soldier said. ‘Show them the instruments, and then lock them up. Let them reflect on how the Rekef exists to protect the throne from creatures such as them.’

  ‘A toast,’ proposed Colonel Harvang, ‘to governance guided by strength.’ He emptied his goblet, tossing the contents down his gaping throat and spattering his tunic.

  General Brugan nodded soberly, his own brandy untouched. All over the palace his men were in motion even now. All suspects were being rounded up for the Rekef cells, all the mongrels and lesser races that the Empress inexplicably chose to associate with, taken to where they could do no more harm, and held ready for disposal later. The list had been surprisingly long, from long-time advisers like doddering old Gjegevey all the way down to dubious servants, Commonwealer slaves. It’s just as well we’ve stopped the rot here.

  But, of course, that was barely the true reason, in his heart of hearts. He, Harvang and Vecter had just come from a full meeting of the conspirators. His collection of Consortium magnates, army officers and Rekef men were now out doing his bidding, and they all believed that this was simply about
building a wall between the Empress and such undesirables, with themselves installed as gatekeepers of course. But it’s not about that. It was about control. Taking control of her. Taking back control of his own life.

  She had called him to her, last night. He still felt the shudder inside him, recalling the blood she had offered him, in a goblet finer than the one holding his brandy. Then the sense of something vital being leached from him, as her skin met his . . . and yet he could not stay away from her. He wanted her, but he needed to redefine the terms on which he tasted her. He needed to make her his, for at the moment he was far more hers.

  ‘General?’ Harvang prompted, and he knew he had missed something – a bad failing in any high-ranking Wasp, and especially a Rekef general. He glanced from Harvang to neat little Vecter, and tried to recapture the echo of what had been said.

  ‘Ostrec,’ he agreed, almost heartily. It was a stab in the dark, but Harvang’s expression – a little too much relief for comfort – reassured him. The young major was lurking near the door, looking bland in his Quartermaster Corps uniform. He was quite the favourite with the Empress, Brugan knew, and that knowledge made him grind his teeth. Someone else for the cells, sooner or later. If only Harvang wasn’t so fond of him. There would be a time, though, when Ostrec slipped out of the greasy orbit of the colonel, and then he would disappear, sinking without trace.

  ‘We owe you a great deal, Major,’ Brugan declared, beckoning the younger man to approach. ‘You’ve managed to work up quite a list of names. The Empire thanks you, and so do I.’

  ‘Merely my duty, General,’ Ostrec replied smoothly.

  Brugan suppressed a scowl. ‘All her mystics and hangers-on will be under lock and key before the day is out. The real test will come when we take her bodyguards. Mantis-kinden are too unpredictable. Having them within her presence is asking for trouble. After all, the Eighth is fighting the Mantis-kinden right now.’

  ‘The old Woodlouse was saying that we had to order the Eighth to hold its ground,’ Vecter observed, with a raised eyebrow.

  Harvang snorted. ‘And why? Because the moon was in the wrong phase, or he’d seen a particularly foreboding shadow, no doubt.’

  ‘Something to do with worms.’ Vecter dismissed the thought with a flick of his hand.

  Ostrec was still standing before Brugan, and for a moment his expression . . . no, not his expression, which was as placid as could be, but there was some shift, as though his face had been momentarily translucent, some other drowned features twitching beneath them. Brugan blinked, feeling ill with the dislocation of it. Nothing was amiss: it was Ostrec, nobody but Ostrec, now looking at him in concern.

  ‘General?’

  ‘That will be all,’ Brugan said, too forcefully. I have to get control before it’s too late. She’s ruining me, rattled through his head.

  ‘You, and me,’ Scain said, without warning. The Farsphex pilots and their bombardiers had been drawn up in neat ranks beside their machines on the makeshift field that the Second Army had cleared for them that day. Pingge jumped guiltily: there had been quite a long silence and her mind had wandered, and only now did she realize that the Wasps had been conferring.

  ‘What was that, sir?’ she whispered.

  ‘Going to talk with the general.’

  ‘What, sir?’ Heads turned to look and she gritted her teeth.

  ‘We are mounting a delegation to General Tynan. He has some orders for us: a new phase of the war,’ Scain murmured. ‘We get to go.’

  But I don’t want to meet a general, was a useless comment, and of course she did not say it. Pingge was nervous, though. A ripple of some kind of emotion had passed through the Wasp-kinden, one and all. Aarmon was doing something risky.

  ‘Come on.’ Scain stood forward, still just a gangling young Wasp-kinden, for all the flying and fighting experience he had lived through. Pingge saw Kiin pattering forward too, saluting at Aarmon’s beckoning gesture, and from further down the ranks came Sergeant Nishaana and her bombardier Tiadro.

  ‘She’s coming too. Scain . . . I mean, sir?’

  Scain looked back at her with a slight smile. ‘Aarmon says they can take us as they find us,’ he told her.

  Six of them: two Wasp men, a Wasp woman, two Fly women and one Fly man, they marched smartly through the great sprawling camp that the Second Army and the Aldanrael forces had established between them. If it had not been for the Spiders, then Pingge guessed fingers would have been pointing from the first moment, but the brightly coloured variety of the Spiderlands troops provided a camouflage that almost anything could have hidden against. Nishaana drew a few glances from soldiers who had not seen a woman of their own kinden for some while who wasn’t a whore, but there was none of the comments, jeers and lewd suggestions that Pingge had been expecting. Compared with the Empire’s new allies, the aviators were positively normal.

  Of course, Aarmon’s thunderous glower might have contributed to their reticence, she decided. For most of their way through the camp she could not work out what the man was up to. Only as they were practically at the general’s tent did she guess at it: their branch of the Engineers was both new and different, in a society that was suspicious of the first quality and outright hostile towards the second. A division of mind-linked soldiers using experimental machinery and taking on such an unprecedented selection of recruits would already have gathered many enemies back home, for no other reason than just how very new and how very different they were. Faced with that, Aarmon would have had two options: he could work to minimize the outward show, bow his head, hope to be overlooked, or he could look his detractors in the eye and dare them. And no prizes for guessing which way he’s jumped.

  The welcoming committee within the tent was also some way from Imperial standard. General Tynan, nothing more than a bald and ageing Wasp with a fancy rank badge to Pingge’s eyes, stood with proper military decorum in the centre of the tent’s interior, an easel beside him with maps tacked on and annotated. Beside him, though, an elegant Spider-kinden woman reclined on a couch, attended by a couple of Fly-kinden men, while there were two more Spiders, both men and well armoured, right behind her. On the general’s other side were a pair of colonels, a thin one with the badge of the Engineers and a stockier one that she already knew as Cherten of Army Intelligence.

  ‘Major Aarmon.’ Tynan received Aarmon’s pinpoint salute, even as his eyes flicked over the aviators’ delegation. He nodded slightly, and Pingge saw the Spider woman smile a little in acknowledgement of the newcomers’ bravado. But, of course, the Spiders have women soldiers, more of them than the men, and they’ve been marching with the Second for tendays. This is probably the most receptive audience Aarmon’s likely to get.

  ‘Your people are winning a lot of credit for the Engineers, I understand,’ Tynan observed, ‘both for your machines and your training. You’ve made quite an impact. On the enemy as well, I’m sure.’ It was not a joke and nobody smiled. ‘I’m aware that you’re not a standard army detachment.’ His eyes made brief reference to the Fly-kinden and Neshaana. ‘If you’ve come here to fight that battle, then take it elsewhere. I don’t care. I have a city to capture, and the composition of your force is of no importance to me, so long as you do your job.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Aarmon, stiff-backed and outmanoeuvred.

  ‘What you need to know is that there have been developments back home regarding the engineers and your resources.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Pingge could almost sense the words passing swiftly between Aarmon and Scain and Neshaana, and the other pilots back at the impromptu airfield.

  ‘Colonel Mittoc?’ Tynan prompted his underling.

  ‘Hm.’ the skinny engineer nodded rapidly, ‘General Lien has finally decided to trust us with a consignment of your fuel. It arrived yesterday, for my personal supervision. All very secret, not to let the enemy get hold of, and so on.’ His annoyance at being kept in ignorance was plain on his face. ‘However, it’s here now, which
means no more long hauls to Capitas for you. As of now you’re operating from wherever the Second camp, and it’s only a hop from here to Collegium, I’m sure. You understand what this means?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Endgame,’ Aarmon said coolly.

  ‘Well put, Major.’ Tynan took over. ‘We will be engaging the ground forces of the Collegiates shortly, and then the battle will move to the walls. Your mission now is twofold: you are to continue your attacks on the city, but you must also target their air power wherever possible, as an absolute priority. And when we begin to take down their walls you must screen the army, and especially the artillery, from air attack. I leave the specifics to you, but the elimination of the enemy air power is paramount. At any cost, you understand?’

  There was a second’s pause before Aarmon replied, ‘I do, sir.’ Pingge did not have to be a part of the pilots’ communion to understand. This is it then. This is when they throw us into the fire. And she thought of the skill and determination of the Collegiate airmen, and wondered how many people she knew would be dead within a tenday.

  Thirty-Two

  This time, when Averic returned to his meagre lodgings, after a day’s drilling with the Student Company and still wearing his purple sash, the lock on his door had simply been smashed.

  Thieves, he thought first, but in his heart of hearts he knew otherwise. He had been trying to forget the Wasp woman who had come with her brown-dyed face, and told him he was a traitor, and he had been all along. She had marched away with the army, after all, and the episode had taken on a dreamlike quality, for of course he was not a traitor, not to anyone.