Seal of the Worm

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  And there was a monster . . . or a beast, anyway. Milus had heard of the great forest mantids. Chiefly he had heard that they never left the forest, for which everyone elsewhere was duly grateful. Here was one, though, towering over the mere humans around it, stalking with measured, stilting strides, its killing arms folded demurely close to its thorax.

  He went to meet them: what man wouldn’t who was interested in building his personal legend? He strode forwards without fear, well aware that he was within range of that barbed reach, their blades and the spines of their Art. At the same time his mind was reaching west, through the string of scouts he had left behind, so that he could talk to the King and his court instantly. It was a method of communication that was going to become less efficient the further east he travelled, but right now he could speak to the city with only a handful of seconds’ delay.

  He faced the Mantis delegation boldly, even staring into the faceted, judgmental gaze of the great insect itself.

  ‘So,’ he asked them, appearing casual, in control, ‘what do you want?’

  Negotiations after that were swift and businesslike, and that was also a surprise to many of his people, if not to Milus. Mantids were mystics obsessed with the past, with grudges, perverse beliefs, taboos. Milus himself had felt the wind change back when they were fighting each other. He had heard all the same reports from his rangers within the forest but, as he himself thought a little differently to most of his kinden, he had drawn slightly different conclusions. Either they will destroy themselves or they will come out as something changed and honed. And here they were.

  One of the old women spoke for them, but she conferred with the others and even, it seemed, with the insect. The language she used was not that of prophecy and magic. She spoke of borders, recognition, payment. The Mantids had always loathed the idea of slavery – how relations had improved with Sarn, when the Collegiates had persuaded the Ants to give up that institution! – and now this old woman was saying that they would no longer be slaves even to their own past. They had no Aptitude, no industry, no technology, but they were bartering their skill and reputation into becoming a modern power of sorts. For the first time in centuries, the Mantids were looking outwards.

  Even Milus felt a chill at that. Who knew where that would steer the history books? After the Wasps were obliterated, their Empire dismembered and its best parts carried back to Sarn in triumph, he could see that this Netheryon might become a problem if not well handled. For now, though, he argued fiercely with the Court back home, negotiated keenly with the Mantids to see how much give there was in them – little, for they had not changed that much – and hammered out terms that were just this side of acceptable for all concerned. As for the future, we can look to that when we need to. And, who knows, if we give them enough of what they want, then perhaps we can make them part of our destiny. We will have to find a word for that destiny that is not ‘Empire’, though. The word is too debased.

  With that in mind, and the Netheryen issuing from their forest to form up for the march, he turned his mind to the next diplomatic challenge – for here came Stenwold Maker.

  Even Ants needed to sleep, and the great regimented host of the Sarnesh force was just setting camp as Stenwold and his immediate escort arrived. The bulk of the Collegiate force would catch up with the Sarnesh over the next few days – some coming from the city itself, others direct from Sarn, using the restored rail lines to make up the time. Stenwold had travelled ahead in the hold of a fixed-wing hauler with an escort of Stormreaders, in case the Wasps were trying anything clever in the air. He had Kymene with him, and Paladrya, Laszlo and a handful of the Tidenfree Fly-kinden that the man seemed to have co-opted as his personal retinue.

  There was an unfamiliar tightness to Laszlo that Stenwold was concerned about. The ex-pirate had played his role perfectly, liaising between the surface and the Sea-kinden, but there had clearly been some personal business on his mind all this time. With the death of the Tidenfree’s skipper Tomasso, Laszlo had become a grimmer man than Stenwold was used to. It was as if he had finally grown up and accepted his responsibilities. Stenwold could only hope that this change in him would not get in the way of the campaign ahead.

  In his heart, he could make a solid guess at what was motivating Laszlo, and he knew he should do something, because if the man put any of that pent-up resentment into action, then there would be trouble that Stenwold – and the war effort – could do without. He said nothing and did nothing, though. The invaluable aid that Laszlo and his family had tendered, and the price they had paid for him, stayed his hand.

  I will regret it. But Stenwold regretted a great deal already, and the deeds of Fly-kinden seemed a small enough burden to add.

  ‘Kymene,’ he beckoned.

  ‘War Master.’

  He glanced at the Mynan woman, iron-hard and lean, and still an arresting figure despite the lines of wear and hardship on her. The first time he had set eyes on her, he had been newly released from a Wasp cell, and she had been one of the most striking women he had ever seen – though hers was a statue’s beauty, to be admired without being touched. The struggle for her city remained her life and her sole purpose. In that brief time when she had not been fighting the Wasps, she had been fighting her opponents within the Mynan Consensus.

  Paladrya walked at his other side, her hand resting on his arm, carefully cowled and shawled against the sun that would crack and burn her pale skin.

  Tactician Milus received the three of them in his tent, arrayed in full armour, a man with his hands full of war sparing some of his valuable time for his allies. Stenwold knew him, though: for unlike most Ants, Milus was good at putting himself behind the eyes of others and predicting how they thought. It gave him a tactical edge over his peers. And it makes him very dangerous.

  ‘War Master,’ Milus acknowledged. ‘Commander Kymene, Adviser Paladrya.’ That last name, which should have been unfamiliar to him, was pronounced perfectly. ‘Congratulations on your victory over the Second. It was an immaculately executed campaign.’

  ‘Thank you, Tactician,’ Stenwold said, waiting for more.

  ‘I’m told that you might have dealt the Second a stronger blow, had you followed them up.’ The mild voice was just as much of an affectation as the un-Ant-like preface: ‘I’m told’.

  ‘I’m sure your subordinates have explained my reasoning,’ Stenwold replied. No games, please.

  For a second Milus displayed no expression, and Stenwold could not have guessed what he was about to do, but then he nodded. ‘It was your battle to direct, War Master,’ he conceded pleasantly. ‘I myself might have played things differently, but “if” is the scourge of the tactician. The Second is in full retreat, anyway, and we’re closing on the nearer Wasp force that was to have been the Collegiate garrison, as I understand it. I anticipate that either they’ll break or we’ll catch them within the tenday. My scouts report that they are currently sabotaging the rails as they depart, but we can re-lay them almost as fast, and once the Wasps are out of the way the road to Helleron should be clear unless the Second head north to intercept us.’

  ‘I take it you have strategies ready for either eventuality.’

  ‘Of course.’ Milus smiled slightly. ‘Although, as the composition of our forces changes and our numbers grow, they must be modified.’ His eyes flicked from face to face: dark Beetle, grey-blue Mynan, the startling pallor of the Sea-kinden woman. ‘War Master . . .’ His tone seemed to mull the title over and examine it. ‘I understand that your Collegiate contingent is sizeable. Your soldiers will prove invaluable in prosecuting this war.’ Sizeable still meant less than the Sarnesh, of course, and they both knew it. ‘Also we have Mantis-kinden, Mynans, the other Ants that you are bringing –’ this was said without a suggestion of hostility – ‘and a small number of troops from Princep Salma. This is the largest single force that the Lowlands has ever mustered. Even our logistics are going to be stretched tight, keeping such a number supplied and m
oving fast.’

  Stenwold nodded, still waiting.

  ‘We are more than equal to any one Wasp army. Given our varied capabilities, I would stake us against two. Do you appreciate the scale of the military might we have amassed, War Master?’

  Put that way, it was an oddly chilling thought. Stenwold looked into Milus’s face and read the thought, What might we not do?

  ‘Even so,’ the Ant went on, ‘we are still less than the Empire. If they concentrated their forces against us, we would be heavily outnumbered, and we will be moving closer and closer to their home ground – our supply lines becoming increasingly stretched and vulnerable.’

  ‘I am sure you have plans for all of this,’ Stenwold suggested, because it was evident that the man did. Come on, Tactician, no more games.

  ‘I do – and they are plans on which I am staking the lives of everyone here,’ Milus confirmed. ‘And for that reason, War Master, I need something from you.’

  Here it comes.

  ‘War Master, I understand how Collegium organizes its affairs. Your Assembly is an admirable system, truly. But an army needs one tactician, one man to command all, you understand?’

  ‘And you are that man.’

  ‘I must be, if we are to prevail,’ Milus replied, with a touch of passion in his voice that Stenwold couldn’t pin down as real or just for show. ‘For us to succeed against the Empire, against that great wealth of men and machines, we must be unified. You are War Master of Collegium, and I respect that, but this army must have a single War Master. Will you follow my orders? Will you commit your followers to my direction? If not, then we cannot rely on you, and your presence will do more harm than good.’

  ‘I understand,’ Stenwold replied smoothly, and he did, but it was one understanding among many. Yes, the Lowlander forces would have to work together, and there was nobody save Milus who could lead them – for the Sarnesh were the army’s iron core and they would follow nobody else. He found, though, looking into that solid soldier’s face, that trust did not naturally follow. He remembered the complaints about this man from Laszlo, and from his old friend Balkus.

  There will come a time when we may have to part ways, he told himself, and knew that the skill would rest in judging precisely when that time was. The irony was not lost on him. He had been preaching ‘unity or slavery’ for years, and now it was a greater unity he was backing away from, because it looked as though it could become something very like slavery, if he was not careful.

  ‘I told you I could bring him.’ Sperra looked almost desperately proud of herself.

  Laszlo was not sure what he felt about Sperra. He had worked alongside her in setting up the liberation of Collegium, and she was a clever, resourceful woman who would make a valuable ally. On the other hand, he knew she wanted something from him that was not his to give – or that was how he read her.

  And, even knowing that, he still made use of her, and she – knowing what it was that he was plotting – allowed herself to be made use of. He had lost track, in all this, of the precise rights and wrongs.

  Have to have a chat with Mar’Maker about ends justifying means, some day. Because philosophy was for Collegiate scholars, if any of them had survived the Wasps with their faculties intact.

  ‘That’s good,’ he told her. ‘Share our fire, Balkus. Come talk to the Bloodfly.’

  He exaggerated. The Bloodfly was the inherited title of the feared Fly-kinden pirate leader, but while his uncle and former captain, Tomasso, was dead, Laszlo was not his successor. Solid, practical-minded Gude was currently aboard ship and many miles away, though. Out here, Laszlo led the little contingent of Tidenfree crew who were marching with the army. They were his people, and they were here for his purposes.

  The big Ant whom Sperra had brought dropped down carefully, the little Fly-kinden giving him plenty of space. Balkus’s eyes flicked from his old friend Sperra to Laszlo – a very casual acquaintance – then towards the others he did not know.

  ‘This is Despard.’ Laszlo indicated the woman who served as the Tidenfree’s chief artificer. ‘This is Herve, Mallori, Scriena, Apello.’ Hard-faced Flies, all of them, pirates varnished over only lightly with respectable Collegiate citizenship. Shipmates and relatives all. ‘How’s life for the Princepi?’

  He referred to the folk of Princep Salma, Sarn’s neighbour, who had been forcibly drafted into the army – or as good as.

  Balkus glanced about, though the Tidenfree camp lay on the far side of the Collegiates from the Sarnesh majority, buried within the Mynan contingent, where hostile ears were likely to be few.

  ‘Not the best,’ the Ant confirmed. ‘Right now my former kin reckon we’re too much of a rabble for fighting, so they’ve got us waiting on them hand and foot – digging their privies, cooking their meals, sharpening blades. Which frankly wouldn’t be so bad, save I remember what I was told about how quick they were to shove us to the front when we were up against the Eighth. A lot of my bunch think that the Sarnesh see our contingent as just small change for their tactician to spend whenever he needs to.’

  Laszlo nodded. He was amazed how calm he felt. ‘Tell me about her.’

  Balkus glanced sidelong at Sperra again. ‘Well, she’s with the army, all right. Some of mine got a look at her – Fly woman, red hair, prisoner, like I was told. Milus keeps her close, and she’s locked up in a rail carriage all the time, as if she’s dangerous.’

  ‘Oh, she’s that,’ agreed Laszlo.

  ‘It’s not going to happen,’ Balkus told him flatly. ‘She’s in the middle of their camp. She’s under guard. Poke one sentry and everyone in the army will know it. There’s no way.’

  ‘There’s a way,’ Laszlo stated flatly. ‘Piss on Milus. Piss on the war effort. There’s a way.’ He was aware of how the others were now staring at him, as if this was some imposter who had managed to steal the face of their cousin Laszlo.

  ‘Look, I understand.’ Balkus’s face creased in worry. ‘Yes, it’s wrong. Yes, Milus is a bastard and something should be done. But the war—’

  Laszlo met his eyes, unflinching. ‘You sound like Sten Maker.’ That was unfair. He knew Balkus and Sperra had gone to Maker to complain after the Sarnesh had virtually annexed Princep Salma, and they had been rebuffed. He himself had received the same treatment concerning Milus’s imprisonment of the woman he now proposed to rescue.

  The Ant’s expression fell away, leaving Laszlo without clues.

  ‘It’s going to happen,’ the Fly told him. ‘If it happens, and Milus and Mar’Maker and the Wasps get to have their war, all the better. I think the Wasps deserve a kick in the parts, myself. I’ll lend a boot. But I will have her back, Balkus.’

  At last those broad shoulders rose and fell, and Laszlo reckoned it was Sperra who made the difference, her support for him so against her own interest. The smile he sent her, the implicit encouragement, made a liar out of him.

  ‘Tell me what I can do,’ said Balkus. ‘No promises, though. I have my people to keep safe, and the Sarnesh wouldn’t need much excuse to put me in the next cell. But tell me what you need, and I’ll see.’

  Thirty

  The Slave Corps was busy.

  Across the Empire, prison camps had sprung up at locations dictated by geographical convenience, the availability of transport or mere quartermasters’ fiat. They were hasty affairs, for the Empress’s orders had been unexpected, unprecedented. Bring me slaves, Inapt for preference. And in numbers, such very large numbers. But Seda’s writ was unyielding, and never before had the Slave Corps had such a chance to wield it.

  They had started small. They had combed households and slave markets for Commonwealers left over from the Twelve-year War. They had bought Moths and Grasshoppers from the Scorpions – and not a few Inapt Scorpions as well. But the demand had just increased, the figures rising in leaps and sudden skips as Seda refined her calculations.

  They had gone into Inapt communities within the Empire, such as the Grasshopper-kinden town of
Sa, and simply levied a tax of bodies, a mass conscription of men, women and children. They brooked no argument, for they were drunk on vicarious power. They carried away trains of hundreds, even thousands.

  They sent airships to the Principalities, those Commonweal states formerly under Imperial control and now close allies, offering to buy every slave they had, and the ships returned with full holds and set off again as soon as they had unloaded.

  Then the conflict with the Spiderlands, which so many others had been decrying, began to pay dividends. A steady flow of prisoners from Seldis and points south became a flood, and the Slave Corps seized on them all, buying or trading or confiscating as the need arose.

  And still the Empress demanded more.

  At the last they began going to the gates of all the Auxillian cities, Inapt or not, and making their demands. They sent to the Lowlands. They sent to every compass point. The Empress demanded slaves and, while that demand existed, the Slave Corps – loathed and maligned by every other branch of the Imperial forces – was the most powerful force in the Empire.

  But they let their enthusiasm to carry out her orders outstrip their ability. They had learned few lessons from the excesses of the Twelve-year War, when the influx of Commonweal slaves had been so overwhelming that almost one in five died of neglect and maltreatment before reaching the Empire. The Slave Corps continued amassing the terrible quantities of bodies that the Empress was demanding, but they would not be able to keep them long. They could not feed them. They could not safeguard them from pestilence. Already the deaths were beginning, choked and starved, plagued and crippled, killed by each other, killed by the brutality of their warders, dying by their own hands.

  The senior Slave Corps officers were starting to exchange glances, writing urgently to Capitas to say, We have so many now – but what next? No response came save, occasionally, a Red Watch officer would arrive and remind them that it was not their place to question the Empress.