Adrian Tchaikovsky - War Master's Gate

And then, just today, she had come trotting back into his life, as bold as the sun, at the heels of Tactician Milus as though she had every reason to be attached to the Sarnesh command staff. And something within him, some dam, had cracked and now he was here and staring at her.

She stood carefully, and he saw in that movement the last traces of the wound she had taken in Solarno, the one that had severed her from Wasp service. ‘Oh, Laszlo, don’t be such a fool. The world turns, surely you know that?’

‘Some of us are quick enough to keep up with it. And here you are.’ Unable to read her expression, he pressed on. ‘I killed the Wasp that was hunting you — their spy woman. And I looked for you, I did. Don’t think you could just slip out of my mind. You’re not as sneaky as all that. And here you are. And. . with Sarn ? Seriously?’

‘Why not Sarn, when they pay their spies as well as anyone else?’

He thought there was a minute hesitation in there somewhere, and his stomach sank because abruptly he was convinced that simply being on the Ants’ payroll was far too simple a web for her.

‘And you’re off back to Sarn with their tactician,’ he prompted, feeling like a real spy for once, as he probed the edges of her infidelity.

‘Or wherever Milus chooses. Or wherever I do, if I tire of him.’

Laszlo had seen Milus perform for the Collegiates, as smooth and dangerous as any Spider noble. ‘He’s a good man to tie your fortunes to, is he?’

‘I’m not one to be tied, Laszlo. .’ Some mockery died on her lips. ‘You’ve been thinking of me, truly?’

‘Oh, well, sometimes. Once or twice when I wasn’t busy.’

He thought she would come to him then — but a moment later he thought she would back away and be gone, feeling a cage closing about her. Then she found her equilibrium, and he had a glimpse of some inner layer of her — perhaps still not the true woman beneath, but something more closely overlying it than the face she showed the world most of the time. ‘It won’t work, Laszlo.’

‘Try me.’

‘I’m leaving with the Sarnesh.’

‘You’re off for some top-secret conference with the Mantis-kinden, which I’ve just so happened to get myself invited to as part of the Collegiate delegation.’

‘Oh, really?’ She folded her arms, but that unguarded look remained, of a woman caught between fight and flight, and not sure what to do about him. ‘And, once again, you’ve no idea what you’re getting into — the man who went to play spy in Solarno and used his real name, for the world’s sake!’

‘And got out of there with you after everything went wrong!’ he reminded her.

‘I recall getting out of there quite well enough, and being fool enough to drag you with me,’ she scoffed. Her words wanted conviction, for she had been badly injured at the time. The plan had been hers, but he had carried it out. ‘Go away, Laszlo.’ The words were spoken fondly, but they still stung. ‘I’ve made a living from moving on. The past’s a thing to put behind you.’

And he was still perched at her window, despite that. ‘Give me something, Liss,’ he asked.

She waved a dismissive hand, and he saw her start to turn away, and yet not quite finish the movement, pulled back to face him as though drawn by a hook.

‘You are a fine fool,’ she told him. ‘You scare me.’ But at last she approached the window, until she stood within arm’s reach of him. ‘I don’t worry about people. I don’t care about people. That’s not what I do. Don’t try to change me. I’ve killed men for less.’ But there was no sense of threat about her, and that look was still on her face, the masks held at bay for this one extended moment.

‘I’ll see you in Mantis-land,’ he told her.

‘You. .’ she began, putting her hands on his shoulders. Then there was a rattling at the door and she gave him a sudden shove, pitching him backwards and away, his wings catching him a storey further down.

He was grinning, though, as he flew off. Now he really would have to talk his way onto the Collegiate delegation, and all the while without anyone guessing that he had his own motives. Time to call on his old friend Stenwold Maker.

Laszlo skimmed off across the face of the College, wondering where Stenwold might have got to.

The mid-morning calm was interrupted by the hammering of engines from nearby, while the ragged tree cover shook under the beating of wings as a dozen Spearflight orthopters scrambled into the air, clawing for height. The curved-bodied machines roared overhead, their wings a blur, rotary piercers already spinning up. A handful of the Light Airborne took wing after them, but only as observers, not as fighters. No general nor artificer had yet found any field of combat in which flying man and flying machine could realistically oppose one another.

General Tynan was not going to be that man, he knew. That aspect of warcraft had already moved beyond his experience. He did not have enough knowledge of the science or specifications of those machines to plan an air war.

Even he, though, knew that the Spearflights hurriedly flown to him from back home were yesterday’s models, and no match for the Collegiate Stormreaders that would even now be speeding through the skies towards his forces. His Second Army had endured daily raids for a month now, and his Spearflights had done little but slow the enemy down. What sent the Beetle pilots home was not the terrible force of the Imperial Air Corps, but the simple fact that the Stormreaders had not been designed with ground attacks in mind, and they soon ran out of munitions.

The irony was that the last time he had been out this way, Tynan had done his best to strip the place of any real cover. Only the coveted jewel that was Collegium had hauled him away before he had finished the job. He had not realized that he himself would need to hide here before the war was done. This was the Felyal, a former Mantis hold and thorn in the side of every Imperial advance up this coast. Tynan had beaten them twice, and had finally ousted them entirely from their forest haunts. Now a quarter of his Second Army was holed up in what dubious cover the forest could provide, with the remainder spread out in camps over several square miles, to deny the Stormreaders a satisfactory target. The forest itself hid the precise location of Tynan’s surviving artillery, his paltry air defences, his supplies and the Sentinel automotives, although those last were probably sufficiently armoured to survive a direct bombing.

He had watchers out between here and Collegium, and if a large ground force marched out to attack, he was betting his life that he could regroup before they reached him. Thus far the Beetles had not tried it. Even though they had retained command of the skies, he had given their forces a bloody enough nose in the accompanying land battle that they were wary of another clash. Instead, their orthopters, smug and inviolate, coursed over his scattered army at any time of the day or night, trailing bombs and making his soldiers endure lives of constant uncertainty and fear.

Such fear was a weapon of war, he knew. He himself had deployed it against the people of Collegium, and there was a certain philosophical interest in being the recipient, now. Go away , the Collegiates were shouting at him, by means of their constant buzzing attacks. Leave our lands. Go away. His orders were to await resupply and then press on; despite the harrowing bombardment, the Second had no intention of retreating. They were the renowned Gears, and it was galling enough that they had been stopped in their tracks.

He heard the solid crump of the first bomb striking, not too far away. The Stormreaders were poor bombers, without the dedicated design needed to be accurate against ground targets, but they got lucky, and he had hundreds of dead to prove it. A moment later, one of the Collegiate machines passed swiftly overhead, and Tynan held himself still, waiting to see if this would be the day his own luck ran out. A second later, it was veering off after one of the Spearflights, which would do its best to lead the enemy on a dance all around the sky until it was shot down, or until the Collegiate broke off to go home or find another target.