Adrian Tchaikovsky - The Scarab Path

'What city, sir?' Vollen asked him abruptly. Thalric blinked, losing the point of the question and then remembering. The Ant-kinden? He frowned when he looked to the two identical men standing a little apart from the rest.

'Vekken,' he declared, and ransacked his memory for news of Vek following the abortive siege of Collegium that he had been so instrumental in prompting. Had there not been some word of Vekken ambassadors in that city, since? He thought maybe there had, but why were they here?

Because whatever Che Maker was searching for in this place, it was important. Whether it was seeking an alliance or information or ancient buried treasure, the Vekken were obviously interested, perhaps even willing partners. That seemed next to impossible, considering the way they regarded Collegium, but if anyone could solder together that breach, then it would be Stenwold.

The Lowlanders were going in now. If their embassy was anything like the Empire's, they would find an embarrassment of riches and service to get used to, giving the Empire a day's clear start in keeping an eye on them. Thalric watched closely as Che herself went in, the others filing dutifully after her. She's definitely in charge, good for her . Only when she had gone from sight did he permit himself the liberty of the third line of thought that had been brewing. It was a notion that had sparked when he had seen her at the docks, having gone there to see who the Lowlands had sent. Having seen, he should have backed into the crowd: Gram had been plucking at his sleeve, but he had stood his ground, watching. Unprofessional, for a man of your experience . The answer to that question was there in plain sight, but he had avoided it, up until now.

You wanted her to know that you were here .

He tried to make some capital out of this action, for the Empire. Surely he could wrestle it around to benefit his mission. He felt Vollen watching him, and knew that he was not above reproach, here. Brugan probably told them to keep me on a careful leash .

'I recognized their leader,' he said lightly. 'An old acquaintance.'

'Sir.' Vollen's tone remained carefully neutral.

Thalric turned away from the window, putting himself out of sight of the building opposite. 'It gives us another option, in working out what they're after.'

Vollen nodded, waiting for enlightenment.

'I'll make contact,' Thalric declared, sounding very relaxed, almost flippant. 'Since they know the Empire's in the city, I'll think up some story and make contact. For old times' sake, you know.' What have you been told about me? he wondered, looking directly into Vollen's face. What have you been warned about?

Vollen appeared all business though. 'That would make sense,' he agreed. 'We can hardly keep avoiding each other, being lodged so close. We might as well have some formal contact, and it sounds as though this is why the General sent you along with us.' Thalric saw no hint of suspicion, nothing but a Rekef man mulling over a problem.

Is it quite so easy? Are my treasons forgotten? But that was the curse of running agents and spies, of course. Consider those men and women who spent their lives under false pretences, and how was their spymaster — how was anyone — to know their true nature? How, eventually, was even the spy himself to know where his loyalties lay? Pretend hard enough and it builds a shell of reality, as difficult to scrub off as barnacles from a boat. I remember learning that the hard way from my agents in Collegium . He felt a stab of regret at that, and shame at his own failure. They had been good Imperial agents until he had told them that Collegium must be destroyed, and it was then they had discovered that they were really citizens of Collegium, ready to fight him to protect their city. No one could have known that, until he had put them to the test.

And now I am put to the test, am I? Who would I betray, given the chance? Then a pang of self-pity: Is there anyone I would not?

'What do you make of this city, Vollen?'

The other man shook his head. 'Speaking frankly, sir, it's an armpit. You saw those fields on our way down the river. My people are farmers, back home. I know how it's done. We didn't spot a single automotive on the way in, nothing but a few watermills. They do everything by hand or by beast labour here. The guards don't even have a crossbow between them. If the Empire wanted this place, we could walk in tomorrow.'

'Just a primitive little backwater, then?'

'Exactly.' Vollen's expression precisely indicated a Rekef man who wanted to be elsewhere: this assignment was not, his face said, the stuff a career was made of. Thalric realized, with a stab of guilt, that the man was talking to him as one Rekef to another, without any of the reserve that had marked their journey so far. Vollen must have caught himself at the same time because he added, 'Sorry, sir, if I've been too blunt.'

'Be as blunt as you like,' Thalric told him. 'If it helps, I agree with you.' Only he didn't agree, merely wanted to. It was clear to him, he who had made a career out of finding his feet in foreign cities, that there were parts of Khanaphes still being kept hidden from him. There were too many inconsistencies all around him. If only, though … because, if Khanaphes was just some misbegotten hole of peasants and primitives, then it could not in any way be important. And if it was not important, then it could not really matter what he did here, since nothing was at stake. After all, my purpose — my true purpose — in coming here was to escape the Empress, if only for a little while .

There was a crash of breaking pottery below, and he took it as his cue. 'I'll see how Osgan is managing.'

Vollen's expression showed just what he thought of Osgan, but he nodded.

I was a traitor for such a short time , he thought as he descended the stairs. Why do I miss it so much? Prisoner and fugitive, beaten, hunted. Such times , he thought drily, but there was a nub of truth there. His life as Regent was no garden, after all, and it had not even honesty to recommend it. It had been different when he had been a traitor.

What was Che to him? He realized that she was the closest thing to an old comrade he had.

He wondered if Cheerwell Maker would want to talk over old times.

'So tell me what happened here,' Che said.

Petri Coggen stared at her, wide-eyed, then her gaze slid over towards the servants who were carefully setting down Che's meagre baggage. The other academics crowded about them as well, so that Che felt a sudden surge of claustrophobia.

'Out, everyone out,' she said. 'Let me talk to Miss Coggen alone. You all go … pick your rooms or something.'

Mannerly Gorget was first out the door, his future comfort very much in mind, and the rest began to follow him.

Berjek went last, frowning. 'Are you sure …?' he enquired. 'If there's something amiss here we all should know it.'

'Master Gripshod …' Che began, and saw the servants visibly flinch. She gritted her teeth. 'Berjek, please,' she continued, 'I don't think an extra pair of hands is going to help, here.' With a tilt of her head she tried to indicate Petri Coggen, who now sat on the bed, looking dishevelled, shaking and red-eyed, hugging her knees.

Berjek pursed his lips in irritation, but nodded and made his exit. Che waited for the servants to go too, but they continued patiently unpacking.

'Sorry, could you leave us alone for a moment.' She had to say it twice before they registered that she was actually talking to them. Their expressions were those of frozen surprise, as though a chair had just spoken to them. Servants, or slaves? Che wondered. She remembered her brief sight of the Spiderlands, on the way to Solarno. There had been slaves everywhere, yet they had been invisible, for that was the custom: it was considered bad manners even to look at them. 'I'm sorry,' she addressed the servants again. There were three of them — two young women and a middle-aged man, all as bald as the rest of the locals — wearing simple white tunics that hung off one shoulder.