Adrian Tchaikovsky - The Scarab Path

I must find Che .

It was only a small detour, surely. To step through into the Place of Foreigners and turn left to the Moth-fronted embassy, and not right towards the building guarded by stone Woodlouse-kinden. It would require only a moment's disloyalty.

And if she doesn't believe me, either? It seemed more than likely. He had not exactly given her any reason to trust his unevidenced word.

And why do I care? His instinctive response had grown rather stale now. I care because she is a clumsy, naive, foolish Beetle-kinden girl, yet her regard matters to me. Because I find her company easier than that of my own kind. At least with her, I do not feel the knife at my back every moment . He doubted that she felt the same way.

His shoulders slumped, as he set off down the steps for the archway leading to the embassies. I have only ever had one virtue, and that one so often pawned as to have become near-worthless. Still, I used to pride myself on my loyalty. Therefore I shall make my report .

Something made him pause, as he passed through the arch: his Rekef senses had not quite left him yet. Some part of him, though overlaid now with uncertainty, was still living behind enemy lines. The quiet of the garden — the stillness of the pool — was an illusion. He found his fingers twitching, baring his palms by purest instinct.

He saw them then, two shadows of the evening standing near the Collegiate embassy. They were like statues, or the shadows of statues, dark instead of pale marble. They watched him, and he watched them back, ready to use the archway as cover if they were assassins come after him. Some small and detached part of him thought, as he hesitated, Is this the way of things now, for me? Will it be assassins for breakfast? Will I wake to them each morning? Is that what it means to be Regent? I would rather live the life of a spy. At least spies sleep well sometimes .

He was no Fly-kinden or Spider, possessed of good night-eyes, but the light of the sunset still greyed the west sufficiently, and it told him enough about their build and stance to identify them as Ant-kinden. The Vekken, of course .

He had no wish to have any dealings with the Vekken, for a number of reasons. Their customary stare of absolute antipathy was born of their city's isolation, and its recent history with the Empire. It was not usually personal . On the other hand, if they knew that it had been his word that had prompted them into their disastrous assault on Collegium, then he had no doubt that they would kill him.

The sight of them brought back a great deal that he could have done without, just then. He remembered the neatly soulless city of Vek. Perhaps to a native it had seemed bustling with cheer. He did not believe it. The sole impression he had received was one of cold pride exemplifying all that was Ant-kinden and honed to a brittle edge.

He remembered their general boasting of her army, as it had marched past in its perfect ranks. What came to him, across the bloody stretch of intervening time, was a colossal arrogance. Such fierce and overweening confidence they had then possessed, such joy in their anticipated victory: a city of soldiers making war on a city of scholars. And they had lost . He had been, at that point, in no position to appreciate Collegium's victory, but the details had come to him later, as they would come to any competent spymaster. Collegium had won because of its own unique virtues: ingenuity and allies. Vek had lost because of its bankruptcy on either front.

Thalric's lips were pursed tight He had been in no position to cheer the victors, because he had left the Vekken camp by then. His mind recalled with perfect clarity the severing of the ties that had bound him to the Empire. They had not been cleanly cut, either, but crudely hacked until they parted, the blade running red. Even the thought made his side twinge, a relic of the old wound that Daklan had given him, the scar that bore mute testimony to when he should have died.

Would the world be a better or worse place, I wonder . His bleak thoughts would not leave him. A lot of the man he had once been had died on the point of Daklan's knife. He had been so loyal, and every atrocity that his hands had worked had been justified by the cause he served. He found that he was frightened by the man he had once been. If I met him, that burning idealist, I would kill him if I could. Far too dangerous to let him live .

He thought too much, these days.

The Vekken had clearly come to some decision, under his silent scrutiny. They made a quick exit by the passage alongside the embassy, vanishing from his sight, if not his thoughts. He made no attempt at pinning a motive on them. Ant-kinden were all mad, he decided: living constantly in each other's heads could not be healthy. He had never met any Ant-kinden, of any city, that he had actually liked.

He turned aside for the Imperial embassy. And why the Woodlouse-kinden at the door? Do they mock us with our own slaves? The statues reminded him of Gjegevey, one of the Empress's favourite tools. That brought a whole new fleet of grim thoughts into port. He realized, standing before the heavy-lidded stone stare of the Woodlice, that he had no idea where his life was going now. He had lost hold of it. He had rejoined the Empire, but it had not let him back in. He did not understand it any more.

'Thalric!' A hoarse whisper.

He recoiled from the Woodlice statues, took three long steps away from the embassy, eyes raking the gloom.

'Thalric! Here!'

The stand of trees, with its burden that had so appalled Osgan, was hissing at him. He was frozen, old instincts rusty, trying to pierce the shadows between them with his gaze.

He discerned the paleness of the Mantis statue, but there was something dark lurking at its base. He had his hands palm-outwards as he approached, but they dropped back to his sides once he saw what it was. He walked over to the very trees, and leant in further, peering down.

He could not imagine what it must have cost the man, to come here. It was not just the wound — Osgan's face was pale and sweaty with it — but the fear. He had forced himself to crawl in among these trees until he sat at the very feet of the Mantis statue. He was resolutely facing away from it, and yet every part of him aware of it.

'What are you doing?' Thalric demanded, despairingly. 'You shouldn't even be up yet. Is it so important to get to a taverna that you'd kill yourself for it?'

Osgan stared up at him, teeth bared. 'Thalric, you mustn't go inside,' he managed to get out. His breathing was ragged, and there was still fever in him from the arm wound. It must have been all he could do to haul himself this far, and it was not drink that had drawn this effort out of him. Thalric felt something sharp-edged turn in his stomach.

'Report,' he said, as if he was still the Rekef officer, living in a straightforward world.

Osgan held his eyes. 'A new officer's flown in,' he croaked. 'Rekef … He's taken charge. Given orders …'

'Orders?'

'To have you killed.' Osgan clung to the Mantis effigy, grappling with its stone legs to haul himself half-upright. 'They're waiting inside, right now … I overheard it all. They'd forgotten about me, or they didn't think I could move …' Hooking an arm about the stone waist, he sagged, just some drunkard making a fool of himself.

Thalric felt something building up inside him, a great rushing wave that cried out: It's happening again. It's happening again . He felt Daklan's dagger go in, the keen cleanness of the man's strike.

He could not keep himself from laughing. After all his recent brooding, the worst had already happened. However hard he had tried to reattach himself to the Empire, his knots had slipped, his bindings frayed. He laughed because he had suddenly been cut free.