Adrian Tchaikovsky - The Air War

Strangely, what she felt was a rush of relief. He does not know. Her own masters must have shielded her from this man’s scrying, forcing him to quarter the mountains in search of her.

Seeing her defiance, the Skryre smiled with a touch of weariness. ‘Listen to me, Xaraea. Your services to Tharn have not gone unnoticed. It is your misfortune to find yourself shackled to the wrong masters. They have cast you away. They care nothing for you save as a tool. I give you this chance to be something more. Come with us. Tell us what has been done. You shall be rewarded. You must know I would not make this offer lightly.’

She took a step back, feeling the path’s edge at her heels, the yawning abyss of the mountainside beyond. The wind plucked at her clothes, as if sounding out how secure her footing was.

If they took her, they would know it all. She could keep no secrets from a skilled magician. If she held out and defied him enough, he would simply bring his strength of will and magical craft to bear on her and crush her mind like an egg in order to get at what was within. She had witnessed it. She herself had held the victim down.

There was no signal, but abruptly the two archers were airborne, the man casting his bow aside. The wind was her friend now, though, as it battled with them for control of the air, and so she stepped back and let her wings catch her.

An arrow sung past her, and she had a glimpse of the Mantis rushing forward. They would catch her at any moment. She could not evade two of them in the air for long, and if the Mantis could fly..

She had a moment of complete understanding, as if the wind stepped back to grant it to her. She felt bitterly ill-used, and grief for what must happen.

She let her wings take her down, smashing through the wind that tried to slow her, faster and faster, as fast as falling and then faster still. The others were grasping out for her ankles, she knew. They were pushing themselves just as hard as she was. They knew she must pull up from her dive, and then they would have her, crashing into her at speed, wrestling her to a halt, willing to chance her dagger or her nails. They were as loyal and devoted as she.

But not quite so determined, she guessed.

Think well of me, masters. They had made it very clear to her indeed: The others must not know.

They broke away, driven to the limits of their courage. Had they been less fierce in their pursuit, she might have salvaged something, though the effort of wrenching from her breakneck descent might have crippled her in any event. They had kept their nerve to the very last moment, however. She had no time.

There was never enough time.

The rocks met her like a lover.

Elsewhere, Esmail packed what few possessions he had: a change of clothes folded with a care that made him smile painfully, dry rations, an Imperial-issue waterskin Salthric had gifted him. A bedroll likewise. Paper, ink and a few chitin pens. No weapons, but then he had little need of them.

He stowed everything in his old canvas satchel, a calming ritual recalled from his youth when he had been a man with a dozen masters, going wherever the gold might lead him but taking the work for the love of it, the craft of it. The Arcanum had found its uses for him, but so had so many others.

A stupid life. A pointless life. Did he feel the thrill of it now, calling from his memories, the faint old clarion call to war?

He did not. If he had died an old man, grandchildren at his bedside, he would have counted it a life well spent, his earlier escapades just an aberration best forgotten. But now they were calling him back to it, and could he honestly say he was surprised? The Moths would hardly have sheltered him here out of human kindness. They possessed no such thing, and certainly not towards him.

Alone and unobserved, he took the Moth woman’s scroll up and cracked the seal. There was a brief summary of where he must go, who his contact would be, what passwords to use: the familiar information of any mundane spymaster. After that, however, came his orders, with a stern exhortation to memorize and then destroy them.

Infiltrate the Rekef and the Imperial court.

Investigate the nature of the Empress and her intentions.

Kill her.

The Antspider was stepping into the ring of the Prowess Forum, in her first showing at a formal contest, and a murmur of interest passed through the spectators.

The Master Armsman officiating was a sour-natured Beetle-kinden named Corog Breaker, who had been souring still further throughout the proceedings. He held out the swords, wood sheathed in bronze, and she took one lightly and her opponent, a sturdy Beetle youth, took the other. Having second choice, he looked at her suspiciously, as though she had somehow tampered with the sword she had left him, but that was the price of having a reputation.

She was a lean, compact woman with snow-pale skin whose tan mottling could, with a dash of cosmetics, be formed into striking darts at her brow and cheekbones. She presented a most martial image, her features fierce, pale hair cut short as a soldier’s, her stance making the blade in her hand a natural part of her, the point into which the rest of her was focused. In contrast, the Beetle opposite her held his sword first like a hammer and then, as she directed her weapon at him, like a shield.

The Prowess Forum was more popular now than ever before. The College’s students had lived through war with Vek and the Empire, so that matters martial were on everyone’s mind. Four new departments had been created on the back of the war, and every student was expected to be able to acquit him- or herself with a sword. The Apt had a chance to learn the crossbow and the snapbow as well, training alongside Collegium’s Merchant Companies.

‘Salute the book!’ Corog Breaker growled, and the two of them duly raised their blades to the Forum’s emblem — a brass sword within the open pages of a wooden tome — which had become the city’s own martial symbol during the war.

‘Distance,’ the Armsman snapped. This instruction was new, born from a combination of the pastime’s popularity and peacetime’s renewed drive amongst the sponsoring magnates to count victories over sportsmanship. There had been, a half-year ago, a spate of unsatisfactory contests, with one duellist rushing the other in a frantic exchange of blows. The difficulty of adjudication had led to the introduction of a more formal start. The Antspider and her rival touched blade points, arms extended, each out of reach of the other, each theoretically just as ready.

‘Clock!’ called Breaker, and in that moment’s echo she struck, sword nipping past her enemy’s to poke him in the upper arm. The Beetle-kinden swore, then put his hand to his mouth and looked guiltily at the Master Armsman.

Breaker’s eyes flicked suspiciously between them. ‘First strike to the halfbreed,’ he said, with heavy disgust on that last word. ‘Second pass. Distance! Clock!’

And she was in again, a seemingly impossible lunge that caught the Beetle youth in his already bruised arm, making him drop his sword with a yelp. The commentary amongst the spectators was now running rife. The Antspider had not even moved her feet, only leant in a little, weight on the front foot ready for a quick retreat.

She gave Breaker a silent count of twenty before suggesting, in a breach of manners beyond enduring, ‘If you wish, I’ll play the point again, Master Breaker.’ She needed to win, and her two team-mates needed to win as well, because the fourth of their number was inexplicably absent. It was just possible, at that point, that she could talk Breaker into simply declaring that bout a lost match, rather than ruling that their team had forfeited, whereupon they would win the contest three-one. The four of them had worked very hard indeed even to get as far as being allowed to compete.