Adrian Tchaikovsky - Empire in Black and Gold

The halfbreed nodded frantically and Markon spat on the ground in disgust. ‘Get out, you vermin. Tell Sinon to send someone of better blood next time, or I’ll have your boss’s ears.’

Once Sinon’s man had bolted from the taverna, Markon let his men cheer him a little more before waving a dismissive hand at them. ‘Has the Mantis called for his pay?’ he asked.

‘Been and gone a long time back, Master,’ one of his men reported. ‘Not too friendly, that one.’

‘And cursed expensive at that,’ Markon agreed absently. ‘For all that, better to have him hired than let him onto the market. You all saw the fight. How many do you think he could take? Ten? Twelve?’

‘At least.’

Markon nodded. ‘And if he failed. . well, good enough to be rid of one like that, than risk him changing who his friends are.’ He shook himself, business done for another day. ‘Enjoy yourselves, my friends,’ he told his men. ‘You’ve earned it all. I shall go upstairs and seek my own enjoyment.’

They whooped and called at that, and he paused halfway up the stairway to acknowledge them once again. They had found a particular prize for him to celebrate upon, a young girl fresh to the city. It was time for Markon to become friendlier.

He pushed into the room, seeing her already laid out on the bed, waiting for him. One of the staff brought him a jar of wine and two bowls before backing out, bowing deferentially.

‘Today,’ Markon declared, ‘shall be long remembered in this fief.’ He favoured the girl with his best smile, as white as any artifice could make it. She was Spider-kinden, his special prize, and as handsome as they came.

‘Unrobe me,’ he told her, and she came forward, standing behind him to free his robes and tunic with deft, careful motions of one hand. Her fingers were cool, steady. He flexed his shoulders, still muscled despite a decade’s easy living, and turned to her.

‘Now, girl,’ he said — and she ran him through the stomach and opened his throat as though they had planned it together.

Tynisa watched his blood soak into the counterpane and contemplated her life to date. She felt a desperate need to laugh at it, at the sheer folly. Had she spent all those years in the College learning philosophy, history and the humanities, just to find her true vocation here on the streets of Helleron? And such a vocation! A player in the games of princes, a tool of statecraft, the unspoken and the unacknowledged shadow that every man of power used and feared.

All simple enough, as Sinon Halfway had predicted. She had not believed it would work, but here she was.

She had wondered, in a scholarly way, whether she could actually kill a man who was not trying to kill her. She had prepared all manner of arguments to strengthen her purpose. He was a gangster, after all. He was a killer and an employer of killers. She had seen his handiwork out on the bloodied street. She would be, if not quite doing the world a service, then at least be doing it no great harm.

The chief of the Gladhanders was dead.

And how simple it was, once armed with one piece of knowledge: that the portly Beetle-kinden gang boss had a weakness for Spider-kinden women. A weakness well known, and therefore his subordinates were careful to check each momentary concubine. Her face was new to them, though, and she was unarmed. One of Sinon’s better sneaks had made sure her sword would be there in the room before she ascended the stairs. Markon had died without a sound.

Now she went to the window and opened the shutters, looking out on an unsuspecting day. With a sense of drama, she waved her kerchief in the morning air, knowing it would be noted.

She then transferred her attention to the door and waited.

Within moments she heard shouting from downstairs and outside: the Gladhanders’ sudden shock as Akta Barik and a score of toughs from the Halfway House charged the building. She imagined the huge Scorpion-kinden kicking down the door, swinging in with his monstrous great sword that was as long as he was tall. Behind him would be swordsmen, spearmen, crossbowmen, whatever Sinon had chased up.

The door to the room was flung open by a panicked-looking Ant-kinden.

‘Chief! It’s the Halfways-’ he got out before she killed him.

In all she killed seven of them, one at a time, as they piled into the room seeking guidance. Hers was the highest headcount of the day. When one of Sinon’s men finally ascended the stairs, he stopped halfway because the sight of Tynisa and her mound of corpses was too much for him. He backed away quietly and decided to let her come down when she was ready.

When she did descend the stairs she felt like a battle-queen standing before her army. The footsoldiers of the Halfway House cheered her for a saviour. Only Barik was silent, favouring her with a respectful nod that, taken in context, meant much more.

A half-hour later it was all done, and those members of the Gladhanders still free and living were taking any shelter they could, or thinking very hard about changing their colours. Tynisa meanwhile sat in the same taverna before which Tisamon had performed his feats of carnage, only two streets away from the scene of her own bloodletting, and watched the ordinary people pass by.

‘You’ve a talent,’ Sinon told her, ‘and I like you. You’re an original.’

She watched his face cautiously.

‘If you want,’ he said, ‘you can stay on. You’ve more than earned your place here. I’ll make you the equal of Malia and Barik, and neither of them will mind. We’re expanding, so: room for another lieutenant.’

She opened her mouth to refuse straight away, then closed it, feeling a strange cold creep across her. She had been reborn in blood, this day. What would Che say if she knew what her not-sister had done? What would Stenwold say? And she was good at the work, certainly. Another few jobs and she would have worn her conscience entirely away, and then she might even start to enjoy it.

The thought roiled in her stomach, queasy and thrilling all at once. She thought of the Mantis, Tisamon. How much respect could one person gather? Lords and magnates would beggar themselves to possess that much awe and adulation.

She thought then of a life that was just fight after fight, betrayal after betrayal, and exactly how much that adulation would mean. And how long would they still cheer her, once the blade was dulled?

‘I can’t stay,’ she said. ‘Part of me wants to, it’s true, but I have obligations.’

‘Understood,’ said Sinon, without acrimony. He fished in his tunic, brought out a folded sheet of paper. ‘Go to this address, you’ll find your contact: Scuto. He’s a known man of your Stenwold’s, according to my spies. And he’s well protected, so best go openly and peaceably. It’s even possible he’s already found the rest of your company. Tell me, though,’ he eyed her with a faint smile, ‘are all your fellows as accomplished as you?’

‘No,’ she said, and it was not boasting but a fact.

‘Then trust to hope, for this Scuto’s a rough creature, his friends and his surroundings worse. If your friends went in there unwary, things may have gone the worse for them.’

Tynisa thought of poor Che, as unwary a victim as Helleron could ever claim. But patient and politic , she instructed herself. Che would not be here, in Tynisa’s shoes, because Che would not have attacked half the staff of the Halfway House in her flight. This was a Beetle city and Che would blend in, would stay safe and out of trouble. I know she would. What else could she do?

They were both frozen in the moment. Che had her sword mostly unsheathed, eight inches of bared metal, and was now poised in the duellist’s bent-kneed stance into which she had dropped. The Moth had a long dagger in one hand, the other wrapped about his ribs. His face was pointed, grey-skinned, dark hair cut close in a widow’s peak. His eyes were slanted and blank white, like a blind man’s. After a moment Che decided he was only a little older than she was. If he had not been threatening her, if she had not been threatening him, he would have seemed handsome.