Adrian Tchaikovsky - Heirs of the Blade

‘I meant here to the Commonweal. Here to revisit your past and your losses?’

Varmen stared at him stubbornly, but sat back down. ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time.’

Cean poured more kadith, watching him with slightly raised eyebrows, but saying nothing.

‘Should have died at Masaki, I reckon, sometimes,’ Varmen added unwillingly. ‘You know how that feels, that one blind bit of chance takes you out of the way of the axe?’ Seeing Cean nodding, he went on, ‘And at Malkan’s Stand, I nearly did. Got a snapbow bolt through me, armour and all. Should have died there, too. After that, the army had no use for me – the Sentinels were being recalled. No point in all that armour if it couldn’t stop the shot. They just cut me off, like I was an embarrassment for surviving. A freak. I kicked about in Helleron some, but I used to dream of the Commonweal, of the Sixth as it used to be, before that useless tinkerer Praeter got put in charge. I used to dream of being holed up with them scouts, and… there was a girl, can’t even remember her name now. One of your lot, nice voice. I ended up going one on one with her, because I had to buy time for my men. I dream of that a lot. Seemed like my life went downhill from there, really. Now doesn’t that sound stupid, eh?’

Cean regarded him solemnly. ‘To a Wasp, perhaps, but my own kinden would understand. Mantis-kinden, too. There is a time for all things, especially for people. You and I, our time was then – that year, that month, at the height of our powers. We have neither of us ever been quite who we were then, do you not think?’

Varmen regarded him bleakly, but at last he nodded tiredly. ‘Reckon you’ve got the right of it, sir.’

‘We lost our purpose, after that. No matter that the war still had a few years left to run, our great work was done, and all we had left was to preside over our decline in the face of progress. It is a terrible thing to outlive one’s destiny.’

‘I don’t believe in destiny,’ Varmen said automatically, and then, ‘but, yes.’

‘You won’t believe in guiding spirits, either,’ Lowre Cean decided, ‘but in the Commonweal it can happen that a man whose destiny has passed him by may yet find a way to make something of himself. He may find himself taking strange paths, in order to seek out that elusive sense of purpose. Such as a Wasp coming to the Commonweal, perhaps? Who knows?’

‘Is that so?’ Varmen shrugged.

‘You’re heading back to Leose, of course?’

‘No chance. Won’t let us through the doors of that place.’

Lowre Cean sighed. ‘Prince Felipe Shah, my old comrade and friend, has asked me to look after the girl, Tynisa Maker. He believes he owes her a great debt. He also believes that she is travelling into darkness: that she is being led into it. I’m no fortune-teller myself, but he seems to think that she will need friends, and even a poor old man such as myself can sense that there is a storm brewing at Leose. So I think you should gather up your fellows and return there as swiftly as possible.’

‘I owe the girl nothing,’ Varmen challenged. ‘Why should I?’

‘Her name was Felipe Daless,’ declared Lowre Cean, looking the Wasp right in the eye. ‘She was Felipe Shah’s daughter.’

Varmen could only stare at him. ‘What did you…? How could you even…?’

‘I could baffle you with talk of mind-reading and magic now, could I not, Sergeant? But it was as simple as this: I knew her, and she told me of a duel with a Wasp Sentinel – of how you held her and her people off until more soldiers came to your rescue. It must have been you, for I doubt such events happened twice during all the war. And here you are – and no doubt you’ll say you were drawn here by blind coincidence.’

Varmen’s expression had become very fixed.

‘She bore you no ill will. I even think she respected you,’ Cean continued. ‘The duel of champions is a proud Commonwealer tradition, after all, and she had not expected it in an Imperial.’

Still Varmen said nothing, but Lowre Cean waited for him to conquer his internal demons to finally ask, ‘What happened to her?’

The old man’s smile was sad. ‘She died, of course. Just one more casualty of the war.’ He did not say, your people’s war, nor did his gaze accuse. His expression suggested, instead, that they all of them were victims of the same vast and unthinking tormentor. ‘I envy you your unbelief, Sergeant, for I do believe in fate, and I have seen enough of its workings to know that it does not have our best interests at heart. Will you help the girl, Tynisa Maker?’

‘Did he know?’ Varmen asked hoarsely. ‘I spoke with the man… with your Prince Felipe. Did he know?’

‘I would not be at all surprised,’ Lowre Cean stated.

‘Bastard,’ said Varmen vaguely, and then, ‘And yes. Yes, I will.’

But when Tynisa returned to Leose, Alain was gone, and instead she found herself summoned to meet Salme Elass. The princess received her in the same formal room as when she had first recruited Tynisa to her cause, where servants set out kadith and sweet cakes for them, everything in elaborate order. Elass finished writing something on a scroll laid out before her, her calligraphy elegant and unhurried, whilst Tynisa fidgeted and shuffled.

‘I have need of you, you must be aware.’ The scroll was finished with, apparently, for Elass handed it to a new servant whilst yet another bore away the pen and ink.

Tynisa said nothing, which the princess apparently took for acceptance.

‘When I host my fealtor nobles, when they come to partake of our celebrations, they must see you here – especially those who were lukewarm in sending aid. They must see the fabled Spider Weaponsmaster. Perhaps you could challenge some of their champions? Or give some display of your skill, certainly. It shall be part of the entertainment.’

An ugly scene was called glaringly into Tynisa’s mind’s eye: an arena, tiered seats packed with baying Wasps. Her father.

‘Where is Alain?’ she asked quietly.

Elass made a dismissive snort. ‘He was getting fractious penned up here, so I gave him an entourage and sent him off to chivvy my guests along.’ She eyed Tynisa, calculating. ‘He will be back before long.’

‘Before long ’ is unacceptable. With a start Tynisa realized that she had reached the end of her patience with the games of Salme Elass. Whilst they helped her towards her prize, giving her an opportunity to display her skill and to woo Alain, then she had played along at being the obedient tool of the Salmae. She had accomplished her purpose now. She had Alain. He had lain with her. He was hers. She did not need to waste her time with this woman any more. Her duty was to secure Alain and take him somewhere he could become the man she wanted him to be. Suon Ren, perhaps? After all, there was precedent.

A distant part of her, the part that had talked to Lowre Cean and listened to Salma’s ghost, was aware that she was utterly out of control now, and that Salme Elass had no idea of this. The face that Tynisa showed the world was still unblemished. All the cracks – so many cracks – were still on the inside.

‘While you wait, I want you to report to my armourer,’ Elass told her. ‘It is fit that you dress like a warrior of the Commonweal. There is no time to fashion something to your measurements, but no doubt the castle has some spare pieces that may serve. You should be seen wearing my colours: the red and blue and gold.’

And Tynisa smiled quite naturally, knowing that she would never put on that yoke, and she sought out Lisan Dea as soon as the princess had finished making her doomed plans.

The steward was busily overseeing the castle’s servants in frenzied preparations for the festivities to come. Once she saw Tynisa, however, she perhaps read the girl better than her mistress did, for she sent the remaining attendants away and retreated into a storeroom where they might not be overheard.