Adrian Tchaikovsky - Blood of the Mantis

Scyla was obviously familiar with this place, so Thalric knew there was no point in trying to find her directly. She was not who he was looking for, anyway, since she had merely been hired to grab this box for some imperial magnate. That meant that they would be looking for her, sending hunters after her, and there were places that imperial staff tended to frequent when sent to Jerez on missions like this. It was, after all, a regular occurrence for imperial spies to end up looking for someone in this mid-den of a town. Thalric now wanted to see if whoever the Empire had sent was unimaginative enough to follow the usual path.

The answer was clear enough once he had found the two-storey shack that served as a boarding house and tavern, and was known informally as Ma Kritt’s Place. It had a veranda out front with a view of the lake, as if that would appeal to anyone, and Thalric could see three Wasp soldiers seated there at a rickety table, nursing their drinks. They too were in their civvies, but he could tell just from the way they sat that these were not only soldiers but Rekef. Someone high up was still using the poor old service to do his dirty work.

Thalric had found his ideal vantage point, leaning against the wall of a ruinous hut, with his hood up and ostensibly gazing elsewhere. He was a master of surveillance through the corner of his eye, and he had a good enough view not only to interpret gestures, but even to recognize faces.

The man he took to be their leader was called Brodan, and had been a sergeant newly called into the Rekef when last encountered, but must surely be at least a lieutenant now. Brodan had been Reiner’s man, too, if Thalric was able to judge, and a sudden surge of hope came to him.

General Maxin might certainly want him dead, but Reiner… perhaps General Reiner would decide that he was worth protecting after all. If, for example, Thalric was able to haul in some useful prisoners, fresh out of Collegium, who knew what this box was supposed to be and why it was so important.

In his time Thalric had run a few double agents, and he knew the strange balancing point that existed there: to keep a turned agent in place, the original employers had to be kept sweet, had to be convinced that the agent was still true. Hence, the traitor must still have useful information to pass on to his former masters, even as he was sending their secrets back. The situation bred a strange kind of uncertainty, for the double agent became unsure about who he was betraying to whom. Thalric had been amazed how many had still professed, despite the obvious contradiction, that they still remained loyal to their original masters.

Of course he had never said to himself, I would never do that, in their place. He had never thought that he would be in that position himself.

But here he was now, in exactly such a quandary. What did he owe Stenwold and his people? Nothing. What did he owe the Empire, though?

The same nothing, but this was not about what the Empire could do for him, but what he could do for the Empire. Seeing his countrymen over there he felt such a keening sense of loss, of exclusion, as though he was peering into a warm room through a frost-touched window, locked out in the winter cold.

A quick step over to Brodan. Good day… lieutenant, is it now? Remember me? His mouth went dry all of a sudden. He wondered if Tisamon, or his wretched daughter, was watching from somewhere. If he acted quickly enough it might not matter.

He wavered.

He fell.

He stepped out into the open, heading towards the three reclining Wasps, trying to decide whether he was some greater degree of traitor now – and, if so, to whom.

On the waters of the Exalsee, Che watched a sleek boat with blue sails tacking between the islands. She had been on boats enough to recognize a Spider-kinden design, not so very different from the vessel that had carried her and Nero to Seldis.

It was a strange world out here: Spiders ruling a city of the Apt, Flies piloting warlike flying machines, barbarous Dragonfly pirates. It was beautiful, though, for the early-morning sun had turned the great inland sea to liquid gold that rippled out to the distant horizon, the islands in it cast now in black velvet. Below her were the stepped streets of Solarno, the bold red roofs, the blazing white walls. The city was just waking, and she could hear the very beginnings of the bustle that she had encountered as they docked. A city of a dozen kinden. A city of sudden violence and strange politics.

‘Early riser, aren’t we?’

Che turned to see Taki standing in the doorway. The Fly-kinden was now dressed in a simple, much-darned tunic and trousers, not white as the Solarnese preferred but a dark grey. There was a pair of folded leather gloves thrust through her belt.

‘Going to work on your machine?’ Che asked her, recognizing clothes that wouldn’t show the dirt or the oil.

‘Yes, as it happens.’ Taki was a little taken aback by the observation. ‘My poor Esca Volenti took a hit or two in the scrap and, even before, she didn’t feel quite in balance. I can’t leave her repairs to the Destiavel’s mechanics. They’ll never get it right.’

‘You have…’ Che made an apologetic face. ‘I don’t mean to sound patronizing or anything, but you employ more artifice here than I would have expected. I was expecting the Spiderlands, if you know what I mean.’

Taki smiled. ‘You’ve not seen the Spiderlands then, not properly. The Spiders love their gimmicks and gadgets too, even if they can’t use them personally. There are cities down south that are just factory states, I hear, and Diroveshni – that’s south-west of here on the Spiderlands edge of the Exalsee – makes the best parts for fliers and auto-motives. We get all ours from there. What you mean is that the Spider ladies and lords don’t want to see any of that sweaty, greasy stuff, and so they keep it far away from their nice houses. Now, how about breakfast?’

‘Please.’

Taki motioned for her to follow, and they tapped their way downstairs to find a long, low table in the Fly-kinden style already set out with bread, grape jelly, ripe tomatoes and thinly sliced meat. There were about half a dozen people there, mostly the local Soldier Beetle types plus a pair of Flies and a single Dragonfly-kinden who sat cross-legged and stripped to the waist, his arms and chest showing an arabesque of brands and scars. A second glance revealed to Che that Nero was one of the Flies, but he seemed to have become native overnight. He was now wearing the white tunic and loose trousers of a Solarnese, and there was a little box-like hat with a small peak covering his bald head. He looked up at her and grinned, and only then was she absolutely sure it was him.

‘Well look at you, Sieur Nero,’ Taki said. ‘You’re now looking almost civilized – for an old man.’

‘And you, Madam Taki, are looking positively barbarous. Did I overlook some local custom about wearing the worst of one’s wardrobe today?’

Letting that comment wash off her, Taki took her place at the table and signalled for Che to elbow herself a space. ‘If you wish to fit in here,’ she instructed, ‘you will have to learn a civilized city’s methods of addresses. None of your masters or madams. A man is “Sieur”, Sieur Nero, and a lady is “Bella” if she’s your equal, but “Domina” if she’s your better.’

‘What if a man’s your better?’ Nero asked.

‘How would I know? I’ve not met one yet,’ Taki said smugly, to snorts of amusement from her fellow Destiavel employees.

‘These words are very strange to me,’ Che said. Having made no attempt to look like a native she did not mind showing her ignorance. ‘And the place-names, too. You talked yesterday about… Princep somewhere.’