Blithely and openly, she
walked straight through the Vekken camp and out into the night.
By dawn she was far from
the Vekken camp, back to the easy guise of a Spider-kinden man of younger
years. When she had first called up this face he could have been her twin. Now
he was a decade younger than she was.
The local people around
here, solid farmers all, had heard about the siege of Collegium but had no idea
what to do about it. They were simply awaiting the outcome, and if that meant
Vekken soldiers coming down the road then they would take it as it came. Even
the Vekken needed farmers to till the land, and Scyla suspected life as Vekken
slaves would not change their rural ways so very much.
She found a barn where
two placid draft-beetles were stabled, and climbed up to the hayloft. It was
time to examine her prize.
Nothing but a box carved
in wood – that was her first impression. The carvings were strange, though.
They drew the eye in a way that seemed to ignore the angles and corners of the
thing, as though whatever they truly encompassed had no real edges at all, and
they led on and led on, and as she turned the thing over in her hands she could
see no end or beginning to them, coiling and twining traceries of thorny vines
and ragged-edged leaves that overlapped and overlapped and only emphasized the
depths of the spaces in between them, depths that seemed, by some trick of
light and shadow, to fall into recesses far further than the small box itself
could readily accommodate.
In her intense
concentration she did not notice the light wane within the stable, or hear the
increasingly uncomfortable shuffling of the big insects below.
But how remarkable, she
thought, that those lines split apart again and again, and yet whatever path
she followed only turned and twisted, while all the others flourished with
leaves, and carved insects, beetles and grubs and woodlice and other things
that dwelled within rotten wood. Over and over she turned it, trying to unravel
the essential mystery. A box it was, and light enough that it must be hollow,
and yet there was no lid, no catch, no way of working her way into it, save to
follow, follow, follow the carved patterns laid over and under one another,
round and round the seemingly endless sides of the box.
There was a flickering
within her mind, like shadows when the candle flame is blown, a flickering and
a dancing, and at last she looked up, and saw shadows moving of their own
accord across the walls of the barn, shadows that her eyes picked out of the
darkness. Warrior shadows, with spined arms and stalking gait, the shadows of
great clawed insects, forelimbs clasped in solemn prayer, robed men raising
daggers to a shadow moon, and ever the interlacing, clutching branches of the
encroaching trees. Shadows overlapping with yet more shadows, so that whatever
was being enacted around her and within her mind was lost, save for the
emotions that flooded and coursed through her, beyond her beck and call, as
wild and furious as a storm tide: rage, betrayal, loss, a seething sense of bottomless
hatred.
She was aware that she
was holding her breath, and that seemed only wise because these shadows – or
some at least – were Mantis-kinden who had no love for her kind, and she felt
that she had no disguise sufficient to cloud their eyes to what she really was.
But too little, too
late, for one such shadow had turned to her, if shadows could turn. There were
no eyes, but as it gazed on her she was aware of a shadow thing part woman,
part insect, part twining plant, but also the very shape that hate might take
if some alchemist could distil it and then make it flesh.
She had a sense that
this unfolding of power – this long-denied awakening that she had provoked –
was not going unheard, and just as the things from the box stretched their
serrated limbs, so distant minds that had been searching for this moment were
sparked into wakefulness.
The imperial contract
, she
thought, and in her mind was the instant image of a pale, emaciated man with
bulbous red eyes, the skin above his forehead shifting with blood. One
long-nailed hand was reaching for her, his face cast into a covetous scowl . .
.
And she gasped in shock,
and it was gone, they were all gone, and the sun was shining back through the
hayloft hatch, and the beetles below were straining at their tethers, clawing
at the walls, with oily foam welling between their mandibles, causing enough
ruckus to bring the farmer. She ducked out of the hatch and climbed down the
outside wall.
She was no true
magician, no seer, but her people had their women and men of magic, just as the
Moths did, and she had learnt a lot from them back when she was young and
willing enough to subjugate herself to others. She had no idea what this box
truly was, but she realized that it was
powerful
.
The magic trapped within it, from the Days of Lore for sure, was of an order
she had never encountered before. She had no idea what the pragmatic Wasp
Empire could want with it, but one thing was clear: she was being offered only
a pitiful fraction of the true value of the thing. More, the Empire, ignorant
as it was, would never come forward with a fitting price.
She knew places she
could take it where a proper buyer might be found. Once word was out, then
there was still gold enough within Moth haunts, still collectors of the arcane,
rogue Skryres, Spider manipuli, all willing to bid for what she possessed. To
the wastes with the Wasps. She would go find her own buyers and name her own
price.
She did not stop to ask
herself where this thought of betrayal, so natural to her, had first sparked,
and whether the idea was really hers at all.
They were three days out
of Sarn, moving at the speed of the slowest automotive. The Queen was unwilling
to let the Wasps bring the place of battle any closer than their current camp,
and Che read from this that the Queen wanted the battlefield to stay as far
away from her city as she could get it. She supposed that this was to protect
the farmland and villages on which Sarn relied, but another thought suggested
that Sarn’s ruler was already planning where to make her next stand, if her
army lost the contest here.
Che and Sperra had been
packed in with the rest of the non-combatants. This was Sarn’s trade-off for
doing things Collegium’s way. In exchange for the mechanization and the superior
weaponry, they had inherited a baggage train of foreign artificers and support
staff doing jobs that would normally have been done by Ant-kinden soldiers.
She had seen little of
Achaeos since the journey began. He was liaising between the various Mantis and
Moth leaders of the newly formed and fragile Ancient League. Che understood
that the League itself was still settling, and that neither of the kinden
concerned came easily to placing their sovereignty under the leadership of
others, even others of their own kind. Achaeos was worried about the battle,
she knew, and whether things might go badly wrong even without the Wasps’
intervention.
And then the train
itself was abruptly slowing, with an unmistakable forward-lurching as the
brakes were applied.
‘Perhaps it’s a broken
line,’ Sperra suggested, but there were Ants in the carriage with them that had
stood up instantly and, as soon as the train was at rest, were flinging the
doors open and ordering everyone to get out as quickly as possible. That was when
Che realized that they had sighted the enemy.
It was really
tremendously civilized, she supposed. The Wasps had arrived by train too, as
though this were merely some polite meeting of diplomats. The Queen of Sarn had
sent a big block of crossbowmen and nailbowmen out to screen the army from
airborne attack, but the rest of her men were pitching tents methodically,
checking the engines of the automotives or fitting the wings on the fliers.
‘What about the Wasps?’
Che wondered.
‘Too late in the day for
a battle,’ an Ant told her. ‘If they come for us, we’ll be able to form up in
time, but there’s no sense in just waiting.’
Of course they would be
able to simply stop what they were doing, all at once, and begin to fight, for
a single order could mobilize the entire Ant army. Che realized this was a
luxury the Wasps did not have, so their soldiers must be currently preparing
for a possible attack, and would have to stand ready at least until nightfall.
Their tents were already pitched, though. Moth scouts reported that they had
arrived at this point – where the rails gave out – some days ago, and had been
steadily reinforcing their numbers ever since. She tried to get a better view
of them, but they remained just a black stain on the horizon, further down the
gleaming and interrupted metal line.
Achaeos suddenly dropped
out of the sky beside her, making Che jump.
‘You should witness
this,’ he told her. ‘The Queen and Scelae are having their first command
conference. I think we should be there, too, in case they have a falling out.’
The three of them rushed
through the Ant camp towards the Queen’s tent. The guards barred them
momentarily, but then the word obviously came to let them pass. They did not
even need to demand admittance before they were being ushered inside.
Within the barely
furnished tent was a single table, with one map pinned upon it. Behind stood a
handful of tacticians gathered up about their Queen, a clutch of
sibling-similar Ant-kinden wearing partial plate-mail but with no other sign of
rank or precedence. On the near side of the table were Scelae in her scaled
armour, and a single grey-robed Moth-kinden. The way they looked at the Sarnesh
was more adversarial than allied.
The Queen acknowledged
their arrival with a brief nod. ‘It is as though you are truly part of my
army,’ she said drily. ‘I only have to think of sending for you, and at once
you are summoned.’
‘We have a certain
responsibility for this meeting,’ Che said boldly. It was what Stenwold would
have said, were he himself here.
The Queen nodded.
‘Cheerwell Maker,’ she said. ‘Sperra the Fly-kinden. You shall be our
translators, should we need them. I do not know, as yet, whether this Ancient
League shall speak a language Sarn understands.’
She looked to Scelae,
who shifted stance slightly, ready for a confrontation.
‘Speak, O Queen,’ the
Moth said, quietly, ‘now that you have called us to you.’
Che sensed hostility
radiating from the tacticians, at a possible lack of respect, and only the
Queen herself seemed wholly calm.
This alliance is so
brittle, still, and they have marched side by side for only days.
She
could sense relations between their different cultures straining and
stretching.
‘So tell me,’ the Queen
of Sarn invited. ‘What will our battle order be on the morrow?’ She met
Scelae’s sharp Mantis glance without hesitation.
The other woman
shrugged. ‘We will fight the Wasps alongside you. We know how to fight.’
There was no sound or
expression from the tacticians, but Che felt their disapproval deepen until the
tent almost reeked of it. The Queen shook her head. ‘We are grateful for your
assistance and your support, but we cannot dispose of this matter so casually.
Tomorrow shall stand or fall on precise details such as this. The strength of
Sarn is in its order, its discipline, each man and woman knowing exactly where
they are supposed to be, what they are doing, and what the rest of the army is
doing all around them. Your people are known as great duellists, archers,
killers. I do not dispute it. They are indeed warriors, but they are not
soldiers. In that field, my own kinden have no rivals. Not the Wasps, not the
Mantis. Do you deny it?’
Scelae’s expression, her
brief glance towards the open flap of the tent, indicated the great numbers of
the Ants all around, and the few followers she herself had brought. That was
the only superiority she would recognize, but she said nothing. The Queen
smiled thinly.
‘Your people will fight
their own battle tomorrow, each one of them alone,’ she said, softly but
firmly. ‘My people will fight
my
battle all
together, united, for that is our strength. So, tell me, how shall we use you?’
As the Moth opened his mouth to speak she raised her hand in a gesture of such
simple authority that she silenced him. ‘I do not cast your alliance back in
your faces. I value, more than I have words to say, that your people have come
to honour us in this way. I ask the question for no other reason than that I
need to know the answer. You cannot move with us. You cannot hear my orders in
your minds, even if you were disposed to follow them. Tell me how I may make
use of you. Show me, that I can make my people understand.’
After that speech there
was a space of silence. Scelae and the moth exchanged glances, and Che found
herself thinking,
So it is not just the old races that can
practise subtlety.
The Mantis woman cleared
her throat. ‘I have lived in Sarn for many years,’ Scelae began, ‘and I have
some idea of how your kinden think. You are right, of course. In the heat of
battle, your orders may not seem right to us, so I cannot guarantee that my
people will follow them, even if we could hear them. Tell us then how are you
intending to progress the battle tomorrow?’
‘Aggressively, we have
decided,’ the Queen said, after a brief silent word amongst her surrounding advisers.
Scelae nodded. ‘Then
let’s be plain with it. Any fancy planning and contingencies we come up with
now won’t survive a meeting with the Wasp battle line. We cannot hope to react
to your sleights and changes and tactics. You, however, can react to ours.’
‘Explain,’ said the
Queen.
Scelae leant over the
map, but it was obvious that she could make little sense of it. ‘I will split
my force and place one half on each of your flanks. We will screen your advance
with our bows, and our wings. We will prevent their flying soldiers from
wrapping your lines. I have many skilled archers amongst my people. Then, when we’re
close to the enemy, we will attack, draw them out, break their lines. Wasp
discipline does not match your own. They can be provoked, dispersed. With your
mind-speech, you will be able to take advantage of what we can give you. Let us
be the spearhead, then. Give your orders based on how we strike. That way you
can make best use of us.’