Blood of the Mantis (41 page)

Sergeant Fragen and his handful of men moved idly through the great market at Szar, scowling at the locals. Something was up, Fragen knew. First that new captain had turned up with half a thousand troops, all now jostling for space within the governor’s barracks. Now the order had come through that patrols were to be upped to five men each. Fragen had been used to walking the streets of Szar with just one other soldier for company. The locals were a docile enough breed. This was not like Myna or Maynes, where you could get a knife in the back if you ventured down the wrong alley alone.

A Bee-kinden youth crossed close before his path and he cuffed the boy angrily. Szar was a nice assignment for a middle-aged sergeant and now someone upstairs was trying to provoke things. That new captain, no doubt. Everything had started going wrong since he arrived. And the new soldiers, they didn’t understand how things worked around here, how a man could more readily take his ease a little more. All fresh and shiny-new out of the capital, they were too keen by far.

Fragen decided that there were probably a few Rekef boys amongst them, too. He knew the governor had always kept his nose clean, but perhaps those days were gone. Perhaps some other big noise from the imperial court wanted a bite of Szar. Whatever it was, it was bad news for the ordinary soldier on the street. Fragen preferred easy assignments.

He and his men meandered on between two rows of stalls, watching the Bee-kinden slip out of their way hurriedly. They were like slaves, these locals, only you didn’t even have to chain them up. They had somehow enslaved themselves. Fragen grinned at the thought. When he was younger he had considered the Slave Corps as a career, but it had seemed to involve too much travel, too much dealing with dubious characters like the Scorpion-kinden. This kind of life was far better.

He stopped by a fruit stall, where a sullen-looking old man had baskets full of oranges and peaches set out in the wan sunlight. The peaches must come from the north, Fragen guessed, out of the new Dragonfly provinces. Absently, he drew a knife and dug an orange out of the pile with it, biting through the rind.

He had done so a hundred times before, but now the old man was actually glaring at him. As far as Fragen was concerned, any imperial soldier could help himself to what he wanted. It was an attitude backed up by the Empire itself.

‘What?’ he snarled at the old fruit-seller, and the man looked down, now unwilling to meet his gaze. It helped that they were not exactly impressive physical specimens, these Bee-folk. They had broad enough shoulders, and they worked hard, but Fragen was a good five inches taller than the loftiest of them. They were an inferior breed, to be sure: a dirt-grubbing little people in their squat, many-cellared houses, and if their craftsmanship was skilled, then it was wasted on them. They should be grateful that the Empire was here to teach them about the benefits of a grander life.

‘Sir,’ one of his men warned, in a slightly uncertain tone. Fragen looked round to see a pack of the locals standing further along the row of stalls, somewhere between a dozen and a score of them, young and middle-aged men, and even young women. They were clustered together for mutual support, but they held staves and sticks, and he saw a couple of axes in there too, and even a poleaxe near the rear.

For a second he hesitated but he was, after all, a sergeant of the Imperial Army. He could hardly back down from a mere rabble of Bee-kinden peasants. Instead he led his men straight towards them, seeing the wretches shuffle back a little, yet hold their ground.

‘What’s this, then?’ he demanded, as he approached them. ‘This looks like a riotous assembly to me. Clear off, the lot of you. Get back to your work before I take it out of your hides.’

He was forced to a halt. They were drawing closer together, but going nowhere. Their dark, flat faces remained inscrutable. He saw a few knuckles tighten, fists clenching on their stave-hafts.

What is this?
For a moment he was baffled.
Are these really locals, or have they come in from elsewhere?
The next nearest Bee-kinden were miles off in Tyrshaan and Vesserett, though, and yet the men and women of Szar had never behaved like this, never attempted to question imperial rule.

‘I gave you an order!’ he shouted at them. Behind him, his men had drawn their blades, and he saw that sudden show of steel send a ripple through the little band of locals. ‘You disperse right now or I’ll make an example of you, you just watch.’

He levelled his hand at them, and he saw them trying to muster courage, and failing. They would not go, yet nor could they act. He would obviously have to make their minds up for them.

With a curse, because it had been a reasonable day until then, he loosed his sting, punching one man off his feet into the arms of his fellows, with a blackened circle in the centre of his chest. The victim was dead before his friends could let him go, and by then Fragen and all his men had their hands levelled, making it plain that they would kill every man and woman of the mob unless they broke up.

One man, the man with the poleaxe, abruptly dropped his weapon and backed off, and then they were all going, suddenly running off and scattering amid the stalls.

‘Right,’ Fragen said vaguely. He looked at the petrified stall-holders about him, at the peasants with their bushels and baskets. ‘Someone clear that filth away,’ he ordered them, pointing at the corpse. ‘Give it to its family or throw it on the waste-heap, I don’t care.’

‘Sir!’ called out one of his soldiers, more urgently this time. Fragen turned to see another band of Szaren citizens approaching, filtering between the stalls, in groups of three and four, men and women of all ages.

He saw steel there, a lot of it: enough arms and armour that at least two in three were equipped as soldiers.
Where could they . . . ?
But it was obvious enough. A few had the heavy russet-painted breastplates that the old Szaren army used to wear, but most of them were now wearing imperial armour and carrying army-issue cross-hilted shortswords or crossbows or spears, all crafted in Szar by the Bee-kinden. Others had the traditional Szar axes, each broad, curved blade balanced by a wicked back-spike. Many had squat triangles of sharp bone jutting from their knuckles, the gifts of their own Art.

Fragen tried to estimate their number but stopped when he realized there must be over a hundred of them, and more still coming.

‘Sir! Pull out, sir?’ the soldier enquired nervously, already backing off.

‘Stop where you are!’ Fragen shouted at the mob. ‘This is an imperial city, and any attempt at resistance will be taken out of your hides and your families! You know that, surely, you stupid peasants! Now back to your jobs! Back to your factories! Who do you think you are?’

The crossbow bolt lanced through him just as he finished speaking, causing him to spit the last word out with a spray of blood. Fragen stared at the fletched end of it jutting low down in his chest, and then he toppled over.

His men, already thoroughly unsettled, launched themselves into the air, wings unfurling to dart them towards the governor’s palace and the safety of the garrison.

It was the first such incident, but, by the time the soldiers had alighted on the palace balcony, it was no longer the only one.

When Colonel Gan returned to his favourite balcony again, it was under heavy guard.

Parts of Szar were already burning. He could not believe it: his beautiful, peaceful, affluent city tearing at itself like a mad animal.

‘Look at this,’ he whispered in awe. ‘What has happened? Are we at war?’ Were there foreign agents in the streets stirring up this dissent? Agents that could work so suddenly and efficiently as to upset two decades of absolute peace?

He felt like yelling at the city, shouting at it angrily as if it were an unreasonable child. He felt that a single slap should rightfully bring the place back in line.

‘You, go fetch me the Princess,’ he pointed to one of his men. ‘And where is that new captain? None of this started until he got here!’

As the first soldier ran off, Gan saw the very same captain approaching. The man was still in his dusty armour, stepping into view while he gave some final orders to a Fly-kinden kitted in imperial uniform. The small man took flight and was heading away eastwards even as the captain saluted his superior.

‘What was that about?’ Gan demanded suspiciously. ‘What game are you playing, Captain?’

‘That was a message for the rest of my soldiers, Governor,’ the captain replied, as though it was the most natural explanation in the world.

‘The rest of your . . .’

‘One thousand of the imperial army, all fresh from the garrisons of Capitas,’ the captain confirmed.

‘One thousand . . .’ Gan stared at him aghast. ‘Captain, I demand that you tell me right now just what in the wastes you’ve stirred up here.’

‘Not I, Governor, but someone realized it was coming,’ the captain said. ‘I should introduce myself, Governor. I am Captain Berdic of the Imperial Army, also Major Berdic of the Rekef Inlander.’

Gan drew in a sharp breath.
They really are everywhere.
He made sure that his posture and voice did not give any hint of his disquiet at what the man had said. ‘So, am I under investigation then?’

‘That remains to be seen,’ Berdic said noncommitally. ‘What exactly is going on in your city, Governor?’

‘You tell me!’ Gan snapped at him. ‘Clearly you knew it was coming!’

Berdic shook his head. ‘Governor, there are riots everywhere on the streets of Szar. There are parts of the city now held entirely by the local insurgents, so that the north and west are closed to us until further notice. Elsewhere it is only by putting all my soldiers onto the streets that peace has been maintained. Beyond those safe limits the population of Szar is arming itself for war.’

‘War?’ Gan was dumbfounded. ‘Against me?’

‘Against the whole Empire.’ Berdic shook his head. ‘Even my thousand troops may not suffice if this entire city takes up arms. It has been a while, maybe, but I’d wager these people still remember how to fight. Were you yourself here for the siege of Szar, Governor?’

‘No, and neither can you have been since you’re far too young.’

Berdic smiled without humour. ‘I have, however, read my histories. These Szaren Bee-kinden were fanatics in battle, true berserks. That is their Art, just as we have our stings and the Ant-kinden can speak mind to mind. That, Governor, is the barrel of firepowder we must now keep the spark from.’

In spite of himself Gan felt his initial antagonism towards the man draining away, leaving a kind of cold fear behind it instead. ‘What do you advise?’ he asked quietly.

‘I heard you sending for Princess Maczech,’ Berdic said. ‘That’s a good first step. Have her speak to her people. Convince her first that if Szar rises up, then the Empire will soon put it down hard. Tell her about all the men, women and children who will be strung up between pikes, the slaves sent off to other cities, the punishments meted out to her people already settled elsewhere. Tell her all of that, for it will be nothing but the truth. Now, excuse me, I must attend to the soldiers. I will leave enough men in the palace to defend it, but the rest must be a visible presence on the streets.’

He marched straight off without a salute, leaving Gan biting his lip and trying to work out where it had all gone wrong.

They escorted Princess Maczech to him within minutes. He looked into her face for signs of the madness that had gripped his city, but saw none of it there. She even smiled at him.

‘Princess,’ he said, gratefully. ‘The people of Szar are currently engaged on a course that can only lead to their destruction. Look down there, how they are tearing up their own lives! When the Emperor hears of this, he will have one man in twenty impaled outside the city. You must address them immediately. Will you now speak to them?’

‘The Emperor already knows,’ said Maczech, so softly he barely heard her.

‘I don’t understand,’ was all he could reply.

‘How is it that everyone knows but you, Governor?’ she asked him.

He stared at her, feeling his innards twist.

‘My mother is dead,’ she told him. ‘The Queen of Szar is dead, and her funeral wake will see you burn.’

His mouth was open, lips moving, but at first no sounds came. Then finally he got out, ‘Then you are Queen! I declare you Queen now! You are still mine, so calm your people.’

Her smile cut through him, flayed him. ‘I am nobody’s,’ she announced, and the commotion started inside the palace itself.

‘I am Szar’s,’ she said, reaching out to touch his face. The acid of her Art seared him like a brand and he fell back, screaming. His guards started to lunge forward, but abruptly there were Bee-kinden everywhere – the palace servants, old men and old women, girls, even children: throwing themselves at the Wasp soldiers, literally hurling themselves on their swords, so that the Wasps were forced to cut them down, to burn them with their stings, or hack them to the ground with bloody blades. And meanwhile Maczech . . .

Maczech was at the balcony’s edge, and wings flowered from her back. Gan reached out an arm, hand opening to scorch her, but an aged woman grabbed at it, forcing his palm against her stomach, so that when he loosed his sting it tore through her. And Maczech was gone, already in the air and dropping towards the contested streets of her city.

Gan stood at the edge of the balcony as his soldiers killed the last of his servants, with the crisp red imprint of her hand vivid on his face, staring after her and shaking with fear and pain.

The rain in Jerez had stopped, literally. The water was suspended in mid-air, a field of shimmering droplets impossibly held in place, each one with a twisted reflection of the moon glimmering in its heart. When Achaeos stepped forward, they ran against his skin or broke against his robe in a myriad dark patches.

There were people abroad this night, of course, for the locals did not mind either darkness or rain. Here they were, frozen in place with the raindrops while going about their innumerable shady errands. He paused to examine the strange Skater physiology, distinctive for those freakishly long limbs, the narrow faces with their long, pointed noses and ears.