Empire in Black and Gold (27 page)

‘Not him, dear one. He’s just a mercenary. I want you to kill his employer. I’ve taken your measure, dear lady. Your face has two advantages over the faces of my regulars, namely that it doesn’t look like a bent boot, and that it won’t be recognized. Now, if you truly want to pay me all you owe, kill the chief of the Gladhanders for me.’

‘I thought this was how you sorted things out.’ She indicated the bloodied cobbles of the street outside.

‘As I said,’ he told her, ‘it’s not the final solution.’

After sundown, the attack picked up where it must have left off the previous night. Instead of being mute witnesses to its after-effects, Che and Salma were there this time: not at the mine site, but Elias, like most mine owners, had another house away from Helleron. Close by the mountains and just a few hundred yards from the rock face and shaft, it was a simple affair compared to his townhouse, just a single-storeyed, flat-roofed lump of a place with a stable block for messengers. It was barely staffed and not intended for visitors, but Elias had turned a servant out of his room to accommodate his new guests. Che felt somewhat guilty about that.

She had been deep in meditation, attempting once more to find the Ancestor Art within her, when she had heard the first explosion. It was a big one, too, for a faint tremor reached her even through the walls. Instantly Che was on her feet and even as she was running for the window she guessed that something had set one of the fuel sinks off. A lot of the mining machinery ran on mineral oil so there was a good sized cache out by the works, and now . . .

She caught her breath as she got to the window, because there was a jet of flame a hundred feet high lighting up the walls of the quarry and the foothills of the very mountains themselves. Its faint roaring reached her, eclipsed anything else that might have been audible. There must have been a fearful alarm going on out there. She strained her eyes, looking beyond the dancing column of fire. Sure enough, she could see movement, a great panic of movement. Elias’s guards on the ground would now be swinging their repeating ballista round this way and that. Others would be loosing crossbows. She saw flecks and shimmers in the sky, airborne figures briefly silhouetted before the flames. The Moth-kinden were out in force.

They were barbaric raiders, she reminded herself. They were enemies of progress. As a good Beetle, that was how she should see them. If they had not been so fanatic, they would have been ludicrous, a pack of old mystics lurking in their caves.

She thought of Salma. He was her friend and she respected his opinions. Yet he did not see things as she did.

The door burst open behind her and she whirled round, hand to her sword, half-expecting some mad Moth assassin. Instead it was one of Elias’s two domestic staff.

‘You’re to stay inside the house, miss,’ the man said, as though she had been contemplating jumping out of the window.

‘They’re not going to come here, are they?’ she asked.

‘Nobody knows, miss,’ said the man, plainly himself in the grip of fear. ‘They could do anything.’

She returned her gaze to the window. The flames were lower now, the oil stocks burning dry. She thought she could see the shadowy bulk of one of the repeating ballistas being cranked round, spitting out a man-length bolt every few seconds. There would be guards out there with good crossbows, perhaps even piercers. They had strong armour there and she wondered what weaponry the Moth-kinden possessed to assault such a force with. Spears and stones, perhaps. Bows and arrows.

They had accomplished something already, though. Hundreds of Centrals’ worth of fuel had now gone and the mine works would be set back for days, at least.

And what is the point?
The industrialists of Helleron were not going to go away. They would only return with more soldiers, better protection. One day, perhaps, they really would muster a fleet of fliers and airships and attack the Moths at their very homes, if that was the only way to stop their raiding.

And would that be the answer?
She had the uncomfortable feeling that she had been assigned a role in this conflict without ever being asked. There had been a few Moth-kinden at the College, she recalled: strange reserved creatures like Doctor Nicrephos. She had not spoken to any of them but she knew the history. Before the revolution the Moth-kinden had held most of the Lowlands in chains. With the Mantids acting as their strong right hand, they had terrorized the other races with their superstition and charlatanry, or so the history books now claimed. Then the revolution had come: the rise of the Apt, the fall of the old ways before the forge-fires of innovation. It had all started in Collegium, which had been called Pathis when the Moths ruled. The revolt had then burned its way to every corner of the Lowlands, leaving only a few Moth haunts and Mantis holds untouched.

Surely they can see progress.

She thought of the way Salma had reacted to the factories, the mine workings, how it had struck him almost like an illness. He had kept his smile hoisted for all to see, but she knew the sight had appalled him. After all, they were not enlightened people in his Commonweal. They still thought magic existed. No factories, no artificers, no machines.

And, of course, to the east the Wasp-kinden were stoking their own furnaces to turn out weapons of war. Those they had not bought from the clever smiths of Helleron, that is.

After such thoughts she could not watch any longer, and went to join Salma in the main room of the house. Elias had locked himself in his study, so as best they could they played a few hands of cards with the trembling servants, everyone endeavouring to ignore the continuing sounds from outside. Even when the commotion was right at the outer walls, with soldiers running past, the harsh clack of crossbows loosing, they shuttered the windows and pretended not to hear.

In the morning it was all over. She awoke and spent a moment regarding Salma, in the next bed, still smiling slightly even in sleep. She rose, dressed, and went into the dining room to meditate again.

And she then remembered the previous night, sleep falling from her fast like a veil. Opening the shutters showed that a plume of smoke still twisted from the mine workings.

She wondered how many had died. Then she wondered how many had died on both sides. The thought shocked her. At the College she had learnt that the Moth-kinden, for all the faults laid at their door, were not a warlike race, quite the reverse.

There were evils everywhere in the world, Che supposed, and, once she had admitted that, she would have to allow that her own race was responsible for some of them.

There was a well out in the house’s yard, between it and the stables. Taking up her sword for good measure, she wandered outside and drew a bucket of water up, feeling the chill of morning on her. The ground was flecked with ash, and she wondered what else had burned in the night. Perhaps they had set fire to the winch or the smelting shed? It was all like prodding some great beast with a stick, one of the big hauling beetles or something. You would annoy it and annoy it, and sooner or later it would turn round and you would discover it was far, far stronger than you had ever imagined. The Moth-kinden could not know what they were inviting down on them.

There was a squad of guards, five of them, poking about the perimeter of the yard, perhaps totalling up all the damage done during the night. They paused expectantly to watch her, and her original idea of washing there, in plain view, became suddenly less attractive.

She gave them a hard stare and an imperious gesture, for she was the cousin of their employer, after all. Reluctantly they went about their business, and for good measure she carried the bucket of water into the stables for her ablutions. A pair of messengers’ horses would make more bearable spectators.

She closed the stable door behind her and heard a soft whisper of sound from deeper within. Steel on leather, a blade being unsheathed. Her reaction, without thought, found her dropping the bucket and dragging her own sword half out.

There was a man in the shadows at the far end of the stables. He was slight, grey-skinned, a Moth she realized, and even in the gloom she saw the glint of a knife.

Markon Crosthwaite, who revelled in the name Markon the Friendly, rose from the table and made encouraging gestures to his men until they cheered him to the echo. The kneeling man before him, one of Sinon Halfway’s more expendable specimens, crouched even lower. The man was some kind of Fly-kinden halfbreed, an insult in itself, but Markon was feeling glutted with his own success. Besides, if he cut this man’s ears off and then hung him out of the window, who would be able to go to Sinon and tell that piebald freak just how happy Markon was?

He reversed his hands and his men faltered to an expectant silence. ‘Now, creature,’ he said. ‘On your feet, if those lumps on your legs’ ends are feet.’

The halfbreed got up, head still held low, waiting for the blow or the lash or the knife in the back.
And so he should, the filthy little mixed-blood
, Markon thought approvingly. ‘Want to go, do you? Business taken care of?’

There was a barely perceptible nod.

Markon beamed at his people. ‘But my friend, you haven’t thanked me for my hospitality. If there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s bad manners.’

The little man flinched and muttered something. Without needing the nod, one of Markon’s men balanced a dagger on his shoulder.

‘Thank you, Master Markon,’ the Halfway House man got out, in a shaking voice.

‘Master Markon what?’ Markon snapped at him.

‘Markon the . . . the Friendly.’ The halfbreed’s shoulders were up by his ears, waiting for the strike. Markon’s lip curled with contempt for him.

‘Your good friend Markon the Friendly,’ he told the man. ‘And if your uncle Sinon is wise, you’ll tell him that he should do a little more business with his good friend Markon the Friendly. It doesn’t do to forget one’s friends when the money’s going round. You tell him that, you hear?’

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.