War Master's Gate (91 page)

He held on to that
once
.

He had never been a big noise himself, Sterro – using others and being used in turn, that was how the wheels of the Consortium were greased. Patronage and nepotism all the way, hence
Sterro had found himself attached to an odious creature like the late Captain Ordan. There had been drawbacks – namely virtually every aspect of the aforementioned deceased – but the
good captain had been a man assured of his command of his underlings – namely Sterro – and that confidence had overlooked a great deal of embezzlement over the years. Sterro had enough
money stowed in safe places to ensure that Sergeant Corver led a very miserable life for years to come. In fact he had enough money right now on his person for that – but until he could get
anywhere civilized enough to spend it, he had no choice but to suffer Corver’s abrasive and temperamental leadership.

He clung to the underside of the deck, wings stirring slightly for balance and the weight of his coat dragging at him, letting his eyes accustom themselves and leach every last speck of light
from the near-darkness. It looked as though this doomed ship had been more compartmentalized than their own – at least one cabin fore and one aft as well as the compact chamber he had crawled
into. The surface beneath him – which given the tilt of the room meant part of the floor and part of one curved wall – was a mess of rotten wood, earth and sprouting mushrooms, the
forest working diligently to conquer the work of man from beneath.
This sure as orders isn’t whatever ship Sandric saw.

He reached into his coat, located one pocket by touch and pulled out his steel lighter, flicking at its wheel until the fuel caught, with a small but steady flame that gave his eyes quite enough
to work with. This chamber appeared to be picked clean, certainly, and he descended with a shimmer of wings, touching down and heading aft.

Unlike their own, this craft had not slammed down stern-first, and the rear compartment seemed mostly intact. There was the rusting hulk of an engine here, cogs forever seized, and what might
have been a galley, stove and all. There were compartments tucked up near the ceiling, some open, others closed, looking as though they belonged to the engineers’ mystery, rather than
anywhere someone might stow valuables.
Leave that for others to mess with
. He padded back into the central room and headed forwards.

There were smaller rooms forwards, cabins probably, all being reclaimed by the earth like the rest. Whoever had crashed here appeared to have made themselves scarce and taken the best of their
loot with them, Sterro considered, or else the Mantids had come and carried off crew and goods.

He ducked into the narrow triangular room at the bows, one hand holding the flame up, the other reaching about the bulkhead, and his hand fell on something soft and furry that moved slightly at
his touch. For a moment his mind was full of a bizarrely atavistic loathing at what he might have disturbed, some sense of an impossible creature from another time lurking here in wait for him.
After his instant recoil he thrust the flame forwards, and was vastly relieved to see nothing but a huge tarantula carpeting one wall, no doubt intending to rest out the daylight here. It was most
of his own size, but he knew the type well – placid, retiring and preferring far smaller prey even than he. Satisfied, he found a stick and prodded the unfortunate arachnid until, after
raising its legs and showing its fangs a few times, it gave up and crept off to hole up in another cabin. Sterro wouldn’t have bothered it even that much, save that beyond its furry bulk he
had seen a little casket.

He shoved the box to one side, out of sight of the door, and then let his wings carry him back to the central compartment and out into the open air to make his report.

The Wasps conferred, and then Vrant went over to the rear of the deck and started stamping enthusiastically on the softened wood until he had made a scatter of rough-edged holes. Then, skylights
installed, there was a general Imperial expedition to the ship’s aft compartment to check out the lockers.

Sterro, overlooked once more, went off for the casket.

It was locked, but another pocket disgorged his picks and a tiny flask of oil, for the skill was surprisingly well known amongst Consortium factors. In just over a minute he had the tumblers
lined up – thanking the good Collegium steel for being proof against rust.
What have we here then, eh? Some Beetle airman’s retirement fund, maybe?
The fact that his pockets
were already stuffed with gold was not lost on him, but there was always the chance that the Empire might confiscate
that,
whilst the contents of the chest were surely his by right.

His disappointment, when the bulk of the chest’s weight turned out to be the chest’s own sturdy construction, was keen-edged. Inside there were a handful of coins – Helleron
mint, and of trivial value – and a scroll that the damp had just started to make inroads into. He almost abandoned it without reading, but the thought of returning to the Wasps’ company
was sufficiently unpleasant to him that he carried the document out into the beam of sunlight in the central hold and spread it out.

Autumn 34th Day,
he read, set down in regular, careful handwriting.

So, new life, new journal. I am putting ‘Kernels of Truth in Pathaian Folklore and Language Use’ behind me. Perhaps, when I return from this voyage with
something unarguable then I’ll re-title it and represent it, and nobody will know any better. For now, I am a new woman, and my life is a new life, and I have a new project.

Sterro almost gave up then.
How pissing jolly for you,
he thought. Only the fact that his current environment showed that the writer had come to a nasty end kept him
reading.

I am somewhat late commencing this journal as we set off a day ago. However, I am now starting my record, like a good scholar. So, let it be known that I have, with the
last of my funds, chartered the
Plain Sailing
to travel to Etheryon and make a study of certain archaeological sites there, assuming the locals will permit us. I have certain more
desperate plans in mind if they do not, but I understand from my Sarnesh colleagues that the Mantids of Etheryon are relatively hospitable, for their kind, and I have high hopes for the success of
our voyage.

I should say that the
Plain Sailing
is a compact little vessel, barely sufficient to fit my few belongings and myself. She has a crew of two: Master Magnus Patcher
is the owner and helmsman, or pilot, or whatever the correct term is, whilst Solamon is the engineer. He is from Kes, and I suspect he is a renegade, but the topic is not one I feel prepared to
bring up, so I will have to let my curiosity rest. I am invited tonight to Master Patcher’s cabin to dine, although I expect the room will be sufficiently small that we will end up touching
elbows as we eat. The food here is also not enthralling, being whatever Solamon cooks up over the burner, with a heavy emphasis on flatbread.

Autumn 38th Day

We were going to stop at Sarn, but Master Patcher has decided to go straight to the edge of the forest Etheryon for, as he says, various reasons of his own. I’d have
thought it might be Solamon, had not Patcher’s tone suggested some prior incident in his own life. The man is a bit of a rogue, I believe. He is also remarkably forward, and I rather feel
that I shall end up spending valuable research time fending off his advances.

I am becoming more and more excited about the prospect of viewing Argax, or what remains of it. After talking to Master Patcher about the Etheryen I realized that the
Mantis-kinden may still dwell there, or may have moved to dwell there, which will complicate matters, and may have obscured much of the original material. However, Mantis-kinden are noted for being
protective of the past, and for not building much in stone, and my accounts insist that Argax, whether it is described as a town or a hold or a hall, was of stone and wood, and I hope to find at
least the original stonework intact. The description in Tenrathaea is very vivid, although no doubt the infamous Walk of Statues has long gone, let alone the Cold Gates. One must allow for Inapt
poetic licence. Perhaps I will find nothing, but even then I can hope that the locals have preserved some manner of oral history, as I have found so many of the Inapt races do so skilfully. If I
can return to the College with a collection of hitherto-unheard Mantis-kinden ballads and sagas it will go some way to repairing the damage. From the accounts given in Tenrathaea and in the Prados
coda I cannot believe that they do not still sing of Argastos.

Sterro shivered, and lifted his eyes from the paper. He had never come across the name before, though he would guess it to attach to a Moth-kinden, from its form – and
hadn’t it been the Moths who used to lord it over the Mantis-kinden in these parts, way back when? Still, something about the name, even seeing it there in the workaday writing of some Beetle
academic, sent a chill through him. He shrugged off the feeling, though, and returned to his reading.

Autumn 46th Day

The Etheryen are not cooperating, but it is the manner of their lack of cooperation that is remarkable. We are moored at the forest’s edge, at a Sarnesh logging camp,
and today a delegation of the Mantids came to speak to us. I explained to them who I was, and that I was an authority on pre-Revolution mythways (I put it in a manner more palatable to their pride,
though!) and that I wished passage to Argax in order to study its ruins. No sooner had the name come from my lips than the entire Mantis party, some eight or so men and women, were on their feet
and backing away, staring at me. Being as they were Mantids, everyone thought we were in for a fight, and half the Sarnesh nearby were suddenly making space and reaching for weapons. When it became
clear that nobody was going to attack anybody, I asked them again. Their reply was ‘We do not go to Argax,’ and ‘Nobody goes to Argax.’ I couldn’t believe it. Here we
were, centuries after, and the legend of Argastos is still going. There is a part of the forest Etheryon where the locals apparently don’t go – or at least don’t go there casually
– because of the reputation of a man who was dust before the revolution. And – note – whatever remains of Argax must be undisturbed, untouched and unseen, or at any rate treated
with a great deal of respect. I knew then and there that I had to see it, with or without the natives. Tenrathaea gives a good enough idea of where the hall was, with reference to other forest
landmarks, and I have some hope we may even be able to spot the place from the air. Of course, I then had to convince Sol and Master Patcher, particularly Patcher. He wasn’t keen, notably
because he thought the Etheryen wouldn’t like it, and might just kill us out of hand for flouting their superstitions. However, with sufficient application of wine I had him mocking the
unsophisticated forest-dwellers, and swearing that he’d take me wherever I wanted to go. I did make certain promises against the department bursary, which I hope I will be able to sort out
when the time comes. Still, if I find what I hope, then funding should not be an issue.

Autumn 51st Day

I am getting somewhat desperate. I had not realized that it was possible for forest to be so dense. It is impossible to see anything but green from any height, and twice
now, when we ventured low enough to make out details, parties of Mantis-kinden erupted from the trees and tried to board us. It was only by Sol’s quick thinking that we were able to ascend
swiftly enough to avoid them, and I am glad they are not strong fliers by habit. I have no telescope. I am, after all, in a profession that normally looks at small things from a very close
distance. I had not thought that I would need one.

Master Patcher’s temper is growing fouler by the moment, but I cannot go from the Etheryon without something to show the department, or I’m ruined. So far I am
staving off Patcher, but I am concerned that he may have his suspicions about Sol and I, and this will worsen his temper. So far I have managed to fend him off, but each day’s search is a
daily effort in handling his deteriorating moods.

The next entry – the last entry – was different, the handwriting wild, trailing off into a shaking scrawl at the end:

There is a storm. Sol says it’s like nothing he’s seen. We’ve lost our way. I am writing this in case the journal is found. I would like my research notes
given to the library for posterity. Please remember me as someone who died in the name of scholarship.

‘And what’s that?’

Sterro looked up sharply. He had grown too absorbed in the account, and now Corver was staring at him from the aft doorway.

‘Just some diary that got left behind,’ he said defensively, although it wasn’t as though he had done anything
wrong
. ‘Some Beetle from Collegium. She was coming
here to study the Mantids.’

‘She got more than she bargained for, then,’ came Vrant’s voice, as he shouldered his way out after Corver, dragging a huge canvas sack in his wake.

‘So what’s that?’ the Fly asked.

‘Spare balloon,’ Corver told him. ‘Looks like Sandric had the right idea of it after all. We take it back to our ship. We try to get the gas machine working, so we can float
out of here. Worst case, we let the wind carry us away from the forest then just come down. Anywhere’s better than here.’

‘No argument from me, sir,’ Sterro said, heartfelt, then Corver was reaching for the scroll, and for a moment he was about to be possessive about it, for no other reason than that he
had been the one to find it. It was just trash, though, useful to no one, so he gave ground with the best grace he could. Corver’s eyes flicked over the scroll, bleak and uninterested, and
Sterro caught the precise moment that they stopped dead, muscles crawling on the man’s face. The Fly was uneasily certain that it was that same Moth name that had halted his own progress.

‘Right.’ Corver wrenched his eyes from the writing and shoved something into his hand, and Sterro saw it was the compass.