Dragonfly Falling (39 page)

‘Master Tisamon of
Felyal, if I recall a face,’ the old man said. ‘Please calm yourselves,’ he
added, for the benefit of his guards. ‘I don’t believe anyone is in danger of
immediate harm here. Is that the case, Master Tisamon?’

Tisamon nodded shortly.
Stenwold glanced from him to Arianna.

‘You’ve come at a good
time, Tisamon,’ he said. ‘The Assembly has agreed to work against the Empire.
Collegium is going to war. This is Master Gownsman Thadspar, the Speaker.’

‘It’s just as well,’
Tisamon said darkly. ‘Tell them, woman.’

Arianna stood back from
Stenwold, not meeting his eyes. ‘The Wasps have sent an embassy to Vek,’ she
said quietly. ‘They are encouraging the Vekken to attack Collegium. And it will
work, and the Vekken will come.’

Silence fell throughout
the room, from the guardsmen hovering in the doorway all the way across to
Balkus at the far end of the table.

‘Tisamon, is this—?’
Stenwold started.

‘I found her on the run
from her own people,’ Tisamon said derisively. ‘There’s been a falling out, it
seems, and right now you’re the only thing keeping her from either
assassination or execution. So, yes, I think it may well be true. I don’t know
about Collegium going to war, but for certain the war’s coming here.’

To Tisamon it all seemed
a colossal waste of time. The War Council of Collegium, it was soon grandly
known as, but precious little war seemed to be discussed. There were about
forty members of the Assembly present. To the Mantis’s amusement they were
using a classroom for their meeting, so only one person at a time could take
the stand to talk, while the rest sat on the tiered wooden seating and listened
like pupils, or more often talked among themselves.

The first matter of
business had been whether, after informing the Empire’s ambassador that they
were now at war, the city should send envoys to the Wasps suing for peace,
apparently on behalf of all the Lowlands. Almost half of the men and women
there had been for that measure, which had only narrowly been defeated in the
vote. They were very fond of such voting in Collegium. The Assemblers
themselves were elected by a vote of the city, meaning by anyone of age born
there, or who could acquire honorary citizenship. The members of the War
Council had similarly been voted for from within the Assembly at large,
although it seemed that several people were there, and quite vocal, who had
simply been interested enough to come, while others thus voted for were absent.

Stenwold had been hoping
for whatever few Ant-kinden belonged to the Assembly to be present now. The
duelling master, Kymon of Kes, had made an appearance, as well as a Sarnesh
woman. The rest of their race were mostly gone from the city, because
Ant-kinden loyalties lay strongest with their own kind. The Tarkesh had gone to
help their home city-state, and the Kessen, Kymon excepted, to prepare for when
their own time came.

Yet here they were,
still choosing roles as though the entire business was some grotesquely
disorganized theatrical endeavour. Stenwold himself had become some kind of
military commander dealing with the walls. Kymon had been given charge of some
of the city’s militia. It seemed that anyone who felt himself an expert in war
could bag some slice of the city’s defences, and any artificer with an
invention that could be put to good use was being given whatever was needed to
deploy it.

To Tisamon it seemed an
utter shambles, but he was only too aware that these were not his people. They
had their own way of doing things, and in that way had built Collegium and made
it prosper. Until now, at least.

He fidgeted impatiently.
Stenwold had wanted him to witness this, and so Tisamon tried to understand
what was going on. There seemed to be far too many interminable speeches and
not enough actually being decided or done.

Now the talk had finally
arrived at what, in his opinion, should have come first.

‘We must gather our
allies,’ Stenwold said firmly, taking his place before the class, ‘not only
against Vek but against the Empire. Unity or slavery, as I said before. We must
impress upon all the Lowlands that their smaller squabbles must be put aside
for now, until the greater threat is over.’

‘Good luck with that,’
someone spoke up, and Stenwold invited the woman to take the podium. She did,
looking as though she had not been intending to.

‘What I meant is, your
pardon, Masters, but we know our neighbours only too well, do we not?’ She was
some kind of merchant, Tisamon guessed, her bulky frame heavily festooned with
jewellery. ‘We know them and their prejudices. We of Collegium are broad of
mind; can the same be said for many others? The Ants of Kes are no doubt
rejoicing to see Tark being invested. The Moth-kinden will not help us because
we are Beetles. The Mantids care nothing for anyone save the Spider-kinden,
whom they hate. You cannot simply tell these people to stand side by side. It
won’t work.’

Stenwold took the podium
back. ‘I thank Madam Way-bright for her insight, which has made my point more
clearly than I could. The situation of rivalry she describes is the one the
Empire is most relying on to win its wars for it. If Vek saw clearly the threat
they represented then, as rational human beings, they would not even now be
mustering against us.’

There was a rude noise
from one of his listeners, and he picked up on it. ‘Not
rational
,
you say? But they are, Masters. They are strict in their duty and their
discipline, as Ant-kinden are, but they are human yet. Had we perhaps made more
overtures to them, and not crowed instead about the strength of our walls, then
they might not be marching against us now. You see? We are by no means
blameless.’

He stared down at his
hands, balled them into fists, then looked back up at his audience. ‘Let us
first speak of those we know will answer our call. No man here can dispute
sending messengers to Sarn and Helleron. Helleron especially, for they are
closest to the imperial advance.’

There was scattered
nodding, and he pressed on.

‘I have agents in Sarn
already, seeking their help, but they will not know of the threat from Vek,
which requires swifter action. Moreover, my agents in Sarn are attempting
contact with the Moth-kinden of Dorax, who I know keep a presence in that city.
I myself fought alongside the Moths in Helleron, against the Empire’s schemes
there, and I have some hope that, as they profess wisdom, they will be wise
enough to forget, for some short space of time, that they have such grievances
against us.’

His audience were less
enthusiastic about that but, at the same time, he was asking for no commitment
from them, merely unveiling his own existing plans. They could hardly turn down
help from outside if it was offered.

‘Messengers to Kes,
too,’ Stenwold continued. ‘They have never been our enemies, and they have no
love for Vek. More, if they can see past their enmities they will realize that
they are the next hurdle the Empire must clear. Their seas will not defend them
against a massed aerial assault. A messenger to the island of Kes, surely? What
do we stand to lose?’

‘The messenger,’ someone
suggested, but he still had their attention.

‘And to the
Spiderlands—’ he started, but there was a chorus of jeers even at the proposal.

‘The Spiderlands are not
of the Lowlands, Stenwold,’ interrupted another of the College masters, a
teacher of rhetoric and political history. ‘They will not care and, worse, if
we ask for their help they will make us pay for it. If they become involved,
they will keep this war going for ever simply for their own amusement. It would
suit them well to have us daggers-drawn with our neighbours for generations to
come. They would then deal with both sides and only become richer. We cannot
invite the Spiderlands to intervene.’

‘And besides,’ said
another, a quiet woman who had surprised everyone by turning up, ‘what help
could they bring us? Do you think they will field armies for us? They deal in
treachery and knives, and we would sully ourselves by inviting that kind of
help, even if they could be relied on to turn it solely against the Wasps.’

Stenwold recaptured the
podium, hands in the air to concede the point. ‘Very well, no embassy to the
Spider-lands.’ Then his eyes sought out Tisamon. ‘I . . . hesitate to ask this
. . . I know the Ants of Sarn have fair relations with their Mantis neighbours,
but—’

‘But we folk of Felyal
are less approachable, is that it?’ Tisamon suggested.

There was a murmur of
amusement from amongst the War Council. ‘Can you deny it?’ Stenwold asked.

‘Nor would I wish to.’
Tisamon strode down the steps until he stood at the front, although he did not
seek to take Stenwold’s pride of place. ‘And, yes, I will be your embassy to my
own people, although I can promise nothing. Draw a line from Tark to Collegium,
though, and the Felyal lies square in the way. I think my people would be even
more unapproachable to the Wasps than to you.’

When the debate was over
Tisamon sought out Stenwold again. The Beetle was seated in a spare office of
the College, three rooms down from where the War Council had been held, with
several pyramids of scrolls stacked ready to hand for the scribes to copy.

‘You seem to be keeping
them busy,’ the Mantis remarked.

Stenwold raised an
eyebrow. ‘What’s on your mind, Tisamon?’

‘You should know that
I’m taking Tynisa with me.’

‘Absolutely out of the
question,’ Stenwold replied without hesitation.

‘She wants to go.’

‘That’s not the issue.’

‘And you cannot stop
her.’

‘Maybe not,’ Stenwold
admitted. ‘Tisamon, my past record in keeping members of my family from danger
is poor, but just think for a moment. I know they are your people, but they
will kill her. They will kill her because they’ll assume she’s Spider-kinden,
and if they find out what she
really
is they’ll kill
her that much quicker. You almost killed her yourself when first you met her.’

‘There is a way,’
Tisamon said, ‘though her stay will not be pleasant, I’m sure. All you say
about my people is correct. but they will not kill her out of hand.’

‘Tisamon, please—’

‘She deserves it, Sten.
Her own people, remember. For all they will hate her, and hate me too, no
doubt, she deserves to see her father’s tribe, if only to reject it.’

Stenwold grimaced. ‘I
can see this means a lot to you.’

Tisamon smiled bleakly.
‘We are not a numerous kin-den. If the Wasp army comes to the Felyal, with its
machines and its thousands, my people will fight, you may be sure of that. They
will kill ten of the enemy for every one of themselves that falls, and yet
there will still be more Wasps in the end.’

‘You . . . think it will
come to that?’

‘If the Wasps attack us,
it may. I would say they would pay dearly, if only the Empire did not value its
own soldiers so cheaply. I can see the Felyal cut and burned, the holds of my
people shattered, and for that reason, if no other, I must warn them of their
enemy’s scale and power. And Tynisa must see them as they are, in case, when
this is all over, there is nothing left to see.’

Something in Tisamon’s
face shocked Stenwold, right then.
Familiarity makes us
forget these differences.
Tisamon had been his friend for such a long
time that he had become, in Stenwold’s mind, almost the tame Mantis, the man
half-divorced from his wild people, his ancient, dark heritage. Now, in those
angular features, he saw a weight of history that made all Collegium seem like
a single turn of the glass, and it was receding, it was fading. It was falling
into darkness.

‘Yes,’ said Stenwold.
‘If she will go, I have no right at all to say no. But, Tisamon—’

‘Of course,’ Tisamon
said, a hand on his arm. ‘What harm I can prevent, I shall. Whatever harm that
is in my power to prevent.’

There was an abrupt rap
at the door and Stenwold sighed. ‘More war business,’ he said heavily. ‘You’d
better make your preparations.’

Tisamon’s hand moved to
his friend’s shoulder, exerting a brief pressure. ‘Be safe, Sten. You’ve now
got what you’ve been wanting for twenty years. You’ve got them listening to
you, so don’t waste your chance.’

Stenwold nodded, opening
the door for him, seeing the Beetle woman messenger waiting. He waited until
Tisamon had strode out of sight before asking about her business, sure that it
was bound to be another burden of the coming conflict.

‘Master Maker,’ the
messenger reported, ‘a foreigner, a halfbreed, has come to the city looking for
you. She said she has news of Tark.’

‘Of Tark?’ The wheels
were already moving in his mind. ‘Her name?’

‘Is Skrill, she says,
War Master,’ the messenger told him, and he felt a shock go through him. The
blade that had been held over him, for so long he had almost forgotten it, was
suddenly dropping.

‘Take me to her,’ he
ordered. ‘Now!’

‘And so you left,’
Stenwold said heavily, after Skrill had told him her story, with all its
wearisome digressions and diversions.

‘Weren’t my idea. Your
man Totho did the plan,’ protested the gangly halfbreed sitting across the
table from him. She scowled defensively. ‘What you think I was gonna do?’

‘No, you’re right,’
Stenwold said. ‘It wasn’t your fight. You were hired as a scout, not to fight
for Tark.’

‘Straight up,’ Skrill
agreed.

‘And so . . . ?’

‘Once I got far out
enough, I stuck around. I thought I’d see the big balloons go on fire like the
plan was. Only they never did. Next night I weren’t so far off that I couldn’t
see the city burning.’

‘And so they failed,’
said Stenwold. He felt physically ill with the strain of it all.