Heirs of the Blade (57 page)

‘You’re still looking for her?’ Che asked.

‘She’s dead.’

‘You don’t know—’

Varmen’s helm had twitched towards Maure’s sleeping form, so Che understood when he repeated, ‘She’s dead.’

Che could have asked him, then. She could have asked,
Did you speak with her?
Or enquired what a long-dead Dragonfly noblewoman might have had to say to a representative of her murderers. She might even have asked if Varmen’s continued presence at her side was the result of some request or atonement demanded by this notional ghost. Or perhaps this duty was one that the Wasp had assumed himself, like another piece of ultimately ineffective armour.

But in the end she did not ask. Better that the man kept his secrets.

The Commonwealer force was still mustering by the time they reached it the next day, and even Che could see that this was chiefly because the bulk of it was anything but military. She was willing to wager that these peasants-turned-soldiers had been up at first dawn, but forming themselves into a marching column was clearly not part of their usual morning routine.

The arrival of the four of them caused a nervous stir amongst the common soldiery, their carefully constructed formations eddying and swirling aside as though to even be close to a Wasp-kinden was to invite extinction. Che expected this disturbance to swiftly attract the attention of the officers or the nobles in charge, but it quickly became apparent that there were few of their kind available. The small band of Dragonfly-kinden who eventually showed up spent more time staring at Thalric and Varmen than reordering their troops, and for a moment Che feared that the four of them, by their very presence, would somehow reverse the recent military victory and rout the entire army.

Then order was finally restored by the appearance of one man, and Che could see why. Her first thought was,
Tisamon
, but of course it was not. The dead Weaponsmaster had been in her thoughts so much that any Mantis of a similar bearing, and wearing the same badge above all, would have instantly brought him to mind. This man was older, with silver hair, and was wearing an arming jacket of pale grey leather, where Tisamon had favoured forest green. He seemed calmer, too, in a strange way. Che would never have described Tynisa’s father as agitated, but there had constantly been a high-strung tension to Tisamon, which this man had conquered. Here was Tisamon as he might have been, had he never loved Tynisa’s Spider-kinden mother, had he never become friends with Stenwold Maker.

‘What is your business here?’ he asked, not loudly but in a voice that could not be ignored.

‘Please, sieur,’ Che said, falling back on the Solarnese title for no reason she could think of, ‘we’re looking for my foster-sister, Tynisa.’

‘Tynisa?’ For a moment his face was blank, then something fell into place. ‘Ah, Maker Tynise. And you are her sister?’

‘Foster-sister,’ Che explained. ‘I’ve travelled a very long way, we all have.’

‘She’s left the column,’ the Mantis told her. ‘She’s flown off to Leose, along with most of the nobles.’

So close.
Che sagged a little.
A day gained somewhere and I’d have caught her.
‘You’re taking your soldiers to . . . Leose then?’ she asked, stumbling a little over the name.

‘I return there myself, so accompany me if you will.’ He was still studying Che’s face, without expression. She wondered how much he could read there of her recent history.

‘We’ll make better time on our own,’ Thalric suggested. The Mantis’s eyes flicked towards him sharply, a man with no love for Wasp-kinden, nor fear of them either.

‘You’ll do better to approach Leose with a friend to gain you admittance,’ Maure murmured. ‘The Salmae’s doors don’t open even as wide as Felipe Shah’s, I’ve heard.’ She wore a wry smile, no doubt thinking of her reception back at Suon Ren.

Che glanced between them, keenly aware of the Mantis’s gaze turning back to her. ‘Then, yes, we’ll travel with you, and gladly,’ she told him at last. ‘Cheerwell Maker of Collegium,’ she introduced herself, then named her companions in turn.

The Mantis’s name was Isendter, pronounced with a typical Commonweal flourish that Che found almost impossible to replicate. He was called Whitehand also, apparently, so she settled for that. As the day wore on, it became clear why he had set himself aside as the only one who would reach Leose. Little detachments of the makeshift soldiers were constantly abandoning the column, their ranks thinning and thinning as time wore on: the peasants were returning to their farms and villages, their herds and crops, Che realized, and clearly glad to be putting the military life behind them. It was spring, after all, and a farmer had better things to do than go chasing about with a spear. She thought of those soldiers of Collegium, who were re-purposed tradesmen, artisans and shopkeepers, yet had still accounted for themselves well enough during the war. Then she thought about the Empire, whose every male son was given a uniform and a weapon, and allowed no other trade but fighting.

How did we ever beat them?
she asked herself, but then had to admit,
We did not. They were not beaten: they just stepped back to deal with a little infighting. And they have since whipped their rebel governors into line, and they now have their new Empress, and surely I can hear the sound of a thousand thousand swords being drawn even now. What is to stop them?

‘Che?’ Thalric touched her arm and for a moment she wanted to run away from him and from his brutal birthright. Instead, she hugged him tight because he was surely proof that redemption was possible, even for the Wasp-kinden.

Thirty-Four

Che had the impression that Whitehand was a man who spoke little, yet he broke his rule to ask her about Tynisa, and through his few terse questions he managed to prompt from her a great deal of the curious story of Stenwold Maker, of Cheerwell, and of Tynisa’s mother. Che approached the subject of Tisamon carefully, never quite naming him as Tynisa’s father in case Isendter held any great grudge against halfbreeds, but making the strength of their relationship clear. Whitehand’s face remained impassive throughout, but Che had the impression that he had been waiting for a figure such as Tisamon to turn up in this account.

As she recounted what she knew of Tisamon’s death, Isendter nodded fractionally, but that small movement spoke volumes, the only acknowledgement he had made. ‘And they were close?’ he put in.

‘Very,’ Che agreed. ‘And I believe . . .’ For a moment the old Collegium Che rebelled against the words, or perhaps felt embarrassed at speaking them before Thalric, but she pressed on. ‘I believe that he is haunting her now. I think that his ghost takes its duties as a . . .’ she almost said ‘father’, ‘. . . as a mentor very seriously indeed.’

‘It may be as you say,’ was all Isendter Whitehand replied, but Che knew that he had sensed something or seen something in Tynisa. ‘There was a shrine of my people, in the woods, out west. We came upon it while hunting. After that . . .’

Che nodded, seeing the perfect gateway through which the ghost could have stepped, directly into Tynisa’s mind.

By the time they came to Leose, most of the impromptu army had disbanded, hurrying back to lives that had no need of conflict or bloodshed in them. Che found herself and her companions quickly abandoned in a great courtyard, lined to one side with ranks of stables, and roofed by a wooden lattice that Maure explained was for dragonfly steeds to land on. They had just enough time to wonder if they had been forgotten, when a lean Grasshopper-kinden woman wearing dark colours came out to them, looking them up and down with that crisp and slightly disapproving expression of senior servants the world over.

‘The champion tells me you are here to see the Spider-kinden girl,’ she remarked. ‘Which of you is her sister?’

‘Her foster-sister.’ Che raised a hand. ‘Cheerwell Maker of Collegium. This is Thalric, this Varmen, and this—’

‘Maure,’ said the mystic quickly, cutting her off, and Che wondered if magicians were supposed to introduce themselves, or whether being named by another might diminish their power, or some such.
And is that real, or just superstition? There’s so much I don’t know.

The Grasshopper stared at the halfbreed necromancer for a long moment. ‘Lisan Dea, seneschal of Leose,’ she named herself.

‘There are those who might use my services here? The lady of the house, perhaps?’ Maure enquired, as though simply having turned up there as a solitary vagabond.

‘Not the lady, I think,’ Lisan Dea replied, ‘but there are others, nonetheless.’ She had clearly somehow recognized the services that Maure could provide, and there was a hint of some small tragedy written in her features, some impenetrable loss that Che would never dare ask about, and that Maure would never report. The Grasshopper nodded suddenly, gathering her composure about her like a cloak. ‘You are welcome here, Maure, for the gifts you bring. You are welcome, Cheerwell Maker, as the sister of our guest. Your companions are not so welcome, however.’

Che opened her mouth to protest, but the Grasshopper held up one lean finger. ‘They will be lodged with other servants of the Salmae.’

‘Go,’ Thalric suggested. ‘Do what you’ve come to do and then we’ll be well rid of this place.’

Stepping into the shadow of the Commonwealer castle caused an almost physical shock, so that Che was forced to clutch at Maure’s arm, feeling disoriented by the shift between what she saw and what she felt. That it was daylight outside, channelled in by the high windows, seemed to be denied by every part of her but her eyes. That the high-vaulted ceilings made the halls beneath airy and spacious, her senses insisted was false, a mere gloss. She felt as though she was entombed underground. She felt as though those lofty arches were not for the convenience of a flying kinden, but simply to accommodate ponderous forms of much greater stature than herself, and that these Commonwealers were merely living in their discarded shells.

In short, although the design was as different as several hundred miles of distance, and perhaps several centuries of time, could account for, she felt that she already knew the builders of this place. Their presence, even the last decaying scraps of it, oppressed her. Of all the kinden of the world, and of all the secrets of history, she’d had enough of
them
.

She glanced at Maure, but it was impossible to tell whether the necromancer recognized her disquiet. In front of Lisan Dea, the mystic was all business.

‘Your sister came to us at the start of winter, from Suon Ren,’ the Grasshopper was saying. She had deliberately slowed her long-legged pace to let Che keep up, but because of that she seemed to be watching always from the corner of her eye, reading every least twitch of Che’s features. The Beetle girl made a dutiful show of listening.

‘It seemed she was not in favour, and had little to offer us, nor did she know our ways or how to behave. It seemed that would be the end of it, and that the spring would see her dispatched back to the Lowlands.’ Lisan Dea recited the words neutrally, taking no side.

‘This has changed, then?’ Che put in, because she felt it was expected of her.

‘After winter she demonstrated talents that fit the times,’ the seneschal replied. ‘So she is in favour, so long as those times last.’

Talents that fit the times.
Under Tisamon’s tutelage Tynisa had devoted herself to one particular talent and, now that the man’s ghost was guiding her through this time of conflict, the seneschal’s words were not difficult to understand. ‘She was always skilled,’ she managed. The presence of Tynisa, through walls of stone, seemed palpably closer, and Che was wondering what manner of reception she might receive. What would the ghost drive her sister to do?

Then the Grasshopper made an abrupt turn, leading her guests through an arched door flanked by tapestries of red and gold – and there was Tynisa.

The room she stood in was lit by oblique shafts of light descending from windows cut high into one wall, a light so crisp and clear that Che wondered whether guests were only received in this chamber at this one particular time. The rush matting on the floor, left mostly in shadow, spoke of martial practice. At the far end of the room stood Tynisa herself, where the floor stepped up to a raised platform from which instructors had no doubt guided their charges through their paces.

She was not alone, though. A Dragonfly-kinden man was speaking softly in her ear, and Che had the impression that Tynisa must have just completed some fencing passes on the floor. He seemed young to be a mentor, though, and stood too close, so for a moment Che hovered awkwardly in the doorway, realizing that she was intruding, hesitant to press on and yet even less willing to lose this opportunity.

Then Lisan Dea was stalking across the room, and the Dragonfly looked up and took a step away. The Grasshopper seneschal practically radiated an icy disapproval directed, in so far as Che could tell, solely at the man.

There was something curiously familiar about him, now that Che saw his face: some passing likeness that she felt she should recognize. Then the Grasshopper had drawn him aside and hissed something in his ear, and his crooked grin transformed into incredulity as he stared down the length of the room towards Che.

That was it, she suddenly realized: he looked a little like Salma, or at least more than most young Dragonfly men did. Given where they all were, he must be some manner of relative.

Then, without ceremony, Lisan Dea was shepherding him out of the room. Che could not see his expression as he gazed back briefly at Tynisa, but his parting look at the Beetle herself was nothing short of contemptuous, making plain his surprise that
this
woman could claim a sisterhood with
that
one.

Maure had hung back – no, Maure had ducked out of sight entirely and was now gone from her side. Unexpectedly, after the varied escorts Che had enjoyed since leaving Khanaphes, she was left alone with Tynisa.

She approached, skirting the edge of the fighting mat as if it was the ground of the Prowess Forum in Collegium. From her elevated position, Tynisa watched her closely, and there was nothing in her face or stance that recognized Che at all. Her expression was bleak as winter, and her hand hovered near her sword. Che was no great warrior, scarcely a warrior at all, but as she drew near she became acutely aware of an invisible circle about Tynisa dictated by the broad reach of her blade, and that to cross into it uninvited would be fatal.