The Scarab Path (21 page)

‘My name
is Akneth, and I am a gatherer of taxes for the Masters of Khanaphes. If you
would do me the honour, O Foreigner, of voyaging upon my ship, then I will be
ready to cast off in the morning.’ The old man had been sitting on a mooring
post, and now pushed himself to his feet with a grunt suggesting some effort.
Hearing it, Thalric added another ten years to his estimated age. ‘I would be
glad of the company,’ Akneth continued, then made a short bow, one hand pressed
briefly to his stomach. Thalric managed a nod in return but, in the face of
that patiently avuncular smile, all of his instincts were clamouring for him to
draw his sword.

‘Well,’
he said, as he rejoined Corolly, ‘we have secured our passage downriver.’

‘So what
is he?’

‘Oh,
he’s a spy,’ replied Thalric. ‘Probably not a professional, but he’s a
government man who’s keen to know what the armed outlanders are doing here.’

‘Lucky
for us he came along just now,’ said the Beetle, but with a noticeable stress
on the first word.

‘Tax
gatherers must be passing up and down this river all the time,’ observed
Thalric, a little hollowly. ‘It’s just coincidence.’

Of course, it’s just coincidence
. He made himself sit down
calmly beside the drowsing Osgan, as if he couldn’t care less. Inside, his
instincts were shouting at him:
He knew. He already knew.
He was waiting
.

They kept him in darkness.

It had
now been three tendays since they caught him, that was his best guess. Denied
the sun, the moon and stars, awareness of time slipped away from him. He tried
counting meals, but they fed him unreliably. He slept only fitfully, always
startled to wakefulness every time the guards tramped overhead.

They had
brought him to Capitas in chains, shoulder to shoulder with a gang of slaves.
He, who had enslaved hundreds of wretches while he was in the Corps, now tasted
the irony in blood and sweat. They had even displayed him in Armour Square, for
the good people of Capitas to jeer at his deformities. Then they had cast him
down here.

His name
was Hrathen. It was about the only thing they had not taken from him, and they
had left it because it was of no earthly use. A Wasp name, from his mother.

The
bolts rattled overhead. These were the deep cells situated directly beneath the
Imperial garrison. You had to be distinctly
bad
to
end up here, but being Rekef and biting the hand that fed you was a good enough
qualification. They had made sure his guards knew he had once been Rekef, as
well as Slave Corps. It was rare that the ordinary army soldiers got to take
out their fear and hatred on a real live Rekef, so Hrathen was stiff with the
bruises.

He did
not miss the light, the air, the freedom, so much as he missed the game. When
he had been what he had once been, standing between his mother’s people and his
father’s, he had been unique. He had been a servant beyond the reach of his
master. He had been part of the game, and he missed the thrill of it more than
he ever missed the sun.

He had
already turned his head away before the searing beam of light lanced from the
opened hatch above. He flexed his arms, his hands, against the leather bindings
that had been his constant companions since they threw him down here. He
possessed killing hands, so they would take no chances. Still, he constantly
flexed and strained, working against the tension of his bonds to keep himself
strong. He had been taught to believe in opportunity. His father’s people were
strong believers in such.

He heard
a whir of wings as two guards dropped down beside him.

‘This
him?’ one asked. ‘Ugly bastard, isn’t he?’

‘Just
get the harness on him. Hey, halfbreed, you’re going places.’

Hrathen
squinted at the pair. After all the pitch dark even the glow of lanternlight
from above seemed glaring, but he had the eyes for it: eyes bred for the fierce
desert. He met the gaze of the first guard, and saw him take a step back
without wanting to.

‘Oi,
enough!’ The second man shoved a fist into his back and Hrathen grunted. He was
tough all over, though: leathery skin and solid bones that had taken worse.

They put
a strap around him, under the armpits, and two men above began hauling him up
with much complaining. Once they had him up top, which meant a corridor buried
deep beneath the cellars of the garrison, they stepped back from him.

‘Big
bastard, isn’t he?’ the first guard remarked, noticing how Hrathen topped them
all by a head. The prisoner rolled his shoulders, eyes still half closed
against the light. Now he was up and on his feet they kept their distance,
firmly bound as he was. The sight of their uncertainty brought back some of his
much-abused pride.
Let them come close, I’ll put my teeth
in them
. He obligingly bared his tusks at them, that motley snaggle of
jutting fangs that had worn scars into his lips.

‘Just
move him out. He’s not our problem any more,’ urged one of the guards. A
spear-butt jabbed at his back and he stepped briskly forward, almost leading
the way. He made his stride, his demeanour, offer no admission of captivity.
You cannot cage what I am
.

They led
him up two levels until he could see sunlight and sky through a window. Further
still they led him upwards. Servants stopped and stared when they saw him,
richly dressed courtiers shied away from him. He leered lasciviously at every
woman he saw. After all, if he was going to be executed, he had nothing more to
lose. The guards kept him moving, embarrassed at the attention.

He had
lost track of where they were now. Suddenly the corridors became nearly empty,
with only guards and more guards to mark his passing. Hrathen began to
reconsider his immediate fate. Any execution would occur publicly, or they
might decide to torture him instead – though he had not imagined he knew
anything worth ripping out of him by such methods.

Perhaps some scholar wants to anatomize me
. He was not
such a fool as to think that he could withstand torture for ever, or even for
very long. The Rekef were very good at it, and possessed all the latest
machinery to help them. Over the years, Hrathen had learned a few tricks to stave
off pain, but they had their limits. He would give his tormentors a run for
their money but, as with most hunts, the end was predetermined.

They
hauled him into a side office that he thought maybe he should recognize. A
moment later it caught up with him: it was a spymaster’s den, the desk and
papers and scrolls and carefully ordered documents. The guards jabbed him in
the back of the knee until he knelt on the floor, and then they retreated to
the edges of the room. He kept his head lowered, but from the corner of his eye
he kept watching.
If only my mother had given me better
wings
.

‘Well
now,’ he heard a voice, ‘what kind of monster have we here? My sources were
sparing in the details, when I thought they exaggerated.’ Boots passed within
Hrathen’s range of vision, and then a man sat himself at the desk. He was a
strong-framed Wasp-kinden, his hair just starting to turn grey and his eyes the
colour of water and steel. He studied Hrathen with fascination: after all,
halfbreeds of Scorpion and Wasp were not that common. Hrathen had inherited his
Scorpion father’s bulk, his tusks, his small, yellow eyes and waxy skin.
Otherwise, he had features like a Wasp, disfigured by the snaggle of teeth and
the narrow eyes. His captivity had endowed his heavy jaw with a tangle of
beard, and his scalp sprouted patchy tufts of hair that he was itching to have
cropped. His hands were his finest feature, but they had bound them
palm-to-palm to smother his sting, and then tied together the thumb and
forefinger claws as well.

‘Do you
know why you were arrested, Hrathen?’ his inquisitor asked.

Hrathen
looked straight back at him. ‘Well, if you don’t,’ he said, ‘can I go now?’

A slight
smile quirked the man’s mouth, then one of the guards kicked Hrathen in the
side hard enough to send him sprawling, cracking his head against the stone
flags.

The man
behind the desk sighed. ‘You were once a Rekef agent, as well as a captain in
the Slave Corps. That’s a heady rank for a halfbreed, but the slavers are a law
unto themselves. You were given responsibilities by the Rekef, which you did
not take seriously. Instead you indulged yourself. It is believed that you let
yourself … go native.’

Hrathen
struggled back into a kneeling position, saying nothing.

‘It
happens, of course. Officers who must work closely with the Auxillians,
especially the more savage types, have to make adjustments. Men who are
assigned to the Hornet-kinden, or the Scorpions, say, must develop within
themselves a commensurate savagery, just to ensure the willing respect of their
men. That is well known, but when such men begin to act against Imperial
interests, in favouring the lesser race, then we step in. Particularly if such
men are also Rekef.’

Hrathen
tried to shrug. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

‘What do
you
want?’ the man asked him. ‘To go back to your
desert and vanish? Or would you serve us once more, if the Rekef found a use
for you?’

All
through the dark hours, Hrathen had been clinging to one thought:
They have not killed me yet
. Behind that lay another thought,
seemingly the only explanation:
I am of use to them
.
He was not a man endowed with so many talents that he could not immediately see
why. In all the Empire there could not be many individuals who knew the
Scorpion-kinden as well as he did.

‘Terms?’
he enquired.

‘Do you
believe that I can harm you?’ the man asked. ‘Do you realize that I have at my
disposal all that man has ever discovered of pain and persuasion?’

‘I
believe it of the Rekef,’ Hrathen agreed, staring the man in the eyes.

The
half-smile had reappeared. ‘I
am
the Rekef,’ the
Wasp announced softly, holding Hrathen’s gaze as he said it. The conviction
evident in his eyes was absolute. ‘I am Lord General Brugan of the Rekef and
there is nowhere you could go that would prove far enough to escape my personal
wrath. As you fear the Rekef, then so fear me.’

Hrathen
felt a cold shiver run through him despite himself. The words had been uttered
quietly, understated, for Brugan was a man who did not need to shout. Still,
there was more in that shiver than just fear.
A
general
of the Rekef? And
the
General,
if I hear right. What does he want with
me? Because underneath it all,
despite the tainted blood and the sliding loyalties, Hrathen was still Rekef.
He was Rekef through and through because it was the best game in the world –
invitation only.

‘Tell me
about the Scorpion-kinden,’ Brugan instructed.

Hrathen
grinned despite himself, displaying a nightmare of bristling teeth.

‘So you’re a tax gatherer?’Thalric began.

‘I have
that honour,’ the old man replied. Akneth was reclining on his cushions beneath
a tautly fastened awning that screened out the sun. His six guests now occupied
the somewhat cramped section of deck between himself and the labouring oarsmen.

‘You
don’t seem to be interested in collecting any taxes,’ Thalric suggested,
exchanging a glance with Marger. They were both of a mind that this much-needed
offer of transport was all too convenient.

‘One
collects the taxes during the journey upriver,’ Akneth explained. ‘If one then
collected them downriver also, I daresay there would be complaints.’ It was
impossible to tell from his expression whether this was a joke.

A subtle people, these Khanaphir
, Thalric thought.
It’s more like talking to a Spider-kinden than a Beetle
.
He felt as if Akneth was speaking two languages at once, and that Thalric could
only understand one of them.

‘Surely
anyone who wished could just watch out for your ship on the return journey and
rob it,’ Marger put in. Aside from the eight oarsmen, and a young girl who had
served them grapes and wine, the old tax-collector travelled alone.

Akneth
put on a shocked expression. ‘But who would dare defy the Masters of
Khanaphes?’ he asked. ‘To raise a hand against me is to raise a hand against
them, too.’

He means it
, Thalric decided. It would have been the work
of a moment for them to kill Akneth and his people, and seize the boat. They
were trained Wasp soldiers, even Osgan – a flurry of sting-shot and it would be
over.

Akneth
met his gaze with that ever-present smile, mock puzzlement, polite curiosity,
utter self-assurance.

The
banks of the Jamail were lined with fields irrigated from the river. They were
dotted with villages, and each village, amongst its reed huts that looked
flimsy enough to blow away in the wind, boasted at least one structure of
stone. It seemed to Thalric that these were the markers to show where original
villages had stood centuries before, and around them other buildings had come
and gone, but the village itself had lived on.

They had
passed the town of Zafir the day before, with its twin walled fortresses
situated on either side of the river, joined by a spanning arch that rose high
above their ship’s mast. The higher reaches of the twin forts had been
decorated with statues, although Thalric had not been able to discern, from
midstream, what they might represent. He had leant in to Corolly, who had been
staring up at the bridge with his mouth half open.

‘Could
we make the likes of that?’ he asked.

‘We
could bridge this river,’ the Beetle artificer replied defensively. It was not
the same thing and he knew it.