The Scarab Path (35 page)

Thalric almost fell over as Che’s full weight dragged against him, but he
got an arm behind her knees and hoisted her off the ground.
Cursed Beetle girl could stand to lose some weight
, came
the thought, but then he had a firm grip on her and was backing out of that
horrible tent. He noticed movement and turned awkwardly, seeing someone running
towards them. He twisted a hand free, almost losing hold of Che again, and let
his sting flash. The man, an emaciated Khanaphir, fell back in a tangle of
limbs.

‘Let’s
go
,’ he grated. ‘Come on, Fly-kinden.’

Trallo
was already on his way, trying to wind back the string on a pistol crossbow as
he went. The denizens of the Marsh Alcaia had begun to show all too much
interest in a Wasp lugging a foreign Beetle girl about.

‘Stupid,
stupid woman,’ Thalric was cursing under his breath. ‘What did you think you
were doing?’

‘Lucky
you were keeping an eye on her,’ said Trallo, having finally got his crossbow
cocked. Now that he brandished it so openly, interest from the street people
was fast diminishing. The Khanaphir didn’t seem to possess such weapons
themselves, but everyone here seemed to know what it was capable of. Loosing a
crossbow bolt in a confined space bounded entirely by cloth walls would be an
interesting exercise, Thalric thought.

Trallo
was leading the way confidently, left, left, then right. Merchants and gamblers
watched narrowly as they passed, making Thalric keenly aware of just how much
Che’s unconscious body was hampering his progress.
If they
jump me I’m dead
, he thought, and then,
and I bloody
well deserve it
. He was conscious that dressing this episode up to
satisfy his Rekef colleagues would be nigh impossible.
But
I knew – I knew she would get involved in something like this
. Cheerwell
Maker, as usual, blundering through a world of sharp edges with her eyes shut.

The
uncomfortable truth:
I have a problem, here
, and
then Trallo shouted something, and Thalric tried to turn. Something hit him in
the jaw hard enough to snap his head back. He staggered, his legs suddenly
weak, and someone tried to wrestle Che from his grasp. There was a moment of
fumbling that, to a disinterested observer, must have seemed hilarious, and Che
was pulled out of Thalric’s hands. The abductor had botched it, though,
tripping and falling backwards so that the weight of her drove the breath from
his lungs. Abruptly free of her, with palm open and ready, Thalric turned to
receive another hammering punch that knocked him flat on his back. A
dark-armoured form loomed over him just as he heard the clack of Trallo’s
crossbow. Impossibly the little bolt just danced off the attacker’s mail and
those gauntleted hands now came up with something ugly and short-barrelled:
a cut-down snapbow!

‘Flee!’
Thalric shouted, as two of his attackers began hauling him to his feet. He
struggled furiously, trying to turn the palms of his hands towards them.
‘Trallo, flee!’ he yelled again. He saw the armoured assailant sight down the
wicked little snapbow, then lower it.

Telling a Fly-kinden to run
, it occurred to Thalric,
is surely unnecessary
.

‘Watch
his hands!’ the man warned, but they were already holding Thalric’s arms out
straight and back, putting pressure on his elbows to keep them that way. Their
dark armour was mostly plated leathers, and only their leader wore steel mail,
of a design Thalric had never seen before. It was a moment before he recognized
the emblem on their tabards.

‘What—?’
One of them wrenched his arm and he hissed in pain. ‘What do the Iron Glove
want with me? I am Imperial ambassador in this city!’

‘Are
you?’ He could see himself reflected dimly in the armoured man’s helm. The
eye-slit gave no clues. ‘And what does the Empire want with abducting Lowlander
women?’

‘I was
…’ But he was what?
What can I say that will not
incriminate me?

‘Your
name is Thalric, my people tell me,’ said the Iron Glove man, and a chill went
through him.

Assassins?
He had all but forgotten, given the challenge
of this new city and its distractions.
Are you so weary of
your life that you forget such things?
But he was far from the Empire,
and the attack outside Tyrshaan now seemed like something long ago.

‘My name
is Thalric,’ he admitted.

‘It has
been a long time,’ the armoured man replied slowly. ‘I saw you only briefly, on
the
Sky Without
. But she told me what you did to
her, in Helleron and in Myna.’ There were knives in that tone which mocked the
terrors of mere assassins.

‘Who are
you?’ Thalric demanded.

‘Me?’
The faceless helm came closer. ‘Why, I’m no Rekef officer, Master Thalric. I’m
no lord of the Empire or grand ambassador. I’m just a poor halfbreed boy who’s
had to make his own way in the world.’

A name
hovered at the very edge of Thalric’s memory, but he could not bring it to
mind.

‘But
look at me now,’ the man continued. ‘I’ve not done so badly. Look at what I can
do.’

Thalric
saw him draw back his fist for the blow, amateurish and clumsy if only he
himself had been able to dodge. Then the metal-clad fist slammed into his
stomach and doubled him over, only the layer of copperweave saving his innards.
He sagged against his captors, who instantly jerked him upright. The armoured
man was examining his mailed fist speculatively.

‘Look
what I can do,’ he repeated, wonderingly. When the gaze of the helm tilted
towards Thalric again, it was as though they were collaborators in this new
exercise of power.

‘You
don’t understand what’s going on here,’ said Thalric, and because he was
speaking he was not ready for the next blow, which lashed into his cheek,
splitting his lip and throwing him out of the grip of his captors. He hit the
ground hard, clawing at the dust, trying to extend a hand out to sting. The
boot came from nowhere into his ribs and he cried out at last, curling about
the pain, bracing for the next blow.

There
was no next one, though, and he forced himself to look up. The snapbow was
directed at him, at his face, at his eye.
Well, I always
knew the mail wouldn’t save me every time
.

‘This is
personal, between us two,’ the armoured man explained. ‘The Iron Glove wouldn’t
thank me for killing an ambassador. Be grateful that your Fly got away to tell
tales. It’s enough now that you know you’re beaten.’

Two of
them still supported Che between them, and the two others that had been holding
him now had their crossbows out and ready. The company started moving away
through the Marsh Alcaia, only the armoured man pausing a moment, staring down
at Thalric.

‘If I
ever see you again,’ he said, ‘know that I haven’t even begun to avenge what
you did to her.’

Thalric
tried to sit up, unkinking bruise by bruise, his breath ragged in his throat.
No broken ribs, just pain all over and a bloodied lip. He had suffered much
worse. The halfbreed had no idea just how much Thalric had endured, before.

There
was a flurry of movement nearby, and he instinctively jabbed an arm out towards
it, reaching for his sword with the other.

‘It’s
me, it’s me!’ Trallo shrilled, coming to rest beside him, surveying him
critically. ‘They did a real job on you, didn’t they?’

Thalric
groaned, pulling himself fully to his feet, light-headed and breathing through
waves of pain.

‘I hope
you can walk,’ Trallo added reproachfully. ‘There’s no way I’m carrying you.’

‘I can
walk.’
And I can think up some explanation for Marger and
the others, as well
. He was still ransacking his memory for the name of
the armoured halfbreed.

She awoke, and was in a strange place.

She was
still in Khanaphes, because the city signed every brick that composed it, but
this was nowhere she recognized. The ceiling was too low, the windows too
small: it was certainly not the splendour of the Place of Honoured Foreigners.

Nor was
it the coloured cloth of the Marsh Alcaia, and that was something to be
grateful for, at least. She gathered up the pieces of her last recollections
and tried to put them in order. The Fir dream came back to her with shocking
suddenness: the mantis of the Darakyon, reaching out with bloody claws towards
her. She sat up with a start.

‘Achaeos?’
she whispered the name, out of force of habit, but his ghost was not there, not
even a tremor in the air to hint of it. She was in some kind of dormitory,
lying on a narrow cot that was one of five. It looked like a room allotted for
servants.

They were going to kill me
, she recalled. The woman they
called Mother had urged,
Take her blood
. Was that
why she was now here? Were they going to farm her blood, syphon it off in cups
and quarts? Che realized she was not tied to the bed, but she was willing to
bet that the door was locked, and the single window was too small to let a Fly
in.

Trallo?
Perhaps the Fly had escaped. Perhaps there would
be a rescue, after all.
By who, though?
She could
not imagine Manny and Berjek charging in with sword and pike, but at least they
could always go and seek aid from the Khanaphir. It would be a diplomatic
embarrassment, of course, and if the truth of her deeds should become known
they might be thrown out of the city – or worse. That might still be better
than being bled to death by Fir-eaters over the course of a month.

She
recalled Trallo shouting something. Had he been shouting for help?
And hadn’t help arrived?
She had an image of a bright
figure with its hands on fire. The Fir-eaters had been screaming …

There
was water and soap laid out for her at the foot of the bed, and the sight of it
brought a surge of relief out of all proportion, since the Fir-eaters had not
looked as though they cared much for washing. There was even a towel folded
over the bed-end, Collegium style.
Someone’s trying to make
me feel welcome
. After washing, she drank a great deal of water from a
pitcher, trying to rid her mouth of the bitter taste of the vices she had
dabbled in.
Perhaps this is some kind of Khanaphir
hospital?

They had
laid out a robe for her too, and she eyed it suspiciously. She was still
wearing what she considered as her working clothes, hardwearing and practical
even though they were filthy and malodorous.

Realizing
her sword was gone, she cursed quietly. Her new situation seemed subtly
balanced between comfort and threat.
Am I a prisoner here, or
a guest?

She
decided not to change clothes. Instead, she tried the door, and found it opened
out into a corridor. Immediately she was surrounded. There were three of them,
men in dark leathers and helms, shortswords at their belts. One closed the door
neatly behind her, another was off and away at a run. She swung round, reaching
again for the absent sword. ‘What is this?’

‘If
you’ll come with us,’ one of them said, the tone of his voice strictly neutral.

‘You’re
– wait a moment, you’re Iron Glove. What’s going on?’ she demanded.

‘Just
come with us, Bella,’ the man repeated. The two of them were standing on one
side of her, blocking the narrow corridor. She backed off the way that the
third man had gone running, and they followed smoothly.

‘I’m the
Collegiate ambassador,’ she told them, trying for authority. ‘I insist you tell
me where I am and what is going on.’

They
gave no reply to her bravado, which was perhaps all it deserved. She was
retreating and retreating, seeing only closed doors on all sides, or doorways
and stairwells where other Iron Glove men stood and watched, barring any
escape.

‘Is
Corcoran here?’ she asked desperately. ‘I know him. He’s a friend.’
An acquaintance, barely
. ‘Please would you go find him.
He’s in charge here, isn’t he?’

‘Not any
more,’ one of the men said flatly, and her heart sank.
What
have I got myself into? Some schism amongst them? And how would that involve
me?

She
realized that she had unthinkingly backed into a larger room, and turned,
groping for her bearings. It was a dining hall, still low-ceilinged but wide,
and windowed on one side beyond a row of pillars. This was a little more like
the Khanaphes she knew.

The long
table that dominated the room was set with fruit and some sort of fish, simple
local fare. The sight of it made Che realize how hungry she was, but there were
only two chairs set there, and until the other one was claimed she was not
going to sit down. The two Iron Glove men had now retreated to the doorway she
had entered by.

‘Someone,’
she insisted, ‘had better tell me what is going on.’

Even as
she spoke, that someone entered the room from the far door. She saw a
broad-shouldered man in intricate dark mail, pulling off his gauntlets even as
he approached. He went to stand by one of the chairs, which was drawn out for
him by one of his men. Cautiously, Che approached the other.

He laid
the gauntlets on the table, undid the chinstrap of his helm and took it off.
Che stared into the solid, closed face of a stranger, a halfbreed, strong-jawed
and heavy-browed, touched by that faint discontinuity that so many of mixed
blood were tainted with …

As she
studied him, something shifted inside her, as though the ground beneath her
feet had turned suddenly treacherous.

‘Hello,
Che,’ he said, and she was rushing around the table to get to him, throwing her
arms around the fluted breastplate, feeling his own arms hesitantly encircle
her, almost too gently to feel, as though he was desperate not to break her.