She answered the door to the Night Guard and nearly had a heart attack at the sight of a dozen of the Empire’s best warriors looming over her in the morning mist. They were garbed in black and arranged in a curved row, while to one side Commander Lathraea introduced them.
He wanted each of the soldiers to have their turn with a wasp. First they began to familiarize themselves with the creatures in the basement, overcoming any fears they might have, getting used to the concept of riding on top of them. Later, they each took turns to ride around the nearby streets before they became too busy with activity — it was, Brynd said, of great importance that no one see what was going on because people were sensitive to the new races south of the city. He didn’t want to stir up any further tensions.
After several successful efforts, the Night Guard went away to work on their personal fitness, only to return later that evening, when darkness came again to the city’s streets.
Jeza watched as they became more relaxed and confident. Their reactions became far quicker — their desire to master the skills was unsurpassed. She was both in awe and jealous at their skills.
Brynd soon pushed them to try riding with one hand then asked them to hold out their swords to see if they could master both swordplay and flying. She began to realize exactly how the Mourning Wasps were to be used.
By the time both moons were unseasonably high, Brynd was encouraging his men and the Mourning Wasps through ever-more complex manoeuvres.
What struck Jeza was how the Mourning Wasps thrived under their military masters. They seemed to enjoy the challenges, which had unearthed a new sense of vitality. If the creatures had once mourned, as according to the legend, it appeared that they no longer felt any sadness. The only sadness was Jeza’s: she felt like a mother handing over her child in exchange for a fat contract, but she forced herself to be strong.
And in just a day and a night, the soldiers of the Night Guard had mastered the complex arts of riding the Mourning Wasp.
TWENTY — FOUR
The streets were slick with rain. Street traffic picked up after the rainstorm: people heading quickly on their way home before the skies opened up again. Fulcrom and Lan had waited for the rain to stop before leaving the Citadel.
Dressed in crude civilian clothing, brown breeches, woollen tops, raincapes and heavy boots, they blended into the Villiren dusk.
‘These jumpers make my skin itch,’ Lan said.
‘Never mind,’ Fulcrom replied, smiling.
‘It’s all right for you, with your rumel skin. What about poor little humans like me?’
‘You’re tough as old boots,’ Fulcrom replied. ‘You’ll live. Besides, it’s either that or give ourselves away.’
‘I get it, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it,’ Lan said, rearranging her raincape.
They continued through the cold streets to their destination in the Ancient Quarter, the Partisans’ Club.
Fulcrom had done his best to speak to locals that morning to glean the mood on the streets; he also studied maps, memorized street names and corporation names registered with the Citadel, so that he might pose as a civilian more effectively.
The road around the Partisans’ Club was noticeably different. There were people here coming for the meeting, that was clear. But amidst the moving tide of people, Fulcrom noticed individuals who were standing still like islands. Big men with their arms folded lined the wall nearest the entrance. Behind the flick of a cloak, Fulcrom spotted a blade or two. ‘Keep an eye on those,’ Fulcrom whispered to Lan. Her gaze immediately scanned around and she nodded her agreement.
Men stood by the door of the club, occasionally pulling certain individuals out to inspect them, before pushing them back into the flow. As the last remaining light vanished from the day, Fulcrom and Lan headed inside.
Down a stairwell and they were inside the plush club. At one end was a stage with spotlights and dreary lanterns, which gave the room a vaguely sinister air. There was a heady smell of damp, sweat and cheap incense, and the place was rammed with people of all ages. Fulcrom had expected a few tough-looking disillusioned types, but was surprised at the variety of ages and classes: there were old and young, well-to-do and both men and women, humans and rumels present.
It was mostly standing-room only. There was cheap artwork on the wall and, judging by all the tankards of beer, and glasses of wine or vodka, there was a bar somewhere out of sight. At least it was warm. Fulcrom and Lan managed to find a spot against the far wall, so that the stage stood on their right and the rest of the room opened up to the left, allowing them a full view of everything.
The noise of the crowd grew and people became restless. They were whistling and jeering, and when three men walked on stage the people cheered sarcastically.
The centre figure walked to the front of the stage with his legs apart like some dodgy actor soaking in the admiration of his crowd; this was sheer arrogance on display. Even though he was thirty feet away, Fulcrom guessed he was a handsome man, a swarthy-looking fellow with a day or two of stubble. Everything about his outfit said he was a man used to the company of thugs — the handle of a dagger was sticking up out of his boot — but he had a vaguely refined air about him.
‘Who’s the show-off?’ Lan whispered.
‘I suspect this is the man who runs the show, and the very man we’re looking for. Malum.’
The two men that had accompanied him on stage suddenly drew out enormous swords and rammed them in the stage — and the crowd fell silent.
Malum placed his hands in his pockets and waited just a little longer before beginning. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he started. ‘It’s much appreciated. Feels good, doesn’t it? All of us together like this. You know, humans and rumel, folk from all across Villiren. That’s us. That’s community. That’s what this city’s built on, right?’
A few cheers scattered about the club.
‘Good,’ Malum continued. He walked slowly across the stage as he spoke. ‘My lads have good evidence, you see, that all of this is under threat. You heard about the monster in the iren, yeah? The child killer?’
A murmur of agreement from the audience.
‘You ain’t seen anything yet. There are worse creatures to the south. We’ve seen them.’ He gestured to his accomplices on stage. ‘Me and the lads, we’ve seen just what lies on the edge of the city. You want to know what we saw?’
Malum marched across to the other side of the stage. ‘Oh, we saw some of the sickest shit. Creatures with more arms than you’ve had hot dinners.’ He pointed to a heavyset man in the audience, and got a few laughs.
‘Creatures with rows of vicious teeth, creatures with the blood of our children on their hands. That’s right, we’ve seen them taking people off the streets. Kids, animals, you name it.’
‘That’s not actually true, is it?’ Lan whispered to Fulcrom.
‘No. But he’s very convincing, isn’t he?’
‘So, the commander who fancies himself as a bit of a ruler over you and me — someone who doesn’t know how tough things are for honest people in this city — seems to think it would be a good idea if we lived side by side with these things. He’s spending all his time meeting with them, preparing the way for millions of those aliens to come to our islands. He wants them to work with us — can you imagine that? There’s hardly enough fucking jobs as it is — he wants to hand over what’s left to a bunch of evil monsters?’
‘He’s stirring up a little racial hatred,’ Fulcrom whispered. ‘You see it all the time from various businessmen trying to keep the masses angry and accept low wages, but what’s this guy trying to achieve?’
‘Maybe he wants to lead them?’
Fulcrom’s attention skipped back to Malum, who was continuing his monologue of hatred.
‘I’d like to invite anyone who supports them aliens south of the city to stand up here on this stage and tell me why,’ Malum demanded. He now stood centre stage once again. There was nothing but silence to his question.
