‘And why might that be pertinent, Major?’ Cherten asked archly, recovering his superiority.
‘If your agents have assassinated a large number of the enemy pilots, that accounts for it, sir,’ Aarmon explained bluntly. ‘If not, we need another explanation, because something is definitely going on.’
For a long time Cherten just stared at him, holding the impenetrable veil of the intelligence service closed, but then he shrugged. ‘We have agents in the city, and they will be liaising with the Aldanrael spies already in place, preparing a kill list and working through it. Viable targets are likely to be their leaders, not the body of their aviators.’
Pingge sensed the slight sense of relief among the pilots, and understood them immediately. They had come to know the enemies who clashed with them night after night, whose faces they never saw but whose technique, individual style and skill were as familiar as a sparring partner’s. They had lost friends and comrades to those foes, but there was an honour to that rivalry, and Pingge knew all the pilots believed in it. When the time came, that was how they would go — an endless moment of torn metal and blood, fire and falling. A pilot’s death was owed to each of them as the due of their place in the sky’s aristocracy. Death by the assassin’s blade was a groundsman’s death, and their enemies deserved better.
‘I have had some reports from our opposite numbers amongst the Spiders, but they’re uncertain at best,’ Cherten went on. ‘Give me your thoughts, Major.’
‘Assuming there wasn’t some colossal mistake on their part — for instance, sending their machines somewhere way off the mark to counter some attack we didn’t make — then it comes down to this: they had machines, however many, that they didn’t use. So: either they are saving the remains of their strength for the actual assault, and have decided not to defend their city, or they want us to think them undefended, to make us complacent. It may be that they have amassed a greater force than we are aware of, and want us to bring all our force so that they can challenge it.’
‘Are you saying you think this is a trap?’ Cherten asked him levelly.
‘It might be, sir. We were tearing strips from their city last night. Either they cannot defend or they seek a single strike that will cripple our air power. Maybe they have redesigned their machines, or they have reinforcement pilots from Sarn or elsewhere, or they are simply desperate enough to risk all by committing everything they have. Both sides have understood, from a tenday ago at least, that they are failing to hold us. Each night that their pilots have lessened the impact of our bombs, they have also reduced their ability to defend against us when the army arrives.’
‘You know our orders demand commitment now in the air.’
‘Sir, what intelligence has come from the city? I can make no suggestion without that.’
Cherten looked uncomfortable. ‘It is difficult… most of the Spider spies are Inapt, so information regarding technical subjects will always be unreliable. There is a suggestion that Collegium is suffering shortages, to the extent that they are unable to keep their machines airworthy, that they are husbanding their strength against the actual siege. But with the Inapt it’s hard to be sure what they think they mean. So, suggestions…?’
‘If they have a great force prepared, then anything short of full commitment could see us lose whatever force we send out,’ Aarmon said, laying out the options methodically. ‘If we hold back on the basis that they may possess some overwhelming force, we lose a night’s work, give them more time to repair and rebuild, and we’ll only discover the truth of their plan when the army reaches the walls tomorrow.’ Aarmon paused for a moment, and Pingge knew that thoughts were flying between him and the others. ‘If they are just saving everything they have to throw at us during the siege, then it would be better if we could draw them out tonight. If they truly wish to draw us to one final battle, if they believe that they have a chance to destroy our air strength, then… if they have amassed so many additional fliers then our army’s chances against the walls are doubtful.’
Colonel Cherten snorted at that, and all six of the aviators — Wasps and Flies, men and women — stared at him.
‘I think you overestimate the importance of your machines, Major Aarmon,’ the intelligence officer declared, ever so slightly patronizing, and Pingge thought, Oh, pits, he doesn’t understand.
‘Sir, General Tynan must be made aware of all I have said, to make an informed choice,’ Aarmon persisted.
‘Oh he’ll hear it,’ Cherten agreed. ‘The senior officers will meet with our General and our Lady-Martial, and you will hear of our decision shortly,’ he assured them. ‘In the meantime, ensure that your orthopters are ready to fly, armed, fuelled and serviced.’
Who’d have thought so much of soldiering was digging holes?
Straessa, known as the Antspider, or ‘Sub’ to her men, watched the earthmovers slugging away at the ground, grinding out trenches that would be five feet deep when they were done, their drivers working to a complex plan laid out back at the camp by a committee of whoever seemed sufficiently interested. Certainly her own chief officer, Marteus, had not been remotely bothered, plainly considering it work not fit for soldiers. So it was that Straessa’s detachment were here now, standing about with snapbows on their shoulders watching the machines dig. Three detachments of twenty had come out there to bake in their armour, their automotive transports having slewed to a halt in an untidy clutter behind them. The day was scorching, with not a cloud in the sky. Weather like that will kill more people than the bows do, if the battle’s held in it, she considered. Sartaea te Mosca was already passing amongst the soldiers, reminding them to drink regularly, taking water bottles back to the automotives for refilling from the barrels they carried. The transformation in the Fly-kinden lecturer fascinated the Antspider. Back at the College she had taught ancient mystical techniques that nobody believed in to students incapable of truly understanding them, and was denied even a full mastership by an institution that was always on the point of obliterating her role entirely. She had pottered about, hosting and socializing, and being both inoffensive and ubiquitous. Meanwhile everybody forgot that she had come to the College from Dorax, where the old Moth ways still held sway. Only her name, Sartaea, was even an echo of her origins, and she otherwise seemed such a mild little creature that she could not possibly carry even a ghost of the Bad Old Days.
Now she was all business, tending to her charges, refusing to take no for an answer. No larger or more obtrusive, but te Mosca seemed to have become almost a force of nature, impossible to argue with. If only she had run her minuscule department with such iron, then she would by now either be a full Master or exiled from Collegium for good.
‘Tell me something comforting,’ Straessa called out to her, as she passed.
‘We can’t possibly lose,’ te Mosca replied promptly. Her smile was grim and small, but at it least it was still in place. ‘The omens have foretold a great victory.’
‘Tell me something comforting and true.’
The Fly shrugged, the smile turning bittersweet. ‘Ah, well, there you have me.’
The air was laden with dust, a choking morass of it that the earthmovers threw up, gritting the eyes and throat, a smothering blanket that only intensified the heat. It’s just as well I know this is important. Seems like the sort of nonsense they’d give out for punishment detail in other armies.
The theory was sound, though. When the armies finally clashed — any day now — the Collegiates would make their stand in these earthworks, shielded from enemy shot and shell, defended by a fence of stakes, currently resting on the beds of the automotives, with entrenched artillery to support them. The broken ground of the trenches would trip up even the new Imperial automotives, whilst the Collegiate machines would sally down pre- planned safe paths in order to attack the enemy supply and siege engines.
Straessa pulled down the neckerchief she was using to screen the dust from her lungs, and took a swig of water, more to forestall a telling-off from te Mosca than because she felt the need for it. The Fly-kinden woman veered off, satisfied, and went to berate Gerethwy instead. The lanky Woodlouse youth stared down at her as though he had never seen anything so impertinent in all his life, but within a few moments he too was uncapping his own flask, giving in to the inevitable.
That was when a call went out from on high. They had a few with them who possessed the Art of flight, and there was a rota of lookouts, but Straessa had not expected to need them. After all, the enemy were miles away, according to the scouts.
A Fly-kinden dropped down hard enough to buckle at the knees.
‘They’re coming!’ he shouted.
She fought back all the stupid things she would have said before some Ant had been fool enough to trust her with a rank, however inferior — all the What? and Who? and Are you sure? — and instead just barked out, ‘Report!’ as she ran over. All around her, soldiers were readying their weapons, charging, loading, not calmly but not
