future. Only the Moths had ever sought to recreate the long-gone Days of Lore, and their attempts had ended in catastrophe.
Being reborn in blood and shadow, empowered by the might of Uctebri, by the breaking of the Shadow Box that had been the result of that failed Moth ritual, she had inherited a measure of power. Being crowned by the Masters of Khanaphes had made her a player in the old, old game of magic. Her raw strength as a magician — unearned, undeserved but undeniable — was a match for any that might challenge her, but now she found that it was not enough.
For, above and beyond the remnants of the old Inapt powers, there was always the other.
‘Tisamon,’ she called, and the faintest grating of metal announced that he was with her.
Mere strength would not bow the magical world to her will, nor would all the armed might of her armies. She could obliterate whole Inapt kinden if she wanted, and it would avail her nought if she had not exacted their recognition, their fealty, first.
He was her greatest triumph to date, Tisamon. Her court knew him only as the captain of her bodyguard — those half-dozen Mantis-kinden sent to her by the Moths of Tharn as a gift, who now served her with a selfless loyalty that the Tharen had never intended. They had originally been six, now they were seven, but it was unhealthy to comment on it, just as it was unhealthy for the overly informed to note that their new captain bore the same name as the Mantis slave that had figured so prominently in the former Emperor’s death.
What the old Inapt powers had lost in strength they had preserved in skill and application. All the power in the world was useless without precision. The Moths could use the little they had with a finesse that would outmanoeuvre her brute force. As her Empire needed to grow and develop, so did she.
She had called to him, to Tisamon, using his discarded blade as a focus, spilling the blood of a bastard cousin, building him a body of ancient Mantis armour. It had been her first true ritual, the greatest exercise of her nascent authority. She had sought out his ghost and bound it inside the metal, and exacted its oath. Now that tall figure of mail stepped towards her, halting at her elbow, not quite touching, and she felt the faint, cool breath from within his helm. And would any of those old powers have dared do what I have, to bring him back so? She had cast down the gauntlet, in her own mind at least.
She would not live in fear again, and for that she must become greater, more fearsome, than all others. Her armies and their machines would make her so in the world of the Apt, and she would hunt down the power of the Inapt, the relics of their lost world, and take everything to herself. Only then would she be safe. Only then could she be herself, and live free, and not fear. There will come a time when I am free and do not fear. I promise it. There will be an end to it. I am not my brother.
She glanced over her shoulder into the visor of Tisamon’s helm, into the darkness beyond. When first she had called him, there had been nothing but night within, but the more she employed him, the more blood she had given him and — most of all — the more she had thought of him, the more real he had become. Now, she lifted the faceplate, and saw those pale, dim features that no lamp could light: severe, handsome in a cold and arrogant way, but his eyes were for her, only for her. He was a man who had lived and died for love, but that meant other things to Mantis-kinden. Now he gave her what jagged love he had left, and it was an icy and barbed thing indeed.
But he was deadly and savage and hers, and sometimes she wondered what it would feel like to kiss those dead lips. Would I be mad then, truly, if it comes to that? Surely a woman in my position could be excused some madness.
She passed him the goblet — there was plenty more, after all, and the future held so many exciting new vintages: Mynan, Solarnese, Collegiate…
‘I shall have work for you soon,’ she whispered, and she felt his anticipation like a tension in the air. He was death and she was his mistress, and the world would soon know all the fear that she denied in herself.
Eleven
Kymene stood on the wall at Myna, staring eastwards, and her scouts came and went in a constant flurry of arrivals and just as swift departures. She gripped the crenellations, straight as a spear shaft, her cloak of half black and half red gusting in the wind.
All around her, her city prepared for war. The walls were bustling with soldiers, and the sight was far different from when Myna had first been taken by the Empire. Then they had a little simple artillery up here and, other than that, just a host of soldiers, swords and shields and crossbowmen to face down the Wasp host. Any army marching up to Myna today would meet a more modern response. The walls themselves were essentially the same — the Empire had made no changes during the occupation, and the liberated Mynans had not had the time — but artillery emplacements were set all along the line of the wall, in fortified positions that gave cover against attack from below and above. The machines themselves included the Sarnesh-designed rackthrower ballistae and scrapshotters, designed to fill the air before them with spears or jagged metal, tearing up the Imperial Light Airborne even as it tried to gain the walls. Snapbows were much in evidence, too, swifter and more accurate than crossbows, which went some way to counterbalance the Wasp-kinden’s superior mobility.
We have given them all we could, Stenwold assured himself.
‘Commander.’ A Fly-kinden dropped down almost at Kymene’s feet, wearing the colours of Myna on a sash about his chest. ‘They have completed setting up their artillery on the far side of the Antosine hill country.’
Kymene frowned. ‘But that’s out of sight of the city. Do they expect us to come to them?’
‘The artillery is guarded, but separate to their main force. We’ve not been able to get a good look at what their army is bringing with it, Commander, but spyglass reports suggest there are automotives and other machines there. Perhaps the hill artillery is to cover a retreat.’
Kymene nodded briefly, dismissing him. There was a lull then, perhaps because most of Myna’s scouts had already reported, or were not coming back.
‘Maker,’ she said, descending the stone steps from the wall, and he followed after her, almost walking into her when she stopped.
‘You do not believe that the Wasps have taken such precautions to cover their retreat.’ It was a statement, not a question, and he realized that she had stepped down from the wall so that her soldiers would not overhear her.
‘I cannot think it,’ he agreed. ‘All reports suggest that they have the forces for a serious attack — and to keep an army that size on the field is costly if you don’t intend to use it.’
She looked away from him, and he could almost sense the wheels turning in her mind, plots and counterplots. ‘They wish us to strike the first blow, to break the treaty? Are they mounting their artillery there to provoke an attack, a sally to destroy it?’
‘Possibly.’ But the idea did not feel right to Stenwold. There were better, more tempting places to flaunt those siege engines, if that had been the plan.
‘The Szaren relief column will be with us in a day’s time. More troops are expected from Maynes. The longer the Empire waits, the greater our defending force will be. Their own reinforcements seem to have slowed to a trickle. Perhaps they have been testing our will to fight.’
‘Perhaps,’ Stenwold echoed, in the same doubting tone. When she rounded on him he spread his hands. ‘My gut says no. My instincts tell me that the Empire came here for a fight, and intends to bring it, and soon. We both know this has been brewing since their reunification. I cannot think they would throw so much of men and materiel into simple posturing.’
She shrugged. ‘We are as ready as we can be, and their forces are too far still to try and catch us off guard. If they want to invest the city in siege, they will have to commit themselves, and bring themselves within the range of our wall engines. They will find us ready for them this time.’ She met his eyes again. ‘They hate us, Maker. They hate us for having the temerity to demand our freedom. If this city falls a second time then they will find a hundred ways to make us suffer. We cannot let them back within our walls.’
There was a faint tremor and, in its wake, shouts were going up along the wall, bringing Stenwold and Kymene racing back to the crenellations. For a moment, Stenwold could not work out what had happened, but then he saw the plume of dust rising, five hundred yards and more outside the city. Have they set mines, buried explosives? he wondered. That looks like an artillery strike!
