Empire in Black and Gold

did not mean that Thalric had to like it, however.

He drew his blade, examined its surface for rust. It did not see as much wear as it should, but then a good Rekef agent seldom needed to fight in person. This time it would be different, though.

He looked up. ‘You can come out now,’ he said. ‘You’re fooling no one.’

He could not, in fact, have said where the watcher was, although he knew he was being watched. The shadow that moved was outside the window, someone crouched on the sill beside that narrow aperture. With an impressive display of dexterity a small figure squeezed through an opening never intended as an entrance, and descended to the floor in a glitter of wings. It was te Berro, Latvoc’s man.

‘How am I doing?’ Thalric asked dryly.

‘Why don’t you tell me?’ Te Berro dusted himself off. He was wearing a shapeless white robe, like many of the local Fly-kinden, but Thalric saw a bulge that must indicate a dagger hilt.

‘The lines are drawn. They’ll move against me soon,’ Thalric said. ‘Ulther will go and wrestle with his conscience for a while, but his greed will pin it easily. Then he’ll send men after me.’

‘Do you require help?’ te Berro asked him. ‘The Rekef Inlander have a few hands in the city, low ranked mostly.’

That would be a blessed abrogation of responsibility, to step aside and let the Rekef deal with his old mentor.

Thalric shook his head. ‘I’ll do it. If it’s possible, I’ll do it. But keep an eye on me, in case.’

‘If so, we may be too late.’

‘Then so be it.’

‘Your prerogative, of course.’ Te Berro nodded. ‘Good luck, Major Thalric.’ The Fly’s wings blurred at his shoulders and he hopped to the window ledge.

‘Lieutenant. .’

‘Major?’

Thalric took a deep breath. ‘You’ve been on Colonel Latvoc’s staff for how long, Lieutenant?’

‘Over a year now, sir.’ As te Berro crouched at the window, it was impossible to know whether the question made him uncomfortable.

‘If he wants Ulther dead, why not just kill him?’ The words dropped like lead. Te Berro stared, trapped suddenly in a conversation he had no wish to be a part of.

‘Sir?’

‘We are the Rekef, te Berro. City governors choke on their meat or fall out of windows or cut their throats shaving, same as everybody else. Why this charade?’

‘You think he tells me anything?’ te Berro said, hurrying the words out before they could be used against him. ‘You’ve made your investigation. You’ve found a reason to convict him. Be happy with that, Major. Be happy that it will all look legitimate when Ulther’s friends come calling.’ His face twisted slightly. ‘Besides, maybe it’s not really Ulther they’re interested in. Maybe it’s you, Major?’ His wings sprang dustily into existence, and a moment later he had contorted his way out of the narrow window and was gone.

By the sputtering, ghostly light of their artificial lamps Achaeos heard them whisper about the hands that built these ancient sewers. He rolled his blank eyes at it all but knew enough to stay silent.

There were enough of the lichen-overgrown and defaced carvings left for him to recognize the ancient structure as his own people’s handiwork. So Myna had once been a city of the Moth-kinden, so long lost now that even Tharn was unaware of it. But no, somewhere high enough up in the echelons of his masters that knowledge would remain. There was precious little of the past that they did not know. Knowledge was a currency in Tharn, and it was guarded more jealously than gold, even from their own kin.

Achaeos wondered whether they ever thought of him, wished him luck or wondered if he still lived. By this evening that might be a moot point.

He, who had so often troubled the world for news of the future, now felt trapped by the strings of fate. A chain of happenstance had tethered him to this moment, as surely as if he had become a slave of the Wasps himself. He had not intended any of it. He had merely sought Elias Monger’s stables as a brief hiding place. He would have been gone at nightfall, and nobody would have been the wiser — if not for that meddling woman.

And even her name was maddening. Only a Beetle would call a girlchild ‘Cheerwell’. They had no grace or taste.

If only she had not intruded. If only she had not been too strong for the Art-trance he had thrown over her. If only, when she had broken free of him, she had not gifted him back his freedom by her silence. If only she had not treated his wounds, his blood glistening on her hands, or if only he had not let her do so.

Well, fate dealt me a poor hand, and I played it badly even so. No sense battering himself against the glass now. He had provided for himself as best he could, and Chyses’ cell had provided him with a bow of cheap Fly-kinden make and a dozen short arrows. They would have to do.

He kept ahead of the lamplight, having no need of it. Even further ahead were the Mantis and the Spider- kinden girl, retracing their earlier steps. He could read the hostility between them clearly, although he had no interest whatsoever in their squabbles, save that the task would become easier if they were not at each other’s throats. Behind him came the heavy tread of the Apt: the halfbreed artificer clutching a truly grotesque-looking crossbow; then the leader of the resistance, Chyses, and two of his fellows, hooded and masked like travellers on a dusty road. Behind them, on near-silent bare feet, was the turncoat Grasshopper militiawoman, Toran Awe, with her staff. Achaeos put no faith in any of them.

He sensed they were approaching their destination, for Tisamon and Tynisa were slowing, waiting for the light to catch up with them. He padded to a halt beside them, looking at the hatch just above. Now the stones around him were no longer relics of his own people’s fall, for which he was grateful.

The others soon joined them. Chyses unrolled a rough map of the palace’s lower floors, which had been prepared with the complicity of servants working in the building. Achaeos had difficulty making anything of it.

‘We’ll need to head up from these storerooms,’ the Mynan explained. ‘There are several cellar systems and they don’t link. The cells we’re all interested in are right here. That’s assuming the prisoners haven’t been moved in the last few days. Who has the autoclef?’

‘That would be me,’ Totho said, displaying the toothy device for a moment. ‘Do we know exactly which cells they’re in?’

‘Kymene’s cell is open fronted, so I’m told, but as for your friends, just open every cell you come across. As far as I’m concerned, anyone who’s been locked up by the Wasps deserves to go free,’ said Chyses.

‘The Wasps will realize we’re there that much the sooner,’ Tynisa warned him.

‘And they’ll have more to worry about,’ Chyses said. ‘And I would not be a true enemy of theirs if I did not set every last one of their prisoners free, whether they be friends of mine, or friends of yours, or even just criminals and murderers.’

Totho exchanged an uneasy glance with Tynisa, but Tisamon was already over at the hatch, listening intently. A moment later he levered the trapdoor open, took a second to peer around, and then pushed it all the way up and pulled himself through.

It was quiet in the storeroom itself, but there was movement enough above it. Large buildings like this palace never really slept, and there was a whole nightshift of servants preparing for the new day: cleaning and repairing, stoking fires, baking breakfasts. Chyses had said that the hated governor had a love of opulence. It all multiplied the number of eyes now abroad to see them.

Chyses had also been adamant that these servants were mostly locals and so would keep their mouths shut. Tisamon remained unconvinced.

He gathered himself and then took the stairs with a measured, silent tread. A faint lamp-glow came from above, and he crept to the door. It was barred from the far side, but he slipped the blade of his claw between door and frame. Behind him, he sensed Tynisa and the Grasshopper, Toran Awe, tense.

The bar lifted, and Tisamon eased the door open. A soft gleam of lamplight fell past him as he leant back into the shadow of the door. Toran Awe slipped by into the corridor. She was wearing her uniform: the yellow shirt and dark breeches that were the stamp of her conscription. They heard her murmur something, and then there was a sharp sound of wood on flesh, a muffled cry, and another blow.

Moments later the Grasshopper was back, dragging with her the body of a Mynan servant. Chyses’ eyes — the only part of him visible between hood and mask — glared at her resentfully.