him he could see again through watering eyes. He was in a
starkly bare room, with a single slit window high up, illuminated by hissing
white lamps burning on two walls. He turned to question one of the soldiers and
the man punched him solidly below the ribs, doubling him over. As Salma
struggled to recover his breath, his wrists were hauled up and their bonds
hitched over a dangling hook. He heard the rattle of chains and his arms were
jerked abruptly over his head, yanking him onto his toes.
The two soldiers then
stood back, clearly satisfied with their work. They could have been brothers to
each other, and, equally, to the men who had captured him: short, solidly built
types with flat, pallid faces and dark hair, dressed in hauberks of dark
chainmail.
There was a single door
to this room, and Salma eyed it as he waited for the interrogator to arrive, as
he must. This position was intended to be painful, he guessed, but he could
have stood on his toes for hours. His race owned a poise and balance that the
Ants had never known. Salma allowed himself to relax into it, recovering from
the knocks and scrapes of the last few minutes.
Lovely
fellows, these Tarkesh. Remind me why we’re on their side again?
Of course that was the
point. Nobody ever claimed the Lowlands were populated by paragons of virtue,
only that the Lowlands free were of more service to the world than the Lowlands
under imperial rule. This was doubly the case from Salma’s perspective, for if
the Lowlands fell it would open to attack the entire southern border of his own
nation, the Dragonfly Commonweal.
The door opened, at last,
and a woman came in, a sister to the soldiers’ fraternity. She might have been
some higher official than they but she wore chainmail just as they did, and
carried no badge of rank. He supposed that they sorted all that kind of thing
out in their heads, communicating it between their minds. Creeping in behind
her was a Fly-kinden girl, no more than fourteen, who sat down by the door with
scroll and poised pen. A scribe slave, Salma guessed.
‘Name,’ the interrogator
said. Her tone gave the word no hint of questioning, just a flat statement.
Salma decided to be
fancy. ‘Prince Minor Salme Dien of the Dragonfly Commonweal.’ The pen of the
scribe scratched the words down without hesitation.
The Ant woman, however,
looked unamused. ‘Do not play games with me. You must know that you are under
order of execution.’
‘Because you think I’m a
spy.’
‘You are a spy,’ she
told him. ‘There can be no other reason for your skulking about to the north of
our city where you were found. Tell us about your masters, then, their weapons
and their military capacity, their tactics and weaknesses, and you might be
allowed to serve Tark as a slave.’
‘I’m not with the
Wasps,’ he insisted.
She pursed her lips and
slipped something from her belt. It was a glove, he saw, with metal rivets studded
across the knuckles, and she drew it on without ceremony.
‘I am indeed a spy,
however,’ he said hurriedly and she raised an eyebrow, ‘but not for the Wasp
Empire. But I do know something about them, and I’m more than willing to reveal
to you all I know. They’re my enemies, too, and my people have fought them –
I’ve fought them myself, been their prisoner, even.’
She seemed not to have
registered most of what he said. ‘If not for the army currently beyond our
gates, then which other city are you spying for? Kes would seem most logical.’
Salma had to think a
moment before he recalled that Kes was yet another Ant city-state and the one
closest to Tark.
‘I’m not spying for any
of the Ant-kinden,’ he told her.
‘I fail to see any other
option. Who else would profit from this situation?’
He looked into her
bland, uninterested gaze. ‘I was sent here by Stenwold Maker: a Beetle-kinden,
a Master of the Great College. He has been working against the Wasps for years,
and he sent me and my companions just
starkly bare room, with a single slit window high up, illuminated by hissing
white lamps burning on two walls. He turned to question one of the soldiers and
the man punched him solidly below the ribs, doubling him over. As Salma
struggled to recover his breath, his wrists were hauled up and their bonds
hitched over a dangling hook. He heard the rattle of chains and his arms were
jerked abruptly over his head, yanking him onto his toes.
The two soldiers then
stood back, clearly satisfied with their work. They could have been brothers to
each other, and, equally, to the men who had captured him: short, solidly built
types with flat, pallid faces and dark hair, dressed in hauberks of dark
chainmail.
There was a single door
to this room, and Salma eyed it as he waited for the interrogator to arrive, as
he must. This position was intended to be painful, he guessed, but he could
have stood on his toes for hours. His race owned a poise and balance that the
Ants had never known. Salma allowed himself to relax into it, recovering from
the knocks and scrapes of the last few minutes.
Lovely
fellows, these Tarkesh. Remind me why we’re on their side again?
Of course that was the
point. Nobody ever claimed the Lowlands were populated by paragons of virtue,
only that the Lowlands free were of more service to the world than the Lowlands
under imperial rule. This was doubly the case from Salma’s perspective, for if
the Lowlands fell it would open to attack the entire southern border of his own
nation, the Dragonfly Commonweal.
The door opened, at last,
and a woman came in, a sister to the soldiers’ fraternity. She might have been
some higher official than they but she wore chainmail just as they did, and
carried no badge of rank. He supposed that they sorted all that kind of thing
out in their heads, communicating it between their minds. Creeping in behind
her was a Fly-kinden girl, no more than fourteen, who sat down by the door with
scroll and poised pen. A scribe slave, Salma guessed.
‘Name,’ the interrogator
said. Her tone gave the word no hint of questioning, just a flat statement.
Salma decided to be
fancy. ‘Prince Minor Salme Dien of the Dragonfly Commonweal.’ The pen of the
scribe scratched the words down without hesitation.
The Ant woman, however,
looked unamused. ‘Do not play games with me. You must know that you are under
order of execution.’
‘Because you think I’m a
spy.’
‘You are a spy,’ she
told him. ‘There can be no other reason for your skulking about to the north of
our city where you were found. Tell us about your masters, then, their weapons
and their military capacity, their tactics and weaknesses, and you might be
allowed to serve Tark as a slave.’
‘I’m not with the
Wasps,’ he insisted.
She pursed her lips and
slipped something from her belt. It was a glove, he saw, with metal rivets studded
across the knuckles, and she drew it on without ceremony.
‘I am indeed a spy,
however,’ he said hurriedly and she raised an eyebrow, ‘but not for the Wasp
Empire. But I do know something about them, and I’m more than willing to reveal
to you all I know. They’re my enemies, too, and my people have fought them –
I’ve fought them myself, been their prisoner, even.’
She seemed not to have
registered most of what he said. ‘If not for the army currently beyond our
gates, then which other city are you spying for? Kes would seem most logical.’
Salma had to think a
moment before he recalled that Kes was yet another Ant city-state and the one
closest to Tark.
‘I’m not spying for any
of the Ant-kinden,’ he told her.
‘I fail to see any other
option. Who else would profit from this situation?’
He looked into her
bland, uninterested gaze. ‘I was sent here by Stenwold Maker: a Beetle-kinden,
a Master of the Great College. He has been working against the Wasps for years,
and he sent me and my companions just
Similar Books
