Heirs of the Blade by Adrian Tchaikovsky Page B

outskirts, where Siriell’s Town petered out into the most wretched of slums, amid the utter squalor of those too weak to fight for something better. Shacks and hovels had become just makeshift tents, cloaks propped up on sticks. The stink was vile, with flies rising in whirling clouds from makeshift latrines, and from bodies.
    Gaved did not stop for any of this, and nor did Tynisa, although her stalking had become more careful as her cover diminished. She fell further back, changing her tactics from crowds and walls to using the curve and lurch of the land against him: creeping low, meandering left and right as the contours took her, but always managing to keep him in sight. His track took him through barren farmland in which some of the locals were trying to scratch a living, and she followed him field by field, crossing their boundaries, slinking along irrigation ditches and taking the occasional stand of stunted trees as a gift.
    Dusk was on its way now, a bloated moon having already hauled itself clear of the horizon. Gaved had passed the last patch of farmland, too stony now for anything but a handful of scrawny sheep watched over by a Grasshopper youth, and his red and black beetle that circled the animals constantly in a vigilant trundle. One hill beyond, Gaved turned down into a sheltered defile, and there made camp.
    Watching his quick, professional movements as he set a little fire beneath the overhang and hung a tiny pot over it, she almost forgot why she had followed him. Thinking himself alone out here, he had become an honest man, quietly competent and well able to brave the wilderness, seemingly more at home than he had been on the streets of Siriell’s Town. She watched for longer than she intended, out in the cold and the dark, as he cooked up something almost scentless to eat, over a fire that gave no smoke.
    At the last, and shivering slightly from the chill, she drew her rapier in one smooth, silent motion. His wings and sting would give him all the advantages when at range, yet she could not bear to simply kill him from behind. This was not squeamishness: she wanted him to know the agent of justice before he died.
    Even as she took her first step towards him, his voice called out, ‘About time. Now come out where I can see you.’ He was standing up, one hand out with palm open, but not quite looking at her – knowing that he was observed but unable to make her out in the darkness beyond his fire. She edged closer, in inches and steps, and he cast about, frowning and tense, but unwilling to flee from mere shadows. In her slow progress there was a fierce battle being fought, his eyes and the moon against her stealth, until she was almost within rapier’s reach. Then the firelight caught her, and he saw at last who she was.
    His expression was almost all she could have wanted: utter shock at first, but swiftly replaced by an intense loathing that mirrored her own thoughts exactly. She had to kill him, because he was a reminder of all the things she was trying to forget. He, in that instant of recognition, had made a similar resolution – and quite possibly for similar reasons.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve got the whole of the cursed Lowlands! Why can’t you keep there?’ The immediate hostility was gratifying: no wheedling, no excuses, no feigned friendships, nothing to tempt any uncertainty; just a man who very plainly did not want to see her.
    ‘Perhaps I’m the new Collegiate ambassador,’ she said. ‘Why are you fouling the Commonweal, Wasp?’ And it was a release to be able to speak so frankly – and viciously – to someone, for a change. She was already calculating angles, distances. If he took wing, there would be a moment sufficient for her to rush forward and impale him. If he lashed out at her with his sting she would trust to her reflexes to read the motion, to be casting herself aside and in again even as he formed his intention to shoot. Poised on a