necessary.
Xaraea smiled, for she saw her path clearly now. They taught cruelty early, in the Arcanum.
He was a lean, poised man with a gaunt face and a high forehead, eyes deep as wells, dark enough to defeat even a Moth’s sight. His mouth was a narrow line. Not a Wasp, and yet most would
find it hard to say quite what kinden he was. Some halfbreed, perhaps, save that he bore none of the signs of crossed heredity. His hair was the colour of iron, his skin a tan that could have been
inherent or just the work of the sun. His hands were empty, no weapon in sight, but he was only a moment away from killing her. He would always, she suspected, be a moment from killing her, or
anyone he met, for it was his blood and his nature. Right now he was ready to kill her because he was defending something. Esmail was not alone.
There was a woman behind him, a Dragonfly-kinden from the Commonweal, and Xaraea wondered idly what her history must have been to bring her here and in this company. At their feet clustered the
children. The eldest was a girl of perhaps five, and looking very like her mother. The younger two could have been two or three, surely born together and yet how different! One boy was as much a
Dragonfly as his mother, but the other had his father’s features, his father’s entire kinden – as unlike his siblings as a total stranger.
‘Ah, look,’ Xaraea said sweetly. ‘One has bred true. Another generation secure, hm?’
Esmail’s eyes looked loathing at her, but he was scared. Not scared of her but of what she represented, the same threat that had cowed Salthric. Esmail had lived in peace here because
Xaraea’s people had arranged and permitted it: not the Moths, not Tharn, nor even the Arcanum, but that small section of it that she served. Skryres loved their secrets, and some of those
secrets were men.
It was a strange quirk of Esmail’s kinden that their offspring were always true-bred, following one parent or the other. If not for that, they would have died out centuries ago, for they
had been near-exterminated and the few survivors scattered across the world. The chances of a suitable pair of them meeting and raising children was tiny, and yet the kinden itself clung on through
a precarious chain of mixed-kinden matings like Esmail’s.
‘We call on you,’ Xaraea told him. ‘The time has come for you to go out into the world once more, Assassin Bug.’
Oh, there had been a war: one of the bad old wars the Mantis bards sang of, full of blood and dark magic. Hundreds of years before the Apt arose, the Assassin Bug-kinden had launched their
campaign to rule the known world by stealth and murder, and the Moths had met them and cast them down. How ironic now that this man would serve the destroyers of his own people.
And he would serve. He would serve because he had too much to lose if he disobeyed.
‘Terms?’ Esmail’s voice was accentless, precise. Of course, his voice could be anything he wanted it to be. He was no ordinary killer. Even amongst his rare and deadly kind, he
was special.
Xaraea herself did not know, of course. She drew the sealed scroll from within her robe, orders intended for Esmail’s eyes only. Her masters did not want to risk some scrying enemy finding that knowledge inside her mind later. All that she did know, she explained to Esmail: ‘You are to go into the Empire. An identity will be arranged for you. From there on, do whatever
you are instructed to do.’ Preparing his way had been her own hard work and that of her agents within the Imperial borders. Her masters might be the greater magicians, but she was a modern
intelligencer, and she had been successful amongst the Apt, where more sorcerously gifted spies had failed.
She saw his hands twitch on the scroll. Killing hands, of course. All of his kind possessed Art that killed. On this mission, though, it would be his other talents – his arcane training
– that would count. Back in the mists of
Xaraea smiled, for she saw her path clearly now. They taught cruelty early, in the Arcanum.
He was a lean, poised man with a gaunt face and a high forehead, eyes deep as wells, dark enough to defeat even a Moth’s sight. His mouth was a narrow line. Not a Wasp, and yet most would
find it hard to say quite what kinden he was. Some halfbreed, perhaps, save that he bore none of the signs of crossed heredity. His hair was the colour of iron, his skin a tan that could have been
inherent or just the work of the sun. His hands were empty, no weapon in sight, but he was only a moment away from killing her. He would always, she suspected, be a moment from killing her, or
anyone he met, for it was his blood and his nature. Right now he was ready to kill her because he was defending something. Esmail was not alone.
There was a woman behind him, a Dragonfly-kinden from the Commonweal, and Xaraea wondered idly what her history must have been to bring her here and in this company. At their feet clustered the
children. The eldest was a girl of perhaps five, and looking very like her mother. The younger two could have been two or three, surely born together and yet how different! One boy was as much a
Dragonfly as his mother, but the other had his father’s features, his father’s entire kinden – as unlike his siblings as a total stranger.
‘Ah, look,’ Xaraea said sweetly. ‘One has bred true. Another generation secure, hm?’
Esmail’s eyes looked loathing at her, but he was scared. Not scared of her but of what she represented, the same threat that had cowed Salthric. Esmail had lived in peace here because
Xaraea’s people had arranged and permitted it: not the Moths, not Tharn, nor even the Arcanum, but that small section of it that she served. Skryres loved their secrets, and some of those
secrets were men.
It was a strange quirk of Esmail’s kinden that their offspring were always true-bred, following one parent or the other. If not for that, they would have died out centuries ago, for they
had been near-exterminated and the few survivors scattered across the world. The chances of a suitable pair of them meeting and raising children was tiny, and yet the kinden itself clung on through
a precarious chain of mixed-kinden matings like Esmail’s.
‘We call on you,’ Xaraea told him. ‘The time has come for you to go out into the world once more, Assassin Bug.’
Oh, there had been a war: one of the bad old wars the Mantis bards sang of, full of blood and dark magic. Hundreds of years before the Apt arose, the Assassin Bug-kinden had launched their
campaign to rule the known world by stealth and murder, and the Moths had met them and cast them down. How ironic now that this man would serve the destroyers of his own people.
And he would serve. He would serve because he had too much to lose if he disobeyed.
‘Terms?’ Esmail’s voice was accentless, precise. Of course, his voice could be anything he wanted it to be. He was no ordinary killer. Even amongst his rare and deadly kind, he
was special.
Xaraea herself did not know, of course. She drew the sealed scroll from within her robe, orders intended for Esmail’s eyes only. Her masters did not want to risk some scrying enemy finding that knowledge inside her mind later. All that she did know, she explained to Esmail: ‘You are to go into the Empire. An identity will be arranged for you. From there on, do whatever
you are instructed to do.’ Preparing his way had been her own hard work and that of her agents within the Imperial borders. Her masters might be the greater magicians, but she was a modern
intelligencer, and she had been successful amongst the Apt, where more sorcerously gifted spies had failed.
She saw his hands twitch on the scroll. Killing hands, of course. All of his kind possessed Art that killed. On this mission, though, it would be his other talents – his arcane training
– that would count. Back in the mists of
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