with us. Tell us what has been done. You shall be rewarded.
You must know I would not make this offer lightly.’
She took a step back, feeling the path’s edge at her heels, the yawning abyss of the mountainside beyond. The wind plucked at her clothes, as if sounding out how secure her footing
was.
If they took her, they would know it all. She could keep no secrets from a skilled magician. If she held out and defied him enough, he would simply bring his strength of will and magical craft
to bear on her and crush her mind like an egg in order to get at what was within. She had witnessed it. She herself had held the victim down.
There was no signal, but abruptly the two archers were airborne, the man casting his bow aside. The wind was her friend now, though, as it battled with them for control of the air, and so she
stepped back and let her wings catch her.
An arrow sung past her, and she had a glimpse of the Mantis rushing forward. They would catch her at any moment. She could not evade two of them in the air for long, and if the Mantis could fly
. . .
She had a moment of complete understanding, as if the wind stepped back to grant it to her. She felt bitterly ill-used, and grief for what must happen.
She let her wings take her down, smashing through the wind that tried to slow her, faster and faster, as fast as falling and then faster still. The others were grasping out for her ankles, she
knew. They were pushing themselves just as hard as she was. They knew she must pull up from her dive, and then they would have her, crashing into her at speed, wrestling her to a halt, willing to
chance her dagger or her nails. They were as loyal and devoted as she.
But not quite so determined, she guessed.
Think well of me, masters. They had made it very clear to her indeed: The others must not know.
They broke away, driven to the limits of their courage. Had they been less fierce in their pursuit, she might have salvaged something, though the effort of wrenching from her breakneck descent
might have crippled her in any event. They had kept their nerve to the very last moment, however. She had no time.
There was never enough time.
The rocks met her like a lover.
Elsewhere, Esmail packed what few possessions he had: a change of clothes folded with a care that made him smile painfully, dry rations, an Imperial-issue waterskin Salthric
had gifted him. A bedroll likewise. Paper, ink and a few chitin pens. No weapons, but then he had little need of them.
He stowed everything in his old canvas satchel, a calming ritual recalled from his youth when he had been a man with a dozen masters, going wherever the gold might lead him but taking the work
for the love of it, the craft of it. The Arcanum had found its uses for him, but so had so many others.
A stupid life. A pointless life. Did he feel the thrill of it now, calling from his memories, the faint old clarion call to war?
He did not. If he had died an old man, grandchildren at his bedside, he would have counted it a life well spent, his earlier escapades just an aberration best forgotten. But now they were
calling him back to it, and could he honestly say he was surprised? The Moths would hardly have sheltered him here out of human kindness. They possessed no such thing, and certainly not towards
him.
Alone and unobserved, he took the Moth woman’s scroll up and cracked the seal. There was a brief summary of where he must go, who his contact would be, what passwords to use: the familiar
information of any mundane spymaster. After that, however, came his orders, with a stern exhortation to memorize and then destroy them.
Infiltrate the Rekef and the Imperial court.
Investigate the nature of the Empress and her intentions.
Kill her.
Four
The Antspider was stepping into the ring of the Prowess Forum, in her first showing at a formal contest, and a murmur of interest passed through the spectators.
The Master Armsman officiating was a sour-natured Beetle-kinden
You must know I would not make this offer lightly.’
She took a step back, feeling the path’s edge at her heels, the yawning abyss of the mountainside beyond. The wind plucked at her clothes, as if sounding out how secure her footing
was.
If they took her, they would know it all. She could keep no secrets from a skilled magician. If she held out and defied him enough, he would simply bring his strength of will and magical craft
to bear on her and crush her mind like an egg in order to get at what was within. She had witnessed it. She herself had held the victim down.
There was no signal, but abruptly the two archers were airborne, the man casting his bow aside. The wind was her friend now, though, as it battled with them for control of the air, and so she
stepped back and let her wings catch her.
An arrow sung past her, and she had a glimpse of the Mantis rushing forward. They would catch her at any moment. She could not evade two of them in the air for long, and if the Mantis could fly
. . .
She had a moment of complete understanding, as if the wind stepped back to grant it to her. She felt bitterly ill-used, and grief for what must happen.
She let her wings take her down, smashing through the wind that tried to slow her, faster and faster, as fast as falling and then faster still. The others were grasping out for her ankles, she
knew. They were pushing themselves just as hard as she was. They knew she must pull up from her dive, and then they would have her, crashing into her at speed, wrestling her to a halt, willing to
chance her dagger or her nails. They were as loyal and devoted as she.
But not quite so determined, she guessed.
Think well of me, masters. They had made it very clear to her indeed: The others must not know.
They broke away, driven to the limits of their courage. Had they been less fierce in their pursuit, she might have salvaged something, though the effort of wrenching from her breakneck descent
might have crippled her in any event. They had kept their nerve to the very last moment, however. She had no time.
There was never enough time.
The rocks met her like a lover.
Elsewhere, Esmail packed what few possessions he had: a change of clothes folded with a care that made him smile painfully, dry rations, an Imperial-issue waterskin Salthric
had gifted him. A bedroll likewise. Paper, ink and a few chitin pens. No weapons, but then he had little need of them.
He stowed everything in his old canvas satchel, a calming ritual recalled from his youth when he had been a man with a dozen masters, going wherever the gold might lead him but taking the work
for the love of it, the craft of it. The Arcanum had found its uses for him, but so had so many others.
A stupid life. A pointless life. Did he feel the thrill of it now, calling from his memories, the faint old clarion call to war?
He did not. If he had died an old man, grandchildren at his bedside, he would have counted it a life well spent, his earlier escapades just an aberration best forgotten. But now they were
calling him back to it, and could he honestly say he was surprised? The Moths would hardly have sheltered him here out of human kindness. They possessed no such thing, and certainly not towards
him.
Alone and unobserved, he took the Moth woman’s scroll up and cracked the seal. There was a brief summary of where he must go, who his contact would be, what passwords to use: the familiar
information of any mundane spymaster. After that, however, came his orders, with a stern exhortation to memorize and then destroy them.
Infiltrate the Rekef and the Imperial court.
Investigate the nature of the Empress and her intentions.
Kill her.
Four
The Antspider was stepping into the ring of the Prowess Forum, in her first showing at a formal contest, and a murmur of interest passed through the spectators.
The Master Armsman officiating was a sour-natured Beetle-kinden
Similar Books
