The Scarab Path Part 14

Praeda spotted Che and hurried over. Her facade of calm had cracked, revealing a scholarly fire in her eyes. 'Che, you've got to come and see this,' she rushed out, almost falling over the words.

'What? What's happened?'

'Nothing's happened,' said Praeda. 'It's just ... It's incredible, really remarkable. Come with me ... No, wait, come here.' She caught Che's hand and tugged her towards the fountain. 'Do you see? Do you?'

'I see a fountain,' replied Che slowly, watching the water bubble up between the stones and subside again. 'Praeda, please just be more clear.'

'Think, Che,' Praeda insisted. 'Yes, it's a fountain, but how do fountains work?'

'I ...' I no longer know I no longer know, and she could not say it.

Praeda shook her head impatiently. 'Did you a.s.sume this was just a natural spring or something? Che, think! We're above the level of the river here.'

Che vaguely understood what she meant, but that knowledge was dim and distant. 'Just get to the point,' she demanded, to cover up.

'The point is ... follow me,' Praeda dragged her across the room to the little servants' door she had recently come in through.

'This is ... rude,' Che protested. 'We're supposed to be guests here.'

'Manny can keep them occupied. He's loud enough and fat enough for all three,' Praeda sneered. She was pulling Che onwards through a series of small turns. The servants' pa.s.sages were low-ceilinged and cramped. There were little doorless rooms either side, some filled with boxes and sacks, others with tables for preparing food, or with desks for scribes. Praeda paid them no notice whatsoever, nor the surprised servants they pa.s.sed on their way.

There was a black-clad figure ahead and for a moment Che thought it was the Vekken, inexplicably involved in Praeda's schemes. Then she saw it was a man in dark armour, with a full-face helm tilted back to reveal sandy Solarnese features.

'Well, now, here you are at last,' he said as the pair of them approached him.

'Who's this?' Che demanded. 'What's going on here?'

'The name's Corcoran, Bella.' As he said it Che noticed his tabard, though the smoky lamplight made it hard to pick out the open gauntlet embroidered there.

'Iron Glove,' she observed automatically. As he grinned in acknowledgement, she thought back, seeing them dealing with Dragonflies at the oasis, or on the streets of Solarno. 'Who are you people?'

'We just happen to be the newest and most successful trading cartel out of Chasme,' Corcoran replied. He was a wiry individual with a pointed face that smiled shallowly and easily. 'Weapons, Bella. We deal in weapons and the accoutrements of war.'

'Here?' Che asked. 'I thought they weren't keen on ... innovation here.'

'Oh, pits to innovation,' said Corcoran dismissively. 'We can sell them better swords swords than they have. You don't need than they have. You don't need innovation innovation. We provide what they lack. It's purely good business.'

'This man isn't what I brought you here to see,' Praeda explained impatiently. 'It's what he showed me. Come on.'

She pushed past them both, leaving Che to blunder in her wake. The corridors were lit erratically by bowl-shaped oil lamps, or the occasional stone-cut shaft. Corcoran seemed almost to melt into the gloom as he followed, his dark leathers merging easily with the pooling shadows. Only his pale face, the gleam of his teeth, betrayed him.

'Here.' Praeda stopped abruptly then and darted through an even lower doorway. Che followed her, and almost tumbled down a short flight of steps. The room beyond was bigger than she expected, excavated down into the earth. There was a ...

There was a something something within it. within it.

Praeda was obviously expecting comment, while Corcoran was lounging about at the top of the stairs, watching. Che did not know what to say.

'What ... am I looking at?' she asked.

'Oh, Che, honestly,' Praeda chided, losing patience. 'Look here, these stone pipes must lead to the river or to some pond where they keep their purified water. That's done by those reed beds we saw, by the way, but I'll tell you about it later. Anyway, the water is at a lower level than the fountain, so they have to draw it up somehow. That's where this comes in, you see?'

Che still didn't see, though. There was a vertical pipe, carved as intricately as everything else, with a metal rod jutting from it, and there was some kind of fulcrum there, and a weight ... I'm supposed to be able to understand what this is I'm supposed to be able to understand what this is, she realized. Deep inside herself, she began to feel ill.

'Tell me ...' she said hoa.r.s.ely.

'It's a vacuum pump, though, isn't it?' Corcoran said delightedly, from behind her. 'The cursed'st one I ever saw, but that's what it is. They get some poor sods of servants to haul the weight up, and then the weight comes down slow probably there's some sand emptying out of somewhere else to keep it that way ...'

'The weight descending draws up the plunger, expanding an airless s.p.a.ce that the water then rushes up to fill,' Praeda went on. 'Really, Che, this is apprentice stuff. The water possesses enough momentum to gush through the smaller pipes and into the gravel fountain. It then probably flows right back down to where it originated.'

Che did not trust herself to speak, merely put out an arm to seek the support of the wall.

'Of course,' Corcoran was saying, 'we could sell them a pump the size of your shoe that would do a better job, and not need some b.u.g.g.e.r hauling a weight up every morning, but they won't have it. Mad, they are, around here.'

'But that's not right ...' Che began slowly.

'What do you mean?' There was a look of perfect incomprehension on Praeda's face.

'The Khanaphir ... they're Inapt, surely.' She glanced from the academic to the Iron Glove factor, whose expressions mirrored each other exactly.

'Inapt?' Praeda said slowly. 'Che, they're us us they're Beetle-kinden. Of course they aren't Inapt. What were you thinking?' they're Beetle-kinden. Of course they aren't Inapt. What were you thinking?'

'Go out of the city,' Corcoran put in. 'Go upriver, they got watermills, cranes, they can do all sorts of clever things with levers and weights. Take a look at the Estuarine Gate some time! It's just, they've no more than that. No imagination is what I think.'

'No ...' Che sat down on the steps. She could feel something slipping away from her, and she thought it might be her hopes. Beyond Praeda's concerned face the stone pump ground minutely on, obstinately destroying everything she had come here to find.

Am I alone now? Now that the Khanaphir are just Apt, and merely backward, rather than some great survival from the Age of Lore? Can I admit to myself that I'm a freak and a cripple, and simply get it over with?

'Che, what's wrong?' Praeda asked. And then Ethmet was there.

'Forgive me, forgive me, Honoured Foreigners,' he said. 'Alas, you are used to better hospitality than our poor city can afford. Forgive me that we have bored you thus, that you have fled us into these unfit places. I shall call for dancers. I shall have Amnon order his men to fight for your pleasure.'

'Please, First Minister,' said Praeda, abruptly stand-in diplomat. 'I think that Che ... that is, Miss Maker is ill.'

'Alas!' He crouched beside her and, despite Petri's predictions, his lined face showed nothing but concern. 'We shall have a physician sent for at once.'

'No, please.' Somehow Che got herself to her feet. She saw that Corcoran had made himself scarce as soon as the Minister arrived, perhaps not eager to be implicated in robbing this man of his guests. 'Please, I just need to rest. I just need to go to my rooms.'

'Well, it is late,' Ethmet agreed. 'I shall have some servants escort you.'

They have servants for everything, she thought muggily. Even to make their machines work. They have machines that are powered by people, how strange Even to make their machines work. They have machines that are powered by people, how strange. She was wailing inside her head. She wanted to go home away from this place that had so decisively betrayed her but Collegium was just as strange, and she could not now say in what quarter home lay.

They all headed back to the emba.s.sy together in the end. Manny was singing loudly, a girl on each arm, and Che was glad that her room was located at the opposite end of the building from his. Not that I will sleep, anyway Not that I will sleep, anyway. The discovery that had so thrilled Praeda had filled her with dread. I had everything worked out, and what a fool I've been! I had everything worked out, and what a fool I've been! At every step, she felt she should plunge into the chasm that had suddenly opened up before her. At every step, she felt she should plunge into the chasm that had suddenly opened up before her. Nowhere to go Nowhere to go, she kept thinking. I have nowhere to go. This has been a fool's errand, and I was the fool for it I have nowhere to go. This has been a fool's errand, and I was the fool for it. Another hour, another dawn facing that realization seemed unbearable.

'Manny,' she said, and then repeated, 'Manny!' when he wouldn't stop singing.

'What can I possibly do for you, Honoured Amba.s.sador?' he drawled, and the girls giggled. Possibly, in their eyes, he seemed full of exotic allure. Overfull, maybe.

'You have drink, strong drink?' she enquired, though she already knew it to be true.

'I am drunk,' he considered. 'Also, I do have drink. Do you wish to retire with me and my new friends to my room so we can explore just how strong it is?'

She grabbed his robe hard enough that he halted abruptly and almost toppled over. 'If you ever dare say anything like that to me again, Mannerly Gorget, I will cut off your parts.' It was not fair, really, since she was not angry at him him. He was just a broad and easy target for how very angry she felt with all the world, and with herself. 'I want at least two bottles of strong drink from wherever you've stashed it, but I will not be sharing them, do you understand?'

He goggled at her: her stern expression brooked no argument. She released him and strode off through the arch and into the Place of Foreigners.

This world has too many sharp edges, she brooded, and I have cut myself too often on them. I will blur them and blur them, and perhaps tonight I will not dream, and tomorrow I will not feel like putting a knife to my wrists and I have cut myself too often on them. I will blur them and blur them, and perhaps tonight I will not dream, and tomorrow I will not feel like putting a knife to my wrists.

Sixteen.

The pen scratched as it went dry, and Thalric shook it irritably. He would have preferred a simple quill of rolled chitin, but the Regent must have only the best. These reservoir pens manufactured in h.e.l.leron, or copied in Sonn carried their own store of ink. No more constant dipping and messy inkwells. He found that they worked unreliably and that his handwriting became unrecognizable. Such was progress.

It was long past dark now, and well into the silent watches that dragged their way towards midnight, and Thalric was still writing his report.

Contact made with the Khanaphir First Minister. Relations generally friendly. The precise power structure here is opaque. Mentions have been made of certain 'Masters', but this would seem to be a purely ceremonial position, from my observations.

He had already written his a.s.sessment of the Khanaphir people, their character, their defences. He concurred with Vollen: If the Empire brings force against Khanaphes, then there seems no prospect of a successful resistance. Their ground defences seem antiquated, and the Khanaphir have no visible means of defending their city or its holdings from the air.

So far so good. Yet he had barely written a new line for over an hour now, the pen poised, then scratching out letters, then crossing them through, pages being copied to disguise his indecision.

It was all academic, of course, since Marger would be preparing his own report. If the purpose of this expedition fell into Rekef territory, then it would be Marger giving the orders. Thalric was only an adviser. Still, here he was playing the Rekef officer because it was all he knew how to do.

I have made contact with the Collegium emba.s.sy. Their amba.s.sador is Cheerwell Maker, niece of their general, Stenwold Maker.

He crossed it out and started again. His Rekef past and his more recent past hung on scales in his mind, each balancing the other. He found he did not want to be the man who put her name into the thoughts of General Brugan. The Rekef remembered names and he had no way to describe the two sides of Cheerwell Maker. List her accomplishments fomenting rebellion in Myna, resistance in Solarno and Tharn see her that way and she was such a threat that the Rekef death-orders would be signed the moment his report found home.

And yet I know she is just a foolish girl. She b.u.mbles about the world meaning well, and trying to do the right thing, then gets it wrong as often as not, and must run to catch up with events. No, he did not want to be the man responsible for putting her on the List inscribed beside her uncle of those people the Rekef would remove when the new war broke out.

I am a poor Rekef man, a poor Imperial soldier. He had always tried to be loyal to his friends and comrades, but that had almost never worked. So where is my loyalty now? So where is my loyalty now? It seemed absurd that the sticking point for his muchabused fidelity could be a Beetle-kinden girl working for the opposite side. It seemed absurd that the sticking point for his muchabused fidelity could be a Beetle-kinden girl working for the opposite side.

Everyone else recognizes the risks. Maybe that was it. Che Maker never seemed to realize the danger she constantly put herself in. Watching her progress through life was like witnessing a constant series of near-misses, like seeing someone sleepwalk through a battle.

He shook his head. Once more he had written, The Collegium amba.s.sador is known to me The Collegium amba.s.sador is known to me, but that begged the obvious question. He put down the pen and rubbed his eyes, smudging ink across his cheek. He was willing to bet that Marger would have completed his own report hours before, despite having the added ch.o.r.e of reporting on Thalric.

There was a scream from outside, so shrill with terror that Thalric leapt up instantly, spilling everything from the desk. He went to the window, found it too narrow to exit through. There was a lot of shouting from downstairs and from across the square. The scream was repeated, like the desperate cry of a man on the rack. An attack! But on who? An attack! But on who? He grabbed up his sword, discarded the scabbard and bolted out of his room. He grabbed up his sword, discarded the scabbard and bolted out of his room.

He ran into a half-dressed Marger on the stairs, and with a common glance the two of them made for the door. As they hit the cool night air they found Gram outside, sword already drawn, the other hand held out with palm open towards the building on the other side of the Place. There were people spilling out of it, too, and Thalric spotted one of the Vekken already armoured, and glimpsed Che's Flykinden as well. Both of them held crossbows.

Oh, this could get messy. Gram and the Fly began shouting at each other, each demanding to know what the other had done. Without having to look, Thalric knew that Vollen, with his sting ready, would have taken station at one of the windows.

'There!' Marger snapped, and pointed. Thalric saw the body at the same time. Near the larger arch, a man lay on his back, one hand upraised as if to ward something off, the other arm flung over his eyes.

It was Osgan.

Thalric's heart sank as he ran across, dropping to one knee beside the fallen man. There was a lot of shouting going on, the pitch of tension rising and rising. 'Get them to shut up!' he told Marger, who backed away to quieten things down.

Osgan was shaking violently and he clung to the proffered arm as Thalric went to touch his shoulder. His face was a mask of tears and he reeked of alcohol. He kept pointing, though, and was trying to get some words out. Thalric followed the trembling finger, and for a second felt a twitch of what Osgan must be feeling. Then he cursed the man wearily and rounded on the escalating confrontation behind him.

Che had emerged now, bundled up in a grey Mothkinden cloak and calling for her own side to back down. Thalric could sense that Gram was more than ready for a fight, and even Marger had abandoned his easy manner and had drawn his sword.

'Down! Swords down! Back inside!' Thalric bellowed, and for a moment he was neither Rekef nor traitor, but Captain Thalric of the Imperial army shouting at a bunch of recalcitrant soldiers. 'We are not about to restart the war with the Lowlands here in Khanaphes. There is no problem, there is no attack. Everyone get back inside and go to sleep!' Even as he shouted it he could hear his words echoed by Che Maker ordering her people to do the same.

'Accius, listen to me,' she was yelling. 'Or Malius, whichever. Just ... I will find out what's going on ...Trallo, put that cursed crossbow down.' An old Beetle had come out, wearing a nightshirt and carrying a sword, until Che turned and swore at him, telling him to get back inside and leave this to her. 'This isn't a fight,' she insisted. 'Nothing's happened.'

Not yet, Thalric thought, but it very nearly did but it very nearly did.

'That man of yours is a liability,' Marger remarked disgustedly.

'Right now we're all liabilities,' Thalric told him grimly. 'I'll deal with Osgan. You get your men back inside.'

It seemed to last for ever, this moment on the edge of violence. Then Marger turned away, and Gram followed him with such a belligerent backwards stare that Thalric guessed he must have scores to settle with the Lowlands, left over from the war. The Vekken had already stamped back inside and Che was shepherding the rest of her errant people out of sight.

Osgan had crawled over to the pond and was splashing water on his face. In the sudden quiet, Thalric could hear the ragged catch of his breathing.

'You b.l.o.o.d.y fool,' he said, but quietly. Osgan rolled over onto his back. He looked ill.

'You can't know ...' he got out, 'what I saw-'

'I know exactly what you saw,' Thalric snapped, 'and be grateful I understand enough not to hand you over to Vollen and Gram,' He glanced over at what had spooked Osgan: just a statue. It was partly overgrown, hidden in greenery until now, and depicted a Mantis-kinden standing with his clawed gauntlet on, the blade folded back along the line of his arm. And I do understand. Tisamon could have modelled for it And I do understand. Tisamon could have modelled for it.

The release of tension left him feeling weak, shaking his head. He had no will left to discipline Osgan. The whole business just seemed ridiculous. He sat down heavily on one of the benches as Osgan eyed him cautiously.

'I'm sorry, Thalric. I'm sorry,' he mumbled.

'Oh, shut up,' Thalric said, without rancour. We could have been killing each other, over this We could have been killing each other, over this. He chuckled despite himself, resting his head on one hand and staring into the water.

'Midnight manoeuvres for the Imperial army, is it?'

He jumped up and turned to find Che standing not ten feet away, still clutching that grey cloak about her. He snorted half a laugh before he could stop himself.

'Just an ... It's not a problem.'

'Is he all right?' She peered round him at the p.r.o.ne figure of Osgan.

'He's fine. He's drunk.'

'Lucky him.' To his surprise one of her hands came up holding a clay jar from which she took a swallow. 'He's more than drunk. What happened?' She asked the question without guile, not a Lowlander agent prying for information just Cheerwell Maker and Thalric caught up in another awkward situation.

'He ran into that statue over there, the Mantis one, and it gave him a bit of a fright,' Thalric explained. One harsh winter during the Twelve-year War, he had crossed a frozen lake on foot, his armour weighing him down too much for flight. He was reminded of that now: just pressing on carefully while waiting for the ice to give way, for everything to fall apart.

'Well, I can understand that.' She sat down with a whoosh of breath, raising the jar to her lips again.

Everyone gets a drink tonight except me, he thought. Now is that fair? Now is that fair? 'I don't suppose,' he said, still negotiating the ice, 'there's enough there for a swig?' 'I don't suppose,' he said, still negotiating the ice, 'there's enough there for a swig?'