The Air War (38 page)

‘This here’s Master Taxus,’ Taki announced to the room in general. She took a full bowl when offered it, explaining, ‘He’s got a message, top-secret urgent kind of
business,’ and then she downed the wine in one gulp, apparently washing her hands of the matter.

Stenwold eyed the newcomer, who stared balefully at him, and at practically everything else. ‘Word from Tark?’ he hazarded.

The halfbreed nodded, reaching into his knee-length flying coat and bringing out a creased letter, folded and sealed in black. ‘All yours,’ he grunted.

If you’ve come from Tark, tell me . . .
But the letter was being thrust into Stenwold’s face, and it was plain that there would be nothing further from this Taxus until it was
read.
It must be some word, at least, about the Exalsee situation. Tark is not so far from them. Perhaps they’re seeking our aid, for when the Empire comes . . .

He broke the seal with his thumb and folded the out letter, revealing a missive written in an economic hand.

Stenwold looked up, feeling his fingers crumple and tear at the paper. Jodry was staring at him, and he wondered what expression his own face held just then.

‘Who’s died?’ Taki asked, not quite flippant, but not solemn either.

‘The Aldanrael have taken Tark,’ Stenwold said flatly. ‘This was . . . an old friend sending me all the warning he could. You’re right, they’ll be coming up the
coast like before.’ He was about to say more when his eyes fell on Taxus. ‘You . . . can at least take a message back to Parops?’

‘Back?’ the halfbreed demanded. ‘What makes you think I’m going back?’

‘Well, you . . .’ Stenwold frowned. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Maker –
Master
Maker, if that’s how it’s done – I don’t know just what you read there, but if you know we’ve got Spiders up where it hurts, then
you know Tark’s not your friend any more, and your mate that wrote that, he’s not either, as soon as the ink dried. Ordering me on this fool’s errand was the last thing he did
before he became your enemy.’

He left a pause for what he plainly considered an obvious conclusion, and none of them there managed to leap to it.

‘I see. I know how it is. Mixed blood, miscegenation, I know.’ He scowled at the lot of them. ‘Up
here
,’ and he jabbed at his temples, ‘I’m Ant-kinden.
Where it counts, I’m one of them. Now, having delivered some sort of secret business into the hands of Tark’s enemies, you think I can go back there?’

And Stenwold did understand. He had known other Ant-kinden, in his time, who had turned their backs on their cities for their cities’ own good. Sometimes being a renegade and an exile was
a badge of honour. ‘Parops ordered you . . .’ he murmured.

‘I volunteered,’ Taxus said shortly. ‘I knew what he was about, so I agreed. It needed to be done.’ He faced them down, the Flies, the Beetles, all of them: just under
five feet of pugnacious attitude.

‘So what will you do now?’ Stenwold asked him.

‘Depends. If you’ll trust me for it, I’d rather like to fight some Wasps.’

Stenwold glanced at Taki, who was looking thoughtful.

‘We need every pilot we can get, Master Maker,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll make sure someone’s keeping an eye on him, but – we have so many unblooded fliers and so few
who’ve actually flown for real. I saw him come in. His craft’s a piece of flotsam but he’s good with the sticks.’

‘He’s your responsibility,’ Stenwold told her. ‘Put him with the Mynans. Get him familiar with the Stormreaders. Soon enough you’ll all be shipping out to fight
– although whether it’s north to Myna or east down the coast is anyone’s guess just now.’

Being a parasite was a precarious existence, but Lissart, even injured, was obviously well used to it.

She had the pair of them ensconced within the Spider-kinden baggage train the day before the combined army left Solarno, and since then she and Laszlo had almost been travelling in style, Liss
spending the days rocking gently in a wagon, cushioned amidst the supplies, whilst Laszlo ran errands and faced off against other Fly-kinden.

‘To think that the only reason I’m in this fix is that I
didn’t
want to go work amongst Spiders,’ Liss remarked to him one night, as they lay close together in the
wagon, surrounded by the whispering breath of sleepers. Her smile, just visible in the starlight, was wistful, so Laszlo kissed it gently. When he pulled away, her expression was the usual: happy,
glad to have him there, and yet her eyes demanding to know,
Are you mad? Don’t you know how untrustworthy I am yet?
He knew, of course. He was in the jaws of the enemy here, a step
away from exposure at every moment. Each day seemed a weird dream-run, sailing through treacherous waters without chart or compass, and yet he was alive and unrevealed each dusk, and so was she.
The danger that she would betray him seemed only a small voice amongst all the clamouring perils that surrounded him.

They had been aided by the Spider army’s structure, for although the lady of the Aldanrael was their leader, few of the actual soldiers were sworn to her family. Instead there seemed to be
a typically piecemeal construction about the Spiderland forces: a number of mercenary bands and Satrapy forces from several different cities, together with Spider-kinden units donated by various
different Aristoi houses, few of whom seemed to be actual friends of the Lady-Martial Mycella. Two figures strode through this chaos and made some kind of order from it. One was Jadis of the
Melisandyr, some small family that remained closely loyal to the Aldanrael, whose force of personality and – on one occasion – lethal response to an attempted assassination, kept the
other Spiders under Mycella’s orders. Lissart had determined to avoid his notice at all costs. He looked, she said, like someone who remembered the names and faces of any who served under
him.

Instead, they had inveigled their way into the camp of Morkaris, the mercenary adjutant. There was less discipline amongst the mercenaries, and also less jockeying for position between
underlings. In their baggage train of clerks, entertainers, whores and factotums, individuals changed allegiance all the time, with few hard feelings. Everyone was in it for the money, and personal
honour was less of a barrier. Laszlo had quickly identified a formidable Fly-kinden matron named Drasse as the woman to cosy up to, and after running errands for the woman for a day, he had found
himself and Liss safely under her protection. Liss herself could charm the stripes off a Rekef colonel, when she wanted to, and soon Drasse had found her a berth on the wagon, and some medicine
besides.

The wagon was a stroke of luck they had not known that they needed, for the army was not what either of them had expected. General Tynan and the Lady-Martial Mycella were moving
fast.

The entire Imperial contingent travelled by automotive, as did their supplies, ammunition and the disassembled pieces of such machines that could not move under their own power, including
considerable quantities of artillery. Wasp soldiers sat inside and on top of great wheeled transporters that belched smoke and steam, and ground up the miles mercilessly without ever tiring. Their
Spider allies slowed them down a little, but far less than might be expected. The Apt amongst them, and the unluckier of the Inapt, were in similar conveyances, a motley fleet of various walkers,
rollers and tracks dredged from every vehicle foundry from Chasme to Fort Tamaris. The rest had either brought mounts – an equally varied menagerie of horses, beetles, spiders and crickets
– or travelled in wagons pulled almost universally by strong hauling beetles. Travelling alongside the supplies was a luxury, as it meant that Liss was not forever jostling elbows with dozens
of others.

They had swarmed past Tark not long ago, and Laszlo had only teased out the fact of the city’s surrender in retrospect: not surrender to the Empire as conquerors, but a subtler and perhaps
more permanent concession. Tark had become part of the Spiderlands, its king sworn to the Aldanrael as a vassal. Already the city was crawling with Spiders taking census of Mycella’s new
gains.

Liss told him that Spider-kinden maps had always been ambitious, when it came to the Lowlands. Most of them marked out large sections of the coast as already being under Spider control. It
seemed that Mycella was rapidly making that fiction a reality.

They had coursed on south past the hills of Merro and Egel, two interlinked Fly-kinden warrens whose loyalties in the past had been a feather for every wind. Nobody had shown any great surprise
when the leading families of both had assured everyone concerned that, of course, they had
always
been part of the Spiderlands. The richly dressed little magnates had put up a very
convincing display of confusion that anyone should even have to
ask
. Mycella had received their declarations of fealty and loyalty with appropriate magnanimity.

But this was different. The army had barely slowed for the Fly-kinden, but now Laszlo found himself at the coast, the dangerous forest of the Felyal at his back and looking out at the fortified
island of Kes.

The Ant-kinden of Kes had a chequered history recently. The last time the Wasps had sent an army down the coast, the Ants had declared themselves uninterested, hiding behind their walls and
their fleet, and saving the Empire the considerable effort of investing their island in siege. There had been much speculation amongst the followers of the current army – the Grand Army, as
the Spider contingent was calling it, at least – as to whether Kes would represent the first genuine military engagement of this war.

The Ants had certainly not been keen to come out with either violence or diplomacy, but a telescope turned towards their island revealed that every artillery emplacement was manned, and the
ships in the harbour were fully crewed.

General Tynan had not ordered his aviators into action, as many had anticipated. Instead he had apparently decided to take defensive measures against any Kessen attack by setting up his own
artillery at the cliff edge. The engines that his engineers assembled, however, were of a scale that Laszlo had never seen before, enormous leadshotters that seemed to point more at the sky than
anything else. He had surmised that they would drop rocks down on any Kessen ships that sallied forth from the Ants’ harbour.

The preliminary shelling of Kes had then lasted three hours, with the greatshotters finding their precise mark after only twenty minutes, to the great exuberance of Tynan’s Colonel Mittoc.
After that point the dozen engines had spoken in a constant ground-shaking thunder, pounding solidly at their targets, cracking walls and sinking ships, launching flame-canisters over the docks and
the city. The artillery on the Kessen walls had, of course, only a fraction of their range. There was no retaliation.

After the greatshotters had finally fallen silent, though remaining a menacing silhouette on the cliff for any Kessen observer, a small vessel had put out from the harbour.

An hour later, the entire population of Kes had understood that it, too, was become a satrapy of the Spiderlands. Spider ships were already coasting in, summoned by who knew what signal of
Mycella. Soldiers and assessors were disembarking at the Kessen docks that no hostile force had ever taken.

‘We will come back,’ Tynan had told the Ant-kinden diplomats and, through them, their king. ‘If you rise up against our allies, then our engines shall never pause until your
island city is just a stump of rock in the sea. We might have bombarded you until you begged me to send over my slavers. Think on how much more fortunate you are that the Lady Mycella wants you for
her own.’

Laszlo had found a place quite close to the negotiations. He had heard the words plainly.