Spoils of War (Tales of the Apt Book 1), Adrian Tchaikovsky [13 ebook reader .txt] 📗

“Why, then I would not be in a position to bring more excellent wine next month,” Sfayot explained with great remorse.

“And...?”

“And make a gift of wine to my good friend Lieutenant Malic who was so helpful to me when I was here before.”

Malic smiled at that. He was a factor for the Consortium of the Honest, the mercantile branch of the Wasp army. The role bred greed like a corpse bred flies, but Malic was a plain-dealing rogue of a man. “You know,” he said, “I’ve a farm in the north-east Empire. Wife, too. Years since I last saw either of ‘em, mind. Your lot, Roach-kinden, are all over there. A right curse, you are.” He said it almost fondly. “Steal anything that’s not nailed down, always shifting from place to place. Drive the customs lads half mad.” He took another mouthful of wine and his smile widened. “Not to say you don’t have your uses. This is truly fine, Yot. Don’t get me wrong, we’re taking enough liquor from the ‘‘Wealers to drown the Fourth Army, but it’s good to get a taste of home. The men will appreciate it.”

Sfayot nodded, taking a moment to plan his attack. “There is a matter...”

“I thought there might be. Speak now, while I’m in a mellow mood.”

“I wish to travel west, and not be put in irons. Perhaps some papers, licence to trade...”

“Towards the front?” Malic was frowning. “That’s not wise.”

“I am aware of that.”

“There’s a market, certainly, but it’s ugly.” The Wasp’s eyes narrowed. “But it’s not just for profits, is it Yot? Or you’d unload here and head back east. What’s going on?” He had a hand on the barrel-table between them, an implicit threat: every man of the Wasps could spit fire from his hands. Their sting, they called it.

“You know how we Roach-kinden live,” Sfayot said carefully. “How we travel with our families, and meet, and trade.”

“And get moved on,” Malic added. “And steal, and sometimes exhaust the patience of the local garrison.”

“It is just as you say,” Sfayot confirmed mildly. “My family were travelling near here, travelling and trading. One of our number was unwise, she wandered from our camp. I have heard she was taken up.”

Malic looked at him for a long while. “I remember a white-haired girl,” he said at last. “That Slave Corps man had her with him, Sergeant Ban, his name was. You know this much, I take it.”

The Roach-kinden nodded. He was white-haired as well, although in his case it could pass for age. It was a mark of the Roach-kinden: white hair and tan skin and restless feet. Sfayot was old for it, though, too old for the journey that he was considering. Lean and snow-bearded, dressed in shabby, patched clothes of green and brown and grey, he knew he looked like a beggar before this well-dressed Wasp, whose black and gold tunic was worn over looted Dragonfly satins.

“My daughter,” Sfayot said softly, watching the other man’s face. “She is but thirteen years.”

Malic nodded, taking a little more wine, and his face was not without sympathy. “Then yes, Ban’s gone west to pick up another chain. Seems like every Slave Corps man is headed that way, and I hear they still have more prisoners than they know what to do with. I’d guess he saw your lass and took a shine to her. Slave Corps,” he added, with faint disgust. “You understand, in the Empire even the worst have a role to play, and the slavers are that role. I remember she was a pretty enough lass, for a Roach.”

Sfayot said nothing.

“Means she’s more likely to stay whole on the trip,” Malic noted. “Unless she catches the eye of some officer on the road, he’ll want to get her back to the good markets, back home. At this end we’re glutted with slaves, you can’t give them away. What will you do when you find Ban?” The question was thrown in without warning and Malic was regarding him keenly.

“Offer him a good price,” Sfayot said without hesitation. “I am not a Wasp. My people do not fight or demand vengeance or harbour grudges. We cannot afford such luxuries.”

Malic’s face had a strange look on it, almost a sad one. “I’ll give you papers to trade,” he said abruptly, “and to travel. I wish you luck, Yot. I hope you find her, and I hope she’s not too damaged when you do.” There was something about his manner to suggest that he might have done as much even without the wine. Greedy, corrupt men, as opposed to upright, honest soldiers, had more leeway for spontaneous kindnesses as well as private evils.

Sfayot watched him sign the scroll, sealing the papers with black wax and the Consortium’s imprint.

He had lied to Malic, of course, but only a little, details that would have complicated matters. The girl had not simply wandered off: Roach-kinden knew better than that. Their roving lifestyle, across the Empire and the Commonweal both, was to avoid the persecutions of government. In the Empire it didn’t do to stay too much in one place, lest someone decided that made you property. You stuck with your family because they were all you could rely on.

Sfayot’s family had been in the little village of Nalfers, when something had gone wrong. Nalfers was an occupied town with a garrison, but the Wasps had apparently decided it needed sacking anyway. Perhaps orders had been misunderstood, perhaps the local troops had got drunk and leery. In any event, nobody would be visiting Nalfers any more, and when Sfayot’s family had finally regrouped the next morning, within sight of the rising smoke, he discovered that a cousin and a nephew were dead, and that his daughter was missing. A niece had seen her dragged off by a slaver, the man’s trade made unmistakable by his full-face helm.

His family had begged him not to go looking for her, for