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

“There are guards all over, below us,” Tesse put in. “She must be there.”

“Then that is where we will go,” Darien said simply. Cordwick caught a glimpse of Philomaea’s agonised expression and guessed suddenly that it was not just the readiness of the Wasps that had her by the throat. Some other wrongness had hold of her but she could not put it into any words, let alone words strong enough to sway Prince Lowre Darien from his purpose.

“Patrol coming,” Tesse said abruptly.

“Everyone be still,” the Moth snapped instantly. Cordwick, who was already back into the shadows, leant back against the wall and all but held his breath. To his eyes, the others were painfully obvious, standing in shadows but not even attempting to hide. He heard the bootsteps then, and a pair of Wasp soldiers walked in, one of them laughing behind his hand at something his comrade had said. Philomaea was staring at them, her hands curled into claws. Under that blank-eyed gaze the two soldiers passed by, somehow failing to see any of then, Moth or Mantis or Dragonfly prince. They went almost in arm’s reach of Darien himself, ignoring him as though he was just some piece of long-familiar statuary, and carried on their round, oblivious.

Then Evandter was abruptly behind them, taking a dagger from the belt of one of the Wasps and ripping it, in two brutally economic passes, across their throats. There was no cry from them, just a choking gurgle that made Cordwick sick to the stomach, and then they were on the ground, kicking out their last. Bloody blade in hand, the Mantis regarded his fellows.

“Why?” Cordwick hissed at him, made bold by horror. “Why do that? They were about to go!”

“Because I willed it,” Evandter told him coldly. “Now, do we have a rescue to undertake, or shall we wait here for the next two? I could kill the whole garrison pair by pair if you prefer.”

“Tesse, which way to the cellars?” Darien directed, after shooting the Mantis a look of disgust.

“Follow,” the Fly said. “There are guards...”

“Philomaea shall let us pass them. We shall leave them alive.” Darien glared at Evandter. “That way, when these poor wretches are discovered, thety shall not think that we have gone that way.”

“Pass them? Six of them are at the very door,” Cordwick objected.

“You understand nothing,” the Moth told him disdainfully.

Cordwick, veteran of a hundred confidence schemes, did indeed have to confess that he understood nothing. There were ways he knew of getting past guards. They involved talking to them, or creeping riskily behind them, or causing some distraction.

Philomaea did none of these things, not quite. No words were exchanged, the guards had their backs to the door to prevent just such creeping, and there was no distraction that Cordwick could see or hear. Nonetheless, once they were in sight of the cellar door, something spooked the guards. One drew his sword, another held a hand out, palm open. Something in the shadows had their attention, and the whole pack of them hunched cautiously forwards, caught between waiting to sound an alarm and fear of ridicule in case it was nothing.  Eventually one of them forged ahead a dozen steps, the rest half of the way with them. Behind them, as they peered into the gloom, the intruders went neatly through the door.

No lock, Cordwick noted. It was still the original Dragonfly piece, secured by a hook-and-cord arrangement. I’d have put a lock on the cellar door, if I were keeping prisoners down there. He filed the thought for later, absently.

There were stone-flagged stairs, then. These old castles always had a complex piece of business beneath them, Maille being an extreme example. As Dragonfly-kinden were a people of air and sunlight, it had always puzzled Cordwick, but he guessed now was not the time to bring it up. Beneath them they could hear more Wasps, the sound of a few voices in idle, grumbling conversation. As they reached the stairs’ end Cordiwck could identify a handful of soldiers, the rattle of dice. The gaming table was set up immediately where the stairs came out, and Cordwick saw a half-dozen Wasps idling there. Philomaea held up a hand for silence and led the way. The shadows seemed to gather about her and Cordwick shuddered, feeling abruptly chilled more than the stone around him could account for. Not one of the Wasps looked round, not one. Instead, the Moth seemed to trail a cloak of night behind her, that each of her companions partook of.

I am involved with something I want no part of, Cordwick told himself, but that was nothing new. What was new was the gaslamps and pipes bolted to the walls. Here, where the darkness could never be relieved by the sun, the Wasps had set up a patchwork of modern lighting, but perhaps it was still being installed or out of service, for intruders and guards both had only the meagre oil lamps to rely on.

There was a maze of chambers down there, cellars beyond cellars, low corridors and low rooms, and stairs that went to lower cellars still. The walls had been marked, at some stage, but time and crawling lichen had sufficed to obscure the markings, and they seemed meaningless little squiggles to Cordwick, wherever he could make them out. Still, Philomaea led them in fits and starts, stopping every so often with that uncertain, suspicious look, her worry ebbing and returning. Each time she only had to look back at the trusting, expectant face of Lowre Darien to reassure her, and she was leading them off again.

Their progress was a series of stops and starts, shadow to shadow, and every step brought more Wasps: the cellars were crawling with them and the bulk of them in armour and ready for battle. This was the trap, then. The serrated jaws trembled on all sides and yet Philomaea led them step by step and not a single