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

Gaved saw the Moth already beside her, reaching out. One thin grey hand caught her collar and the other drew a dagger across her throat with a butcher’s economic skill.

Then those white eyes turned to Gaved, who unleashed his sting.

Or he had meant to. There had been no other thought than that, before the burning gaze caught him. Moths had their own Art, and abruptly this one was in Gaved’s mind, holding him rigid, trapping his will as the thin figure picked its way towards him, bloody blade held reverently.

“Why have you come to this place of power, little Wasp-kinden?”

He could not be sure whether the voice was in his ears, or just in his head.

“This place of magic – and there are so few left any more. The iron armies of your people trample and trample, your machines and your progress and the brightness of your lamps. A poor scholar must travel a long way to find somewhere that has even a vestige of the old days about it. And who can say what the quality of such a place might be?” The Moth was right before him now, the wet coldness of the blade resting on his cheek. “And yet we must make accommodations. We magicians cannot be choosy, in this latter age...”

The Moth turned the blade, so that the thin, hard line of its edge was against Gaved’s burn-scarred throat,

Then the dragonfly stooped, glittering wings battering madly at the grey face as it tried to avenge its fallen mistress. The magician staggered away, clutching at it, shielding his eyes, and abruptly Gaved could move again.

He sent a sting-shot at the robed figure, only catching the Moth a glancing blow, even as the man snatched the dragonfly from the air, crushing its delicate wings between his fingers and tearing them from the insect’s body.

Those white eyes were on him again, and although he had a hand out, he could not loose his sting. But the Moth’s hold was imperfect: he could speak.

“You sent me!” he got out. “You came to me and sent me here! You told me, ‘Tell him it is better to be dead, than to be what he is.’”

The words struck the Moth hard. For a brief moment there was realization on that grey face. Those blank eyes took in the scene around them: the gruesome parliament, the utter bloody madness of what had been done under the forest’s influence. No wonder some part of him had rebelled, seeking what little help could be found in this occupied land.

Then Gaved’s hands blazed again, and this time he struck true, and just in time. He had seen the twist of cruelty coming back to the man’s face, the moment of truth already passing.

Standing there, with nothing but that conclave of the dead for company, he felt a tired emptiness inside him.

With a wary eye out, in case that mantis had been real and not just shadows, he set about relieving the corpses of their valuables. One thing was certain: he wasn’t getting paid for this job.

The character of Gaved originated in Dragonfly Falling and went on to have quite a chequered career in and out of the novels and in these stories. He was inspired by a sketch I drew back when Shadows was just an RPG setting, of a somewhat rogueish Wasp, and for some reason he held my imagination far more than a minor character should have, levering himself a significant role in the novels while always trying to get clear of them.

Sword and Circle

They were shouting for her. At first she thought she heard her name in the tulmult: “Ineskae! Ineskae!” but that was her sodden imagination. The roar was a wordless demand that she turn up and bleed for them. Out there was a makeshift amphitheatre, just a hollow in the ground. Its uneven sides were lined with a raucous, leery crowd who wanted to be entertained by her death.

There were almost no Wasp-kinden amongst the spectators, that was the shame of it. The Commonweal had possessed a tradition, once, of stately and mannered duels between skilled masters. Like so much, it had not survived the war. What the Wasps had brought with them was a taste for blood and brutal violence, and these conquered locals were latching onto imported ideas with a will. Why not try to emulate the winning side, after all? Centuries-old traditions had not stopped the armies of the Black and Gold.

She drained the jug, harsh grain spirit searing her throat. The sound of individual voices blurred in her ears so that the mob of them, gamblers, brigands, fugitives and deserters, became like a wave of the sea that ebbed and flowed in its own living rhythm.

“You need to go!” someone shouted in her ear.

“I need to drink!” She was already swaying: a wizened woman of the Mantis-kinden, lean and leathery as dried meat, every feature withered as a prune. Her wild white hair floated about her head like a cloud, and her eyes were red-rimmed. Her people had a reputation as peerless killers. It was a reputation she was trying hard to undo, but so far it had proved insoluble in alcohol.

When she took a step forwards, she stumbled, then wheeled around glowering as though someone had tripped her. Had it not been for that accursed badge, nobody would have taken her seriously.

They were not taking her seriously. They were laughing at her. She realised she had lurched forwards just enough to be nominally before her opponent. She was supposed to be fighting.

“Grandmother.” Her opposite number was a broad-shouldered man of the Dragonfly and he had one of their long-handled swords down by his side. “Perhaps you have come to the wrong place. This is a fighting circle. For fighters.”

Hoots, jeers. Had her badge lost its power at last? Was that why they were so deservingly derisive?

No. She realized that her dishevelled, stained robes were