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

with great amusement. “Fellow’s serious, Goiter. He’s set up on Shallowacre. Go take a look at him, if you want.”

Parrymill made every pretence of politeness, but as soon as he could he was out of the door and heading for Shallowacre as fast as was dignified.

Then, as now, Shallowacre was not a wealthy part of the city, but a street of artisans at the bottom of their trade, whose customers were the working poor. There were three or four artificer’s workshops, but discrete questions by Parrymill’s servants showed that a Beetle of Lial’s description was indeed frequenting one such, although he did not appear to be the owner. Parrymill descended on the luckless place in great pomp, and recoiled when he came face to face with an Ant-kinden, a Sarnesh.

Now in those days matters between Sarn and Collegium were far from settled. Indeed the statesman Jons Pathawl, whose words would soon after forge a lasting peace between the two cities, was then a great thorn in the side of the Assembly and would preach about Sarn in Collegium’s parks to whoever would listen. However, he had yet to turn his speeches into action and Sarn remained a militaristic northern neighbour that gave many a Collegiate citizen sleepless nights. A Sarnesh Ant was not a common sight, and here was one – no, three! – in the middle of the city. Rogues, therefore, Parrymill deduced: renegades from their city, come here for reasons of their own to set up some shabby business enterprise.

They were looking at him suspiciously; the usual Ant-kinden paranoia when presented with someone whose mind they could not read. How they got any custom was beyond Parrymill, but he forced himself to sweep into their little shop, servants in tow.

“I am looking for a friend of mine,” he informed them imperiously. “I’m told he visits here sometimes.” He looked about the cluttered room, three worktables crammed into a space devoid of elbow-room. Only Ant-kinden could work so, in each other’s’ hair and treading on each other’s’ feet. The pieces on the nearby tables seemed reasonable domestic, he noted: gas lanterns, well pumps, disarticulated pieces of cheap forge machinery. “What work do you do here?” he asked the Ants.

“Machine repairs. Factory and forge, agricultural, automotive,” the nearest one rattled off, devoid of inflection. “You have work?”

Not that I’d trust to such as you, Parrymill thought, and shook his head with a pleasant smile. “Just mending pots and kettles then, so to speak. Well, perhaps I was misinformed.” His eyes drifted to the furthest table. One of the Ants was standing there a little defensively, and Parrymill frowned, seeing unfolded plans, proper artificer’s work. Surely even Ants don’t need schematics to repair a steam pump.

Some part of the design, so glimpsed, did look remarkably like a wing. Parrymill was about to lunge forwards for a better look, and he could see the Ant tense to fold the thing away, when a familiar voice caught him.

“Well, Master Parrymill. It’s been some while.”

He turned to see none other than Lial Morless, standing familiarly in the workshop doorway. From the way the Ants relaxed at his presence it was clear their association was not a new one.

“Lial, I hope you’re not doing something foolish with these...” One beringed hand indicated the Ants, but Parrymill left the sentence unfinished.

“They are doing something foolish for me,” Lial replied flatly, and then, to leave no doubt, “Clifftops next year, Master Parrymill. Not so very long now, I think. I’ll see you there, no doubt.”

He stepped back pointedly, leaving room for Parrymill’s exit, and leaving no doubt that he had no more to say. Parrymill managed a polite smile and a nod of the head before stalking away.

The workshop and the three Ants, had come to Lial by the same way as Gryssa and her silk-spider. He had finally got to the point where his plans were sufficiently advanced to need facilities, and Gryssa had accumulated sufficient silk to work with, and he had started doing the rounds, looking for somewhere that would lend him some space for the very little coin he had. His name was still familiar, though, to the artificers of Collegium. He had several offers that were withdrawn hastily when he tried to call on them, and he spent most of a month traipsing round the city, gradually lowering his expectations, trying to find anywhere that had the tools and the space for his work.

He had complained to Tallway, seeing the hand of Parrymill in this. “The old maggot’s done his work well. After the silk business, nobody’ll deal with me,” he had explained, and the Grasshopper woman had frowned.

“Why should he care? Sky’s full of insects and people,” They had been up on the low roof of a little shack overlooking the river, although not too close to the edge as Tallway had once pushed him off a similar ledge in an impromptu attempt to stimulate his Art. She had her arm around him companionably, and they had been sharing a bottle of something tooth-jarringly sharp made from, if she was to be believed, radishes.

Lial had taken a moment to formulate his answer. “Insects get tired. People get tired. Machines work harder, faster, longer. That’s what artifice is about. It doesn’t matter how well you do things. There’s always a way to do it better, and it’s our duty to find that way. Men like Parrymill, though, they care more about money than progress. They’re onto a good thing and they don’t want anyone to come up with a better way to do it.”

He had seen that the urgent and irrefutable logic of the Apt world had passed her by, and then she had replied, “So sell it to Parrymill. If ’ doing it ’is the thing. Sell your work to him, and then he’ll help you and not stop you.” She had smiled a little sadly at his instant outrage. “Or is the doing it not the point, after all?”

He had