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

that he was seen there, confident that the trail would bring their pursuers to the place anyway. He spoke to people he knew had no loyalty to him, never quite disclosing any plans, but giving enough clues, in the questions he asked, to tell a sharp man where they were supposedly heading.

At first, Aelta tried to join in, but he put her in her place quickly enough.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s called talking,” she told him.

“Women don’t do that.”

She stared at him. He saw her fingers twitch.

“Listen,” Gaved went on, feeling himself very patient, “what do you think they see, when they see us two? You think they see a partnership? They see me, and my woman. Probably they think I bought you somewhere, given that most of ’em wouldn’t put money on me getting a girl of her own volition. And because I’m known, and I’m a Wasp, and I’ve had to slap down some folks around here before, they know you’re not for them, not their eyes nor their hands. But you start up with that cocky act of yours and they’ll get other ideas... What, why look at me like that? It’s how it is.”

“With you. With people like you.”

He wanted to argue with that, but the precise grounds escaped him. “All right, yes. And this town is filled with people like me.”

“I managed fine on my own before.”

He tried to look her in the eye, at that, but her gaze slid off him, evasive enough that he was forced to wonder, Did you? How long were you the master thief before they took you up? Because if you knew how this worked, you’d not need me. He wanted to say more, to hammer the point home until something broke in her. Women were owned, that was the thing. They were daughters, wives, mothers, and they were owned by fathers, husbands, and then by their own sons, widows living off the goodwill of the male children they had brought into the world. Or else they were owned by pimps and procurers, or by masters who held their chains. And these women, these owned women, they didn’t talk to strangers and they didn’t throw around their personalities. They were meek and mild and very, very careful about showing their virtue and fidelity. And a woman who was neither meek nor mild was likely to be judged as not virtuous, either. A Wasp man might pause before pushing himself on someone’s unsullied daughter or loyal wife, but a woman once fallen was fair game for anyone

In trying to find a way to explain this to Aelta, he found himself staring into the eye of the Imperial dream, the hierarchy that gave every man the right to be the tyrant emperor over the women in his life, and it reminded him of precisely why he had got out of the army.

“Never mind,” he said at last. “Just... keep it down, all right? I’m sorry, but otherwise we’re going to end up fighting off every drunkard and bravo in town, because you are a very striking woman.”

“That’s got to be the most cack-handedly clumsy compliment I ever heard,” she told him, but she met his eyes again, at least.

For his part, Gaved was finding it difficult to know where he stood with her: sometimes she flirted, sometimes it was the cold shoulder, but always there was just enough to give him hope, the door never quite closed on him. Women, he thought gloomily. At least he had got her some new clothes, practical to travel in and not peppered with burned holes.

They left past midnight, heading off almost at random with the intent of curving their course round until they reached Aelta’s hidden trove. Certainly some eyes would have marked them, but Gaved kept a punishing pace up cross country, and then put more distance in after sunrise. Aelta just stomped on behind him, trailing him but never falling far behind. Then they found the soldiers, or at least the soldiers found them.

Not Javvi’s minions, thankfully, but a young lieutenant with a dozen of the Light Airborne at his back. They were tramping about the countryside with a roving remit to scare the innards out of any locals who might be harbouring doubts about the finality of the war’s outcome. They had a beetle-drawn wagon with them, loaded up with a motley of goods that they had acquired by way of freelance taxation, and they were not expecting trouble. Nor were they exepcting a somewhat shabby pair of Wasps on the road, neither of them in uniform.

The lieutenant was one Sharmen, who complained that the war had ended too soon, so that he had missed all the glory. He looked all of eighteen, and was very keen to talk about his family connections back in Capitas. Judging from the way that his men helped themselves to the wagon’s contents, there were obviously worse officers to be under the command of, but Gaved found himself wondering how the youth would have fared had he actually seen a battle first hand.

Gaved would rather have given the man a salute and parted ways as swiftly as possible, but they had been heading down the same road, and suspicious behaviour stuck in the mind. Instead he invented a handful of fugitives from Imperial justice and asked if Sharmen had seen any of them, which established his credentials nicely. He made no reference to Aelta, and hoped the woman would just stay meekly in his shadow until they could go their own way.

They camped two nights with Sharmen’s merry band of licensed brigands, eating well and sharing the soldiers’ easy conversation. Theirs was exactly the sort of company Gaved preferred to avoid, not because it was harsh, but because they reminded him of the good times, and what he missed. He didn’t want any little worm of an idea telling him he should go back.

And of course Aelta didn’t stay mute, but he supposed that was inevitable.