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

that something was up, but that hook she had in him still tugged, in his loins and his head both.

They let darkness creep over the land, watching the industry of the estate below slowly dismantle itself, the Commonwealers crammed into pens for the night, the Wasp slaves filing dejectedly into their shacks.

“I’d never be a slave,” Gaved decided, staring at them. “How can you have a sting at your command and let a man own you?”

Aelta’s gaze, when he met it, was franker than he wished. “Oh you’d be surprised,” she said quietly. “Live in a world that hates you, and will kill you if you try and change your place in it. Find out how much using your sting will help, if one show of defiance puts you alone and friendless against a society that must destroy you for your insolence.  You think you’re the terribly bold rebel, Gaved, because you’re not a soldier. Try not being a man for a day, and then tell me how hard your road is.”

He stared at her. There was a great weight of Wasp within him that told him he should scoff and say she didn’t know what she was talking about: you’re a woman, what do you know? But that was precisely why she knew. He was too honest with himself to lie.

Seeing him without words, her look softened somewhat. “And when you were a soldier, the officers told you to fight, and you fought, yes? And some of you died, and sometimes the orders were stupid, I’ll bet. And you all had stings – and swords and crossbows as well! – and why not say no, right then and there? Consequences, Gaved. We all inherit the freedom to kill with our hands, men and women, soldiers and slaves, but just try using it freely. They tie our hands, Gaved. They tie our hands, and try to stop us using them. But some of us teach ourselves that there are more things these hands can do than they ever guess.”

Her face was very close to his, her voice very low. He tried to make that the moment where he would just duck in a little, so that their lips met, but somehow she was never quite as close as that, and then she was up on her feet again.

“That’s night enough,” she decided. “Let’s go.”

There were lanterns lit about the estate, and a handful of guards on patrol, but they were mostly concerned with the penned Commonwealers, memories of the war still fresh in every mind. Gaved and Aelta could make their way to the back of Colonel Haaked’s big house with almost leisurely unconcern: a pair of Wasps out enjoying the moonlight.

The ground before the dormitories was crossed and recrossed with tracks, with no sign of its precious hidden contents. Aelta had him keep watch while she hunted over it, skulking along the side of each hut in turn, murmuring to herself and crouching now and then to examine the earth. Every lost second seemed to weigh heavy on him, imagining a curious guard or two coming round the corner.

“Come on,” he hissed. “Hurry up.” They had already raided a tool store and his hands clenched and re-clenched on the haft of the shovel, ready to set to work.

She was kneeling beside a shack, head cocked as though listening to some voice only she could hear. Abruptly she stood, staring at him.

“What?” he demanded in a tense whisper. “Are we getting the goods or aren’t we?”

“Yes, yes we are,” and she had crossed over to a patch of earth that seemed no different to any other. “Here. Dig here.”

“Right here?” There was nothing about the place that seemed to distinguish it.

“I remember it now. Straight down, right here. There’s a casket you’ll strike soon enough.”

He grimaced, but set his spade to the earth. It was hard and wrenching labour, especially as he was forced to go slow and careful to avoid any noise. This is not my line of work, he decided. He was a hunter of men, not a thief, and certainly not a gravedigger.

He was down the best part of two feet, striking nothing. Cursing, he began to jab the shovel about the sides of the hole, assuming that he had just missed the mark, that she had not been as exact in her remembering as she thought.

That was where they found him. When they came in a flurry of lanterns, with Javvi at their head, he was still digging.

Colonel Haaked was a red-faced old man, his hair gone silver, and gone entirely from most of his head. He received Gaved in a room that spoke eloquently of his success during the war, in a language of gold, silver and gems. He wore a robe of Spiderlands silk that strained somewhat over the paunch that retirement was giving him; his desk was ornately carved in miniature with scenes of Imperial martial prowess, some treasured piece lugged all the way west from the old family home. Behind him was a Dragonfly war banner that probably had more weight of gold in its thread than Gaved had ever held in his hands at one time. Flanking that, two suits of mail stood silent vigil, gleaming with hues of emerald and sapphire and mother of pearl. What damage they had sustained, in being parted from their noble Commonwealer owners, had been painstakingly repaired by newly-enslaved artisans. Atop the desk, as though forming the last line of defence between Haaked and any assassin, stood a rank of twelve statues, six inches high and golden, each showing a Dragonfly-kinden engaged in some elegant activity: dancing, flying, at guard with a sword. The delicacy of the work surpassed anything Gaved had ever seen.

Of course, he had other priorities just then, beyond artistic appreciation.

“Who is this vagrant?” Haaked was demanding of Javvi. “Where’s the girl?”

“Fled again.” The Fly frowned, apparently taking Aelta’s unwillingness to stay in one place as a personal affront. “Why she came