Heirs of the Blade_ Shadows of the Apt_ Book Seven - Adiran Tchaikovsky [151]
But I have found a way to strike back, at last, through this Lowlander girl. Perhaps, in the end, I will kill her myself – have Isendter challenge her and then cut her down. Or perhaps the brigands will spare me the trouble.
And, of course, after that rabble of thieves is dealt with, I have other plans. Then perhaps you shall find, Felipe Shah, just what happens to a prince who forgets what it means to have noble blood.
‘When were you going to tell us that this was the plan?’ Mordrec demanded, chasing after Dal Arche, as the bandit leader tried to walk away. Receiving no immediate response, the Wasp-kinden simply dogged Dal’s steps all the way out of the encampment, still demanding, ‘When, Dala? Or did you think we wouldn’t notice?’
Dal’s other two lieutenants, tall and close-mouthed Soul Je and the stocky Scorpion Barad Ygor, followed a few paces behind, content to let Mordrec draw their leader’s ire.
At last Dal rounded on them. ‘What do you want me to say?’ he asked.
‘I want you to tell me the truth about what this cursed plan is!’ Mordrec insisted. ‘Let’s go raid the Salmae, you said. They’ve got plenty of what we need, you said.’
‘And have I led you astray, in that?’
‘Dala, what you failed to mention is that you thought we needed people. You had us running about picking up thieves and malcontents to bring to you, when all the while you had this business ready to spring on us.’
‘Mord, this was never the plan,’ Dal protested.
The Wasp blinked. ‘Then what in the pits is it?’
Dal looked back at the encampment, seeing a messy aggregation of tents, lean-tos, fire pits and sleeping rolls. Spring’s turning out mild, which is just as well. Most of these people never thought about where they’d be sleeping, fools that they are.
‘Four villages,’ Ygor the Scorpion reminded him. He spoke in an absurdly cultured drawl that originated somewhere half the world away, in a place ruled by Spiders.
‘Victims of our own success,’ Dal murmured.
‘Success?’ Mord hissed, back on the offensive again. ‘I know what success looks like, to a bandit. It looks like a little loot, and nobody about to catch you yet. It doesn’t look like piss-near all the people of four villagers deciding to sign up with you. What are you planning to be at the end of this, Dal? A general?’
Dal tried to recall where generals featured in the Imperial scheme of things. Ah yes, at the top. ‘You want me to turn them away?’
‘Yes, I want you to turn them away! Maybe one in five is some use, good to hold a spear or pull a bow. We’ve got children out there, and old people, too. What’s the point of them? Why are they even here?’
‘Victims of our own success,’ Dal repeated.
‘Stop saying that,’ Mord snapped.
Soul Je held up a long-fingered hand. ‘He’s right,’ the Grasshopper intoned.
‘How is he right?’
‘Mord,’ Dal addressed him, ‘you know that pile of loot we’re sitting on, all the food, the drink, the cloth bales, the honey, the kadith, the gold? You do understand that was taxes intended for the Salmae, yes?’
Mordrec nodded , with an expression stubborn enough that Dal knew he already understood. Still, he pressed on.
‘And you can see the actual villagers from here, yes? Do they look as though they got much of that stuff? You’d describe them as prosperous? Well-fed?’
‘And who’s going to feed them now? Do they reckon they’re better off with us?’
Dal shrugged. ‘Because at least we’re fighting, is how they see it.’
‘We’re not fighting, we’re robbing,’ the Wasp pointed out mulishly.
‘I don’t mean fighting the Salmae specifically, although we will. I mean fighting what is,’ Dal told him.
‘Since when were we idealists?