Heirs of the Blade_ Shadows of the Apt_ Book Seven - Adiran Tchaikovsky [218]
‘Except for all the bodies,’ their Spider-kinden pointed out.
For a moment she went very still, fighting down a wave of nausea that rose up inside her, and she closed her eyes in case some spectre of her imagination should resurface, and plunge her back into that well of guilt she had only recently crawled out of. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘except for the bodies.’ When she looked up she wore a hard, bleak smile. ‘You and the Salmae can go tear each other apart straight away, for all I care.’
‘Not likely. It’s south for Rhael Province, for us,’ Dal decided.
‘Not staying to kill Princess Elass in her sleep?’ Tynisa enquired, shifting the last weight.
‘You’re a bloody-handed sort, aren’t you?’ At Dal’s signal, his people braced themselves to shunt the grille two feet aside. That gave enough room, and moments later they came crawling out into the dubious freedom of the prison chamber. Tynisa calmly picked up her bundle again.
Dal was staring up the ramp that led to the courtyard. ‘Trust the Salmae to want to keep their prisoners nicely out of the way of their spotless private chambers. If we can make the courtyard, we’re free.’
Tynisa knelt down and unfurled her burden, revealing a random collection of knives and swords, whatever she could take easily from the little armoury she had found. Dal knelt down and took up the shortbow she had found.
‘Just the one?’
‘Don’t complain,’ she snapped.
He shrugged, and she assumed he would keep the weapon for himself, but he passed it, along with the slender quiver, to one of his Grasshopper-kinden. ‘Soul, you’re the best shot. You take it.’
‘You didn’t happen to find a replacement nailbow on your travels, did you?’ asked the Wasp-kinden.
Tynisa gave him a narrow look. ‘You’ll just have to make do with shooting fire from your damned hands.’
The Scorpion-kinden reached down and took up a short-hafted spear. When he straightened up, his pose had subtly altered, and she took a swift step back, whisking her sword from its sheath.
‘You killed my wife,’ the man rumbled through his tusks.
The words threw Tynisa completely. ‘Your wife? I remember killing your nasty little pet.’
‘Where he comes from, you’re not considered a grown man unless you’ve a companion like that,’ murmured the Grasshopper, Soul. ‘They call them wives, because it’s a partnership for life.’
‘You killed my wife,’ repeated the Scorpion, his hands clenching the spear shaft.
‘Ygor, not now—’ Dal started, interposing himself between the pair.
‘Out of my way, Dala.’ The Scorpion hunched his shoulders, as if readying himself to rush at Tynisa.
‘No, not now,’ Dal insisted. ‘Look, she’s not running from us, and she’ll be happy to hack it out with you any other time. Right now we need to get out. Later, Ygor, later. She’s up for it, that I guarantee, but not now.’
For a moment it looked as though no amount of calming words would do, but then something went out of the belligerent Scorpion-kinden, with a long hiss of breath. ‘Then let’s move,’ he snarled.
‘There’s some way of getting out front?’ Dal asked.
Tynisa glanced at the doors to the courtyard, barred on the outside of course. She herself had come here via the narrow stairwell leading from the guards’ quarters. In truth her planning ended here: free the prisoners, undo the results of her meddling, then leave. She had not thought it through. Indeed thought barely came into it.
Something in her said fight. Rouse the guards, slay the Salmae, avenge the insult. But surely she had done enough avenging already, enough for a lifetime and a half.
‘I will go out and open the doors. Just stay here, and be quiet.’
‘Oh,