Heirs of the Blade_ Shadows of the Apt_ Book Seven - Adiran Tchaikovsky [237]
‘Mordrec, isn’t it?’ he recalled wearily.
The other Wasp eyed him blankly for a moment, then cursed. ‘You . . . and the Beetle girl. Why not? Where are the others that were with you?’
‘Expected any moment,’ Thalric replied, although he felt a cold certainty that he would not see Varmen again.
‘We were just creeping out to take a look at the Salmae, see what the bitch had brought with her.’ Mordrec’s free hand was by his side, but Thalric sensed the threat implicit there. ‘And how come we found you setting fires and causing chaos?’
‘Because of her.’ Thalric nodded past the man’s shoulder. There was a whole cave nestling here, a rent in the earth left where the roots of some vast forest giant had withered and died. Towards the rear he could make out a huddle of figures lit by a further candle, a good ten feet away. Between the two lights, though barely touched by either, he could make out the figure of Tynisa.
When Mordrec noticed her there, and saw her expression, he stayed well clear of them, ducking off to one side, holding his candle out like a talisman.
Her blade was drawn, Thalric saw. He would almost have been disappointed otherwise.
‘What have you done to her?’ Tynisa hissed, the words he could have put in her mouth, given two guesses. He glanced pointedly at Che’s leg and saw, with a wince, that the arrow’s fletchings had snapped off at some point during their escape. ‘Yes, that’s right. Obviously I shot her myself. I’m that well known for my archery.’
Her narrow blade was lined up with his throat, the tip of it within his arm’s reach, but something about this woman had always brought out in him a need for bitter words, and he felt too tired to restrain himself.
‘I rescued her from the Salmae, who seized her for reasons I can’t guess at unless, as they’re hunting you, they wanted to use her as bait.’ He felt his Wasp temper slip its leash. ‘She says your father’s ghost sits on your shoulders like a cloak but, frankly, I don’t know. After my getting you out of Capitas after the war, bringing your sister halfway across the known world, and then snatching her from the Commonweal nobility, of fond memory, I don’t think even that bloody menace Tisamon would display quite such a level of ingratitude.’
He tensed as he said it, his wings and sting both at the ready, but the light of Mordrec’s candle caught an unexpected look on her face: stricken and lost.
‘He wants to kill you,’ she whispered, and it seemed that she lowered her sword only by great effort of will. ‘He doesn’t remember gratitude. He doesn’t remember his friends even, or barely, but he remembers his honour, and the Mantis way – and his enemies. Keep clear of me, Thalric. I don’t know if I can stop him. I couldn’t before . . .’
‘Before what?’ he asked, suspiciously.
‘You killed their prince.’
Both of them looked down at Che, now almost forgotten.
‘We killed him, both of us,’ Tynisa confirmed. ‘I don’t know where I end and Tisamon starts. You were right, Che, and your magician was right, too, and now . . . I missed my chance, and it’s too late.’
‘Not yet. Not quite.’
They started, all of them, and Mordrec swore fiercely as Maure dropped down into the cave with a flurry of wings.
I remember his face, Tynisa considered. In stories she had heard of berserking warriors from the Bad Old Days – after the fit left them they would recall nothing of what they had done. The climax of a dozen Mantis tragedies was when the hero discovers too late whose blood is on her blade. That would be a mercy, Tynisa decided. Let their fabled heroes weep and gnash their teeth. Remembering is worse than finding out second-hand. She recalled Alain’s expression as he had looked back and