Heirs of the Blade_ Shadows of the Apt_ Book Seven - Adiran Tchaikovsky [47]
When he awoke, stiff and aching from the hard bed, he found his jailers had already been and gone. They had left him some water, a jug of weak beer, and some stew that had at least seen some meat around the time it was cooked. Luxury it was not, but nor was it food to waste on anyone facing a death sentence. More important than that, though, they had left him a book. It was slim, densely typeset and printed in the manner of all Engineering Corps texts, but certainly nothing on the standard syllabus. It was something new.
He looked at the title page, holding it up to the hissing lamp.
Towards an Efficient Mechanized Air Force, its Design and Deployment. Beneath that was stamped the name and rank of the author: Varsec, Captain, Southern Expeditionary Aviation Corps.
For a moment Angved was quite blank as to why he might have been passed this document, but some helpful clerk had already thought of that, and a stub of black tape marked out a particular page towards the end of the book. The section there dealt with key problems that the author, Varsec, had not been able to solve. Angved had to read it three times before the pieces clicked into exquisite place in his mind, and it was all he could do to stop himself whooping in the narrow confines of his cell.
He read, from start to finish despite the poor light, devouring Varsec’s words voraciously, poring over the diagrams, the carefully printed sketches and schematics depicting wings, streamlined bodies, joints and couplings. He skipped only those sections that dealt with Varsec’s mooted reorganization of the Aviation Corps, for that interested him not in the slightest. He had eyes only for the technical specifications.
At the end of it, he put the book down and just stared at the wall, his mind’s eye painting it with all the wonderful colours of the future.
Stab me, he thought, but we’ll take down every last living one of them. The Lowlands won’t know what’s hit it.
Nine
Khanaphes, city of a hundred thousand years – or, at least, old enough that calendars failed to have any relevance. Even the ancient, opaque system of the Moth-kinden, with its animal years marching in erratic and seemingly random procession, was nevertheless younger than this ancient city. The Collegiate dating system, so popular now, had yet to reach the year 550. Perhaps Khanaphes possessed its own calendar, but if so it was locked in the ubiquitous, impenetrable carvings that were incised on every wall and every stone surface. The locals themselves did not count the years. Time for them was the year’s cycle: the flooding and the growing and the harvest, year without end, lives lived in annual segments that followed precisely the footprints that parents and grandparents and more distant ancestors had trodden. The Khanaphir had no use for time’s progressive arrow.
But that had changed.
The Khanaphir themselves, those solid, shaven-headed Beetle-kinden, were doing their best to pretend that they still possessed that unbroken line back into the deepest past. All of them, farmers, traders, clerks, soldiers and artisans, they were desperately mumming the lives that they remembered from only a year or so before, casting themselves in the grand mystery play of eternal Khanaphes. It was a lie, though, for change had come to Khanaphes with two swift dagger strikes: the first to wound and the second even now poised above them, ready to kill.
The Many of Nem, the wild Scorpion-kinden, had always been their enemies, and the Khanaphir had fought them since time out of mind, as part of their eternal rote. When they had come last, though, the Scorpions had brought new weapons, allegedly gifted to them by the Wasp Empire, and with these they had knocked holes in Khanaphes’s walls and rampaged through half the city. That they had been driven away at last did not go far towards