Heirs of the Blade_ Shadows of the Apt_ Book Seven - Adiran Tchaikovsky [51]
The next morning the old man had some of his fieldhands load up a wagon and hitch it to a tired-looking draught beetle, all without Amnon actually making any further request that Praeda could see, or anybody suggesting a plan. On to the bed of the sturdy wagon went sacks of flour – that Praeda guessed must be hand milled – and some dried fruit, and a surprising number of jars of some kind of liquor.
By that time the old woman had plucked up the courage to approach Praeda, though still saying nothing, but offering her the curved copper strip of a razor.
For a moment she closed her eyes against the thought, reluctant because her long hair was such a part of the way she imagined herself, but reluctant even beyond that, for some obscure reason she could not name. If she was to creep into occupied Khanaphes, however, she would have to pass as a local, and if the Wasps looked closely then a mere headscarf would not serve.
‘Will you do it?’ she asked. The woman nodded, and in her eyes was a fair measure of sympathy – and perhaps a little awe at ever seeing an adult Beetle-kinden with a full head of hair.
Most of an hour later, and it was done. Amnon’s reaction was the worst, trying to adjust to her transition from the exotic to the familiar. I am still the same woman, she told herself, but she did not feel like it with her bare head cold and itching.
Then they were on the wagon, and the old man flicked at the beetle with his crop until it began its weary plodding towards the city.
There were indeed Wasp soldiers stationed at the gate, but Khanaphes was large, and not even occupation by a hostile military could keep its doors closed, not if the occupiers themselves wanted to eat. There was a steady stream of locals going in and out, the oil on the wheels of commerce. When their wagon reached the gates, there was a cursory search, the confiscation of a few jars of homebrew, a narrow-eyed squint at each of the passengers, especially the large figure of Amnon, but they were all Beetles in a city and a nation of Beetles, so the Wasps waved their wagon on without hindrance. That one of the sacks also contained all of Praeda and Amnon’s possessions, the Wasps never knew.
Those few foreigners trying to enter or leave, they saw stopped and searched far more diligently, and most of them were turned back, either trapped inside or kept out.
After that, they were within the walls. The old man just nodded once at Amnon, again with no need for a word between them, then the big man slipped off the wagon, pulling Praeda with him.
‘Where now?’ she whispered, resisting her hand’s natural inclination to drift up to her scalp.
‘I know places,’ he murmured. ‘Near the docks first, maybe. We’ll see how the Wasps are dealing with the river trade.’ He cast a single glance back at the old man and the wagon, before heading off.
It was only three streets later that Praeda enquired, ‘Amnon, have I just met your parents?’ The thought had been absurdly slow in coming, and even then she was not at all sure until she saw his face. ‘Did you . . . did you not think to introduce me?’
‘I did. After you slept,’ he mumbled, looking awkward for a moment. ‘They liked you, I think.’
‘What . . . did you tell them?’ she demanded, but just then he pretended to spot a Wasp patrol and picked up the pace, leaving her glaring at his broad back.
Then the city had encompassed them, and she was abruptly wrestling with memories of how she had seen the place last, before her return to Collegium. The western half had been occupied by the Scorpion-kinden then, as the Many of Nem ravaged the farmland up and down the riverbank seeking for a way across, while she and Amnon and the mercenary artificer Totho fortified the bridge against them. Beyond that, she remembered the