Heirs of the Blade_ Shadows of the Apt_ Book Seven - Adiran Tchaikovsky [72]
‘That wasn’t the Empire, they say,’ the Solarnese opined, but rather uncertainly.
‘It was the Empire,’ Amnon declared. They glanced at him thoughtfully, and read a great deal of certainty on his face.
‘You’re local. You fought them?’ the Spider asked. ‘On the bridge, was it?’
‘On the bridge,’ Amnon agreed heavily, and the weight of memories bled into his words, lending them conviction that could not be denied.
‘I was there too,’ Praeda put in. ‘There were Wasp-kinden directing the artillery, flying in with grenades. In the city, too – Rekef, they said.’ She did not mean to, but she gave that word a hushed and fearful emphasis. From the reactions of the others it was entirely appropriate.
‘They’re after Solarno, for sure,’ said the smuggler-merchant savagely. ‘Flanking us, that’s what they’re doing.’
‘There’s the whole of the Nem between Khanaphes and the Exalsee,’ said the Spider woman dismissively. ‘What sort of flanking manoeuvre sees half your army dead of thirst before it arrives? The Spiderlands is next on their menu, you take my word. They know that, if they want to push their ambitions anywhere south of Toek, they’ll have to make a sustained assault on the Houses, and they’re looking for a way in. Probably air armada over the Forest Aleth.’
The Fly-kinden shook his head. ‘You’re not listening. First thing when they got here, they’re looking west. Not Solarno but the desert. They’ve had surveyors and artificers and wildsmen out there for days now. This isn’t just a staging post. Solarno and the Nem are it.’ The others stared at him, and he glowered right back.
‘You think they’re going to rob your tombs before you can get to them?’ the Spider said somewhat disdainfully.
‘Know what?’ The Fly snorted. ‘I don’t know what in Waste’s name they’re after, but they’re after it with all their bastard hearts. And while it won’t be my business they’re muscling in on, they won’t want someone like me anywhere close by, I can tell you. Maybe it’s time I went and followed up some leads down Tsovashni way.’
‘And at last!’ The Spider woman stood up, as their missing fourth had finally arrived. ‘Someone who can give us the real story. Grab a chair, Emon.’
Praeda looked over, seeing a short, dark man, his greying hair cut almost to the skull: a Bee-kinden with an artificer’s toolstrip slung over a dark tabarded breastplate. Only when she saw the symbol on his chest did she start. A grey gauntlet embroidered on grey cloth, yet some trick of the weave made it catch the light differently, making it clear and distinct and ominous.
‘Iron Glove?’ she exclaimed. ‘I’d have thought you’d want to be well away from the city. Surely the Empire are shooting you people on sight.’
‘And hello to you too.’ The Bee, Emon, sat down and snagged a mostly empty jar of wine, draining the dregs of it. ‘Who are these?’
‘Travellers who want us to think they’re locals. Or the other way round,’ the Spider woman said wryly. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Perhaps not.’ The Bee then squinted and appeared to change his mind. ‘Or perhaps, yes. You’re . . .’ his eyes widened, staring at Amnon, and there was a tense moment in which revelations and violence hovered very close together. ‘Never mind,’ the Bee concluded. ‘None of my business.’
‘They fought on the bridge, they reckon,’ the Fly explained, watching the Iron Glove man carefully.
‘Oh, to be sure. I, on the other hand, fought on the river.’
‘The Fourth Iteration?’ Praeda pressed, for it was the name the Glove had given to their ingenious ship that had taken such a toll of the attacking Scorpions, until the Imperial artillery had finally silenced it.
Emon nodded. ‘A lovely craft it was, too, but in the end it was swim or fly, when sailing couldn’t keep us afloat any more. Not that many of us made it to shore.’
The Solarnese merchant had called for more wine, and the Bee accepted a jug gratefully. ‘So I can see why you’d think I was tempting fate by sitting here, but it’s not so. We’re just arrived, and here because we