Part 12 (1/2)

After that, he and Aarth discussed matters mercantile, Thalric improvising well enough to keep the man happy. Shortly thereafter, Varmen was back with them.

'It's not what I'd call safe, west of here,' their guide explained, after Thalric had bid Aarth farewell. 'Still a few places holding out against the governor-general, which is what the local crook calls himself. We'll have to go carefully, and be ready for a fight.'

When they left Lans Stowe, or Landstower, Varmen's little pack-beetle had taken on a more sprightly gait entirely, and Varmen had transformed himself. He wore head-to-toe chain-mail, from the coif framing his face like a hood, to the long hauberk falling most of the way to his knees, to . . .

'I've never seen mail trousers before,' Che declared, staring. 'I think that's more armour than I've ever seen anyone wear ever, Varmen.' She had kept her distance from him so far, but the sight of the man so heavily protected evidently struck her as almost comical.

'This?' Varmen just grinned. 'This isn't armour, mistress. This is just clothes you need to keep the rust off.'

As soon as they were beyond the farmland attached to Landstower, they travelled away from the roads, at Varmen's suggestion. The terrain was surprisingly hilly, with irregular patches of dense forest, but there were plenty of goat tracks, and Varmen explained to them that the roads themselves dated only back to the occupation, and were little better, just hard-packed earth. 'You see, the locals never did travel much,' he explained.

Oh, I know, Thalric recalled. All these lands were places where he had fought, undertaken Rekef missions and cut throats. Imperial policy had been strict concerning the longevity of n.o.ble families in all areas under conquest.

Also at Varmen's suggestion, they travelled on after dusk each day despite the intermittent snow, making several hours' careful progress along the animal tracks before camping for the night, so as to make better time despite the short winter days, and to make life more difficult for anyone hoping to catch them unawares.

That was why their enemies, instead of ambus.h.i.+ng them at their camp, were eventually forced to descend on them raggedly as they progressed.

The three of them had been moving along a lightly wooded track between two hills, when Che called out the warning, her own eyes better in the dark than either of the Wasps'. A moment later, there were forms gliding down around them, half a dozen, and then more. Thalric had his sword out, his offhand extended to sting, and Che had a hand to the hilt of her own blade.

'All right, what's this?' Varmen demanded, with weapon already to hand: a sword longer and heavier than army-issue standard.

'Give me a lantern!' someone snarled, and one of the figures produced a rush-light from beneath a cover, lending a faint illumination to their surroundings. The newcomers were mostly Dragonflies, partly armoured in their borrowed black and gold. Standingbetween,andalittlebehindtwoofthem,wasthespeaker: a Wasp-kinden, not Aarth but the slaver at the Wayhouse.

Thalric made a quick count and found eight Commonwealers gathered in a loose half circle around them. Most of them carried spears, but a couple had bows with arrows to the string.

'Your name's Varmen, no?' the slaver asked.

'I owe you money?' the big Wasp asked. 'I don't know your face.'

'No need to worry yourself. I don't want you. You can just take off,' the slaver told him.

'Is that so?' Varmen said, looking round at all the Dragonfly-kinden. 'Kind of you.'

Thalric was not sure what he had expected from Varmen, but when the big man grabbed his beetle's halter and just backed off into the trees he found he was not overly disappointed. Che obviously had possessed more faith in their guide, for she shouted after him vainly, even as a curtain of driving snow took him from view, and then rounded furiously on the slaver.

'What do you want with us?' she demanded. Her own sword was out now, a short Collegium piece.

'With you, nothing. Go follow your man there, if you wish,' the slaver replied.

'I don't wish.' She stood closer to Thalric, despite the odds. Just then, he could have wished for her to take the man's offer, because he was faster than she was, both on the ground and in the air, and protecting her would get him killed all the sooner. Still, the odds were hardly favourable even without her.

'What's this?' he asked them. 'Who are you?'

'Captain Halter, at your service.'

There was an awkward pause, because clearly the man expected his name to mean something, but Thalric could not place it.

'I don't know you . . .'

'No?' Halter's face betrayed a twitch of annoyance. 'But I recall you, Major, or your description at least.'

This use of Thalric's old rank sent a dangerous jolt through him. This may suddenly become worse than I thought.

'I wasn't always the man of means you see before you,' Halter continued, clearly delighting in having a captive audience. 'I used to be a very lowly man indeed. But not entirely abandoned: I still got the lists.'

Thalric stared at him. 'You're not serious.'

'I used to spend a lot of time memorizing those lists,' Halter explained, positively beaming over his own cleverness. 'We got plenty of fugitives coming through the Princ.i.p.alities. It was one of the few ways I could really attract my superiors' notice, by turning in a few decent traitors. Names and descriptions, I memorized every one. Used to recite them to myself before I slept, most nights.'

'I don't know who you think I am,' Thalric started. 'My name's-'

'Aulric, you told the merchant,' Halter finished for him. 'So he told me, but I remember a man who matches your description nicely a man who was right near the top of those lists, not so long ago.'

'Listen, I'm not-'

'Then you won't mind stripping off and letting me and my lads look at your scars,' Halter proposed, leering. 'You see, Sergeant Aulric, this Thalric I remember had picked up a big old scar running from his navel to just about his knee. The description was very specific.'

'Those lists . . . they must be years old, though.'

'Oh, but once you're on a list, there's only one way off, as everyone knows. Imagine the reward I'd get for turning in such an inveterate traitor.'

But I'm not a traitor: I was the Regent . . . And of course such a revelation would make matters a great deal worse. Thalric steeled himself, reasoning that this slaver would want him alive. Once again, he wished Che had fled, but to order her away now would surely give Halter the idea of using the woman as a hostage. Right now, the man probably thought Che was a servant or slave or something.

'So, you're going to strip, or shall we just fly you off to the Empire and see if they want you?' Halter demanded.

Thalric was formulating a line concerning the wrath of his notional Consortium masters, when a voice shouted out from behind Halter.

'Right now, you sneaky b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! Face a real man!'

Halter whirled around, and half his men with him, to see an apparition come striding into the lamplight, out of the drifting snow, approaching almost within spear-reach before they could react.

The newcomer appeared colossal, but that was mostly the armour. A full-face helm exposed nothing of him save a narrow eyeslit, whilst segmented pauldrons encased his shoulders, and his torso was locked into a ma.s.sive breastplate and backplate, from which hung curved ta.s.sets that descended clattering to mid-thigh. Brutal-looking gauntlets encased his hands. All of this was worn over the full layer of mail that Thalric had last seen the same man wearing, for that voice, despite its hollow echo, was Varmen's. He had his heavy-bladed sword in one hand, and a broad heater s.h.i.+eld strapped to his other arm. The man had transformed himself into a ghost of the Imperial past: here was the heavy armour of the Sentinels, who until not so long ago had been the Empire's pride and joy and the unyielding fist of its line battles.

The only flaw in all this barrier of solid steel was a small, jagged hole in the breastplate, low-down to the left and barely noticeable.

'Oh, p.i.s.s-d.a.m.n,' Halter swore, shaken, and Thalric let fly a sting-bolt that killed one of the archers, whilst lunging at the other in a flurry of wings. The bowman twitched backwards, out of reach, but Thalric's backhand swing smashed his bow before he could bring it to bear. Then Varmen was charging down on Halter, an unthinkable weight of both metal and man in smooth, furious motion. The slaver rapidly let fly with his sting three times, twice caught on the s.h.i.+eld and once searing harmlessly off the breastplate. One of the Dragonfly spearmen, undergoing a surfeit of loyalty, tried to get in the way, but Varmen did not even give him the courtesy of a sword stroke, barging him aside as though the man was irrelevant, bellowing 'Pride of the Sixth!'

At last, Halter tried to fly, wings suddenly sparking from his back. He had left it too late, though, and Varmen's blade chopped down to catch him neatly between neck and shoulder and slam him to the ground.

The Dragonflies had joined in the fighting, and Thalric had been hard pressed to keep the spearmen at bay in those first few seconds, until Che had lanced one through the ribs. Once Halter was down, however, they scattered instantly into the night. Had there been a free archer left amongst them, Thalric would have expected some long-range reprisal. As it was, he reckoned he and Che were probably safe from at least that particular pack of villains for the rest of the night.

He turned his gaze to the armoured behemoth that Varmen had become, and saw that the man had not yet sheathed his sword, but instead was now staring at him through that dark eyeslit.

'The lists,' came the man's voice, hollow from within the helm.

'What?' Thalric asked, with a sinking sensation in his stomach.