Part 10 (2/2)

'Well, then,' said Thalric, 'let's force the matter, shall we? I'll go and ask some directions of a local.'

'Directions?' the Beetle said, a tilt of his head indicating that the only meaningful directions here were up the river or down.

'Something similar.' Thalric stood up, casting his eyes over the quay again. They were loading the barge with more planks, teams of Khanaphir labourers sweating and hauling as they sang a low, rhythmic tune with words he could not follow. He sauntered over towards the watcher, expecting the man to suddenly find urgent business elsewhere. Instead he stood his ground, so Thalric had a chance to examine him properly. He was not young, although these Khanaphir were difficult to age, what with their bald scalps and dark, sun-creased faces. He wore a white robe that fell from one shoulder, leaving half of his chest bare. Thalric noted a respectable quant.i.ty of gold: rings, amulets, pendants, even gold ta.s.sels on his robes. At Thalric's approach, he only nodded politely.

'Excuse me,' Thalric said. 'I don't suppose you know who owns that boat over there?'

The man smiled at him as if he had been handed a compliment. 'Of course I do, Honoured Foreigner, for it is mine.'

Caught off balance, Thalric blinked. 'Then you are ...'

'O stranger, I have been waiting here for you to ask me to carry you to Khanaphes. If your need is so great, there was no need to be reticent.'

'How did you know?' Thalric asked, through gritted teeth. His agent's senses were abruptly alert, feeling great wheels moving invisibly around him. The spy in him was compromised, his mission open knowledge. Escape. Fall back Escape. Fall back. Except there was no falling back here, because the mission had not even started.

The old man's smile remained the same faintly puzzled piece of politeness as before, as if Thalric's tension had pa.s.sed him by unremarked. 'Where else would a party of foreigners of such distinction wish to go?' he asked. Trying to read the man's face was exactly like trying to read a good spy, a spy who might or might not be working on the right side.

'My name is Akneth, and I am a gatherer of taxes for the Masters of Khanaphes. If you would do me the honour, O Foreigner, of voyaging upon my s.h.i.+p, then I will be ready to cast off in the morning.' The old man had been sitting on a mooring post, and now pushed himself to his feet with a grunt suggesting some effort. Hearing it, Thalric added another ten years to his estimated age. 'I would be glad of the company,' Akneth continued, then made a short bow, one hand pressed briefly to his stomach. Thalric managed a nod in return but, in the face of that patiently avuncular smile, all of his instincts were clamouring for him to draw his sword.

'Well,' he said, as he rejoined Corolly, 'we have secured our pa.s.sage downriver.'

'So what is he?'

'Oh, he's a spy,' replied Thalric. 'Probably not a professional, but he's a government man who's keen to know what the armed outlanders are doing here.'

'Lucky for us he came along just now,' said the Beetle, but with a noticeable stress on the first word.

'Tax gatherers must be pa.s.sing up and down this river all the time,' observed Thalric, a little hollowly. 'It's just coincidence.'

Of course, it's just coincidence. He made himself sit down calmly beside the drowsing Osgan, as if he couldn't care less. Inside, his instincts were shouting at him: He knew. He already knew. He was waiting He knew. He already knew. He was waiting.

They kept him in darkness.

It had now been three tendays since they caught him, that was his best guess. Denied the sun, the moon and stars, awareness of time slipped away from him. He tried counting meals, but they fed him unreliably. He slept only fitfully, always startled to wakefulness every time the guards tramped overhead.

They had brought him to Capitas in chains, shoulder to shoulder with a gang of slaves. He, who had enslaved hundreds of wretches while he was in the Corps, now tasted the irony in blood and sweat. They had even displayed him in Armour Square, for the good people of Capitas to jeer at his deformities. Then they had cast him down here.

His name was Hrathen. It was about the only thing they had not taken from him, and they had left it because it was of no earthly use. A Wasp name, from his mother.

The bolts rattled overhead. These were the deep cells situated directly beneath the Imperial garrison. You had to be distinctly bad bad to end up here, but being Rekef and biting the hand that fed you was a good enough qualification. They had made sure his guards knew he had once been Rekef, as well as Slave Corps. It was rare that the ordinary army soldiers got to take out their fear and hatred on a real live Rekef, so Hrathen was stiff with the bruises. to end up here, but being Rekef and biting the hand that fed you was a good enough qualification. They had made sure his guards knew he had once been Rekef, as well as Slave Corps. It was rare that the ordinary army soldiers got to take out their fear and hatred on a real live Rekef, so Hrathen was stiff with the bruises.

He did not miss the light, the air, the freedom, so much as he missed the game. When he had been what he had once been, standing between his mother's people and his father's, he had been unique. He had been a servant beyond the reach of his master. He had been part of the game, and he missed the thrill of it more than he ever missed the sun.

He had already turned his head away before the searing beam of light lanced from the opened hatch above. He flexed his arms, his hands, against the leather bindings that had been his constant companions since they threw him down here. He possessed killing hands, so they would take no chances. Still, he constantly flexed and strained, working against the tension of his bonds to keep himself strong. He had been taught to believe in opportunity. His father's people were strong believers in such.

He heard a whir of wings as two guards dropped down beside him.

'This him?' one asked. 'Ugly b.a.s.t.a.r.d, isn't he?'

'Just get the harness on him. Hey, halfbreed, you're going places.'

Hrathen squinted at the pair. After all the pitch dark even the glow of lanternlight from above seemed glaring, but he had the eyes for it: eyes bred for the fierce desert. He met the gaze of the first guard, and saw him take a step back without wanting to.

'Oi, enough!' The second man shoved a fist into his back and Hrathen grunted. He was tough all over, though: leathery skin and solid bones that had taken worse.

They put a strap around him, under the armpits, and two men above began hauling him up with much complaining. Once they had him up top, which meant a corridor buried deep beneath the cellars of the garrison, they stepped back from him.

'Big b.a.s.t.a.r.d, isn't he?' the first guard remarked, noticing how Hrathen topped them all by a head. The prisoner rolled his shoulders, eyes still half closed against the light. Now he was up and on his feet they kept their distance, firmly bound as he was. The sight of their uncertainty brought back some of his much-abused pride. Let them come close, I'll put my teeth in them Let them come close, I'll put my teeth in them. He obligingly bared his tusks at them, that motley snaggle of jutting fangs that had worn scars into his lips.

'Just move him out. He's not our problem any more,' urged one of the guards. A spear-b.u.t.t jabbed at his back and he stepped briskly forward, almost leading the way. He made his stride, his demeanour, offer no admission of captivity. You cannot cage what I am You cannot cage what I am.

They led him up two levels until he could see sunlight and sky through a window. Further still they led him upwards. Servants stopped and stared when they saw him, richly dressed courtiers s.h.i.+ed away from him. He leered lasciviously at every woman he saw. After all, if he was going to be executed, he had nothing more to lose. The guards kept him moving, embarra.s.sed at the attention.

He had lost track of where they were now. Suddenly the corridors became nearly empty, with only guards and more guards to mark his pa.s.sing. Hrathen began to reconsider his immediate fate. Any execution would occur publicly, or they might decide to torture him instead though he had not imagined he knew anything worth ripping out of him by such methods.

Perhaps some scholar wants to anatomize me. He was not such a fool as to think that he could withstand torture for ever, or even for very long. The Rekef were very good at it, and possessed all the latest machinery to help them. Over the years, Hrathen had learned a few tricks to stave off pain, but they had their limits. He would give his tormentors a run for their money but, as with most hunts, the end was predetermined.

They hauled him into a side office that he thought maybe he should recognize. A moment later it caught up with him: it was a spymaster's den, the desk and papers and scrolls and carefully ordered doc.u.ments. The guards jabbed him in the back of the knee until he knelt on the floor, and then they retreated to the edges of the room. He kept his head lowered, but from the corner of his eye he kept watching. If only my mother had given me better wings If only my mother had given me better wings.

'Well now,' he heard a voice, 'what kind of monster have we here? My sources were sparing in the details, when I thought they exaggerated.' Boots pa.s.sed within Hrathen's range of vision, and then a man sat himself at the desk. He was a strong-framed Wasp-kinden, his hair just starting to turn grey and his eyes the colour of water and steel. He studied Hrathen with fascination: after all, halfbreeds of Scorpion and Wasp were not that common. Hrathen had inherited his Scorpion father's bulk, his tusks, his small, yellow eyes and waxy skin. Otherwise, he had features like a Wasp, disfigured by the snaggle of teeth and the narrow eyes. His captivity had endowed his heavy jaw with a tangle of beard, and his scalp sprouted patchy tufts of hair that he was itching to have cropped. His hands were his finest feature, but they had bound them palm-to-palm to smother his sting, and then tied together the thumb and forefinger claws as well.

'Do you know why you were arrested, Hrathen?' his inquisitor asked.

Hrathen looked straight back at him. 'Well, if you don't,' he said, 'can I go now?'

A slight smile quirked the man's mouth, then one of the guards kicked Hrathen in the side hard enough to send him sprawling, cracking his head against the stone flags.

The man behind the desk sighed. 'You were once a Rekef agent, as well as a captain in the Slave Corps. That's a heady rank for a halfbreed, but the slavers are a law unto themselves. You were given responsibilities by the Rekef, which you did not take seriously. Instead you indulged yourself. It is believed that you let yourself ... go native.'

Hrathen struggled back into a kneeling position, saying nothing.

'It happens, of course. Officers who must work closely with the Auxillians, especially the more savage types, have to make adjustments. Men who are a.s.signed to the Hornet-kinden, or the Scorpions, say, must develop within themselves a commensurate savagery, just to ensure the willing respect of their men. That is well known, but when such men begin to act against Imperial interests, in favouring the lesser race, then we step in. Particularly if such men are also Rekef.'

Hrathen tried to shrug. 'What do you want?' he demanded.

'What do you you want?' the man asked him. 'To go back to your desert and vanish? Or would you serve us once more, if the Rekef found a use for you?' want?' the man asked him. 'To go back to your desert and vanish? Or would you serve us once more, if the Rekef found a use for you?'

All through the dark hours, Hrathen had been clinging to one thought: They have not killed me yet They have not killed me yet. Behind that lay another thought, seemingly the only explanation: I am of use to them I am of use to them. He was not a man endowed with so many talents that he could not immediately see why. In all the Empire there could not be many individuals who knew the Scorpion-kinden as well as he did.

'Terms?' he enquired.

'Do you believe that I can harm you?' the man asked. 'Do you realize that I have at my disposal all that man has ever discovered of pain and persuasion?'

'I believe it of the Rekef,' Hrathen agreed, staring the man in the eyes.

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