'He told me about a time during the war when he and some of his people were penned in by us Commonwealers, no hope of getting out only of holding on a little longer before the end.'

'Maure-' Che started, suddenly understanding, but the magician hurried on with her story.

'He challenged them to duel of champions. That's the old way, here in the Commonweal. Before the Empire, that was the way that lords and ladies did it, to spare their people. Of course, the Wasps never saw the need, but Varmen used it to buy time.'

Tynisa saw that every pair of eyes had turned to her, inexorable as the dawn.

'No, absolutely not,' she heard Che saying distantly. 'They have a Weaponsmaster with them. A real killer.'

'I thought we had one here, too,' Dal Arche said quietly.

'But how will it help?' the Beetle girl demanded.

'Che, when two Weaponsmasters fight, people watch,' Maure pointed out. 'Even in the Commonweal it is a rare thing to see. There will be a chance to escape, win or lose. More of a chance than by staying trapped in here until . . .' She faced up to Che's accusing stare and shrugged unhappily. 'Che, I want to live. I agreed to help you, but not to end like this. I want to live.'

'As do we all,' Dal Arche agreed.

'You can't ask her!' Che snapped at him.

Dal stood up abruptly, with enough threat in his posture that Thalric intervened, hand extended, getting between him and Che. With that, everyone was on their feet, hands reaching for weapon hilts everyone save Tynisa and Maure.

'Hold! All hold!' Dal snapped. 'Listen, Beetle,' he addressed Che, 'we are due to die on the morrow. I have no illusions about the justice of our cause. We are robbers and killers, and so are those that oppose us, and all the justice in the world won't tilt those scales an inch. But if there is a chance that any of us could live, then I can ask anyone anything. Death is a long road, Beetle girl, and trodden one way only, and those who put honour and principle before life belong in stories, not here in this ruin along with us. A challenge of champions might win us time to scatter and get away. If it means only another half-day of life for one of us, then I can ask.' He shook his head. 'She's right regarding the old ways from before the war. They don't apply to b.a.s.t.a.r.ds like us, peasants and villains, but if the girl puts herself forward, I'll wager the Salmae will agree. That way the princess'll get to see the blood she most wants to.'

'How can you even-' Che started, but Tynisa just said, 'Che.' Not spoken loudly, but the word brought silence in its wake.

'It's a good idea,' she continued. 'I'll do it.' And when Che started protesting again, 'I've seen the man fight, so who knows how matters might fall out? And, besides, I'd rather die at the hands of another Weaponsmaster I can respect, than fall to some chance spear or arrow.'

And in her head she heard the echo of the words, With me, you can win any battle, and they were followed by hollow, bitter laughter.

I could ask him back, even now, and he would come, but she knew bleakly that she would not. I will live or die according to my own merits, in the final a.n.a.lysis. The real man that my father was would appreciate that.

Forty-Four.

After that it had simply remained for them to choose who should deliver the challenge.

In the grey light of a mist-laden dawn, Thalric emerged from the tumbled tower, pa.s.sing Dal Arche, who had watched out the last hours of the night.

'Good luck,' the Dragonfly wished him.

Thalric gave the man a sour look. This was, he was fully aware, a stupid idea, and he had no faith in it, whatever the late Varmen might have said. Still, it was marginally less stupid than sitting in the tower until the Salmae finally cracked their defences.

All I need to do is get Che out, he decided. Win or lose, he would manufacture the opportunity somehow.

And they take this seriously? This clash of champions? Now that it had been mentioned, he did find an old memory surfacing from the earliest years of the war. Imperial generals being called out, gorgeously armoured Dragonfly-kinden Weaponsmasters standing before the automotives and the ma.s.sed infantry, and then pointing a levelled sword, trying to face down the future.

He frowned. There was a great deal of idealism in the Commonweal back in those days amongst the n.o.bility, at least, who didn't need to worry about where their next meal was coming from. Storybook lives, princes and castles, dances and hunts and mock tourneys. Then the Empire had come and burned away centuries of acc.u.mulated romance inside the engines of its war machine. So where did that leave Salme Ela.s.s? Was she still the honour-bound idealist?

Emperor's b.a.l.l.s she is, Thalric decided. He would rely on two things: that there would be empty-headed idle n.o.bles among her retinue by whom this nonsense would be taken seriously and that Salme Ela.s.s knew what she herself wanted.

He spotted their picket line even as he entered the trees, mostly because it recoiled from him at a distance of twenty feet, the scouts flitting back towards the safety of the camp. He guessed that they had spread themselves thin, a cordon about the tower with plenty of airborne keeping watch for attempts at an escape to the sky. But, then, they know Tynisa, therefore they know she cannot fly.

'I am an emissary with a message for your princess,' he called out. 'You will take me to her.'

After a pause, a handful of them approached him, cl.u.s.tered together for shared courage, as though they were stepping between the jaws of a beast. Thalric regarded them coldly, facing down the spearheads trained on him. They were a handful of peasant levy, he realized, and terrified of him. Varmen did some good work, then.

'I come under truce,' he informed them, raising one hand. A red flag was apparently the truce sign in the Commonweal another gap in the Empire's knowledge, as far as he was aware, though he guessed that wouldn't have made much difference to the course of the war. Oddly, none of the brigands had been carrying one, back there in the tower, but eventually it had been discovered that Avaris was wearing three shirts, one of which was something close to russet. It had then been pressed into service, tied about Thalric's wrist so as to leave both hands free.

One of the soldiers, a Gra.s.shopper-kinden with short greying hair, stepped forward and took a deep breath. When Thalric failed to strike him dead, he bowed slightly. 'Come with me,' he beckoned.

Word had clearly outstripped his arrival because some semblance of a court had already a.s.sembled, with Salme Ela.s.s, partly armoured, at its heart. Thalric regarded the Dragonfly matriarch speculatively: whatever rage she harboured for the death of her son was kept deep within her. Her glance towards him was merely imperious. Even so, there were a great many spears directed his way, some arrows too, and he saw plenty of sidelong glances and people shuffling a few inches back as he pa.s.sed by. It was as though death by Empire was something that could be caught merely by proximity.

If I cried 'Boo!' now, I'd make half of them c.r.a.p themselves. And I'd get shot, too, about nineteen times, so over all not worth it.

'Emissary!' He held up the rag tied to his wrist. 'Sent from Dal Arche of Rhael to Salme Ela.s.s of Leose.' He only hoped he had the province names the right way round. And no wonder his people had renamed most of the places they conquered. The place was easy enough to get lost in, as it was, without all their baffling and oddly p.r.o.nounced towns and villages.

'"Dal Arche of Rhael"?' echoed Salme Ela.s.s archly. 'The villain styles himself thus, does he?'

'I'd a.s.sumed this was the heart of your disagreement,' Thalric replied easily, as though he was not the focus of such utter fear and hatred. 'You'll forgive me, but these Commonweal customs are unfamiliar to me. I merely bring you the message.'

She gave him a calculating look. 'So this is not the Empire's fight, then?' and it was plain that the subtraction of one Wasp-kinden from the equation was greatly to be desired, most especially if that Wasp might then just walk away. 'What is your name, emissary?'

'Thalric,' he stated simply, for the momentary luxury of having an audience to whom it would mean nothing. Then, because he had a reputation to keep up as a figure of terror and nightmare, 'Major Thalric.'

Salme Ela.s.s affected to look bored. 'Every Wasp lordling from across the border is a colonel at least.'

'Whereas I come from the Empire itself, and not your lost princ.i.p.alities, and so am only a major,' he replied equably. 'But you're right: this isn't the Empire's fight, nor mine.' He had to bite his tongue to keep it at that, because the idea of the Empire even noticing this petty little brawl was ludicrous. This was not war. It was barely civil disobedience.

And yet people have died, and will die. It remains to ensure that Che and I are not amongst them.

'What is your message, emissary?' Ela.s.s snapped.

'I am sent to invoke an old Commonweal practice, as I understand it. We challenge you.'

An expanding ripple of silence followed his words. When Salme Ela.s.s's only response was to stare at him, he added, 'Dal Arche challenges Salme Ela.s.s or, as tradition will have it, his champion shall meet yours.'

'And what victory does your bandit-prince offer me, should I lower myself to accept this challenge?' she hissed.

'Himself and his followers, with no further loss of life amongst your servants,' Thalric elaborated. 'If he wins, he and his are pardoned, absolved, let loose to leave your lands unmolested. I think that's what they have in mind.'

'He and his half-dozen are now trapped inside a pile of stones, just waiting for my spears to pry him out, like a snail from its sh.e.l.l,' she pointed out with a slight smile. 'Is this the only way he could think of improving his odds? He is no prince, therefore I need accept no challenge. Why should I?'

Even as she said it, Thalric sensed a shifting and a frowning from some quarters, most especially those he had identified as n.o.bles. Dal Arche was indeed beneath a princess's notice, unfit to clean her boots, let alone challenge her, but, even so, the refusal did not sit well. Perhaps there are simply those who value their followers' lives more than she does.

'Why should you?' Thalric echoed. 'I'd thought you wanted to see Tynisa's blood, Princess. How better than if your own Weaponsmaster whittles her down for you? I understand he knows his trade.' He looked around, spotting the pale-haired old Mantis not far off, and instantly recognizable. 'Having her spear-riddled corpse dragged before you over a carpet of your own dead soldiers would be less satisfying to you? It would be to me, certainly.'

'A strange way to speak of your champion,' she remarked drily.

'Mine?' He raised his eyebrows. 'As I said, this is not my fight.' He felt the tide of honesty rising, and let it take him where it would. 'I care only for myself and for the Beetle girl I arrived with, Princess. For the others, the brigands, I care nothing. I have no doubt that you feel you've just cause to put them on the pikes, or string them up, or however else you like your executions around here. But as for Tynisa, well . . .' His grin was harsh. 'You have no idea how much simpler my life would be without her. If she got carved up by your man, why, I'd be dancing with joy inside. We've tried to kill each other enough times in the past, and whenever she had me at her mercy she made me regret it, every punch and kick she did, and even when I did her a good turn, she cast it back in my face with a curse. To have Tynisa dead would be the world's own gift to me, Princess. Let her come and let her die, and then I shall depart with Cheerwell Maker, and the rest are for your justice. Why would you say no? Why would you wish victory any other way?'

Finishing his speech, he examined his feelings on the matter. And how much of that did I mean, and how much was just for show? He found that he had absolutely no idea. The vein of bitterness he had tapped surprised even himself.

'Let her come then,' Ela.s.s said, just loud enough for him to hear. 'I grant this Dal Arche the honour of my agreement to his challenge. Let the murdering b.i.t.c.h come, and my champion will be waiting for her.'

Thalric nodded, then raked his black and gold gaze across the a.s.sembled court, seeing plenty of them flinch or drop their eyes rather than meet his.

'In one hour?' he suggested.

'An hour,' agreed Salme Ela.s.s, whereupon Thalric sketched a brief, almost disdainful bow to her, and went to spread the good news.

Gaved the Turncoat darted across the sky, the patchy forest rushing beneath him. For a Wasp he was a fair flier, which made him at best adequate and workmanlike by local standards, and normally he would not have tried to travel these distances trusting to nothing but his Art. He needed his high vantage point from which to search the land ahead, though. A great deal was resting on him just then.

That he was selling out one ally for another was a depressing weight in his stomach. He had tried, sincerely tried, to be an honest man, but n.o.body in the Commonweal wanted an honest Wasp. He seemed to have spied on everyone for everybody else, told each that they were the only one, like a faithless lover. He had lost track some time ago of precisely where his loyalties were supposed to lie.

The thought that he and Thalric had all this in common was a miserable one.

The weather was taking a turn, he felt the air become crisp, snow on the way most likely. Just another way for the world to make his life harder just then. Let it snow when Sef and I are out of here. Let it snow all it likes.

And where the pits are they?

He pulled higher in the air, feeling the wind buffet him, taking his bearings, even checking his compa.s.s against the landmarks on offer. The Commonweal was so cursed big, and so much of it looked just like this, especially in Elas Mar Province. That was a.s.suming he was still in Elas Mar Province, of course. The bandits' flight had taken them some way east, and if Gaved had got his compa.s.s points wrong he could even be over the border by now.

But there: he saw them now the riders. They had been a further distraction to the Salmae scouts, or so the word had come to him: a party of riders plainly not under Salmae command, an armed force with unknown intent. When the scouts had gone seriously hunting them, though, no trace had been found. Gaved could only envy the woodcraft.

He dropped down, hoping fervently that n.o.body was going to shoot him. Bad first impressions were likely to be fatal in this sort of situation. He had his arms out, fists closed, but who knew whether these people remembered civilized conventions like that, any more.

There were a dozen riders there, and the contrast to the Salmae's people was plain: these were military, or at least the next best thing. There was a quiet discipline to them that put all the posturing of the local n.o.bles to shame. Their armour was more functional than fancy, and they had a feel to them of men who had killed, and would kill again, and were utterly dedicated to their cause.

Gaved did not meet their gaze, because he was most certainly someone they would not hesitate to slay, given the order. Instead he hurried towards their leaders, two men he was at least on speaking terms with, even if those words were just orders that they gave him.

In the face of their stern looks, he had to fight the urge to salute.

'I must report,' he told them. 'Please, hear me. There is a great deal I have to tell you.'

Tynisa stood there in the morning sunlight, feeling the easy weight of her rapier, like clutching the hand of an old friend. The Salmae's people had started gathering at the trees' edge, some venturing up the slope a little. There was no sign of Ela.s.s or of Isendter yet.

She sheathed the blade, its point finding the scabbard's narrow mouth automatically, and took out her badge. The sword-and-circle glinted in the sun, looking polished as new. With care, she pinned it over her right breast.

The brigands had ventured out behind her, with plenty of nervous glances up at the sky. They held their weapons ready, and Tynisa realized that n.o.body cared about their supposed pledge to surrender themselves if she lost. When the tide of Salme Ela.s.s's followers descended on them with spear, sword and bow, they would soon be scattered and killed. Some might make it back to the tower, or halfway back up the hill, but that would avail them little.

She glanced back, her eyes seeking Che. Her sister sat resting her leg, with Thalric standing guard over her, and the halfbreed Maure nearby. The magician was looking guilty, and Che had pointedly turned away from her, but Tynisa could feel philosophical. She was right, after all, this is the best way. I have done many bad things, and made many bad decisions, and I cannot blame them all on Tisamon's ghost.

Even as she had this thought, the echo of his presence returned to her, almost like a plea to be allowed back in. I shall make you win. You will carve your way through them, spill the blood of your enemies. What else is there?

But she shook her head. If I die, it will not be undeserved. That was the bare truth of it. The Commonweal of Salme Dien, with its moral certainties, enlightened n.o.bles and happy serfs, was already a lost world, and she had believed in it for too long, to her detriment. Perhaps men such as Felipe Shah and Lowre Cean did their best, but human nature was the same the world over. There was nothing magically pure about the n.o.bles of the Commonweal. She had simply been lucky enough to know Salma, and he had been something special.

There was a murmur in the ranks, and she saw Salme Ela.s.s had arrived. Alain's mother. Dien's mother. The woman stared at her, the hard sun glinting and shimmering on her armour, then a servant brought forth a chair for her and she sat down, for all the world like the guest of honour at some theatrical presentation. Into the silence that followed stepped Isendter Whitehand.

The pale-haired Mantis paused a moment at Salme Ela.s.s's side, gazing down at his mistress. His gauntlet was buckled on, its blade jutting out between his middle fingers, and he flexed it in and out as he watched her: now forwards like a punch-dagger, now folding back along his arm. For a moment Tynisa sensed uncertainty in him, and she wondered whether he might have some reason to fear her, after all. Then he came striding to meet her, and the silence seemed to grow and grow around them both. The light touched brightly on his brooch too, the match for her own.

'You have lost a companion, I think,' he told her, when close enough to be heard without raising his voice. For a moment she thought he meant Varmen, but then she realized that he must have sensed the change, the absence of the ghost.

'I sent him away, in the end,' she declared. 'The price was too high.'

He regarded her levelly. 'Some might say that it was now that you would most need such aid.'

She forced a smile. 'I'll beat you on my own. I need no crutch, Master Whitehand.'

His nod was brief but approving. 'You are worthy to wear the badge, then,' he said simply, but the words seemed to strike her deeper than she could account for, drawing out parts of her that had withered in Tisamon's shadow.

I am a Weaponsmaster, after all. Live or die.

'And the justice of your cause?' he asked, nodding towards the little pack of brigands.

'And the justice of yours?' Because his words had practically invited the comparison. 'The fight is all.'

'We understand one another.' In a single step, he had put a very precise distance between them, a fighting distance, and her sword was in her hand without her needing to reach for it.

Even as he cut for her, she heard in her mind the beat of the Martiette, back in the ballroom of Leose. She already knew him, knew his skill and his style, the pattern of how he fought, taught to her in that dance. He perhaps thought he knew her just as well, but she had been playing host to Tisamon since then, and been twisted in his grip. She was no longer the same dance partner as before.

The first series of cuts came as though she and he had arranged them by prior agreement, as he made to step within her reach and bring his shorter, more agile blade to bear, twisting his wrist to lash at her from all angles, and she stepped back and round, circling, letting him drive her, and adjusting her stance for the sloping ground but catching each blow as it darted towards her, turning it aside with her blade and, once, with her quillons. Then, without warning, she had taken two steps to his one, widening the gap between them and putting him at her sword's point, and she lunged without giving him a chance to react. It was unfair, perhaps, that it was a move he would not see coming, not part of their previous course of dealings, but her sword led her into it, and she took the opening as soon as she had made it.

He did not even step back. Instead, his metal claw cut across his body, her sword's tip almost trapped between it and the spines of his arm. Then he moved further in, for a moment almost body to body, then past her, turning as neatly as any dancer even as she spun on the ball of her foot, drawing her blade free, backing up to allow s.p.a.ce again.

Two sharp lines of pain were clamouring in her mind, torn through her arming jacket below her right shoulder, dug there by the spikes of his off-hand arm.

His face bore a slight smile, and his eyes were encouraging, almost genial. He was enjoying himself, but not at her expense. She was impressing him, even though it was her blood glistening on his spines.

Then he drove straight at her, destroying all the distance she had tried to create. His swift blade flicked past her face, only her last-moment sway saving an eye from it, and then it was back to cut across her body, too close to be parried. She let her left leg fold, shoulder almost touching her knee, letting the strike pa.s.s her by. A heavier weapon would have left him open but, when she tried to jab at him with her sword, twisting her wrist and arm inwards to bring the needle tip to him, his weapon was in place to sc.r.a.pe down the length of her own blade, nicking her elbow to draw a single bead of blood.

She slapped him with her off-hand. She had no needles or spines of Art there, but it was a move both unbecoming and unheralded, and she felt the inside of her fingers connect with his chin, hooking his head aside. She used this tenuous purchase to swing her back foot round and retreat, then kick off and move forward again, even as he started to close once more.

She should have had him then. Her technique had been faultless: not a spare twitch or quiver to warn him that he would be driving himself on to her blade. His body was abruptly sideways, though, feet skipping him aside so that the slender lance of her rapier scoured a gouge in the grey leather of his jacket but drew no blood, and then he drove his clawed gauntlet down at her like a scythe-blade.

The first jolt pa.s.sed through her, though in that moment she could not have recognized what it was. She pressed forward, ducking almost under his armpit, feeling the descending blade rake through her flurrying hair as she put on a rush of speed, clearing ten, twelve paces before she turned with sword outstretched and ready for him. She found him standing, as before, without having deigned to follow her. His expression was patiently encouraging, maddening because there was a meaning there that she could not quite grasp.

Her heart and innards felt taut and out of balance. He had bloodied her twice, and he was improvising. She had the measure of him, yet had barely touched him.

Some small, clear voice in the back of her mind explained it to her patiently: This is fear.

He approached again, his steps confident but without arrogance, a man who has seen the history of his duel written out like a play, and intends to perform his role without melodrama.