The Air War (57 page)

One of her tyros got ahead of her – the Beetle youth with the gap teeth whose name she could not recall. He was swinging hard to keep on the Farsphex’s tail, out of reach of its
weapons, and she saw sparks fly where his shots hit their mark. Then the other Imperials struck, two of them stooping from the starlit sky. She flashed an urgent message, but fumbled the code,
casting gibberish. At the last moment the Beetle pilot dropped away, falling sideways through the sky as he tried to evade the new enemy. They were onto him tight, though, not an inch of give in
their manoeuvring as they tried to bring him down. Taki darted in after them, trying to return the favour, desperate to keep the Beetle alive, realizing that she had lost her other tyro somehow,
and not even sure when that might have happened.

She was aware of the damaged Farsphex coming back, her mind tracking its most likely approach even as she fought to focus the line of her bolts onto the vessels in front of her. She saw the
pursued tyro’s Stormreader lurch in the air – how badly hit, she couldn’t say. Then shot was dancing past her like raindrops: the original target now trying to fall in behind her.
Any moment and she would have to pull up, and then the Beetle was as good as dead.

Almost, almost . . .
Trying to pin down at least one of the craft ahead of her, as the entire ensemble flashed through the air with all the speed their combined engines – fuel
against clockwork – could give. If she hit one badly enough, it would break off to draw her away, and then she could switch to the other and maybe – maybe—

The Beetle’s orthopter abruptly changed direction, and for a moment her mind held only the thought:
I don’t think I could have pulled that turn off
, and she was impressed. But
then he was dropping, nose down, and she realized that he had lost a wing at least.
So get out, jump, jump!
And impacts began along the length of the
Esca
, the original target coming
in from above, a different line to the one that she had guessed at, even as her own bolts finally made a perfect line between her and her target, flaying it down the ridge of its back and then
striking – how precise or how lucky? – into the piston chamber, the hammering heart that kept the Farsphex’s four wings moving. Abruptly its mechanisms were flying apart with the
force of their own impetus, and the enemy was falling, falling . . .

She wrenched at the stick, casting herself sideways into the night, then upwards, feeling the hand of the enemy’s aim reaching for her again as she sought that tiny finger’s breadth
of extra space to make a turn that would remake her from hunted into hunter.

No chance, not this time, for the enemy was on her like a lover, too close for manoeuvre. When Edmon’s Stormreader came plunging in, he was diving on both Taki and her enemy, his bolts
within a hair of taking her out of the sky even as his piercers ripped across the sky around the enemy cockpit, the effect instantaneous.

The fight was now spread over several miles of open ground, and there had to be a limit to the enemy’s mindlink, each successive division and subdivision eating away at the Imperial
advantage, even while it would allow some clutches of Farsphex free access to Collegium as they slipped past the blockade.

With Edmon following her up, Taki went hunting in the dark.

The Fly-kinden seemed a frail, small figure, dwarfed even by the small room he was confined to, guards at the door and the shutters locked despite the fact that he could barely
walk, and certainly not fly. He had a lean face that spoke of a certain amount of privation even before his injuries had further hollowed his cheeks. His hair had been cut short, close to the
skull, and was only just beginning to grow out again.

He had suffered a broken arm, several fractured ribs, a broken ankle. Half his face was one broad bruise. When Stenwold walked in, though, he forced himself to his feet, wincing as the cast took
some of his weight, a brief ghost of wings about his shoulders as his Art adjusted his balance.

Outside the room, Stenwold knew, stood two of the Maker’s Own Company, Elder Padstock’s people, and with them was Akkestrae, newly in Outwright’s livery but Mantis to the core.
He had only to call out and they would march in and explain to this small man just how some of Collegium’s citizens felt right now.

He folded his arms, a luxury not open to the Fly-kinden, but the little man instead put a great deal of work into returning his stare, meeting Stenwold’s eyes readily.

‘You have a name?’ the Beetle asked him.

‘Gizmer.’ The Fly’s light voice came out a little thickly around the bruising.

‘Rank?’

‘Pissing general. What about you?’

‘I’m Stenwold Maker, Master of the College.’

It was evident, beyond any possibility of acting, that the Fly had no idea who
that
was supposed to be. Inwardly Stenwold felt a flash of frustration – not wounded vanity, but at
the wider ignorance it probably signalled. What, then, would an Imperial aviator know? What would a Collegiate pilot know, if captured? Precious little of any use to an interrogator.

‘You know why I’m here.’

‘Yeah, figured that.’ Gizmer’s gaze dropped at last. ‘And you can stuff it.’

‘Can I, now?’ Stenwold replied ponderously, dragging a chair from the corner of the room and reversing it, leaning against the back as he had seen Tisamon do once, although the wood
had not creaked quite so alarmingly on that occasion. ‘You’re our prisoner now. What do we do with you?’

Gizmer blinked. ‘I heard they ran things like a madhouse over here, but shouldn’t you already
know
that?’

‘Why? We’re not used to having enemy soldiers at hand,’ Stenwold told him. It was true. When he had dismantled the Rekef presence in Collegium on the eve of the Spider
armada’s appearance, the spies had been detained for a time, while detailed sketches and descriptions were made, and had then simply been thrown on a rail automotive to Helleron. During the
Vekken siege, any enemy still living had been swiftly butchered by the Tarkesh and Spider soldiers – also by some of the residents of Coldstone Street, which had borne the brunt of their
incursion, it was true. The Wasps had not got inside the city, and had taken their wounded away with them. ‘What would the Empire do, I wonder?’ Stenwold added, and then, before Gizmer
could respond, ‘Interrogation machines and crossed pikes, I know.’

The Fly looked up again, eyes blazing, but said nothing.

‘I know you think we’re soft here in Collegium. I’m sure it’s preached to you by the Wasp-kinden, how they’re the superior race, and you’re better serving
them than living free over here. But, believe me, I can’t ignore the likelihood that you possess knowledge that will save Collegiate lives. Knowledge about your masters, their plans, their
machines. You’re an artificer, I’d guess, if they put you in one of those flying machines.’

‘What are you asking?’ Gizmer enquired bleakly.

‘I’m asking for your help, given willingly,’ Stenwold told him. ‘Yes, because otherwise I will have to find some other way of securing your help. But that’s not our
way; it’s not what Collegium is built on. Our strength is elsewhere. If you want, I’ll get you out into the open air and you can see for yourself the city the Wasps are trying to
destroy, see the people who live here. I’ve seen the Empire myself. Life here may surprise you. There are ways to be strong other than by military force.’

The Fly was nodding, and for a moment Stenwold thought that it might truly be that simple, but then Gizmer’s lip curled, and he said, ‘Yeah, well I can’t help noticing whose
city is on
fire
most nights.’ When Stenwold made to speak, he butted in, ‘Oh, yes, I see what you’re after. You’re all really
nice
over here, and I should be
glad to drop everything and come and be a part of this wonderful thing you’ve got going on here.’

Stenwold took a breath, adopting a philosophical expression. ‘I understand you were
manacled
into your ship. Am I not allowed to draw conclusions?’

‘Was to stop me falling out, wasn’t it?’ Gizmer spat, but this time he couldn’t meet Stenwold gaze. ‘So that was the Rekef,’ he conceded at last. ‘They
don’t trust us, so what? But it was the Rekef, not my people.’

‘I don’t see that your people were doing much to stop it,’ Stenwold remarked mildly, feeling the conversation falling under his control once more. ‘But they’re the
ones who you’re protecting.’

Gizmer limped over to the barred shutters, turning his back on the Beetle. ‘But even if I had something to say that you could use, it wouldn’t be helping you kill the Rekef.
It’d be my people.’

‘The Fly-kinden.’

‘No!’ Gizmer rounded on him furiously. ‘The aviators. The soldiers.
My
people. So forget it. You know, back there, I grumbled with the rest of them at what we had to put
up with, what they made us do. Odd what it takes to make you realize you’re loyal after all, ain’t it?’ And when Stenwold tried to speak, the Fly almost shouted him down.
‘And you know what? Stuff your so-bloody-superior Lowlands. You know, I do have something to tell you, and use it how you will. I never told this, not even to my people. I’ve got a
cousin lives with his kin in Helleron, right? He thought the way you seem to reckon I should, went looking for a better life. Every sixmonth or so I hear some word from him, whenever the messengers
get through. I hear how it is, how he lives, working in the factories there, just like I did in Capitas before all this. In the Empire my kinden are citizens – not Wasps, but citizens still.
We get rights. We get respect. I hear how my cousin lives – they work him like the worst slave in the world, only he has to find food, pay for a roof over his head. He gets nothing from them.
When there’s no work, he starves. Slaves have it better.’

‘Collegium isn’t Helleron,’ Stenwold snapped, sounding harsh because he had harboured similar thoughts about that other Beetle city himself.

‘Lowlands is Lowlands,’ Gizmer shot back. ‘And what was it you said? I don’t see your people doing much to stop it, eh?’ He looked Stenwold in the eye, grinning.
‘Long live the Empress.’

Stenwold hit him then, clumsily, without plan or purpose, sending the little man flying off his feet and into the wall, wings unable to catch him. A moment later the Beetle was standing over
Gizmer as the Fly tried to get away from him, cradling his splinted arm. The surge of violent fury in Stenwold seemed to be the culmination of all the fires, the deaths, the homeless, the grieving
– all the scars of his city. He felt the raw edge of the sheer physical pleasure that would come from the use of his fists, his feet, on this tiny outpost of the Empire.

There was a thin thread of civilization that held him back for a moment, and some part of his mind was, even then, playing through what Jodry would say, what the Assembly might do.
Nothing.
They would do nothing
. And Drillen might fret, but he was War Master Stenwold Maker and, in the final analysis, they would take what he said and not call him a liar to his face, not over just
the death of a Fly.

Abruptly the drive for violence ebbed from him, leaving a sour residue in its wake, and he realized that he did not care about the Assembly, let them censure as they would. It was not fear of
public disapproval that stayed his hand, but the personal understanding that he himself might be wrong.

I used to be so certain about things. Where did that go?

He was abruptly aware that the guards had burst in, perhaps somehow assuming that it was Stenwold himself who had been assaulted. He turned to face the two Maker’s Own soldiers and
Akkestrae, and found not a shred of condemnation on their faces.

‘I’m finished here,’ he told them.

‘What about him?’ Akkestrae asked, with a predatory look.

‘I can’t see that he’d know much, in any event.’ That knife-edge of control was still there: another jab, another nudge, and he could see himself lashing out again,
seeking some salve for himself by striking at the Empire in any way he could. ‘Leave him. Just hold him here.’

‘And feed him?’ the Mantis asked. ‘War Master, there will come a time when food is precious.’ The two Merchant Company soldiers stared with loathing at Gizmer as the Fly
got to his feet, leaning against the wall for purchase. They would have been out on the streets most nights, Stenwold guessed. They had seen the full horrors of the aerial raids.

‘Just . . .’ and Stenwold shook his head and pushed past them, his main intent to put distance between himself and Gizmer, and not to reflect too much on what had just happened.

There was a sharp snapping sound that brought him up short.

When he turned, one of the soldiers was slipping a fresh bolt into the breach of his snapbow. The Fly-kinden lay in a crumpled heap against the wall.

‘He was going for you,’ the soldier said, quite matter of factly. ‘Rushing you. I thought he had a knife.’ The words were spoken as if in rehearsal.

‘He . . .’ Stenwold looked at the other two, unnameable feelings roiling inside him. The second soldier looked shaken, but was saying nothing. Akkestrae met his gaze with a slight
raising of the eyebrows, as though not sure why he was bothering himself about the matter.

‘To die in battle is better than to live in chains,’ was all she said.

‘Would he have thought that?’ Stenwold demanded.

‘Plainly he did.’ There was no getting past her Mantis reserve.

Stenwold turned on the man who had loosed the shot, a Beetle youth who looked barely twenty and wholly unrepentant. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Jons Padstock, War Master,’ the soldier reported smartly. ‘
Maker’s
Own Company.’

Padstock . . .
and now that the name was out, Stenwold could detect the familiarity in the lad’s features.
Her son, of course.
And Elder Padstock, chief officer of the
Maker’s Own, was his fanatic supporter, and no doubt she had steeped her family in the same doctrine.

But what can I do?
He could have the youth arrested. At a time of war, he could have one of his own soldiers hauled before the Assembly for the murder of an enemy combatant, knowing all
the while that Jons Padstock had done what he did out of hard loyalty to Collegium, to Stenwold himself. And some traitor part of Stenwold’s mind was glad that the decision had been taken
from his hands, even pleased with the result.
And this is war. Things happen in war that we would not countenance in peace.