‘He’s quite a character, isn’t he,’ Sperra said, in a thoughtful tone of voice.
For a moment, Taki couldn’t imagine what she was talking about. Then: ‘Laszlo?’
‘Do you think he really used to be a pirate?’
Sperra and Laszlo had been talking earlier on, but due to the rushing of the wind and the softness of their voices, Taki had caught not even one word in ten. Now she regarded the other woman doubtfully, deciding with uncharacteristic tact to let her own opinions remain unspoken. There was a hope on Sperra’s face that was just ready for some jovial bravo like Laszlo to step on. ‘Pirate? No more than he’s a spy,’ was all that she said.
Sperra looked put out at that. ‘He’s doing good work.’
‘So am I. So should you be. Come on, move.’
Still Sperra hesitated. ‘You think . . . what they were saying in Sarn, Leadswell and the rest. This is going to work, isn’t it?’
Taki shrugged. ‘Wasn’t really listening, except for my bit.’
Sperra was unhappy with that, but Taki finally got the woman out of the hold and did a few quick calculations as to how much room she was going to need to get airborne. The fixed-wing was a flimsy little thing, though, light as anything she’d ever flown. It only took a little lift to get it away from the ground and into the arms of the wind.
The summons from Milus came just a few days after Eujen had bearded him on the wall. This time it was a map room in the Royal Court, the unspoken subtext being: Look how seriously we are taking you.
The tactician regarded him without expression as Eujen stood there under his scrutiny, the brace and the stick taking his weight between them.
‘We’ve fought the Wasps about ten miles east of here – the former Collegiate garrison force and some of the First Army,’ Milus announced. ‘Mostly a skirmish of scouts and automotives, but a fair-sized engagement.’
‘I assume congratulations are in order,’ Eujen advanced.
‘The result was inconclusive, but the Wasps have been pushed further back. We think that we can control any attempt to reconnoitre our city, save for a full-scale assault. The reports from the officers in charge suggest that they will not be in a position to make such an assault in the immediate future.’
‘That is good news.’ Conversational pleasantries, obviously marking time until Milus got to the point.
‘I am aware of how many Collegiates you can put under arms, little Speaker. There is clearly nothing you can accomplish in Collegium, even with that woman’s Mynans at your back.’
‘And yet we are going,’ Eujen confirmed. ‘Perhaps we, too, wish to test the enemy’s strength.’ Wondering all the time, And what else have you heard? The plan was full of big secrets, sliding into place like blocks of stone, and Milus must have spies and agents listening out for their movements.
‘Our recent gains against the Wasps here, however, mean that I can spare at least a nominal force to accompany you south.’
Eujen waited.
‘Five hundred men, some light artillery, some war automotives.’
‘A thousand would perhaps better demonstrate the leading role that Sarn is taking in the fight against the Empire,’ Eujen stated.
For a long time Milus’s eyes bored into him, hunting for the awkward, injured student he knew was in there somewhere.
‘Very well.’ So very grudgingly, and Eujen could see a flare of that un-Ant-like temper, that erratic nature that marked Milus out from his fellows.
‘Thank you, Tactician,’ he said graciously, thinking, I have an enemy there. Once this is done, I will have to be careful.
Eleven
His name was Orothellin, and Che had waited for the cascade of titles that all of his kinden burdened themselves with, but if he had ever possessed such, he had shed them a long time ago.
He had led them from Cold Well, choosing path after path in the pitch-dark caves, and never once coming within sight of another segment of the Worm. There was no magic to it, just an utter certainty of his route, as though every inch of it was second nature to him. His pace was leaden, his bare feet dragging on the stone, and his hoarse, heavy breathing echoed about them.
When they came out into what passed for the open, they were far enough from Cold Well that the lights and the foundries were only a reddish glow limning a distant ridge, and Orothellin gave out a great sigh, swaying so that Che thought he might collapse. A moment later he was on his way again, one scraping step after another. He did not even look back, and for a moment Che thought he was abandoning them.
‘Please,’ she hissed at his retreating back, ‘I have questions.’
He stopped, then turned – not just his head, but his whole bulky body, as though craning over his shoulder would somehow have involved even more effort. He was a shocking sight, his pale, slick skin dirty and lined, and his hair long and matted and streaked with grey. He looked old, Che realized. The thought had been slow in coming because she knew his kind lived for many centuries, and those she had met beneath Khanaphes had seemed still in their prime.
‘Ah, no,’ he mumbled. ‘Come with me. No, there is further to go yet. They will search here. Come, now.’ His staff creaked as it took his weight, and then he was shambling off again.
Their progress was agonizing, given the thought of the Worm and its swift-ranging pursuit, but somehow their lurching hulk of a guide took them on a winding route that avoided all notice, despite shackling them to his slow shuffle. Messel kept ranging further ahead or off to one side, plainly anxious to be further from Cold Well, but he always came back. Orothellin had become the centre of their world.
At last he found a crack in the rock that seemed shallow but opened out below into a fair-sized cave. The walls were tacky to the touch, and there was a bundle of rags in one corner that must serve as a bed. A pot beside it held embers, and Messel built a low fire to bring some warmth to the place.
The huge man gave out a groan and slumped down onto the ground, the staff clattering at his feet.
‘So, my people survive still, do they?’ he asked Che.
‘They . . .’ In her mind again was the tomb complex beneath Khanaphes, with the Masters lying in dignity and state. What would they think to see one of their own like this? ‘They sleep. They are almost forgotten. I am sorry.’
‘As I knew they would be,’ Orothellin said mournfully, a prophet unacknowledged in his own country.
There had been Masters amongst those who had driven the Worm below ground, and no doubt there was a complex story to account for this man being trapped down here, but Che had other priorities, urgent priorities. Like escape.
‘Please, Master . . .’ And, when he waved the title away, ‘Teacher, then,’ for that was how Messel had addressed the man. ‘Tell me . . . that was magic. Of all we have met down here, you are the first who . . . Please, can you help us?’
He regarded her grimly, and for a long time he said nothing, so that she thought he really was falling asleep, but at last he said, ‘Messel, keep watch.’ A ridiculous request to a man with no eyes, but their erstwhile guide nodded sharply.
‘Yes, Teacher,’ and he had crawled from the cave, out into the hostile dark beyond.
‘So, you really are from the Old World,’ Orothellin said. ‘I had almost convinced myself that there was nowhere else but here.’