‘We cannot quit the city, of course.’ Major Vrakir was the first to speak after Tynan had relayed the ultimatum. The other faces of his officers, the men who had been fighting all night to stop it coming to this, looked less certain, pale and worried.
‘Alternatives?’ Tynan demanded, the clock in his mind counting down.
‘We hold the city as long as possible.’ Vrakir again, promptly.
‘We’re barely holding half of it now!’ another major snapped. He had a bandage about his head to cover the gash a Sea-kinden claw had dealt his scalp.
‘We make them pay in blood and time,’ Vrakir insisted. ‘The Empress is relying on us. Our forces to the north of here are—’
‘Already under attack,’ Tynan finished for him. In the surprised quiet after that he added, ‘No, I’ve heard no report, but of course they are. The Sarnesh were only holding back because of us – because a strike north by the Second could catch their city undefended if their main force was off chasing our relief. Now that we’re pinned here, they can just push east at their leisure. Last reports had them outnumbering our forces.’
‘The Empress’s will is plain: no retreat,’ Vrakir said flatly.
‘This is your “voice of the Empress”, I take it,’ Tynan needled him.
‘Yes, sir, it is.’ Vrakir met his gaze without flinching.
Tynan glanced away first, and for a long moment he just looked up at the ceiling, hands clenched into fists, keenly aware of the gaze of all his officers on him, knowing that they were torn as he was torn. They wanted to live. They wanted their men to live. They wanted to continue serving the Empire.
He, Tynan, wanted to serve the Empire. It was all he had ever done. He had never disobeyed an order. And, whilst there had been a time when he could have denounced Vrakir as a fraud, denied his Imperial mandate, that time had now passed. He had been given too many unpalatable commands straight from the Empress’s own mouth, and he had obeyed every one.
Out there, the Sea-kinden would be stirring, if that was truly what they were. They were something new, certainly – new and deadly. With their Ant allies they would break the Second, today or next day or in a tenday, and all that remained was to see how much of Collegium the Wasp army would destroy or depopulate in its death throes.
You want to do this? Maker had asked him.
Tynan felt himself poised on the edge of a great fall that no Art could save him from.
‘Ready the army for an evacuation of the city,’ he said quietly.
The very moment he said the words, three of his officers were already moving.
Vrakir’s voice halted them. ‘You cannot go against the Empress’s wishes, General!’
‘I serve the Empire,’ Tynan stated. ‘The Empire is not best served by my men giving up their lives so that Collegium can live another tenday under the yoke.’
‘That is not your decision to make, General.’
‘It is!’ Tynan snapped. ‘I lead the Second. Not you, not even the Empress. Here and now, in this room, in this city, I am the final voice of Imperial authority. We cannot hold Collegium, and the Sarnesh will be marching even now. Where will they be marching, Major? East, towards Helleron, towards Myna, towards Capitas. The Empire needs this army, but not just to make some mindless stand here.’
‘No, General—!’
‘Major Vrakir, I will have you locked up if you so much as say another word, and then you can keep the flag flying alone over Collegium after we’re gone. Go, muster the men and get them ready to retreat. Lieutenant, get a messenger to fly out to the enemy and let them know I’ve made my decision.’
This time Vrakir remained silent, though his throat worked and he opened his mouth once or twice.
Tynan felt a great surge of relief, the promised confrontation receding. ‘And empty those big airships. I want all our gear – artillery, supplies, anything that would slow us down – stowed in there and ready for getting out.’
‘General, those are Slave Corps ships,’ a new voice objected: the captain of slavers.
‘Consider them commandeered.’
‘General, no.’ Vrakir once more, but now a new tone had entered his voice, a new stillness to his body. ‘They do the Empress’s work. The slaves they are laden with are for her.’
‘She has all the slaves in the Empire at her disposal,’ Tynan told him, slightly wrong-footed.
‘This is the will of the Empress,’ Vrakir stated. It was as though someone else spoke through him. ‘The slaves must go to Capitas. A great deal depends on it. This is the Empress’s command. There is nothing more important than this.’
‘More important than whether we stay or evacuate?’ Tynan demanded.
‘Yes!’ The otherworldly quality was abruptly gone from Vrakir, its work done, and Tynan saw the man visibly catch up with what he had said and latch on to it as his new purpose in life. ‘The Empress is not to be denied!’
But, to Tynan’s surprise, having twisted in Seda’s unseen grip once, it was easier to struggle free now. ‘Get the airships emptied. We need them.’
‘General, this is treason.’
‘I shall answer for it,’ Tynan told him, quite calmly. The assembled officers watched, frozen, this long-threatened confrontation coming at just the wrong time. ‘Get the—’
Then Vrakir’s palm was out, directed at him, killing Art wisping and flaring on the man’s skin. Tynan stared into his enemy’s eyes, seeing madness there: a man under pressures that no Apt man had been born to. Death too, though – he saw his death there, sure enough.
‘Major Vrakir, stand down.’ Useless words, for the other man was beyond that now.
‘I am the voice of the Empress,’ Vrakir stated, each word forced through clenched teeth. ‘Obey, or die a traitor.’
Then a lieutenant had feinted at him, a desperate lunge that the officer was already turning into a dive as Vrakir’s arm snapped around. And Tynan’s wings flurried enough to close the distance, barrelling him into Vrakir so that the pair of them landed hard on the floor with Tynan on top.
He was older, and he had not fought with his fists for too many years, and Vrakir was fiercely mad, capable of anything, fearless of any consequence. There was no time for subtlety. Besides, Tynan was not interested in subtlety just then. His pent-up rage at this subordinate’s orders, of what Tynan himself had done at this man’s prompting, the betrayals, the wrongs . . .
He had Vrakir’s throat grasped in his hands in that brief moment before the other man caught his breath back, and Tynan’s Art blossomed with a release that was fierce and primal, a second’s worth of youth and strength that he had been husbanding for his old age. The searing flash left the Red Watch major’s head almost scoured from his body.
Shaking and unsteady, Tynan allowed himself to be helped to his feet.
‘Unless there are any other objections,’ he said, his voice uneven, ‘get those poor bastards out of the airships and get our kit in. We’re leaving.’
In drawing up his plans to decamp the whole Second Army as efficiently as possible, he did not wonder about the sudden disappearance of the Slave Corps officers until it was too late.
Twenty-Seven