‘You must wonder why I show such interest in you, a lowly quartermaster major,’ she murmured.
She does not know. He read her expression, as much as he dared, like stealing glimpses at the sun. If she was playing a double game, he could see none of it there. Sweating despite the cool of the night, he forced himself back into his role. And Ostrec would react how…?
Ostrec would assume she had called him here because he was young and handsome and strong. The real Ostrec saw women as having a simple outlook on the world. He would look at Seda and smile, oblivious to all the occult strength that Esmail could feel radiating from her.
Esmail produced that same smile: lean, a little predatory and horribly out of place. It was the hardest thing he had done.
‘You interest me, Ostrec,’ she told him, using the right name this time, and he saw that she did not realize how she had misspoken before. It was no simple mistake, though. He was willing to bet that Seda did not make simple mistakes. To his awe and horror, he realized that some deep part of her, some subconscious monitor, really had pierced his disguise and seen him, even somehow divined his name. Give Seda another few years and she would learn to listen to that inner voice, and be even more dangerous and indomitable than she already was. For now, though, a lifetime of being deaf and blind to the magical world still chained her. For now.
And this is why the Moths sent me to kill her now.
‘I am honoured,’ he let Ostrec reply. ‘Your Majesty, tell me what I might to do please you.’ Esmail was calmer now, feeling out the limits of his situation, feeling three layers of Ostrec rub against one another inside his mind: the man’s private thoughts, the pawn in Brugan’s covert game and the public face that he was projecting to Seda.
‘I collect people who interest me,’ she told him, and abruptly turned away, not at all the reaction Ostrec had been expecting, ‘if they prove to be truly interesting, if they do not disappoint.’ She was striding off, away from the relics of the Twelve-year War, her bodyguards gliding silently along with her. Esmail started Ostrec’s feet on the same path, managing the hesitation and little stumble that he knew the man would make after being so wrong-footed.
The Empress paused a moment, gazing into a side-chamber as he caught her up. He risked a glance and saw a work in progress, statues still in open crates and great slabs of stone faced with hundreds of little sigils. Khanaphes, he realized. Of course, the Empire had added the ancient city to its holdings recently, and here were the spoils already. This museum was the Empire in miniature, a tally of its conquests.
‘What do you see?’ Seda asked him. ‘What does Khanaphes mean to you, Ostrec?’
‘Your latest triumph,’ he hazarded, but he felt the ground beneath his feet suddenly uncertain. If they do not disappoint, she had said, and he felt on the verge of disappointing her. We come back to this: Why Ostrec? What has she seen in him, to summon him here?
‘Does Khanaphes speak to you?’ she asked him. ‘What does it say?’
Again Ostrec’s glib answer welled up within him, but he fought it down, very conscious that those would be the wrong words. She collects people who interest her. What most interests the Empress of the Wasps these days?
Magic…
Esmail felt something lurch within him, his balance momentarily failing. ‘I feel power,’ he said, conscious that his chance to answer had almost passed. ‘Old power, but power nonetheless. I cannot explain it.’ It was not what Ostrec would have said. He was improvising, because what Seda had seen within Ostrec was Esmail.
His skills hid him well. Even a skilled Skryre, if caught unawares, might not be able to penetrate his guises. Still, there was a taint about him, the inescapable bleedings of magic. Seda had looked on Ostrec and seen a dimension to him that normal Wasp-kinden lacked. He was aware that he was on very dangerous ground now. He had no idea what a woman in her position might do with the man she took him for. There must be a few Wasps around with a little of the old blood in them, from half-breedings generations back, or perhaps even survivals from ancient days when the Wasps, too, were Inapt and had some rough type of magician amongst them. From her manner he guessed now that she had gone through this charade before. What had been the outcome? Or had they all disappointed her before? Was all this just some elaborate prequel to a bloodletting?
She led him on, and they continued through all the memorabilia of the Empire’s triumphs, all the detritus of its subject races: tapestries, statues, pottery and art, and always the arms and armour of the defeated, still holed and dented and scorched where the Wasp-kinden had enforced their superiority.
When she stopped he had slowed already, because ahead he sensed what must be her destination. Again he wondered that there could be such power at all, here within the city of the Apt, but he knew it was solely through Seda’s own doing, and that she must feed it regularly. The sense of the place ahead was not strong in comparison with the sources of the Moth-kinden power he was used to, but it was flowering in such hostile soil here. Its character was disconcerting and unwholesome, a mingling of the shadow-stuff the Moths liked with something even darker. He thought he could scent the faint copper smell of blood upon the air.
Seeing him react, Seda smiled. ‘And they said you were cocky,’ she murmured.
He had a stab of panic, thinking that he had dropped his mask somehow, but he saw that his hesitation and solemnity here were exactly what she would expect of Ostrec — if Ostrec had been what she took him for. In responding as he was, he was confirming himself as an object of interest rather than a disappointment.
She turned, and stepped into the next hall, past a curtain that one of her guard had drawn aside. For a moment his instincts warred within him: he knew he must not step within, and yet he knew that it was death to turn aside now, a more certain death but perhaps a cleaner one.
But he wanted to know. He wanted to see. He stepped inside.
The walls of the small, windowless chamber had been covered with dead vines and branches, nailed up everywhere to form an ersatz grove, a cage of withered wood. A few dim lanterns hidden amongst the twisted, interlacing boughs provided the only light Seda allowed within.
No arms and armour here, no exhibits, nothing for public edification. Instead there was only one piece of history in the room, and it was not the Empire’s. Eight feet tall and formed of rotting, insect-infested wood, it was an effigy, a crude mantis shape: a single warped upright reaching almost to the ceiling, with two crooked arms. Esmail knew the pattern well. Wherever the Mantis-kinden made their homes, somewhere, in the darkest inner glade furthest from foreign eyes, there would be some nasty piece of work like this. Where Seda might have acquired such a ritual figure, he did not know, but he knew that the ancient Mantis traditions fed them with death and blood, and those traditions had not been overly encouraged by that race’s Moth masters. It would seem that Seda had resurrected the practice, and from that he guessed that she had probably secured the loyalty of her bodyguards until death and perhaps beyond.
Then there was movement all around. The criss-crossing of the branches, the overwhelming presence of the idol, had blinded him to the fact that the room was already occupied.
Conspirators, he thought immediately, contrasting them with Brugan’s fellow plotters, but he knew in a moment there was a better word. There were four of them here, all Wasp-kinden men and nothing special — none of them looked like high-ranking officers, although perhaps not simple soldiers either. He mentally labelled them — slaver, two sergeants and a Consortium clerk — without much justification.
They were waiting for him to step deeper into the room, which would leave the Empress and her guards in the doorway, barring his retreat. It seemed to him, though, that he had already taken too many steps just by coming here. A few more would make no difference.