They hauled him into a side office that he thought maybe he should recognize. A moment later it caught up with him: it was a spymaster's den, the desk and papers and scrolls and carefully ordered documents. The guards jabbed him in the back of the knee until he knelt on the floor, and then they retreated to the edges of the room. He kept his head lowered, but from the corner of his eye he kept watching. If only my mother had given me better wings.
'Well now,' he heard a voice, 'what kind of monster have we here? My sources were sparing in the details, when I thought they exaggerated.' Boots passed within Hrathen's range of vision, and then a man sat himself at the desk. He was a strong-framed Wasp-kinden, his hair just starting to turn grey and his eyes the colour of water and steel. He studied Hrathen with fascination: after all, halfbreeds of Scorpion and Wasp were not that common. Hrathen had inherited his Scorpion father's bulk, his tusks, his small, yellow eyes and waxy skin. Otherwise, he had features like a Wasp, disfigured by the snaggle of teeth and the narrow eyes. His captivity had endowed his heavy jaw with a tangle of beard, and his scalp sprouted patchy tufts of hair that he was itching to have cropped. His hands were his finest feature, but they had bound them palm-to-palm to smother his sting, and then tied together the thumb and forefinger claws as well.
'Do you know why you were arrested, Hrathen?' his inquisitor asked.
Hrathen looked straight back at him. 'Well, if you don't,' he said, 'can I go now?'
A slight smile quirked the man's mouth, then one of the guards kicked Hrathen in the side hard enough to send him sprawling, cracking his head against the stone flags.
The man behind the desk sighed. 'You were once a Rekef agent, as well as a captain in the Slave Corps. That's a heady rank for a halfbreed, but the slavers are a law unto themselves. You were given responsibilities by the Rekef, which you did not take seriously. Instead you indulged yourself. It is believed that you let yourself … go native.'
Hrathen struggled back into a kneeling position, saying nothing.
'It happens, of course. Officers who must work closely with the Auxillians, especially the more savage types, have to make adjustments. Men who are assigned to the Hornet-kinden, or the Scorpions, say, must develop within themselves a commensurate savagery, just to ensure the willing respect of their men. That is well known, but when such men begin to act against Imperial interests, in favouring the lesser race, then we step in. Particularly if such men are also Rekef.'
Hrathen tried to shrug. 'What do you want?' he demanded.
'What do you want?' the man asked him. 'To go back to your desert and vanish? Or would you serve us once more, if the Rekef found a use for you?'
All through the dark hours, Hrathen had been clinging to one thought: They have not killed me yet. Behind that lay another thought, seemingly the only explanation: I am of use to them. He was not a man endowed with so many talents that he could not immediately see why. In all the Empire there could not be many individuals who knew the Scorpion-kinden as well as he did.
'Terms?' he enquired.
'Do you believe that I can harm you?' the man asked. 'Do you realize that I have at my disposal all that man has ever discovered of pain and persuasion?'
'I believe it of the Rekef,' Hrathen agreed, staring the man in the eyes.
The half-smile had reappeared. 'I am the Rekef,' the Wasp announced softly, holding Hrathen's gaze as he said it. The conviction evident in his eyes was absolute. 'I am Lord General Brugan of the Rekef and there is nowhere you could go that would prove far enough to escape my personal wrath. As you fear the Rekef, then so fear me.'
Hrathen felt a cold shiver run through him despite himself. The words had been uttered quietly, understated, for Brugan was a man who did not need to shout. Still, there was more in that shiver than just fear. A general of the Rekef? And the General, if I hear right. What does he want with me? Because underneath it all, despite the tainted blood and the sliding loyalties, Hrathen was still Rekef. He was Rekef through and through because it was the best game in the world — invitation only.
'Tell me about the Scorpion-kinden,' Brugan instructed.
Hrathen grinned despite himself, displaying a nightmare of bristling teeth.
'So you're a tax gatherer?'Thalric began.
'I have that honour,' the old man replied. Akneth was reclining on his cushions beneath a tautly fastened awning that screened out the sun. His six guests now occupied the somewhat cramped section of deck between himself and the labouring oarsmen.
'You don't seem to be interested in collecting any taxes,' Thalric suggested, exchanging a glance with Marger. They were both of a mind that this much-needed offer of transport was all too convenient.
'One collects the taxes during the journey upriver,' Akneth explained. 'If one then collected them downriver also, I daresay there would be complaints.' It was impossible to tell from his expression whether this was a joke.
A subtle people, these Khanaphir, Thalric thought. It's more like talking to a Spider-kinden than a Beetle. He felt as if Akneth was speaking two languages at once, and that Thalric could only understand one of them.
'Surely anyone who wished could just watch out for your ship on the return journey and rob it,' Marger put in. Aside from the eight oarsmen, and a young girl who had served them grapes and wine, the old tax-collector travelled alone.
Akneth put on a shocked expression. 'But who would dare defy the Masters of Khanaphes?' he asked. 'To raise a hand against me is to raise a hand against them, too.'
He means it, Thalric decided. It would have been the work of a moment for them to kill Akneth and his people, and seize the boat. They were trained Wasp soldiers, even Osgan — a flurry of sting-shot and it would be over.
Akneth met his gaze with that ever-present smile, mock puzzlement, polite curiosity, utter self-assurance.
The banks of the Jamail were lined with fields irrigated from the river. They were dotted with villages, and each village, amongst its reed huts that looked flimsy enough to blow away in the wind, boasted at least one structure of stone. It seemed to Thalric that these were the markers to show where original villages had stood centuries before, and around them other buildings had come and gone, but the village itself had lived on.
They had passed the town of Zafir the day before, with its twin walled fortresses situated on either side of the river, joined by a spanning arch that rose high above their ship's mast. The higher reaches of the twin forts had been decorated with statues, although Thalric had not been able to discern, from midstream, what they might represent. He had leant in to Corolly, who had been staring up at the bridge with his mouth half open.
'Could we make the likes of that?' he asked.
'We could bridge this river,' the Beetle artificer replied defensively. It was not the same thing and he knew it.
'What do you want to know?' Hrathen asked.
'Think of me as a wide-eyed scholar eager for knowledge,' General Brugan said. 'Indulge me.'
So you can see how fondly I still hold them, Hrathen decided. Well, scholar, a lecture you shall have.
'We divide the Scorpion-kinden we have met so far into two,' he began, 'the Aktaian Scorpions who live in the Dryclaw desert, south of the West-Empire, and the Nemian who live in the Nem south of the East-Empire.'