It was not words. It was a feeling, an intense feeling washing over her like an unexpected tide. It came from all about her, from beneath her, from the very stones of Khanaphes.
Come to us.
She could not, of course. She had her duties now, whatever they might be. There were the scholars to take care of. There was Totho. There was Thalric.
Come to us, Cheerwell Maker.
She felt herself fading, drifting … the city around her losing focus. Like the Fir. But she had consumed no drug and still she felt the ghosts of ancient Khanaphes all around her. The walls swam, their idiot hieroglyphs abruptly thrusting their meanings at her, shouting at her from every wall, some of them couched in sense, some in gibberish.
Come!
She turned and walked away, but not towards the embassies. She turned and walked away, and was soon lost in the city.
His men had been picked for their ability to fly long and far. They had stopped for a few scant hours since leaving the Scorpion horde, making such time across the desert that the towering column of dust, the great battle-standard of the Many of Nem, had long been lost behind them. Now Sulvec of the Rekef had found Khanaphes.
And what a wretched place I've found. Sulvec was a major in the Rekef Inlander, by definition an ambitious man who fed his ambition any which way. This assignment would be the making of him: he would become Colonel Sulvec on his return, or not return at all. Like so many who climbed the Rekef ladder, his loyalty to the ideals of the Empire at large had been burned away by the duties he had been given. Now his loyalty was to his own advancement, in the sure knowledge that only the Rekef could reward him as he desired, and no other would punish him so hard if he failed.
And General Brugan met with me in person to give me this mission. Sulvec had been startled, at first, but he had long since ceased to question his assignments. It was not his place to act as moral arbiter. He was the hand of the Rekef, and that was all the sense of righteousness he needed.
He spared a thought for bumbling Hrathen, playing barbarian warlord with the Scorpion-kinden. He would do his work well enough, for he had been given the tools and he had just enough rough charisma to keep the savages pointed in the right direction. So much effort for such a little thing, Sulvec considered. There must have been simpler ways. He supposed that the Scorpion assault would serve other purposes, too, that perhaps the Empire might even genuinely want to assess the Many as shock troops, useful Auxillians for the future. We will probably have to kill Hrathen, though: he grows too fond of his role.
His third Rekef assignment had been to spy on a friend, to bring the man in and interrogate him about the Broken Sword cult. He had drunk himself into a stupor for a week, after that. Thenceforth, when the Rekef had sent him out for any task, he had been ready. Thenceforth, the lives of others had been just pieces to be moved or removed, as policy demanded.
He circled over the city, looking for the mark. His men had been ensconced in a farmhouse beyond the walls, sufficiently distant to avoid notice. The sky over Khanaphes was so clear, and he was the only human being in it. Nobody below would be looking up except his compatriots.
He saw the black and yellow flag singling out the roof of a large building. He made his swift descent, coming down on the roof's edge, between two statues of Woodlouse-kinden. Seeing no watchers, he dropped down to the balcony below and slipped inside.
It was a mere two minutes later that he had them assembled: three Wasps and a Beetle-kinden, representing the Rekef Outlander's presence in Khanaphes. A lean Wasp-kinden stepped forward, eyeing him with suspicion. 'I'm Captain Marger. I'm in charge here.'
'Are you indeed?' Sulvec replied, handing over his sealed orders, which Marger accepted reluctantly. There was a moment's pause before the man broke the seal, as though he was feeling out the future through the parchment. His shoulders rose and fell, and then he cracked the paper open. His eyes flicked over the few words there, checked the brief identifying sketch of Sulvec's face, noted the signatory.
'Says here we're at your command, Major,' Marger observed without inflection, handing back the paper. 'You've got commands?'
'I'm calling you out of cover, first,' Sulvec told them. 'From now you are no longer a diplomatic mission. You are soldiers of the Rekef. Now, who should I be giving orders to?'
Marger looked at the others, shrugged again, took a backwards step. The Beetle-kinden pushed forward and saluted. 'Corolly Vastern, Captain-Auxillian,' he rumbled. 'This is Vollen, this is Gram. I'm ranking Rekef Inlander here. What's going on?'
'Where's Major Thalric, first of all?' Sulvec asked.
'Diplomatic duties,' Corolly said. 'There was an attack on this embassy.' One thick thumb indicated the broad bruise across his face. 'He's been in with the natives for hours now, but he got a message out to us, and it made interesting reading.' The Beetle's eyes were suspicious. 'It's being claimed that we're attacking Khanaphes, sir. Using the local Scorpion-kinden.'
And how did that news outreach me? Sulvec already had his suspicions. 'Consider it fact, Captain,' he said. 'We have one official duty left to perform in this building, and after that we resort to stealth procedures. We will soon not be welcome in this city.'
They exchanged glances, none of them happy about it, but none of them about to say so.
'So what's the one duty, sir?' Corolly asked, expressionless.
Sulvec smiled like a knife. 'Tell me, when's Thalric expected back?'
Twenty-Seven
'We've left it too late,' Faighl observed, watching the idle movements of the camp around them. 'We should have moved yesterday.'
Meyr said nothing for a long time. The Scorpions of the Many of Nem were just going about their normal evening business after another swift day's travel. By Meyr's guess they would be on Khanaphir territory before midday next morning. Farms would burn. The city would be readying its forces. And I have bought them a few days, if the message was passed on, and if they listened. It was a matter of supreme indifference to him, for he owed the Khanaphir nothing. He knew only that there was an Iron Glove presence within the city, and therefore the Glove should know of this development.
They had stayed on, accompanying the Scorpion horde, for that sole reason. He had wanted to gather as much information as he could, before they pulled out and made their exit. Now he was forced to agree with Faighl. They had left it too late.
It was not the Scorpions themselves, for nothing had changed in their restless, aggressive manner. They were quick, abrupt in their preparations, as they unfolded tents and unloaded their pack beasts or sharpened weapons. Some were training with crossbows, shooting at old shields propped on stones. The leadshotters that had sounded like practised thunder last night were still hitched in trains to the Imperial automotives. It was within the Imperial camp that the change was visible.
Meyr had seen the looks their halfbreed commander had been directing towards the Iron Glove. At first it had just been because the Glove was competition for whatever scheme the Empire had in mind. Then it had been because Meyr himself was a deserter, a runaway slave. Now it had boiled down, under the sun of the march, into something more concrete. The Empire would brook no interference here. Any outside influence would have to be excised from within the Many of Nem. Meyr understood that, yet he and the others had lingered. Lingered too long.
'Gather everyone,' Meyr instructed at last. 'Armour and weapons.'