He trudged on. He would not make their task easier, even if such resistance accounted for only a hundred yards more of effort for them.
There was something ahead. He heard the movement: the creak of harness and chitin. Already, then? There must have been other scouts earlier, whose shadows he had missed. Abruptly something went out of him, that guttering spark that had driven him so far, and he stopped. For a moment he swayed, his body thrown out of its plodding rhythm. Then his legs gave way, and he fell to his knees.
Make it quick, was all Meyr could think.
'Hey, big man, no time for that,' he heard a voice say — neither the clipped Imperial accents nor the mangled, mumbled Scorpion speech. He forced his head up against the brightness of the sun, and started at what he saw.
There were three great beetles on the ridge ahead of him: black-bodied things with their bulbous abdomens held high, their long legs as awkward and stilt-like as scaffolding. They twitched their mouthparts and antennae, lifting their feet off the hot ground in careful sequence. Each was saddled and harnessed, and each with a Khanaphir rider: two men and a woman in scale armour, bow and lance scabbarded beside their saddles.
'Come on, Meyr, have you looked behind you?'
That voice again. Meyr tilted his head and this time saw the tiny figure of Tirado, his messenger. The Fly nodded urgently and flitted off towards the beetles. With a supreme effort, Meyr got to his feet and craned his head back in the direction he had come.
The western horizon was a single wall of dust. He even thought he could make out the dots of the Scorpion vanguard.
'Meyr, we haven't got all day!' Tirado shouted and, with infinite weariness, the Mole Cricket stumbled towards the waiting animals.
There was no complaint from the beast as he hauled his huge body on to its back, just a patient redistribution of its feet to take the additional weight. Then the three riders were urging their animals round, heading back east towards the city with a rapid, skittering gait, bringing news that the war host of the Many of Nem was in sight.
Twenty-Eight
There had been no easy answers forthcoming. The Ministers of Khanaphes had put question after question to him until, at the last, he had realized that they just would not believe him.
Thalric paused on the steps of the Scriptora, looking at the stepped pyramid that dominated the square ahead of him. At its top was poised that maddeningly asymmetrical ring of statues, frozen in their dance. It seemed that they smiled mockingly at him, from their barren, perfect faces. He had a strong urge to just sit down, right there, and put his head in his hands. He had a stronger urge, however, to seek out Che and try to make her, at least, believe him. He needed someone's belief, and his own was a washed-out, faded colour, after all the questioning. Could it be that they told me, and that I somehow didn't notice? Could a planned invasion have passed me by somewhere in the minutiae of my briefing?
They had not asked him whether Totho's claims were actually true. They had not even bothered with that preamble. Instead they had gone straight to probing him for details of the attacking force. They had wondered by what means the Empire had spurred the Many of Nem on to this act. They had enquired how long the Empire had been in contact with the Scorpions, what degree of control the Empress had over them. At no time had they left enough space for his denials.
Most of the time, he had just shaken his head. 'I have no knowledge of this,' he had stated, over and over. They had nodded sagely, those bald-headed men and women in severe robes, and their scribes had written all of it down.
They had conferred together: he remembered acutely the sound of their quiet, polite voices. Then they had come back to sit before him again, some score of Ministers, with Ethmet at their head, and they had asked him, in so many words, the exact same questions again. Their patience was infinite, their manner told him. Again he had made his disclaimers. The Empire had no such plans, he assured them. He, as the Empire's ambassador, would surely know of any such intention. If the Scorpions were coming, it was without any mandate from the Empress.
They had made no threats, had not even raised their voices. He had been free to leave at any time, save for the bonds of his ambassadorial duty, which kept him there as if bound by steel chains. He had begun to experience the despair of the man who knows nothing, faced with the questioner who does not believe him.
It had been hours before they had finally, and for no obvious reason, lost interest in him. Even then they had suggested that he remain available for any other further questions they might think of.
He had no idea where Che might have gone, meanwhile. She might be holed up with the Iron Glove, for all he knew. The entire Collegium delegation might have left the city. Worst of all, he had no idea, here on the steps of the Scriptora, if there really was a Scorpion army at the gates.
I must find Che. That was a traitorous thought because what he must do, without question, was make his report. This was Imperial business: the name of the Empire had been sullied. Or else the Empire's designs have been exposed. He no longer knew which. The relentless questioning had stripped him of any certainty he might have possessed.
I must find Che.
It was only a small detour, surely. To step through into the Place of Foreigners and turn left to the Moth-fronted embassy, and not right towards the building guarded by stone Woodlouse-kinden. It would require only a moment's disloyalty.
And if she doesn't believe me, either? It seemed more than likely. He had not exactly given her any reason to trust his unevidenced word.
And why do I care? His instinctive response had grown rather stale now. I care because she is a clumsy, naive, foolish Beetle-kinden girl, yet her regard matters to me. Because I find her company easier than that of my own kind. At least with her, I do not feel the knife at my back every moment. He doubted that she felt the same way.
His shoulders slumped, as he set off down the steps for the archway leading to the embassies. I have only ever had one virtue, and that one so often pawned as to have become near-worthless. Still, I used to pride myself on my loyalty. Therefore I shall make my report.
Something made him pause, as he passed through the arch: his Rekef senses had not quite left him yet. Some part of him, though overlaid now with uncertainty, was still living behind enemy lines. The quiet of the garden — the stillness of the pool — was an illusion. He found his fingers twitching, baring his palms by purest instinct.
He saw them then, two shadows of the evening standing near the Collegiate embassy. They were like statues, or the shadows of statues, dark instead of pale marble. They watched him, and he watched them back, ready to use the archway as cover if they were assassins come after him. Some small and detached part of him thought, as he hesitated, Is this the way of things now, for me? Will it be assassins for breakfast? Will I wake to them each morning? Is that what it means to be Regent? I would rather live the life of a spy. At least spies sleep well sometimes.
He was no Fly-kinden or Spider, possessed of good night-eyes, but the light of the sunset still greyed the west sufficiently, and it told him enough about their build and stance to identify them as Ant-kinden. The Vekken, of course.
He had no wish to have any dealings with the Vekken, for a number of reasons. Their customary stare of absolute antipathy was born of their city's isolation, and its recent history with the Empire. It was not usually personal. On the other hand, if they knew that it had been his word that had prompted them into their disastrous assault on Collegium, then he had no doubt that they would kill him.