Then his minions came marching forwards, and they had blades in their hands, and Thalric was pinned to his seat by Argastos’s mere stare as they closed in. But Che felt that hand being lifted from her, its grip broken during that one brief moment when someone had looked on Argastos and found him not terrible, but ridiculous. With enormous effort she clawed for her strength as the blades went up. . but it was Seda who got there first, casting enough raw, untutored force out to send the dead Mantis-kinden staggering.
Thalric’s eyes sought out Che’s. ‘Sorry,’ he managed. ‘I’m afraid the only War Master I know is your uncle, and I can’t quite see him saying any of that stuff to the Assembly.’
It was not funny. Nothing about their situation was funny, but Che felt a near-hysterical laugh build up inside her nonetheless.
Argastos’s face was set in stone. No, it was as though he had simply abandoned it, its last expression just sitting there like a slack-stringed puppet, because whatever was behind it had no further use for it. ‘You dare,’ he hissed, ‘to mock the War Master?’
It was the worst thing he could possibly have said, for Che burst out with a horrified whoop of laughter despite herself, despite everything. She caught a glimpse of Seda’s face, too, bewildered but no longer bewitched.
And only then could she see, beyond that smoothly handsome exterior, that warrior’s frame in its archaic armour. Just for a second she saw the dried-stick thing that was Argastos, the corpse a thousand years in the ground, decaying and renewed like one of those Mantis icons, until only some hideous stub of a man endured, leathery and preserved and barely larger than a child, its face locked into the same expression of dismay that it must have worn as they sealed the man in his tomb, so very long ago.
And he shrieked, a high, inhuman sound, knowing that she had seen. Although she tried to muster her power to resist him, he was correct about his superior skill, for he cast her down with ease and banished her into the far reaches of his nightmare.
Thirty-Five
That morning Captain Vrakir of the Red Watch awoke and finally understood the meaning of the insistent dreams he had been having.
With trembling hands he went and opened the orders that his Empress had given him before he set off to find General Tynan.
‘So you see, Master Maker, matters have advanced somewhat,’ Eujen finished.
Stenwold regarded him calmly, whilst all about them the business of the College infirmary carried on, just as it had to. The beds were close-packed here — a room designed to deal with a handful of ill students now catering to some thirty injured soldiers, and even to the city’s War Master.
He was sitting up, at least, though he still felt leaden and tired. If he tried to do anything active, he ran out of strength pitifully fast, but he was alive and getting stronger. They called the stuff they had pumped into him ‘Instar’, something concocted by the College chemists. They would not have dared trying it on humans save for the war, and even then it was administered to those who would have died anyway, in the surgeons’ opinion. Kill or cure it most certainly was. They had even branded Stenwold on the shoulder, adding further injury to injury, as the mark of someone who had received a dose of this Instar, to warn off future doctors. All indications suggested that two doses would be painfully fatal. Two doses in how long? Stenwold had asked them. Tests on animals had not shown an upper limit, he was told. Two doses in a man’s lifetime was one too many.
Eujen stepped back to let the Fly-kinden nurse take a reading of Stenwold’s pulse. As she did so, her hard, accusing eyes lanced into her patient. Balkus lay in the next bed, sometimes conscious, sometimes not, and Sperra plainly blamed Stenwold for his condition, perhaps not unjustly. The War Master was perhaps the only man who could now help Princep Salma, though, so she was bitterly and ruthlessly doing her bit to keep him alive. Much more of that guilt-laden care, and Stenwold would force himself to get out of bed, even if it killed him.
‘Do you have anything resembling a plan?’ he wheezed at Eujen, already trying to think of how to salvage the current situation. Was this why Jodry brought the war to a close, just so some pack of students could go and poke the Wasps’ nest? And for what?
‘I do,’ Eujen confirmed, plainly nettled by Stenwold’s tone. ‘I have sent messengers to some of the major magnates and artisans of the neighbouring districts — community leaders that my own people believe are loyal to the city. Some are here already, but they want to talk to you of course, not to me. The Wasps went on the rampage last night, and there have been arrests all through today. Whole areas of the city are just off boiling point. They hanged Jodry Drillen, Master Maker. I wouldn’t have believed that his death would spark such fires, but everywhere people are talking about it.’
Stenwold stared at him, thinking, You bloody fool, Jodry, and wanting to say something disdainful, to knock this arrogant young man back down. He’s, what, eighteen years, nineteen, and what does he think he knows? I remember him when he was saying we should be avoiding a war, and now look at him trying to start. .
‘Revolt,’ he said, and then one of those irresistible spasms went through him and he wasted a valuable half-minute coughing up what felt like a whole lung. His eyes never left Eujen Leadswell’s face, though, and this latest attack gave his thoughts the chance to turn the wheel once more.
Like: What might have happened, if we had worked harder to avoid this war? Because it surely doesn’t seem to have turned out well for any of us. And: If any man should be saying, ‘I told you so,’ it’s him. But there was nothing but earnestness on Eujen’s face, a man determined to meet the challenge the world has burdened him with.
‘What news from Sarn, anyone?’ He tried to look around. ‘Laszlo?’
The Fly-kinden glanced up from his hushed conversation with Sperra. ‘Nothing, Mar’Maker. But I reckon they’re fighting about now, must be. Or maybe the Mantids have seen sense and pitched in at last.’
‘If we can hold out until Sarn relieves us. .’ Stenwold murmured, almost too quietly to be heard. ‘If the city is still up in arms, then Sarn must come to our aid. Or even Vek. Someone.’ He was aware that his gaze fixed on Eujen was almost beseeching, but the student was nodding agreement.
‘We need the city, though. Not just us,’ he replied. ‘We need the whole city to rise. And the city needs the War Master.’
Stenwold took a deep breath. ‘Where the pits is my stick?’ he demanded.
Laszlo passed it over: a heavy length of wood bound in brass with a hooked head, as warlike a support as any War Master could require.
With a great effort, Stenwold levered himself to his feet, expecting Sperra to protest and try to stop him. She just stared, though, as if she would not be entirely unhappy to see him spilling onto his backside. He managed to get upright, despite some trembling, and took another breath, conscious of its shallowness. The Instar was still working, but he was not sure that he would be the same again, not ever.
At last one of the medical staff was bustling over to protest — Sartaea te Mosca, and why so many of the healers were Flies he had no idea — with her hands extended, insisting that he at least sat back down. The resistance she provided was gratifying. It gave him something to lean against.
‘Chief Officer Leadswell,’ he snapped, ‘who do we have here?’
‘Master Vendall of the Vendall Balkhead workshops. Storvus the machinist from Faculty Row. Someone from Grounder Imports. A couple from the Messengers’ Guild. Possibly more by now.’ Eujen shrugged.
‘You’ve been busy,’ Stenwold remarked.