They were brave, he knew, and would do anything he asked of them. Really, for what they were, he could not have asked for more. They would perhaps have given an equal number of the Light Airborne a decent run, but Balkus somehow doubted the Empire would send its army out in such convenient pieces.
He felt that he should make some sort of inspiring speech, now that he had them all together in one place for once, but he was no good at that. Besides, he had a feeling that any speaking today was going to be left to others. The Sarnesh had come to talk to Princep.
When Milus had dropped from the sky with a handful of orthopters, Balkus had assumed he would speak to the Monarch and her council in private, but instead the Sarnesh tactician had declared that his words were for the whole city to hear. Nobody much liked that, but the Sarnesh were their allies and Milus was politely immovable on this point. So it was that Balkus had drawn up his fighting men for inspection, and a large crowd of Princep’s residents had slowly gathered around them. They were in what would have been the square before the Monarch’s palace, if only the place had been finished, but at least there were gates, and some steps before them from where the Monarch would address her people.
Even as he watched, the woman herself arrived, with a few of her advisers and some attendants in tow. She was still a striking woman, although after Salma’s death her skin had lost its once-bright colours and faded to the drab grey of a Moth-kinden. She carried herself with an air of loss that was inviolable — Balkus had witnessed the demands of haughty diplomats crumble to ash before it. A figurehead, yes, but a useful one to have.
Many of her advisers were Roach-kinden, and chief amongst them the old white-bearded man who served as chancellor, but there was a new face there, too, that the Sarnesh would surely not like much. That Wasp-kinden man had been Imperial ambassador to Collegium until recently, Aagen by name, but he had deserted when the new war broke out and had come to Princep. Balkus had not seen much of him, but he seemed to have become a favourite of the Monarch.
A small hand tugged at his belt, and he looked down to see Sperra, the Fly-kinden woman who had come to Princep with him. Her face was solemn and drawn, and with good reason.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he warned her.
She cocked her head to one side. When Sperra was last in Sarn she had been present for the assassination of the Ant queen, and they had not been slow to use their interrogation machines on her to prise out what they thought she knew of it. ‘I don’t trust the bastards,’ was all she said — and that was something of an understatement.
‘Well, you know I don’t,’ Balkus pointed out, ‘but they are our allies, and they’re better than the Empire, who they’re fighting right now on our behalf. They’re entitled to come and ask for help.’
‘So you’ll take your two hundred and twenty and go take on the Wasps, will you?’
He shrugged. ‘Not for me to decide. The Monarch’s people will make the call — anyway, here are the Sarnesh.’
Tactician Milus had only a small escort of a half-dozen Ants, but he strode into the square as though he owned it, and the crowd parted for him automatically. Many here had come to Princep from the foreigner’s quarter in Sarn, and remembered what it was like there. Life for a foreigner in Sarn was quiet, ordered and peaceful, and there was an entire city-full of mindlinked Ants who made sure that anyone who might change that situation was swiftly dealt with.
Milus stopped in the square’s centre and looked about at his audience, an amiable smile carefully poised on his face to suggest that he was encouraged by what he saw.
‘Tactician,’ the Monarch addressed him and, as always, Balkus was impressed by the power she could put into a simple word, the presence she could exude when she wished. Art, he guessed, filling out each sound to command the attention. Perhaps she did not even know she was doing it.
The Ant leader bowed, not really a natural motion for a man in armour, but he did his best with it. ‘Great Monarch of Princep Salma,’ he replied, pitching his voice so as to carry to everyone. Most Ants did not have a good-parade ground bellow, having no need of it amongst their own, but Milus had plainly practised. ‘I am here to seek your help.’
Good start, that. But Balkus found himself out of step with everyone, already tense and sweating whilst the crowd all about the square nodded and murmured. He put a hand on Sperra’s shoulder and she looked up warily, noting his expression.
What have I. .? There had been nothing conscious received from the minds of the Sarnesh, but Balkus was picking up on something, some harsh undercurrent that belied Milus’s mild expression and tone.
‘We know we have Sarn to thank for many things, just as they themselves have much to thank our founder for,’ Grief replied, august and dignified. Of course, Sarn had tolerated this new neighbour, and had sheltered many of the refugees during the last war, but likewise Salma and his warriors had died for them, striking a blow against the Imperial Seventh that had allowed the Sarnesh to defeat them at Malkan’s Folly. The first Malkan’s Folly, anyway. They were even, therefore, was what Grief was saying.
‘The heroic acts of Prince Salme Dien are not forgotten,’ Milus acknowledged. ‘Believe me, I was present when our Royal Court clasped hands with him, and were it not for his sacrifice we might all be wearing the black and yellow right now. But the Empire is tenacious, it seems. You know that they are on the march again, for the news has reached you even here.’ And a slight edge, just for a moment, as Balkus tried to glean something from the Sarnesh minds, finding them all closed tight to him.
‘The Eighth is already closing on my city,’ Milus explained. ‘Our soldiers do their best to slow it, but we cannot stop it. There will come a battle, and it may take place outside the very gates of Sarn.’ His manner indicated frustration, a bold man with his hands shackled — a calculated performance, like the rest, Balkus knew. ‘The Collegiates face the Imperial Second, and we cannot help them, nor they us. They have even taken on troops from Vek, their old enemies. Can you imagine that? And our Mantis allies are suddenly tearing into themselves, of no use to anyone. So Sarn calls upon Princep Salma. You must know we look upon you as our child, and every child must aid its parent in time of need.’
Oh, that’s a good speech, Balkus acknowledged, and yet the feeling of dread would not go away.
The Monarch and her advisers had discussed matters, of course, and now she nodded graciously and said, ‘We have little armed strength in Princep but, of course, we shall send our warriors to help you.’ Her gesture took in Balkus and his few, as he had expected. ‘For the rest, we can find some engineers, artisans, some scouts-’
‘Forgive me, Monarch, but Sarn is already well supplied with those,’ Milus broke in, and now his voice toughened up.
At Balkus’s side, Sperra pushed closer, staring at the Sarnesh.
Grief did not flinch at being interrupted thus, but even as she opened her mouth to continue, Milus was speaking over her again.
‘We need soldiers. We need bodies on the ground, spearmen, archers, swordsmen. They will not be Sarnesh, but even so they can hold ground, attack when ordered or man walls. I need men to carry stretchers and bring ammunition to our artillery. I need your surgeons and healers, even your cooks and cleaners. I’ll take your whores, even.’ And by now there was nothing amiable left in his face or voice, and he was staring straight at the Monarch as he uttered those last words.