Twenty-One

‘They are celebrating our demise even now, I’ll wager,’ said the broad-shouldered Grasshopper. His lean, scarred face had struck fear into enough hearts in its time, but it looked worried now. During three years of relative peace he had been happy running protection rackets and ordering thugs here in Siriell’s Town, but it was increasingly clear to all that those days were gone. His real name was Ang We, but during the war he had fallen in with foreigners who had dubbed him ‘Angry’. For good reason, the name had stuck.

‘Half the town has left already. The smallholders are scattered all across Rhael province, hoping to forage. Most of the merchants and the artisans have slunk off to look for better markets.’ This complaint came from a young Dragonfly woman who called herself Pirett, and who had claimed to be like a daughter to Siriell, the bandit queen’s natural heir. Now that Siriell was dead, the hollowness of that boast had become clear. Siriell had left no heir and, deprived of the fallen woman’s authority and her indefinable ability to yoke warring factions together in a common cause, the town was fast falling apart.

‘Let them go. What’s to stay for? She’s dead, and we’re done here,’ said another Dragonfly, this time a man of stockier build than most, with a touch of grey to his hair and a square face that had seen a great deal of good times and bad.

‘Cold words coming from the man who shared her bed, Dal,’ Angry noted.

The Dragonfly-kinden, Dal Arche, shrugged. ‘And you and your lads are staying, are you?’ The Grasshopper did not reply.

The three of them, alone and without even their most immediate followers, had commandeered a room high up in the ruined face of the castle. Below them Siriell’s Town was going about its business of falling apart, fighting with itself, lashing about in its death throes.

‘I’m for the east,’ Pirett declared. ‘They say there’s all manner of opportunity to be had at the border.’

‘Then you’ll be the first to know when the Empire comes knocking,’ Dal told her. ‘Or even when the Principality folks decide to take a bite. I’ve seen enough war for a lifetime. If you must go, go west.’

She shook her head stubbornly. The words went unsaid, but anywhere further west the land was unfamiliar, and it was said the Monarch’s writ ran stronger there. Whether the spectre of the Commonweal’s ruler truly had any claws left, none of them could say, but Pirett was clearly not ready to put it to the test.

‘Rhael has life in it yet. All those weaklings who run from here, they’ll set up elsewhere, in villages and farms. My lads want to follow them, keep them honest.’ Angry gave them a patchwork smile of missing teeth.

‘Meagre pickings,’ Dal observed.

‘That’s what the lads want.’ It was a curious trait in the Grasshopper brigand that he always hid his own desires behind the supposed will of his followers. ‘The pickings’ll be that much more meagre if someone else is trying to split the difference with me.’

‘Have no fear. I’ve better to do than starve so hard that I take everyone nearby with me,’ Dal Arche said sharply. For a moment the two men stared at each other, but it was Angry, the bigger and the louder, who looked away first.

‘What, then?’ Pirett asked him. ‘You’re going to throw yourself on Prince Felipe’s mercy?’

He gave her a level stare. ‘I would not go east, to the Empire and the creatures it has left behind. I have been a prisoner of the Black and Gold once, and never again.’ He turned his regard on Angry. ‘I have men and women to feed, who will demand full bellies, drink, action and prospects, or they will abandon me or else cut my throat. I’ll not take them deeper into Rhael to plague those few poor beggars who’ve tried to turn the soil into a living.’

The Grasshopper sneered. ‘Soft,’ was all he said.

Dal Arche’s smile had murder in it. ‘You know I’m not one to stint in taking what I want from any that has it, but even I can’t take what they don’t have. No, since Siriell’s Town is become a rotting corpse as of now, there’s only one direction that I know has provision enough for my band. We march north.’

‘You’re not serious?’ Pirett breathed.

‘No? If they had just come here and killed Siriell, then perhaps it could be mended. I’m not a sentimental man. She knew the life she led. But come here and burn our stores . . .’ He gestured at the window, where the shutters kept out all but the smell of the smoke. The Mercers had been thorough, and while their leader himself had slain the town’s self-made ruler, the others had fired every warehouse and stockpile they could find. The accumulated harvests of the farmers and brigands and vagabonds of Siriell’s Town had burned.

‘Well then,’ Dal Arche declared, in the silence that followed, ‘they could have left well alone, and in ten years, perhaps, this place would become so tame I’d need to go rob some prince or other just to keep me from going mad with boredom. I thank the Salmae that they spared me the wait. They have food, north of the province border, and I see no better option than to take it, and spill what blood needs shedding.’

The other two brigand chiefs eyed him suspiciously, as though he was spinning them some particularly self-serving lie, but at last Pirett said wonderingly, ‘Well, I wish you luck. Give my regards to Mother Salme when she has you hanged.’

Angry said nothing, but he nodded grudgingly.

Outside, with the other chieftains heading off to mobilize their followers, Dal Arche sought out his own three lieutenants. There was more in his mind than he had let on to the others, for his profession was never one to breed trust. He needed to steal a march on his rivals.

They were waiting for him, his most valued followers, his brothers of the wilds: a Wasp, a Scorpion and a gaunt and spindly Grasshopper passing a jug of beer between them as they waited for his return.

‘We’re moving out,’ he told them, after dropping down beside them. They were the only occupants of what had once been a popular drinking den. Even the proprietor had gathered up what he could and fled. All the villains and renegades who had been concentrated in Siriell’s Town were dispersing across Rhael Province and beyond.

‘What’s the plan, Dala?’ the Wasp-kinden asked.

‘I’m taking most of our lot north, like we discussed. I’ll be raiding the borders in a tenday, strike and flight, like the old days. Always one step ahead of the Mercers. You three, though . . .’ He looked them over: Mordrec, Barad Ygor and Soul Je. The four of them had been through a lot together since the Wasp had sprung Dal Arche from a Mynan prison. ‘I want you to make a circle south and east. Go play the recruiting sergeant. Pick up every malcontent you can get who has a will to carve a piece of something better. You’ll need to dodge Pirett and Angry’s mobs, though. She’s just heading to the border, but Angry will be after the same pickings, maybe, so you’re best to keep ahead of him. Round up a whole new mob, get them fired up, bring them to me. We’re going to teach the honest folk of Elas Mar Province how to piss themselves in fright.’

They stared at him, and he knew that these three, of all his followers, would not simply do what he said without question. They would be wondering how much of this plan was reason, how much rage. And how close had he been to Siriell, indeed, before she was killed?

‘We’ve been a lot of things in our time,’ he told them softly, ‘but right now we’re thieves, and there’s only one direction we can go to find someone worth robbing.’

It seemed only minutes before she was seated astride Lycene, clinging to Alain’s waist as the swift insect hurtled through the air. Tynisa could only huddle up against the prince’s back and stare down, beyond the blurring wings, at the Commonweal countryside fleeting past. She thought she saw the lake, down there, that Gaved and Sef lived alongside, but then it was gone: her journey of several days to Lowre Cean’s compound undone in hours only.

She had assumed that the dragonfly would bear them all the way to Leose before dark. Indeed, such was its speed that it seemed possible for the insect to take them anywhere, alighting in Collegium or in the Empire, or encircling the entire world. As night grew in the east, though, Lycene began to descend, either of her own volition or from some unseen signal given by Alain. There was a stand of reeds below them, that grew and grew larger as the insect drew closer, until Tynisa realized that she was looking at a dense stand of cane forest, with boles as thick as a man’s body.

She had expected Lycene to make a demure landing on the open ground before the forest, but just as the dragonfly seemed about to alight, her wings gave a final flurry, casting her directly up towards the cane tops, so that she ended up clinging vertically, the tip of her tail just shy of the ground. Alain’s own wings had caught him instantly, of course, feathering him down to the ground effortlessly, but perhaps he had forgotten how his passenger lacked that Art. Instead, Tynisa suffered a moment of utter fright, saved from a fall only by instinctively clenching her knees, left suspended head-down with her arms waving wildly. Then she recovered her balance, and clambered down the length of the hanging animal, thankful that her Art at least allowed her to climb.

Alain stood grinning at her, and she took the mockery as justified, thinking, I’ll be ready for that next time. ‘Perhaps I should have jumped into your arms?’ she asked him acidly.

‘That would have certainly put my wings to the test,’ he agreed. ‘We’d best make camp now. Lycene is tired and, though she can take to the air at night, she’s not fond of it unless I insist.’

‘I’m amazed your people bother with horses, when they have such creatures at their beck and call,’ Tynisa suggested.

Alain shrugged. ‘Horses are easier to rear, frankly, and cheaper to keep. Lycene will have to hunt half the morning, before we’re ready to fly again. Besides, she is the mount for a prince. We couldn’t have just anyone riding her, could we?’

The cold weather was returning, something else that Lycene was clearly not fond of, so Tynisa set up a fire close by the canes, where it might benefit the big insect as well as the humans. When she looked back, the work done as well as she could, she was startled to find Alain right by her shoulder.

‘I’ve known a couple of Spider-kinden,’ he said softly, ‘but not with decent woodcraft like yours.’ He knelt down beside her and made a few invisible adjustments to her efforts. ‘A Mercer always knows how to make a good fire,’ he explained. ‘It’s the first thing they teach you.’

She read his smile as self-mockery now. Abruptly she was completely taken aback by how there he seemed: how very close, elbow to elbow, hip to hip.

Salma . . . That familiar face, ready to cock a grin at her, but his eyes were measuring, appraising. ‘My mother, now, she did not want me to become a Mercer. “You are a prince, Alain, and that should be enough.”’ His imitation of the Salmae matriarch recalled her tones perfectly. ‘Mercers might one day find themselves in the wilderness without a full retinue of servants, you see. They have to learn skills more fitting to a lowlier class of man.’ A wave of his hand signalled that her pyramid of wood had now reached his exacting standards, and she dispensed a final handful of wood shavings and scraps of paper for tinder, and then took out an ornate little metal firebox Lowre Cean had gifted to her, decanting some embers from it onto the tinder. Alain was leaning into her shoulder, with an expression suggesting that he was merely examining her efforts, but now almost cheek to cheek.

‘My father was a real Mercer, the Monarch’s own kind,’ he murmured in her ear, ‘although he wasn’t much interested in teaching his sons. I think it was an excuse to absent himself whenever he wanted.’

‘I’m surprised you were allowed to . . . Apprentice yourself?’ There was a heat building now, as she fed tinder to the embers.

‘Take the oath,’ he corrected. ‘I was all for running away to Shon Fhor, to swear myself to the Monarch. They had to bar the door and windows to hold me, some nights. So we compromised, as one does. Local Mercers are better than nothing, if you can’t quite make it to the Monarch’s court. And they still teach you how to make a decent fire.’

As the first flame glowed, uncertain and shy but gaining confidence, she risked a smile and found it answered.

‘You, though, you are clearly a great lady of the Lowlands, where they have no Mercers. Where did you learn such a skill?’

‘My father taught me what little I know,’ she replied, and the words came out without the hesitation attending any earlier mention of Tisamon since his death. And why not, since I’m sharing a fire with Salma – or his very image? Why should I be troubled about raising the dead? With Salma at her side, she felt she could face anything, and her fire was now taking very nicely indeed. As she leant forward to blow gently on the flames, it seemed entirely natural for him to brush her hair back out of their way. ‘My father, he was . . .’ she started, then found herself on the brink of an abyss. How could she describe what Tisamon had been, before the end?

‘Weaponsmaster?’ Alain said abruptly, starting back from her. For a moment she froze, expecting the bloodstained Mantis shade to manifest itself, but the prince’s eyes were now fixed on her neck, where she had strung the badge of her order. The sword-and-circle emblem swung free there, slipping from its hiding place beneath her tunic. There was a silent moment of re-evaluation between them in which certain possibilities demanded the correct distance, a blade’s length.

‘I never yet heard of a Spider Weaponsmaster,’ Alain admitted at last.

Tynisa had almost replied, automatically, He wasn’t a Spider, but from the way he had edged back from her after noticing the badge, how much further might he run if he discovered she was a halfbreed too?

‘He was a remarkable man,’ she stated, and he did not question further. The fire was going merrily by then, but it was just a fire, and they slept with it between them.

Tynisa remained awake for a long time after Alain’s eyes had closed, watching his face in the dancing light. Salma, she could see only Salma there. Salma sleeping close enough to touch, as she had never seen him before. They had almost . . . hadn’t they? She had not imagined that closeness? Why should he not be startled, be cautious, when something as weighty as a Weaponsmaster’s brooch was abruptly dropped into the mix? But he would see past that, she knew, for the Commonweal had its share of them, after all, and it was no pariah’s mark. She felt a great, confused knot of emotions surging within her.

Overhead, Lycene’s great glittering eyes, which never closed, watched them both.

Castle Leose was in sight, poised on its buttress legs above the canal cutting through its valley. The snow had been descending in flurries for a while now, and Lycene’s flight suffered from it, the creature fighting against the wind, dipping lower and lower. But now Alain dug his heels in, and the dragonfly fought its way higher into the air, shooting in at a sharp angle to clear the wall. A moment later, Lycene was clinging to the wooden lattice that enclosed the courtyard, the purpose of which now became clear.

It was an easier dismount than out in the cane forest. Alain simply dropped through the lattice with a flick of his wings, and Tynisa followed after him, hanging on by her arms for a moment before letting herself fall.

He had already commandeered a groom, who climbed up to lead Lycene off to wherever such animals were kept. Other servants had rushed inside the castle to announce the heir’s arrival, for Leose’s seneschal was with them in barely more than a minute. The tall, gaunt Grasshopper-kinden named Lisan Dea came hurrying out to greet them, but stopped with a disapproving stare when she saw Tynisa.

‘I see,’ she said primly. ‘And what do you think your mother will say about this, my prince?’

‘She may say what she likes,’ Alain replied carelessly. ‘We are to have a celebration of my victories over the brigands? Then I may invite who I wish to be my guest. If I wished to bring two Wasp generals and a convicted murderer, then you would find them rooms and show them all due hospitality. Or are you not a steward?’

Tynisa reacted to the word ‘murderer’ more visibly than Lisan Dea did to any of Alain’s words, for not a single twitch or frown marred her long face.

‘And she will stand amongst your family’s other guests? She will eat and drink and dance with them, will she?’ the Grasshopper demanded. Her harsh tone caught Tynisa by surprise. Despite her mistress’s distant attitude, she had not guessed that this woman had taken such a dislike to her. Nothing of this had been evident at their last meeting.

‘Why not?’ was all Alain had to say, a study in boredom, practically rolling his eyes at this servant who dared to rise above herself.

‘Does she at least have something fitting to wear?’

‘This castle has stood since time began,’ Alain replied. ‘My family has lived here since the earliest days of the Commonweal. I am sure that there will be something hanging in some storeroom that will suit. Since you are the steward I leave that in your capable hands. Now, no doubt you will acquaint my mother with all that has passed between us two, then no doubt I’ll be called to her presence to be railed at about filial duty. Might I kindly remind you of your station sufficiently for you to show my guest to suitable chambers, before you run off tattling to your betters?’

A moment’s frozen silence was the only sign of Lisan Dea taking offence. ‘Of course, my Prince,’ she replied smoothly, and even bowed to Tynisa. ‘If you would follow me, I shall have your room prepared.’

Tynisa glanced back at him once, but he was already giving instructions to another servant and, a moment later, the confines of Castle Leose closed about her.

The first hall they entered was high-ceilinged and airy, the windows on three sides casting a latticework of sunbeams. The next chamber was lower and darker, and so followed the progression, until Tynisa was forced to ask, ‘Where are you leading me?’

Lisan Dea turned to face her and, to Tynisa’s surprise, her expression was not simple disdain, but something closer to pity.

‘What is your estate, child?’ the seneschal asked. ‘Are you a Spiderlands Arista? Are you some great lady of the Lowlands, whatever that might signify?’

‘The Lowlands doesn’t really have “great ladies” like that,’ Tynisa muttered defensively, ‘but I am the ward of an Assembler.’ As she spoke the words, she realized that they meant nothing to the woman.

Lisan Dea shook her head. ‘Yet he has brought you here, and asked me to house you and dress you, as if you were of noble blood. You do not understand, child.’

‘I understand only that Alain has chosen to invite me here. I understand what it means to be treated like a guest.’

The flicker of a frown at this familiar use of the prince’s name was almost lost in the curiously pained expression the Grasshopper woman assumed. ‘You understand nothing,’ she said grimly. ‘You have no means of protecting yourself from them at all.’

Tynisa felt a sudden surge of anger, almost as if it had sprung from elsewhere, and within a moment her sword point was hovering close to Lisan Dea’s breast. ‘I have no difficulty in protecting myself,’ she snapped.

But the seneschal simply looked back at her, without fear or even alarm. ‘Why did you come here at all?’

‘Because of Salma.’ The answer came unwillingly. And then, because that would make no sense to the woman, ‘I mean Salme Dien. I was his . . . his friend.’ Abruptly she felt ridiculous, and slid her sword back in its scabbard, now ashamed at being goaded so effortlessly. I have never been so shorn of grace before. She found her killing instinct could not stand against the utter indifference of the Grasshopper.

‘I remember Dien,’ Lisan remarked, and a fond look transformed her face briefly, before it reverted to her professional blandness. ‘But you should know that he has not dwelt in these halls for many years, not a trace of him.’ And, with that cryptic observation, she walked on hurriedly, forcing Tynisa to follow her or become lost amidst the stones of Leose.

In the end, the room she was shown into was not so very poorly appointed, but was clearly not intended for a guest of honour either. It had bare stone walls draped with faded tapestries, and a single narrow window looking out over the gorge. They brought her gowns, then: objects of silk and layers, shimmering with colour. She found she could not wear them: they pinched in the wrong places, she could not walk properly without treading on the hems. Tynisa was used to Collegium robes, which were shorter and heavier, or else the breeches and arming jacket in which she had spent so long travelling. At the last she found a servant and prevailed upon her to fetch something more practical: a pale half-cloak over a long tunic of grey and gold that reached to her knees, with a belt that went three times round her waist.

The Lowlanders were never great arbiters of fashion, she knew, and Collegium’s usual style was muted, borrowing any flair it possessed from seasons-old and mostly misunderstood Spider custom. The Beetle-kinden amongst whom she had grown up were a solid, pragmatic people to whom elegance did not come easily. Tall and slender and fair, she had walked amongst them wherever she wished, dressed how she wished, secure in the knowledge that they would deny her nothing. The other races that she had walked among were hardly different: blinkered Wasps, the rustic simplicity of the Mantis-kinden, the downtrodden grime of the Empire’s slave races. She had never been obliged to try before. Certainly she had never strained to meet the standards of others.

Standing there in her borrowed garments, in this unfamiliar castle, she felt her self-confidence tarnishing by the moment. She did not know what to do, nor how to act, and a lifetime in Collegium had not prepared her for the web of intricate etiquette that bound these people together. Abruptly her simple room seemed close and crowded, and she heard Achaeos’s spiteful reminder: And you cannot even fly, which all these people take for granted. The Beetles have ruined you for polite company. Tynisa shook her head, determined now to prove him wrong.

A dance, Alain had said. Well, it had indeed been a while since she had last trod a measure, but she knew that game. She knew the Beetle-kinden dances, which involved a great deal of romping back and forth in lines, changing places, turning round and, in the case of older, fatter or drunker dancers, falling over. She had skipped her way through enough of those, and even been admired for it. Then, again, there were the Spider dances, where the musicians set the measure and the dancers paired off and let their inspiration guide them, making grace and elegance their only standards. She felt she was ready for these Commonwealers.

The feast was disappointing. There were long, low tables seating a clear grading of guests, and she was placed at the end furthest from all the important people, meaning Alain and his mother and the more favoured of their noble invitees. She sensed Lisan Dea’s hostile influence, but there was little she could do about it. Aside from herself, this gathering plainly represented Dragonfly aristocracy, resplendent in a rainbow of silks, cloth of gold, silvered leather and enamelled chitin. There was very little conversation between them, and none at all directed at Tynisa. If this gathering was to celebrate Alain’s victories, nobody said anything about them, and his mother made no speeches. It was as though everyone had been thoroughly briefed beforehand, with only Tynisa left out. She ate in silence, finding the food too sharply and unexpectedly flavoured, and the portions small.

Then the gathering all adjourned into a further room, a circular space with a vastly high ceiling painted in patterns of blue and white and gold, where a little troupe of Grasshopper-kinden stood ready with instruments: long-necked lutes and rebecs and deep-throated drums. The guests spread out along the room’s periphery, where Tynisa noticed several of them pairing off for the first dance. Her eyes sought out Alain, but he had already been secured by a coolly elegant Dragonfly lady, the two of them slotting together without preamble, as though the partnering had been arranged beforehand. Tynisa turned away, but there was someone unexpectedly at her elbow. For a moment she found her hand twitching for the sword she had left in her room, but it was a young man who had been seated near her at the table.

‘Lady Lowlander, would you honour me with your hand for this dance?’ he enquired.

She had no idea who he was, but his familiarity suggested that they had already been introduced. In truth, she had not paid her neighbours much attention during the meal. Seeing him standing so solemnly before her, she began to feel curiously off-balance.

‘Of course,’ she said nonetheless, because she could not back down now. Even then the drummer was moving his fingers over taut hide, producing a patter of fluid sounds like no drum Tynisa had heard before. Dancers were moving into place as if drawn by some magical resonance, each to a precise spot.

‘We shall join the lower tier, of course,’ her partner told her bafflingly, and then abandoned her to take his position across the room. In the end, she only knew where to go when two concentric circles had formed, with a single glaring gap in the outermost.

Faster than she was expecting, the music struck as soon as she had found her feet there, and she tried to move with it, but in a moment she realized that a Commonweal dance was something far removed from her experience of either Spider-kinden or Lowlanders. The inner circle of dancers had taken to the air immediately, converging in the chamber’s centre and circling one another, whilst the outer ring began following some complex pattern of its own that seemed to have no relationship to that of their fellow dancers aloft. Small groups of them would come together, turn about one another with solemn grace, now facing in, now out, and then their smaller circle would scatter in a single instant, each leaping to another point either on foot or by wing. It should have produced a chaos of tripping and collisions, but Tynisa realized very swiftly that each and every one of the participants knew their moves as if they had been rehearsed in them. This was no Beetle bumble with some half-drunk dance-master calling out the moves, nor a Spider-kinden improvisation where individual inspiration was all. These noblemen and women had been schooled in some intricate dancing art, move by move and step by step, so that they worked together to an invisible pattern that she had no access to.

Tynisa soon backed out hurriedly, because the alternative was to get in someone’s way, and already she had hopelessly lost the rhythm of the music. Across the room she saw the young man who partnered her also retiring, his face kept carefully neutral.

She was embarrassed. It was a new feeling for her: she had discovered something that she could not do. Worse, Alain would have noticed her fail at it. Even though the dance went on, she felt all eyes on her. Achaeos’s mocking laughter sounded in her head – and she knew that Salma’s imaginary smile was merely polite now. She had failed his people, and he had witnessed it, for all he was a year buried in the earth.

Those angry thoughts kept her busy until the dance reached its preordained conclusion, and Tynisa hoped naively that they might pass on to some other entertainment. Instead, she saw a swapping of partners, hands changing hands, and a new pattern being laid out in feet and bodies, whilst the musicians conferred briefly. No signal had been given, but as soon as the drummer started tapping away, everyone there immediately recognized the measure and was ready for it, leaving Tynisa again clinging at the sidelines, frustrated and surplus to requirements.

This time, Alain was partnering another young noblewoman, an iridescent creature who reminded Tynisa far too much of the Butterfly-kinden that Salme Dien had fallen for. Grimly she watched the two of them pirouette and soar together, each beat of the music grating on her nerves, until she felt that she would have to quit the gathering, or else do something she might regret.

Instead, some stubborn part of her had rooted her feet to the floor, even as her temper wound tighter and tighter. The next dance proved even more intricate, dancers skipping from the floor all the way to the arched ceiling and back, hovering and darting and circling like so many mayflies. And, all the while, Tynisa just stared and stared.

She recalled now Lisan Dea’s curious reaction to her, the pity the seneschal seemed to show, even that question about how Tynisa would defend herself. Well, now she knew what the woman had meant. She, who had found her own way amongst so many different kinden and cultures, had now encountered heights that she could not ascend to. Whatever her gifts, or her Art, or her training, she was still a low-born Lowlander. In contrast, these people were aristocracy, and their world was different to hers.

An older world, a wiser world, Achaeos whispered in her ear, but you were so bound up with your Beetle learning that you abandoned your own heritage, and what are you now? Apt? Inapt? You have lost them both. He was a presence at her elbow, and she dared not look round to banish him in case she found him stubborn, standing there with that bloodstain spreading across his body and his hand held out to partner her. She felt herself begin to shake ever so slightly. Every eye seemed to slide off her, with contempt or pity or simple embarrassment in each look cast her way. She was scanning the host for Salme Alain, desperate to catch his eye. Just the once, she caught sight of his face amidst the crowds, and read only amusement there. At her? Who could know, but it cut her anyway.

She realized that she had stayed too long, and a waxing tide of bitter anger at being so excluded, beyond any ability of hers to remedy, was soon going to overtake her. The dancers had come back down to earth, moving out to the edges of the room, and she found herself stepping forward towards the centre, as if she ment to challenge them all, forcing them to face her on her own terms. Her sword had been left back in her room, but she felt its familiar contours against her fingers, only a shadow away from being in her grip.

She looked up to see a white-haired Mantis-kinden in a pale grey arming jacket stepping forward to meet her, and something in her said, yes, at the perfection of it. What better for her now than to fight and die against one of her own?

But Isendter, the White Hand, merely called out to the musicians. ‘Play a martiette.’ After a moment’s startled conference, the drummer began a new beat, stronger and more rhythmic than before, still slow but with the promise of growing pace within it.

Isendter now stood before her, one hand out as though he held a sword, and she matched his posture, dropping into her fighting stance and waiting for his move. She could almost feel their blades crossing – no, she could feel it, steel scraping against steel – even though there was nothing between them but air.

The drum spoke louder, a single beat, and Isendter began to move. Instantly she had matched him, giving ground as he sought her, keeping perfect distance. The pace was increasing and, just as she was about to step away, dismissing it all as a nonsense, he moved again. Her feet mirrored his, their hands almost touching, and the dance began. For a long time there was no sound in that great hall but the rattle and tap of the ever-speeding drum, as Tynisa and Isendter fought.

At first she just reacted to him, sliding left as he slid right, retreating and retreating to his lead, but soon she was throwing in moves of her own, lunges and advances, feints and darts, which he echoed perfectly with his ever-moving feet. She forgot all about the others. She forgot Alain. Even the music departed her conscious mind, speaking directly to her body, so that all that mattered was the grave old Mantis before her. She never noticed how the rhythm of their dance was led by the drum, each louder beat signalling a strike. She never witnessed how the expressions of disdain on the faces of the Dragonfly-kinden became watchful, and then wide-eyed, as she and Isendter spun and passed and came together again in the perfect collaboration of duellists.

She could have told, two minutes in, all there was to know about Isendter’s martial history, just as he had laid her own similarly bare. She could sense which of his knees was slightly tender with age, where the past scars were that tugged at the fluidity of his movements – all those mementos of his long career. They knew each other like lovers, during the moves of that dance, and she realized that he was better than she was, made slower by years but made wiser by experience. And the fight and the dance were running to an inevitable conclusion, and . . .

The drum had stopped, and she tried to identify that final sound, that pulled her out of her trance. A familiar sound and a comforting one.

Steel on steel.

Her rapier was in her hand, as reassuring and impossible as dreams. Its blade crossed the metal claw jutting from the gauntlet that Isendter had not been wearing before, nor could have found the time to buckle on.

The dance was over, the room was silent, and the old Mantis nodded just once – but with a Weaponsmaster’s approval. Somewhere in the room she felt her father was watching her, adding his own satisfaction to Isendter’s curt approbation.

Then the applause came, not the rowdy cheering of a Collegium theatre crowd, but a pattering of fingers on palms as the nobility of Elas Mar Province allowed her into their world.

She looked across the room to meet Alain’s eyes squarely, and he was smiling.