The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) (37 page)

Brynd was clearly enjoying himself. They drifted into open country, past smallholdings and larger farmhouses. Out here there were few walls to avoid, and as a result he simply let go of the
reins altogether.

‘Are you crazy?’ Jeza snapped. ‘Pick them up again.’

‘I want to see where she wants to go herself. I want to know what she
thinks
.’

‘That’s a bad idea!’ Jeza snapped.

‘Now who’s scared?’ came Brynd’s smug response.

The Mourning Wasp began to bank a little higher, at tree level now, gliding above the snow-covered hills. Her speed increased and, at one point, they spotted two pterodettes flying alongside
before they fell back, unable to keep up. The wind was stronger here. Jeza’s heart skipped a few beats – she had not been prepared for Brynd letting go. Yet the wasp seemed to enjoy the
freedom: she slowed down along the sides of an iced-up river, and drifted lazily along one of the tributaries, until she met the open sea. There, he took the reins again: and steered her back
towards the ground, towards the city, whereupon they picked up speed to race the final few streets home.

*

Outside the factory, Brynd pulled on the reins with confidence. The wasp lowered her legs straight away, barely waiting for them to stop, and shuddered to a standstill. As they
dismounted Brynd stumbled slightly, probably dizzy from the speed, as Jeza was herself, despite being more used to it.

Brynd took off his helm and ruffled his hair. He was laughing. He looked back at the wasp in disbelief, then walked a slow circle around it.

‘I can’t believe how you just trusted her like that,’ Jeza said. ‘We could have fallen off at high speed.’

‘It wouldn’t have been a bad way to go,’ he smiled. ‘You never once took the reins off me. You could have reached over to slow her at any point. You didn’t, because
you knew she’d be OK.’

‘That’s not the point,’ Jeza replied. ‘I didn’t think we were ready for that.’

‘I’m not the sort of person who hangs back worrying about those sorts of things. It seemed right to let the lady have a go herself. So this . . . Mourning Wasp, is her name? She
really is breathtaking.’

Jeza managed to remember to smile. ‘You like her then?’

‘I didn’t understand half of what you said when you talked about resurrecting her, nor do I really want to know. I think she’s the most important creature I’ve seen in a
long time.’

‘Do you reckon you’d be interested in buying more of her?’

‘Yes. Without a doubt. How many more do you have?’

‘Four, but you can have as many as you need,’ Jeza told him. ‘Now we’ve established the design, the technology is based on the same replicating principle as the armour,
more or less. We’ve two more Mourning Wasps in the basement. I could make a few in a day.’

‘The military will require many of these,’ he said, more sternly now. ‘I want the Night Guard to familiarize themselves with this urgently. And tomorrow I’d like to
commence their training.’

‘We’ve not talked about money,’ Jeza reminded him.

The look in Brynd’s eyes suggested that money was an irrelevance. ‘You can have what you need. I hope you know our payments are valid.’

‘The best in the city.’

‘Good,’ he replied. Then he stood in front of her and gave his most serious look of the evening. ‘Jeza, when the war is over, consider all of you at the factory to be friends
of the Night Guard. If you ever seek employment, you have my word, you’ll have a place at my side.’

*

‘He said what?’ Coren muttered.

‘A place at his side. Employment. Jobs for life, or something like that.’ Jeza looked across the breakfast table.

‘Who wants to work for the fucking Empire?’ Coren asked. ‘We make our own rules.’

‘I know,’ Jeza replied. ‘I’m just telling you what he told me, all right?’

‘Cool it, Coren,’ Diggsy said, palming the air. ‘Jeza’s right to build relationships like that. That albino’s the most important man in the city, and we’ve
got him in the palms of our hands. That’s pretty incredible, right?’

‘Maybe,’ Coren grunted.

‘Good,’ Diggsy said.

‘Did you bring the wasp down to the basement?’ Jeza asked.

‘Yeah, through the rear doors. She seemed fine.’

‘They want to bring the whole Night Guard here tomorrow to learn how to ride the Mourning Wasp,’ Jeza said.

Coren shook his head.

‘What?’ Jeza demanded. ‘You wanted me to negotiate deals, we negotiate deals – quite a big deal this time, if you must know. They want more wasps made, hence the
training.’

Everyone else seemed jubilant, except Coren.

‘Just feels too close to the military,’ he grunted. ‘We wanted to be free to do our own things, not be slaves to soldiers.’

‘Yeah, well, we need money to be free in this city, and the military pays the best rates going. We just have to deal with it. Besides, I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels
guilty we didn’t play our part in the last war. This is our chance to help them defend the city.’

‘She’s right,’ Diggsy muttered. ‘Leave things be, Coren.’

Coren exchanged a strange glance with Diggsy then. Jeza made a mental note to follow that up later.

‘I’m going to bed,’ she said, ‘it’s been a long night and I want to be ready for the Night Guard tomorrow.’

‘I’ll be up soon,’ Diggsy said, still locked in that weird exchange with Coren.

*

It was late when she shambled about the top floor in her nightwear, wondering what book to read before she went to sleep. She walked barefoot, hardly making a noise. Moonlight
came through the shutters in slices, and she saw two figures move in the shadows on the floor below. Crouching, concealing herself behind a metal post, she peered down.

Pilli and Diggsy were embracing, their lips touching.

Her heart stopped. She swallowed. Welled up. She forced herself to take a second glance to confirm the betrayal, then shuffled away into the darkness.

After she entered the bedroom she reached for a bottle of vodka, sat on the edge of the bed, took three huge, eye-stinging slurps from the bottle, and that was OK because she knew she was crying
then anyway, could feel the tears streaming down her face. She struggled to take in breaths.

‘That’s not how to deal with it.’ Coren lingered in the doorway, his body in darkness. He walked towards her, then sat on the floor at a distance.

When she could manage it, she asked, ‘How long have you known?’

‘’Bout ten or so days.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Thought Diggsy would sort himself out. Also, was a little scared of what might happen should Pilli suddenly decide to up sticks and leave.’

‘What . . . ? What do you mean?’

‘Her dad owns this place. If she fucks off, who knows what would happen to us?’

‘I didn’t think.’ Jeza cradled the bottle. ‘What should we do?’

‘Drinking now will make it worse. That’s not how you get control over the situation.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

‘You just asked me!’ Coren continued in an even gentler tone, a level of softness she didn’t know he possessed. ‘Sleep in my bed tonight.’

‘Nice try.’

‘Not even I’m that obvious,’ he replied. ‘I’m off out to see one of those late-night poets in Saltwater. Friend of mine – last on. Take my room, I’ll
bring in a load of cheap food and pass out in the kitchen. No one will spot the difference.’

‘Thanks,’ Jeza said, wiping away the last of her tears.

‘You know what I think?’ Coren asked, standing and moving to the door.

Jeza looked up at him, silently.

‘You never liked Diggsy because you were in love with a dead man. Diggsy was your stand-in, a surrogate lover.’

Jeza stared at him, opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out.

‘That’s right, I have
emotional awareness
when I want. I’m not stupid. You wanted my opinion? Sleep it off, don’t mention it. Break it off with him at a more
appropriate time, but don’t let on you caught them. We can’t risk losing the factory.’

He left her in stunned silence.

*

The Night Guard came before daybreak, and Jeza felt like hell despite having stayed away from the vodka. She had cried herself to sleep and descended into deep dreams that left
her feeling restless. When she passed through to the kitchen, Coren was slumped at the table with weird tribal food stuck to his cheek. She woke him gently and sent him back to his room.

She answered the door to the Night Guard and nearly had a heart attack at the sight of a dozen of the Empire’s best warriors looming over her in the morning mist. They were garbed in black
and arranged in a curved row, while to one side Commander Lathraea introduced them.

He wanted each of the soldiers to have their turn with a wasp. First they began to familiarize themselves with the creatures in the basement, overcoming any fears they might have, getting used
to the concept of riding on top of them. Later, they each took turns to ride around the nearby streets before they became too busy with activity – it was, Brynd said, of great importance that
no one see what was going on because people were sensitive to the new races south of the city. He didn’t want to stir up any further tensions.

*

After several successful efforts, the Night Guard went away to work on their personal fitness, only to return later that evening, when darkness came again to the city’s
streets.

Jeza watched as they became more relaxed and confident. Their reactions became far quicker – their desire to master the skills was unsurpassed. She was both in awe and jealous at their
skills.

Brynd soon pushed them to try riding with one hand then asked them to hold out their swords to see if they could master both swordplay and flying. She began to realize exactly how the Mourning
Wasps were to be used.

By the time both moons were unseasonably high, Brynd was encouraging his men and the Mourning Wasps through ever-more complex manoeuvres.

What struck Jeza was how the Mourning Wasps thrived under their military masters. They seemed to enjoy the challenges, which had unearthed a new sense of vitality. If the creatures had once
mourned, as according to the legend, it appeared that they no longer felt any sadness. The only sadness was Jeza’s: she felt like a mother handing over her child in exchange for a fat
contract, but she forced herself to be strong.

And in just a day and a night, the soldiers of the Night Guard had mastered the complex arts of riding the Mourning Wasp.

The streets were slick with rain. Street traffic picked up after the rainstorm: people heading quickly on their way home before the skies opened up again. Fulcrom and Lan had
waited for the rain to stop before leaving the Citadel.

Dressed in crude civilian clothing, brown breeches, woollen tops, raincapes and heavy boots, they blended into the Villiren dusk.

‘These jumpers make my skin itch,’ Lan said.

‘Never mind,’ Fulcrom replied, smiling.

‘It’s all right for you, with your rumel skin. What about poor little humans like me?’

‘You’re tough as old boots,’ Fulcrom replied. ‘You’ll live. Besides, it’s either that or give ourselves away.’

‘I get it, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it,’ Lan said, rearranging her raincape.

They continued through the cold streets to their destination in the Ancient Quarter, the Partisans’ Club.

Fulcrom had done his best to speak to locals that morning to glean the mood on the streets; he also studied maps, memorized street names and corporation names registered with the Citadel, so
that he might pose as a civilian more effectively.

The road around the Partisans’ Club was noticeably different. There were people here coming for the meeting, that was clear. But amidst the moving tide of people, Fulcrom noticed
individuals who were standing still like islands. Big men with their arms folded lined the wall nearest the entrance. Behind the flick of a cloak, Fulcrom spotted a blade or two. ‘Keep an eye
on those,’ Fulcrom whispered to Lan. Her gaze immediately scanned around and she nodded her agreement.

Men stood by the door of the club, occasionally pulling certain individuals out to inspect them, before pushing them back into the flow. As the last remaining light vanished from the day,
Fulcrom and Lan headed inside.

Down a stairwell and they were inside the plush club. At one end was a stage with spotlights and dreary lanterns, which gave the room a vaguely sinister air. There was a heady smell of damp,
sweat and cheap incense, and the place was rammed with people of all ages. Fulcrom had expected a few tough-looking disillusioned types, but was surprised at the variety of ages and classes: there
were old and young, well-to-do and both men and women, humans and rumels present.

It was mostly standing-room only. There was cheap artwork on the wall and, judging by all the tankards of beer, and glasses of wine or vodka, there was a bar somewhere out of sight. At least it
was warm. Fulcrom and Lan managed to find a spot against the far wall, so that the stage stood on their right and the rest of the room opened up to the left, allowing them a full view of
everything.

The noise of the crowd grew and people became restless. They were whistling and jeering, and when three men walked on stage the people cheered sarcastically.

The centre figure walked to the front of the stage with his legs apart like some dodgy actor soaking in the admiration of his crowd; this was sheer arrogance on display. Even though he was
thirty feet away, Fulcrom guessed he was a handsome man, a swarthy-looking fellow with a day or two of stubble. Everything about his outfit said he was a man used to the company of thugs –
the handle of a dagger was sticking up out of his boot – but he had a vaguely refined air about him.

‘Who’s the show-off?’ Lan whispered.

‘I suspect this is the man who runs the show, and the very man we’re looking for. Malum.’

The two men that had accompanied him on stage suddenly drew out enormous swords and rammed them in the stage – and the crowd fell silent.