Spoils of War (Tales of the Apt Book 1) by Adrian Tchaikovsky (best young adult book series .txt) 📕

further problem was that the cell they were in was an open lattice cage suspended over the inky waters of the pool below by a mere rope, which rope was attached to, by Cordwick’s estimate, a particularly fine example of a Shewner version 5 winding engine. The real problem was that the only blood available for the raging, very-close-to-escaping prisoner to paint the bars with was Cordwick’s. Having done so, the prisoner would be free to do nothing but, by dint of some effort, sever the rope and send himself and the two corpses—one older, one fresher—hurtling to a watery tomb. The fact that Cordwick Scosser, fellow prisoner, soon-to-be-fresher-corpse and failed thief, would already be dead by this point did not rob the thought of its horror. Death by drowning was a terror to him, even at such a remove.

Cordwick knew Mantis-kinden, or he’d thought he did. He knew the Lowlander Mantids, from closer to home, as brooding, sullen, backward thugs, and that was fine. He had thought that the Commonweal breed was different: quiet, ceremonial, unflappable and usually in service to some Dragonfly noble or other. His cell-mate was a Commonweal local but he seemed to be the exception to the rule. To be blunt, he seemed the sort of mad killer that even the Lowlanders would have felt was overdoing it.

“Look, you Mantis-kinden like stories, don’t you? I know a hundred of them, heroic and tragic as you like,” he tried. The Mantis prisoner continued to worry away at his bonds, which were looking alarmingly frayed. Other conversational gambits that he had rebuffed included “Those Wasps are bastards, aren’t they?” and “So, what are you in for?”

My mother always said it would end like this. It was an assertion that did not bear too much scrutiny. In telling the young Cordwick, on the occasion of his precipitate leaving of home, “You’ll come to a bad end, you’ll never amount to anything,” the old dear probably hadn’t been envisaging quite these circumstances, but Cordwick was willing to bet that she’d take the credit for prophecy if she ever found out.

There was a taut little sound that was leather giving way under great pressure, following by one that was a Beetle-kinden thief whimpering. He had tried calling for the guards several times already. Now he opened his mouth one last time as the Mantis turned to him, his hands free and on his face an expression of morbid delight. Cordwick’s voice died in his throat.

A second later he screamed with fright and released tension as someone landed atop the cage. The Mantis lunged upwards instantly and had the newcomer been an incautious Wasp then things might have gone badly. As it was she was a Fly-kinden and four feet up the rope on the instant, leaving the Mantis clutching at empty air.

She was a neat little thing in a tunic that the hanging lanterns showed as black and gold. Her hair was cut short like a soldier’s, too, but something about her had already given the lie to that. Cordwick was good at reading people nine times out of ten. Of course, the tenth time was always the important one...

“Enough of that,” she snapped at the Mantis. “Evandter, yes?”

The Mantis crouched below her, poised to spring as though there were not solid iron bars between them. “I am Evandter. Kill me or die, Fly, or go. You are of no interest to me.”

The Fly-kinden studied him. “You’re the famous Evandter, are you? Scourge of a dozen principalities? Rogue and kidnapper, murderer, enemy of princes? Who’d have thought you’d end up in here, eh? I heard you were drunk when they brought you in. Drinking toasts to your own health, was it? Celebrating the fall of the Commonweal?”

A shudder went through Evandter that Cordwick identified as sheer penned rage. Don’t antagonise the bastard! he thought frantically, but that would be stoking a fire that was already roaring.

“My master has an offer for you,” the Fly said.

“I want nothing from your master, Rekef bitch,” the Mantis hissed. Cordwick considered this, and decided he agreed. A cocky female Fly-kinden in imperial colours almost certainly led to the Rekef eventually.

“He offers death by the sword,” she went on. “I won’t say it’ll give you a chance to regain your ancestors’ approval, because from what I gather you pissed on that a long time ago, but he reckoned you’d rather die fighting than on crossed pikes.”

“And what do the Rekef –?”

“He’s not Rekef, neither,” the Fly said sharply, and then, more softly, “Piss on the Rekef, I say. I’ll have naught to do with them.”

There was a pause in which her words echoed in the vaulted space. Cordwick craned about, seeking out the single doorway that led up to the castle proper. There were two guards there, always. They had been the object of his desperate pleas since Evandter had started on his bonds. Now they were gone, vanished away.

Evandter’s gaze had obviously followed Cordwick’s because the Fly said, “Oh they think I’m Rekef right enough. They’re not expecting trouble, and I’m good with pieces of paper. When I call them back, they’ll come with the keys and you and I will walk out of Maille like old friends, Evandter. What do you say?”

Cordwick saw the Mantis grin death up at her. “Call them,” Evandter said. “Set me free.”

“Swear, first,” the Fly told him, calm as you please. “Swear by the health and life of Nysse Ceann that you will serve my master, not as slave but as sworn bonds warrior.”

Evandter had gone utterly still as the name – a Dragonfly woman’s name, Cordwick assumed – was uttered. “So,” was all the Mantis said.

“Swear,” the Fly repeated, “or I go, and you stay.”

“You name me murderer and enemy of princes,” Evandter growled softly, “and yet you set your life by my word.”

“I name you kidnapper, and my master says that by her name even your word is good, though it would not be worth a