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

“More than you know,” Borden told him, chewing. “I had to defend Del Halle twice during the war.” The hook was there, and Cordwick made his eyes wide with a non-combatant’s earnest admiration.

“I never got to see any of the fighting,” he prompted, and Borden obediently responded with, “I’ll show you where we threw them back, then.”

Throughout the whole meal, the bald man said nothing, was not introduced or even much looked at. His silent, brooding presence was as pointedly evident as a stone in a shoe.

Then came the grand tour, which Cordwick had been angling for. Borden, now sufficiently convinced of the credentials of his fresh audience, had a chance to tell his war stories, and as such stories relied on a knowledge of Del Halle, Cordwick and Tesse were guided through its halls and rooms, able to remark at their leisure just how the place was laid out, and how well it was secured.

Well, was the answer to that, and there were a lot of guards at their posts, far more than peacetime would normally mandate. Borden even dropped an offhand hint that they were “expecting a little bother right about now.” Cordwick managed to exchange a look with Tesse. They are ready for Darien. Not for nothing had Philomaea led them here. Specifically, there were more than sufficient guards on the two downward stairs that they passed. The cellars were not just for wine, and Cordwick could only hope that the arrangements down there were less convoluted than those at Maille.

Then Borden took them to the central light-well of the castle, and Cordwick breathed an inward sigh of relief. The place had been so heavily refortified that this original Commonwealer feature might easily have been cluttered up, but here it was: a column of empty space in the centre of the castle reaching from the ground to the roof-space, with plenty of openings and doors up and down its length, the swiftest road through the building for anyone with wings. Most of these old Commonweal forts had them, and there, at the top, were what had been portals to the outside. They were shuttered and barred now, but Cordwick recalled what he had seen of the exterior, matching up window for window and door for door.

“I say, colonel,” Cordwick said, as the man came to the end of one of his military anecdontes, “seeing this space here... Have you ever heard of thea rappa?”

Borden’s look suggested that he assumed it was some piece of martial artifice that he hadn’t yet encountered.

“It’s an entertainment, a Commonweal dance form,” said Cordwick, in his best ‘oh-what-silly-things-these-primitives-do’ sort of voice. “My slave’s a fair hand at it, in fact. I only mention it because it’s a sword-dance, a fighting dance, almost. As a soldier, I thought you might enjoy it.”

Borden glanced back at his officers, gauging their mood. They had been waiting for Darien for a while, Cordwick guessed, because the idea of some fresh amusement obviously appealed to them. The colonel nodded. “Proceed.”

“I will need a sword,” Tesse said, and then, “Master,” with what sounded to Cordwick like undue sarcasm.

The Wasps exchanged looks, Borden’s officers instantly suspicious, but Borden growled at them, “What’s she going to do? This is nothing. This is nothing to do with him.”

Cordwick kept his face carefully straight, watching as the colonel drew his own shortsword and passed it to Tesse hilt-first. She bowed gracefully and took up her station in the centre of the space, beneath that far-off roof. The original plan had been to use her thea rappa for a distraction, allowing Cordwick free rein to make his inspection. This would be better, though, provided the Fly had understood what he required of her.

She stamped on the stone floor, and in the echo of it was airborne, wings shimmering and flickering about her shoulders. She had a red ribbon in one hand, its end weighted with a bead of lead, and the sword dragging at her other side, and she spiralled up until she was halfway to the far ceiling. Cordwick hoped that she was as good as her boast. If nothing else, bad thea rappa could be a hazard for the spectators, and if she clipped one of Borden’s general staff, things would not go well.

She let go of the sword. Even as the Wasps were spreading out in alarm she had caught it up again, the ribbon trailing like blood, casting the blade up towards high shuttered windows. Instantly she was after it, spinning and gyring about it, catching and lifting the weapon with tiny touches, making it spin in a glitter of steel that the high sconces caught. She moved in swift loops about it, making it seem that the blade was nearly still, that she was orbiting it as a moth about a flame. The streamer of red that followed her spelled out the corkscrew of her path in brief letters as she flew.

She was adequate, Cordwick decided. His interest in such displays was purely for their tendancy to distract people from their valuables, and in this he judged her adequate. The Wasps seemed more appreciative, supporting his suspicion that decent entertainment was at a premium out here.

After she had landed, with the sword repatriated to its owner, Borden grunted his approval.

“How much for her?”

Cordwick’s innards lurched but his mouth was already working. “Alas, Colonel, I can’t, much as I’d like to sometimes. Not only is she my clerk as well as my dancer, her papers are in the Bellowern name and not mine to dispose of.”

“Well, perhaps she can entertain us again tomorrow,” Borden said, pragmatic as any field officer. “Find the lieutenant quarters,” he directed one of his underlings. “Until tomorrow, Lieutenant.”

Once they had been decanted to a spartanly appointed guest room, with barred boards over the windows, and once he had made an exhaustive investigation to ensure that nobody was nearby and eavesdropping, Cordwick sat on the hard-mattressed