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

“Right,” Ygor said levelly. “And I’m mad, am I?”

“What is it?” Dal Arche asked blankly.

“It’s part of my winnings from an eighteen-hour game of toppers with an Engineering Corps captain, who must have had a lot of explaining to do the next day. We call them nailbows. They’re quite new.”

“And quite loud,” Ygor pointed out. “Do you even know how to use that thing?”

“As I understand, it’s mostly a matter of pointing it in the right direction and waiting for the noise to stop,” Mordrec said blithely.

“Well it’ll give Ecta a shock, as well as most of the city,” Ygor decided philosophically.

The marketplace Ecta had picked out was mostly abandoned some time before dusk. Those traders who had intended to remain were soon discouraged by a band of big, heavily-armed Scorpion-kinden, at first by means of a few words, and then with broken stalls and goods. The Empire, which might have been expected to take an interest in this lawlessness, was conspicuous in its absence. It was clear to Mordrec that the Scorpions had made a donation to Slave Corps coffers, and they in turn had leant on the auxillian militia, Soul Je’s kindred, to keep away. Soon enough, even before the sun was falling behind Myna’s city wall, the place was deserted save for Ecta’s people. At a signal from their leader the Scorpions broke up, each finding cover amongst the stalls, spreading out through the deserted lanes of the market. Mordrec saw, then, that Ygor had been right about his own people. This was no matter of honour. Ecta might be standing out in his full glory, leaning on his man-high sword like a noble barbarian prince, but the others had fanned out into a pincer ambush, fingering their axes and blades. They hid well, too, for big men. Soon only Ecta was left, but the jaws of the trap were trembling, waiting for one old man.

Soul Je had used his Auxillian status to install them in the upper room of a wayhouse at the edge of the market. From its small window they had done their best to keep track of where Ecta’s followers had gone, but in the end at least half of the Scorpions had vanished entirely.

“Time to move,” Mordrec decided. “Hokiak’ll be here any moment.” He looked at his allies doubtfully. “We’ll have to hunt them.”

“We’ll strike when the old man turns up,” Dal Arche stated. “You want him to be impressed, yes?”

“Yes,” Mordrec agreed, heartfelt. He glanced from face to face: the grizzled Dragonfly-kinden; Soul Je with his long, unreadable face; squat and broad Barad Ygor with his lethal pet, Scutts, coiled about his feet. The former slaver hefted the weight of his nailbow. “Let’s move.”

The Slave Corps were not known for subtlety, but Mordrec had fought in the Twelve-year War and had his own memories of playing stalking games with Dragonfly Mercers and assassins. He had served the Corps as scout and spotter, in the air and on the ground, and he entered the hushed market noiselessly, the bulk of the nailbow cocked back over his shoulder to keep it from rattling against anything, his free hand palm out, ready to unleash his sting in case someone else was stalking him.

Of his allies, Dal Arche and Soul Je had vanished utterly, not a sound or scent of them. The maze of vacant stalls did not admit to their presence in any way. Barad Ygor was hanging back, not the stealthiest of men, crouched by a derelict potter’s with his crossbow cradled, string taut, in his arms. His venomous friend was gone, though, and Modrec imagined the creature creeping, belly to the ground, beneath the awnings and the wooden stands, hunting out the enemy on Ygor’s behalf.

It was dusk now, and Wasp eyes were not at their best. Mordrec took his progress step by step, working his way towards the centre. He was in sight of the cleared space, edging round to get an angle on Ecta himself, when he realised that, only a few yards away, one of the other Scorpions was crouched, clawed hands on the haft of a crescent-headed axe. Mordrec froze, but the man’s attention was wholly inward. With painstaking care the ex-slaver canted the heavy nailbow from his shoulder and brought the machined barrel round.

The Scorpion twitched, and very nearly died for it, as Mordrec’s nerves were stretched to snapping. A newcomer was shuffling a slow progress out into the open space at the market’s heart.

Hokiak lent on his cane with each step, breathing heavily as though the mere walk from his Exchange had worn him down. He glanced around him, plainly suspecting that Ecta’s confederates were nearby, and then stopped a dozen yards from the bigger Scorpion, both hands on the head of his stick. Ecta’s stance had changed when the old man made his entrance: the greatsword’s length and weight now hanging easily in one fist. For a moment it seemed that he was expecting something special: for Hokiak to leap into the air and reveal himself as some great combat master whose edge could never be dulled by mere time. The ancient renegade just hunched there, though, a sack of bones and yellowed skin and rheumy, watering eyes.

You had better be bloody grateful for this, Mordrec thought to himself. You had better not have come here wanting to die, you wrinkled bastard.

Ecta had apparently understood that there was nothing more than this: an old man at the end of his times. With a disappointed grunt, clearly audible against the sound of so many people being silent, he hefted his blade.

Now. And Mordrec’s finger twitched on the lever, and the nailbow roared in his hands, all but jumping out of his grip.  He had intended to put a neat hole in the back of the man before him, but he emptied a half-dozen bolts in a wild arc amidst the sound of firepowder and thunder. Two bolts struck home, more by luck than anything else, slamming the