The Air War (Shadows of the Apt 8) by Adrian Tchaikovsky Read Free Book Online Page B

Empire hated, however, and rooted out wherever it was
found, the Broken Sword was the most reviled. Its very existence was anathema to the Empire, for it dared to speak against war, the Empire’s lifeblood. Its members were mostly soldiers who
had seen too much, done too much, lost too many friends, gone too long without seeing their families or homes. Most of them worked secretly within the Empire, within the very army, but one of their
projects was to smuggle out those who had simply had too much of war, and this phalanstery in the mountains of Tharn was one such destination.
    She faced up to Salthric, a slender, grey young woman against a strong-framed man whose very hands could kill. ‘Esmail,’ she said. ‘I’m here for him.’
    His expression told her that he had been expecting something of the sort. He took a deep breath, and said, ‘No.’
    ‘It was not a request.’
    ‘No, he is at peace here. He does not deserve to have it taken from him,’ Salthric replied, with surprising vehemence.
    ‘You have no understanding of what he is,’ she told him flatly.
    ‘I may only be one of the Apt, but I know,’ he hissed. ‘I understand. I know how much he has lost – to your people. I will not let you have him.’
    They were not alone now. Three other robed Wasps had heard their voices and drifted in: two were middle-aged, one old enough to have retired if he had still been with the army. They looked from
her to Salthric warily, not sure what was going on.
    ‘You owe my people,’ Xaraea stated, staring Salthric in the eye. ‘Who brought you here? Who gave you this place? Who let you live unmolested in the mountains? Who taught
you our ways so that you could survive?’
    ‘I know all this—’ he started, but she was not done.
    ‘And when the Empire came to Tharn with its machines and soldiers, who was it said nothing about our guests here in the phalanstery?’
    Silence fell, her eyes boring into his.
    ‘The politics of Tharn are very fluid at the moment, Salthric – especially where the Empire is concerned. Who would you want to be the next visitor knocking at your door?’
    In his face was not fear for himself, but fear for everything else there, for the other exiles, his precious order.
    She had no time for respect or pity. ‘Take me to Esmail, if you please.’
    She saw his hands twitch at his sides, fingers clawing as his stinging Art surged within him, and as he fought down generations of Wasp anger. He could kill her, without doubt, but then what?
The Broken Sword’s existence here was precarious enough as it was. At last, he turned, storming off into the deeper halls, and she stepped lightly after him.
    There was a little light within, from shafts sunk into the rock, but mostly they relied on torches and lanterns fixed to the walls. She suspected that the older residents no longer needed them,
finding their way through the buried rooms by touch and memory. That Salthric took a torch with him was, she suspected, a wretched attempt to warn her target that they were approaching.
    The faces she passed were almost universally Wasp men, but not quite all. Some were women; the luckiest escapees had managed to bring their families away with them. There were a few Ants as
well, a Bee-kinden, the grey-blue of a Mynan Beetle. The Broken Sword was for broken soldiers, and they made no hard distinctions as to kinden.
    Esmail, the man she had come to see, was no Wasp, and – despite Salthric’s words – Xaraea was unconvinced that the Broken Sword truly knew what his heritage was.
    Salthric guided her to a doorway hung with a curtain, in the Moth style. For a moment he just glowered at her, then he stalked off, leaving her alone.
    Perhaps he hopes Esmail will kill me , she considered. It was certainly a possibility.
    She pushed aside the curtain and went in. There were two rooms beyond, square boxes of stone one after the other, and Esmail stood in the archway between them, ready to fight her if