He heard a whir of wings as two guards dropped down beside him.
'This him?' one asked. 'Ugly bastard, isn't he?'
'Just get the harness on him. Hey, halfbreed, you're going places.'
Hrathen squinted at the pair. After all the pitch dark even the glow of lanternlight from above seemed glaring, but he had the eyes for it: eyes bred for the fierce desert. He met the gaze of the first guard, and saw him take a step back without wanting to.
'Oi, enough!' The second man shoved a fist into his back and Hrathen grunted. He was tough all over, though: leathery skin and solid bones that had taken worse.
They put a strap around him, under the armpits, and two men above began hauling him up with much complaining. Once they had him up top, which meant a corridor buried deep beneath the cellars of the garrison, they stepped back from him.
'Big bastard, isn't he?' the first guard remarked, noticing how Hrathen topped them all by a head. The prisoner rolled his shoulders, eyes still half closed against the light. Now he was up and on his feet they kept their distance, firmly bound as he was. The sight of their uncertainty brought back some of his much-abused pride. Let them come close, I'll put my teeth in them. He obligingly bared his tusks at them, that motley snaggle of jutting fangs that had worn scars into his lips.
'Just move him out. He's not our problem any more,' urged one of the guards. A spear-butt jabbed at his back and he stepped briskly forward, almost leading the way. He made his stride, his demeanour, offer no admission of captivity. You cannot cage what I am.
They led him up two levels until he could see sunlight and sky through a window. Further still they led him upwards. Servants stopped and stared when they saw him, richly dressed courtiers shied away from him. He leered lasciviously at every woman he saw. After all, if he was going to be executed, he had nothing more to lose. The guards kept him moving, embarrassed at the attention.
He had lost track of where they were now. Suddenly the corridors became nearly empty, with only guards and more guards to mark his passing. Hrathen began to reconsider his immediate fate. Any execution would occur publicly, or they might decide to torture him instead – though he had not imagined he knew anything worth ripping out of him by such methods.
Perhaps some scholar wants to anatomize me. He was not such a fool as to think that he could withstand torture for ever, or even for very long. The Rekef were very good at it, and possessed all the latest machinery to help them. Over the years, Hrathen had learned a few tricks to stave off pain, but they had their limits. He would give his tormentors a run for their money but, as with most hunts, the end was predetermined.
They hauled him into a side office that he thought maybe he should recognize. A moment later it caught up with him: it was a spymaster's den, the desk and papers and scrolls and carefully ordered documents. The guards jabbed him in the back of the knee until he knelt on the floor, and then they retreated to the edges of the room. He kept his head lowered, but from the corner of his eye he kept watching. If only my mother had given me better wings.
'Well now,' he heard a voice, 'what kind of monster have we here? My sources were sparing in the details, when I thought they exaggerated.' Boots passed within Hrathen's range of vision, and then a man sat himself at the desk. He was a strong-framed Wasp-kinden, his hair just starting to turn grey and his eyes the colour of water and steel. He studied Hrathen with fascination: after all, halfbreeds of Scorpion and Wasp were not that common. Hrathen had inherited his Scorpion father's bulk, his tusks, his small, yellow eyes and waxy skin. Otherwise, he had features like a Wasp, disfigured by the snaggle of teeth and the narrow eyes. His captivity had endowed his heavy jaw with a tangle of beard, and his scalp sprouted patchy tufts of hair that he was itching to have cropped. His hands were his finest feature, but they had bound them palm-to-palm to smother his sting, and then tied together the thumb and forefinger claws as well.
'Do you know why you were arrested, Hrathen?' his inquisitor asked.
Hrathen looked straight back at him. 'Well, if you don't,' he said, 'can I go now?'
A slight smile quirked the man's mouth, then one of the guards kicked Hrathen in the side hard enough to send him sprawling, cracking his head against the stone flags.
The man behind the desk sighed. 'You were once a Rekef agent, as well as a captain in the Slave Corps. That's a heady rank for a halfbreed, but the slavers are a law unto themselves. You were given responsibilities by the Rekef, which you did not take seriously. Instead you indulged yourself. It is believed that you let yourself… go native.'
Hrathen struggled back into a kneeling position, saying nothing.
'It happens, of course. Officers who must work closely with the Auxillians, especially the more savage types, have to make adjustments. Men who are assigned to the Hornet-kinden, or the Scorpions, say, must develop within themselves a commensurate savagery, just to ensure the willing respect of their men. That is well known, but when such men begin to act against Imperial interests, in favouring the lesser race, then we step in. Particularly if such men are also Rekef.'
Hrathen tried to shrug. 'What do you want?' he demanded.
'What do you want?' the man asked him. 'To go back to your desert and vanish? Or would you serve us once more, if the Rekef found a use for you?'
All through the dark hours, Hrathen had been clinging to one thought: They have not killed me yet. Behind that lay another thought, seemingly the only explanation: I am of use to them. He was not a man endowed with so many talents that he could not immediately see why. In all the Empire there could not be many individuals who knew the Scorpion-kinden as well as he did.
'Terms?' he enquired.
'Do you believe that I can harm you?' the man asked. 'Do you realize that I have at my disposal all that man has ever discovered of pain and persuasion?'
'I believe it of the Rekef,' Hrathen agreed, staring the man in the eyes.
The half-smile had reappeared. 'I am the Rekef,' the Wasp announced softly, holding Hrathen's gaze as he said it. The conviction evident in his eyes was absolute. 'I am Lord General Brugan of the Rekef and there is nowhere you could go that would prove far enough to escape my personal wrath. As you fear the Rekef, then so fear me.'
Hrathen felt a cold shiver run through him despite himself. The words had been uttered quietly, understated, for Brugan was a man who did not need to shout. Still, there was more in that shiver than just fear. A general of the Rekef? And the General, if I hear right. What does he want with me? Because underneath it all, despite the tainted blood and the sliding loyalties, Hrathen was still Rekef. He was Rekef through and through because it was the best game in the world – invitation only.
'Tell me about the Scorpion-kinden,' Brugan instructed.
Hrathen grinned despite himself, displaying a nightmare of bristling teeth. 'So you're a tax gatherer?'Thalric began.
'I have that honour,' the old man replied. Akneth was reclining on his cushions beneath a tautly fastened awning that screened out the sun. His six guests now occupied the somewhat cramped section of deck between himself and the labouring oarsmen.
'You don't seem to be interested in collecting any taxes,' Thalric suggested, exchanging a glance with Marger. They were both of a mind that this much-needed offer of transport was all too convenient.
'One collects the taxes during the journey upriver,' Akneth explained. 'If one then collected them downriver also, I daresay there would be complaints.' It was impossible to tell from his expression whether this was a joke.
A subtle people, these Khanaphir, Thalric thought. It's more like talking to a Spider-kinden than a Beetle. He felt as if Akneth was speaking two languages at once, and that Thalric could only understand one of them.