The Scarab Path

'Still?' Berjek echoed. 'Yes, but "still" from when? Oh, it looks old enough, but then everything here does. When was this mechanism put in?'

'That I can't tell you,' Corcoran admitted, and when the academics turned sour faces on him, he raised a hand. 'Believe it or not, I wanted to know that as well. I'm an artificer, after all, and you get curious. The locals just say it's been here for ever, whatever that means. No help there, then. But I got friendly with a Spider-kinden captain, and she did a bit of digging for me – in exchange for a cheap deal on some crossbows from the Glove. She found some records of once when a Spider Arista was stopped at the gates by the Khanaphir – some diplomatic incident – and the Spider-kinden families don't forget insults. Their description of the gate is perfect, same then as now.'

'And when was this supposed to be?' Berjek asked, annoyed by the man's air of showmanship.

'Hold on to something,' Corcoran said, 'because it was at least – at least, mind – five hundred and fifty years back. And it didn't say anything about the gate being new, even then.'

Berjek stared at him. 'Well, that's impossible,' he protested, but something tugged at the corner of his mouth and he added, 'Isn't it?'

'Could Collegium have built this, then?' Che asked.

'No,' Praeda said simply. 'That long ago is before the revolution, back when we might really have been Inapt.'

'But the Khanaphir can't have been Apt for fifty – maybe a hundred? – years longer than we have,' said Berjek, scandalized. 'Just look at them! What happened? Are you telling me that all their artificers just gave up, closed their books and locked their workshops?'

'I'm not telling you anything,' Corcoran said mildly. 'They do the most impressive things you ever saw with simple mechanisms, and they'll have nothing to do with anything more, even if you promise to install it free of charge. You're right, it makes no sense, but that's the way it is.'

It doesn't make sense, Che agreed inwardly. And so there must be some reason for it that we have not found. Aptitude? It is all about Aptitude. This city has not truly taken to it, so… so…

So there may be something left, some survival, that the tide of progress has not washed away.

She fell back from the bickering academics to join Petri Coggen, who looked at her fearfully. Che could not blame her.

'You know this city,' Che began. 'You know it better than any of us.'

'What do you want?' Petri asked her, voice shaking slightly. There was clearly something in Che's expression she did not like, and Che was not surprised.

'There must be something… Even in Collegium, if one searches hard enough, one can find a mystic, some old Moth or halfbreed peddling prophecy from a doorway. You can't tell me there is nothing of that here.'

Petri stared at her aghast. 'But… why?'

'Never mind why,' Che replied, with more force than she intended. 'I want you to think carefully about what I have asked and then, when we can go without these scholars bothering me, you will show me what I want to see.'

Petri was already shaking her head slowly. 'I'm not sure…'

'You have told me your fears,' Che persisted. 'I have not dismissed them. In fact, I agree with you: there is something at the heart of this city that is very wrong indeed. But I must use unusual methods to find it.' It was dishonest, putting it like that, but she was desperate. 'Did Master – did Kadro go to those places?'

There was a very long pause, as shock registered on Petri's face.

'He did,' she whispered. 'I don't know how you know that, but he did.'

'Then so shall I.' Seventeen They had sent Corcoran advance warning of the ship, but the vessel was now three days late and he was not a man to be out sitting on the dock every morning in loyal vigilance. Instead, for a handful of coins he had a boy keep watch for him. He meanwhile did his best to show autonomy and importance, for the position of foreign traders in Khanaphes was an uncertain one. A man had to work hard to get invited to the diplomatic functions that Corcoran enjoyed. Still, when the boy came running to the Iron Glove factora bringing the news, Corcoran got himself to the docks absolutely as quickly as possible.

He spotted the ship straight away, even amongst the perpetual dance of other vessels docking and leaving. Following his advice, they had come in under sail, but he could see the tarpaulin-covered bulk of the engine and paddle wheel at the stern, which had cut across the Sunroad Sea in defiance of wind or weather. The gauntlet badge of the Iron Glove was displayed on the round shields that lined her rails, a practice borrowed from the Mantis-kinden and more decorative than functional here. The sail was blank, but they seldom had to resort to it: only here, where time stood still, was being at the mercy of the elements considered good form.

Corcoran got himself to the quay just as the ship drew in, making himself evident in his dark armour and shifting tabard. Though he liked to consider himself a free spirit, there were certain people whose continued favour was essential to his livelihood, and one such was currently on this ship.

And why is Himself taking all this so very personally? A simple message from Corcoran had confirmed when the Lowlanders were expected, and the reply had come back by return: I am coming, and projected times and dates. None of my business, Corcoran decided. He's worried about the competition, no doubt.

Once the dockhands had finished tying the ship off, a section of its metal-plated side fell open to form a gangplank. Corcoran drew himself up straight as the passengers began to disembark.

Life alive, he marvelled. He doesn't do things by halves.

The man in the lead wore armour of black, fluted steeclass="underline" an intricate mesh of fine mail and sliding plates, and each section cast in ridges and folds to give it more strength for less weight. Nothing of his face showed between the slotted helm and a high gorget. His Iron Glove tabard was edged in silver, but beyond that it was only the sophistication of the armour itself that marked his rank. Behind him came a full dozen Iron Glove mercenaries armoured in leathers, like Corcoran himself, but under plain breastplates and blackened steel helms. They all carried spears and swords, and Corcoran guessed at the disassembled crossbows or snapbows lying hidden in their packs.

It's not a delegation, it's an invasion, he thought. Already there would be word rushing upriver towards the Scriptora, so they would receive their official welcome soon enough.

'Welcome to Khanaphes, Sieur,' he said. The eye-slit of the helm waited, and he hastily corrected himself, 'Sir, rather.' And why they have to use Imperial, rather than good honest Solarnese words, I don't know. 'Are you not hot in all that armour, sir?'

The man gave a hollow laugh. 'A little, but giving the right impression is important. What is the situation here? Where do we stand?'

'Would you not rather retire to the factora first, sir?'

'I'm sure I will be required to speak with the locals shortly, so tell me what I need to know.'

'Well then, nothing much has changed,' Corcoran explained. 'The Collegiates have been here almost a tenday now, and they've been meeting with the Ministers and poking at the statues, all what you'd expect. The only business was some kind of midnight scuffle with some Imperial types a few days back, but nothing further seemed to come of that.'

'How long has the Empire been here?' the helm enquired.

'Oh, about a couple of days longer than the Lowlanders. And yes, I know, obvious conclusions: one of them's here to watch the other. Or both of them are.'