Free The Scarab Path by Adrian Tchaikovsky

voice from the tent’s hidden reaches. It was a male voice, but Petri could tell no more than that. Even if this was the Arranger’s tent, it could have just been another servant speaking.
    ‘I … give you my apologies if I have caused any difficulties.’ She stumbled over the words, which was poor, knowing the Khanaphir valued eloquence.
    ‘There are many who come to me seeking a final arrangement,’ the man responded, with the unhurried measure of someone fond of his own voice. ‘The wealthy speak to me of their rivals, the bitter regarding those who have wronged them, the desperate concerning those who have more than they. Honoured Foreigner, have you been in our lands so long that you would be prepared to take part in our pastimes?’
    ‘No …’ The word came out as a squeak, so she calmed herself and started again. ‘I only wish to know, great Harbir, whether a friend of mine has been arranged … has had an arrangement made about him.’
    She hoped she had remembered properly what little Kadro had said of the traditions here. Amongst some assassins, she was sure, such a direct question would transgress etiquette – perhaps fatally.
    ‘You have not come empty-handed, expecting to bear away such a weighty answer?’ the voice enquired, upon which she finally relaxed a little. She reached into her purse and came out with a fistful of currency: Helleron Standards, the local lozenges of metal stamped with weight and hallmark, even a few bulky and debased Imperial coins.
    There was a slight sound that might have been a snigger. ‘And who is it that is so fortunate as to have you solicitous after their health?’
    ‘Kadro … Kadro of Collegium, the Fly-kinden,’ she replied. The words dropped heavily into the tent and left a silence.
    ‘Please …’ she said again, before biting off the words. The locals never said ‘please’. Their indefatigable politeness danced around the word.
    ‘Go,’ said the voice.
    ‘Please tell me!’ she managed, suddenly very aware of the two axemen by the tent-flap.
    ‘His name has not been passed to me,’ said the unseen voice. ‘Now go.’
    The axemen had subtly shifted their stance, and Petri was suddenly very afraid. She tripped on the rugs, stumbled, and was out of the tent before she realized it, into the stifling alleyways of the Marsh Alcaia.
    She looked around her, having no idea what path might lead her out of this warren of fabric. She had known she was intruding too far, but somehow had envisaged, after a successful quest, that the way out would open before her. But her quest was not successful, and no clear exit was to be seen. The one thing she could not ask the locals was How do I get out of here?
    Petri started walking. She tried to make her gait seem determined, as of someone who frequented the Marsh Alcaia every day. But she was a foreigner, dressed like a foreigner, wearing a head of hair like a foreigner. She no longer had any names of power to awe the locals. She passed through avenue after cloth-roofed avenue, each lined only with the openings of tents. People stopped to watch her pass, and eyes from within the shadows picked out her movements. She was aware of this scrutiny but did not stop, just kept walking to who-knows-where.
    A man fell into step alongside her. He was a Khanaphir Beetle, short, shaven-headed, wearing a simple robe. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and found he was not looking at her.
    ‘Pardon this no doubt unwarranted observation but you look like one who is seeking the direction to where she should be,’ he said, smiling out at the canvas sky.
    ‘E-excuse me?’ she stammered. She felt hope steal up on her, now, although she had no reason for it.
    ‘I know where you need to be, and I can assist you, Honoured Foreigner,’ said her companion. She stopped and turned to look at him directly.
    ‘Please help me,’ she said.
    ‘Why, of course.’ He smiled broadly. ‘What you wish, of course, is to be in