Free The Scarab Path by Adrian Tchaikovsky Page B

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 company with
myself and my fellows. Who would not?’
    She
looked behind her and spotted the gathering of rogues that were his fellows.
There were a full dozen of them, Khanaphir and silver-skinned Marsh folk, halfbreeds,
and even a Spider-kinden woman from somewhere far, far off.
    ‘No,
please,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to go with you. I just want to get out of
this place.’
    ‘Who
would not want to leave here?’ the Beetle agreed, still smiling at her. ‘And
what better companions to leave with than such stout fellows as we? We have a
fine ship, too, which lacks only one of your elegance to complete her company.
Surely you will be our guest.’
    She
understood then: slavers. The rogues were meanwhile
drawing closer to her in a kind of casual saunter. Any one of them looked as
though he could outrun her and they had broad-bladed daggers, short-hafted
axes, sported spurs of bone.
    ‘Please,
I … I am a scholar of Collegium. I will soon be missed.’
    ‘Then
surely your friends will reimburse us for our hospitality,’ replied the smiling
Khanaphir. There was a dagger in his hand, its blade as bright as a mirror even
here under cover of the tents.
    She
opened her mouth to protest again but he grabbed her tunic, twisting it at the
collar and drawing her up on to her toes. His smile stayed robustly unchanged.
Another of his men was abruptly close enough to take hold of her other arm.
    ‘Please—!’
she cried, just as a spear plunged so far into his chest that its leaf-shaped
head emerged complete and red-glossed through his back. His eyes popped wide
open but the smile, horribly, stayed quite intact as he dropped. Petri fell
back and sat down heavily, staring.
    They had
found her at last. She saw their gold-rimmed shields inlaid with turquoise,
their raised