Free Salute the Dark by Adrian Tchaikovsky
Authors: Adrian Tchaikovsky
than a familiar landscape to console her? But Stenwold suspected the Commonweal would bring no fond memories for Felise Mienn.
Stenwold himself spent his time with Jons Allanbridge, occupying his mind with whatever small mechanical tasks the aviator found him fit for. It was almost like being a student again, serving
anew as an apprentice. It was oddly comforting to leave their journey in Allanbridge’s hands, and to shoulder none of the responsibility.
At last they came down beside Sarn. Stenwold had earlier sent a messenger ahead by rail, with no certainty that word would reach Salma in time, or at all. As it turned out, though, there was a
blue-grey-skinned Mynan Beetle-kinden waiting for them, riding with two others, and a string of horses and riding insects. They had been in Sarn when the message arrived, and so had waited the
extra day for Stenwold’s appearance. The Mynan left his mounts in the care of a subordinate, and joined them in the Maiden , directing Allanbridge east away from Sarn. Towards the
Wasp army , Stenwold thought. Salma would face his own ordeal, there, and soon.
They were guided to a camp, and then to another camp, widely spaced, and Stenwold guessed that Salma must be living a mobile life. In the third they finally found him, sitting in a tent and
making plans. Whilst the others waited outside, Stenwold himself was allowed in to speak to him.
Amid the gloom of the tent the Dragonfly prince stood marking notes and arrows on a map he had tacked to a board held in his offhand. It was impossible to know how much attention he was paying
to his visitor. ‘It’s been a while, Sten,’ he remarked.
‘How is your position?’
‘Fluid. So tell me about Che,’ Salma said. ‘How is she?’
Stenwold watched him. With no more reaction to go on than he could glean from the Dragonfly’s back, he explained Achaeos’ circumstances, described Che sitting distraught at his
sickbed.
Salma nodded. ‘I recently dreamt of her passing into darkness. Of course, to the Moths that would be a dream of good omen.’ Outside the tent there were hundreds of armed men and
women busying about. They had none of the uniformity of soldiers, but they were clearly fighters, composed of a dozen kinden and all now engaged in packing up their camp and preparing to move. The Buoyant Maiden had tied up in the midst of this chaos of dissolution.
‘And Tynisa?’ Salma asked. He handed the map to a Fly-kinden woman and turned round. As Stenwold recounted Tynisa’s burden and present mission, he re-evaluated the Dragonfly
before him.
Salma looked every part the brigand chief. The armour had changed since Stenwold last saw him, presumably the pick of whatever equipment they had liberated from the Wasps. Now it was a cuirass
of layered leather with bronze studs over a suit of silk, all of it meticulous Spider work. The sword at his belt was slender and long-hilted, not true Commonweal but of no manufacture Stenwold
could identify. About his forehead he wore a gold-inlaid leather band, complete with cheek-guards.
‘You have arrived at a difficult time, Sten,’ Salma said at last, ‘and apparently travelling to see my people, no less.’
‘You think they won’t help?’
‘I cannot say, save that they will do whatever they do for their own reasons only.’ Salma tacked another blank sheet to his writing board and began to scribe on it.
‘Don’t assume they’ll sit like Beetles and listen to hours of argument. Just ask and then accept whatever answer they give.’
‘I’ll remember that.’ Stenwold flinched as something dragged at the side of the tent. A moment later daylight cut in, as the heavy fabric was rolled up around them, a gang of
huge men taking the tent apart with care, without effort, even as he and Salma were still inside. He started back from them, for they towered over him, pitch-skinned giants, either with shaved
heads or else mops of white hair.
‘Mole Crickets,’ he identified
Stenwold himself spent his time with Jons Allanbridge, occupying his mind with whatever small mechanical tasks the aviator found him fit for. It was almost like being a student again, serving
anew as an apprentice. It was oddly comforting to leave their journey in Allanbridge’s hands, and to shoulder none of the responsibility.
At last they came down beside Sarn. Stenwold had earlier sent a messenger ahead by rail, with no certainty that word would reach Salma in time, or at all. As it turned out, though, there was a
blue-grey-skinned Mynan Beetle-kinden waiting for them, riding with two others, and a string of horses and riding insects. They had been in Sarn when the message arrived, and so had waited the
extra day for Stenwold’s appearance. The Mynan left his mounts in the care of a subordinate, and joined them in the Maiden , directing Allanbridge east away from Sarn. Towards the
Wasp army , Stenwold thought. Salma would face his own ordeal, there, and soon.
They were guided to a camp, and then to another camp, widely spaced, and Stenwold guessed that Salma must be living a mobile life. In the third they finally found him, sitting in a tent and
making plans. Whilst the others waited outside, Stenwold himself was allowed in to speak to him.
Amid the gloom of the tent the Dragonfly prince stood marking notes and arrows on a map he had tacked to a board held in his offhand. It was impossible to know how much attention he was paying
to his visitor. ‘It’s been a while, Sten,’ he remarked.
‘How is your position?’
‘Fluid. So tell me about Che,’ Salma said. ‘How is she?’
Stenwold watched him. With no more reaction to go on than he could glean from the Dragonfly’s back, he explained Achaeos’ circumstances, described Che sitting distraught at his
sickbed.
Salma nodded. ‘I recently dreamt of her passing into darkness. Of course, to the Moths that would be a dream of good omen.’ Outside the tent there were hundreds of armed men and
women busying about. They had none of the uniformity of soldiers, but they were clearly fighters, composed of a dozen kinden and all now engaged in packing up their camp and preparing to move. The Buoyant Maiden had tied up in the midst of this chaos of dissolution.
‘And Tynisa?’ Salma asked. He handed the map to a Fly-kinden woman and turned round. As Stenwold recounted Tynisa’s burden and present mission, he re-evaluated the Dragonfly
before him.
Salma looked every part the brigand chief. The armour had changed since Stenwold last saw him, presumably the pick of whatever equipment they had liberated from the Wasps. Now it was a cuirass
of layered leather with bronze studs over a suit of silk, all of it meticulous Spider work. The sword at his belt was slender and long-hilted, not true Commonweal but of no manufacture Stenwold
could identify. About his forehead he wore a gold-inlaid leather band, complete with cheek-guards.
‘You have arrived at a difficult time, Sten,’ Salma said at last, ‘and apparently travelling to see my people, no less.’
‘You think they won’t help?’
‘I cannot say, save that they will do whatever they do for their own reasons only.’ Salma tacked another blank sheet to his writing board and began to scribe on it.
‘Don’t assume they’ll sit like Beetles and listen to hours of argument. Just ask and then accept whatever answer they give.’
‘I’ll remember that.’ Stenwold flinched as something dragged at the side of the tent. A moment later daylight cut in, as the heavy fabric was rolled up around them, a gang of
huge men taking the tent apart with care, without effort, even as he and Salma were still inside. He started back from them, for they towered over him, pitch-skinned giants, either with shaved
heads or else mops of white hair.
‘Mole Crickets,’ he identified