Spoils of War (Tales of the Apt Book 1) Read online

  Volume 1

  Spoils of War

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Shadows of the Apt | (Tor UK)

  Volume 1 | Spoils of War | Adrian Tchaikovsky

  Contents

  Introduction | by the Author

  Introduction | by the Publisher

  To Own the Sky

  Ironclads

  Spoils of War

  Camouflage

  The Shadows of Their Lamps

  The Dreams of Avaris

  The Prince

  Shadow Hunters

  Sword and Circle

  Idle Hands

  An Old Man in a Harsh Season

  Brass Mantis

  About the Author

  Volume 2 | A Time of Grief | Cover art by Jon Sullivan

  Now We Are Ten | Celebrating the first Ten Years of NewCon Press | With sixteen original stories written especially for this book | Cover art by Ben Baldwin

  Available as a signed limited edition hardback, paperback, | and eBook | www.newconpress.co.uk

  Crises and Conflicts | Celebrating the first Ten Years of NewCon Press | The Sister Volume to | Now We Are Ten

  Fifteen tales of space opera and military science fiction from:

  The Shadows of the Apt

  (Tor UK)

  Empire in Black and Gold (2008)

  Dragonfly Falling (2009)

  Blood of the Mantis (2009)

  Salute the Dark (2010)

  The Scarab Path (2010)

  The Sea Watch (2011)

  Heirs of the Blade (2011)

  The Air War (2012)

  War Master’s Gate (2013)

  Seal of the Worm (2014)

  Volume 1

  Spoils of War

  Adrian Tchaikovsky

  NewCon Press

  England

  First edition, published in the UK 2016 by

  NewCon Press

  41, Wheatsheaf Road,

  Alconbury Weston,

  Cambs,

  PE28 4LF

  NCP102 Hardback

  NCP103 Softback

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  All stories and Author’s Introduction copyright © by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  Publisher’s introduction and this collection copyright © 2016 by Ian Whates

  Cover image copyright © 2016 by Jon Sullivan

  Tales of the Apt logo copyright © 2016 by Ben Baldwin

  “To Own the Sky” copyright © 2008, originally appeared on author’s website

  “Ironclads” copyright © 2008, originally appeared on author’s website

  “Spoils of War” copyright © 2009, originally appeared on author’s website

  “Camouflage” copyright © 2010, originally appeared on author’s website

  “The Shadows of Their Lamps” copyright © 2016, original to this collection

  “The Dreams of Avaris” copyright © 2008, originally appeared on author’s website

  “The Prince” copyright © 2008, originally appeared on author’s website

  “Shadow Hunter” copyright © 2014, originally appeared in Grimdark Magazine #1

  “Sword and Circle” copyright © 2013, originally appeared in Legends (NewCon Press)

  “Idle Hands” copyright © 2016, original to this collection

  “An Old Man in a Harsh Season” copyright © 2009, originally appeared on author’s website

  “Brass Mantis” copyright © 2016, original to this collection

  These stories are works of fiction. All rights reserved, including the right to produce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  ISBN: 978-1-910935-20-0 (hardback)

  ISBN: 978-1-910935-21-7 (softback)

  Cover art by Jon Sullivan

  Editorial meddling by Ian Whates

  Interior layout by Storm Constantine

  Cover layout by Andy Bigwood

  Contents

  Introduction by the Author 7

  Introduction by the Publisher 8

  To Own the Sky 9

  Ironclads41

  Spoils of War 65

  Camouflage81

  The Shadows of Their Lamps 99

  The Dreams of Avaris 113

  The Prince129

  Shadow Hunters 167

  Sword and Circle173

  Idle Hands191

  An Old Man in a Harsh Season 215

  Brass Mantis 239

  About the Author253

  Introduction

  by the Author

  Welcome to the first collection of stories set in the world of the Insect-kinden.

  The tales in these pages are presented in roughly chronological order and take place before Empire in Black and Gold, from a piece of Collegiate history through the events of the Twelve-year War between the Empire and the Commonweal, and ending with the exploits of a certain Mantis Weaponsmaster in self-imposed exile in Helleron.

  Along the way, we encounter a variety of familiar faces, both heroes and villains. For many, these stories were their first appearance before they worked their way into the novels. Other characters are seen here for the first time, but possibly not the last.

  Shadows of the Apt and its associated material almost certainly represents the largest single body of work I’ll ever produce, and perhaps the most detailed and wide-ranging world. For every character and location that made it into the novels there were plenty that were only hinted at, or not even that. I’m delighted to be able to work with Ian Whates and Newcon press to bring these tales of the Apt (and the Inapt) and their world to you.

  Adrian Tchaikovsky,

  Leeds

  May 2016

  Introduction

  by the Publisher

  When Adrian first approached me with the proposal for this series I was thrilled. The Shadows of the Apt books represent one of the most intriguing creationss ever to grace the field of epic fantasy. There can be no doubt that this is fantasy, but the stories also contain elements of steam punk, a strong grasp of entimology, and feature the sort of well-rounded characters that any long-running series needs to succeed. The idea of a world in which some races embrace and routinely employ magic but are incapable of comprehending science, while others pursue the study of science but are blind to the potential of magic proves fertile ground for a storyteller of Adrian’s calibre.

  The Tales of the Apt books gather together the many Apt stories that have appeared in various anthologies and online, and combine them with a wealth of new material written especially for these collections. All are arranged in chronological order, so that the reader is provided with another perspective of events alluded to or sometimes detailed in the original series. In effect, Tales provides an alternative history that parallels and unfolds alongside the familiar one, filling in the gaps and revealing intriguing backstories for many established characters.

  Any fan of the original Shadows of the Apt books will, I’m sure, be as delighted and excited by this addition to the canon as I am.

  Ian Whates

  Cambridgeshire

  June 2016

  To Own the Sky

  Between the years of 470 and 482, a little over fifty years before either Stenwold Maker or the Wasp Empire came to trouble Collegium, a curious contest was sponsored biannually by the artificers of the Great College itself. The challenge, extended to all comers (although in practice almost every entrant was local), was to find the heaviest self-powered flying machine.

  The entrants, student engineers, professional mechanics and armchair artificers, gathered atop the cliffs east of the city, each cradling or towing his or her creation: little orthopters of a hundred different designs wou
ld be cast over the edge, to their sooner-or-later-but-certain doom, lost to the sea. College staff would be standing by, with clock and glass, to measure out the seconds, or sometimes the minutes, of each entry. The weights and the times would go into the department’s books as a curio for future generations. The formal name for the challenge was the Aviation Department All-Comers Rally, but it became known in common parlance as Clifftops.

  In the year 478 a maverick artificer named Cutmold Limner caused a considerable stir amongst the academics and the artificers of Collegium by turning up at the cliff edge with his Mayfly. It was, by some large margin, the heaviest device ever to be presented at Clifftops. Moreover, when Limner himself climbed in, it was heavier still.

  The stewards of the rally were still in frantic discussion over whether such a dangerous enterprise should be allowed when Limner bid his apprentice to set the clockwork motor going. The Mayfly rumbled forwards, to the mingled delight, alarm and derision of the onlookers and, as it passed over the lip of the cliff, Limner threw a lever that set the wings ablur. For a moment they beat the air fiercely, and several onlookers record in their diaries that the machine seemed to rise up from the cliff’s edge, hanging impossibly in the air like a living thing.

  Then there was the unmistakable sound of an overstressed gear-train jumping, teeth parting company with teeth, and the vessel tilted madly in the air. Limner gesticulated wildly, his voice lost to the wind, and shortly thereafter, the sea. The Mayfly was well named, his detractors jeered later, or perhaps poorly named, for there was no may about it. It had not, and that was that.

  The name of Cutmold Limner’s apprentice was Lial Morless, and this is his story.

  The workshop was empty. Oh, the tools, the piecework, the odds and scraps were all still there – who would bother to take them? – but Cutmold Limner would never return, and so it was empty.

  Lial Morless slumped onto a stool. He felt a yawning chasm within him, as though he was falling; not that steep plunge into the unforgiving sea that Limner had taken, but falling forever, no end in sight. The diminutive forge-hand, Scop, lurked in the room’s furthest reaches, a broom in his hands. He had not come to watch the Clifftops. He had said all along it would not work. He was just a forge-hand without a College education, and nobody had listened to him.

  The walls of the workshop were covered with tacked-on plans: the cross-sections of wings, the corrugated backs of gear trains, skeletal sketches of the fallen flier’s wood-and-canvas hull. Lial stared at them dully. Another two years. Would that have been so hard a wait? But for Cutmold it had seemed so. Lial’s master had not been young, and he had been so sure of his calculations. Sure enough to cast himself off over the sea without a test flight.

  Scop made a fierce spitting noise, and a moment later a bulky form blocked the sunlight from the open doorway. “My condolences, of course.” A broad Beetle man in formal robes ducked in. Lial knew him well and liked him not at all. He had been a patron of old Limner’s once, and later a vocal opponent. Goiter Parrymill was his name: the airship magnate. He had been keeping a narrow eye on Limner’s work for a long time, had spoken against him at the Assembly, had turned potential funders and friends against him. Lial looked up at the intruder with a baleful expression.

  “No need for that, lad,” said Parrymill cordially. “You can’t say I didn’t do everything in my power to stop this happening.”

  Which was true, Lial supposed, from a certain standpoint. In the background Scop made a rude noise and restarted his sweeping with undue aggression, but both Beetles ignored him.

  “What do you want, Master Parrymill?” Lial asked, feeling abruptly tired and wretched.

  “When you’re over the worst of your grief, think what you want to do with the rest of your life, lad,” the magnate said, a scum of sincerity floating over the patronising tones. “Come find me, if you want. Limner always said you were a promising lad as an artificer.”

  Lial stood slowly. “Firstly, Master Parrymill, I am twenty-six years of age, and so don’t ‘lad’ me, if you please. Secondly, I’ll manage just fine.”

  “And the rent on the workshop? You have the wherewithal? Only, I know the landlord, and Limner made him scrabble for the money while the old boy was still alive.” Parrymill raised his eyebrows as if in surprise at the wickedness of the world. “Alone, without commission or income, you’re like to struggle.”

  “Good. I like struggling. Lets me know I’m still alive,” Lial said flatly. It was a sentiment from some Mantis tragedy, he belatedly recalled. The plot had not ended well for the speaker.

  “You know best, I’m sure,” Goiter Parrymill said smoothly, and took his leave, strolling off down the street with his robes gusting behind him.

  Scop stomped forwards, clutching the broom like a spear, all righteous indignation now the man had gone. His head just about came to Lial’s chest: the halfbreed result of some unlikely union of Fly and Beetle parents, neither of whom had stayed around to see what their child would grow into. Formal schooling was out of the reach of a man of Scop’s lineage, but he had been around artificers and their tools all his life, and made up in practicalities what he lacked in theory.

  “Fat, gloating bastard,” the forge-hand said. “So, what now, eh? He’s right about the rent. My wages too, no doubt.”

  Lial opened his mouth to offer some consolation, but Scop shrugged it off. “Never mind me. I can get work anywhere. Better paying, probably. I wasn’t sticking here for the money.” He looked at Lial fiercely, as though expecting the Beetle to bridle at that. “You?”

  “I’ve got two years,” said Lial, flatly.

  Scop stared at him, the meaning sinking in. “Master Morless, if you want to go the same way as Master Limner, the cliffs are there any day of the year. No need to wait til the next Clifftops.”

  “It should have flown. I checked the calculations myself.”

  “I said it wouldn’t-”

  “You?” Lial rounded on the little man. “What do you know about it?”

  Scop put his hands on his hips, facing off Lial’s greater size without flinching. “Limner couldn’t fly. You can’t fly. Me? I can fly, and that cursed Mayfly was never going to get off the ground, and a nutshell for your calculations. Too heavy. Body too heavy for the engine, wings too heavy for the joints. I told him.” The halfbreed put down the broom and hooked a satchel from beneath the workbench.

  Lial blinked in surprise and Scop nodded. “What? I knew only one of you’d be coming back. I’ve got work to find, to put bread on the table. Goodbye, Master Morless, and good luck.”

  “Lial,” Lial said automatically. He had never got on with Scop, particularly, but seeing him in the doorway, pack over his shoulder, putting Limner’s life and death behind him, the Beetle felt sorry to see him go.

  Scop nodded soberly. In those days a halfbreed had to go a long way to be on first name terms with a College man. “You’re really going to carry on the work?”

  Lial nodded. In his mind there was very little else. When Limner had gone over the cliff, seven years of Lial’s life had gone with him.

  The halfbreed made a noncommittal noise. “We’ll see,” was all he said, and then he was gone.

  After that, Lial needed a drink and, rather than sit in the workshop – which he knew perfectly well he would not be able to keep up – and turn gradually more inward with each bowl he drained, he decided to seek out his mentor and instead get spectacularly drunk with her.

  She was nobody’s idea of a good mentor, was Tallway. Lial didn’t know how many other students she actually had. Certainly she made more of a living telling unlikely stories around the tavernas than she did actually teaching. She claimed to be an Art tutor of high repute where she came from, and when she had first arrived in Collegium she had attracted a great many impressionable people who were led on by her exotic nature. It didn’t take them long to work out she was a sot.

  Tallway was actually Taul We, but Collegium folk had little tolerance for
trick names. She was the only individual of her kinden in the city, which seemed to suit her just fine. Freakishly tall, six foot four inches at the least, and angular every which way, she had a long, narrow face and sallow, unhealthy-looking skin. Her dark hair was tied messily back out of her eyes, usually with nothing fancier than a piece of string, accentuating her hollow eyes and hollow cheeks and a high, bony forehead. She stitched Beetle cast-offs into long coats and voluminous shirts and breeches cut to fit her gangling frame, which left her seeming always as if she had dressed in a hurry.

  She was Grasshopper-kinden from the Commonweal, she said. Nobody disputed it, but then nobody could prove it, either. The Commoweal was not a welcoming place, and those Collegium merchants who had ventured the trip had come back, if they came back at all, chastised and empty-handed. A recent airship envoy from Goiter Parrymill’s cartel had been met with an armed warning and turned back at the highland border. The only commodity to come out of the Commonweal, it seemed, was Tallway.

  Lial had originally stayed as her student for one reason only: flight. Beetle-kinden could sometimes develop the flying Art but, unlike most other insect-kinden, it did not come easily or naturally to them, and it had so far eluded Lial. One of the few pieces of information he had got out of Tallway was that her kinden were the same: they could fly, indeed she could fly, but it was a rare and difficult Art amongst them. That qualified her as a teacher, for none of the Beetle mentors in the city professed to have mastered the Art themselves.

  So far his studies had born little fruit, and indeed with Tallway as a teacher it was hardly surprising. Half the time she was absent when he came for his lessons, and half the rest of the time she was already reeling drunk before he arrived. Whatever had driven her from her far-away home, it was soluble in strong spirits. Still, a drunken Tallway was at least entertaining, as her normal talent for spinning fictions grew grander and grander the more she took on board, until she would swear that she was the world’s greatest magician, the King of Sarn and the inventor of the double-reaction water-pump all at the same time. Despite his studies not progressing, Lial had grown fond of her. With Limner gone she was one of the few people he felt he could actually talk to.