The Air War by Adrian Tchaikovsky Page B

too. He had superiors waiting for his reports, and even if his parents had been on their deathbeds, that duty would have come first. It had not been loyalty with him,
but ambition, for Ostrec knew who his future depended on. So it was that Esmail guided his horse to the stable yard of the Quartermaster Corps, leaving it unhobbled there without a word, knowing
that the slaves would scurry out to take care of everything and that he, as a Wasp of some import, did not need to spare the animal another thought.
    Once Lieutenant Ostrec of the Quartermaster Corps had paid his minimal respects – to superior officers who, Esmail could see, were well aware that he lived a double life that made him
dangerous to offend – it was time for him to attend his real masters. There were not so very many Rekef colonels in the world, perhaps a half-dozen at the utmost after all the infighting, and
only half of those were in Capitas at one time. The hand holding Ostrec’s leash belonged to a corpulent, jowl-faced monster of a man named Harvang, who had tiptoed his decaying bulk through
the web of Rekef politics, taking each general’s orders in turn, whilst reporting on the other two to General Brugan, the eventual victor. Now Brugan was sole general of the Rekef, and
Harvang had been tentatively rewarded, becoming a kind of secretary and doorkeeper to the great man. Examining this arrangement, and how Ostrec felt about it, Esmail found that he agreed with his
borrowed identity that Brugan was keeping Harvang at arm’s length and in sight, just in case the man’s treachery had one more turn to it.
    Harvang was at dinner, but from Ostrec’s pilfered experience this was generally the case at any time of day. When he saw his protégé stride in, though, the fat man lurched to
his feet.
    ‘Where the pits have you been?’ Spittle streaked the air between them. Even as Esmail opened Ostrec’s mouth to reply, his words were being waved away. ‘Never mind.
Hungry? Sit. Eat. Brugan has me hopping to him every cu’sed moment this last tenday. All manner of stupid Outlander business. Could have used you yesterday.’
    Esmail picked at a plate of crabs in wine, watching as this huge hulk of a man paced ponderously back and forth. A neutral ‘Sir?’ was what Ostrec’s experience recommended.
    ‘Had to bring some cu’sed tyro scribe with me. Stuff not fit for a junior’s ears. Have to have them cut off, eh? Need someone taking notes who won’t end up signing his
own death warrant.’ The light tone always suggested that Harvang was about to laugh, and yet he never did. Esmail had to force himself not to stare at the man’s teeth, like black and
brown grave markers cramming his cavern of a mouth.
    ‘Need rest? You’ve until the fifth hour. Eat, sleep, stick one up a whore, just be here and ready for the general by then.’ Without warning Harvang had turned on his heel and
was retreating from the room, burrowing deeper into his offices like a beast into its hole. The meal, a fair-sized banquet by Esmail’s standards, was abandoned without a second thought.
Harvang’s servants must eat well, and perhaps that helped make up for everything else they endured.
    The fifth hour came, and Ostrec had already presented himself, early as was his custom with superiors. Harvang emerged from his rooms, wiping grease from his hands, but his uniform tunic was
spotless: severe gold-edged black offset by the glitter of a few war decorations. The Rekef did not give itself medals, but Harvang had been a capable army officer before the years had so bloated
him.
    Their destination was the palace. Ostrec kept to Harvang’s heels briskly, but behind his new face Esmail was suddenly wary. He was too much in the thick of it, too fast. Only a day in
Capitas and already going before the general of the Rekef? Was he discovered, somehow? Or had the old Moths wrought better than they knew? A glance around Capitas’s streets gave him some
comfort, for