Marka clicks her timepiece closed. The sun is reflecting sharply on the metal as it lowers, and the motion of closing carves a harsh line of afterimage across her vision.
When she glances up, Wik is walking away, lingering smoke leaving a trail like a wake. The tallowbane looks back, waving a raptorial. “Come. There’s no reason to stay on the roof.”
Marka looks away, her eyes drawn toward the Church of Blue Welkin. From most parts of Wentalel you could see it, and a younger Marka would look to it for the double purpose of placing herself in the city, for direction, and placing herself in the order of things, for purpose.
She’d left it all behind, but it was — if for today only — once more salient to her purpose. Amusingly. And she was abandoning it, yet again.
(Marka, my daughter…)
But she stops thinking about the matters she’s neglecting right now. Instead, she thinks of Wik, that vesperbane who was white in the way ghosts were black.
This situation bore a few correct responses, reactions drilled into her by training. (Oh, if only every choice were so amenable to correct, logical solutions as in training.)
First of all she should press this ‘Wik’ harder, firmly establish countenance or lack thereof, and perhaps report this to some wound-faced warden official — that is, if Wik admits to being a renegade, a defect, dreamless.
Really, she should be writing an intel report to the wardens, request some warrant for what was turning into a mission — one that involved termite-tech and sketchy tallowbanes. She’d have to run by her superiors all of her potential actions going forward. Get the direct supervision of someone of fiend rank or higher. It wasn’t… proscribed for a lone warden, even one of arch-wretch rank, to act on their own — but procedure was a virtue.
But the bluntness of procedure feels like a piece unfitting here.
Wik has stopped walking. “You don’t look like you’re following.”
Marka thinks. And she tells the straightforward truth; it’s what she prefers.
“Why should I trust you?” the warden asks.
Wik’s pure white head tilts. “Would I have saved your life were I some manner of villain?”
“Bluntly, I don’t know what to think.” That issue of countenance — and why this vesperbane would be so cagey about it — weighs on her palps, but would asking a third time provoke any different a response? A different track is taken: “It’s suspicious, right? That you were there to save me at that exact moment?”
Wik sighs, a wet sound, and turns around. “You’re falling down a pit that swallows so many vesperbanes. One of caution heightened to paranoia, and assuming nothing could possibly be precisely what it is.” Wik takes a step forward, pale raptorials lowered, nonthreatening. “It makes sense, in a world like ours. But indiscriminate suspicion is a fool’s caution.”
“Calling it foolish isn’t an explanation, and not a reason to trust you.”
“You saw me twice before I leapt in to save you. I did not come from nowhere.” Wik whirls around, abdomen to her, and resumes walking away. “Simply put, I am not in a position to run a blade through your abdomen. You risk nothing by taking me at my word — for now. Pray save the suspicion until you have something to lose from trusting me, at the very least?”
Wik jumps over the edge of the roof.
A moment’s thought, for procedure unattended to, and the possiblity of simply walking away.
(Marka, my daughter, if you take one more step…)
Marka follows after.
The tallowbane did not jump straight down, instead sliding down the building’s side till the leap was from a height just two mantids tall.
Marka picks a conventional route and climbs down. “What, exactly, is your plan? ‘Infiltrate’ is vague.”
“I’ve been researching this city. Access to the sewers is limited to a few guarded maintainence entrances or locked hatches, all in the interests of not having the underground be a haven for mavericks and defects. But Wentalel is old, and there’s —”
“Wait, guarded by whom?”
“City guards. I might have seen antennae-bands once or twice, but they had to have been freshblood wardens.”
“I’m a warden. Why not just walk up and flash my countenance, and we’re in?”
Wik’s palps cross, and cotton-like antennae work for a second. “I worry for word of us making such an entrance running up the command ladder — what will the arch-fiend think? And we could be seen by the wrong person. Which, circumstances considered, might translate to forewarning or ancipation.”
Marka senses a sloppiness of reasoning. Her suggestion caught Wik by surprise, and what results is weak justifications thrown up to support a conclusion already erected.
“Alright,” she says, “what were you saying before I interrupted?” She can bring it up later, after the idea had really registered. Pressing now could just turn into an argument.
“My research suggests there’s an ancient catacomb deep below, and accessible from caves beyond the walls. Rumor — and a few sources — give me the idea the catacombs connect to the sewer in a few key places. Fevalel’s a decently modernized district, and some digging into city plans confirms the gang’s base has plumbing.”
“And that translates to a secret entrance?”
“Not quite. That’s where you, or someone like you, comes in. You’re a blackbane, right? Nerve user? Demolition shouldn’t be hard for you.”
Marka flexes her forelegs, distinctly aware of the nerve-circuits running through them. Even now, they hum with lethal amounts of enervate. “Sure,” she says. “So, we blast up from the sewers and into their bathroom or kitchen or whatever. And that’s any better than just kicking down the door? It’s not going to solve the problem of getting to their stash. Hardly worth the trouble.”
“That is where I come in. Believe me, once we’re in their base, we will not be blind in navigating it.”
“You can just say why, you know, instead of asking me to believe you.”
“It’s a matter of technique. I’m a vesperbane. It’s surely understandable why I wouldn’t share my trade secrets with just anyone?”
Marka sighs. It’s not calculated, but it is willed, to a degree. “So you’re asking me to trust you, again.” She glances away. “For all I know, this ‘secret technique’ could be familiarity with your own base, and you’re navigating me to a cell or chopping block.”
“I could swear an oath, if you like. By my vespers.”
“I’m not a spellbrand, I wouldn’t have much way of knowing you didn’t leave an out in the scripting, or if the oath is even legitimate.”
Wik’s head leans closer, as if to get a better look, antennae twisting confused. “They don’t teach that much to everyone in the wardens? So what, you’re a pure nerve specialist?”
“Pretty much. I have the wretched raptorials, but other than that — all nerve.”
“Are you at least a sensor?”
Marka frowns. “I… gave it some attempts, but umbragdivination is not my school.”
“Not a sensor. Damn, you’d be more useful if you were.”
“Well,” she starts, and then twists so that she can unlatch the bag tied to her prothorax and access its contents. She produces a clunky box, whose weight is evident in the sag of her forelegs. One face has depressed cutout where the metal gives way to glass. To the sides are handles, and atop are knobs and buttons. “I have this.”
It’s the same kind and caliber of construction that lies in her timepiece, but put to a different, more advanced end.
“You’re going to need to explain what ‘this’ is.”
“A Vindicator-issue nerve scanner. It relies on a special class of pigment which reacts to enervate-emitted radiation in tailored frequency bands. This new Mk.II model even has a special upsilon-lifted internal aperture that allows it to tune to emissions that come from specified arcs extending anaward or kataward, meaning —”
Wik was smiling, but they interrupt. “Look, I’m not a blackbane. If you want me to actually understand, rather than be dazzled, you’re going to have to condense the explanation.”
“It’s basically a sensor box. It can detect distant enervate, and there’s some room for focusing on certain types or processes.”
“Never heard of something like that existing. Okay. Yes, that will be useful.”
“Useful for what?”
“Detecting vesperbanes, as sensor-types do? I don’t expect dangerous enemy vesperbanes, but a guarantee is better than a guess.”
“It’s not unheard of for vesperbanes to suppress their emissions, hiding their presences from sensors.”
“And supposing they have a blackbane that advanced also supposes a need for them, and every technique known translates into a higher commision rate — and the Fevalel gang is a struggling operation. We don’t know if they have the ability to hire one vesperbane, let alone some fiend-level stealth wizard.”
“About that,” Marka starts, tapping her palps together once. “I think we can guess that there’ll be enemy vesperbanes. There was a male I met — it’s how I found out about the gang in the first place — and they mentioned an other vesperbane who spoke to them in the same breath as her dealings with the gang. It—”
“…That was me.” Wik had been twisting palps a few sentences before, and took this long to finally interrupt. “He was probably talking about me. I had seen what was going on once before, and I had approached him offering protection.” The tallowbane looks distant. “I’m not sure I have grounds to think the reaction could have been any diffferent.”
“And you’re not affiliated with the gang?” Marka tried to smile, but it wasn’t much of a joke when the intent was sincere.
“Back to the matter of enemy vesperbanes,” Wik says, “I think there’s a way to investigate, if you want more certainty.”
Wik stops there, expecting her to ask the necessary: “How?”
That too-flexible smile of theirs. “I know a guy.”
“You never explain anything if you don’t have to, do you?”
“Everything will either become clear when it needs to, or you didn’t need to know it.” Wik starts walking, and beckons Marka to follow.
“If taking me to this guy of yours is your plan to get me some in a dark room and hold a knife to my throat, I’d like to know before I need to.”
“The hope,” Wik starts, sparing a glance backward, “in my pointing out how silly your paranoia comes off, was that you would stop embarrassing yourself.”
She doesn’t respond.
Between Marka’s distinctive armor, and Wik’s glowing, waxy visage, their path forward is quickly cleared of any passersby.
“Oh, this slipped my mind,” Marka starts, “I’d met another male. He’d warned me about the gang, I think. I wonder what he knew.”
Wik curls one antennae. “They looked like a courtesan?”
“You met them?”
“Interesting character, aren’t they?” And that’s all the tallowbane says.
Wik’s guidance led them deeper into this part of Wentalel, where the banestone buildings had less pretense of style and fewer repairs against erosion and decay. Something similar reflected in the mantids they passed.
Down one of the dead end streets they passed, Wik pointed out a structure that looks comparable to a well or mine entrance.
“That’s one of the sewer entrances I mentioned.”
Marka slows, and stares for a bit. “Never seen anything like that in other cities in the plains.”
“Wentalel’s unique in having a very long history and continuity throughout most of it. It was part of the Myriad Kingdoms, then a rebel stronghold, then part of both dominions and the alliance — point being, even bats (or at least the thralls under them) knew something about plumbing.”
Inwardly, Marka laughs at being lectured about the city she grew up in. But it’s nothing she’d heard herself — the only mantids who like talking about bats or the dominions are not mantids you want to talk to. And once she was out of this city, she never wanted to think or hear about it again.
“I digress,” Wik continues. “There’s a lot of primitive considerations that linger in its design. Upshot for us is they’re big enough for a bat to crawl through, rather than the cramped affairs you see in modern cities.”
Wentalel’s age isn’t something that shows in its architecture. But if Wik has the right of it, not all of that history is something mantids would care to advertise or let hang around. Not in the Plains Southern at least.
The sun rounds across the sky as they walk. Marka can feel the slowness of it all, how much time this operation is eating up.
“Say,” Wik starts, and it has the air of something unrelated, “do the wardens have some way of signalling for help — discretly indicating distress by flaring enervate, perhaps? Anything of that sort that might give you peace of mind if I could facilitate it?”
“No. The logistics of that — no. We don’t, can’t have a sensor on watch in every city, let alone one capable of sensing that whenever it might happen.” Marka pauses, and almost cringes. Should she have been open with that limitation, if this was a renegade? Should she have been so forthcoming, just in the spirit of giving as good as you get? “Well, this shows you aren’t a warden. That means Stewart or Maverick, then.” Or Renegade. It wasn’t necessary to say.
There was no response.
“You’d earn a lot of good will by just answering the question. What is your countenance? Being this secretive about it just screams ‘I have something to hide’.”
Wik turns to give Marka a once over with one eye. “Maybe I guessed wrong. Are you the type to value procedure over doing the right thing?”
Marka feels echoes of her conversation with the Snurratre male. She doesn’t know what else to say that hasn’t already been said.
“I take issue with you acting as though you’re owed my personal details as a matter of course — for the sake of as simple an operation as this. If you’re going to keep hounding me on the issue,” Wik says, palps grinding, “know that ‘Wik’ is not the name that’s printed on my file. My countenance was with the Stewartry. If it’s still valid, then it’s quite possibly a matter of beauracratic oversight. I have not answered to summons or orders in… a long time. Depending on who eventually reviews my case, that could be deemed enough to constitute defection. If those technicalities sour your opinion so thoroughly, and you can’t bear the thought of cooperating with someone who might be given such a label in obscure, unread documentation — I suppose this was never going to work out, was it?”
Marka’s palps briefly splay in surprise, and then she makes to speak.
“And before you ask again. No, I won’t tell you my registration number. I’ve —” the confident stride of their speech falters here “— I’ve forgotten it.”
“Okay. Knowing that, finally, gives me some peace of mind.” A part of her thinks it could all be lies — but so could any other possible response they could give.
Wik speaks, pointing to an alley that the two of them veer towards. “Here. There’s something we should handle before we go any further. Assuming you’re still willing, that is.”
In the alleyway, Wik has undone the heavy cloak somewhat, and digs around in what must be pockets and hidden bags.
Waiting here, Marka has a chance to get a better look at them. Their flesh isn’t entirely waxen. That substance — ichortallow, well known to wardens — oozes from their joints, and where there is still chitin, it looks to be pale and flaking, and in process of being engulfed in a flow of the stuff. All of their movements have a certain fluidity to them, and the way they bounce on their feet implies a certain sinking unsteadiness.
When the tallowbane stands still, the smoke that emerges from holes in the flesh hangs around a bit, and becomes a sort of mist to wreath the silhouette.
What Wik produces from the pockets is tools — two of them she can identify as a paintbrush and a chisel.
“Stand before me, and hold still.”
Marka stares, for a moment, but then decides to extend a bit of trust.
“Lean your head forward.”
Wet oils — they smell vesper-made — shine in tiny containers along a length strapped to their nondominant foreleg. The other vesperbane takes a bit of the red and a bit of the green, and mixes the oils together, eyes constantly moving between the oils and her face. A moment, and then Marka flicks an antennae. The color — it’s the same as that of her chitin.
Another container has wet wax, and the mixed oils are added, tinting it.
The brush sinks into it, and then the coated end, dripping wax, approaches her face, the heat slightly warping the air around it. Marka pulls back, palps draw tight. The other vesperbane says nothing, and when she gets a hold of herself — she’s a vesperbane; pain is a constant companion — the wax meets her chitin.
It’s not burning pain. The wax is hot — unpleasantly hot — but not burning.
But what is this for? Marka almost asks, but would she get any answer? And the conclusion comes a moment later: this is an infiltration mission, and her appearance is being disguised.
Long moments pass like this, staring at the mantis painting her face, who stares back in turn. There’s no grounds for small talk to arise, but, forced not to avert her eyes, Marka sees something more in the tallowbane’s appearancce. The melting, unsteady look can’t ever be anything but uncanny, and no time spent staring changes that. But the pure whiteness of the wax — only here and there, at the fringes, marred by the red of ichor — can’t be accidental. And what serves as the antennae — looking like braided cord — has a cleanness and consistency of pattern that wouldn’t arise without some effort. These are the things that are easiest to name and describe. But the gestalt impression conveyed by all is that Wik’s appearance must be less the carelessness of a vesperbane concerned only with power, and the more the product of some alien aesthetic.
A work produced by one with enough mastery of appearance to easily disguise a face with a moment’s prep.
“There.”
“Done? But you missed some spots.”
“I didn’t. I don’t need to coat your entire face with wax to get the job done. Have you ever noticed how, despite their endless variety, all faces are, well, faces? With the same layout. The differences are small, we’re just attuned to those tiny individualities. For a quick disguise, it suffices to hit a few key landmarks.”
Marka runs palps along the quickly cooling wax on her face. The taste… does nothing to dispel the impression that the oils are vesper-made.
Wik tosses the contained of colored wax among the refuse of the alley. “Oh, and you may want to ditch the armor. It’s a bit distinctive, which obviates the disguise.”
“And put it where?”
But Wik is already moving. Deeper in the alleyway, there’s a small doorway set diagonally against the wall, like the entrance to a basement or crawlspace. With two clicks, Wik opens the door.
Wik points inside. “This space belongs to me, or close enough.” A foreleg slips inside the cloak. “Here, so you don’t need me to retrieve it.” It’s a key with crooked teeth.
There’s a correct response, as informed by her training. Letting Wik disguise her face was one more step, and being rid of her armor as asked feels like another one further. Marka knew the feeling of walking step by step away from purity and into perdition. She knew it quite well.
It was how it felt becoming a vesperbane.
If you take one more step… The words still echo. She didn’t want to be rid of them, though they wounded her slightly with every repetition. Less a cutting remark than a scathing of a thousand cuts.
Marka quits her rumination with a start. The prospect of simply taking off the armor was hardly anything so dramatic — but this feeling of being exposed to world engulfs her body just as welkinflame might.
While Marka is grappling with this, Wik has produced a mirror, and lifts a chisel to the face.
The armor is off her now, and hiddened away in Wik’s basement. They have not left the alleyway, and it already feels far away. Out of her possession.
Marka gets a good look at the tallowbane post-disguise. “I’m… surprised you can so easily look normal.”
Wik is no longer ghastly white, and the flames have been put out. (The tallowbane is still emitting smoke, but so much less that it could be attributed to simply being a tallowsmoker.) But most of all, Wik’s face now had the wholesome solidity that befits a mantis. More than that, the tallowbane now bears the soft, masculine features that might inspire songs.
“When you attain a certain measure of deliberate skill at a game,” Wik replies, “you may find you lose interest in playing it.”
“Still, the flames, the melty face — it’s affectation, then?”
“The flames are necessary. My metabolism is… damaged, and my body now depends on the heat. It right now feels like holding my breath.”
Marka grimaces, but there’s little room for extending an apology or consolation that doesn’t feel hollow.
In searching for a distraction, she glances back at the basement door. “You live here, then?”
“No one does.”
“You have a key, though.”
“I created it.” The tallowbanes gives a vague self-gesture. “The technique is called impressioning,” Wik offers.
“Yeah…” She had nothing more to say, and looks away. Lockpicking. Impure, dishonorable chicanery.
“So,” she says when she finally meets Wik’s eyes again, “where are we going?”
It was a place called the Moon’s Dice. The signage is dark enough that actual enervate must’ve been mixed in with the paint, depicting great Tenebra as is conventional, but emitting dice instead of rays.
Inside, past bouncers with no visible weapons and a familiar intensity to their gaze, Marka enters a space inappropriately cool and inviting. Of her own volition, she’d never, ever step inside a place of such impure repute as a gambling den, but it shouldn’t have put her this at ease. There was a chill to the air that relieved the characteristic heat of the Plains Southern. The entire floor was — clean! — carpet, dyed and cotton-soft, while the seating lining the tables had cushioning fit for merchants or syndics. There were no windows, and the place was altogether dim — it was still daylight out when she stepped in, but already she wondered.
Something felt… off about the interior in a way Marka couldn’t place without a few moments of looking. The space seemed… vast, or at least spacious, in a way incongruous with the diminutive, ramshackle exterior.
The patrons, at least, were not a surprise. There were brightly chitin’d mantids clad in moth-silks, who’d plenty money to lose — and mantids clad in rags who did not.
“Akram, if anyone asks, remember our cover.” Wik intended for them to act as some rich wife and husband, come to flaunt a little wealth. (The robes Marka wore, she told herself, covered as much as armor would.)
“I dislike deception,” Marka murmured, and she made herself add, “Kiwi.” It was worth a little effort not to slip up, as silly as she found this.
“You picked the wrong job, then.” It was a low mutter, and out of character — couldn’t resist the jab, Marka supposed.
(If you take one more step…)
The bouncers were easy to pick out, having an energy apart from those gleefully or desperately throwing twelve sided dice. Some of those guards she saw had thick shadowsteel armor scraped clean of insignias, and strapped with amalgaglass enclosures protecting welkinflame. Excommunicated vindicators?
“This… is this something other than a gambler’s den?”
“Depending on who you ask, you’ll hear that this is merely a simple casino, one with a… unique reputation, owing to it allowing in vesperbanes and even employing them.” Wik’s voice drops to a quiet scrape. “But to those with the right connections, yes, there’s more to it. It all revolves around the mantis at the heart of it, a vesperbane named Felme — something of a master with numbers and ledger lines. And oath-brands. That said, Vesperbanes can’t own businesses, but it’s an open secret that the deeds are a fiction and it is Felme who really runs the show. Truth is, the whole establishment is fictitious. The thing about gambling is, the money that comes out of it need not have any real deep reason behind it — it’s random, ostensibly. So if you came into possession of particularly large sum of money, would rather not explain to the tax mantis from where it came…”
“You can arrange something with Felme. Financial purification.”
“Exactly. Felme handles transactions and accounting, something like a warrior-banker for Wentalel underworld, with interest-bearing loans and all,” Wik says. “He’s a foundational element. But the thing you have to know, above anything else? Felme is exactly the sort of vesperbane I complained of earlier. For all the trappings of being a businessmant, paranoia is an expense without commensurate returns.”
“Seems to have worked out well enough for them.”
“We can debate that later. For now, there are matters to attend to. There’s a way to see Felme’s without an appointment, but… just follow my lead.”
Following Wik’s lead was easier said, when ostensibly they were to play wife and husband. With reflection, Wik Kiwi pushing her around was a dynamic, but the discussion of how to play this never went that far.
“To start, we’ll go to one of the back tables, and then…”
Walking deeper into the Moon’s Dice, there looked to be a gradation to the complexity of the games — near the front, the tables mainly offered simple games of tokens and tallies. The farther back you went, you saw more exotic offerings, games that seemed to involve orbs and circuits of enervate. Some of them must have blurred the lines between a proper gambling game and more of a carnival’s offerings. This far back, one saw more patrons with metallic antennae-bands than not.
Wik gazes over the tables, as if gauging something, and picks one. Then, the bane waits a moment, until the present game of cards — seeming in its cadences — had concluded.
“What’s the bid to name the next game?” Wik asks the dealer.
The mantis, wearing robes of black and bright colors, names a price, and Wik pays it with an affected smile. One player tries to outbid — but Wik’s smile bears maxillae, and the bid is doubled, and no one else dares, and Wik wins the bid.
And Wik says, “Gold Dragon’s Gambit.”
The dealer’s antennae straighten, but they have a game face enough not to react more than that.
Gold Dragon’s Gambit as a game hinges on guesses at hidden information. All the players — there were four at the table from before Marka and Wik arrived — held a set of cards in their digits, but which of them was best to play stood heavily contingent on what other players had.
Marka, lacking any experience with these games of this sort, did as well as would be expected. Every player had a stack of tokens that would eventually become their payout, and Marka watched hers dwindle, along with her set of cards.
Wik jabs her, and whispers, “You know the trick here, don’t you?”
Her face was only confusion.
“All of the value cards have faint enervate traces. You’re no sensor, but any vesperbane should be able to feel that.”
Marka starts to respond, then thinks of their disguise. In a louder tone, more incensed than a whisper, she says, “Why would you even want me to play if you didn’t expect me to win?”
Wik smiles. “Just break even, dear.” Said in a tone as if not even even expecting that much.
But with that hint delivered, a dimension of strategy had opened up. Marka could feel the slight pull from certain cards. It was just the foothold she needed to really analyse the game, treat it like manipulations of unknown variables instead of base gambling.
The dwindling of her stock stopped, and then it reversed.
A thin lady on the opposite side was the first to lose, and had to offer up her cards. She points at Marka.
Three cards: the banker, the pawn, and the hierophant. “Your choice.”
Marka picks, and the game continues.
Eventually, one of the bouncers walks by, stands between and behind Wik and Marka. She says, “Having a lucky night, aren’t ya?”
Marka fumbles with her palps, thinking of something to say. Was that threat in her voice? Were they to be thrown out — beaten, even?
But Wik speaks first, calmly. “Oh, it all adds up in the black. Have you reviewed the twisted ledger?”
To Marka, it doesn’t follow. Even for Wik, this is a new level of cryptic.
The bouncer nods. “Come with us.” A hint of threat lingers in her voice.
At the fringes, the cozy lighting gives way to shadows, and they were guided along the walls there. There was a covertness to it, such that despite the spectacle, of cheaters being caught and escorted to the back, not many eyes found them.
They met with two other bouncers, who took up a formation around them, one behind and two at their sides while the last one led. These bouncers had weapons.
Only one had any antennae band; the others walked in silent shadowsteel. Former vindicators weren’t hard to find in a city with a Church of Welkin, Marka knew.
Where another building might have climbing walls or poles, here elevation was reached with gently inclining ramps. A slow, irritating design.
“What’s all this about?”
“Felme prefers meetings to be scheduled. If not, this is how one asks for special consideration. A game, deception facilitated by the vespers, and the right phrase in the right tympanum. Convoluted, but it filters for those knowledgeable, subtle, and most importantly, envespered.”
Three floors up — from the outside, Marka would have guessed the place would have two floors — they pause before a catwalk long enough for trepidation to collect in Marka’s spirit.
Poles rise from the sides of the thin bridge, not higher than half a legs height, and were joined by velvet-covered ropes. It seemed a display more than any safety measure.
“Where we’re about to go, Felme’s office, is the most secure place in all of Wentalel. Not the Wardens nor the Stewarty have anything like it.”
“What’s so secure about it?”
“Something special about the construction. You’re a blackbane, you should be able to feel it.”
After a moment, Marka realizes the pause is beccause not all of the bouncers would follow them. Two peel away and depart. The two left — a vesperbane among them — form a line and approach Felme’s office.
Marka could have noticed it without being prompted, or maybe she would have been too distracted by worries. By every indication, the bridge or catwalk they crossed was flat, so why the resistance as they walked, as if crossing uphill?
“Anabasis,” Marka says. “This is a parallel space.”
“That sounds about right. The way I’ve heard it described, a bomb could clear away the entire casino, and Felme’d only notice when a client misses an appointment.”
A bouncer opens a door, Wik continues toward it.
Marka pauses.
(Marka, my daughter, if you take one more step… Her father’s words returned to her in moments of indecision — where the choice he would want for her was obvious, as was the fact that she would not make it… just as it had been on that day. But was this a moment of indecision, really? Could she walk away at this point, surrounded by Felme’s guards, or had she lost that chance when she entered alongside Wik? This was a mistake, a risky, unnecessary flight from procedure. She could have just written a report.)
The room is dark, a single lamp hanging above a desk, just enough to illuminate the small figure sitting there, chitin bright yellow and starkly painted. A secretary or accountant? They hold a brush-pen, and seem to manipulate figures on a sheet of wasp-parch. It was number-work, the sort of job fit for a male.
“Where’s Felme?” Marka asks.
The figure pauses briefly in their writing. “Hello, hello.” He gestures with his free foreleg. The door is quietly shut, and the bouncers seem to disappear into the expanses of the room beyond the light. The male’s antennae work as if picking up a scent, then he says, “Ah, Wik, my favorite sleuth. And you — you must be one of its friends? No? An ally, then. You know, there are perches, you need not stand. Good. Care for a treat?” He indicates a bowl sitting on their desk. Small bees are trapped in hard, honey-smelling cubes like flies in amber. A label reads: 2 cp each. He says, “I’ll grant you the first one for free.”
Marka, after pausing in consideration, reaches to take one — and a red form pounces down from unseen above! It’s attacking her foreleg! If that leg were a little slug or rat, it’d have been deftly predated upon.
It’s a spider — a tarantula breed? — that’s latched itself to her leg and is trying to bite. It has the big, cute eyes, almost salticidae-like, that made the things a favorite pet. But Marka had leapt back in fright, and even now her heart’s hot in her abdomen.
There is a hiss, and doesn’t come from the spider. Felme has a glass of liquid — water? — with a rubber bulb. He squeezes the bulbs again, and a misty spray of water emerges and the spider flinches from it.
Felme holds out his other foretarsus to beckon the spider. It ambles over to climb up, and he holds and pets it.
“Embarrassing. This is why I prefer appointments; then, I would have had time to find and put away this little distraction.”
“Does it… normally attack your clients?” Marka relaxes to a posture other than that of a frightened nymph.
“Of course not. She’s simply… not fond of the oils Wik uses in its work.” Felme sets the spider down, and keeps it pinned with a digits scratching. “I hope you can forgive this indiscretion.” Wik nods, and then Marka. For someone Wik describes as a mantis of paranoia, whose chambers are the most secure — he really doesn’t give an impression other than that of a common office worker. Marka realizes he is talking.
“Excellent. Now, it’s clear that you wouldn’t have signalled me if you didn’t have urgent business. I’ll skip all formalities. Tell me what you want.” Felme returns his eyes to the parchment — ledger?
Marka rubs the lingering bits of his spider’s spiny, urticulating setae her robes’ sleeve. She’s not fond of the irritation they cause when they touch sensitive areas. She does not like spiders. While she’s occupied with this, Wik answers.
“We’re curious about the employment of local mavericks, something I’m sure you’d have information on, if not a direct stake in.”
“Sure. But let’s be clear — for the sake of your partner, who doesn’t look like much,” — Foundational businessmantis of the Wentalel underworld, by the way — “I cannot, in general reveal details of what deals I’ve made with our cities finest. I’m sure you understand the need for privacy. But I can inform you of what rumors and news already known of, and let you deduce the rest.”
Wik nods stiffly. After a moment, Marka mimes this. She’s following Wik for cues, and the longer she looks, she notices an uneasiness in the tallowbane, and wonder what worries cause it.
Petting his spider with one hand, Felme continues, “And it’s not a service I’ll provide for free. The price… let’s call it a hundred bone pieces. You do good work for me.”
“Adequate. Tell me what you know, and I’ll produce the sum.” Wik begins digging into those hidden straps and bags beneath their cloak.
“The reality for most mavericks is that of freelancers — or if you prefer, mercenaries. For this reason, determining if someone is not working is rather trivial — if you can hire them, we can be sure they not currently working for anyone. If not, that could indicate the opposite, or it just be convalence after an injury, say. Or they could be dead. It can take a while for a body to show up.”
Marka looks between Wik and Felme. Wouldn’t Wik know this? Or was this for her benefit?
While he was talking, Felme stops with the brush pen, and now opens drawers and cabinets, producing folios.
“But on to my notes. I’ll stick to recent matters first. There was one blackbane caught trying to raid a stewarty archive.” Wik looks to Marka at this, for some reason, but after a moment staring, the tallowbane just gives a head-shake. “Not your partner here, I’m sure,” Felme says. (How did he catch that? He didn’t actually look up.)
Felme continues rattling off events, for each one he produces of a bit of paper, text penned with a tiercel’s neatness. “The so-called one-eyed bastard is back, and took out Nemecha and Osfe first of all. In the northern tenements, an eloped pair stewart-cum-mavericks were found with their entrails everted and vespers plucked clean. I think they were the kids offering haruspex services under those ridiculous code-names, you know the ones. Something has been poking around in the catacombs, parts of it are being collapsed or cleared. The bloodbane with the sanguine tongues’ has stopped frequenting my casino, something she’s only ever done when working. Rumors of the golden —”
Under the deluge of information, Marka can’t help but blurt, “Does he just expect us deduce everything from random happenings ten steps removed?”
“I wouldn’t put it quite so bluntly,” Wik says, “but yes. This is something of an excess, and we are somewhat pressed for time. Part of what we’re asking you for is your judgment. If you could instead present what you model all these facts as implicating, I could pay extra.”
“I respect my clients’ privacy — for my own peace of mind as much as for theirs — but it’s so much easier to understand what information if I knew what it was needed for. As much context as you’re comfortable providing, is all I ask.”
“We have an interest in a gang operating in Fevalel district. I’ve been investigating their activities. But a civilian gang is going to necessarily act cagey about vesperbane involvement, not to mention secrecy comes somewhat naturally to our kind. Put briefly, it’s hard to get close enough to know for sure without revealing my interest. So I come to you.”
“Looking for work? From such small players? No, I suppose that’s not my business here.” Felme spends some minutes flipping through his papers and folios, antennae and palps working all the while, when he speaks, he’s not done rifling through. His words are: “I do want to stress that rumor of the Golden Lady being in Wentalel, because should it prove truthful, it’s quite dangerous. She represents a direct threat to my operations, in a way that makes her a threat to all of us. The Wardens had a kill order out on her, if I recall. You should stay safe, most importantly, but just remember — a threat to all of us.”
The two vesperbanes nod routinely at this. It has the feel of refrain, repeated whenever the latest rumor involving dreaded renegades or motile crepuscules. Not many of them materialize.
At length Felme finally gathers his thoughts, and answers, “Those girls in Fevalel have a strange story. A small, struggling exercise in lending and racketeering, mostly to those mantids stuck in the district. But recently, they’ve seen a perplexing influx of money and assets, with no visible expansion in their operation to explain it. They’ve taken out loans, put themselves in debt, but that’s not all of it.” Felme audibly taps his palps together. “It could be they’re looking to expand, and going all in on some venture. Or they’re scared of something, and this is their way of putting up defenses and holding out. Impossible to say.”
“You said racketeering? That’s all?” Marka asks. Wik gives her a look, but she continues, “Is there anything pointing to them being involved in, say, some kind of weapons smuggling?”
“No, no indication. That’s a rather… specific suggestion. What prompts this?”
Wik punches Marka, lightly. Shut up, it’s not hard to intuit.
“If there’s a concrete reason to suspect this, I’m very interested in fresh information. After all, my ability to even answer your present inquiry relies on other mantids having been forthcoming in your place.” The rhetorical gesture is familiar. Counterfactuals. Do as others have done in your place. A foundational element of the Dream: cooperating for the benefits of all, even when the alternative was of immediate benefit. To do otherwise was to be a defect, and that was the fundamental nature of all crimes.
But the words that really worked were him saying, “I’ll pay, of course.”
For 10 bone pieces, Marka and Wik parted with knowledge of the cannon wielded with one leg, that device the gangster Marka chased used.
“My guess is it’s of termite make. The advanced use of enervate, when vindicator cannons are no where near that small, is the tell. But that conclusions invites an obvious next question.”
Felme sounds like he’s quoting. “‘Why would a two-bit gang in Wentalel have a termite miniture cannon?’”
“You said there was a recent influx of cash. Maybe they are smuggling.”
“For that to make sense,” it’s Wik talking, “the weapons would to have to already gone somewhere. If there was termite tech floating around in the Wentalel underground, I’d know. It wouldn’t stay hidden.”
“Moreover,” Felme adds, “it doesn’t answer the question of where the termite tech is coming from. Most termite colony arcologies have been sealed for centuries —”
“Millenia. The current theory is millenia.”
“Yes, yes. And the ones that aren’t fully sealed get declared exclusions zones as soon as the Stewartry learns of it.”
“Could it be a new one opened up?”
“Where’s the evidence? Wait,” Wik says. “Is this why the one-eyed bastard is back? I’ve heard he was sent out to retrieve something from deep in the desert up north, but returned suddenly.”
“This all quite afield of our purposes. I’m not being paid to speculate on the larger politcal situation, am I? But the one-eyed bastard is a fair segue. The resident arch-fiend being back in Wentalel is important, because it has people scared. Little has happened since the capture of Nemecha and Osfe, but that alone was enough to shock things out of the equilibrium developed in the absence of Wentalel’s most powerful vesperbane. It may be that that, perhaps a few causal links removed, is all the reason behind the gang’s recent behavior.”
“Vesperbanes, we were asking about what vesperbanes they might have on retainer,” Wik says.
“Given the the territory they control, even without their recent windfall, it’s impossible for them to fund more than three vesperbanes. Three is generous overestimate, but better overcautious than overconfident. I think there’s at least one, or there was at least one. At the site of an altercation with another gang, there was a deliquesced corpse, consistent with black nerve dissolution. At another, a body looked half cannibalized. All evidence of vesperbane interference.”
“Is that really all you have to offer, in terms of concrete evidence?”
Felme stills for a moment, and evenly replies, “Everything I mentioned I believed was relevant to an accurate evaluation of the Fevalel gang. Are you impugning my honor and honesty, wretch?”
“She means nothing of the sort,” Wik says. “We appreciate what you’ve offered. You’ve answered many of our concerns, in negative if nothing else.”
“So, we’re up against a gang of civilians with one or two vesperbanes? Three if ancestors really hate us?” Everything considered, Marka reevaluated Wik’s infiltration plan, and decided she liked it more now, though it was still contrary to honor.
Out of Felme’s former stillness, his sudden motion comes as a startle. He takes a foreleg and makes three abstract jabs, and then there’s unplaceable motion in the darkness, and then there’s hard metal behind them.
The point of a spear presses against Marka’s thorax.
“Care to repeat that? I hope I misheard or misinterpreted what you meant by ‘up against.” The single lamp still illumes him and little else, but the stark cast comes off differently now.
“I—” Marka starts.
“I’d rather Wik answered.”
“No, your impression is correct. Our ultimate intentions were to conduct an operation against the gang.” Marka doesn’t know when the internal fires returned, but they burn now as Wik stares — glares — at her.
“You understand the business I’m in, no? Some of that gang’s outstanding debts are to me. Fertile investments that I expected bountiful returns on.” Felme has sat down their brush pen, but he still strokes the hairy legs of his spider. “From where I’m sitting, you’ve just threatened my financial self-interest. Broadly construed, what I’m considering right now is self-defense.” For the first time, Felme looks at them — not glances up and then back at his ledgers, but sustained attention, calculating regard.
Wik works their palps, as if to muster some defense, but Felme lifts his free leg to silence. “No, I need not be that drastic. I do value what you offer, Wik, and I understand none of this is personal. We can come to an agreement.”
“You’ll script one, you mean.”
“Yes. It’s the best way to coax cooperation from as ornery a lot as vesperbanes. Swear an oath — I’ll even let you pick the vows. Ideally, you would simply desist all activity that would harm the gang’s ability to black their accounts.” His palps spread wide, a kind of grin. He has small palps, even for a male — but still stirred worries. “But another option is to allow you take on the debts yourselves. If you payed back what they owed, well, I get what I desire.”
Wik looks to Marka, and the look is no longer a glare, but something with the shape of concern.
“That is the choice I offer you. Desist your plans against the gang, take on their debts, or die. But only two of those are really options, are they?”
“What,” Marka starts, her voice coming unsteadily, “what if we cannot swear oaths?” Marka had heard of the heroic vows, and knows all wardens are bound by them, but if she’s ever formally sworn them, it was under the direction of a collective ritual.
Felme quirks an antennae. “How? You are a vesperbane, are you not?”
“I’m a nerve user, not a spellbrand. Oaths are not something of use to me.”
Felme’s antennae fall over his face. “Do you even know what an oath is?”
“When you ask a question like that,” Marka replies, “it feels like the answer is no.” She shrugs her forelegs. “Wardens exist to protect the heartlands.” Then, in a tone of quote, “When you take up the sword, whether you parry, deflect or feint, your purpose is always to strike the enemy. Every technique is subordinate to that one goal, in the end. More flourishes and tricks are unnecessary.”
“I can respect that philosophy, but I cannot respect reducing the most foundational art of a vesperbane to the status of mere flourish. No matter,” Felme is pulling down one sleeve of his robe. “I deal with enough amateur mavericks to not be unprepared.” The chitin of the inner side of his mesoleg has a soft, mottled texture that hints at vesper-modification. The limbs’ length is lined with growths like little knobs. One gorges red with blood, and he plucks it free. It audibly snaps off.
“For your edification, know that there are three powers afforded to vesperbanes. Umbracraft, the art of the black, which commands those emissions of the great moon Tenebra. You may know a few things about this. Ichorcraft, the art of the blood, with which we corral the lifeblood of fallen vesperbats — your partner knows this art well. And last is Vespercraft, the art of the brand, with which the very oaths that allow vesperbanes to exist were forged.”
“Vespercraft is more than oaths,” Wik says. “Mudwork and pdwimmercraft are both schools of vesercraft. Erecting banestone structures has quite little to do with oaths.”
Felme waves this off. “Yes, yes, everything has endless complexities if you care to attend to them. I wish for Marka to have the slightest idea what she’s agreeing to, nothing more. Moving on,” he says, and gestures with the nut-sized growth he plucked from his leg. “Do you know why oaths of blood and soul exist? This should be general knowledge among vesperbanes.”
“They were invented by the bats, who couldn’t trust or cooperate. It’s magically enforced honor,” Marka says.
“Close enough. The oaths of blood and soul don’t eliminate trust, and they don’t force cooperation. An oath is a very specific thing. An immutable, tamper-evident record that is legible to vespers, and can be copied and distributed. If you’re fluent in vespersign, you can write a contract, and the vespers are able to enforce it.”
“But I’m not fluent in vespersign.”
“And that’s where this comes in.” Felme points to the growth he holds. “I can inscribe an oath onto this vespersclerotium. You would consume it, and it would thereby be conveyed to your vespers.”
“…You could have people agree to oaths just by getting them to eat the wrong thing?”
“No, only knowledge of the oath would be conveyed. Your vespers aren’t stupid. Once known, the oath could be invoked like any trained technique, that is with the right signs, and through that you would agree.”
There’s a pop, and after a startled moment, Marka realizes it was a bubble of wax bursting — ichortallow runs down Wik’s face. “If you’re quite done giving remedial theory lessons,” Wik says, “We — meaning Marka and I — have much to discuss. I know you have a private room in this space of yours.”
“Make your decision quickly. I have other appointments today.” Felme flicks a foreleg, and dimly she feels a flare of enervate. Is he activating some unseen mechanisms like this?
Other lights flash on in the room, illuming a path to the left. A door clicks open.
Wik is shutting it behind them once they’ve entered. Marka has already thrown herself down on a couch-like rest in the room. It was a bland white, and lit by two lamps. She clutches her antennae. Her palps are mutely splayed wide. She has the self control not to scream.
“What the hell,” she says, but it’s only for herself.
She remembers that day at the city’s gates. She remembers the words, all of the words:
Marka, my daughter, if you take one more step, you’ll die a fatherless traitor.
But more than the words, she remembers the dilemma, its abstract shape. She realizes it had formed something of a template she applied decisions in the general. There was the right choice, the one she’d been raised to take, and there was the one she wanted to take, the temptation that made it a choice instead of a calculation.
Even if there was no doubt which one she would pick, the more fundamental framing felt a given: there would always be a last moment, a threshold before which she could opt out, spare herself the catastrophe.
This didn’t feel like that.
When she became a vesperbane it felt like burning alive. Her body encased in black, corrupting flames.
And now, it feels like tongues of flame leap from her body to devour bridges just as soon she crosses them.
Marka looks at Wik. If there were anyone to blame for all of this, it would be tallowbane and their shifty, artificial face.
But once again, she notices that initial glare she had seen after blurting that fatal line has not returned. Again, there’s a curious impression of concern.
“It wasn’t supposed to go this way,” the tallowbane offers.
“Is it my fault?”
“No. I should have anticipated — something like this. I could have had you sit out the meeting. Or impressed greater wariness on you. Something to avert…”
“Giving me full answers instead of cryptic beetleshit could be a start,” Marka says.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
At that conversation strangles to a halt. Neither of them are quite up to bringing up the matter of the oaths.
“Why do we even have to swear oaths? If he can pass loans to vesperless civilians without an oath…” Marka is averse to the natural way to end that sentence, which sounds too much like a nymph’s whining.
“Well, when dealing with vesperbanes, civilians have an intrinsic collateral — value can always be extracted through their corpse. But more to the point,” Wik pauses to give a serious look, antennae curled up and palps held still, “The thing you need to understand, Marka, is those guards, and their whole act of holding spears to our backs — it was for a show, as physically meaningful as the words we utter. In truth, either of us stand a decent shot of taking one or both of his guards. But it doesn’t matter, because he could have ended either of us and sustained perhaps a wound.” A moment pause, for drama. “And there are vesperbanes who could end him every bit as decisively. And he does business with them.”
“Ah.” Marka sees where this is going.
“Even the strongest vesperbane can’t overpower the will of the vespers. And so oaths act to equalize vesperbanes in that manner.”
“Maybe not the strongest vesperbane, but the cleverest? I think they could find a way around it.”
“Yes, that’s called a transgression. You’re punished with madness and exclusion as a crepuscule.”
“Every time?”
“I’m going to end this line of conversation, and take it on faith that you don’t intend to try and subvert your oaths. I’ll have no part in it.”
“No, I would never break my word.”
Wik turns attention to the table centermost the room. The tallowbane had taken some of Felme’s folios, and now looks over them.
Marka says, “I’m going to write a report to the wardens.”
Wik looks up. “Why would that seem like a good idea?”
“My life was threatened. I’m now poised to swear an oath to some criminal banker lord.” She draws her raptorials together, half hiding her face behind them. “Honestly, I should have done this from the beginning. There was no good reason do this off the books.”
“I’m here.”
Marka crooks her head, momentarily wondering if that was reassurance or explanation. She sighs and decides it doesn’t matter. “Maybe trusting you wasn’t a good idea.”
“Look, at this point — you don’t think Felme is actually giving us privacy, right? Do you think he’s fine with you telling everything to the wardens?”
“I’m not going to tell everything I just—” Mark looks around at this small room Felme’d set aside. “I hate the idea that I might just die in a back room somewhere, and my peers and superiors would only know what happened by deduction.” A beat, then, “Look, I’ll write a note, and instead of sending it we can just put it somewhere where they’ll find it if — if something happens.”
Marka has the right grade of paper in her bag. And she’s writing quickly, a vague description of the incident at the market, and then she hits a snag.
Marka peers across at the tallowbane, her fovea running over their cloaked forms again and again as if she could divine a secret.
She looks back down to the report. It’s stopped in the middle of a sentence: “While pursing a suspected gang member, I met a maverick called Wik, and I choose to go with—” Marka is not quite sure how to continue it.
A glance back up at the bane stinking of tallowsmoke. Antennae sliding back behind her, she asks, “What are you? Lady, or tiercel?”
“I’m a vesperbane.”
She gives an unamused click. “Sure, but” — and a moment’s hesitation, before she commits to matching impertinence with impertinence — “what’s under your garments?”
“Rhizoneedle-cerci, and a bloodbane’s teeth.”
It’s only her sense of chivalric comportment that stops her from grinding or baring her mandibles. More than the slight, instinctual amount, that is.
She responds: “You know damn well what I’m asking. Do you prefer to smell of fruits, or of musk? Would your partner in the passionate hunger lay beneath you, or above you? Do you belong in a modest dress, or the prideful shibari? I’m asking your gender. You have to understand that, beneath all these word games.”
“Do I understand that? Once you go under the scalpel and drip enough times, so many matters of the body stop being clear. My scent, any fashion choice beyond the utilitarian, the very prospect of fucking me — it all inspires horror in onlookers. You expect some preference or expression to remain there?” The flame burning behind their eyes crackles a bit, perhaps by accident. “You ask for a simple answer, but you want a truthful one. To give you the former would not give you the latter. This is a fault in your understanding.”
“Look. All I want is a pronoun to use.”
“Civilians have taken to calling me ‘it’. You may follow suit.”
A strange choice, but she could honor it.
With that piece of information, she continues writing the note, but reaches two more blanks, and filling them would take even more wrangling.
We were cornered by a spellbrand, who forced us to swear oaths of blood and soul. That oath was…
If you’re reading this, we are missing or dead. As I write this, we’re planning to…
Marka knows without clicking open her timepiece that by now, her appointment with the Church has passed, and she won’t get a chance to even be late for quite a while to come. Every tick of the device is matched by two heartbeats. She worries and she thinks and she decides.
(Continue scrolling for apocrypha)
What does Marka tell Felme?
CHOICE 1.A: Swear to Felme that she will do nothing to hinder the Fevalel’s gang ability to pay their debts. This means Wik’s plan of raiding their treasury cannot happen.
CHOICE 1.B: Swear to repay the gang’s debts themselves.
WRITE IN: Felme seems to have no opposition to helping her, so long as his financial interest is served. And this is a negotiation. She could suggest her own terms.
What will she do about the gang?
CHOICE 2.A: Stick to Wik’s plan to enter the sewers through the catacombs.
CHOICE 2.B: Convince Wik to let her use her warden authority to enter the sewers through a guarded access. This will probably be reported, and could be seen.
CHOICE 2.C: Convince Wik to use its lockpicking ability to breach an unguarded, locked entrance. This is a crime.
WRITE IN: Suggest another course of action.
Apocrypha Given
I expect the percipient is here due to the Golden Lady (whoever that is; being a Warden we should know.)
Marka has probably heard of the Golden Lady. She’s heard of several dozen renegades. But she doesn’t work in Wentalel, and from the sound of it, neither does the Golden Lady.
If memory serves, she had last been in the papers almost a year ago. Something about a minor clan, that was no longer a clan because of her? An massive arete-cache rendered worthless, bringing a town to financial ruin? The reports always had the sparseness that suggested slight redaction from up high. She’d left a trail of bodies behind her, weak spellbrands and haruspices whose remains were sometimes identified.
The last news one could write of her was she’d seemed to have been going north, and then nothing.
In her estimation, nothing about the Golden Lady sounds particularly special. She was surely dangerous as any defect, especially when there’s no telling what happened in that intervening year or why she’d returned. But nothing attributed to her seems impossible for a newblood vesperbane, lucky or clever or both.
Paradoxically, the fact that she was never captured or killed suggests she’s either quite powerful or quite unremarkable. The latter seems hard to square with a lack of notoriety beyond an initial burst of feats.
Do blackbanes and bloodbanes need direct physical contact with the substances they manipulate?
In short, no and yes, respectively.
For blackbanes, it depends on the technique. Enervate is subject to numerous action-at-a-distance forces, so many umbral techniques don’t require physical contact. But there’s a reason umbraconjuration is considered one of the hard schools, and it’s because finely manipulating enervate external to your body is qualitatively harder. But broad manipulations, comparable to magnetism, are rather easy.
For bloodbanes, there’s simply no reasonable way to provoke metaplasia in bat blood without direct and sustained contact. Even mere contact, as opposed to ingestion, is a massive impediment.
Good. I was a bit worried that Wik might be able to kill Marka by manipulating the disguise they had given her.
What manner of creature are bees?
Bees, like the noble roaches or the vespid wasps, are a domesticated race. More properly, the term is vinculated.
They are small beings, enough that a mantis could hold a few at once in their tarsi; put otherwise, they are comparable in size to a small bird. In the wild, bees settle in the plains southern and the land of mountains, building burgeoning nests that engulf entire trees (or, modernly, their pseudoaboreal equivalents).
Bees’ preferred food is pollen and nectar, but they are distinguished from snailfly pollinators in two regards: one is tool use, for they have derived primitive means to more efficiently harvest, store, and transform pollen & nectar, as well as tools for assisting construction or defense; the other difference is agriculture, for bees have learned to take the seeds of flowering plants and sow them, attending to the soil in a way not unlike roach farmers.
One shouldn’t be tempted to project intelligence onto this: despite many overtures of communication, one finds the bees’ closest analogues to speech are base scent and silly dances that would befit a wingless tribal. Bees themselves as a rule seem bereft of any identity or will, and mantids conclude them all pawns of a nest-queen’s will, each one thought to be like the god-empress in miniature.
Bee nests outside of civilization are feral in a way that generally precludes them remaining where mantids need to expand.
Like the roaches, mantids offer the bees a gorgeous deal: a place inside their walls, with all the protection from the heartlands’ ravages that entails. In exchange, mantids partake of their oblations: crumbling honeyloaf, and the waxy sap-cake, royal jelly and rhodendrotox tablets, and, in some places, the bees themselves.
Snuggly Serials 