Thirty-Four

Using compass and clock and all the tricks that the Tidenfree crew had perfected over the years, Despard guided them home. After they had passed the reach of the Shelf, which the sea-kinden had called the Edge, they led rather than followed, with Gainer steering the Tseitan in slow, paddling circles from time to time to check that the bobbing shell of Wys’s submersible was still behind them. The journey was long, and they had come to the surface several times to take in fresh air, the Tseitan lying like a basking thing in the swelling water, whilst the other vessel listed alarmingly beside it, never intended to be brought up to the air. Still, Wys’s crew was able to provide food and freshly accreated water, for the Tseitan had little room for provisions, what with Stenwold’s bulk added to its complement.

At last, though, they came up in sight not only of land but of the city itself: a flare of white stone against a dusk-darkened coast. Gainer guided them in on the wrong side of the sea-wall, where those intent on underhand business moored under the deflected and well-remunerated eyes of the port authorities. The waves were high, though, so no other ship had dared the mooring that night. There were therefore no witnesses as the Tseitan rose to the surface, and none to see the rounded bulk of a much larger vessel break the water beside it.

Despard ascended, clutching a rope ladder, which burden her wings just sufficed to take to the top of the wall. There she secured it and let it down with a flourish. It had been agreed that Gainer would shortly take the Tseitan back to its College docks, but for now, Stenwold did not want every scholar and Master to hear of his return, if for nothing else than to avoid the interminable round of questions that his reappearance would spark off. Gainer would therefore keep quiet while, in the meantime, Stenwold would slip into his own city. That was the plan.

Stenwold ascended the rope ladder with more ease than he had descended it all that time ago, when stepping on to the deck of Isseleema’s Floating Game. Kratia followed him up, with more ease still. As he hauled himself over the top of the wall he saw that the sky was fast greying into twilight: not a glorious red butcher’s sunset, not a fiery evening to send comfort to herdsmen and sailors, not a sunset to put Moths and Mantis-kinden to prophesying death and loss. The dusk was pale, almost colourless, the sun on the very point of shrugging its way behind the horizon, almost nonchalantly and without an ounce of showmanship. Stenwold felt something catch in his throat, and tears sprang to his eyes. He fell to his knees on the wall’s hard stonework, for it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

There was a soggy-sounding scuffle and Laszlo landed beside him, streaming wet but grinning like a madman. Stenwold looked up at him: the one person who had shared his ordeal.

‘Mar’Maker,’ Laszlo nodded, agreeing.

‘You’re a credit to your family,’ Stenwold told him.

The rope ladder was still jerking and tugging, so Stenwold turned to put an arm down to aid Wys, who was scaling it awkwardly, one rung at a time, her eyes focused fiercely on her hands. She took his help gladly when she was high enough, collapsing beside him with ragged breaths.

‘You . . . you are mad people,’ she said indistinctly. ‘Why’s it so pissing cold?’

Of course, she was wearing just a shift and, of her crew, only Phylles was remotely respectably dressed. ‘Despard,’ Stenwold decided, ‘we’ll need clothes for our guests.’ He looked down at his own feet, calloused and bare. ‘And try for some sandals at least, or we’ll all be lame before we reach my house. And tell Tomasso everything you can. Between you and Laszlo here, I owe your crew more than I can count.’

She nodded, looking suitably pleased, and set off into the air in an instant. Wys watched her go with wide eyes.

‘Land,’ she said. ‘This is land, then.’ Her gaze shifted from the seaward horizon, turning inland to the shadowed roofs of Collegium. ‘I’m not ready for this.’

‘In my own city, we receive ambassadors from Grande Atoll, sometimes,’ Kratia observed. ‘They do not die, of being on land, though they must make certain adjustments. You will not die of it either.’

Wys sat up, nodding. ‘Nobody will believe me, that I have seen this,’ she said, with a slight smile.

Fel hauled himself up over the edge and crouched there, the spikes on his hands flexing and twitching. Wys reached out and squeezed his arm. He had come wearing his mail, as he had donned it to fight the Echinoi, and his expression was strangely familiar to Stenwold. Only later that night did the connection come to him, for Fel’s face was not so unlike a Mantis-kinden’s features, and Stenwold had seen that look before, that war between fear and determination, when Tisamon had faced something he reckoned as magic. It spoke of a superstitious awe and terror.

‘I must pass on the news of our success to our coalition,’ Kratia announced. For a moment Stenwold was thrown, thinking that surely she could speak such words to her sisters even from here, but then he understood: Of course, she must tell the Vekken.

‘Tell them I shall recompense them, and yourself, in any way I can, beyond the trade with Collegium. I pay my debts.’

‘We know it,’ she told him. ‘Do not think we shall not call upon you for this marker. There are storms coming, Master Maker, and you are a valuable man to be a creditor of.’ She nodded him a curt salute and turned on her heel, striding away down the wall’s length, towards the city.

Phylles joined them at last, having scaled the wall with her own Art rather than trust the vagaries of the ladder. She clung to the stones, staring up at the sky’s vault, at the slowly darkening west. Her hair twitched and flurried.

‘Welcome to my world,’ Stenwold told the sea-kinden gently. Beneath them, the domed hump of their submersible was descending, and he guessed that, its last passenger having now disembarked, Lej was following some final instruction from Wys. What could they have told him? How long would he wait?

‘You’re truly after bringing back the heir?’ Wys asked him, seeming to have recovered the bulk of her composure. No doubt the fact of Laszlo staying close by her was some comfort. Fel remained standing spear-shaft straight, tense as a wire, eyeing the great built bulk of Collegium, and Phylles seemed to be waiting for the heavens to fall on them.

‘Oh yes,’ Stenwold said. ‘As you just heard, I’m known for the strength of my word.’

‘Only,’ she grinned weakly, ‘I reckon few would blame you if you decided to shaft us a bit. Not exactly open arms, your welcome down there.’

Stenwold shrugged. ‘I’m used to mixed receptions. Before Arkeuthys took me, I had no idea your people even existed. Now I leave two kinds of people down below: enemies, and not-enemies. I would rather know that I had friends.’ He knelt to put a hand out to the very last of the sea-kinden, who had been labouring her way up the ladder. Paladrya accepted his grasp thankfully, and he helped her carefully to the wall’s summit, where she sagged weakly against him.

They all started as Despard alighted again, preceded by a bulging sack. She quickly distributed tunics and cloaks and sandals at random, leaving it to them to sort out what best fitted who. Paladrya held a cape up, a strange expression on her face.

‘I remember wrapping him in a cloak, after we took him from the sea . . . I took what care of him I could, but how could it have been enough? If he is dead . . .’

‘We can only search,’ Stenwold told her. He had taken to Paladrya since their first meeting, prisoners in Claeon’s cells. Perhaps it was because, out of all the sea-kinden, her thoughts seemed also for others, not just for herself.

‘Come, I’ll take you to my house. We can make our plans there,’ he told them, sea-kinden and Fly-kinden both. ‘Despard, is Tomasso . . . ?’

‘At the Tidenfree, in harbour. Send word to him if you need him, he says.’ She gave him a wry look. ‘He’ll want the whole story, so don’t call him up before you’ve at least had a night’s sleep.’

‘Meeting me at your own home, Master Broiler? Either you grow less cautious or more assured of Imperial triumph,’ Honory Bellowern remarked drily. When word had come from the Empire’s chief agent in Collegium, Helmess had cordially invited him to call, rather than go through all the cloak-and-dagger of their usual meetings. Let him interpret that how he will, Broiler considered.

In truth, upstairs were Teornis and Elytrya and a handful of those murderous Dragonfly-kinden the Spider commanded. For all his protestations that they were on the same side, Teornis had suggested, pleasantly, that Helmess might not want to leave his house alone just yet.

‘What do you want, Master Bellowern?’ the Collegiate Assembler asked. They had better keep very quiet, up above. The last thing he needed was for the Empire to get involved in that particular piece of business.

‘Orders from Capitas,’ Bellowern replied briskly. ‘Your moment of greatness arrives. This business with the Spider-kinden is priceless. As soon as their ships arrive, word will go by the fastest means to order the troops to march on Myna.’

‘I don’t see how that involves me, unless you’ve made me your messenger boy now,’ Helmess grumbled.

‘No, no,’ Bellowern told him, all smiles still. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, not while you’re still useful to us in the Assembly. Lucky you didn’t lose out that badly in the Lots, hmm?’

Helmess scowled at him, which only seemed to fuel the Imperial Beetle’s self-satisfaction. ‘Now, you must keep them on track for war. Get yourself on a few of their battle councils, or whatever they have. Chair a few committees. You know the sort of talk: “Bring as many ships as they like, the Spiders won’t crack this nut overnight.” You have to stop some spineless band of silk merchants from talking this into some humiliating peace. We want Spider blood shed for every inch of Collegium ground. We want each street corner piled with satrapy dead. All that ingenuity your lot used against the Vekken, all of it turned now onto those wicked slave-takers and web-spinners, hmm? In fact, make sure that the Sarnesh pitch up with a few thousand soldiers from down the rail line. After all, whatever weakens Sarn . . .’

‘In other words, business as usual. I’m not sure I needed the reminder, Bellowern.’

‘Ah, but’ – Honory Bellowern raised a finger and an eyebrow, burlesquing the conspirator – ‘you will also be liaising with my agents.’

‘Your agents?’ Broiler noted, without inflection, thinking, Oh, yes, and this is new.

‘Just arrived today. Keen lads, most of them our kinden who can do a creditable Co-lleg-ium ac-cent – hammer and tongs and all that, hey?’ Honory drawled. ‘I’ll be giving them detailed instructions shortly, and I want them to meet you, so they know you’re my informant, but in short, their brief is to knock off Aldanrael officers and leaders – bounties all round for actual family members – and Collegium Assemblers, whoever we feel suitable, and then lay the blame on the other party. We’ll just keep fanning the fires, and by the time the black and gold flag gets here, they’ll be begging us for a little firm governance. Good times, hmm?’

‘And you want me to give them lists of names,’ Helmess divined.

‘You understand me perfectly,’ Bellowern agreed. ‘And if you have any particular thorns in your side, well, think of that as a little early reward for your loyalty to the Imperial throne. How about Jodry Drillen found with a Spider knife in his throat one morning? Ah, I see you smiling at last. You see, Master Broiler, things are starting to look good. Let’s raise a glass to the downfall of Spiders and the Assembly, and the triumph of hidden enemies.’

Helmess Broiler could not keep the grin away, as he sent for the wine.

They made their way into Collegium, while Stenwold still worked out how he would explain his outlandish followers to any guardsmen who might question him. Some Flies, a Spider, a Mantis, or something like a bald Mantis . . . ? but Phylles had purple skin and hair that moved, and what sort of half-breed could he possibly pass her off as? Best to hope they were not stopped.

The docks had changed since he had last seen them. There were more ships moored, not fewer, but all of them merchantmen. He saw a fair number of Fly-kinden cogs bobbing about, no doubt taking up the slack now that the Spiderlands trade was down. Ashore, the buildings of the port authority, which he had once defended against the Vekken, had been fortified, and there were leadshotters and ballista mounted on the roofs. Jodry’s been doing well in my absence, he noted approvingly. But let’s hope it will not come to that.

In the morning he would send to Jodry and to Tomasso. For tonight, though, he would hear Paladrya’s story and then he would sleep, and perhaps his dreams would show him where to find a lost prince nobody had set eyes on in four years and more.

Dead, dead surely. But he clung on to the idea that somehow this sea-kinden youth had found himself a foothold on the land, had left tracks in the sand that could be followed. A great deal might depend on it.

They made it into the shadow of the first buildings that rose about the harbour. Stenwold had chosen a route leading alongside the river, for that part of Collegium had always been shabbier and less visited by the watch. Still, he and his fellows were challenged within the space of three houses, a quartet of militia appearing from an alley, gaslight glinting on breastplates and snapbows. Stenwold heard Fel hiss, and the sea-kinden were automatically fanning out behind him, obviously expecting a close-in fight. He held a hand out to them urgently. ‘Hold!’

‘What’s this creeping into our . . .’ started one of the watch, and then apparently he ran out of words. Stenwold smiled, feeling a surge of fond emotion. Their breastplates were crossed by red sashes stamped by a gold sword and book, and the words Through the Gate.

‘Yes,’ he told them, ‘I am returned.’

‘Officer Padstock . . .’ one started, but another was speaking over him, ‘They said you died on the water . . .’

‘I live. Inform Elder Padstock. Ask her to come to my home tomorrow morning. But tell nobody else that I am back – not one of them.’ Then the thought of repeating this encounter a dozen times, between here and home, struck him. ‘In fact, if you could escort me and my companions to my house, I’d be obliged.’

‘For you, Master Maker, anything,’ one of them said, and they took him home the quickest way, waving reassuringly to other patrols they passed them. Stenwold saw all three of the merchant companies out on the streets, comprised of men and women of a half-dozen different kinden, all in uniform, all armed with snapbows, pikes, longbows. His escorts told him this was Jodry’s doing, keeping an eye out for Spiderlands agents up to no good. Stenwold suspected it was more about assuaging the fears of Collegium citizens, but nevertheless it was a good sign. You are proving better at this than I gave you credit for, Jodry, he thought. We elected the right Speaker.

When they reached his street, he sent the watch on its way with his message to Padstock. He would make it home without disturbing his neighbours overmuch.

Or so he had thought. As he approached the house, with his ragtag entourage in tow, he saw that lamps were lit in his windows. Stenwold paused, weighing this up. Has Jodry sent someone to watch my home? But then the thought came to him: Che has come back. Che, or Tynisa even! He started to run, then, letting his fellows catch him if they could, dashing to the door. Finding it unlocked, he flung it open and rushed through to his sitting room.

He found four men gaping up at him from an abruptly halted hand of cards. Stenwold stared at them blankly. The room stank of smoke and worse. There were empty bottles everywhere, on the floor and littering every possible surface. He had spent time in criminal drinking dens that bore less of the stamp of vice than here in his own house.

‘What is this?’ he demanded.

One of the men had the presence to stand, swaying, his face gone grey with shock. ‘Master . . . Maker . . . ?’ he goggled. ‘But . . . you’re a dead man.’

‘I’ve heard that before, and coming from better than you,’ Stenwold snapped – and then frowned. ‘Cardless?’ In this unexpected context it had taken him too long to recognize the face. Was this his manservant, the impeccably turned-out Cardless? All evidence save that drink-slackened face was to the contrary, but the face cast the final vote.

‘Dead!’ the servant repeated, sounding so aghast that Stenwold almost looked down to see the still-bleeding wounds he must apparently bear. Cardless’s fellows, unshaven, unkempt Beetle louts, stared first at him, then back to Stenwold, bewildered.

All the care exercised in getting this far was abruptly gone, swept aside by Stenwold’s fury at this invasion of his home. ‘Get out,’ he ordered flatly. ‘All of you get out, if you value your hides. Cardless, you may consider yourself dismissed without reference, at the very least. Now leave my house before I throw you from the windows.’

‘Big talk,’ one of them slurred, standing with a bottle still in hand. ‘I count four of us here, old man, one of you . . .’

His voice choked to a stop as Stenwold’s fellows finally caught him up, crowding behind him curiously. Stenwold would wonder, later, what those sots must have made of his comrades: the two Flies, Paladrya, Wys, Fel, glowering Phylles. There was surely murder enough evident in Fel’s expression alone to prompt their mad dash for safety, as the four of them, babbling incoherently, fled past the newcomers, falling over each other and out on to the street to the sound of a bottle breaking on the flagstones.

So much for my quiet return, Stenwold considered. I couldn’t exactly have locked them in the cellar, though, and theirs was hardly a killing offence. Despite the wreck of his sitting room, and who could know how much of the rest of the house, now they were gone his anger transformed into a bitter humour.

‘Oh, hammer and tongs,’ he murmured. ‘I dread to think what stories will be flung about the city before noon.’

A brief scouting expedition revealed that his own cellar was almost drained dry, only one bottle of inferior wine unopened, and some beetle jerky yet untapped. Remembering his own experiences with sea-kinden food, he hoped it would be seem enough compared with the lobster meat or whatever else they were used to. When he got back upstairs to them, Despard had already flown off to liaise with the family again, so he was left with the ever-faithful Laszlo and the four sea-kinden.

They weren’t exactly making themselves at home. Wys had essayed a chair, and was curled up in it, in a position that seemed painfully awkward to Stenwold but apparently bothered her not at all. Fel still stood, as if waiting for the next fight; Phylles and Paladrya had chosen the floor to slump down on.

‘I will do what I can to smooth this crossing for you,’ he told them, laying down food and drink. ‘But it won’t be easy.’

‘If you can do it, we can,’ Wys told him. Of all of them she was taking it best.

Stenwold nodded. ‘Of course you’ – he gestured to Paladrya – ‘have at least been on land before.’

‘Once. So briefly,’ she replied, almost in a whisper.

‘So tell me. Tell me everything you can about how and where Aradocles left the sea.’

She nodded wearily, taking a moment to gather her strength, while casting her mind back over the years.

‘I was Claeon’s lover, as you know,’ she started.

‘We don’t know why,’ Wys interrupted, almost immediately.

Paladrya looked sad. ‘He was . . . different before. While his brother was still well, before Claeon began thinking of the Edmiracy. It was ambition for power that poisoned him. But he always talked with me. With whoever he happens to lie with, I think. When the old Edmir fell ill, I knew – from hearing what he did not say, reading the gaps he left – that he would have Aradocles killed. A few years later and the heir would be of age, and everything would have happened differently . . . the temptation would not have been there. But the boy was still young, and Claeon saw that he himself might become great. And I saw where his thoughts were leading. I had taught Aradocles for many years and I loved him as a son. I knew that I had to save him.’

‘And I’ve seen for myself that it’s hard to escape Claeon’s agents,’ Stenwold agreed. ‘Even so, to the land ? Considering the way your people seem to see us, how did that idea ever come to you?’

‘There were very few I could trust, but Aradocles had some house guards who were loyal only to him. I consulted with them. One was a Dart-kinden of strange family – an old family that had lived up against the Edge for many generations. They do things differently there, and the writ of Hermatyre – of anywhere – runs thin. Santiren, she was called. She told me of the ancient customs, rites and rituals of her people, which had been dying out for ever but still clung on. Rites and pacts with the land. It was her words that made my mind up. Left beneath the sea, Claeon would see Aradocles dead before he became of age. But Santiren believed that she could broker some contract with the land, just to keep him safe.’

‘Old ways,’ murmured Stenwold thoughtfully. ‘We ourselves are not so long established here, my people – not under our own governance. We were slaves once, and our rulers were wise and secretive. Who knows what deals they may have made, and with what powers? Anything is possible, back in the Bad Old Days. Perhaps the masters of Pathis-that-was knew more about your people than they ever bothered to tell us, their underlings.’ Stenwold saw that they were not following him, save perhaps for Laszlo, and gestured for Paladrya to continue.

‘There is little else to say,’ she stated. ‘I took with us two of the house guards, both Dart-kinden, Santiren and another. We rode on the Darts’ beasts, myself seated behind Santiren, and Aradocles behind . . . Marcantor, his name was. Santiren led the way, and she took us swift and sure, over the Edge, through the shallows, travelling by night, hiding always from the light. Then it was night again and . . . the waters above us became less and less, until we came up into the air.’

‘But where?’ Stenwold asked her. Abruptly he stood up, rifling across shelves until he found a curled map of the Lowlands.

‘I do not know the name of the place. I don’t think Santiren did either. It was a forest, like our weed plantations, but instead of the tall weeds there were . . . only crooked, twisted plants. And it was cold, and there was the sky, the moon . . .’ She looked up fearfully, as though that great expanse of the heavens still oppressed her even through the ceiling.

‘Trees,’ Stenwold noted. ‘Many of them?’

‘There was nothing else visible of the land except the forest,’ she said. ‘And I bade Aradocles goodbye and returned, and for two years Claeon could not quite believe I had betrayed him, and he hunted everywhere for the boy. Then his suspicion won over his pride, and I became a prisoner, as you found me.’

And you do not mention the tortures he must have put you through, Stenwold thought. Her quiet strength impressed him more, the more she spoke. If only all your kinden had your selflessness, he considered. And what manner of man has Aradocles grown into, if he still lives? In your absence, whose hand may have guided him?

‘Trees,’ he muttered again. ‘Tell me, there was a beach first, perhaps? You scaled a cliff?’

‘No, your “trees” extended into the water, so that there was nowhere one could say, this is the land, or this is now the sea. It was an unnatural place, but Santiren swore she had met someone there that still honoured the old compacts.’

Stenwold looked straight into her face – so like a Spider-kinden’s, just as Aradocles must surely have seemed a Spider youth – and his heart sank.

‘Only one place, that can be,’ he declared. They looked encouraged, but he was already shaking his head.

‘The Felyal,’ Laszlo supplied.

‘The Felyal,’ Stenwold echoed. His personal feelings for the Mantis-kinden were decidedly mixed, just now, but their feelings for Spider-kind were quite clear and pointed. Oh he’s dead, he’s dead, for sure.

But Stenwold had unfinished business with the Mantids, those refugees of the Felyal that now called Collegium their home. He might as well drag this, the final fate of Aradocles, into the bargain. What did he have to lose?