Adrian Tchaikovsky - The Sea Watch

The Assembly virtually exploded in a mix of laughter and shouting, some telling Failwright to go away, others calling on Stenwold to stand. The idea of a clash between two firebrands obviously appealed to them.

Partreyn kept waving his hands, mouth open as he shouted inaudibly for quiet. At last the roar died down and left him rasping wretchedly. ‘You cannot demand answer from an individual,’ he croaked. ‘Only if he consents to answer, on behalf of the Assembly… Is that not so?’ The list of causes was wrung between his hands. ‘Master Maker?’

Stenwold took pity on him, standing up to declare, ‘I am no expert, save that I defended Master Failwright’s docklands from the Vekken, and-’

‘And saw most of it burned!’ Failwright yelled at him.

Stenwold found himself smiling despite himself at the man’s sheer persistence. ‘I would more readily answer questions on the Vekken, whether war or peace, than on this, but I’ll make a reply if Master Failwright wishes it,’ he said, and most of the chamber quietened enough to hear him. ‘We are a city of merchants, as Master Failwright observes. We are also a city of scholars. The two complement each other, in fact. We in this hall are gownsmen and townsmen magnates both. The distinction has always been there. We of the College hold our seats here through long tradition that holds that men wise enough to teach are also wise enough to govern. You of the town are elected by our citizens, and thus represent those men and women whose business and practice is successful and notable enough that you can gather the followers and spare the time to play your parts here. And, believe me, the burden of time never seemed to weigh as heavily as this afternoon.’

The expected laughter came and Stenwold paused for it, thinking, I am getting too good at this. When did I ever want to please the crowd?

‘However, the Assembly has always been deplored by the merchants of this town for interfering in their business,’ he went on. ‘Not seven years ago, there was a motion concerning the workhouses in Helleron, and whether a clean-handed magnate of Collegium could deal with such institutions, could even own shares in them. It was then firmly stated: the business of a merchant is his own. A year before the war came a motion to ban shares in slaving concerns, for as we outlaw slavery within our city, should our merchants be free to invest in the flesh trade beyond? It was again firmly stated, although hotly contested, that the business of a merchant is his own. Therefore I say to you, Master Failwright, that the business of a merchant is his own. If this Assembly may not dampen his profits, neither may it blow upon the embers of his losses.’

There was a rumble of approval from the lackeys of Drillen, but also from the College Assemblers as a whole. Even as Stenwold sat down, Helmess Broiler was rising to his feet on the far side of the chamber from him.

Partreyn just mutely gestured for him to speak, and Drillen murmured, ‘Here we go.’

‘Well, historic times, my friends.’ Helmess Broiler was a well-dressed magnate, affluently plump, his thinning hair oiled like that of a Spider Aristos. He had proved a thorn since Stenwold’s very first speech to the Assembly, resistant to change, greedy for profit, a true spokesman for the Helleron lobby. Stenwold harboured darker suspicions, too, from the man’s stance before the war, but none of that was provable. In the end, Stenwold had focused his energy on the Vekken initiative, rather than pursue those he suspected had taken Imperial gold.

Broiler smiled down at Failwright. ‘Historic either because Master Maker has come to his senses, or I have,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I find I agree with him, which I believe is unprecedented. Master Partreyn, you must record it in the books.’ More laughter, and Stenwold suddenly felt complicit in it. And I myself stood where Failwright stands, not so long ago. True, I was arguing for the liberty of cities and not the profit of the sea-trade, but he should merit better treatment than this.

‘Master Failwright, all I shall say is that if you place your investments in a wooden eggshell, so very vulnerable to every turn of tide and wind and roguery,’ Helmess continued, ‘and if you fail to make provision for an escort or a guard, then on your head be it. On the heads, likewise, of all who cast their money onto the waves. That is why I buy Spiderlands goods imported by way of Helleron, Merro and Tark. They may take longer to reach the markets than your ship-borne cargoes, but at least they seldom suffer from piracy, and no rail automotive has ever sunk without trace.’

The laughter and approval sounded whole-hearted from most, though a little uncertain from Drillen’s people. As the furious Failwright stalked from the chamber, Stenwold thought, I, too, have walked out like that, but I think I chose a worthier issue. Then the thought of the news from Khanaphes reclaimed him, even as Partreyn announced that any more causes must wait until the morrow, whereupon all thought of Failwright and the shipping magnates left him.

Nevertheless, Jodry Drillen snagged him by the door. ‘A word, old friend,’ he murmured.

‘Now is not the best time,’ Stenwold warned him. ‘You know-’

‘The Khanaphes expedition? Of course I know,’ the fat Assembler confirmed. He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘If you cannot give me a few moments of your time to impart a warning, Stenwold, then by all means go, but…’

‘Jodry?’

‘There is a matter on the horizon, and you are more than likely to be accused in it.’

Stenwold looked at him levelly. And how are you trying to twist me now, Jodry? ‘Be quick, then.’

‘As a beggar’s supper. Come, let’s find a room.’ Jodry commandeered one of the Amphiophos staff to fetch them some wine, and ensconced himself in a little reading room near the debating chamber. ‘While you’ve been playing nice with the Vekken we’ve had our own military dictatorship to worry about. I’ve been keeping the pot from boiling over on this one, but now your name’s come into it. I’m talking about the Merchant Companies, Stenwold.’

‘What about them?’

‘The Companies’ was the unofficial name given to the various groups of Collegium citizens put under arms during the recent war against the Empire. They had been tradesmen and merchants and itinerant mercenaries organized by profession or by place of residence, and had become the nearest the city had ever known to a standing army. At the end of the war, most had quietly gone back to their civilian lives, perhaps with a pike stowed in the attic or a sword displayed over the mantelpiece.

‘For most of them? Nothing.’ Jodry paused to receive the wine from the servant, and poured them out two bowls. ‘Three Companies have yet to disband, however, and there have been calls to have them formally abolished.’

Stenwold’s mind was still on his anticipated guests, news of Che. ‘Get to the point, Jodry. Which three?’

‘Outwright’s Pike and Shot, for one,’ Jodry revealed.

‘Well, Janos Outwright was always an exhibitionist.’ Stenwold dismissed the whole idea airily with a wave of his hand.

‘The Coldstone Company, for another,’ the other man went on patiently.

Stenwold groaned at that. Coldstone Street had been the furthest intrusion of the Vekken army into Collegium. The men and women who lived there had brought half their own houses tumbling down onto the invaders, then fought as fiercely as Mantids, as doggedly as the Ant-kinden themselves. When the call had gone out to confront the Empire, the Coldstone Company had been there, not line soldiers but ragged skirmishers, ambushers and desperados. They had made a name for themselves as Collegium’s most stubborn and least principled defenders. Stenwold supposed he should not now be surprised.