Adrian Tchaikovsky - The Sea Watch

‘And the third?’ he prompted.

‘Aha, well.’ Jodry coughed away a smile. ‘They call themselves “Maker’s Own”.’

A pause. ‘Do they indeed?’

‘Indeed they do.’ The fat man fixed Stenwold with a measuring eye. ‘You might recall them. You took them out with you that time you somehow convinced the Imperial Second to pack its bags and go home.’

‘You know what…’ Stenwold started, and then reread Jodry’s expression. ‘You don’t think…? Jodry, I have not encouraged any such company. Nobody even thought to tell me they were making free with my name.’

‘I believe you,’ Jodry said drily, ‘but who else will is another matter. I had their Chief Officer Padstock here three days ago declaring that, whenever you called for them, they would be ready: that they were just waiting for your word to march on… well, pretty much anywhere, I think. The Amphiophos included. If you ever wanted to become Tyrant of Collegium, this is certainly your chance.’

Stenwold looked down at his hands. So much misplaced loyalty, and yet… ‘And there are now calls to have them all disbanded.’

‘Of course. Many in the Assembly are somewhat concerned at the prospect of bands of armed militia roaming our city unchecked. Of course, they haven’t really thought it through. At the moment the Companies are at least paying lip-service to the idea of civic duty. Disband them and you instantly create three small private armies with a good reason to dislike the Assembly. Then we’d have to pass some law forbidding citizens to own weapons, or some such, and then…’

‘Then we’d probably be just about ready for the next move from the Empire,’ Stenwold confirmed. ‘Not to mention that most visitors from, well, from almost anywhere would come with a sword at their belts, and it would be a fine state of affairs to have everyone in Collegium go armed except its own people.’ He took a deep breath.

‘But we can hardly tolerate private armies in Collegium, either,’ Jodry pointed out. ‘If they’re not disbanded then, soon enough, every Assembler and every magnate will want his own band of cut-throats. Can you imagine what Helmess Broiler would do with a hundred brigands operating under his banner?’

‘So what’s your plan?’

‘I dearly wish I had a plan, right now,’ Jodry said. ‘I’ve met with Outwright and the other chief officers, and they’re making demands, and I’ve met with the Assemblers who want them disbanded, and they’re making demands, and now both sides are starting to mention you.’

‘Well, I can see how it’s my problem,’ Stenwold allowed, ‘but how is it yours?’

‘Because I plan to be Speaker soon enough, and then all the city’s problems become my problems. I want you to back me, Stenwold, because you’re the war hero. The Companies will listen to you.’

Stenwold stared at him a long time. ‘Will you disband them?’

‘I don’t know,’ Jodry admitted. ‘I’m caught between pincers right now, and trying to squirm my way out.’

‘Then, when you find your way out, talk to me, and I’ll decide if I’ll back you.’

For a moment Jodry regarded him sternly, obviously about to deliver a pre-prepared bout of disappointment or chiding, but then he nodded. ‘Fair,’ he granted, ‘but you should apply your mind to it, too. After all, with all your constant talk of the Empire, the future of Collegium’s militia should be of prime concern to you. Anyway, off home with you. I hear you’ve got guests.’

‘Guests, yes.’ And the urgency flooded back: Khanaphes. News of Che. Stenwold nodded hastily to Jodry and hurried off.

Stenwold’s desk had moved house with him twice. It had been part of his life for twelve years, now, through all those hard years of struggle: his attempts to open the eyes of the Assembly to the threat of the Empire; his attempts to second-guess the Rekef; the deployment of his agents and his intelligence-gathering – all played out on this same scratched desktop.

He had returned to his trade, or never left it. It was not the Empire that obsessed him, nor even the Vekken. He was using his profession for ends as selfish and personal as those of any profiteering merchant. He was trying to find his own, but the world was large, and those in it so very small, and he knew now that she did not want to be found.

Tynisa, his ward – Tisamon’s child. He had no hold on her, no right to her, and yet he kept trying to find her. The longer he was left without news, the more he feared that she had succumbed to her bloodline; that she had followed her father towards the glorious, bloody end of a Mantis weaponsmaster.

He had letters in from this morning, two at once, and neither containing any comfort. The first was brief, made out in the blocky handwriting of an Ant-kinden who seldom committed his thoughts to paper.

Master Maker,

Got your missive. Will keep searching. Not so many here that a face like hers won’t be noticed. Also, all like family here – good will and cheer, you know. She comes here, we’ll find her. Maybe you should come here too. Do you good. You’d like what they’ve done with the place.

Am Commander again now. Am told I’m war hero. Load of rubbish, but can live with it. Herself has me in charge of walls now, or will be when walls built.

Sperra sends regards.

Balkus

Commander, Princep Salmae.

Stenwold read through it once more. Another pair of eyes now on watch. He had hoped Tynisa might make for the new city, if only from some memory of Salma. She had been more than fond of Salma, he recalled, before the war and Salma’s affections elsewhere had broken them apart. He recalled their last meeting, in Salma’s brigand camp. Brief, awkward. It seemed Tynisa had, for once, not known how to act or what to say.

Balkus will find her if her feet should take her to Princep. And perhaps Stenwold should go himself. The city they were building west of Sarn was founded on all the principles that Collegium and Stenwold both upheld. He should go and see whether they were making good on their intentions, or whether the rot had crept in already.

My mind is dark this evening. But then that was hardly surprising, sitting here leafing through the notes of failed searches, while waiting for more bad news from his anticipated guests.

The second letter was written out in a neatly elegant hand, the slightly over-florid style of an educated Beetle mimicking the glorious calligraphy of the Spiderlands.

My good old friend,

I have taken your message to heart. The war scattered many grains and we are all still picking them up. I can guarantee nothing, of course, since this place has grown no smaller since you last saw it. There is no place on the earth where one can more easily find obscurity or dissolution than this city of ours. You know this as well as I, so forgive me the frank words.

Still: a Spider-kinden with a Mantis brooch and sword? There are not so very many of that kind. If she does follow in the footsteps of the father, then she’ll leave quite a trail behind her. I have sent men to the fiefdom you mentioned, the Halfway House. They are much lessened in numbers following the occupation, but I am informed that they retain their leader from before the war, and so there may be some help found there. If she practises the fighting trade here in Helleron, whether on the streets or in the arena, then I have some hopes of tracking her for you.

As an aside, yes, the arena remains, though its builders are flown. The fights there are not strictly to the death, but there have been deaths. I fear my city has been left, after the Wasps, with the taste of blood in its mouth.

To return to your concerns: if she has merely passed through our streets on an eastward journey, I will not be able to be of much service. There is some slight hope, though: the Empire remains a wealthy consumer of goods, and now an employer of skilled labour. There are those who speak to me, who are at Sonn or Capitas, and I have asked them to keep an open eye. However, I am reliably told that the Empire is not fond of questions, however innocent. It is a place unfriendly and unwelcoming enough that only their gold makes even a temporary residence there worthwhile. The Emperor may have passed on, but his trappings remain.