their stories of themselves. Spider-kinden had Regrets, where their webs of loyalties grew tangled. Stenwold’s friend, the Mantis Tisamon, had practically lived all his life in one Regret or another. Beetles were supposed to be more prosaic. In the isolation of his own home, though, Stenwold read the Sea-kinden’s letter, and relaxed enough to feel that lingering sadness at how the world had managed to separate him from such a remarkable woman.
Stenwold… he began to read, although he had to translate each word from the truly outlandish, phonetic spelling that Paladrya was prone to.
I am sending regards of the Edmir to your city
I am sending my own to you also your letters are much improved
I understand you fight with the colony of the wasps and that there is much fear the fly-kinden send word that blood will be shed soon
I am also afraid for you stenwold, I would be with you, if I could perhaps soon the edmir will no longer need any advice
I fear the land nothing would bring me to it but you the flies say I should wait until the war is done that you would not want me with you when you fight you know you have not left my thoughts since hermatyre is always open to you. distance only increases my heart when I think of you, and widens my mind.
This would be poetry, he knew, if she had written in her own script, and if he could have read it freely. As it was, it left him bitter at the vagaries of fate, and unsure how much she intended to say, or what was in his reading only.
Maybe, after all this is over and Jodry has me indicted, going back to the sea will be the best option for me. The old fear rose in him of the dark and hungry water, but it seemed less immediate, now, more amenable to negotiation.
For a long time Stenwold stared at the letter, and then he began to work on a reply, less concerned with content than clarity of expression, submerging himself in the scholarly. When the Great Ear sounded, even when the bombs began to fall, he hunkered down and concentrated, as though he was truly an academic again and the sounds outside only the noisy distractions of students. Time and again, he chased away the thoughts, What if I die tonight; what if Banjacs does? Can this be salvaged, or will the sacrifice of so many come to nothing? But the queasy feeling grew within him, the uncertainty of the gamble he and Jodry had taken, until he could no longer palm off his mind with Sea-kinden calligraphy, but only stare out of the window and realize that the war hung on tonight and tomorrow, and any misjudgement could lose everything for his people.
There was a knock at the door. He finally put the letter down.
He was not sure who he expected, but Janos Outwright was not the man. The portly little moustachioed Beetle, in pristine uniform with his own wheel of pikes and snapbows proudly displayed, beamed at Stenwold with his usual self-importance. There were two more of Outwright’s Pike and Shot standing behind him.
‘What’s happened?’ Stenwold demanded.
‘Nothing yet, apparently,’ Janos said pleasantly, although the crash and crump of the bombs nearly swallowed up his words. ‘Can we come in?’
When he had got under cover, with his men, and when Stenwold grudgingly found some mediocre wine for them, Janos deigned to explain further. ‘All very baffling, but there was rumour that the Empire was going to take a poke at some of the great and good, with you as top of the list. Soon as word came, I decided that you merited the finest in guardianship, so here I am.’
‘Word from where?’
‘Some student,’ Janos said airily and then, just as Stenwold was preparing a brusque reply, ‘that Wasp one, apparently, though I didn’t hear it direct from him.’
‘The…?’ Stenwold tried to summon the Wasp youth’s name to mind, but couldn’t. ‘Where is he?’
‘Running around warning people, like I said.’ Janos sipped his wine and made a great show of appreciation. ‘You can arrest him tomorrow for it, if you want. Everything seems a bit busy tonight for that sort of thing.’ He waggled his eyebrows, as though the detonations so close by outside were just high spirits.
Stenwold did not even hear the next knock, but Janos plainly did. He went strolling over to the door as though he owned the place.
They shot him dead right on Stenwold’s doorstep, a snapbow bolt making a ruin of his throat above his gleaming breastplate and scarring the wall beyond, barely slowed. Then they were shouldering in: a half-dozen burly Beetle men, armoured piece-meal with leather and canvas and chitin plate, with knives and swords and two snapbows leading the charge.
Janos saved Stenwold’s life even so — both by being the man to answer the door and by bringing two Merchant Company regulars along with him. They were caught off guard, by surprise, and yet both managed to get a shot off, killing a snapbowman and a swordsman, and wounding one of the men behind as the bolt passed right through his comrade.
Then it was blade work. One of the soldiers got his sword clear, receiving a couple of strikes that his mail fended off. The second Merchant Company man had barely dropped his discharged snapbow when a dagger was rammed into his groin and he collapsed.
Stenwold had no weapons on him. Shouting for the sole remaining defender to hold, somehow, he rushed for the stairs. A snapbow bolt ploughed past his head into the wall, an opportunistic shot spoiled by the jostle of the melee inside the doorway.
Stenwold usually wore his sword, but not in his own house, and he had left it by the door — as unattainable now as if he had dropped it in the street. Upstairs, though, he had the collected works of a life lived at war with the Empire, if he only had time to deploy them.
There was a choking cry from below, and he guessed that the sole remaining soldier had fallen to superior numbers. Stenwold threw himself into his bedroom, flipping open a drawer of his bedside cabinet, and then hurled himself over the bed, clutching for what was mounted on the wall there. He heard feet thundering up the stairs.
The weight of the piercer fell into his hands, and he checked the weapon every tenday, keeping the monstrous instrument charged and loaded. It had saved his life more than once, a firepowder-charged bolt-thrower with four arm’s-length spears in its barrels.
Then the attackers were spilling in, or that was how he read the situation as he pulled the trigger. The first man had time to skid off his feet, falling flat on his back, and the third was still partway up the stairs, recharging his snapbow, so the luckless second man took three of the four bolts dead on, enough to render the bulk of him unrecognizable as human.
The piercer was useless now, and Stenwold leapt for the drawer even as the first man was lunging for him. A shortsword gashed his arm and then he had the little two-barrel snapbow out and tried to bring it to bear. For a moment he and the killer wrestled, each trying to wrench the weapon out of the other’s hand, Then there was a shout, and Stenwold’s opponent flung himself backwards. The snapbowman in the doorway had his weapon loaded and was frantically charging it.
Stenwold loosed, taking the swordsman in the chest with one barrel, not a tactical decision so much as sheer reflex. He had no time to take the other man, for there was a sizzling flash — a sound and sight odious and familiar to Stenwold from twenty years of personal war.
The third man’s snapbow discharged, the snap sounding a moment after the flare, but the wielder was already falling forwards, punched from behind, his weapon’s mouth jerking up. Stenwold felt a searing claw rake the side of his face, shooting pain through his head, but he was still standing afterwards, his right ear torn so that he could not tell what of the thunder came from outside, and what from within his head.
A Wasp appeared at the door and Stenwold made a strangled sound and jabbed the little snapbow forwards, There was a flicker of wings as the new arrival fell back, dragging the door closed after him, the bolt holing the wood effortlessly.
Trying to work out what was real, Stenwold stood in his own bedroom, three men in various extremities of death decorating his floor, his own blood flowing freely down the side of his neck and pooling at his collar. His hands, those past masters of necessity, found fresh bolts in the drawer, reloading and recharging the snapbow even as his mind reeled.
From downstairs, an uncertain voice called up, ‘Master Maker?’ He felt he should recognize it, but no name sprang to mind.
Stenwold took the bedside cabinet and moved it over to the door, kicking the dead snapbowman clear of its
