‘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?’
