‘What of it?’ Danaen spat, and several voices joined hers.
‘So when I sought help once more against a common foe, it was to the Mantis-kinden I turned – and I was betrayed.’
The silence that followed was the most dangerous yet, but before he could break it, Danaen herself did so.
‘You went to talk with the Spider-kinden scum!’ she yelled at him. ‘When you found yourself at war with them, you would not fight. Like any Beetle, you would only talk. I knew my duty.’
‘Did you so?’ Stenwold asked. ‘Perhaps you refer to drawing blade against the Spider-kinden during our truce, whilst we talked peace?’
‘Who faults me on that?’ Danaen demanded, and it was clear that few there would.
‘Or perhaps you speak of your greater betrayal?’ Stenwold pressed on, and the silence was back, with reinforcements. He waited, but Danaen did not interrupt again. Her eyes had abruptly become hooded.
‘We met out on the water, aboard a barge towed to a precise point. Who made the arrangements? Whose idea was that? And how was it, then, that the barge was attacked, that I and my follower were dragged into the water by new enemies? A trap. It was a trap I stepped into, but none of the Spiders’ doing, for they walked into it as well. It was a trap set by those I relied on. The honour of the Mantis-kinden was turned into a trap to exploit my trust.’
Danaen’s hands were now white-knuckled around the hilts of her blades. ‘And would your city be better off had you sold them to the Spider with your words?’ she snapped. ‘One Beetle or another, why should I take orders from any? If Maker says one thing and Broiler says another, what of it? Why should I not follow the orders that help kill more Spiders?’
Broiler? Stenwold’s insides lurched. Helmess bloody Broiler? Was selling us to the Wasps not enough, that he has somehow become Claeon’s man now?
‘Broiler, you say?’
She glowered at him, but there was something guarded in her eyes, something defensive all of a sudden, and in his mind he had beaten past her guard, his words gathered for a sudden lunge.
‘Do any here know what is said of Helmess Broiler?’ Stenwold demanded. To his surprise, there was a look of recognition on a few of their faces, a few dark glances, curt nods. ‘They say that Helmess Broiler would have sold this city to the Empire, if he had his way. The same Empire that drove you from your homes in the Felyal! And that is who Danaen would serve rather than me?’
‘Enough of this,’ Danaen snapped. ‘It is time for me to shed your blood, fat Beetle.’
Stenwold had not entirely thought this moment through, before, but mention of the name Broiler, the man who had been a thorn in his side for so many years, had fired his blood. ‘Come on then,’ he challenged her, and levelled his shortsword.
Danaen went for him, in a movement faster than he could follow. His parry came in far too late, of course, but the Mantis had pulled back, jerking away from him. Akkes-trae’s sword was between them.
‘What?’ Danaen hissed. ‘Will you let him speak so lightly of Mantis honour? You heard his words.’
‘I heard many words,’ the other woman replied flatly, ‘and I heard the name of honour in an unfit mouth – but it was not his. You have condemned yourself.’
Danaen sneered at her, looking about at her fellows. ‘This is pitiful,’ she told them. ‘This is what comes of living in this soft city. It has poisoned you.’
They regarded her solemnly, not one of them standing forward to take her part.
‘Against the Spider-kinden,’ she insisted. ‘Which one of you would not have struck a blow against the Spider-kinden?’
‘I was made a slave,’ Stenwold said, softly but with feeling. ‘Your allies made a slave of me.’ The Mantis- kinden, he knew, had strong feelings about slavers. It was one trade they loathed above all others, one fragile piece of common ground they had with Collegium.
‘How can you listen to him?’ Danaen shrieked at her kinsfolk, and Akkestrae said simply, ‘We need only listen to you.’
Stenwold turned away towards the open doorway, lowering his sword. A moment later he heard a sudden flurry of blows, as swift as the rattling of chains, and then a brief cry of pain. When he turned back, Danaen lay on the ground, her body bloody and pierced in many places. Akkestrae was cleaning the long blade of her rapier in minute detail, without even looking at him.
He gave a long sigh of relief and sheathed his sword, knowing that, waiting outside, Laszlo would note the signal. Two Mantis men took up Danaen’s body and dragged it out to the sea’s edge, while Stenwold stepped fully inside and went to sit with his back resting against a pillar, pointedly facing into the room. He had to wait a few minutes, as they tried their best to ignore him, but eventually Akkestrae came over to speak.
‘What do you want?’ she asked him. ‘Do not assume we are your friends here, because of this.’
He faced her levelly. ‘Oh, no. Just because I am the War Master of Collegium, and have fought our common enemies, because my city has taken you in when your home was burned, or because I have detected the Spider- kinden engaging in their hidden war on my city, and have myself been betrayed into darkness and slavery by your own people, of course I can have no claim on you.’
Her face twisted, her hand hovering at her rapier’s hilt, but he felt on more secure ground now. ‘What do you want?’ she repeated. ‘Do you think we fear that you will expel us?’
He saw, although perhaps she did not quite know it herself, that they did indeed fear it. The Mantis-kinden living beneath borrowed roofs in this city of the Apt, without function and without history, were waiting to outstay their welcome. They were baffled, unsure, belligerent, angry at being so useless. They see no point in themselves. They cannot understand why we keep them here. Perhaps they expect to go down in some grand final stand when we decide to throw them out.
He sighed, trying to sympathize with them, knowing how he needed their cooperation. ‘I value the Mantis- kinden, for no man had a truer friend than Tisamon. There are dark times coming to Collegium: perhaps the Spiders shall bring them, or else the Empire again. We shall be glad of the Mantids then, I’m sure.’
She seemed reassured, if only slightly. ‘And yet you want something of us.’
He nodded heavily. ‘I am told that there are some from the Felyal who live close to the sea. I am told of pacts, of rituals, and I must speak with one such. It is very important.’
The surprise was evident in her face that a mere Beetle should know anything of that. ‘It is a… strange old custom, even to us. Few there are who held to it even before the Empire arrived.’
‘Is there anybody…’ Stenwold started, and she interrupted, ‘But there is one.’
‘Here?’
‘The Sea Watch… that kind have always walked their own path,’ Akkestrae told him. ‘But now… There is one in the city. She is bitter, and angry, and she walks that path no more. There is a pier, narrow and in need of repair, lying closest to the easternmost sea wall. Most nights you will find her there. Her name is Cynthaen.’
The pier Akkestrae meant was old, too narrow for merchantmen, too high for smaller boats. Had Collegium’s sea trade been of more import, then no doubt it would have been torn down long ago for something better. As it was, the rickety construction had been left to rot.
It was past midnight now, for Stenwold had returned home to collect Paladrya, in the hope that she might help win the confidence of this Cynthaen through recounting what details she knew of Aradocles’s advent on to the land. He had collected another fistful of bolts for his cut-down snapbow too, for when he had left the waterfront tavern, Laszlo had cautioned him.
‘I’ve not been alone out here, Mar’Maker,’ the Fly had said in a low voice. ‘The night air’s been busy. Nothing so clumsy that I caught a proper glimpse, but… they’re out there.’
With that warning, Stenwold had requisitioned Fel as well, and the four of them had travelled the long way back to the quays, and located Akkestrae’s pier. Paladrya kept herself shrouded in her cloak, for she had quickly understood that her kinden’s resemblance to the Spiders might cause her problems. Fel, on the other hand, went in his mail, his vest and bracers of shell over something that was leathery without being leather, and wore his helm with the swept-back crest, as though he was some exotic Mantis prizefighter. Cloaks, Stenwold soon understood, were tangling and unfamiliar to the Onychoi warrior, and he had developed a strong dislike for them.
It would have to do, though. Stenwold had no time to argue, nor did Fel look amenable to persuasion.
