Collegium. He had been given only a couple of months to establish his cover here, masquerading as a mercenary factoring for a Helleron trade cartel, and he had expected to live every hour under the hostile glares of the locals, but the Collegiate merchants were paragons of venal acceptance just now. One would never think that an Imperial army had been at their gates recently enough to have left scars on the stonework.
His life here had been quiet enough at first, waiting on orders from home, liaising covertly with the diplomat Bellowern. In the midst of profit and loss, the flow of trade, socializing with his false peers, the myriad of entertainments that Collegium had to offer, he had found it difficult to remember that he was a spy.
Then the orders had finally come, following hard on the heels of reports about the new war with the Spiderlands. Then had arrived his reinforcements.
There were eight of them seated about this table in the Fair Licence, all dressed in canvas workshop leathers and over-robes, like any Collegium artisan just in from the road. If they seemed a little uniform, perhaps it was simply Daven’s military eye picking up on it. They were all Beetle-kinden men, and none of them looked like more than journeymen artificers or travelling merchant’s clerks. They were Rekef Outlander, every one of them, however, and here to play their parts in bringing down Collegium.
‘Stenwold Maker,’ suggested one of them – Daven had not quite got their names straight yet. He sat back, sipping at the wine he had grown rather too fond of over the last few months, and let them get on with it. They had been briefed exhaustively, and they were brimming over with enthusiasm for the task and, although he was supposed to be their commanding officer, he felt surplus to requirements.
‘There seems to be some doubt over whether he’s still with us,’ another noted.
‘No, he’s definitely been seen recently. He’s still on the list. In the midst of the fighting, one of us will have to arrange something for him.’
‘The file on him doesn’t suggest he’s a man too careful of his own wellbeing,’ another added, almost approvingly, as though commending the absent Master Maker for such consideration.
‘The Speaker, Drillen?’ another noted.
‘Put him on the list,’ said the man who was so keen on lists. ‘And some random Assemblers, whoever we get a crack at?’
‘No, nothing that might make them throw the fight. If their leaders start fearing for their own lives, they’ll sue for peace in an instant,’ broke in one who had not spoken before. ‘Special targets only, amongst the Assembly. Other than that, our targets must be those whose deaths will cause outrage, and those buildings whose destruction will fan the flames of Collegiate passion.’
Daven found that rather too flowery for spy talk, but said nothing. Really, watching these men was like seeing some horrible machine set in motion, one that nothing could stop.
‘The College workshops,’ one of them said, while another named a handful of public monuments. A third put in for a rather good theatre that Daven had visited a couple of times. Still he contributed nothing.
‘Come now,’ said one of the eldest. ‘What are you thinking of? The College library must burn, surely, or what will we be doing with ourselves?’
‘That’s going beyond our brief, surely?’ Daven was surprised at the words, more so because they were his own. Eight dark Beetle faces stared at him.
‘How it will inflame them, though,’ said the poet drily. ‘No, you’re right, the library must go. That will commit the Collegiates to the fight like nothing else.’
‘Do we have enough incendiaries to accomplish it?’ asked a more practical voice.
‘If we cannot secure the makings for incendiaries here in Collegium then we’re altogether in the wrong business,’ said the list-maker expansively, refilling his wine bowl. ‘Burn the library, yes. That’ll teach those bloody pompous academics to look down on the rest of us, eh? Now, where’s this cursed traitor of ours, Captain?’
Daven took the slightest second to connect the title to his own rank, in that other life he had lived in the Empire, not so very long ago. He opened his mouth to reply and the door was kicked in violently.
The Rekef men leapt to their feet, daggers and swords clearing scabbards, and at least two small crossbows being dragged from packs or from under the table, already cocked. Daven himself had his hand out immediately, palm open towards the doorway. By that time there were four armoured Beetles crowding into the room with snap-bows trained, and more of them behind. They wore the bar-visored helms and engraved breastplates of the new merchant companies.
One of the crossbows let loose, its bolt just slanting off the lead intruder’s breastplate. A snapbow bolt then took the Rekef man responsible through the eye, sending him backwards over his chair. A second Collegium shot killed another of the Rekef men down the table, by a reflexive, accidental release. By that time there were at least eight of the weapons directed at them from the open doorway.
‘I am Chief Officer Padstock of the Maker’s Own Company, and you are all under arrest,’ came the clipped tones of the woman that led them. ‘Drop your weapons and surrender to the authority of Collegium.’
Her eyes sought out Daven’s, facing down his open palm without fear. He could kill her, he knew, but that would get him and all his men slaughtered in instant retaliation. For a moment the temptation to do so was almost overwhelming, which he realized was due to the prospect of getting this pack of venomous infiltrators butchered along with him.
Taking a deep breath he lowered his hand and stepped back, feeling at most ambivalent about the whole situation.
It had taken a moment for Stenwold to gather his courage, before he could step back down into the coiled interior of Wys’s submersible. For a moment he had wavered on the brink, sensing the great lightless abyss beneath him, limitless and monster-haunted, as alien and unconquerable to him as the land had seemed to Rosander.
‘You don’t have to go,’ Paladrya had told him, resting her hand on his arm. ‘I know your people have their own fight.’
‘I will see this out,’ he announced, more for his own sake than for hers, and in he had gone.
When Wys had come back from passing word to Rosander, she had brought some new passengers. Word of the new-found heir had been passed to the Pelagist network while she was hunting down the Nauarch of the Thousand Spines. From there it had reached Hermatyre’s exiles.
By the time Stenwold struggled through the hatch, the battle lines had clearly been drawn. Aradocles stood firm, a slight young challenger, while across the main chamber from him waited the tall figure of Heiracles. The elder Kerebroi had brought two servants or guards with him, and they had knives, as all sea-kinden seemed to have knives. At the same time, the stance of Paladrya, Phylles and the big engineer Lej made it clear that they would be weighing in on the heir’s side should the newcomers try anything disagreeable.
Despite everything that separated Stenwold from these sea people, he found he could read Heiracles quite clearly by now. It was plain the man had never expected Aradocles to be still living. It was also plain that he had coveted the throne for himself, and had planned to appropriate the heir’s name and cause to that end. Seeing Aradocles there brought a sudden end to all that, unless some swift treachery could be accomplished. Stenwold observed all that behind the man’s eyes, the last flowering of ambition that had clung on even after the hunt of the heir had set off, and watched Heiracles make a coldly rational decision and let it all go. Chancellor of Hermatyre was better than king of nothing, his expression said, although Stenwold resolved to warn the young prince to surround himself with trusted and capable bodyguards, should he at last reclaim his kingdom.
Then Heiracles knelt and bowed his head – less to a man than to the inevitable. ‘Welcome back, Your Eminence, my Edmir,’ he declared.
With a studied disregard for the knives, Aradocles went to assist Heiracles to his feet. In that moment, the way the youth moved reminded Stenwold very much of Salma. The heir nodded. ‘Use that title only once I have earned it,’ he reproached the older man. ‘I’m not in Hermatyre yet. Tell me, how do we stand there?’
‘The word has gone out to our… your supporters,’ Heiracles informed him. ‘Those of the Pelagists who have taken sides are gathering. A host is ready to march on Hermatyre.’
‘And their numbers?’ Aradocles queried.
‘Still mustering as yet. I hear from Wys that the Thousand Spines
…’ He glanced at Stenwold for more.
‘I hope that they shall not be a problem,’ was all Stenwold would commit to. Or have I misjudged Rosander and his priorities? he considered.
‘Then the numbers should be close to even and, once word reaches Hermatyre that you are with us, we
