betray him? Does he not care?
Their few years together had been a union born in the fires of one siege, tempered in the next, but now peace had come, and he was a different man – or she was a different woman. I preferred it when we were fighting. Now she had everything she could want, or at least everything that this Beetle city could give her, and it would have been enough had Teornis not spoken to her, had he not made her the offer. She had not realized what she was missing until his sly words drew it out of her.
Stenwold takes me for granted, she thought, and then knew it for the truth. Stenwold cast no suspicious eye over her because she was his now, and the thought that his possession of her might only be a temporary matter, like a phase of the moon, had never occurred to him. Beetles were used to building in stone. What they put in place stayed there, generations on. Spiders built in silk that could be taken down and respun each morning.
If she was adopted into the Aldanrael, even as their most junior tyro cousin, she would want for nothing. More than that, though, she would have to be on her guard every moment. She would inherit their feuds and their alliances: she would learn the steps to their dances. Her life would never be as secure as this again, never more lived between stone walls. Trapped. I am trapped in Beetle society as though it was amber. It is very pretty, very comfortable, but there is no fire to it. The fire between Stenwold and me was the war, the Empire, the thought that we could lose. It was gone, now, that fire: leaving only the smoke rising from the candles of the Empire’s defeats: Myna, Szar, Solarno, Malkan’s Stand.
I would have continued living as Stenwold’s mistress for a long time indeed, had Teornis never come to me and opened my eyes. She did not feel grateful for the revelation, rather she hated the man for it. Still, she could not undo the knowledge he had given her. She could not crawl back into that comforting shell.
And, after all, it is as Teornis said, she considered. He and Stenwold are friends, or almost. There is no reason why I should have to choose between them. I can play a double game as long as I need.
She leant back. ‘Tell your master I agree,’ she whispered, and heard the scuffle as the unseen auditor drew away, then crept off to find Teornis of the Aldanrael.
The tiring rooms of the Amphiophos had been the traditional scene of last-minute politicking for centuries. Generations of Collegium Assemblers had suffered crises of conscience, double-crossed their allies and rediscovered their principles here, within a short stone’s throw of the debating chamber itself. The walls were hung with white drapes, which would originally have been the robes of the Assemblers, before it became custom for them to possess their own. Now these little rooms did nothing but provide a place of conspiracy.
Jodry beckoned Stenwold in as soon as he put his head round the door. ‘You cut it fine sometimes, Maker,’ he observed, rubbing his hands. Jodry always experienced a bout of nerves at the last moment before addressing the Assembly, yet when he actually stepped out before them, he would be steady as iron. ‘You know Master Outwright, of course,’ he added.
‘Who doesn’t?’ Stenwold remarked wryly. Janos Outwright had been a persistent annoyance to the Assembly at large for over ten years, occasionally even overtaking Stenwold himself as the man whose speeches were most dreaded. He was a bald, stout and extremely short statesman who had cultivated a bushy moustache. He had clung to his seat in the Assembly by stunts and exhibitionism, rallying the mob for some pointless cause for just long enough to win some votes, before abandoning them for some other piece of business. Stenwold hoped that his involvement in the Merchant Companies was not another such brief-lived scheme.
‘Master Maker, delighted.’ Outwright clasped hands with Stenwold in what he believed was a warrior’s grip. Over his Assembler’s robes he wore a blue-enamelled gorget and breastplate, the latter etched, in silver, with a wheel of pikes and snapbows and the words Outright Victory or Death.
Stenwold nodded to him politely, feeling a little diplomacy was wise. What clowns we end up standing beside, he thought but, as of recent developments, he knew that the longevity of the Companies had become a matter of some import.
‘And this is Elder Padstock, Chief Officer of… well…’ Jodry could not suppress a pointed smile.
‘Of Maker’s Own,’ Stenwold finished for him. Padstock was a stocky, heavy-set woman, her greying hair tied back. She had come in one of the knee-length coats of buff hide that many of Collegium’s defenders had taken to, little more than an artificer’s work coat. Her breastplate was plain, but she wore a red sash over it, with a golden sword-and-book stamp and the words Through the Gate.
‘I knew you would not abandon us, Master Maker.’ She clasped his hand firmly, and held it a moment. Stenwold searched her face for clues. I cannot recall ever seeing this woman before. But then the men and women who had insisted on accompanying him from the city had been helmed, anonymous. He had assumed he was going to his death, and would have preferred to do so without their company. It was the merest chance of timing – and an Imperial general’s sense of honour – that had made them heroes and not corpses.
She was trembling slightly, he noticed, and there was the faintest glint of tears in her eyes. That moment, that suicidal moment, was still with her, no doubt the greatest day of her life, forever being told and retold. The naked adoration in her gaze made him profoundly uncomfortable but he clasped her hand again and thanked her.
‘No sign of the Coldstone boys yet,’ Jodry said.
‘Perhaps that’s just as well,’ Stenwold considered. ‘Jodry… at least tell me their livery doesn’t show a mound of dead Vekken or something. Working with Vek isn’t exactly easy going at the best of times.’
Jodry gave a snort of amusement. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Then his expression soured. ‘They use a white helm in profile as their device. The motto is, In Our Enemies’ Robes. You understand that?’
Stenwold nodded grimly. By the time the Vekken had been turned back, it was said that there was not a resident of Coldstone Street left living that did not own an Ant-made hauberk, sword and shield. He was willing to bet that a fair number still had Wasp-crafted kit stowed in the cellar or the attic, as well.
‘Well,’ Jodry declared, ‘let’s go face the people.’ He stretched his arms, waggling his fingers to release the tension. The door opened even as he reached for the handle. Revealed beyond was an Ant-kinden man, some renegade Tarkesh with waxy-white skin and steel-grey hair. He wore a tunic of grey-blue and a cloak a little darker, and he had come armed: a shortsword sat at his hip with what they called a knuckle-shield, a little wood- and-leather buckler with metal studs in its face. The promised white helm and motto were absent, along with any other decoration.
Jodry said, ‘Coldstone?’ and the Ant nodded.
‘Officer Marteus,’ he introduced himself, nodding to Padstock.
‘Well then, we are all met,’ Jodry concluded, although it was clear he would have been happier without this disreputable-looking figure standing beside them. The three Merchant Company officers regarded him distrustfully, as well they might. ‘Let us understand entirely what I am offering you, before we go in,’ he informed them sternly. ‘You know how many of the Assembly are calling for the Companies to be disbanded. Private armies are all very well in Helleron, they say, and I agree. However, I have found one other way out and, with Master Maker’s blessing, there should be sufficient voices to carry the motion. I won’t disband the Companies. I’ll legitimize them. Your three surviving forces will be recognized by the city.’
They nodded soberly, and Jodry went on, ‘I’ve had my secretary prepare some regulations: how many to be permitted in the complement, how often they must train, arrangements to borrow snapbows from the armouries, and the like. There will be a stipend, recognition, but only if you keep to the rules. This way the city will feel safe with you, you keep your pride and… well, I don’t need to tell you the third advantage.’
‘Collegium has an army,’ Stenwold concluded.
‘An army of shopkeepers,’ Jodry agreed, ‘and reason help us all. Let’s go and establish our military dictatorship, shall we? They were foreclosing on an orphanage this morning, so it’s all good works today.’
‘The future of the Companies is the future of Collegium,’ Elder Padstock declared, with utter conviction. ‘The Empire shall come again, won’t it, Master Maker?’
‘Without doubt,’ Stenwold agreed. But I fear we shall have need of you sooner than that – sooner than any of you know…
Twelve
Jaclen Courser had first come to the Migrating Home as an apprentice engineer fresh from the Great
