Eighteen
When he had taken hold of this colony of Hermatyre, after the troubles had been put down, he had asked the builders if they would open out a section of this antechamber of his so that he could see the waters.
With their skill and their Art, they had bidden the substance of Hermatyre retreat, and in its place they left the transparency of membrane, so that he who claimed, at least, to be their lord and master could view this broad slice of his domain. In truth, of course, the builders had no masters, no lords, save perhaps the unknown plan or design that induced them to tolerate all the trespassers – the Obligists – who dwelt here under the roofs that they created. On those few occasions in Hermatyre’s history when an Edmir had displeased the builders, his reign had ended then and there, and it did not help that none could say for sure just what their errors had been. The Edmir Claeon, as with all those before him, therefore trod a careful path that he would never know the precise boundaries of.
But I pushed far to claim this throne, he considered, and every day I must push further to hold it. The name ‘Rosander’ came to him and he scowled. If only things were otherwise I’d leave that tiny bald head of his out for the fish to clean. But Rosander was a necessary evil, one it seemed that, each day, a little more time and effort went into handling. But now we have the land-kinden, and everything will change. Rosander will have his war and then be out of my way.
The view through his transparency was of the mottled sea floor, some distance below him, and stretching away until even Claeon’s eyes could see no more. It was far from featureless because, beyond the boundaries that the builders had set on Hermatyre, there were outposts, weed farms, lobster runs, all the complex play of labour that furnished the people of Hermatyre with what they needed to survive. Save for the builders, of course, for the builders lived by their own graces, and cared nothing for those that eked out a living within their creations. So why do they tolerate us, if they do not need us? It was the question preoccupying every Edmir since the first, and Claeon would not be the one to answer it.
Something monstrous and vast moved across his field of vision, blotting out the rounded shells of farms and the coloured sparks of the limn-lights. Claeon watched as the great coiled length coursed across his view, waiting again until the great leviathan had bunched itself together in a vast knot of limbs and baggy, creased flesh, and then drifted back to press a broad, yellowish eye to his window. This view, this transparent membrane, was one of Claeon’s private pleasures. His people were not permitted to swim up to ogle their ruler, and there were guards outside to enforce his whims. Some creatures of Hermatyre did not consider themselves bound by such laws, however. Just now, Arkeuthys was letting Claeon know of his desire for a conversation.
Claeon had heard of how it was, for other kinden, when they used the Speech-Art. Their charges were dumb brutes with simple desires, and they were easily instructed, chided and controlled. Claeon’s people had always suffered a more challenging relationship with their own beasts, for the great octopuses of the reef had minds that could reason like a man’s, and as for Arkeuthys… Arkeuthys was well over a century old, the largest, wisest and most ancient of his kind, and the undisputed ruler of all his people. Arkeuthys was another necessary evil without whom Claeon would not stand where he now stood.
You play a dangerous game.
In Claeon’s head, the voice of the octopus-king was like stones grinding and rattling in the far, cold depths. Normally it was the human mind that opened the channels of Art-Speech, but Arkeuthys had seen human generations come and go, and understood their minds better than they did themselves.
‘Because I must,’ Claeon whispered, knowing that Arkeuthys would feel his thoughts, read his lips, draw his meaning out despite membrane and water.
These prisoners…
‘Are safe.’
Are you not concerned that you have gone too far?
‘I got where I am by taking risks. You know that.’
Word about the land-kinden is across the city already.
Claeon frowned. ‘How is that possible? I took every precaution-’
You left your own men and the Nauarch’s men alive as witnesses, and you humans do love to talk. Probably there is not one of you who does not now speculate about the Edmir’s new prisoners. You had best make quick use of them.
Claeon nodded. ‘You were absolutely sure of your prey, were you?’
Two of them were leaders, the third merely an annoyance.
The Edmir stared into the horizontal slash that was Arkeuthys’s pupil. ‘And how would you know a land- kinden leader?’
I can tell a leader of men by the way that he stands, the leaden voice of the octopus ground out the words.
Claeon’s expression soured a little, wondering if some criticism was meant there. Did he, Claeon, stand like a leader of men? Arkeuthys was silent on that point, and to ask would be to show weakness. ‘We shall see what we can squeeze from them that I can then feed to Rosander.’ He grinned suddenly, teeth glinting amid his dark beard. ‘What of you? Do you, too, not speculate about the fabled land-kinden?’
What are they to me, or to my kind? Less than nothing, came Arkeuthys’s reply. The huge body bunched itself about the frame of Claeon’s window. There is trouble coming, Edmir. I sense the currents shift. Do not be unready.
Then the enormous length of the great octopus was spiralling away, surging off into the open water, casting a many-limbed blot over the peaceful and pastoral seascape.
One of his people came to him shortly after, bowing low and waiting to be acknowledged. She was Sepia- kinden, her pale skin currently set with a spray of red-brown freckles that pulsed slightly as she breathed. Claeon regarded her proprietorially: one of his more decorative servants, and possessing a keen mind for her kind – or at least keen enough to want to keep her master happy.
‘What do you bring me?’ He stood with the great sea-window at his back, and beyond it the midnight reaches of his domain.
‘An envoy from the Littoralists awaits your pleasure. It is Pellectes, Your Eminence,’ she announced, keeping her eyes modestly lowered. Like all the Sepia-kinden she was slight of build, her body rounded and soft, her nature, he supposed, as passionate and expressive as they were claimed to be. He could not immediately recall her name, but that was surely secondary, as was the fact that she had proved herself a fair majordomo since he appointed her three moons ago. She had lasted longer than all of the last three officials put together. Mind you, Claeon had been going through an impatient phase, just before her appointment, and he was a man intolerant of small failures. After all, why spend so much in gaining the Edmiracy, to let fools balk me still?
And speaking of fools… ‘The Littoralists can wait until the coral grows over them,’ he snapped, seeing her skin flush in points and swirls of blue and green at his sharp tone. Pellectes would want the land-kinden handed directly over to him, of course, but Claeon did not need the Littoralists as much as he once did. One necessary evil that is now losing its necessity. And he had only one response to unnecessary evils.
‘Send some of my guards to fetch me a spokesman from the prisoners. I will see how these creatures dance,’ he directed his majordomo. Haelyn was her name, he now recalled. He would have to detain her, after she had passed on his orders. It would not be the first time, and she would be glad of it, or at least wise enough not to show any different. It would set him in the right frame of mind for torturing a land-kinden.
‘Your fault?’ Stenwold asked, trying to discern more of the woman Paladrya in this poor light.
‘I am in no position to make amends,’ she said, her voice halting, tentative. ‘Grant me one wish, though, land-kinden. Tell me, is he well?’
This was so unexpected that not even Teornis had an answer for her. When the silence stretched out, she begged them, ‘Please, tell me, is he hurt? He… he cannot be dead, surely?’ There was a ragged edge to her tone now.
‘Lady, we do not know of whom you speak,’ Teornis told her gently.
‘But surely he must have sent you…?’ She trailed off. ‘If you do not follow Aradocles then why are you
