be found.
Tynisa, his ward – Tisamon’s child. He had no hold on her, no right to her, and yet he kept trying to find her. The longer he was left without news, the more he feared that she had succumbed to her bloodline; that she had followed her father towards the glorious, bloody end of a Mantis weaponsmaster.
He had letters in from this morning, two at once, and neither containing any comfort. The first was brief, made out in the blocky handwriting of an Ant-kinden who seldom committed his thoughts to paper.
Master Maker,
Got your missive. Will keep searching. Not so many here that a face like hers won’t be noticed. Also, all like family here – good will and cheer, you know. She comes here, we’ll find her. Maybe you should come here too. Do you good. You’d like what they’ve done with the place.
Am Commander again now. Am told I’m war hero. Load of rubbish, but can live with it. Herself has me in charge of walls now, or will be when walls built.
Sperra sends regards.
Balkus
Commander, Princep Salmae.
Stenwold read through it once more. Another pair of eyes now on watch. He had hoped Tynisa might make for the new city, if only from some memory of Salma. She had been more than fond of Salma, he recalled, before the war and Salma’s affections elsewhere had broken them apart. He recalled their last meeting, in Salma’s brigand camp. Brief, awkward. It seemed Tynisa had, for once, not known how to act or what to say.
Balkus will find her if her feet should take her to Princep. And perhaps Stenwold should go himself. The city they were building west of Sarn was founded on all the principles that Collegium and Stenwold both upheld. He should go and see whether they were making good on their intentions, or whether the rot had crept in already.
My mind is dark this evening. But then that was hardly surprising, sitting here leafing through the notes of failed searches, while waiting for more bad news from his anticipated guests.
The second letter was written out in a neatly elegant hand, the slightly over-florid style of an educated Beetle mimicking the glorious calligraphy of the Spiderlands.
My good old friend,
I have taken your message to heart. The war scattered many grains and we are all still picking them up. I can guarantee nothing, of course, since this place has grown no smaller since you last saw it. There is no place on the earth where one can more easily find obscurity or dissolution than this city of ours. You know this as well as I, so forgive me the frank words.
Still: a Spider-kinden with a Mantis brooch and sword? There are not so very many of that kind. If she does follow in the footsteps of the father, then she’ll leave quite a trail behind her. I have sent men to the fiefdom you mentioned, the Halfway House. They are much lessened in numbers following the occupation, but I am informed that they retain their leader from before the war, and so there may be some help found there. If she practises the fighting trade here in Helleron, whether on the streets or in the arena, then I have some hopes of tracking her for you.
As an aside, yes, the arena remains, though its builders are flown. The fights there are not strictly to the death, but there have been deaths. I fear my city has been left, after the Wasps, with the taste of blood in its mouth.
To return to your concerns: if she has merely passed through our streets on an eastward journey, I will not be able to be of much service. There is some slight hope, though: the Empire remains a wealthy consumer of goods, and now an employer of skilled labour. There are those who speak to me, who are at Sonn or Capitas, and I have asked them to keep an open eye. However, I am reliably told that the Empire is not fond of questions, however innocent. It is a place unfriendly and unwelcoming enough that only their gold makes even a temporary residence there worthwhile. The Emperor may have passed on, but his trappings remain.
I hope you find her, Sten.
GA
That last line, that personal voice behind the formal style, tugged at Stenwold: Greenwise Artector, one of Hel-leron’s guiding council, a wealthy magnate and unlikely ally. Nobody but Stenwold knew quite how much he had orchestrated things, behind the facade of public life, to assist the Lowlands in its war against the Empire, even from the heart of an occupied city. Everything Greenwise had seen of the Empire’s numbers and movements and capabilities had found its way to Stenwold, and to Salma too, who had used it to slow the Wasp advance until the Sarnesh army was ready for them. It was an achievement worthy of recognition, yet Greenwise had been explicit that it go unrecognized. Stenwold knew exactly why: the Empire still had its people in Helleron, and its ambitions beyond. There would come a time when the Imperial banner would once again come to that city. At which point, Greenwise’s fellow magnates would have him handed over without a second thought.
There was a delicate scratch at the door and Stenwold folded the two letters together and put them away, an old instinct he didn’t need just now, but might need to take up again soon – just like the sword that hung on the back of the study door.
‘You can come in,’ he announced.
‘You’ve closed the latch again,’ came Arianna’s voice, amused. Another old habit, for a spymaster, past or present, valued privacy. He got up and opened the door to her.
He always felt better for seeing her, no matter what the odds. She had sustained him through the Vekken Siege, and it was widely claimed that she and he together had sent the Imperial Second Army packing. Nonsense, of course, but Stenwold was all unwillingly attracting stories that would have done justice to a sorcerer-hero of the Bad Old Days. Having a pretty young Spider girl at his side seemed to coin only envy and admiration, however, rather than the looked-for scandal.
‘They’re here,’ Arianna told him, putting a hand on his arm. ‘Cardless is attending to them.’ Cardless was Sten-wold’s third servant since the war, and not given to the gossip and sloth that had seen his master dismiss the other two. He had been Arianna’s choice, of course. Stenwold was used to choosing spies and agents, which meant his eye was attuned for different qualities.
He took a deep breath, looking down at his hands. It was time now to resolve the rumours.
Cardless had transformed Stenwold’s homely kitchen table into something fit for an important Assembler hosting a Master of the College. There were candles in ornate Spider-kinden holders, and the wine was a good Merro vintage. His three guests held a bowl each already. Two were well known to Stenwold, members of the expedition that had gone under his name. The lean old man was the historian Berjek Gripshod. The younger woman, tall and straight, was Praeda Rakespear, teacher of artifice. There were lines on their faces that had not been evident at their departure. Although they both wore the crisp white robes of their office, the travel of many miles seemed to hang about them, so that Stenwold could almost taste the dust.
The third visitor was a stranger who appeared to fill most of the room, stooping under the ceiling, the tiny bowl a toy in the palm of his hand: a Beetle-kinden, though taller than any man of Collegium Stenwold had seen, and he wore a tunic of a foreign cut, ornamented with gold at the neck and wrist. His bare arms were huge with muscle and traced with scars. He stood beside Praeda with a possessive enough air to be either her lover or a bodyguard. Arianna had met them at the door and then ushered them in to see Stenwold, the perfect Collegiate hostess.
‘Master Maker,’ said old Gripshod, by way of greeting.
‘Master Gripshod, Mistress Rakespear, and…’ Stenwold looked up at the giant cautiously. He felt that if the man straightened up and flexed his shoulders he would send the walls of Stenwold’s house tumbling outwards into the street.
‘Master Maker,’ Praeda said, ‘may I introduce Amnon, formerly the First Soldier of Khanaphes.’
Stenwold blinked at that, reflecting that Praeda had perhaps exceeded a scholar’s normal penchant for bringing back research material. ‘Well, I’m honoured,’ he managed.
