after all.
They fell upon the Kerebroi with a will, without hesitation. Geontes was among the first to die. A few of the others had knives out, but tangled in their unfamiliar clothing, before the Dragonflies butchered them. Other intruders had arrows poised on the string, directed at Sands, at Helmess, at Elytrya. Teornis’s instructions had been necessarily crude – kill all Spider-kinden save the Arista and myself – because the Art-web language was difficult for non-Spiders to follow, and he had not dared to be more specific. Forman Sands, caught at arrow-point standing creditably in front of his employer, owed his life merely to Teornis’s need for a simple message, and it was lucky that Teor-nis’s followers had identified Elytrya as the ‘Arista’ or she would have died too.
It was over so swiftly, with a minimum of fuss. Of the three Dragonfly principalities in exile within the Spider-lands, the warrior-folk of Solorn were those most divorced from their heritage. They had long turned their back on the peace and philosophy of the Commonweal, scratching out a harsh livelihood on their rocky peninsula, bandits, raiders and mercenaries like their cousins in Princep Exilla. Teornis had employed them in his personal house guard and cadre for years.
‘Varante,’ he greeted their leader. The tall, cord-muscled man bowed in a quick, jerky movement. He was automatically cleaning the blade of his punch-sword with a torn swatch of cloth taken from the cloak of one of the dead. He had served the Aldanrael for twenty years, had Varante, and grown grey and leathery in their service. But not old, never old.
‘Lord-Martial,’ the Dragonfly addressed him, ‘honoured to serve. The bodies in the bay?’
Teornis gave him a wide and genuine smile. His depth of feeling surprised him: how glad he was to see this familiar face, this old retainer who had now restored him to power. ‘Not in the bay, no,’ he considered. ‘That would send entirely the wrong message. Have them taken out and dumped somewhere inland. The further inland the better. Let them become food for ants and worms, but not for fish.’ He turned to Helmess and Elytrya, all smiles now. ‘You may be feeling some anxiety as to where this is going,’ he told them, as though there were not eight corpses being stripped of their valuables and manhandled out of the window one by one. They stared at him, shocked into paralysis. Only Sands seemed able to react, and he was keeping carefully quiet, understanding that he had just become the most expendable person in the room. I wonder if he would contemplate a change of employer?
‘You’ – Teornis pointed at the Kerebroi woman – ‘will achieve your conquest of the land. Bring Rosander and his host to Collegium, and that will serve. All I said before remains just as true. And you,’ his finger flicked towards Helmess, ‘can be governor or king or grand high sealord of this place after we’re done, for all I care. Everything goes ahead just as you want.’ Teornis’s smile was iron. ‘But we do it my way. So now let’s talk about Aradocles.’
Thirty-One
‘Do you suppose the Spider fleet has reached Collegium yet?’ Stenwold asked. The paper swam before his eyes, covered with a scrawl of lines and angles. He was trying to anatomize the snapbow in such a way as to baffle Mandir’s engineers without betraying his word, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that they were better artificers than he gave them credit for. The leathery, unpleasant parchment and the awkward excuse for a reservoir pen that Tseitus had been able to construct did not help matters. Though sleep weighed heavily on him, he was reluctant to give in to it. He had been waking each morning with a pounding head and a sense of loss and despair, as though, wherever his dreams took him, it was a place that would not easily let him go.
‘Depends,’ Laszlo said philosophically, picking at his nails with the point of a knife that he had somehow got hold of. ‘If it’s a fleet, then yes, but whether it’ll do any good’s another question. What I heard, though, was “armada”, and that means something different, over Spiderlands way. That means more than one of their great houses pitching in, and in my experience that sort of thing can take a long time to get organized. If it’s an armada proper, if they’re serious about this sea-war business, then it’s still in harbour like as not, while four overseers and fifty mercenary skippers are arguing about money.’
‘I suppose I should take hope from that,’ Stenwold said weakly. He looked up as Laszlo padded over. The Fly’s expression showed concern.
‘We are getting out, Mar’Maker. No doubts. Soon, too, if Wys and Nemmo can be believed. Any day now, they say. Something’s coming. Last I went out, everyone seemed tense, but nobody was talking about it. There’s trouble, Mar’Maker, and where there’s trouble, there’s opportunity.’
‘The watchword of the Tidenfree, I suppose?’ Stenwold mustered a smile.
‘And of the Bloodfly before her,’ Laszlo agreed. ‘And the other half of that is, if you can’t find trouble, make it.’
‘Does Tseitus know that you have such plans?’
Laszlo screwed his face up. ‘Not as such, not quite. Not even sure what way that one will jump. I’ll tell him when it happens. He can nail his colours then. Until then, well… I don’t want our sour-faced Ant deciding he prefers it here.’
‘Seems hardly likely.’
Laszlo shrugged. ‘Who can know what an Ant’s thinking, save for another Ant?’ He swiped the sheet of paper that Stenwold was working on and frowned at it.
‘You have a criticism of my draughtsmanship?’ Stenwold asked him archly.
‘Is that what you call it? You’ll not show this to Mandir, will you?’
‘And why not?’
‘He might wonder whether your real talents lie elsewhere.’ Laszlo reversed the sheet, showing the fruits of Stenwold’s labour back to their creator. The tangle of shakily drawn technical plans had trailed off, and instead the pen lines had taken on a woman’s likeness. It was rough work, for Stenwold was no artist, but perhaps he had picked up more from his lost friend Nero than he knew. Certainly Stenwold recognized the woman’s face.
‘I have no recollection of drawing that,’ he said hollowly.
‘You know,’ Laszlo observed, obviously picking his way around a delicate subject, ‘Mandir would get a woman in here for you, if you wanted one. He’s the soul of generosity sometimes, I’ve heard.’
‘No!’ Stenwold said, after a moment of gaping. ‘Absolutely not.’ The thought of some fearful Onychoi or Gastroi maid being shoved into his chamber was too much. Besides, my traitor hand has shown to where my mind drifts, and Mandir cannot bring her here – and woe betide him if he tried it.
Laszlo’s next shrug eloquently asserted that there were worse bedfellows than sea-kinden, and Stenwold wondered if it was Wys he had lain with, but guessed not. Whenever Laszlo spoke of the submersible captain, the impression left was that their only partnership involved business.
The Fly shook his head. ‘Go and sleep, Mar’Maker. You look like one of those big Onychoi lads punched you in both eyes.’
To sleep, to dream. Stenwold shook himself in despair. I have no rest, not anymore. Still, he dragged himself off to the pallet the sea-kinden had brought for him, which had the same unpleasant texture as their paper, only hoping that he was tired enough to escape whatever waited for him.
He woke because Laszlo was shaking him. He had no idea how much time had passed, as the Stations experienced neither day or night. His mind was still awhirl with images: coiling hair, luminescent limbs.
‘What…?’ he got out.
‘Up, Mar’Maker, up!’ Laszlo urged him. ‘It’s time!’
‘Hm?’ Stenwold blinked, and then let out a strangled cry and leapt to his feet. ‘Time for…?’
‘The Stations are under attack,’ the Fly told him gravely.
Stenwold stared. ‘Attack by Claeon?’
‘Just get yourself dressed and ready to run.’
‘Or… Nemoctes is attacking?’
‘Oh, it’s not him. They’d not be scared of him. But they’re scared now, all right. Every able sea-kinden has a weapon to hand and is waiting to beat them off. Just get dressed!’
Then Laszlo was gone, flitting out of the room in a blur of wings. Stenwold stumbled into his clothing, the same torn and grimy canvas and leathers he had met Teornis in, with a cloak and tunic of clammy material drawn
