Empire in Black and Gold

a decidedly superior look on his face.

‘You Lowlanders amaze me.’

‘It’s easily done, O foreign flytrap. Why so this time?’ Tynisa said.

‘You’d barely even know that the Dragonfly Commonweal existed, if I hadn’t made this trip.’ He held his hands cupped together, the insect’s wings fluttering within. ‘There are people just beyond your own borders shouting at you, and you just turn away and close the shutters because it’s rude to shout, and because you’d rather not hear. It’s not as if the Wasp-kinden were hiding all these years. It’s not as though they haven’t been making good use of what the Lowlands will offer.’

‘You’ve always known about the Wasp-kinden, haven’t you?’ Che said. ‘I mean, before you came here and met Uncle Sten.’

‘And your uncle knows I know.’ He spread his hands suddenly and the bewildered moth bustled off back to the lamps. For a moment he had been something hard-edged, the enigmatic foreigner, filled with secrets. Then he was just Salma again with his customary smile, leaning back with his elbows on the garden wall. He would not be drawn further by their questions.

Stenwold’s best robe, brought out of storage and newly re-tailored to accommodate a larger waist, felt crisp and sharp on him. Keeping him on edge, he reckoned, and perhaps that was for the best. It was his formal Academy Master’s gown, with all the folds and creases that implied. He normally slung on any old garment but this time he felt he was here in a more formal capacity, and he knew everyone else would rather he stayed away.

Back to the Amphiophos then, that he had so recently walked out of: the circular chamber that the Assembly of the Learned met in, that had been used for the city governance before the revolution. The wall tapestries had been renewed since then, and the central stone of the ceiling had been replaced, with great artifice, with a geometric stained-glass window that cast red and gold and blue shards of light across the circular tiered seating which radiated out from the speaker’s dais. Stenwold had found himself a seat at the back and was moodily watching the doors to the antechamber. About half the Assembly were present, too: Masters of the College and magnates of the town.

I knew there would come a day. . But not this way. He had expected the sword first, in truth. He had expected the black and gold to show its true colours. Not through an embassy, not with this subtle cunning.

Seventeen years ago they would have come straight to the gates of Tark or Helleron with an army. Seventeen years of war and conquest for them, and they have still found time to learn cleverness. I wonder who their agents have been, here, that I have not detected.

The murmur of conversation waned and the Assembly waited as footsteps approached from the anteroom outside the hall. Two sentinels strode in, faceless in their helms, their heavy armour giving them a rolling gait. And there, behind them, were the Wasps.

Oh they had clearly learned a lot. Stenwold had seen the delegation sent to Myna, all armed threat and demands. Here, however, they wooed the Assembly with a show of imitation, for what else would best feed Collegium’s ego? Their leader, square-jawed and fair, wore a decent approximation of the College’s own ceremonial robes, with an intricate design of black and yellow interlocking along the folds. He even carried the hem of it partly slung over one arm, as a native would. There were three behind him, and one was obviously a guard: no sword at his belt, but there were barbed spurs of bone jutting forward from the backs of his hands. He held himself in a casual, relaxed pose that Stenwold recognized from watching alert military the world over. Unlike his master he wore a plain white tunic, almost the garb of a simple servant or slave. The man next to him wore the same garment, but held himself quite differently. Stenwold was a better observer than most, for he had been taught by a Spider-kinden long ago, and realized that this other man, for all his standing in the shadow of his fellows, was the one in charge. Stenwold saw it at once, from the way he watched his fellows closely, and the way they did not dare look at him.

The fourth ambassador was their master stroke. He wore a pale yellow tunic with a black sash, and he was a Beetle, a man of middle years and benign expression who could have made a home in Collegium without anyone turning a sidelong glance at him. This was no local, though: he was clearly an Imperial. We are like you, the Empire was saying, and only Stenwold knew how untrue it was.

Old Lineo Thadspar came forward with his hands clasped before him, a gesture of welcome that the lead Wasp copied smoothly.

‘Noble visitors from distant lands,’ he began, ‘may we show you as much honour in our welcome as you have shown us in attending our Great Games.’

‘What more honour could any wish than to be permitted to show our mettle against the best of this city and its neighbours?’ The lead Wasp smiled about him at the curious onlookers. ‘May I humbly present myself as God- ran, ambassador designate from our lands to your august Assembly. Thalric here is my chief aide, and able to speak my heart as well as I myself.’ He indicated the man whom Stenwold had already picked as the true commander. Of course he can, the historian thought. Better, even.

‘However, I suspect you may be more inclined to speak to my friend Honory Bellowern,’ continued the smoothly smiling Godran, as the Beetle-kinden stepped forward. Stenwold, watching for it, saw the glance the Beetle gave to Thalric as he did so. ‘My friend’, is it? Master Bellowern had best be word perfect, he judged, or his diplomatic career shall be a short one.

‘Noble councillors of Collegium,’ said Honory Bellowern in a rich, pleasant voice, ‘I bring you greetings from the Consortium of the Honest, of which I am a factor. Already we have profited greatly from such dealings as we have had with Collegium, and I hope your brothers in Helleron have had no cause for complaint either. While men of more athletic stature shall take to the games, I hope there shall be those amongst you who will spare me the time to talk of such matters as trade agreements, diplomatic ties, terms and treaties and the like. Now that we find ourselves reaching out into the world, we are keen to formalize the bonds of friendship and prosperity between your Lowlands and the Empire.’

And Stenwold noticed a twitch in Thalric then, and realized that word, ‘Empire’, had not been spoken before, just ‘our lands’ and similar terms. A mis-step for Master Bellowern, then, but not a fatal one, for the mere mention of trade had the townsmen Assemblers’ mouths watering. Ambassador Godran then put a comradely hand on Bellowern’s shoulder and the two of them shared a rehearsed smile.

Stenwold watched as other members of the Assembly came up to make their names and businesses known. Not all, it was true: some sat back because they did not deign to meddle in the affairs of outlanders, while others, Stenwold thought, were reticent because they were not overly quick to give their trust. Indeed there was the look in some faces, of men who had over-eaten on a dish they now found slightly bitter. Heads turned in his direction and he sensed a tremor of anxiety there, as all of Stenwold’s dusty warnings began turning over in their minds. Even the greediest of merchants would have seen enough, and heard enough, to know that Stenwold was no mere fantasist when he spoke warningly of the Empire, and now the Empire was here, standing in the Amphiophos itself, smiling and talking. But their eyes were very cold.

‘Pray!’ old Thadspar called out, to attract the general attention, and then, ‘Pray, shall we not have. . refreshment?’ He mugged at his fellows and, at the word, a thing of glittering brass and steel came in from the antechamber. It was formed in the image of a robed Beetle man bearing a tray in its hands, and it resounded hollowly with the sound of gears and levers. Its course took it straight towards the ambassadors and Stenwold was pleased to see them start away from it in alarm. Something your own artificers haven’t done yet, then? He saw Thalric’s hand twitch, not moving to an absent sword, but the fingers flexing, clearing the palm. The Assemblers were laughing a little at the foreigners’ confusion as the construct paused in the centre of the hall with its drinks ready for plucking, and after a moment the visitors awkwardly joined in. Old Thadspar was attempting to take the Wasp Godran gently to one side, now that the first rush of well-wishers had abated, and Stenwold shouldered through the crowd to hear.

‘. . remarkable indeed, Master Godran,’ Thadspar was murmuring as Stenwold drew closer. ‘Your empire’s achievements have been instructive for us all, that you have done so much from such small beginnings, and grown so very prosperous.’ His eyes sought out Stenwold, unexpectedly, just a sideways flicker over Godran’s shoulder. ‘We understand that war can be the fire that forges a great state. . but war, of course. .’ The old man smiled apologetically. ‘We value philosophers, here in Collegium. You know how they must always think about everything.’

Godran’s smile was quick and easy. ‘Oh, Master Thadspar, we have only just torn ourselves free of the