Empire in Black and Gold

years ago, his younger self watching by telescope as the defenders readied themselves. This man would have been only a child then.

With his offhand, the man drew a dagger from his belt, and Stenwold tensed absurdly, despite the fact that there were swords and knives and crossbows levelled at him already. Wordlessly the same weapon was cast at his feet to clatter on the flagstones. There was a ribbon tied about its pommel. This, Stenwold guessed, was the ‘red flag’ that Hokiak had spoken of, which they left behind as their sign.

‘The old man said you were after meeting us,’ the leader began. ‘An old Beetle and a halfway? Why?’

Not so old, not yet. ‘Because I need your help.’

‘And what gives you the right to that?’ The man stepped forward so that the dagger was immediately at his feet, and Stenwold within reach of his swordblade. ‘I am Chyses, old man, and these are my people. We help ourselves and our city, but not foreigners.’

Stenwold kept himself calm, blotted out the sword, the implicit threat. ‘My name is Stenwold Maker, and I have been here before — before the conquest, in fact. Does none of you here know my name? You,’ he turned to the older woman. ‘You would have known me, perhaps. I spent some time here.’

She frowned at him, then looked to Chyses, who signalled for her to speak. ‘I remember a Stenwold Maker, a Beetle-kinden,’ she said slowly. ‘I can’t tell if you’re him. I won’t vouch for you.’

Stenwold glanced around the semi-circle of resistance fighters, seeking other heads with greyer hair. Nobody else? ‘I did my best, then, to help your people.’

‘I remember a Stenwold Maker,’ rumbled another man. ‘I was an artificer’s apprentice when the conquest came. I remember a Stenwold Maker who talked us into some mad plan that didn’t work. I remember how we were betrayed.’

Stenwold stayed very still, because one of the crossbows was now directed straight at his head. ‘Not by me,’ he said, and he could feel Totho as tense as a wire beside him. He realized that the current mood could not last: it would ebb or it would break in blood. ‘I did not betray you. I did my best to help you and I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.’

‘I think this is a Wasp scam,’ said Chyses, half to Stenwold, half to his followers. ‘All too easy, isn’t it? “Oh, I was here before the conquest”, “Oh, I did my best for your people”, and then we show you where we hide and what we do and, the next thing we know, the Rekef’s down on us. Sound familiar, old one?’

Stenwold took a deep breath, but before he could even deny it, Chyses cut him off.

‘I don’t want to hear it. We’ve been tricked before — but not ever again. Kill them. Dump their bodies in the sewers.’

‘Chyses!’ It was a squeak more than a cry. The resistance leader turned to see that the crossbowman, so recently menacing Stenwold, was now himself held hostage.

‘Tisamon,’ said Stenwold, and the flood of relief was almost embarrassing. The Mantis had his off-arm lightly about the man’s throat, his forearm spines in deep enough to draw pinpricks of blood. His right arm was raised, the claw of his gauntlet folded, ready to strike at any that came near.

‘Kill him,’ Chyses ordered, but something in Tisamon gave them all pause.

‘Don’t you know me?’ the Mantis asked. ‘Not you, Khenice?’ he asked the older woman, whose name that instant returned to Stenwold’s halting memory. ‘I saved the life of your son once, in a brawl with two Ant mercenaries. Was that for nothing?’

Khenice stared at him, and Stenwold was reminded again how little Tisamon had changed compared to him, or any of them.

At last his name fell from her lips. ‘Tisamon.’ And then, ‘Perhaps it was for nothing. He died fighting the Wasps at the gate, when your outlander plans failed. But yes, yes you did. I remember.’

The revolutionaries were in disarray now. Some still held close to Stenwold, some were trying to watch Tisamon. Now others saw that Tynisa, with her rapier drawn, had crept up unseen and unheard behind them. Stenwold guessed that somewhere in the gloom of the higher buildings he would find Achaeos, to whom night and shadow were no barriers.

‘I have been a friend of Myna before now,’ Stenwold persisted. ‘And I have something I must do here. You may wish to help me, or not. I hope you may even gain by it, so will you at least hear me out?’

Chyses looked from him to the uncertain faces of his supporters, and the nodding of Khenice. At last, with obvious reluctance, he agreed.

For those three, entering Myna had apparently been easy, so easy that Stenwold wondered whether he should not have simply sent them in and himself stayed at home. As soon as night fell, Tisamon had made the decision. He did not see it as disobeying Stenwold’s instructions. He had simply wanted to keep a personal eye on matters. It annoyed Stenwold to acknowledge that his friend had been right.

They had taken the wall swiftly and silently, with Achaeos aloft keeping watch as they climbed. Tisamon did not have the Art for it, to cling to the stones, but Tynisa did, and she let down a rope for him. It was mere minutes and one dead sentry later before they had invaded Myna.

After that it was a simple piece of work to locate Stenwold, for of course Tisamon remembered old Hokiak, and was remembered in turn. The old man had at first been reluctant to give details of his business but, between old acquaintanceship and Tynisa’s charm, he had been persuaded. All this was still playing catch-up, of course, for Stenwold and Totho had already been on their way to the meeting. The painful fact was that Tisamon and his fellows were simply faster, more sure of themselves in the darkness.

I should be grateful, Stenwold told himself. Instead it just seemed to reinforce the fact that he was neither as young nor as good at this game as he seemed to have believed. Certainly Chyses would have killed him and Totho without a qualm, had Tisamon not been as fleet and decisive as he was.

The Red Flag had led them into ever more dubious parts of the city, quarters that the occupation had let go to rot. Stenwold guessed that the Wasps were now paying for that neglect. He saw enough lurking figures to guess that there were whole neighbourhoods here that the resistance had gained effective control over. He began to wonder just how strong Chyses’ people might be.

Myna. He had seen the city fall. It had been his great failure, that had set him on this intelligencing path. He forced himself away from any thought that now he could save it. I am here for Che and Salma. I cannot fight their wars for them. It’s not as though I did a very good job the last time.

And then the next thought: If I cannot accomplish something against the Empire here, then my next great failure may be Collegium itself.

Telling the tale, Stenwold found that it was simpler than he had thought. Putting words to it brought home just what was at stake and what was important.

His niece and another student of his had been captured by the Wasps in Helleron. It was believed — and here he could not stop himself from glancing at Achaeos — that they had been brought to Myna for questioning. A rescue was urgently needed.

With good reason the resistance in Myna — the Red Flag — did not trust the sky. Wasps held airborne patrols and they employed enough Fly-kinden in their ranks as well. The stubborn heart of Myna had therefore gone underground. There were some thirty men and women in this resistance cell, which had tentative links to other cells across the city, and they were now in a rambling warehouse cellar near the river, heavy with damp. The walls were a history unto themselves. The upper stones were the pale, plain pieces that the Mynans themselves favoured, but the bottom three rows were crumbling carved masonry centuries older. Some other place had stood where Myna stood now, and had fallen and been forgotten long before the Wasps ever arose to trouble their neighbours.

The cross-section of Mynan life found here was a broader version of the group that had come so close to ending Stenwold’s personal story earlier. Most of them were too young to hold any clear memories of the conquest, but the occupation had scarred them all. They had grown up second-class citizens in their own city, but their parents, those whose parents still lived and were free, had nevertheless passed the city’s pride on to them. They took this burden very seriously. Chyses was obviously their leader but Stenwold saw that it was a temporary arrangement. The man steered them by main force, and yet his orders were up for debate. They were debating now, turning over Stenwold’s words and passing them back and forth.

Eventually it was Chyses who had come back to them, and brought along with him one of the foreign militia, a very tall woman with a long face and close-cropped dark hair.

‘You’re in luck,’ the resistance leader told Stenwold shortly. ‘You see, we have friends amongst the