Empire in Black and Gold

Fourteen

Markon Crosthwaite, who revelled in the name Markon the Friendly, rose from the table and made encouraging gestures to his men until they cheered him to the echo. The kneeling man before him, one of Sinon Halfway’s more expendable specimens, crouched even lower. The man was some kind of Fly-kinden halfbreed, an insult in itself, but Markon was feeling glutted with his own success. Besides, if he cut this man’s ears off and then hung him out of the window, who would be able to go to Sinon and tell that piebald freak just how happy Markon was?

He reversed his hands and his men faltered to an expectant silence. ‘Now, creature,’ he said. ‘On your feet, if those lumps on your legs’ ends are feet.’

The halfbreed got up, head still held low, waiting for the blow or the lash or the knife in the back. And so he should, the filthy little mixed-blood, Markon thought approvingly. ‘Want to go, do you? Business taken care of?’

There was a barely perceptible nod.

Markon beamed at his people. ‘But my friend, you haven’t thanked me for my hospitality. If there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s bad manners.’

The little man flinched and muttered something. Without needing the nod, one of Markon’s men balanced a dagger on his shoulder.

‘Thank you, Master Markon,’ the Halfway House man got out, in a shaking voice.

‘Master Markon what?’ Markon snapped at him.

‘Markon the. . the Friendly.’ The halfbreed’s shoulders were up by his ears, waiting for the strike. Markon’s lip curled with contempt for him.

‘Your good friend Markon the Friendly,’ he told the man. ‘And if your uncle Sinon is wise, you’ll tell him that he should do a little more business with his good friend Markon the Friendly. It doesn’t do to forget one’s friends when the money’s going round. You tell him that, you hear?’

The halfbreed nodded frantically and Markon spat on the ground in disgust. ‘Get out, you vermin. Tell Sinon to send someone of better blood next time, or I’ll have your boss’s ears.’

Once Sinon’s man had bolted from the taverna, Markon let his men cheer him a little more before waving a dismissive hand at them. ‘Has the Mantis called for his pay?’ he asked.

‘Been and gone a long time back, Master,’ one of his men reported. ‘Not too friendly, that one.’

‘And cursed expensive at that,’ Markon agreed absently. ‘For all that, better to have him hired than let him onto the market. You all saw the fight. How many do you think he could take? Ten? Twelve?’

‘At least.’

Markon nodded. ‘And if he failed. . well, good enough to be rid of one like that, than risk him changing who his friends are.’ He shook himself, business done for another day. ‘Enjoy yourselves, my friends,’ he told his men. ‘You’ve earned it all. I shall go upstairs and seek my own enjoyment.’

They whooped and called at that, and he paused halfway up the stairway to acknowledge them once again. They had found a particular prize for him to celebrate upon, a young girl fresh to the city. It was time for Markon to become friendlier.

He pushed into the room, seeing her already laid out on the bed, waiting for him. One of the staff brought him a jar of wine and two bowls before backing out, bowing deferentially.

‘Today,’ Markon declared, ‘shall be long remembered in this fief.’ He favoured the girl with his best smile, as white as any artifice could make it. She was Spider-kinden, his special prize, and as handsome as they came.

‘Unrobe me,’ he told her, and she came forward, standing behind him to free his robes and tunic with deft, careful motions of one hand. Her fingers were cool, steady. He flexed his shoulders, still muscled despite a decade’s easy living, and turned to her.

‘Now, girl,’ he said — and she ran him through the stomach and opened his throat as though they had planned it together.

Tynisa watched his blood soak into the counterpane and contemplated her life to date. She felt a desperate need to laugh at it, at the sheer folly. Had she spent all those years in the College learning philosophy, history and the humanities, just to find her true vocation here on the streets of Helleron? And such a vocation! A player in the games of princes, a tool of statecraft, the unspoken and the unacknowledged shadow that every man of power used and feared.

All simple enough, as Sinon Halfway had predicted. She had not believed it would work, but here she was.

She had wondered, in a scholarly way, whether she could actually kill a man who was not trying to kill her. She had prepared all manner of arguments to strengthen her purpose. He was a gangster, after all. He was a killer and an employer of killers. She had seen his handiwork out on the bloodied street. She would be, if not quite doing the world a service, then at least be doing it no great harm.

The chief of the Gladhanders was dead.

And how simple it was, once armed with one piece of knowledge: that the portly Beetle-kinden gang boss had a weakness for Spider-kinden women. A weakness well known, and therefore his subordinates were careful to check each momentary concubine. Her face was new to them, though, and she was unarmed. One of Sinon’s better sneaks had made sure her sword would be there in the room before she ascended the stairs. Markon had died without a sound.

Now she went to the window and opened the shutters, looking out on an unsuspecting day. With a sense of drama, she waved her kerchief in the morning air, knowing it would be noted.

She then transferred her attention to the door and waited.

Within moments she heard shouting from downstairs and outside: the Gladhanders’ sudden shock as Akta Barik and a score of toughs from the Halfway House charged the building. She imagined the huge Scorpion-kinden kicking down the door, swinging in with his monstrous great sword that was as long as he was tall. Behind him would be swordsmen, spearmen, crossbowmen, whatever Sinon had chased up.

The door to the room was flung open by a panicked-looking Ant-kinden.

‘Chief! It’s the Halfways-’ he got out before she killed him.

In all she killed seven of them, one at a time, as they piled into the room seeking guidance. Hers was the highest headcount of the day. When one of Sinon’s men finally ascended the stairs, he stopped halfway because the sight of Tynisa and her mound of corpses was too much for him. He backed away quietly and decided to let her come down when she was ready.

When she did descend the stairs she felt like a battle-queen standing before her army. The footsoldiers of the Halfway House cheered her for a saviour. Only Barik was silent, favouring her with a respectful nod that, taken in context, meant much more.

A half-hour later it was all done, and those members of the Gladhanders still free and living were taking any shelter they could, or thinking very hard about changing their colours. Tynisa meanwhile sat in the same taverna before which Tisamon had performed his feats of carnage, only two streets away from the scene of her own bloodletting, and watched the ordinary people pass by.

‘You’ve a talent,’ Sinon told her, ‘and I like you. You’re an original.’

She watched his face cautiously.

‘If you want,’ he said, ‘you can stay on. You’ve more than earned your place here. I’ll make you the equal of Malia and Barik, and neither of them will mind. We’re expanding, so: room for another lieutenant.’

She opened her mouth to refuse straight away, then closed it, feeling a strange cold creep across her. She had been reborn in blood, this day. What would Che say if she knew what her not-sister had done? What would Stenwold say? And she was good at the work, certainly. Another few jobs and she would have worn her conscience entirely away, and then she might even start to enjoy it.

The thought roiled in her stomach, queasy and thrilling all at once. She thought of the Mantis, Tisamon. How much respect could one person gather? Lords and magnates would beggar themselves to possess that much awe and adulation.

She thought then of a life that was just fight after fight, betrayal after betrayal, and exactly how much that adulation would mean. And how long would they still cheer her, once the blade was dulled?

‘I can’t stay,’ she said. ‘Part of me wants to, it’s true, but I have obligations.’

‘Understood,’ said Sinon, without acrimony. He fished in his tunic, brought out a folded sheet of paper. ‘Go to this address, you’ll find your contact: Scuto. He’s a known man of your Stenwold’s, according to my spies. And he’s well protected, so best go openly and peaceably. It’s even possible he’s already found the rest of your company. Tell me, though,’ he eyed her with a faint smile, ‘are all your fellows as accomplished as you?’

‘No,’ she said, and it was not boasting but a fact.

‘Then trust to hope, for this Scuto’s a rough creature, his friends and his surroundings worse. If your friends went in there unwary, things may have gone the worse for them.’

Tynisa thought of poor Che, as unwary a victim as Helleron could ever claim. But patient and politic, she instructed herself. Che would not be here, in Tynisa’s shoes, because Che would not have attacked half the staff of the Halfway House in her flight. This was a Beetle city and Che would blend in, would stay safe and out of trouble. I know she would. What else could she do?

They were both frozen in the moment. Che had her sword mostly unsheathed, eight inches of bared metal, and was now poised in the duellist’s bent-kneed stance into which she had dropped. The Moth had a long dagger in one hand, the other wrapped about his ribs. His face was pointed, grey-skinned, dark hair cut close in a widow’s peak. His eyes were slanted and blank white, like a blind man’s. After a moment Che decided he was only a little older than she was. If he had not been threatening her, if she had not been threatening him, he would have seemed handsome.

It impressed her most, in that moment, that he did not instantly discount her. After all, she was a young female Beetle-kinden, a little overweight, an expression of shock almost certainly on her face, caught halfway through unsheathing her sword. He must have been a warrior taking part in their raid and he could have the blood of her own kind all over his hands. Still, he watched her cautiously and, in his eyes, she was a fighter and something to be wary of.

He was small, she saw, as Moths often were, and slight of build. He held himself with a rigid concentration, and she decided he was going to be very fast when he moved. She saw his lips twitch, wondered if this was it.

His pale tunic was stained. His offhand was slick where it held his side. She understood, then, why he was here.

There was a heavy thump on the door behind her. In that moment she and the Moth very nearly killed each other as the tension snapped back like a cut cord. In that brief moment he was two paces closer to her, dagger held up. Her sword had meanwhile cleared its sheath. He locked eyes with her.

‘What?’ she called out. Her voice, to herself, sounded understandably strained.

‘We’re checking the whole place in case any of those bastards got in, miss,’ came the voice of one of the guards. The Moth’s eyes widened.

‘I. .’ She started. He was staring at her, and abruptly she found it hard to answer. There was something in her head, plucking at her, trying to turn her mind. ‘I don’t. .’

She stared into those white, depthless eyes and felt the pressure of his will upon her, desperately trying to stop her speaking. His teeth bared slowly as the strain told on him. It was an Art of the Moths, she realized, some Ancestor Art of theirs.

She summoned what resolution she could manage. She could feel his grip slipping. He was weakened by injury, or she was stronger than he thought, but she shook her head abruptly and she was free of his mind.

‘Miss?’ asked the guard doubtfully from outside, and she opened her mouth to answer. The Moth’s face was very composed and he settled onto his back foot, dagger held out. She realized that he was going to fight, and that she would see him die the moment the guards came in.

She thought of Salma.

‘Well, there’s certainly nobody in here,’ she said, sounding terribly false in her own ears. ‘Now let me wash, will you?’

The voice came back: ‘Right, miss,’ incredibly, and there was the scuff of their feet as the guards tracked off.

In all that time her eyes had not left those of her adversary. There was no gratitude there, but perhaps curiosity.

‘If you want to fight, fight me,’ she told him quietly. ‘Otherwise. .’ And her words tailed off, because she could not think of one.

‘Otherwise what?’ he asked. His voice was soft, with precise consonants.

She stared at him. Her sword was beginning to weigh in her hand.

He took a deep breath, and she saw that it pained him. He tucked the dagger back in his belt. ‘It would seem that I am your prisoner.’ His look was challenging, uncompromising. ‘What do you intend to do, Beetle-girl?’

She disposed of her own blade, wondering what precisely she was supposed to do now. She found that she was more frightened of him now than when he had his knife out. He was something that had stepped in from another world, from some story of past times. ‘I. . never really met a Moth before.’

His look was bleak. ‘Now you have.’

‘Do you want me to look at that for you?’ She uttered the words almost automatically, sprung from some reflexive humanitarianism that the College had taught her. He was instantly suspicious, hand reaching back for his knife, but she told him, ‘Look, if I wanted to hurt you, I’d have called the guards in.’ A stray thought gave her some justification, for herself or even for him. ‘A Moth doctor at Collegium once helped my uncle Stenwold. Let’s put it against that, shall we?’

He sat down heavily on a bale of straw, taking his left hand from his side. It came away glistening with strands of blood, and she swallowed hard. She had learned medicine at the College, at least a little. She took up her bucket, still half-full, and knelt beside him.

It was a crossbow bolt that had caught him, but he had been lucky. It had grazed his side close to the skin and the heavy missile, designed to ram through armour, had left two gashes that tracked the diagonal course of a missile shot from the ground up into the air. The wounds left were ragged with the path of the chitin flight. She felt him wince as she dabbed off the blood, seeming almost black against his grey skin.

‘I can. .’ Her hands shook at the very thought. ‘I can try to stitch this. . if you want. And I can get some alcohol to clean it.’

‘A fire. Hot water,’ he rasped. And then, ‘Please.’

He clasped his hand to the wound again and she stood.

I should not be doing this. Elias Monger would be so very angry.

But Uncle Stenwold would approve.

‘You hide here,’ she told him. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

It was easier than Che had expected. The two house servants were overworked, and still jittery after last night’s events. She absconded with a needle, some gut thread, a bottle of Elias’s best brandy and an iron pot of hot water.

She thought he had fled when she first got back into the stables, then that he had been caught, but he reappeared, stepping out of the shadows when he was sure it was her. She considered the strange, fragile trust that they had built between them.

He sat down and she cleaned the needle and thread in the scalding water, then doused them in the brandy.

‘Why are you doing this for me?’ he asked suddenly. She started at the sound of his voice, so close.

‘I already told you-’

‘Don’t tell me about your uncle Stenwold,’ he said. ‘The truth.’

She hurriedly got on with the stitching then, to avoid his probing. She felt him stiffen as the needle first went in, his hand burning paler as it gripped.

‘I am a student at the Great College,’ she said, as she oh so carefully closed up his wound. ‘And at the College they teach us that words, not violent acts, are the best way to settle any dispute. To settle through swords is to settle only until tomorrow, but to settle through reasoned debate is forever. Or at least that’s what they tell us.’ She began tying off the thread at the first wound, not exactly a neat job but it would serve. ‘I’m not afraid of you.’ It was not entirely true. ‘You are not my enemy.’ She was quicker with the wound over his ribs, where he must have twisted as the bolt seared across him. She felt more practised now and he sat in silence as she worked, as she bandaged him inexpertly with strips torn from the sleeve of her own robe. I’ll have to say I just snagged it on something. Only when she finished did she realize he had been gazing down at her, his grey face expressionless.

‘I have never met a Beetle before,’ he began. Still kneeling by him, she suddenly felt very uncertain, awkward. ‘I hope they are not all like you.’

‘Why?’ she asked, but he had turned to the cooling water and dropped something into it, some sharp-smelling herbs. He had his dagger to hand, she noticed, and for a second her heart froze, but he was just using it to stir the pot.

He could have killed me at any time. The moment she had finished, he could have thrust the knife into her neck. She felt furious with herself for not thinking of it, and pitifully relieved that he had not struck her.

‘Because I have fought your kind, I have killed your kind, but I would not wish to kill someone like you.’ His voice was level, emotionless. He tore a swatch of cloth from his already tattered tunic and dipped it in the pungent water before pressing it to his wound, saturating the bandages.

‘Killed my kind. .?’

He looked at her sharply. ‘Those who would have killed me,’ he said simply. ‘You must have guessed it.’ Whatever he had put in the water obviously stung his wound sharply and he winced as he removed the cloth. ‘Do you have a name, Beetlechild?’

‘Cheerwell,’ she said. ‘Cheerwell Maker.’ He arched an eyebrow at that. ‘It’s a perfectly good name,’ she continued, giving him a frown. ‘People call me Che.’

He paused a long moment, the reply slow in coming. ‘I am Achaeos and you have my thanks. The omens warned me that our work of last night would not end as I expected. I am grateful that you have found a way to fulfil that.’

‘Omens. .?’ she said helplessly. ‘You took part in that raid because of omens?’

‘No, despite them.’ He slung the cloth back into the water. ‘What will you do now?’

‘Go back into the house and try to forget this ever happened,’ she said firmly, though she knew that she would remember Achaeos for a very long time. She realized that she was on her knees, which were starting to hurt. She began to shift, and he put a hand out to help her up.

Standing, she held on to it for a second longer. It was calloused in strange places, and she guessed it was an archer’s hand.

‘I cannot fly, not until I have rested further. I will leave here tonight, I think, if I can.’

She nodded. ‘I. . I think that would be best.’

As she left the stables she paused a moment to lean against the closed door. She felt strangely detached from the real world, as though it had all been some dream. How could something so unusual happen to someone like me? Still, the tingle of his hand in hers remained to vouch for it.

She could see a party of men from Helleron, either on their way to the house or the mines. More soldiers for tonight’s defence. She hoped that Elias would have finished his business here by then. She did not want another night of bloodshed on her conscience, not now she had met the enemy.

‘You really do surprise me sometimes,’ was Salma’s response to the whole business.

‘You mean you think I was wrong?’

‘I didn’t say that. I’m just surprised. What happened to all that march-of-progress rhetoric of yours?’

‘I. .’ If he was going to be so mocking about it, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him know it had been his own views that had swayed her. ‘I just felt it was the right thing to do and. .’

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

‘He’s still out there, waiting for dusk,’ she explained. ‘It’s. . strange, knowing that.’

‘Well now.’ His smile was merciless.

‘It’s not like that. It’s just. . strange,’ she said heatedly. And it wasn’t like that. It isn’t! But Achaeos still lingered in her memory: strange, dangerous, ephemeral. From another world.

And then she thought back to the revolution of the Apt, five centuries gone, when her people had thrown off the yoke. A Spider historian had once described it as the ‘revolution of the ugly’: the solid-built, strong-shouldered slaves, the Beetle-kinden and the Ants. We do not have their grace, she admitted to herself. She knew it more than most. Growing up alongside Tynisa would teach anyone that.

Salma was watching her carefully, and she wondered how much her expression had let slip.

‘I think it was the right thing too, whatever may come of it,’ he said softly.

‘Thank you.’

There was a rap at their door, and Che opened it on one of the servants.

‘Excuse me, miss, sir, but Master Monger wishes to speak with you. He’s waiting in the dining room.’ There was a slight edge to the man’s voice, and she felt a chill descend on her. They’ve found him! She couldn’t tell whether her fear was for Achaeos or for herself.

She glanced at Salma, who put a comforting hand on her shoulder. Together they went across the main room of Elias’s house into the dining room that occupied one corner. It was a simple affair, as was all of the house compared to the comforts Elias allowed himself in the city. Just a table and half a dozen chairs, and a door into the kitchen for the servants to shuttle food through.

‘Uncle-’ Che started, and then stopped, because Elias, sitting at the table, was not alone. There was a man with him and for a moment Che thought she should know him, but could not place him. It was only when Salma’s punch-sword cleared its scabbard that she realized the newcomer was a Wasp.

‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘Uncle Elias, what’s going on?’ She herself still had not drawn. Beside her Salma had turned, and she heard movement in the main room behind them.

‘Please tell me.’ Che stared at Elias. His look was uncomfortable. He would not meet her eyes.

‘This is Captain Thalric,’ he said. ‘He was. . very quick to answer the notice I put up, about your friends. It seems you’ve been meddling in things you shouldn’t, girl. You should never have left Collegium.’

Che had stepped into the room, giving Salma a chance to stand back to back. She heard the Dragonfly murmur, ‘Seven here,’ just as the kitchen door opened and another four Wasp soldiers, in full armour, stepped through.

‘But I’m family! Your blood!’ she protested. ‘Uncle!’

‘Blood?’ Elias looked up at her with a sudden flare of anger. ‘Because you’re the brat of that brainless oaf Dorvy, the wastrel of the entire family? Or the ward of that obnoxious eccentric Stenwold? This is Helleron, girl. We don’t have time for your charity or philosophy. We’re all trying to earn an honest living here and Captain Thalric represents some of my best customers, whereas you. . you’re just an inconvenience. Now tell your outlander friend to put his sword down and do the decent thing.’

That did it. Her blade was out in a moment and she was up onto the table in another, charging down it point first at an aghast Elias. Behind her, chaos broke loose as the soldiers rushed Salma, but she knew the intruders at the kitchen door were not close enough to stop her.

Thalric was, however. Che had written him off as the typical officer type, one to stand about and watch others do the dirty work. Instead he lunged forward, caught her wrist and turned it, her blade’s point passing from Elias, across Thalric’s chest and then past him. She rammed into him with some speed and the two of them took the entire table with them as they collapsed to the floor.

Salma was meanwhile doing his best, and two Wasp soldiers were already reeling back with bloody wounds. There was no room for him, though. He could not take flight and they were crowding all about him. A fist caught his jaw, another slammed into his side. He got his short blade into a third man, deep this time, a fatal wound. The soldier hunched about it, clutched at Salma’s wrist as he tried to free the sword. Salma elbowed the nearest Wasp in the face, still wrenching at the trapped blade. One of them was behind him, dragging at him, an arm round his neck. He went down, losing his blade, letting the backward momentum pull him from the soldier’s grip. His hands lashed out, breaking one man’s nose, knuckling another in the eye. In a moment, maybe just for a moment, he was free of them, diving for the hilt of his sword.

Che wrestled furiously with the Wasp officer, Thalric. He had her sword wrist pinned to the floor and was grimly trying to catch her offhand with his own. His face, close enough for her to smell the wine on his breath, had a set, determined expression. Even when she managed to get a solid fist into the side of his head he just grunted. Then he had her, and was casting himself backward and up, dragging her with him. She discovered that he was much stronger than he looked, certainly a lot stronger than she was.

‘Take her!’ he shouted, and without much option she rammed her forehead into his chin. He cursed, and for a second his grip loosened, and she was out of it. Then two solders had grappled her to the floor again. Thalric wiped blood from his lips.

Salma got two fingers on the sword before one of the soldiers kicked him in the gut. He twisted about the blow and put the heel of one hand solidly into the kicker’s knee, sending him to the floor with a crunch of the joint. Another soldier piled on top of the Dragonfly, knocking the breath out of him. Then two of them were hauling him up, a knee jammed in his back. The man with the broken knee had his fist raised, already burning with golden light.

Salma closed his eyes.

The sound was more violent than he expected in the sudden silence of the room, a hissing crackle of violated air. He opened his eyes. The injured man was lying on his front, the back of his head now smoking and charred.

‘Alive!’ snapped Thalric at them. ‘Alive, I said! Not so difficult, is it?’

Salma saw that Che was a captive too, and knew that would complicate matters.

‘Bind him. Use the Fly manacles,’ Thalric instructed. His lip was still bleeding and he wiped at it absently.

‘And the Beetle?’ one of his men asked.

‘Just tie her hands. She won’t be flying anywhere we can’t follow.’ Thalric took a deep breath. ‘Master Monger, your assistance is most appreciated and will, of course, be rewarded.’

‘You’re taking this man’s money?’ Che exploded. ‘You’re selling your own cousin for money?’

‘For contracts, Cheerwell,’ said Elias, as if that made it all right.

‘But they’re invaders! They’re going to come here and take over everything!’ she shouted at him.

‘You obviously have not heard of a little something called the Treaty of Iron,’ Elias said airily. ‘The Empire has no interest in us. And besides, nobody takes over Helleron.’ He settled back in his chair. ‘Helleron serves everyone best by remaining as a free city. Everyone has always known that. Here we do business with every city, every general, every merchant. Captain Thalric’s people are no different. In fact, they are some of the best customers Helleron now has.’

‘A lot of good that’ll do you,’ she snapped, ‘when they invade your city using your own weapons!’

‘Enough!’ Thalric was not loud, simply extremely authoritative. ‘I can have you gagged, Miss Maker. Don’t force me.’

Salma had been securely tied, his arms pinioned tightly behind his back, contorting him enough so that he would not be able to summon his Art-wings. He caught Che’s eye momentarily with a look that said, Be strong.

‘Take them outside. We’ll be heading east tonight,’ Thalric ordered his men, and they bundled Salma and Che out of the dining room, twisting their arms painfully at the first sign of resistance.

‘Well, I’m glad that’s over,’ said Elias primly, looking around the devastated room.

‘We will pay for any breakages, of course,’ said Thalric. ‘And I think I will leave half a dozen men here, as well.’

‘I. .’ Elias eyed him, for the first time with a little suspicion. ‘I’m not sure that will be necessary.’

Thalric smiled sardonically. ‘For the Empire’s love, Master Monger, do you think I’m going to garrison Helleron house by house, starting with yours? You forget, Stenwold Maker has arrived in Helleron, and doubtless he will come here, and soon. I have a great respect for his abilities to follow a trail of information, especially information I have planted for him to find. When he does, my men will seize him and then he will cease to trouble you.’