Empire in Black and Gold

Twenty-six

‘Her name is Kymene,’ Chyses explained. Stenwold, who had heard a lot of Mynan names over the last half-hour, sensed from the way this one was said that it was special.

‘She used to run your cell?’ he guessed. Che and Salma are the priority, he reminded himself, but he was an intelligencer by habit, and thoughts were forming about Mynan resistance. The Empire’s reach was as strong as the platform it reached out from.

‘She is the beacon for the whole resistance,’ Chyses told him. ‘They were trying to catch her for well over a year. She invented the Red Flag: the symbol that strikes fear into the hearts of the Wasps. She is the best of us.’

‘How did they catch her then?’

Chyses smiled sharply. ‘Not with their thick-headed soldiers. The Bloat hired hunters from all over the Empire and one of them got lucky.’

Stenwold had gathered that the ‘Bloat’ was their name for the present governor. ‘And she’s been held for two tendays, now?’

Chyses nodded. ‘And well guarded, deep in the guts of the palace. They think we can’t get to her.’

‘But you can?’ And you can get to Che and Salma remained unsaid, and yet Stenwold felt the thought must be so apparent it must be branded on his face.

‘They built that palace up so fast, just to show us we were conquered.’ Chyses slapped the fist of one hand into the palm of the other, a habit he indulged in a lot. ‘But they didn’t think much on what lay underneath. See this?’ He was indicating the decayed masonry, the lowest layer of stones of their sprawling cellar. ‘There was some city here before we built Myna, before the revolution, and nobody even remembers whose, but they liked their tunnels. The sewers beneath us were their streets. They go right under the palace, under everywhere. That will be our way in.’

‘Sewers?’ Stenwold glanced at Tynisa and Totho, who were listening close by. ‘Lovely.’

His sarcasm passed Chyses by. ‘Our problem is that without Kymene we’re vulnerable, fragmented. If the Bloat were to launch an assault on us now, if he got to know about enough of our safe houses and fallbacks, then we would. .’

‘You’d have a job to hold things together,’ Stenwold finished.

‘And at any attempt by us, right now, to make a rescue, the Bloat would clench his fist on the city like he did a few years back, when they had that uprising in Maynes.’

‘So you can get to her, but your people would suffer for it,’ Stenwold said. ‘For a revolutionary that’s a surprisingly responsible attitude.’

The look Chyses flashed him was savage. ‘On my own, Master Beetle, I would set the fires myself, if the smoke from it would drive this city’s people onto the streets,’ he said flatly. ‘However, she would not approve. I myself will not bow my head to either governor or emperor, but for Kymene. .’

‘I understand. And I see where your logic goes.’ Stenwold felt a flash of dislike for Chyses but reminded himself, We need this man. ‘Mynan resistance, red flags everywhere, and the administration comes down on you like thunder. But if a pack of foreigners is loose in the palace freeing prisoners, including your Kymene. .’

‘We understand each other.’ Chyses took his hand off his sword hilt, and Stenwold only then realized that the young man had been holding it. He still looked as if he wanted to kill people. Here was a man whose reserves of humanity had been drained. They need this leader of theirs soon. Revolution would not happen overnight in Myna, Stenwold divined, but neither would invasion happen overnight across the Lowlands. Give me an audience with this woman, this undisputed leader of the resistance. . Have we stumbled onto the weapon I have been looking for?

‘And you would provide. .?’ he probed.

‘Maps of the sewers, guides to go along with you, a few extra swords without livery to betray them. Hermetic lamps, an autoclef. .’

‘You’re a well-equipped lot, aren’t you?’

‘Hokiak keeps us well supplied.’ Chyses was humourless. ‘Kymene is more important to us than any of it.’

‘Well.’ Stenwold settled back. ‘I will have to canvass the others but I suspect we won’t get a better offer.’ He glanced up then, because Tisamon was approaching, and the Mantis looked sterner than usual. Tynisa stood up even as he arrived. The tension between the two of them was still there, the unresolved history, so much so that Stenwold could almost taste it.

‘I have been talking to Khenice and those who remember the conquest, talking to them about your plans back then,’ Tisamon announced.

‘And?’ Stenwold asked.

‘They do accept that — that none of us betrayed them.’ And only the briefest catch in Tisamon’s voice revealed how recently he had been forced to accept it himself. ‘We have been comparing memories. Totho?’

The artificer started. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Tell them about Helleron. About the man you met there.’

Tynisa opened her mouth as if to speak, looked from Tisamon to Totho. The artificer glanced at her but Tisamon was waiting for his answer, and the Mantis plainly intimidated him more than Tynisa could. So, in his halting way, Totho gave the plain facts of what had happened to Bolwyn, and how it was that a dead man had met them in Benevolence Square. He could not keep the disbelief from his voice, but he spoke only the facts as he had witnessed them.

Chyses and the other Mynans appeared as sceptical as he himself was, looking to Tisamon for some explanation.

‘We have named all those who knew about the original plan,’ Tisamon said, ‘many of whom died in the conquest. We can find no weak link, and yet our plan was betrayed. I think that there was a spy, indeed, but he might have been wearing the face of another.’

‘But that’s not possible,’ Khenice said from behind him. ‘We knew them all intimately and you couldn’t disguise-’

‘This man could,’ Tisamon interrupted her. ‘You heard the story: a perfect likeness.’

They still did not seem convinced, and Stenwold could not blame them. His own rational mind told him that such things were impossible. He had travelled more than most, though, and in stranger company, and had been forced, in the past, to accept that there were things in the world he could not account for.

‘Where is this leading you?’ he asked the Mantis.

‘We may not be secure,’ Tisamon warned. ‘Even now we could be compromised.’

Stenwold put his head in his hands. ‘Anything is possible, Tisamon, but I can’t leave Cheerwell and Salma in their hands. I have to try.’

‘Then let me scout the way first, that’s all I ask. I will go now, with whatever directions our friends here can give me. There will be no time yet for a trap to have been set for me.’

Chyses stood up. ‘And one more thing.’ He and Tisamon faced one another with a kind of generalized mutual dislike, two aggressive men confined in a small space. ‘You can’t trust us, is what you’re saying. We can’t trust you, either. When you do go to retrieve your friends, then Master Stenwold here will stay with us as surety. If you don’t get Kymene back for us, then it will go badly for him.’

Stenwold sighed. Their relationship with the Mynan resistance was getting rockier by the moment. He nodded in response to Tisamon’s enquiring look. Besides, let them think I’m just a fat old man. He might surprise them yet, if this went sour.

‘Give me your best directions,’ Tisamon instructed. ‘I care nothing for your plans and drawings.’ Chyses bristled at the tone, but nodded, went across the cellar for the maps.

When Tisamon departed, Tynisa followed him.

Problem after problem. Stenwold felt them weighing heavily on him.

‘Master Maker,’ Totho spoke at his elbow.

‘I’ve told you, you don’t need to-’ The moments of his last conversation with the youth came back to him and he grimaced. ‘Yes, Totho?’

‘We still don’t know how the Moth knew that Che and Salma were here, sir.’

Stenwold frowned at him. ‘What are you saying?’

‘That it could be a trap, like Tisamon says. A trap because he’s set one.’

Stenwold glanced about the cellar, trying to find Achaeos. The Moth was almost hidden in the shadows across the room, sitting on his own in a nook of crumbling masonry.

‘If he wanted to throw us to the Wasps, he has had ample chance. He even warned us of the ambush, before Asta. I cannot say precisely why he has linked his path to ours, Totho, but I feel sure it’s not to sell us out, or not to the Empire.’

‘But. . I still don’t trust him, Master Maker. I can’t. Everything about him. .’

Stenwold looked into the boy’s honest face, that was itself stamped with a halfbreed taint others despised on sight. Is this what they have taught you, by hating you? But that was not the reason, he realized. Totho and Achaeos had loathed one another from the moment that they met, and Stenwold had no idea why.

Achaeos himself was finding it every bit as difficult to disentangle his motives. He had heard enough of Chyses’ plans to find them fraught with danger. The time had come to ask himself whether he should even be here, let alone accompany the others on this lunatic’s assault. The Mynan people — these Soldier Beetle-kinden as they called themselves — he found hostile and ill-favoured, and he had no faith in them or in their captured leader.

And yet he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was not able simply to sever his ties and fly away. It was not that he was already so deep within this Empire that the Wasp-kinden seemed to have built for themselves. He had no doubt he could find enough shadows between here and Tharn to cover his retreat. It was because he had, in his moment of madness, gone begging to the Darakyon. He had sought and received its help, and that had been for a purpose. He had told the things of the forest that he would rescue Cheerwell Maker. And, whilst riding their power, he had told her that he was coming for her. He had not meant to bind himself so irrevocably to this course but, now he came to recollect, he felt that he was indeed wholly bound.

Magic was a force that pushed: this he knew from his youngest days. What it pushed upon was a fabric that underlay the world, a weave beyond the weave. Perhaps the fabric was not so strong now as it once was, since the Apt minded and their machines were wearing it threadbare. Still, it was there, and the cunning man learned to pull its threads and to twist the way it hung. That was the secret of their spy, of course: that had been an honoured calling back in the Days of Lore before the damned revolution. It surprised Achaeos to find that there was a practitioner left, but what other trade could so effectively hide itself from the world?

He cast his gaze, that knew neither shadows nor masks, across the assembled rebels and their uneasy guests. He felt there no tuggings at the weft of magic, but if such spies were as good as their legends, he probably would not anyway.

He saw the halfbreed artificer glaring at him. No love lost there and yet Achaeos was not entirely sure why. He had plenty of cause to hate back, of course. The Apt were driving his people into cultural, even physical extinction, so it should be he who nurtured a grievance. Instead, it was this young man with the world apparently in his hands, and Achaeos wondered what it was he was missing.

If he was honest with himself he felt he already knew, but he was not ready to be honest with himself. Honesty — now there was a wound that was slow to heal.

It was going just like before, and Tynisa was losing patience.

Within minutes of leaving the resistance cell she had virtually fallen into step with him, just like their scouting of the Asta slave pits, just like their entry into Myna and their ambush of Chyses’ people. He had instantly adjusted to her and, without any signal, any conversation, they were become a hunting pair. Every move he made was informed by her own, as hers was by his. He did not need to look at her, to signal to her, to wait for her. Some part of him trusted her implicitly to be in exactly the right place, to do the right thing.

Yet when they were back with the others, she knew it would be gone again, this link she was now sharing with him. Not only gone, he would not admit of its existence. He would blot her out, refuse to deal with her.

She had a hook inside her now, and it had been pulling at her ever since she had discovered the truth. From the comfortable illusion of being Stenwold’s daughter, however implausible that might have been, she had been thrust straight into another world. It was a harsh-edged world, and it gave her a mother long dead, and this man, this distant, impossible man, as a father. She needed to confront it, but he would not let her. Tisamon simply retreated from it.

He was a coward, she told herself. He was the great Mantis Weaponsmaster, of course. He could kill a hundred men just by sneezing. He was a coward, though. He had met something beyond his courage, and he was ignoring it.

They had followed the directions that Chyses had given. The sewers beneath Myna were ancient — ancient and huge. In places they had been more vast than some of the halls of the Great College, their monumental stones overgrown with algae, their sides slippery with grey moss. Sometimes from the broad walkway on one side to that on the other was a watery gap of ten feet. Myna was a city but by no means grand enough to warrant such extravagant plumbing. There had been carvings, too, but too effaced by time and the elements to be made out, no clue as to the builders of this fallen place that even the Mynans had mostly forgotten.

At one point they emerged into a square, as though these sewers had been a whole city in their own right once. There was a broken-off stump of a statue there, just worn feet and the jagged lower edge of robes, but time remained mute and kept its secrets.

Things moved in the water that she did not get a proper look at, and roaches half the size of a man scuttled away from the dim light of the hooded lantern Tisamon bore. It gave out barely a gleam, but they both had eyes able to take that gleam and use it to best effect.

The directions had been good and Tisamon’s recall of them perfect. The resistance movement had taken its time in plotting these sewers that had become its main thoroughfare. In less time than Tynisa had imagined they had found some more recent architecture. Before Governor Ulther had raised his great palace as a symbol of his supremacy there had stood here the Consensus where the senate and tribunes of Myna would meet to argue policy. Even a seat of government requires its sewers, and more than that. Though the structure above ground had been banished, the cellars remained, tucked down beneath the later cells and storerooms that the Wasps had excavated.

They had found the narrow stairs exactly where Chyses had indicated. Tisamon had padded up them first to reach the hatch there, which a sympathizer serving within the palace secretly kept unbarred. With no more fanfare than that they had slipped into the palace itself. Where they entered had been a mere grain cellar, but they now stepped where Wasp feet had recently trod, and the resistance’s plan was thus vindicated. Tynisa had wanted to press on then, to find Che and Salma on their own. But a single exchange of looks with Tisamon had dissuaded her. They needed more hands, and they had made a deal with Chyses. Tisamon took his word as seriously as his life; it was a Mantis thing, but she could grasp it if she reached far enough.

And then they were on their way back, to report that the plan was sound, that it could be accomplished, and she knew that as soon as they were done, their shroud of silence replaced with the need to speak, then she would be shut out by him again. It was like before, at Asta, or when they crept over the walls of Myna itself. He would take it back, take it all back, and then he would hate her again.

And she made up her mind then, When Che and Salma are free I will force you to recognize me, you bastard. I will force you on the blade’s point, or I shall make you kill me, because I cannot live with this indifference.