The Sea Watch

Forty-Two

There was a sound from downstairs, and Helmess Broiler stirred sleepily. It must only be his servants pottering about, rising for the day to come.

Which meant it was later than he inwardly felt it should be. He yawned and stretched. Beside him, Elytrya murmured something, and Helmess again wondered precisely how late or early it was, and whether she could be persuaded into a little exercise.

He opened his eyes, looking for the grey of pre-dawn leaching through the east-facing shutters, but the room was near pitch-dark, and the only radiance that outlined the shutters was the faint rose of the street lighting outside.

So why are the servants…? He frowned, and wondered, Am I being robbed? Thieves seldom dared to intrude where Collegium’s great magnates lived. The city guard was prolific and dedicated in those privileged streets, and the lighting well maintained. He listened again but heard nothing.

Perhaps I imagined it. But an uncomfortable feeling was growing on him. Something had certainly awoken him; his imagination was not to blame. Helmess sat up and slid his feet over the side of the bed, hearing Elytrya complain wordlessly as she, in turn, was awoken. He reached for a nightshirt and dragged it on.

Should I call the servants anyway? he wondered. If it’s nothing, after all, I’ll look a proper fool. But if it’s something… It could be Teornis and his murderous rabble of Dragonflies, back from Princep. Creeping into the place unannounced would probably seem hilarious to that Spider Aristos. The more Helmess thought about it, the more that seemed likely, rather than mere robbers. It was surely about time for Teornis to blight Helmess’s life again, and so Helmess would have to find a way to do away with the Spider and his minions, and secure Aradocles for the sea-kinden. If the heir had been found, of course. If the wretched youth wasn’t years dead already. Helmess sighed. His world had become particularly vexing recently.

‘What is it?’ Elytrya sat up, brushing her curls out of her eyes. ‘Helmess…?’

‘Probably nothing,’ Helmess assured her, and then there was a distinct creak outside, a heavy footfall on the stair. He remained motionless, as his speculation suddenly broadened to include all manner of possibilities: What if the Empire has tired of me, after all, and these are Wasp assassins? What if Teornis has sent that traitor Sands after me? What if…?

The door opened, and Fly-kinden began filing in, so silently and politely that he wondered if he was dreaming. There were almost a dozen of them, men and women, all of them looking like absolute villains and armed to the teeth. Their leader seemed to be a black-bearded fellow who looked particularly ferocious even though he stood no higher than Helmess’s chest. Beside him was a little woman in artificer’s leathers, with a businesslike crossbow aimed at Helmess’s face.

The Beetle magnate stood up slowly, regarding this silent mass of Flies. Most of them looked straight back at him, save for a couple at the periphery who were obviously admiring a particularly expensive Commonweal statuette on his side table.

‘To what,’ Helmess asked in a hoarse whisper, ‘do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?’ He was aware of Elytrya, sitting up in bed clutching the sheet to herself.

‘Oh, that’s grand,’ mocked the bearded leader. ‘That’s Collegium style, lads. Listen and learn. Well, Master Broiler, it so happens that a good friend of ours asked us to procure a private and intimate audience with yourself, without the need for your guards and servants and such. On that subject, I’d not go shouting for anyone just yet. Not unless you want to have the trouble of interviewing for some vacant domestic positions in the near future.’

‘Who sent you, and how much do you want?’ Helmess hissed.

‘You might as well talk to the man himself,’ said the bearded Fly, stepping to one side as a larger figure stepped into the room.

Helmess Broiler’s face twisted with immediate hatred. ‘Maker!’ he snapped out.

There was a wary silence after this exclamation, but Helmess Broiler was not a man to house his servants too close to his own chambers.

‘Hello, Helmess,’ Stenwold began calmly.

‘By what right do you invade my house?’ Broiler snarled at him. ‘This is intolerable. What do you think the Assembly will say when I bring this before them?’

‘Oh I’ve no right to be here,’ Stenwold told him lightly. ‘No warrant, no writ. I’m here merely because you’ve crossed a line, Helmess.’ He met the poisonous gaze of Elytrya without flinching, and nodded pleasantly.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘You’ve taken the Empire’s coin often enough, Helmess. I know that well.’

Helmess’s lip curled contemptuously. ‘And of course you have proof.’

‘I don’t need proof, Helmess, because I’m not here to arrest you. I’ve known you to be the Empire’s man for years now. It was easier to leave you be than to root out the identity of whoever would replace you. But now I find it’s not just the Empire you’d betray your city to. The Spider-kinden, for example. The Spider-kinden and her people.’ He gestured at Helmess’s companion.

Elytrya bared her teeth. ‘You know nothing of my people!’ she spat.

‘Oh, I know all too much about your crooked-minded people,’ Stenwold replied, still perfectly calm. ‘I know now that you must be a Littoralist spy, and you’re desperate to help your people “reclaim the land”. And you’ve found a willing accomplice in Helmess here because he’s prepared to sell out his own people to any bidder at all, it seems.’

‘This is utter fiction,’ Helmess protested, with great dignity. ‘It’s no secret that you dislike me, Maker, since I’ve always been your political opponent. If you have some concrete accusation to make, rather than all these flights of fancy, then bring it before the Assembly, rather than-’

‘Danaen let your name slip, Helmess,’ Stenwold interrupted.

The other man’s eyes narrowed. ‘The word of a Mantis-kinden… ?’

‘She won’t testify against you. She’s dead.’

Helmess flinched, ever so slightly. ‘Maker, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but-’

‘No formal charges,’ Stenwold informed him. ‘No militia. No Assembly hearing. No courts of law. No proper procedure. My Arianna died as a result of your treachery.’ And, at last, his voice shook a little with the force of the emotion he was holding back, and Helmess shifted uneasily, beginning to comprehend the magnitude of his situation.

Stenwold smiled to see it. ‘But I see you have your own companion. Not quite a Spider-kinden, but almost as decorative. Enough to pay the debt you ran up when you caused Arianna’s death, perhaps.’ Around him the Fly-kinden villains shifted and grinned, their weapons much in evidence.

Helmess’s fleshy face went taut and still, and Stenwold smiled. ‘Ah, good,’ he said, ‘so you do care about her. That will make this easier.’

‘Now, Maker,’ said Helmess hurriedly, ‘don’t do anything you might regret. This is Collegium, after all. You can’t just…’

Stenwold’s smile turned hard. ‘How swift you are to cling to Collegium when it suits you. Well, Helmess, I cannot tell you how much I would like to have you pay for your treacheries, and your sea-kinden spy alongside you.’ The Fly-kinden moved in on cue, surrounding the bed. The black-bearded man hopped up between Helmess and Elytrya in a flurry of wings, brandishing a blade in either hand.

‘On your word, Master Maker,’ he said, plainly enjoying himself immensely.

‘Maker-!’

‘Listen to me,’ Stenwold cut him off sharply. ‘I will give you and your woman one chance only. If you do what I say, then you live, for now. If something should happen to me, though, or any others that I care about, you will suffer for it, and for once I will be as heedless of civilized propriety as your beloved Wasp-kinden. No law and no procedure, Helmess. If you dare cross me then my people will gut you and leave you to die. Understand?’

The other Beetle-kinden met his gaze bleakly. ‘What then, Maker? What is your price?’

Stenwold nodded, and abruptly there was a dagger-blade touching Elytrya’s throat. ‘Madam,’ he said formally, ‘you will now tell me everything of your arrangements with Rosander of the Thousand Spines Train: how your messengers reach him, what words they use. I wish to meet with Rosander. You will compose a message for him immediately, and if he has not arranged to meet with me in a few days’ time, then I will let my followers do what they will with you.’

‘He…’ She was now staring at him, wide-eyed. ‘He will not come to the city, not without his army. He will suspect a trap.’

‘I shall have a boat moored out by the Edge, and he may meet me there. He surely cannot refuse such an invitation. We will tell him I wish to renew my acquaintance with him, so as to save my people from his wrath.’ Stenwold nodded to one of the Flies, a bald, hunched woman, and Helmess recognized her belatedly as one of the Smallclaw Onychoi. ‘Wys here will take the message – once you have briefed her on what to say, and who to say it to. If something happens to her, then something worse will happen to you – for I will keep you close, spy, until Rosander and I have concluded our business.’

‘You will regret this, Maker,’ Helmess growled softly.

‘Oh, I’ll regret letting you live, no doubt,’ Stenwold snapped, ‘but right now the good of my city comes above my own preferences. A novel perspective for you, I’m sure.’ He clicked his fingers abruptly, making Helmess start. ‘There is just one thing more.’

Helmess glared at him mutinously. ‘I sense it would seem rude of me to refuse. What do you want, Maker?’

‘Details of how the Empire is going to exploit the situation.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Wrong!’ Abruptly Stenwold had his sword aimed straight at Helmess’s sagging chins. ‘My crew here have followed you to meetings with Honory Bellowern, and why would you sell us just to two separate factions, when you can throw in the Empire as well? Tell me where they fit into this, or I swear you’ll be signing all your contracts with your left hand from now on.’

Walking away from Broiler’s place, with a hastily clad Elystrya under guard by the Tidenfree crew, Tomasso said, ‘I’ll have the ship made ready then, Master Maker, for this sea-kinden gambit of yours.’

Stenwold shook his head. ‘Not this time,’ he told the Fly. ‘I have a different vessel in mind.’

The four barques rose smoothly from the lightless depths towards the sun, bullying their way up the gradient of gradually lightening water until they broke through the mirrored glitter of the surface, breaching the waves on all sides of the little ship’s dark silhouette.

Three were slender, dart-shaped craft, driven up from the abyss by water forced through their siphons. The last was far broader, a great curved carapace with a dozen busy paddling arms below to flurry it through the water. From this last vessel emerged Rosander.

He had taken the time to dress well for the land-kinden. He wore his armour of pale stone, even down to the helm, so that what now crawled from the barque’s interior looked less like a man and more like a huge, jagged statue. Behind him, his select followers climbed up into the light, shading their eyes: little skittering Smallclaws, hulking Greatclaws in armour of accreated shell, lithe Kerebroi with spears and knives. The smaller vessels began disgorging their crews, too, crawling out to crouch on the rolling hulls and look up at the landsmen’s ship.

It was a little enough thing, that ship, and Rosander knew that the land-people had far greater vessels they could launch. If they wanted to overwhelm him by main force, this little vessel surely could not hold enough land-kinden to accomplish it. Why, I alone could probably overcome their crew, surely. He looked up at the great round sail that bellied up there in the wind, sagging and wrinkled in places. Perhaps they do want to surrender or talk terms, though I cannot think that they will accept such terms as I’m minded to offer.

Rosander grinned to himself. ‘Chenni,’ he said, ‘want to see some land-kinden craftsmanship?’

‘Surely,’ the Smallclaw artificer piped up, and Rosander reached out for the curving hull, ready to jam his spiked gauntlets into the wood to give him purchase for the climb.

‘Wait, wait!’ called a voice from above, and a ladder of cloth was unfurled before his face. He regarded it doubtfully, but the voice explained, ‘It’s silk woven with steel thread. Come on up.’

Rosander heard Chenni make an approving sound. ‘I’ll get you one, never fear,’ he assured her, and then applied himself to ascending the ladder. It was an awkward climb, swaying and creaking, and he took it steadily to avoid looking foolish before his own people. The ladder was as strong as the landsmen claimed, confirming that they were an ingenious lot, which fact would make the impending land campaign all the more profitable. About time that worm Mandir was knocked off his pedestal, Rosander reflected. Perhaps the booty from this land venture would be enough to break the Hot Stations’ stranglehold.

He hauled himself over the rail which, being less cunningly reinforced than the rope, snapped in three places. Nevertheless, he was left standing on the deck of the land-kinden ship: he, Rosander, Nauarch of the Thousand Spines Train and future conqueror of the land.

‘Bring on your warriors,’ he instructed, waiting for the lower reaches of the vessel to disgorge further land-kinden. All around the ship his people waited, ready to dig their claws into the hull and haul themselves over the side, to butcher every landsman on board. Rosander glanced around, the narrow eyeslit of his helm sweeping the deck, but no angry hordes of landsmen became apparent. Indeed he saw only two men, dark and stout the pair of them. The nearest, who had let down the ladder, was now edging backwards, staring at Rosander with alarm, while the other…

‘Hah,’ Rosander grunted. ‘And it is you, at that. I didn’t believe it.’ He stomped his way forward, hearing the deck beneath him creak, while Chenni pattered along beside him. This particular landsman faced up to his scrutiny without fear, as well he might. ‘You escaped,’ Rosander rumbled. ‘I heard the news. You escaped the Edmir and you escaped the Man of the Stations too, all the way back to your home on the land. You’ve warned your people, no doubt. They’ll give us some sport, then, which is all to the good.’ Rosander reached up and tugged his helm off, squinting a little in the bright sun. ‘You impress me, landsman.’ He grinned abruptly, showing surprisingly delicate teeth in his narrow mouth. ‘Kneel, kneel before me now and swear yourself one of the Thousand Spines, and I’ll make you my deputy on land when I’ve conquered it.’

The land-kinden regarded him with a slight smile. ‘I fear that’s an honour I can’t accept, Nauarch Rosander,’ he said. ‘Even so, I’m glad you remember me. My name is Master Stenwold Maker of Collegium and I am here to speak for my people. Will you hear me out?’

Rosander regarded him almost fondly. ‘You were free,’ the Nauarch said. ‘You had escaped, and now you come back. My warriors surround this ship. Are you so eager to rejoin us down in Hermatyre? Hear you out? Oh I’ll hear you out, Master Stenwold Maker, but I make no promises.’

He saw a gratifying twitch in the man’s expression when return to Hermatyre was mentioned. Rosander couldn’t blame him, for Claeon was never a kind captor. Well, let us see how my becoming master of the land tilts the balance against Claeon. Perhaps my next campaign will see me take Hermatyre and bring some justice to that wretched place.

‘Perhaps we should go below,’ Stenwold suggested, ‘out of the sun.’

‘Get him to show me the engines of this contraption,’ Chenni prompted.

‘Do it,’ Rosander ordered the landsman, and Stenwold nodded and gestured them to a hatch that led below. Before heading down, he glanced over at the other land-kinden present.

‘Master Allanbridge?’ he said, making the name a question.

‘I’ll be fine,’ the other replied, obviously uneasy all the same.

Stenwold nodded and set off into the ship’s interior. ‘I had forgotten your companion for a moment,’ he confessed as they descended, every step of Rosander’s eliciting a groan of tortured wood. ‘She piloted the barque that brought me to Hermatyre. She also did her best to keep me out of Claeon’s hands. For that she’s earned a look at our engines, if nothing else.’

The space below had only two rooms, one of which housed the engine. The other, Rosander saw as they reached the foot of the stairs, had a table set out, and furniture that he identified after a moment as designed for sitting on. Apparently these land-kinden believed that there really was something to talk about. Surrender terms, perhaps? Or maybe this Stenwold will sell his people yet.

‘Come on, then,’ Chenni prompted. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’

Stenwold paused, then called back up. ‘Jons! Are you done there?’

‘As much as,’ came the reply.

‘Would you come down here and show Mistress Chenni how the engines work?’

‘With pleasure.’ A moment later they heard the man stomping above their heads, and then he was letting himself down the ladder.

‘We should talk,’ Stenwold told Rosander, gesturing at the table. ‘Amongst the land-kinden, one debates with one’s enemies around a table, to try and find another solution than war.’

Rosander grunted and went over to one of the chairs, reaching out for it and turning it between armoured finger and thumb. As Stenwold headed about the far side of the table, the giant Onychoi brought his fist down on it, with no great display of force, and instantly reduced it to matchwood.

‘Got anything stronger, or should I stand?’ he growled.

Stenwold, not the least put out, sat down across from him. ‘You are Rosander, Nauarch of the Thousand Spines Train.’

‘Well done.’ Rosander put his helm down on the table. ‘What do you want, Stenwold Maker? Amongst the sea-kinden, the Kerebroi may talk and talk, but we act. Debate is a coward’s excuse for putting off the strike.’

‘I’m sorry that you feel that way,’ Stenwold replied. ‘Nauarch, you are not Claeon.’

Rosander’s lips twisted into an unwilling smile. ‘Nicest thing anyone’s said about me for at least a moon,’ he shot back. ‘So what?’

‘I mean you are not consumed by malice, nor are you terrified of losing your power. You are secure in what you possess, whereas Claeon is not.’

‘A fair assessment.’

‘Neither, unless I guess wrong, are you one of the Littoralist movement,’ Stenwold went on. ‘You don’t lap up all that business of theirs about the destiny of the sea-kinden to reclaim the land from the hated land-kinden, who drove your ancestors from it a thousand thousand years ago, or whatever.’

‘Fools and madmen,’ agreed Rosander.

‘So, why do you make yourself my people’s enemy?’ Stenwold asked him.

Rosander shrugged, stone pauldrons moving massively. ‘I bear your kinden no ill will. Surrender to me and you’ll not be ill-treated, though we’ll be disappointed if we don’t get our fight. As you say, I’m no tyrant, but I am an adventurer, Maker. And now I know the land is there for the taking, that is the new adventure I choose. To be the man that conquers the land! To be remembered for ever as he who took that great step.’ Rosander was grinning even at the thought. ‘And my Train would follow me even beyond the sea, despite all the tales they have been told at their mother’s tit. I would reward them for that loyalty, because I would make them all princes of the land, with landsmen to wait on their every need. And I would do this, Maker, because I can.’

There was now an odd vibration running through the wood of the vessel, which he assumed to be the engine working. ‘If your servant has any ideas about taking us elsewhere, be assured my people have orders to hole this barque and take it to the bottom, if necessary,’ he warned Stenwold. Listening out, he could hear voices over the rumble of the engine: Maker’s man explaining something to Chenni. ‘I thought it was the sails that made these things go, anyway. Obviously I was misinformed.’

The hull lurched slightly beneath him, not enough to make him shift his balance, but a new movement he did not entirely like. ‘Maker,’ he cautioned softly, ‘do you think I cannot kill you if you’ve planned some treachery?’

‘With ease,’ Stenwold Maker agreed, although there was a tension to him that Rosander could clearly read. ‘Perhaps… some fresh air, maybe?’

The hull shuddered and swung again and Rosander nodded. ‘You go in front of me, Maker, and gather your servant up too. I suddenly suspect that you are trying to be clever, and that may in turn mean that you’re being unwise.’

‘Jons!’ Stenwold called out. ‘Bring Mistress Chenni above decks, if you would.’

‘That time already, is it?’ the other landsman replied. ‘Well then, little miss, if you’d come with me.’

Rosander waited at the foot of the steps for his aide, who came pattering around from behind the landsmen, looking enthusiastic.

‘It’s a fine piece,’ she said. ‘Not clockworks at all, but burning some kind of oily stuff to make it go. Knocks Mandir’s tricks into a barrel. We should certainly get one.’

‘Yes, but what is it doing?’ Rosander stressed.

She goggled up at him. ‘Why, it’s… working.’ She frowned.

‘Go on up, Nauarch. You shall see all,’ Stenwold Maker said softly.

Rosander glared at him and stomped up the steps, heedless of the tortured sounds they made as his weight bent and bowed them.

‘If you think…’ he started, but it was never clear what he imagined Stenwold might think, because his voice trailed off.

The slack, bellying fabric he had taken for sails had grown taut now, forming a great rounded bulk above them. And the sea…

The sea was gone. There was no horizon. Rosander stormed towards the rail, furious… and stopped dead.

There was the sea, still, but it was a dark canvas far below them, glittering with pinpoints of reflected sunlight. He could see no sign of his people, or even their vessels. Instead the water was fast giving way to something lighter: green and grey and dusty tan. The land.

‘We are not just land-kinden, you see,’ Stenwold remarked quietly, beside him. ‘We are air-kinden also.’

Rosander’s gauntleted hand lashed out and grabbed him by the arm, painfully tight. ‘Take us back,’ he hissed. ‘Take us back down, now.’

‘Oh, we will. This is no kidnapping. You can see for yourself we are in no position to overpower you,’ Stenwold assured him, his voice catching slightly with the pressure of that grip. ‘But look, there is your new kingdom. There is the land.’

Despite himself, Rosander found his eyes drawn to the great expanse that now filled the whole of their view, stretching as far as his eyes could squint in the bright, dry light.

‘There is my city,’ Stenwold, pointed. ‘There is white Collegium, your intended victim. But inland of Collegium lies the city of Sarn, where the soldiers of the Ant-kinden march, and they would march to our defence, as would other allies. The Vekken from down the coast, for example, and the Tseni by sea. Who knows who else?’

Rosander made a growling sound in his throat, whereupon Stenwold spoke swiftly on, ‘But the warriors of the Thousand Spines are fierce and brave, so perhaps you would best all who came against you, and then capture my city. But my city is not the land, Rosander, for beyond Sarn there is the city of Helleron, many tens of miles further inland, where they mine and smelt and craft – our own version of the Hot Stations. That marks the edge of the Lowlands, which is the region I call home.’ The landscape was still passing swiftly beneath them, with no sign that it would come to an end any time soon. ‘But perhaps, eventually, you would prevail, Rosander. Perhaps. So I must tell you that, beyond Helleron, there is the Empire of the Wasps, a warlike nation that in size is greater than all the Lowlands. Then there is the Three-City Alliance and the Disputed Principalities, and of course, if you go north past the great ridge, the Commonweal, vast and ancient, greater than all the rest. All this might you conquer – in twenty years or fifty years of never seeing the sea.’

Rosander’s grip on his arm was looser now, the Nauarch staring out at the dust-hazy horizon.

‘And even then,’ said Stenwold, ‘you would not have conquered the land. To the east of the Empire, to the north of the Commonweal, to the south of the Spiderlands, the land goes on, with more and more peoples to resist you, and still no end in sight. My people have charted their own courses for five hundred years, and our maps do not define how far the land goes, any more than yours can delimit the sea. What would you conquer, Nauarch? All your warriors, all the warriors of a hundred such trains, would be lost for ever in just a fraction of all that land.’

‘I could take just your city,’ argued Rosander, almost desperately.

‘And we will fight you,’ Stenwold said. ‘And who can say how that fight would go? You would make many early gains, no doubt, by striking from the waters where we could not reach you, but we have submersibles now, and eventually you would find that we would carry the war down to you. But what of it? Win or lose, what would you achieve in conquering a mere fistful of earth, against all this?’

For a long while Rosander stared out over the rail of the Windlass at the wider world beyond, and Stenwold stepped back, out of the clutch of his now-loose fingers, and let him look. After a moment, the diminutive form of Chenni went to her leader, putting a small hand up to reassure him.

Jons Allanbridge shook his head as Stenwold came over, leaving the giant sea-kinden at the rail.

‘I thought he was going to throw you over the side,’ he said.

Stenwold shrugged. ‘It was always a risk.’

‘So why did you not have some lads with snapbows and nailbows to do the bastard over once we got aloft?’

‘Because that might precipitate the very war that I’m trying to prevent. By my assessment he’s not a tyrant, nor even a conqueror like the Wasps are – or as the Vekken were! – and, if I can shake hands with the Vekken, then I owe it to Rosander, if nothing else, to offer him my hand now.’

The great form at the rail turned to him and said, ‘And what exactly do you offer?’

‘Help us take Hermatyre,’ Stenwold said instantly. ‘Depose Claeon with your own hands. Can you really say that wouldn’t give you pleasure?’

Rosander stared at him levelly. ‘Invade the sea on behalf of the land-kinden? I think not.’

‘Not a land-kinden will be present, save perhaps for myself,’ Stenwold assured him. ‘Retake Hermatyre for its true heir.’

The Nauarch snorted incredulously, then he frowned. ‘You mean it, don’t you? You’ve found him? I always thought Claeon’d had him killed years back.’ For a moment he seemed to be weighing up the very thought of it, but: ‘No, not for Aradocles, and not for you.’ He held up a hand, forestalling Stenwold’s objections. ‘If I’d wanted Hermatyre, I’d have taken it by now, and Claeon couldn’t have stopped me. There are those amongst the Thousand Spines that have been pressing me to do just that – to sack the greatest city of the sea. My people resent being made to wait on Claeon’s pleasure every bit as much as I do. Claeon promised-’

‘You have seen the truth of what he promised,’ Stenwold interrupted.

‘I have.’ Rosander looked down at Chenni, or maybe at his own feet. ‘I have stayed my hand from Hermatyre, simply because what my warriors would leave of it would not be Hermatyre any more. I have a fondness for the place, despite its poor taste in rulers.’

‘So what will you do?’ Stenwold asked him.

‘I will take my warriors back to the depths, where we belong. We will tread the deep paths again, and fight the Echinoi, and terrorize the small colonies, and be as we were meant to be. But maybe we will return to Hermatyre soon, to buy and sell, and I would not be heartbroken if we found some other Edmir on the throne.’