The Sea Watch

Forty-Three

Daven tugged his hood a little higher, for all he and his fellows were in a private room in the Fair Licence, a respectable merchant’s taverna within sight of the College. It was not that it was so very difficult, to be a Wasp in Collegium. He had been given only a couple of months to establish his cover here, masquerading as a mercenary factoring for a Helleron trade cartel, and he had expected to live every hour under the hostile glares of the locals, but the Collegiate merchants were paragons of venal acceptance just now. One would never think that an Imperial army had been at their gates recently enough to have left scars on the stonework.

His life here had been quiet enough at first, waiting on orders from home, liaising covertly with the diplomat Bellowern. In the midst of profit and loss, the flow of trade, socializing with his false peers, the myriad of entertainments that Collegium had to offer, he had found it difficult to remember that he was a spy.

Then the orders had finally come, following hard on the heels of reports about the new war with the Spiderlands. Then had arrived his reinforcements.

There were eight of them seated about this table in the Fair Licence, all dressed in canvas workshop leathers and over-robes, like any Collegium artisan just in from the road. If they seemed a little uniform, perhaps it was simply Daven’s military eye picking up on it. They were all Beetle-kinden men, and none of them looked like more than journeymen artificers or travelling merchant’s clerks. They were Rekef Outlander, every one of them, however, and here to play their parts in bringing down Collegium.

‘Stenwold Maker,’ suggested one of them – Daven had not quite got their names straight yet. He sat back, sipping at the wine he had grown rather too fond of over the last few months, and let them get on with it. They had been briefed exhaustively, and they were brimming over with enthusiasm for the task and, although he was supposed to be their commanding officer, he felt surplus to requirements.

‘There seems to be some doubt over whether he’s still with us,’ another noted.

‘No, he’s definitely been seen recently. He’s still on the list. In the midst of the fighting, one of us will have to arrange something for him.’

‘The file on him doesn’t suggest he’s a man too careful of his own wellbeing,’ another added, almost approvingly, as though commending the absent Master Maker for such consideration.

‘The Speaker, Drillen?’ another noted.

‘Put him on the list,’ said the man who was so keen on lists. ‘And some random Assemblers, whoever we get a crack at?’

‘No, nothing that might make them throw the fight. If their leaders start fearing for their own lives, they’ll sue for peace in an instant,’ broke in one who had not spoken before. ‘Special targets only, amongst the Assembly. Other than that, our targets must be those whose deaths will cause outrage, and those buildings whose destruction will fan the flames of Collegiate passion.’

Daven found that rather too flowery for spy talk, but said nothing. Really, watching these men was like seeing some horrible machine set in motion, one that nothing could stop.

‘The College workshops,’ one of them said, while another named a handful of public monuments. A third put in for a rather good theatre that Daven had visited a couple of times. Still he contributed nothing.

‘Come now,’ said one of the eldest. ‘What are you thinking of? The College library must burn, surely, or what will we be doing with ourselves?’

‘That’s going beyond our brief, surely?’ Daven was surprised at the words, more so because they were his own. Eight dark Beetle faces stared at him.

‘How it will inflame them, though,’ said the poet drily. ‘No, you’re right, the library must go. That will commit the Collegiates to the fight like nothing else.’

‘Do we have enough incendiaries to accomplish it?’ asked a more practical voice.

‘If we cannot secure the makings for incendiaries here in Collegium then we’re altogether in the wrong business,’ said the list-maker expansively, refilling his wine bowl. ‘Burn the library, yes. That’ll teach those bloody pompous academics to look down on the rest of us, eh? Now, where’s this cursed traitor of ours, Captain?’

Daven took the slightest second to connect the title to his own rank, in that other life he had lived in the Empire, not so very long ago. He opened his mouth to reply and the door was kicked in violently.

The Rekef men leapt to their feet, daggers and swords clearing scabbards, and at least two small crossbows being dragged from packs or from under the table, already cocked. Daven himself had his hand out immediately, palm open towards the doorway. By that time there were four armoured Beetles crowding into the room with snap-bows trained, and more of them behind. They wore the bar-visored helms and engraved breastplates of the new merchant companies.

One of the crossbows let loose, its bolt just slanting off the lead intruder’s breastplate. A snapbow bolt then took the Rekef man responsible through the eye, sending him backwards over his chair. A second Collegium shot killed another of the Rekef men down the table, by a reflexive, accidental release. By that time there were at least eight of the weapons directed at them from the open doorway.

‘I am Chief Officer Padstock of the Maker’s Own Company, and you are all under arrest,’ came the clipped tones of the woman that led them. ‘Drop your weapons and surrender to the authority of Collegium.’

Her eyes sought out Daven’s, facing down his open palm without fear. He could kill her, he knew, but that would get him and all his men slaughtered in instant retaliation. For a moment the temptation to do so was almost overwhelming, which he realized was due to the prospect of getting this pack of venomous infiltrators butchered along with him.

Taking a deep breath he lowered his hand and stepped back, feeling at most ambivalent about the whole situation.

It had taken a moment for Stenwold to gather his courage, before he could step back down into the coiled interior of Wys’s submersible. For a moment he had wavered on the brink, sensing the great lightless abyss beneath him, limitless and monster-haunted, as alien and unconquerable to him as the land had seemed to Rosander.

‘You don’t have to go,’ Paladrya had told him, resting her hand on his arm. ‘I know your people have their own fight.’

‘I will see this out,’ he announced, more for his own sake than for hers, and in he had gone.

When Wys had come back from passing word to Rosander, she had brought some new passengers. Word of the new-found heir had been passed to the Pelagist network while she was hunting down the Nauarch of the Thousand Spines. From there it had reached Hermatyre’s exiles.

By the time Stenwold struggled through the hatch, the battle lines had clearly been drawn. Aradocles stood firm, a slight young challenger, while across the main chamber from him waited the tall figure of Heiracles. The elder Kerebroi had brought two servants or guards with him, and they had knives, as all sea-kinden seemed to have knives. At the same time, the stance of Paladrya, Phylles and the big engineer Lej made it clear that they would be weighing in on the heir’s side should the newcomers try anything disagreeable.

Despite everything that separated Stenwold from these sea people, he found he could read Heiracles quite clearly by now. It was plain the man had never expected Aradocles to be still living. It was also plain that he had coveted the throne for himself, and had planned to appropriate the heir’s name and cause to that end. Seeing Aradocles there brought a sudden end to all that, unless some swift treachery could be accomplished. Stenwold observed all that behind the man’s eyes, the last flowering of ambition that had clung on even after the hunt of the heir had set off, and watched Heiracles make a coldly rational decision and let it all go. Chancellor of Hermatyre was better than king of nothing, his expression said, although Stenwold resolved to warn the young prince to surround himself with trusted and capable bodyguards, should he at last reclaim his kingdom.

Then Heiracles knelt and bowed his head – less to a man than to the inevitable. ‘Welcome back, Your Eminence, my Edmir,’ he declared.

With a studied disregard for the knives, Aradocles went to assist Heiracles to his feet. In that moment, the way the youth moved reminded Stenwold very much of Salma. The heir nodded. ‘Use that title only once I have earned it,’ he reproached the older man. ‘I’m not in Hermatyre yet. Tell me, how do we stand there?’

‘The word has gone out to our… your supporters,’ Heiracles informed him. ‘Those of the Pelagists who have taken sides are gathering. A host is ready to march on Hermatyre.’

‘And their numbers?’ Aradocles queried.

‘Still mustering as yet. I hear from Wys that the Thousand Spines

…’ He glanced at Stenwold for more.

‘I hope that they shall not be a problem,’ was all Stenwold would commit to. Or have I misjudged Rosander and his priorities? he considered.

‘Then the numbers should be close to even and, once word reaches Hermatyre that you are with us, we expect the colony’s defenders to undergo a change of heart. Claeon can command obedience, but no love.’

The submersible had begun to descend. Stenwold watched the water outside darken and darken, until there was nothing but black. He could not suppress a shudder.

‘I do not want to come to the throne wading waist-deep in the blood of my own subjects,’ Aradocles said, frowning.

‘If they cling to your false uncle, what can they expect?’ Heiracles asked dismissively.

‘And how are they to know that I am truly with you, that my name is not merely an empty boast? Claeon will tell them that I am slain, that it is merely a trick to unseat the colony’s true ruler.’

It was clear from the way that Heiracles paused before answering that he was well aware of this. ‘I am assured that the people of Hermatyre are eager for your return, Edmir.’

Aradocles shook his head. ‘Not enough, Heiracles. I will not have my people slaying one another, each believing that they fight for the true ruler. If I were to show myself to them…’

‘There’d be enough there who’d gut you, because they’re Claeon’s parasites,’ Wys put in immediately. ‘And with you dead, boy, where’s that leave everyone? All it’d take is one lancer, or one of those new Stations weapons that can lob a spear ten yards. Getting close enough to see who you are is getting close enough to kill you.’

The heir to Hermatyre frowned, looking down at his hands, and, with a shock of familiarity, Stenwold recognized a mannerism of his own, doubtless transmitted to the youth via Salma.

A lengthy journey through darkness took them to where the loyalists were gathering. During the long hours, Stenwold sat alongside Paladrya and tried not to think about the Spider-kinden fleet and the progress it must be making down the coast, or about the Wasp armies massing to take advantage of Collegium’s downfall.

At last there was light: the limn-lamps of a small colony transforming the deep sea in shades of pale blue and gold. Stenwold joined the others in looking out across a crawling seabed. There were crabs and lobsters and similar beasts there, jostling for leg-room, harnessed and saddled, and the swift darting of squid-borne cavalry passed overhead. Spiral shells bobbed and danced around one another, hanging in the water like airships, and some trailed living tentacles while others were propelled by mechanical siphons. Around it all there were the sea-people, a military mob of them, without order and without distinction, and belonging to all kinden.

They docked, and for Stenwold there was the usual awkwardness of them dragging him, cauled again, over to the encrusted mound that was the colony. It had been a long enough absence that the pressure, the cold and the claustrophobia were not the least dulled by his past familiarity. Still, he had been given his chance to avoid this reacquaintance up at the Collegium docks, and he had only himself to blame for being a prisoner of the sea once again.

They held a council of war, whereupon a handful of Krakind nobles and Pelagist leaders got to see Aradocles, so that they could vouch to their followers that this was the true heir after all. Some attempt at a plan was made, but Stenwold soon gained the uneasy feeling that these sea-kinden were simply not used to war. Their idea of such a fight, even with the numbers they had amassed, was to hurl their people at the enemy, as swiftly and fiercely as possible, and hope to let sheer individual skill and inspiration carry the day. Of all the sea-kinden he had met, Stenwold wondered if the only one who might understand how to conduct a war was Rosander.

The Krakind let their discussions run on, till most of the Pelagists gave up on the whole business and went off to tend to their machines or their animals. Stenwold now looked up as he heard one approaching him.

‘Nemoctes,’ he named the arrival.

‘Stenwold Maker.’ Nemoctes was wearing his shell mail, the same shield slung across his back. ‘I have a message for you.’

Something twisted inside Stenwold. ‘From…?’

‘Her, yes. Lyess.’ Nemoctes looked troubled. ‘She told me that you’d put a question to her, before you left, and that her companion has the answer now. She told me also that you were coming back to us. She seemed very sure of that.’

Stenwold nodded tiredly. ‘Take me to her.’

‘You need not, if you do not wish it,’ Nemoctes cautioned. ‘She is

… behaving strangely. I have never before known her like this. Something has changed with her.’

‘Take me to her,’ Stenwold repeated, and levered himself to his feet. Nemoctes’s expression darkened but he nodded, gesturing for Stenwold to follow him.

On the way to the hatch, Paladrya approached him, her expression suddenly one of alarm, and he wondered what she had guessed at, and by what means. She reached out a hand to him and he touched fingers briefly, feeling like a man going to his own execution.

He found that his memories had strayed, during that period when Lyess and her domain had been so much on his mind. In his thoughts, during his incarceration at the Hot Stations, during the flight in the submersible, he had recalled pure light, as though he had travelled with Lyess in a room full of windows: as though the clean sunlight had shone in from every point.

Now, standing before her again after so long, he discovered that his mind had glossed over the shapes in the translucent material of the creature around them: the coils and sacs and organs casting their shadows through the ambient glow. His mind had rewritten the place, gilded and edited it until he found he recalled something like a domed hall of lucent marble, when all along he had been dwelling within the guts of a monster.

Lyess, though, his memories had not needed to alter: beautiful as a statue and just as cold; blank-eyed as a Moth-kinden, or as the Monarch of Princep Salmae. He could feel the shreds of old glamour stir at the sight of her, her skin paler than alabaster, her form so perfect in its curves and in its grace that she seemed more the work of some arch-genius artificer than a product of nature. About her shoulders her hair stirred and waved under unfelt currents.

‘You came back,’ she said. He could not read her face because, like an Ant-kinden, she had lived all her life in a communion that had never needed facial expressions. Unlike the Ants, though, that communion had denied any human contact, until now.

‘Nemoctes said you had an answer for me,’ he said slowly, thinking carefully on his words lest he commit to something without realizing.

‘You asked me to seek out the memories of our ancestors,’ she told him. ‘You wished to know if the Littoralists were right and if your forebears drove ours from the land.’

Stenwold nodded, not trusting himself to speak. It means nothing, the better part of his mind insisted. At this remove, what difference can it make? But he was a scholar – a tactician, a spymaster and a statesman yes, but a scholar first. He wanted to know what guilt and what blood stained the hands of all those on the land.

‘Kneel,’ she instructed him and, when he raised his eyebrows at that, she cocked her head to one side and smiled, though it was an awkward attempt at the expression. ‘Or you will fall,’ she explained, ‘when my companion touches your mind.’

Suddenly he was less keen to know. The pulsating, curving walls around them seemed to loom always on the point of closing in. ‘My mind? Can you not simply tell…?’

‘You have called on the memories of ancient days, Stenwold Maker. Do you not wish to share them, now that they are laid before you?’ That smile was still there, and as false as ever, but there were real feelings behind it, though terrible feelings. To kneel before her would be to open himself to more than old memories, he realized. There was a need in her, that was desperate, yearning and predatory. She had put her barbs in him before, to lure him back to her, yet he felt bleakly that it was nothing of Stenwold Maker that she sought. It was merely that he was the first, the only, human being that she had shared her domain with, and after he had gone, she had been lonely.

But I do want to know! And would it be such a crime to toy with her affections, to profess things he did not feel, in order to discover what no man of Collegium had ever known before?

‘Come, Stenwold.’ She held out a hand to him, the skin so delicate that he could almost see her bones through it. He remembered now what it had been to touch her, and how he had felt as her power, her enchantment, had encroached on him.

A lifetime of that? A forever of being slave to her magic, a slave to the sea?

‘Can you not… just tell me?’ he asked plaintively, staring at the proffered hand.

‘Words are but sounds,’ she told him simply. ‘In the deep, words are nothing. Sight is nothing. There is only feeling and knowledge. Would you turn away the gift of pure knowledge?’ And, as he hesitated still, two words forced themselves out from her resolve: ‘Please, Stenwold.’

He knew then how it would be a crime, a terrible crime, to buy her knowledge with false coin – and a crime that would come with its own form of punishment. If he knelt before her, if he even took her hand, it would be as if he had signed a contract, made a vow. From that point on, the very creature that contained them would enforce her right, more terribly than any bride’s father in dragging him to his nuptials.

‘I can’t.’ He heard his words and watched her face, half expecting that it would remain calm as ever even so.

‘You must!’ she insisted. ‘You are mine! I marked you as my own. You have thought of me, only of me!’ Her features twitched and quivered, without ever forming a coherent expression.

‘No longer,’ he explained. ‘Perhaps the land air has washed all the sea from me.’ Or perhaps the Monarch was right, and I have been saved by my admiration for another. But he said none of that.

‘But you want to know,’ she insisted, and her hand, still offered to him, kept clenching and unclenching.

‘I do, but I cannot meet your price, Lyess.’

For a second she stared at him, and some emotion flowered at last in her face. It was rage, pure rage, as callow and raw as a youth’s, flooding through her and contorting her features until her perfect teeth were bared, her eyes turning into daggers.

‘No!’ she shrieked, and lunged towards him faster than he had expected. The hand that had been offered to him was at his throat in an instant, still feeling cool and slick. He stumbled back, and she went with him, until she had him pressed against the yielding flesh of the wall. He had a hand on her wrist by that point, and her grip was not strong, but then something writhed against his neck, something in her palm, and he went very still.

Phylles’s Art, he thought, having seen the lashing barbs of Wys’s crew-woman kill their share of victims, and now it seemed that Lyess’s kinden possessed a similar weapon. Thinking of the curtain of stinging tendrils her companion trailed behind it, he realized that he should have guessed at that before.

‘You are mine,’ Lyess insisted. Against her so-pale face, in the grey-white light, it was hard to tell if she was weeping or not, but her voice suggested it. ‘I was led to you! You were given to me!’

‘By who?’ got out Stenwold. ‘Nemoctes?’

‘Nemoctes?’ she spat. ‘What would he know? He is so concerned with Edmirs and heirs and doing right. Do you think I was close by to save you, by chance? It was destiny! It was pure destiny!’ She pushed him back against the wall again, but there was very little strength to her, even in her rage. Only the poisoned sting in her palm held him captive.

‘What destiny?’ he asked, in his most calming voice.

‘The Seagod said,’ she told him. ‘The Seagod promised. It sent me to rescue you.’

Stenwold recalled that vast segmented shadow, that clawed silhouette. Even as a landsman, even as an Apt landsman, he had felt a power off the Seagod, radiating an all-encompassing awareness that no mere beast could own. ‘It saved us from the Menfish,’ he said softly.

‘It told me of you when I travelled in the deep places,’ Lyess whispered reverently. ‘It spoke of the landsman, and told me where I must be – and when. I hated it then, for we Pelagists must be free above all, but then we took you within ourselves, and I… I have never… never known…’

Never known being close to another human being, Stenwold finished inwardly, but the scholar in him enquired, ‘What could this Seagod want with me? It makes no sense? Why would it care?’

Abruptly she was holding his face between both her hands, drawing him close to her, almost close enough to kiss. ‘It told me of you,’ she whispered. ‘There is blood coming from the land: a great outpouring of blood that shall wash over everything until it comes to where the land meets the sea. The sea is great, but that blood is the blood of ages past, and if it is not stopped on land, there will be no end to it. In the end, the sea itself shall be red with it, and all that we are shall be destroyed, even to the furthest Pelagists, even to the Seagod itself. If it can be stopped at all, then you are the man who might do so. So, I must save you from Arkeuthys, and take you with me, admit you to where no trespasser has ever been suffered, where only the distant voices of my fellow Pelagists have ever spoken. Thus you were given into my care. So you are mine.’

Stenwold was frowning at her. And where have I heard prophecy like that before, talk of blood on blood? ‘I cannot be yours, Lyess,’ he said, as gently as he could. He felt her Art writhe and twitch against his face.

‘I will kill you,’ she breathed. ‘Do you think I cannot?’

‘And what will become of this prophecy then? And your Seagod, too?’

‘Must I care?’ she hissed. ‘Must I believe in prophecy? I want! I have never wanted before. If you cannot be mine, then I shall kill you.’ But, even as she said it, the wrath began ebbing from her, like a high tide that time could not sustain. Her shoulders shook, and she collapsed against him.

‘It’s not fair,’ he heard her say. ‘I asked for none of this. For all my life I needed no one. Now how shall I live, knowing that there is more?’

He wanted to tell her that there would be others, that he was Stenwold Maker of Collegium, who believed in neither prophecy nor destiny, and was not worth such despair or longing. He said nothing, though, but let her sag into his arms, the porcelain-delicate translucence of her, and held her close until the distant, transmitted tones of Nemoctes’s voice came, querulous and faint, to announce that Arado-cles’s army was preparing to march.