The Sea Watch Read online

  Failwright, having abruptly been ceded the floor, seemed uncertain of what to do with it. He glowered defensively at the Assembly from beneath bushy eyebrows. The hum of conversation waxed.

  ‘So who is he?’ Stenwold asked.

  ‘Shipping, must be,’ Drillen decided. ‘That’s Ellan Broadrey and old Moulter on either side of him, and they’re both dock-merchants.’

  Stenwold settled back, preparing himself for a piece of mercantile tedium. The commercial activities of Collegium’s magnates had always left a sour taste in his mouth, since there were enough of them who had made a fine profit from the Empire before the war.

  Failwright glared around him with a belligerent scowl, as though expecting to be evicted at any moment. Stenwold could not recall ever seeing him before, and guessed he was that kind of Assembler who, once elected, never came to the Amphiophos unless his own interests were threatened. As they were under threat now, apparently.

  ‘Look at you all!’ Failwright snapped at the Assembly. His voice carried well, but it set Stenwold’s teeth on edge just to listen to it. ‘Playing at tacticians and diplomats, as if anyone honestly cared what Maker has to say about the abominable Ant-kinden.’

  That caused a scatter of laughter, mostly forced from Stenwold’s opponents. For I have opponents, he admitted. It was another foot in the mire of politics, and currently it was Helmess Broiler and his adherents who led the chase. Broiler had been one of Jodry Drillen’s main opponents for the speakership until recently, when a series of debates and a scandal over cartography had set the man seriously back in his peers’ estimation.

  ‘What this city lives on is trade!’ Failwright went on. ‘We’re not Ant-kinden to march, or Spider-kinden to plot. Trade, curse you all! And we must act to protect our trade. Are you blind to what has been happening?’

  ‘What has been happening?’ Stenwold hissed back at Drillen.

  The fat man shrugged. ‘No idea,’ he said frankly. ‘Probably someone’s elbowing in on one of his monopolies.’

  ‘The wealth of Collegium is under threat!’ Failwright declared dramatically.

  ‘I’m doing fine, thank you!’ someone heckled from near where Helmess Broiler sat, to general amusement. Failwright spat out a few half-formed words, furiously, before regaining control of his tongue.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ he choked. ‘The rail-trade is very well indeed. The airships to Helleron, yes, yes, also well.’ His hands clutched and clawed. ‘Nobody even asks us how things go for us at the quays!’

  ‘Serves you right for hanging around the docks!’ another anonymous wit interjected.

  Failwright was flushed with anger. ‘Two ships I’ve lost!’ he shouted. ‘And in the last three months, eleven merchantment out of Collegium, attacked or disappeared! If you want war, what of the war that pirates have declared on us?’

  ‘Pirates or the weather?’ someone from near Broiler called. Had old Thadspar still been Speaker, none of them would have dared, but the absence of his firm hand had given all the malcontents licence to jeer.

  ‘It is an attack aimed at our very heart!’ Failwright protested. ‘I have papers! I have documented it all precisely. Ships that are robbed. Ships that have been loosed upon by pirate vessels. Ships that simply vanish, no man knows where, with not a single living sailor left to speak of the lost cargo, the ruined investments.’ His eyes raked the uninterested Assembly. ‘It’s Master Maker you call for? Well let him apply himself to some matter of real import for a change!’ he shrilled. ‘I call on Master Maker to answer this! He who has been so loud in advertising his own imagined threats! What does he say to this?’

  The Assembly virtually exploded in a mix of laughter and shouting, some telling Failwright to go away, others calling on Stenwold to stand. The idea of a clash between two firebrands obviously appealed to them.

  Partreyn kept waving his hands, mouth open as he shouted inaudibly for quiet. At last the roar died down and left him rasping wretchedly. ‘You cannot demand answer from an individual,’ he croaked. ‘Only if he consents to answer, on behalf of the Assembly . . . Is that not so?’ The list of causes was wrung between his hands. ‘Master Maker?’

  Stenwold took pity on him, standing up to declare, ‘I am no expert, save that I defended Master Failwright’s docklands from the Vekken, and—’

  ‘And saw most of it burned!’ Failwright yelled at him.

  Stenwold found himself smiling despite himself at the man’s sheer persistence. ‘I would more readily answer questions on the Vekken, whether war or peace, than on this, but I’ll make a reply if Master Failwright wishes it,’ he said, and most of the chamber quietened enough to hear him. ‘We are a city of merchants, as Master Failwright observes. We are also a city of scholars. The two complement each other, in fact. We in this hall are gownsmen and townsmen magnates both. The distinction has always been there. We of the College hold our seats here through long tradition that holds that men wise enough to teach are also wise enough to govern. You of the town are elected by our citizens, and thus represent those men and women whose business and practice is successful and notable enough that you can gather the followers and spare the time to play your parts here. And, believe me, the burden of time never seemed to weigh as heavily as this afternoon.’

  The expected laughter came and Stenwold paused for it, thinking, I am getting too good at this. When did I ever want to please the crowd?

  ‘However, the Assembly has always been deplored by the merchants of this town for interfering in their business,’ he went on. ‘Not seven years ago, there was a motion concerning the workhouses in Helleron, and whether a clean-handed magnate of Collegium could deal with such institutions, could even own shares in them. It was then firmly stated: the business of a merchant is his own. A year before the war came a motion to ban shares in slaving concerns, for as we outlaw slavery within our city, should our merchants be free to invest in the flesh trade beyond? It was again firmly stated, although hotly contested, that the business of a merchant is his own. Therefore I say to you, Master Failwright, that the business of a merchant is his own. If this Assembly may not dampen his profits, neither may it blow upon the embers of his losses.’

  There was a rumble of approval from the lackeys of Drillen, but also from the College Assemblers as a whole. Even as Stenwold sat down, Helmess Broiler was rising to his feet on the far side of the chamber from him.

  Partreyn just mutely gestured for him to speak, and Drillen murmured, ‘Here we go.’

  ‘Well, historic times, my friends.’ Helmess Broiler was a well-dressed magnate, affluently plump, his thinning hair oiled like that of a Spider Aristos. He had proved a thorn since Stenwold’s very first speech to the Assembly, resistant to change, greedy for profit, a true spokesman for the Helleron lobby. Stenwold harboured darker suspicions, too, from the man’s stance before the war, but none of that was provable. In the end, Stenwold had focused his energy on the Vekken initiative, rather than pursue those he suspected had taken Imperial gold.

  Broiler smiled down at Failwright. ‘Historic either because Master Maker has come to his senses, or I have,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I find I agree with him, which I believe is unprecedented. Master Partreyn, you must record it in the books.’ More laughter, and Stenwold suddenly felt complicit in it. And I myself stood where Failwright stands, not so long ago. True, I was arguing for the liberty of cities and not the profit of the sea-trade, but he should merit better treatment than this.

  ‘Master Failwright, all I shall say is that if you place your investments in a wooden eggshell, so very vulnerable to every turn of tide and wind and roguery,’ Helmess continued, ‘and if you fail to make provision for an escort or a guard, then on your head be it. On the heads, likewise, of all who cast their money onto the waves. That is why I buy Spiderlands goods imported by way of Helleron, Merro and Tark. They may take longer to reach the markets than your ship-borne cargoes, but at least they seldom suffer from piracy, and no rail automotive has ever sunk without trace.�
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  The laughter and approval sounded whole-hearted from most, though a little uncertain from Drillen’s people. As the furious Failwright stalked from the chamber, Stenwold thought, I, too, have walked out like that, but I think I chose a worthier issue. Then the thought of the news from Khanaphes reclaimed him, even as Partreyn announced that any more causes must wait until the morrow, whereupon all thought of Failwright and the shipping magnates left him.

  Nevertheless, Jodry Drillen snagged him by the door. ‘A word, old friend,’ he murmured.

  ‘Now is not the best time,’ Stenwold warned him. ‘You know—’

  ‘The Khanaphes expedition? Of course I know,’ the fat Assembler confirmed. He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘If you cannot give me a few moments of your time to impart a warning, Stenwold, then by all means go, but . . .’

  ‘Jodry?’

  ‘There is a matter on the horizon, and you are more than likely to be accused in it.’

  Stenwold looked at him levelly. And how are you trying to twist me now, Jodry? ‘Be quick, then.’

  ‘As a beggar’s supper. Come, let’s find a room.’ Jodry commandeered one of the Amphiophos staff to fetch them some wine, and ensconced himself in a little reading room near the debating chamber. ‘While you’ve been playing nice with the Vekken we’ve had our own military dictatorship to worry about. I’ve been keeping the pot from boiling over on this one, but now your name’s come into it. I’m talking about the Merchant Companies, Stenwold.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘The Companies’ was the unofficial name given to the various groups of Collegium citizens put under arms during the recent war against the Empire. They had been tradesmen and merchants and itinerant mercenaries organized by profession or by place of residence, and had become the nearest the city had ever known to a standing army. At the end of the war, most had quietly gone back to their civilian lives, perhaps with a pike stowed in the attic or a sword displayed over the mantelpiece.

  ‘For most of them? Nothing.’ Jodry paused to receive the wine from the servant, and poured them out two bowls. ‘Three Companies have yet to disband, however, and there have been calls to have them formally abolished.’

  Stenwold’s mind was still on his anticipated guests, news of Che. ‘Get to the point, Jodry. Which three?’

  ‘Outwright’s Pike and Shot, for one,’ Jodry revealed.

  ‘Well, Janos Outwright was always an exhibitionist.’ Stenwold dismissed the whole idea airily with a wave of his hand.

  ‘The Coldstone Company, for another,’ the other man went on patiently.

  Stenwold groaned at that. Coldstone Street had been the furthest intrusion of the Vekken army into Collegium. The men and women who lived there had brought half their own houses tumbling down onto the invaders, then fought as fiercely as Mantids, as doggedly as the Ant-kinden themselves. When the call had gone out to confront the Empire, the Coldstone Company had been there, not line soldiers but ragged skirmishers, ambushers and desperados. They had made a name for themselves as Collegium’s most stubborn and least principled defenders. Stenwold supposed he should not now be surprised.

  ‘And the third?’ he prompted.

  ‘Aha, well.’ Jodry coughed away a smile. ‘They call themselves “Maker’s Own”.’

  A pause. ‘Do they indeed?’

  ‘Indeed they do.’ The fat man fixed Stenwold with a measuring eye. ‘You might recall them. You took them out with you that time you somehow convinced the Imperial Second to pack its bags and go home.’

  ‘You know what . . .’ Stenwold started, and then reread Jodry’s expression. ‘You don’t think . . . ? Jodry, I have not encouraged any such company. Nobody even thought to tell me they were making free with my name.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Jodry said drily, ‘but who else will is another matter. I had their Chief Officer Padstock here three days ago declaring that, whenever you called for them, they would be ready: that they were just waiting for your word to march on . . . well, pretty much anywhere, I think. The Amphiophos included. If you ever wanted to become Tyrant of Collegium, this is certainly your chance.’

  Stenwold looked down at his hands. So much misplaced loyalty, and yet . . . ‘And there are now calls to have them all disbanded.’

  ‘Of course. Many in the Assembly are somewhat concerned at the prospect of bands of armed militia roaming our city unchecked. Of course, they haven’t really thought it through. At the moment the Companies are at least paying lip-service to the idea of civic duty. Disband them and you instantly create three small private armies with a good reason to dislike the Assembly. Then we’d have to pass some law forbidding citizens to own weapons, or some such, and then . . .’

  ‘Then we’d probably be just about ready for the next move from the Empire,’ Stenwold confirmed. ‘Not to mention that most visitors from, well, from almost anywhere would come with a sword at their belts, and it would be a fine state of affairs to have everyone in Collegium go armed except its own people.’ He took a deep breath.

  ‘But we can hardly tolerate private armies in Collegium, either,’ Jodry pointed out. ‘If they’re not disbanded then, soon enough, every Assembler and every magnate will want his own band of cut-throats. Can you imagine what Helmess Broiler would do with a hundred brigands operating under his banner?’

  ‘So what’s your plan?’

  ‘I dearly wish I had a plan, right now,’ Jodry said. ‘I’ve met with Outwright and the other chief officers, and they’re making demands, and I’ve met with the Assemblers who want them disbanded, and they’re making demands, and now both sides are starting to mention you.’

  ‘Well, I can see how it’s my problem,’ Stenwold allowed, ‘but how is it yours?’

  ‘Because I plan to be Speaker soon enough, and then all the city’s problems become my problems. I want you to back me, Stenwold, because you’re the war hero. The Companies will listen to you.’

  Stenwold stared at him a long time. ‘Will you disband them?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jodry admitted. ‘I’m caught between pincers right now, and trying to squirm my way out.’

  ‘Then, when you find your way out, talk to me, and I’ll decide if I’ll back you.’

  For a moment Jodry regarded him sternly, obviously about to deliver a pre-prepared bout of disappointment or chiding, but then he nodded. ‘Fair,’ he granted, ‘but you should apply your mind to it, too. After all, with all your constant talk of the Empire, the future of Collegium’s militia should be of prime concern to you. Anyway, off home with you. I hear you’ve got guests.’

  ‘Guests, yes.’ And the urgency flooded back: Khanaphes. News of Che. Stenwold nodded hastily to Jodry and hurried off.

  Three

  Stenwold’s desk had moved house with him twice. It had been part of his life for twelve years, now, through all those hard years of struggle: his attempts to open the eyes of the Assembly to the threat of the Empire; his attempts to second-guess the Rekef; the deployment of his agents and his intelligence-gathering – all played out on this same scratched desktop.

  He had returned to his trade, or never left it. It was not the Empire that obsessed him, nor even the Vekken. He was using his profession for ends as selfish and personal as those of any profiteering merchant. He was trying to find his own, but the world was large, and those in it so very small, and he knew now that she did not want to be found.

  Tynisa, his ward – Tisamon’s child. He had no hold on her, no right to her, and yet he kept trying to find her. The longer he was left without news, the more he feared that she had succumbed to her bloodline; that she had followed her father towards the glorious, bloody end of a Mantis weaponsmaster.

  He had letters in from this morning, two at once, and neither containing any comfort. The first was brief, made out in the blocky handwriting of an Ant-kinden who seldom committed his thoughts to paper.

  Master Maker,

  Got your missive. Will keep searching. Not so many h
ere that a face like hers won’t be noticed. Also, all like family here – good will and cheer, you know. She comes here, we’ll find her. Maybe you should come here too. Do you good. You’d like what they’ve done with the place.

  Am Commander again now. Am told I’m war hero. Load of rubbish, but can live with it. Herself has me in charge of walls now, or will be when walls built.

  Sperra sends regards.

  Balkus

  Commander, Princep Salmae.

  Stenwold read through it once more. Another pair of eyes now on watch. He had hoped Tynisa might make for the new city, if only from some memory of Salma. She had been more than fond of Salma, he recalled, before the war and Salma’s affections elsewhere had broken them apart. He recalled their last meeting, in Salma’s brigand camp. Brief, awkward. It seemed Tynisa had, for once, not known how to act or what to say.

  Balkus will find her if her feet should take her to Princep. And perhaps Stenwold should go himself. The city they were building west of Sarn was founded on all the principles that Collegium and Stenwold both upheld. He should go and see whether they were making good on their intentions, or whether the rot had crept in already.

  My mind is dark this evening. But then that was hardly surprising, sitting here leafing through the notes of failed searches, while waiting for more bad news from his anticipated guests.

  The second letter was written out in a neatly elegant hand, the slightly over-florid style of an educated Beetle mimicking the glorious calligraphy of the Spiderlands.

  My good old friend,

  I have taken your message to heart. The war scattered many grains and we are all still picking them up. I can guarantee nothing, of course, since this place has grown no smaller since you last saw it. There is no place on the earth where one can more easily find obscurity or dissolution than this city of ours. You know this as well as I, so forgive me the frank words.