Empire in Black and Gold (30 page)

So he waited, patiently, after the soldiers and their captives had gone. He waited and he watched. Every so often a patrol of Beetle soldiers came round, but none thought to look in the stables, nor would they have spotted him now his strength was back.

In the fullness of time the sky faded towards evening, the silhouetted bulk of the mountains bringing a premature sunset as the sun clipped them. Achaeos stretched, felt his side tug. He thought he could make it, fly at least part of the way, hole up somewhere in the foothills, as far away from these mine workings as he could find. In the first shallows of gloom he slipped from the stables, and froze.

There was a figure crossing the yard before the house, another Beetle. Achaeos waited, very still, very quiet, and the man did not see him. This was a large, broad-waisted Beetle-kinden, clad in hard-wearing leathers, like many of their machine-priests, and he rapped at the door tiredly. Then he glanced around, almost looking straight at Achaeos. The Moth-kinden was a friend to shadows, and besides, he sensed the Beetle was looking for something else, had been expecting something more. Certainly, before the door was opened, he cast a searching glance back the way he had come.

‘Sir?’ came the thin voice of the servant.

‘Is Elias Monger within? I need to see him,’ said the big man.

‘I shall check for you, sir. Are you here from the mines?’

‘No, I am not. Tell him Stenwold Maker’s here to see him.’

The servant obviously knew the name, stiffening briefly at it, and was already retreating as he said, ‘I shall let my master know.’

The door closed. Stenwold Maker glanced around again. He was clearly on edge, Achaeos saw. Something promised or hoped for had not happened as expected.

Stenwold Maker?
The memory came to the Moth belatedly but forcefully. Of course,
she
had mentioned the name: that of her uncle, whom some other Moth-kinden had healed once. And her name had also been Maker, had it not? Achaeos found the Beetle clan-names very similar: Maker, Monger, Shaper, all of a piece.
But it was something like Maker . . .

He had another choice, now and flexed his shoulders again. If he could fly, and this turned out to be a bad idea, he would be away before they could catch him, but if he could not fly . . .

The door opened and the burly Beetle was heading inside. Achaeos would be detected now, if he moved: seen by the servant, by the guards.

He moved anyway, swiftly, opening his mouth to speak.

A hand was suddenly twisting his collar, choking him backwards. There was the twinkling point of a blade under his chin.

It was a poor place that Sinon had sent her to, and not a safe one either, as he had warned her. Tynisa had her hand to her rapier at all times, and all around there were eyes, watching her. She was an intruder, unwanted, and they were all making that clear.

Eventually she had slowed and held a coin in the air until a Fly-kinden boy of about twelve had run up to her. He had a knife in his belt, and his hand cockily on the hilt in imitation of her own stance, and he stared at her boldly.

‘What you want, miss?’ he asked. His eyes kept flicking to the coin, for all that it was just a ceramic three-bit.

‘Scuto,’ she said, and saw the name was recognized. ‘I’m here to see him. Where is he?’

He licked his lips, and then pointed over at one shack, almost indistinguishable amongst the masses. She dropped the money into his hand and then stayed him with a gesture as he made to go.

‘Same again if you tell him I’m here. Tell him Stenwold’s ward is here. Got that?’

He nodded and she favoured him with a smile.

‘Good lad, we’ll make a regular Messenger of you yet. Now off you go.’

She watched as he pelted for the shack. There were still eyes on her, people in the shadows between buildings, in the overhung alleys. They were sizing her up, working out whether it was worth the risk to see what she carried. She kept her stance disdainful, not bothering even to return their scrutiny.

A moment later the boy was out again, beckoning to her.
Here goes.
Sinon might have decided she was best swept under the carpet, now that she was out of his service. He might even have regretted it but it would be just business to him, and he was as much a businessman as Helleron’s greatest magnate. Tensed inside, relaxed to the outside world, she strode forward as if she had no care in the world.

A
thing
of some sort came out of the shack. It was mostly shrouded in a cloak, but looked as though the man beneath was smuggling insects under it. A face she took for a theatre mask, until it moved, looked at her balefully. There was a crossbow in this apparition’s malformed hands. She started wondering whether she could dodge a bolt and get to him before he had recocked it, and decided that she could.

Behind him was . . .

Behind him was Totho, staring at her. The sight of him brought an unexpected rush of relief to her. That even one of her friends was still alive on his feet in this greedy city seemed amazing to her. She had not realized, until now, how little hope she had been husbanding.

‘Totho!’ she called and began to run forward, but the ugly man raised his crossbow threateningly.

‘You stay right there,’ he called. ‘Not a step, or you’ll have this beauty here to deal with.’

‘Totho, what’s going on?’ she demanded. Her hand was already tight on the rapier grip and, without meaning to, she had stepped forward. Instantly the crossbowman loosed, the bolt diving neatly into the dirt before her. She tensed, but the bow was already recocked somehow, another bolt gleaming there.

‘Ask her,’ the ugly man snapped at Totho, who swallowed visibly.

‘Tynisa,’ he called. ‘What was the name of the man you fought in our match against the Shell?’

‘What? Totho, what is going on?’

‘It’s really, really important that you answer me,’ he said. ‘Tynisa, please.’ She could see the man with the crossbow getting tense. Her calculations on reaching him had gone to tatters.

‘I fought Seladoris,’ she said, frowning. ‘You fought Adax of Tark, and drew. You broke his nose. What is going on?’

The relief in the pair of them was visible. The ugly man lowered the crossbow and took the tension off the string. She approached carefully, and Totho came forward to meet her. She thought at first he was going to embrace her, lost friend to lost friend, but his nerve failed and they just clasped hands instead.

‘I’m so happy you’re safe,’ he said. ‘I felt terrible . . . leaving you there.’

‘We all left each other,’ she said. ‘Let’s just hope Che and Salma left us as well as we left them.’

He hung his head, although she had not meant it as a reprimand. ‘This,’ he said, pointing at the ugly man, ‘is Scuto, Stenwold’s man.’

Scuto looked even worse close-to than at crossbow’s point. He leered. ‘Come on in,’ he invited her. ‘You’ve got some catching up to do.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, when confronted with the story of Bolwyn’s death and apparent rebirth.

‘Shame. What with you being a Spider-kinden, I thought you might,’ Scuto said. ‘Seemed like your kind of thing, running off with other people’s faces.’

She gave him a sour look, which was like spitting into the tempest. ‘I have lived most of my life in Collegium, so I’m not up on the latest cosmetic fashions in Seldis this season.’

Scuto shrugged. ‘So it’s a worry, but not one we can do anything against.’

‘But you see why I had to ask,’ Totho put in.

‘I suppose so.’ Tynisa frowned at the array of incomprehensible mechanics around her. ‘This must be home away from home for you. You’ve landed on your feet.’

‘So what happened to you?’ he asked, and for a second she was about to tell him: the Halfway House, the gangsters, the deaths. For just a second she was proud of it all.

Then she looked at his face and remembered who he was, and who she was, and where they had come here from. In Collegium criminals did not boast about their deeds but kept them secret. In Collegium there was a rule of law, and murderers did not swagger about openly in the street.

‘Just surviving,’ she said. ‘Just making my way. So where are Che and Salma?’

‘Best information suggests they took refuge with some of Stenwold’s family,’ Scuto said.

‘But I tried there and they said . . .’ But of course it had been Sinon saying it. She had not asked them herself. What if he had betrayed her, after all?

‘That they ain’t seen ’em,’ Scuto agreed. ‘That’s the line they took with my boys as well.’

She nodded, relieved.

‘Thing is,’ the Thorn Bug continued. ‘I got definite witnesses who saw some fellow in a real fancy robe and a yellow hide go into one such townhouse. Now I ain’t sure myself, but I reckon that sounds like your man, ’specially when he’s got a Beetle-girl with dyed hair alongside him. Only now everyone’s claiming they ain’t seen ’em.’

‘Maybe they’re just scared the Wasps will find them,’ Tynisa suggested.

‘Stenwold’ll get to the foot of it, though.’ The prospect did not seem to delight Scuto.

‘Stenwold? He’s here?’

‘He got to Helleron today,’ Totho confirmed.

‘Some of mine met him at the usual place, told him the state of things,’ Scuto explained. ‘Wanted him to come here, but he’s always got to do things his own way. The only reason he keeps me around is he ain’t invented a way of being in two cities at once. No, he’s gone off asking questions himself, so cobblers knows where the bugger is now.’

‘But . . . the Wasps, they’re hunting him,’ said Tynisa.

‘Think I don’t know?’ Scuto said balefully. ‘Think I want him beetling off across the city? And it’s not as if
he
don’t know either. But there you have it. You just can’t tell a man his own business these days.’ He grimaced, exposing his yellowing fangs at them. ‘He’ll just have to deal with it himself, whatever it is.’

There was a hurried hammering on the door. A boy, the same Fly-kinden boy Tynisa had spoken to earlier, called in, ‘Scuto, someone’s coming. Someone real big and heavy.’

‘Stenwold?’ Tynisa asked.

‘I’ll tell him you said that.’ Scuto picked his crossbow up again and cocked it. ‘No. They already know ol’ Sten, around here.’ He peered through one of the shack’s half-boarded windows. ‘Hell. Scorpion-kinden, and he’s big all right.’

‘Scorpion?’ Tynisa gingerly peered over his spiked shoulder. ‘I know him.’ It was Akta Barik from the Halfways. For a moment she wondered if he had been sent after her, but if Sinon had wanted her dealt with, he had been given far better chances than this. ‘Let me speak to him.’

‘He’s all yours.’ Scuto kicked the door open for her, keeping the crossbow handy.

Barik stopped when he saw her, waited for her to approach him. He had his monstrous sword over his shoulder, its scabbard-tip almost dragging in the earth. She knew she could draw before he had even got both hands on it, but his hands were weapons in themselves.

‘Hello, Barik,’ she said cautiously. Behind the fence of his teeth, his expression was unreadable.

‘Got news for you. Came in after you left.’ His quiet voice just carried to her. She decided she would have to trust him more than this, or she would miss whatever he was saying. She stepped closer, well within the reach of his sword, still outside the reach of hers. He gave a small nod of acknowledgement.

‘Slave deal going on, north-east camp. I was shifting some merchandise for the chief,’ he said. ‘Only I saw one there, in a gang they were shipping out. He was a Commonwealer, Dragonfly-kinden. Not been many Wealers in Helleron since they had that big war in the northlands.’

‘A
slave
?’ she said, appalled.

‘Might not be your man but’ – he waved a taloned hand – ‘Sinon reckoned I should tell you.’

‘Thank him for me,’ she said earnestly. ‘Tell him, when I’m back this way, I owe him, just a little.’

He nodded. This was the proper way of doing business.

As Barik stomped off, she slipped back into Scuto’s lair. ‘We have another problem,’ she announced.

‘Ah, Stenwold,’ Elias said, as his visitor came in. ‘One moment, will you?’ He made an ostentatious show of checking some figures on his scroll, adding them up, underlining the total. Only when he had replaced the reservoir pen in its gold holder did he look up, smiling. ‘I confess, I had no idea you were expected in Helleron, let alone out here. Have you perhaps cultivated an interest in mining?’

‘No more than in anything else,’ Stenwold replied. He looked oddly out of place in Elias’s study, even amongst the reduced facilities of this simple house near the mines. The dust of the road was still on him and he wore his artificer’s leathers like armour, proof against sparks and metal shards. Even with a sword at his belt he was hardly cousin to the lord of the manor.

‘So, tell me,’ Elias prompted, leaning back in his chair.

‘I may need your help, Elias,’ Stenwold said simply.

‘If I can, but what’s the problem?’

‘My niece, Cheerwell, and some companions of hers, they appear to have gone missing.’

‘In Helleron? A College field trip, was it?’

Stenwold gave him a narrow look. ‘They entered the city a few days ago and were attacked, got separated. Cheerwell’s got a good head on her shoulders so she’d have thought of family.’