The Sea Watch (6 page)

He looked up from the letter to meet their eyes and there must have been a thunder in his expression that they had not expected. The two academics flinched, and Amnon squared his shoulders as though ready for an assault.

‘Who?’ was all he asked.

‘Master Maker?’ Praeda frowned at him.

‘Who was she travelling with? She says here, “No doubt the messengers have already told me”. So tell me, Masters, who is with my niece.’

‘I did not think . . .’ Berjek started, but Praeda’s eyes widened and she interrupted, ‘She must mean the Imperial ambassador.’

Stenwold went quite cold, the letter tearing slightly in his hands. ‘To the Empire? The little fool’s gone to the
Empire
?’

‘I very much doubt it,’ Praeda said. ‘Has her letter not told you where she was going? She didn’t tell us.’ At Stenwold’s stare she went on: ‘The Empire was trying to kill her, last we heard. I can’t think that she’d just walk into their hands.’

‘Then why is she with—?’

‘He’d gone rogue himself,’ Berjek said quickly. ‘Your niece said his own people were trying to kill him. Another reason the Empire isn’t likely to be their destination . . . We . . . ?’ For Stenwold had held up a hand. ‘Master Maker?’

‘Tell me his name.’ The foreknowledge, indeed the bloody-minded inevitability of it, made him feel ill and Praeda did not have to say it. He knew already. He
knew
.

His opposite number. His nemesis. His curse. Thalric.

‘I should have killed him when he turned himself in to me,’ Stenwold said, and the horrified looks of his Collegiate guests passed him by. ‘I should have let Felise gut him. I should have cut his lying throat
myself
.’ For a moment he was purely Stenwold the spymaster, whose history and conduct were not at all those of Master Stenwold the scholar and Assembler. In that same moment someone began pounding on his door, a voice distantly shouting his name, and he was reaching for the sword he no longer wore, even as Arianna went to answer it.

Stenwold heard the insistent voice as the door was opened, demanding loudly to see the ‘War Master’.

I am not in the mood.
It was a voice he had heard enough of today already. He heard Arianna trying to put the man off, but for once her charm failed and the intruder had stormed into the room before she could divert him. Master Failwright, Assembler and shipping magnate, clutching a leather satchel stuffed full of documents to his chest.

‘Maker!’ he spat out, then saw Stenwold’s guests and a moment of confusion ensued, before Failwright blurted, ‘What’s going on here?’ as though he had uncovered some conspiracy against the sea trade. Arianna hovered in the doorway behind him with an apologetic expression, but Stenwold told her, by one small shake of his head, that he would deal with this.

‘Rones Failwright, isn’t it?’ Berjek Gripshod observed, in a voice lacking fondness.

‘I must speak with you, Maker.’ Failwright spoke as though Berjek and the others were just about to leave, as though Stenwold was at the Amphiophos and not in his own home. ‘You’ll see. You’ll see when I—’

‘I’ll see nothing,’ Stenwold said. His voice was leaden, the words like stones.

The man stared at him. ‘Maker, they told me you were a man of honour.’

‘And?’

‘And they sing your bloody praises on every street throughout this town. You have to help me. They call you War Master, don’t they? Well, we’re at war, Maker! Not with your precious Empire, but war nonetheless. Our ships are under attack. More and more of them boarded or fired, robbed or sunk, or simply lost without trace where no storm ever was.’ He slammed the bulging satchel down on the dining table. A wineglass jumped from the far side with the impact but Amnon caught it almost without looking. He was merely waiting, Stenwold realized, for his host’s request to evict Failwright by force.

‘It’s all here!’ Failwright was leafing through a bundle of dog-eared scrolls. ‘It’s not piracy, but outright war! I tried to tell Broiler’s lot, but they’re up to their armpits in the Helleron trade. If we go under, they’d do nothing but get richer. Everyone knows he hates you, so you’re the only person I can turn to.’

‘No,’ said Stenwold. The single heavy word halted Fail-wright’s train of thought.

‘But everyone—’

‘I don’t care what people say of me, I was never the champion of one merchant or a hundred. All that I did, I did for my city and the Lowlands. I never asked to be War Master, and if I had, do you imagine a real warlord would care a jot about your disputes?’

‘No, no, now look . . .’ Failwright took a scroll from his satchel, seemingly at random. ‘The ships, I’ve itemized them all: their cargoes, the men who invested in them, and their fates!’

‘Get out of my house.’ Stenwold’s tone was still calm, but laden with threat.

‘Maker, you have a duty—!’

‘Yes, I have a duty!’ Something broke in him, some barrier that had separated the wartime man from peaceful matters. In that same moment Stenwold wished that he possessed that trick of Tisamon’s: the inexplicable sleight that put a blade in his grasp at the merest thought. At the same time he realized that, had he possessed it, Failwright would have died there and then. There was no sword, of course, but Failwright saw it in his eyes. He was still gabbling away, telling Stenwold how it was his responsibility, but in a voice of thunder Stenwold overrode him.

‘I have duties to my family, I have duties to my College and my city, but I have no duty to be every man’s hired hand. I am not for sale or rent or lease, nor shall I take up your grimy little banner out of public love. I have a ward and a niece lost to me, and friends dead in the war, and an Assembly of men who think that the war was won instead of merely postponed, and
yes
, I have duties, and you now stand between them and me.’ He was forcing Failwright back towards the door without touching him, sheer restrained fury boiling off him like steam. ‘And if you are still in my sight one minute from now then I swear I will no longer be answerable for my actions.’

Failwright actually tried to thrust the scroll at him, but fell gibbering back when Stenwold raised a hand. Not striking the wretched merchant took more control than not having Thalric killed during the war, when the defecting Wasp was at Stenwold’s mercy.

Arianna had reopened the door, and Failwright stumbled backwards through it, still stuttering sounds that were no longer words. The door slammed after him, leaving a moment of blessed silence.

Stenwold turned to his guests, then, and remembered where he was and what he had been doing. ‘I . . .’ he said uncertainly, still seething with anger that had nowhere else to go.

‘I think we should make our exit,’ Praeda decided. ‘Master Maker, please call upon us if you wish to know more, but it seems there is much your niece told none of us.’

I should tell them to stay. I am a poor host.
They were right, though. Che’s news had broken the back of the evening and it would not recover.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘this has not gone as I’d hoped.’ Even as he said it he was thinking,
Has it not, though? Aside from Failwright’s intrusion, did I not honestly expect this after Che failed to come back?

‘We understand,’ Berjek reassured him, and they left, quickly making their farewells. Amnon was the last to go, his gaze suggesting he had weighed up Stenwold Maker, and found something there of worth. Stenwold had understood that Khanaphes had little in common with Collegium, which suggested that the man must have been doing a great deal of catching up.

Arianna went over to Stenwold, her slender arms wrapping about one of his. ‘For the morning, all of it,’ she told him. ‘Enough of them, enough of all of them. Put down your duties, warrior, and come to bed.’

That reminded him of the actual war, when his duties could not be put down, when he had burned the oil night and day to save his city.
And, even then, did I save it? The Imperial Second left us because Tisamon finally honed his gift for killing into regicide. What part did I play?

But the war was currently in abeyance, and long might it remain so. The duties could wait.

On his way to the stairs, he saw that Failwright had been evicted so fast that one of his scrolls lay part-unravelled on the floor near the door. Of all the competing claims on his attention, that was surely the least.

When he came, he came dressed in plain colours, not in livery nor hooded like a conspirator: a middle-aged Beetle in a leather cap, such as artificers wore to keep their hair safe from sparks, or a soldier underneath his metal helm. His clothes were those of any well-to-do tradesman whose job occasionally required him to get dirty, and his frame was portly, prosperous-looking. The bodyguard was Wasp-kinden but not in uniform, all the trappings of a renegade for hire. There was barely a hint of black or yellow about either of them.

The door these two appeared at was not Helmess Broiler’s townhouse, rather a mid-town property he also owned. The line thus trodden was just sharp enough to make him sweat.
Damn the fellow.

Helmess Broiler was a big man in the Assembly still, for all that Jodry Drillen had clawed himself a clear-cut lead in recent days. Popularity was like cupping water in your hands, forever seeping away.
It will change.
But, for now, Helmess had to accept that he had been wrongfooted. It was not a good time for this meeting, but no time would have been ideal, not after the war.

The servant who opened the door was a man who had been with the Broiler family two generations, with sharp eyes and a tight mouth. Inside, a modest table was already set. This was merely two Beetle-kinden talking business in civilized surroundings, had anyone asked.

‘Master Broiler,’ said the visitor, pushing the cap off his balding head and smiling with every appearance of cordiality,
And he is enjoying himself
, Broiler thought bitterly.
We both took a fall, after the war, so how come he’s smiling and I’m not?

‘Master Bellowern,’ Broiler acknowledged. The bodyguard took up his place at a comfortable distance. He was not so evidently a soldier out of uniform as Broiler had feared, but that made it even worse. Paranoia duly raised the spectre of the Wasps’ hidden blade: the Rekef. Was this man a Rekef agent? Was Honory Bellowern himself a Rekef agent?

Of all the people in this city, I am one of only two who truly know to fear the Rekef
, Helmess Broiler thought dourly,
and the other is Stenwold Maker, who would not appreciate the joke.

And, on the heels of that:
Maker, who put me in this intolerable position by having the bloody gall to be right.

Honory Bellowern had been a resident of Collegium for a few years now, neatly pre-dating the war itself. He was a model Beetle-kinden, well-mannered, genial, sophisticated and wealthy. One could forget so easily that he was no native, that he was in fact a servant of the Empire. He was not the Imperial ambassador, which role had gone, after the war, to a Wasp called Aagen. Aagen spent most of his non-ambassadorial time touring the factories and the College artificing workshops, and when he stood up to speak to the Assembly, Bellowern was always at his shoulder. Bellowern drew the charts that Ambassador Aagen steered by, and at the same time he was the acceptable face of Imperial policy, a friendly, corpulent statement that
We are like you.
People like Broiler already knew that the Empire was full of such people. Through their factors in Helleron there had been a fine old profit to be made, and that profit was magnified for those prepared to put themselves out a little for their trading partners.