Empire in Black and Gold

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  The lamplighters passed on, but there was something so very private in their manner that told Stenwold they had been expecting him to be there. He began to feel nervous, or at least more nervous. There were too many shadows in this part of Myna and his night vision had never been of the best. That was part of the Art that had always eluded him. Closer into the city’s hub there would have been gas lamps flaring, but out here there was only naked flame, primitive and unreliable against the darkness.

  ‘Master Maker,’ said Totho again, after a short while of waiting.

  ‘Stenwold – call me Stenwold, please. Or even Sten,’ the older man said.

  ‘Sten’ was clearly too much for the young artificer who, after a pause, began again: ‘Stenwold, then . . . There’s something I’ve been meaning . . . that is, when I had the opportunity . . .’

  Stenwold kept his eyes on their surroundings, but he nodded to show he was listening. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s only that . . . When we’ve freed Che . . . freed Cheerwell I mean. And Salma of course. But when we have . . .’

  The boy was certainly taking a long time over this, whatever it was. Meanwhile Stenwold clutched his hand about his sword hilt. The night was getting colder, too, the sky above ripped clear of clouds, pockmarked with stars.

  ‘It’s just, I’ve never met her parents, you see,’ Totho continued wretchedly.

  Caught unawares, Stenwold could genuinely not think what he meant. ‘Her parents?’ he asked, turning a blank expression to the youth.

  ‘Only . . . I haven’t asked her at all. She doesn’t . . . She doesn’t even know, I think.’ Totho’s dark face twisted. ‘But since you’re her uncle . . .’

  ‘Totho, are you talking about a proposal?’ Stenwold asked, completely thrown by this, in this place and at this time.

  ‘I . . .’ Totho read in his face something that Stenwold would have hidden had he realized it was there. The young artificer lowered his head in humiliation. The thought etched on Stenwold’s brow had been clear enough, even in the dull light. His plans for Che, whatever they might be, had not included welcoming a halfbreed artificer into the family.

  Stenwold saw his reaction, divined it accurately. ‘Totho, I don’t mean to say—’

  ‘It’s all right, Master Maker.’

  ‘You’re a fine lad, but—’

  ‘They’re here, sir.’

  Stenwold stopped, turned. They were, indeed, there.

  Men and women were emerging from the shadows around the other end of the square. They were not as stealthy-silent as Tisamon was, but they moved with a minimum of fuss, only the occasional clink of metal or scuff of leather. Stenwold made a quick headcount, and by the time his eyes had passed back again to catch the stragglers there were fifteen of them.

  Most were men and most were young. Almost all of them wore a scarf or some kind of cloth hiding half their faces. They had hoods, cloaks too. All of them had a blade out and ready, even if it were no more than a sharpened kitchen knife. A couple even had crossbows raised, bolts to the string.

  Stenwold stayed very still. He noticed that Totho held his repeater aimed casually downwards, and he silently approved. There was an ugly mood amongst these newcomers, as Hokiak had warned him.

  He studied the few exposed faces. There was one older woman whom he thought he should know, from way back. Another was a lanky Grasshopper-kinden, and he guessed that these young fighters had contacts in the Auxillians who would ensure they were not disturbed here.

  Amongst the few bare faces was one who must be their leader, from the way he stood and the way the others gathered around him. He was young, five years over Totho at most, and he bore a shortsword of the old Mynan style that was no longer made. There was a peaked helm on his head, of black-painted steel, and the bulkiness of his tunic suggested a breastplate underneath. Their scarves and masks were coloured red or black, and Stenwold knew the hidden armour would be too. The thought brought back a flash of that final day in Myna all those years ago, his younger self watching by telescope as the defenders readied themselves. This man would have been only a child then.

  With his offhand, the man drew a dagger from his belt, and Stenwold tensed absurdly, despite the fact that there were swords and knives and crossbows levelled at him already. Wordlessly the same weapon was cast at his feet to clatter on the flagstones. There was a ribbon tied about its pommel. This, Stenwold guessed, was the ‘red flag’ that Hokiak had spoken of, which they left behind as their sign.

  ‘The old man said you were after meeting us,’ the leader began. ‘An old Beetle and a halfway? Why?’

  Not so old, not yet. ‘Because I need your help.’

  ‘And what gives you the right to that?’ The man stepped forward so that the dagger was immediately at his feet, and Stenwold within reach of his swordblade. ‘I am Chyses, old man, and these are my people. We help ourselves and our city, but not foreigners.’

  Stenwold kept himself calm, blotted out the sword, the implicit threat. ‘My name is Stenwold Maker, and I have been here before – before the conquest, in fact. Does none of you here know my name? You,’ he turned to the older woman. ‘You would have known me, perhaps. I spent some time here.’

  She frowned at him, then looked to Chyses, who signalled for her to speak. ‘I remember a Stenwold Maker, a Beetle-kinden,’ she said slowly. ‘I can’t tell if you’re him. I won’t vouch for you.’

  Stenwold glanced around the semi-circle of resistance fighters, seeking other heads with greyer hair. Nobody else? ‘I did my best, then, to help your people.’

  ‘I remember a Stenwold Maker,’ rumbled another man. ‘I was an artificer’s apprentice when the conquest came. I remember a Stenwold Maker who talked us into some mad plan that didn’t work. I remember how we were betrayed.’

  Stenwold stayed very still, because one of the crossbows was now directed straight at his head. ‘Not by me,’ he said, and he could feel Totho as tense as a wire beside him. He realized that the current mood could not last: it would ebb or it would break in blood. ‘I did not betray you. I did my best to help you and I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.’

  ‘I think this is a Wasp scam,’ said Chyses, half to Stenwold, half to his followers. ‘All too easy, isn’t it? “Oh, I was here before the conquest”, “Oh, I did my best for your people”, and then we show you where we hide and what we do and, the next thing we know, the Rekef’s down on us. Sound familiar, old one?’

  Stenwold took a deep breath, but before he could even deny it, Chyses cut him off.

  ‘I don’t want to hear it. We’ve been tricked before – but not ever again. Kill them. Dump their bodies in the sewers.’

  ‘Chyses!’ It was a squeak more than a cry. The resistance leader turned to see that the crossbowman, so recently menacing Stenwold, was now himself held hostage.

  ‘Tisamon,’ said Stenwold, and the flood of relief was almost embarrassing. The Mantis had his off-arm lightly about the man’s throat, his forearm spines in deep enough to draw pinpricks of blood. His right arm was raised, the claw of his gauntlet folded, ready to strike at any that came near.

  ‘Kill him,’ Chyses ordered, but something in Tisamon gave them all pause.

  ‘Don’t you know me?’ the Mantis asked. ‘Not you, Khenice?’ he asked the older woman, whose name that instant returned to Stenwold’s halting memory. ‘I saved the life of your son once, in a brawl with two Ant mercenaries. Was that for nothing?’

  Khenice stared at him, and Stenwold was reminded again how little Tisamon had changed compared to him, or any of them.

  At last his name fell from her lips. ‘Tisamon.’ And then, ‘Perhaps it was for nothing. He died fighting the Wasps at the gate, when your outlander plans failed. But yes, yes you did. I remember.’

  The revolutionaries were in disarray now. Some still held close to Stenwold, some were trying to watch Tisamon. Now others saw that Tynisa, with her rapier drawn, had crept up unseen and unheard behind them. Stenwold guessed that somewhere i
n the gloom of the higher buildings he would find Achaeos, to whom night and shadow were no barriers.

  ‘I have been a friend of Myna before now,’ Stenwold persisted. ‘And I have something I must do here. You may wish to help me, or not. I hope you may even gain by it, so will you at least hear me out?’

  Chyses looked from him to the uncertain faces of his supporters, and the nodding of Khenice. At last, with obvious reluctance, he agreed.

  For those three, entering Myna had apparently been easy, so easy that Stenwold wondered whether he should not have simply sent them in and himself stayed at home. As soon as night fell, Tisamon had made the decision. He did not see it as disobeying Stenwold’s instructions. He had simply wanted to keep a personal eye on matters. It annoyed Stenwold to acknowledge that his friend had been right.

  They had taken the wall swiftly and silently, with Achaeos aloft keeping watch as they climbed. Tisamon did not have the Art for it, to cling to the stones, but Tynisa did, and she let down a rope for him. It was mere minutes and one dead sentry later before they had invaded Myna.

  After that it was a simple piece of work to locate Stenwold, for of course Tisamon remembered old Hokiak, and was remembered in turn. The old man had at first been reluctant to give details of his business but, between old acquaintanceship and Tynisa’s charm, he had been persuaded. All this was still playing catch-up, of course, for Stenwold and Totho had already been on their way to the meeting. The painful fact was that Tisamon and his fellows were simply faster, more sure of themselves in the darkness.

  I should be grateful, Stenwold told himself. Instead it just seemed to reinforce the fact that he was neither as young nor as good at this game as he seemed to have believed. Certainly Chyses would have killed him and Totho without a qualm, had Tisamon not been as fleet and decisive as he was.

  The Red Flag had led them into ever more dubious parts of the city, quarters that the occupation had let go to rot. Stenwold guessed that the Wasps were now paying for that neglect. He saw enough lurking figures to guess that there were whole neighbourhoods here that the resistance had gained effective control over. He began to wonder just how strong Chyses’ people might be.

  Myna. He had seen the city fall. It had been his great failure, that had set him on this intelligencing path. He forced himself away from any thought that now he could save it. I am here for Che and Salma. I cannot fight their wars for them. It’s not as though I did a very good job the last time.

  And then the next thought: If I cannot accomplish something against the Empire here, then my next great failure may be Collegium itself.

  Telling the tale, Stenwold found that it was simpler than he had thought. Putting words to it brought home just what was at stake and what was important.

  His niece and another student of his had been captured by the Wasps in Helleron. It was believed – and here he could not stop himself from glancing at Achaeos – that they had been brought to Myna for questioning. A rescue was urgently needed.

  With good reason the resistance in Myna – the Red Flag – did not trust the sky. Wasps held airborne patrols and they employed enough Fly-kinden in their ranks as well. The stubborn heart of Myna had therefore gone underground. There were some thirty men and women in this resistance cell, which had tentative links to other cells across the city, and they were now in a rambling warehouse cellar near the river, heavy with damp. The walls were a history unto themselves. The upper stones were the pale, plain pieces that the Mynans themselves favoured, but the bottom three rows were crumbling carved masonry centuries older. Some other place had stood where Myna stood now, and had fallen and been forgotten long before the Wasps ever arose to trouble their neighbours.

  The cross-section of Mynan life found here was a broader version of the group that had come so close to ending Stenwold’s personal story earlier. Most of them were too young to hold any clear memories of the conquest, but the occupation had scarred them all. They had grown up second-class citizens in their own city, but their parents, those whose parents still lived and were free, had nevertheless passed the city’s pride on to them. They took this burden very seriously. Chyses was obviously their leader but Stenwold saw that it was a temporary arrangement. The man steered them by main force, and yet his orders were up for debate. They were debating now, turning over Stenwold’s words and passing them back and forth.

  Eventually it was Chyses who had come back to them, and brought along with him one of the foreign militia, a very tall woman with a long face and close-cropped dark hair.

  ‘You’re in luck,’ the resistance leader told Stenwold shortly. ‘You see, we have friends amongst the Auxillians.’

  ‘I’d noted that,’ Stenwold said. ‘I was surprised to see it.’

  ‘The Wasps’ve got no imagination,’ sneered Chyses. ‘There’s a detachment of men and women from Myna serving as Auxillians far east of here, and instead they pass us a bunch of Sa’en Grasshoppers to keep the peace, as though it’s just the same. They see us all as dirt. They don’t make any distinctions.’

  Stenwold nodded. He had never been to Sa but he had known a few Grasshopper-kinden. They could certainly fight, when they wanted to, but they were a peaceful people by nature, a thoughtful people: fighters, perhaps, but not warriors. Still, it was not in the Wasps’ nature to make exceptions regarding the way their slave races served them.

  ‘The more they tighten their grip on us,’ said Chyses, ‘the closer together they bring us.’ It was obviously a slogan that he was repeating. ‘This here is Toran Awe. She’s a sergeant-auxillian in the militia. Tell him.’

  The Grasshopper-kinden gave Stenwold a brief bow. ‘There are not so many outlander prisoners being kept in the palace cells,’ she said. ‘Locals mostly, and anything else raises rumour. Three came in not long ago: a Beetle girl, a Commonweal Dragonfly and a dancer.’

  ‘I don’t know about the dancer, but the other two must be ours.’ Stenwold’s gaze twitched unwillingly to Achaeos, who was sitting cross-legged on a displaced block of masonry and staring straight back at him.

  ‘Then we can help you,’ Chyses said. ‘And you can help us. Because we need a rescue too.’

  They had both ankles pinned down now, and one wrist, and she turned frantically to the man tugging at the buckle. She knew him: he was the man they had come to Myna with, the one Thalric had spoken to. Desperation brought his name to her, when nothing else could.

  ‘Aagen! You’re Aagen, aren’t you?’ She tried to keep her voice steady, instead hearing the ragged mess she made of it. He glanced at her briefly and pulled the strap tight.

  ‘Thalric said you were an . . . an artificer? Is that right? You’re not a soldier? Please listen to me. I’m an artificer. I studied mechanics. Please . . .’ She yanked at the strap but there was no give in it.

  He was now giving her a pitying look. ‘Of course I’m an artificer,’ he said, and she went cold all over. Of course he was an artificer: for the Wasps, this was an artificer’s job – the same as repairing an automotive or making a pump, and no more or less worth the attention of a trained professional.

  ‘You’re going to . . . to torture me?’

  He looked unhappy about it, but it was too small a concession to common humanity to do her any good. He was a Wasp of the Empire, and he was going to do it anyway, unhappy or not.

  ‘Good work, Aagen,’ said that hateful voice, as Thalric strode in and admired the handiwork. ‘I told you it would all come back to you.’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’

  ‘Oh cheer up.’ Thalric seemed to have abandoned his angst of the previous night. Now he was all energy. ‘You two can leave us,’ he told the attendant soldiers. ‘This is for our ears only.’

  They looked a little put out at that. Perhaps they had been looking forward to the excruciation of a Beetle girl. Still, Thalric watched them stonily until they left, and then bolted the door behind them.

  ‘Thalric,’ Che’s voice was a little hoarse from the screaming, ‘you don’t h
ave to do this.’

  He cocked an eyebrow at her.

  ‘Thalric, please,’ she said. She could feel tears springing to her eyes. Aagen was – she shuddered – laying out a medical kit beside her, unrolling the pocketed strip of cloth to reveal the gleaming points of the probes and the clips and the scalpels. ‘Please don’t do this. You’re a . . . an intelligent man, a civilized man.’

  Thalric was smiling at her now, in a terribly derisive way. ‘Has all that spirit dissipated through the drain in your cell, Miss Maker? What a loss that will be to humanity.’

  ‘Captain Thalric, this is . . . beneath you,’ she told him, but still her voice quavered, despite her best efforts.

  ‘So I shouldn’t use this expedience to get what I want from you?’

  ‘No . . . No . . .’

  ‘So you’re ready to talk?’

  ‘I . . .’ She swallowed. ‘Yes. Yes I’m ready.’

  ‘It’s a shame then that I’m no longer ready to listen,’ he told her. His eyes, above that smile, were ice. ‘Fire up your machine, Aagen.’

  The artificer hesitated, just for a second, and for Che that meant a second more of freedom from pain and she could have blessed him for it. Then he strode across the room and started pulling levers. Somewhere below them there was a boiler room, where a head of steam had been got up some time before. The metal arms above her shuddered into life almost immediately with a great hiss and a rattle.

  ‘Louder!’ called Thalric. ‘I want to hear it roar!’

  Aagen glanced at him wildly but did as he was bid, raising the pressure until Che would have had trouble answering any questions above it. Maybe they just wanted to make her scream.

  But that wasn’t Thalric’s way. She narrowed her eyes, watching him. He was oblivious to her, now beckoning Aagen over.