‘Hold on, chief. She says your boy might be alive too.’
A twitch of Heiracles’s hand halted his spearmen, his eyes fixed not on Wys but on Paladrya herself.
‘They said you killed him,’ he murmured. ‘Claeon said so . . . we assumed you were in it together, and then he disposed of you. He was not best known for his sentimental nature. You, on the other hand . . .’
‘Why would I kill Aradocles?’ Paladrya asked quietly.
‘You were Claeon’s lover.’
‘And yet I did not love him. I loved the boy, as a tutor should.’
Wys coughed delicately. ‘Ah, boss . . .’
‘Pay her.’ At a gesture from Heiracles, one of the spearmen came forward with what looked like an oblong, carved stone. He set it before Wys, who opened it up along an invisible crack. Within, Stenwold saw sheaves of the thick, leathery stuff they used as paper, colourfully inked. Wys counted through these, as though they were deeds or promissory notes, and was obviously satisfied.
‘A pleasure, Archon,’ she said, beaming. ‘Now, you had something else for us, before we head on to the Stations?’
‘Stay and listen to our counsels, and then I may,’ Heiracles told her. ‘Come, bring them all. Follow me.’
Laszlo had landed again by now, bored with being stared at. Heiracles allowed himself just one worried glance at the two land-kinden, before leading them among the stacked bales. His people had cleared a private little space there, and another pair of his guards was waiting, along with someone of another kinden, a broad figure with dark brown skin not unlike Stenwold’s own, wearing a coat of grey hide over his bare chest. He seemed to have white stubble covering his head and chin, but on closer inspection, Stenwold saw that this was not hair at all, but little nodules of something that resembled stone.
‘When are the rest of your people arriving?’ Heiracles asked him, and received a weary shake of the head in response.
‘They’ll be here when they get here,’ the man grumbled in a hoarse voice. ‘Doesn’t work like for your lot, all living next-door. We’ve been travelling for days, and Nemoctes will be here, oh, half a day maybe. Or two hours perhaps. Or a day. Depends on the currents. The others? All of the others? We could be waiting till your lads with the spears die of old age.’ His long-suffering eyes found the newcomers. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Land-kinden, Gribbern,’ Heiracles announced, as though they were his personal discovery. ‘Now are you interested?’
‘No. Nothing to do with me,’ the man called Gribbern replied, in the same miserable tone. ‘Just here because Nemoctes told me someone should be, and guess who was luckless enough to be closest?’
‘You speak for the Pelagists, though?’ Heiracles pressed.
‘Don’t know that anyone speaks for the Pelagists. Not Nemoctes. Not me, certainly. All I know’s Nemoctes told me to be here, and most folks tend to listen when he says things. Don’t know why – just going with the flow, me. Don’t know nothing, does old Gribbern. Besides, technically, I’m a Profundist, and not a Pelagist, but as there’s few that might understand the distinction . . .’
Heiracles had obviously lost patience, for he turned back to Paladrya. ‘Hermatyre believes that you killed the heir, and then Claeon executed you for it. The second proposition is obviously false, so tell me about the first.’
Paladrya took a deep breath. ‘After Rosander’s train moved in, to keep the peace as Claeon said, I knew that Aradocles was in danger. Claeon trusted me, and he talks . . .’
‘He talks to his bedfellows, we know,’ Heiracles finished for her coldly.
‘He did not tell me outright that he sought the heir’s death, but he could not quite hide it, either. He was too full of his plans for his future as Hermatyre’s ruler. I understood that Rosander’s people would be coming for Aradocles, to make him vanish, so to legitimize Claeon’s Edmiracy. The boy was nearly of age, and Claeon had grown to love his position as regent too much. So I took him away to the only place where Claeon could not follow.’ She glanced at Stenwold, then, and Heiracles frowned.
‘How?’ he demanded. ‘How could you take him there? The land is death.’
‘We have listened to our own counsel for too long,’ Paladrya said gently. ‘The other kinden, often they keep old secrets and we never think to ask. There are ancient pacts, I was told, between certain families of the Dart-kinden and certain powers of the land, pacts of mutual respect and acknowledgement. I did not ask the details: all I knew was that there was a channel by which to send word. I sent Aradocles on land with two followers, to await . . . to await I know not what. I knew only that if he remained in any place that Claeon could reach, he would die.’
‘The Hot Stations,’ Heiracles objected. ‘Deep Seep perhaps.’
‘Claeon has eyes and hands active in each,’ she told him. ‘You know this. You know Claeon also. He possesses none of his brother’s wisdom. He is just a small man who clings to the idea of being a great one.’ She gathered her self-possession, fighting to slough off all the fear and helplessness that being a prisoner had layered her with. ‘So, Heiracles, you yourself remain loyal to the true succession, even though you’ve believed him dead? Is that the case?’
‘Do not question me,’ he told her sternly, and Stenwold saw Wys waggle her eyebrows, obviously amused. Then again, most things seemed to amuse Wys.
‘Or is it just because Claeon has not included you amongst his creatures?’ Paladrya jabbed.
Heiracles glared at her. ‘Claeon is a murderer and a usurper, and some of us did not share his bed.’
She shrugged that off. ‘And what have you done meanwhile? Aradocles has been gone for more than four years, and I have been in the oubliette for two. What about you? What grand plan do you have, Heiracles?’
‘With Rosander’s bannermen all over the city, there is little that can be done,’ he told her flatly. ‘I have my spies inside the palace. I have gathered information. Recently I have arranged to extract some curious prisoners I had received word of. Do not make me regret it.’
‘And if Aradocles returns?’
Heiracles regarded her without expression. ‘Oh, yes, if the boy-Edmir returns then no doubt the colony will rise up, although there is the small fact that they will be rising right into the claws of Rosander’s thugs. But you sent him onto the land, and the land is death. Only the Littoralists pretend otherwise.’
‘And the land-kinden?’ Paladrya said stubbornly. ‘Heiracles, send these two land-kinden to find Aradocles, and bring him back. Rosander’s not unbeatable.’
Heiracles’s smile was not pleasant. His sharp eyes turned on Stenwold. ‘You’d do that, would you?’
Oh, hammer and tongs, yes! ‘Return me to the land and I will do whatever you want, believe me.’
The expression on Heiracles’s face grew disdainful. ‘Oh I’m sure of it, if you could be trusted. Why should these landsmen care for our troubles? No doubt some relative of theirs has skinned and eaten the boy already, if they even go so far as to prepare their food.’
‘Claeon believes he’s still alive,’ Paladrya insisted. ‘Why else would he take land-kinden captive?’
Heiracles gave her a pitying look. ‘Claeon believes many things. Some say he even believes the Littoralists, and looks to make conquests above the waves. But I believe otherwise. I believe he has tired of feeding Rosander’s Thousand Spines and looks elsewhere for a means to keep the colony under his thumb. I believe that these land-kinden are to form his new militia within Hermatyre: a captive slave army that could only do his bidding, or drown. Besides, what creature that must eke out its living beneath the burning sun and dust would not leap at the chance to live as we do? No, I will not trust these savages.’
Coming from a man wearing little but a kilt and some gold baubles, Stenwold found this a little rich. Laszlo was clearly gathering himself to deliver some invective, until Wys cuffed him across the back of the head.
‘Don’t reckon anyone wants to hear my thoughts,�
�� Gribbern’s droning voice broke in, ‘but I don’t see how this concerns the Pelagists, or even the Profundists, of which technically I am one. I don’t see how even Nemoctes, who’s a good deal more sociable than me, would want to get involved in this.’
‘Then why did he send you?’ Heiracles demanded of the man.
‘Don’t see as he did send me,’ responded Gribbern’s mournful voice. ‘He asked, mind, because he cares about Hermatyre, on account of even Pelagists having to moor up there sometimes, and Profundists as well. But it doesn’t sound like anything there’s going to change unless you somehow magic the boy back, and it seemed to me as though you’re not even interested in that . . .’
‘I said nothing of the sort,’ Heiracles protested, and hastily, which piqued Stenwold’s interest. ‘I simply said I cannot see that we should trust these . . . outlanders. Of course I’d wish Aradocles back, if I believed there was any chance.’
‘There is a chance,’ Paladrya insisted.
‘Enough from you,’ he snapped. ‘You’re still under threat of execution. Push me too far and . . . what now?’ For one of his spearmen, still dripping from the sea, had clattered in amongst them, past the bales.
‘Archon,’ the man gasped, ‘you must leave. The Edmir’s men are coming.’
Twenty-Three
‘You look like a man who has received some bad news,’ was Teornis’s understatement. In truth the Edmir’s face was like thunder. The messenger luckless enough to bring that same news must have had little time in which to regret it. Teornis had already gauged Claeon’s character by the way he treated his underlings. Good Aristoi inspired loyalty, rewarded good service, and were utterly ruthless when necessary. Claeon’s temper was like a beast unchained. He lashed out at the undeserving when angry, and that bred only resentment. His power alone prevented reprisal, and Teornis had seen men just like him fall very quickly once their one crutch was kicked away. And may my foot do the kicking one day, O Edmir.
‘Tell me of your companions,’ Claeon snapped, hurling himself down onto the woven mattress of the bed.
Teornis took a moment to compose his words, contrasting the relative comfort up here with the cell down in the oubliette, or with Claeon’s torture chamber for that matter. These guest chambers, or whatever they were, were at least spacious and furnished, adorned with the sea-kinden’s customary artistic flair for pointless arabesques, and there was even a small extent of rubbery window giving out on to the endless dark waters. ‘Of the small one,’ he started, ‘nothing need be said. He is a servant, no more than that.’
Claeon grunted in acknowledgement. In truth, Teornis had no particular feelings for Stenwold’s Fly companion one way or the other, but he was not going to risk himself to keep the little vermin alive.
‘The other, though, he was always my chief opponent in the war between his people and mine. He has considerable power and influence amongst his own colony.’
‘A clever man?’ the Edmir muttered.
‘Oh, clever certainly.’ So what’s wrong? Claeon’s displeasure was intense enough to stop any other clues getting through. Has Stenwold died? It was a bitter thought. Perhaps he tried some ridiculous escape attempt and the guards killed him. Perhaps the guards just killed him for sport. They seemed fit servants for their master, from what I saw. ‘A valuable prisoner, for bargaining, I would say. And a man who knows a great deal of useful information.’
Claeon’s look grew only darker.
Teornis grimaced. ‘O Edmir, if I have displeased you, then only let me know how . . .’ he tried.
The Edmir glanced up at him, as though seeing him for the first time. ‘You? Oh, I still have you, and I see I was wise to keep you separate like this. You are a man of influence also, so you say?’
‘With my people, yes,’ Teornis allowed cautiously. ‘With many people above the waters, indeed. You wish me to use this influence of mine on your behalf?’
‘And you are an enemy to those other two?’
‘Our peoples are enemies, it is true.’
Claeon let out a long hiss. ‘As you have guessed, I have my agents on land. The Littoralists indeed have their uses. Your people – or your enemy’s people – they have agents amongst my own, I now discover.’
Teornis blinked at that, momentarily left without words. ‘I . . . had not thought so, O Edmir,’ he said at last.
The Edmir glowered at him. ‘If you play me false, landsman, I shall give you over to Arkeuthys to devour.’
‘O Edmir, we have never known of your people – or your colony. Perhaps there are some land-kinden that once did, though. Perhaps those who formerly ruled the places where now your other prisoner’s people stand once knew. They knew a great deal that they neglected to share with others. For his people, though? No, surely not. I cannot imagine that they could have such knowledge, and not trumpet it all over the land. They are not subtle as you and I are. They do not understand the value of secrets.’
‘Then it is a rot within the colony, that someone has dared such a thing,’ Claeon murmured, more to himself than Teornis. ‘Perhaps it was her they came for, after all, and they took away the landsmen just because they were there. I am betrayed. There are spies in the palace, there must be. Who can I rely on?’ He looked up keenly. ‘Your fellow prisoners, they knew nothing of Aradocles? You swear it?’
‘That name was unknown to all of us,’ Teornis confirmed.
‘And yet . . . perhaps they might now find him, if he remains alive to be found,’ the Edmir told himself.
‘As might I,’ Teornis put in carefully.
Claeon stood up abruptly. ‘I do not trust you,’ he told the Spider. ‘I will not trust you unless I must. Your comrades have escaped, but I shall regain them. My hunters seek them out even now. I shall have them back and, when I do, I shall rework them on my benches so that they shall not be capable of flight a second time.’
He stormed out, leaving Teornis rubbing his chin speculatively and feeling pieces of a plan begin to fall into place.
Heiracles’s face tightened on hearing the news. ‘In what form?’ he demanded.
‘Dart-cavalry are close. Our scout signed for Onychoi as well,’ his man reported.
‘Hold them off,’ the lean man ordered, and the messenger went running for the hatch, ascending the ramp in great strides. Heiracles looked round at Paladrya and the two land-kinden. ‘They cannot breathe water, I take it?’ he snapped, indicating the caul that Stenwold still held.
‘Boss, there’s precious little they can do,’ Wys told him.
‘I cannot carry them with me. My entourage and I rode here, and it were best they left here separately, so as to confound pursuit. Gribbern . . .’
The dark man sighed. ‘Don’t reckon I much fancy it but, then, Nemoctes would do it if he were here. Shame he’s not, really.’
‘Gribbern, just give me a straight answer!’ Heiracles held his temper with difficulty.
The other man gave a monumental sigh. ‘Reckon I might take one, just about. Just one, mind. My Pserry won’t fit more, is my thinking.’
‘I’ll take the little one,’ Wys put in quickly.
‘This wasn’t what I wanted from you—’ started Heiracles.
‘It’s what you need, though, right? We can talk payment when we meet again.’
‘Gribbern can hide in the weed. Your barque will never outdistance dart-riders.’
‘My barque, chief, can look after itself. They’ll hit rough waters if they come after me,’ she promised. ‘You, squib, you’re mine.’ She dragged at Laszlo’s arm, and the little man gave Stenwold a wide-eyed look.
‘Go with her. We’ll meet again.’
‘But where? These clowns haven’t even got a plan, Ma’rMaker!’ Laszlo protested, pulling against Wys. ‘Who’s going to look after you?’
‘Just go.’ Stenwold forced a smile. ‘Be safe.’
‘I’ll send word by the Pelagists,’ Heiracles told Wys.
‘Right, boss.’ She hauled Laszlo
up the ramp, with her crew following. The last Stenwold saw of the Fly was a caul being dragged over his still-protesting mouth.
‘Paladrya, will you ride with me?’ Heiracles proffered a hand.
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Under the circumstances, no.’
‘Then I would be delighted,’ she said pointedly. ‘Land-kinden . . .’ She turned her wide eyes on Stenwold, who was losing familiar faces by the second. For a second she stared at him, despite Heiracles’s obvious need to be gone.
‘Paladrya,’ Stenwold acknowledged and, to his surprise, she embraced him briefly, a moment’s clasp, her cheek to his, and then she was pulling away. ‘Good fortune.’
‘And you,’ Stenwold said. He turned to Gribbern, seeing little to inspire confidence in that dour, stone-pocked countenance.
‘Reckon you’d better come with me,’ the man grumbled, and headed up. Stenwold met Paladrya’s eyes once more before he followed.
In the water once more, back in the grip of the cold and the breath-stopping clench of the sea, Stenwold saw Gribbern kick off from the shell’s hatch and descend towards the bottom, his grey coat billowing around him like shabby wings. With no option, Stenwold did the same, paddling ineffectually at the water, while feeling a gentle current drift him towards the wall of tangled weed. He never really landed at all, only got close enough to the mud of the sea-floor to kick it into clouds of sediment, as he lurched and bobbed towards Gribbern’s waiting figure. The sea-kinden was gazing upwards, his arms dejectedly by his sides. Stenwold glanced up and saw shapes passing in the faint light of the shell-house’s lamps. They were swift, streamlined, and they were duelling as fiercely as any Exalsee aviators, darting against each other in a swirl of speed. Two clashed together, and he had a glimpse of riders crouched over couched lances, closing, then breaking apart in a swirl of dark blood.
Or ink? They were riding squid, he saw, and riding them bizarrely backwards, with the beast’s head and trailing tentacles to the rear. They carried nothing more than lances, no bows or thrown spears or anything like modern weapons, and he wondered how far a crossbow bolt would travel with any force, down here.
The Sea Watch Page 34
