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.’