‘Our enemy, unfortunately,’ Stenwold explained sadly. Then he frowned. ‘Where’s Laszlo?’
‘He knew your man there,’ Wys gestured. ‘He went up.’ She mouthed the word almost superstitiously. The sea-kinden were still finding the concept of Art-powered flight hard to reconcile. They twitched every time some citizen of Princep coursed overhead.
‘Up?’ For a moment Stenwold didn’t understand, but then he rose quickly, trying to spot Teornis, but the Spider and his men were already out of sight. Laszlo’s gone to spy on Teornis, the fool. Doesn’t he realize how sharp-eyed those Dragonflies are? And yet Fly-kinden were a stealthy lot, renowned for getting wherever they weren’t wanted, and getting out again with what wasn’t theirs. And also, if I read Teornis’s words right, I am in dire need of learning what his plans are.
He sighed. It was out of his hands now. Be safe, Laszlo, and next time try not to be so cursed rash.
And succeed. If it’s possible, succeed.
‘What now?’ Wys asked him flatly. ‘We’ve got to wait for him to come back? Is the heir even here?’ Her gesture took in the busy chaos of Princep, a skeleton city still under construction.
‘My “friend” Teornis overestimates me, just as he says my people underestimate me,’ Stenwold murmured, drawing confused looks from all present.
‘What do you mean?’ Paladrya asked him.
‘I mean that his own researches are further ahead than ours, and he has told us something that we weren’t sure of until now, although Teornis assumed I’d possess the same knowledge as a matter of course. He knows that Aradocles is alive, and not only alive but somewhere in this city.’
Forman Sands was waiting when Teornis returned to the Wayhouse, but the Spider waved him away, retreating into his private room with a bottle of the best wine the Way Brothers could provide him, and brooding there for almost an hour. At last he sent word by Varante that Sands should join him.
‘Tell me that you were successful at their palace, Master Sands,’ Teornis directed him. At the halfbreed’s expression, his face soured. ‘Or not, as the case may be?’
‘The man I met said only this: she sees no one.’
‘Indeed?’ Teornis raised an eyebrow. ‘I trust you waxed long to him on how important my business with Princep is. Does the name of the Aldanrael carry no weight, these days?’
Forman Sands spread his hands helplessly. ‘No one, he said. The Monarch of Princep Salmae is in mourning and has been since the war. She makes appearances, sometimes, up on her balcony to wave to her people, but receives no ambassadors, no statesmen, no Assemblers, no Aristoi. She’d turn away the Wasp Emperor himself.’
‘Scarcely surprising, given recent history,’ Teornis murmured. ‘Has Maker got to them already? Are they primed against us?’
‘It’s not the impression I got,’ Sands reported. ‘In mourning, they said, and in mourning I believe. It’s a weird place, this one; doesn’t work in any way I can work out. Not a city, just a load of people in one place with the same idea, it seems to me, except… this woman of theirs, this Monarch, I reckon they love her for it, even if all she does is mope.’
Teornis made an exasperated noise. ‘Well, someone must make the decisions.’
‘I’m not entirely sure about that, Master,’ Sands replied humbly in disagreement, ‘but she has underlings at the palace, yes, even if they are still building it. A whole grab-bag of them, and the man I spoke to called himself her chancellor. Roach-kinden fellow by the name of Sfayot, or something like that. A lot of them looked to be Roaches, at the palace. I reckon old Sfayot has invited his entire family in.’
‘We call them vermin in the Spiderlands,’ Teornis said disgustedly. ‘While here they call them chancellor. Great ladies preserve us! Well, will this Sfayot of yours at least spare me the time of day?’
‘He will meet with you in three days’ time,’ Sands said unhappily, expecting an outburst of anger.
Instead, Teornis merely stared into the dregs of his wine. ‘Too long, that. We cannot know when Maker will make his sortie, and he has more influence here than I. We cannot let him get within the palace before us…’ He broke off as Varante suddenly dashed across the room to the window, drawing out his sword. A moment later the Dragonfly-kinden had squirmed outside, sliding out through the narrow opening with remarkable ease. They heard him on the roof seconds after, stalking about, but there was nothing more, no sounds of violence. Still, Teornis waited, holding up a hand for silence when Sands began to speak, until Varante reappeared the same way.
‘And?’ the Spider Aristos demanded.
Varante shook his head, looking surly. ‘Nothing, my lord,’ was all he said, but his head was cocked on one side, still listening out for whatever had set him off.
Teornis sighed. ‘Varante is a warrior,’ he explained for Sands’s benefit. ‘His people are loyal, skilled, reliable, but perhaps a little lacking in patience.’
‘You don’t need to tell me,’ Sands agreed vehemently. ‘One of the lads you sent with me to the palace got himself cut up on the way back.’ At Teornis’s frown he went on, ‘Some Commonwealer we ran into, and your man decided to start calling him names. They were out with those big swords before I knew it, and each cutting a chunk out of the other.’
‘Varante, explain,’ Teornis directed.
The Dragonfly looked sullen. ‘It is a matter of honour between our peoples. We are of Solorn, one of the Seven Exiles, and we cannot stand by while those who betrayed our ancestors walk free.’
Teornis put his hands to his forehead. Spider-kinden servants would not have these issues, but then they would not have been so free to act in Collegium, either, and Collegium saw few visitors from the Commonweal. This patchwork city had been named after a Commonwealer, though, and Teornis had already seen plenty of Varante’s northern kin out on the streets, curious visitors drawn by the name and reputation of Princep Salmae. When he had originally sent for Varante so long ago, to counter Maker’s Mantis-kinden, he had not expected their seven-centuries-old feuding to suddenly become relevant.
‘I should not need,’ he said stiffly, ‘to stress just how important this errand of ours is. I should not need to, because you are of my cadre, Varante, my servants, and therefore any order of mine is important enough to die for. I have relied on you, and I have placed my faith in your honour. Was I wrong?’
There was a glowering pause before Varante replied, ‘No, lord.’
‘Then you will ensure your men keep to their place,’ Teornis instructed him, without an inch of concession in his voice. ‘More, we will move tonight. They can deny their palace and their Monarch to visitors all they like, but until they actually finish building the wretched place, it’s academic. We’re going in to take custody of the heir before Maker does.’
‘And Maker himself?’ Sands asked.
‘Will be slower, I hope.’ Teornis looked up at him. ‘Why do you ask, Sands?’
‘Let me kill him for you,’ Forman Sands offered.
‘You are ambitious.’
‘Master, I killed Beetle Assemblers for Helmess Broiler. They die just as readily as those that vote them in. It’s what I do, after all, so just give me the word and I’ll make sure Maker’s no longer in your way. You’ve seen this dive: there’s no law here. The folks of Princep will barely notice.’
Teornis stared at him bleakly, ‘And, of course, Helmess Broiler will be delighted, should you then find yourself back in his service.’
Sands shrugged. ‘Is it wrong if it serves him too?’
Teornis closed his eyes. In repose, his face looked older and wearier, the face of a man who has slept too little, dared too much. When at last he looked on Sands again there was no pleasure in his expression, only a great measure of regret.
‘I will not give you the order,’ was all he said in the end, and Sands was left to shrug and back out of his presence.
Down in the Wayhouse’s common room, Sands, too, procured a bottle of wine from the brothers and reflected. It was not any residual loyalty to Helmess Broiler that motivated him – or not chiefly. It would be useful to hold open the chance of his old employment – trusting a Spider-kinden was never entirely wise – but Sands now felt that it was a philosophical consideration that swayed him most. He had at first been keen to inveigle his way into Teornis’s service, for the prospect of learning the trade of the manipulator from one of life’s masters had been exciting, and he felt that he was becoming blunt in Helmess’s service. Everyone knew that Spiders were charming, erudite, ingenious, infinitely deceptive and utterly merciless. He had expected, even looked forward to, all of that. What he had not expected was sentiment.