Jodry beckoned Stenwold in as soon as he put his head round the door. ‘You cut it fine sometimes, Maker,’ he observed, rubbing his hands. Jodry always experienced a bout of nerves at the last moment before addressing the Assembly, yet when he actually stepped out before them, he would be steady as iron. ‘You know Master Outwright, of course,’ he added.
‘Who doesn’t?’ Stenwold remarked wryly. Janos Outwright had been a persistent annoyance to the Assembly at large for over ten years, occasionally even overtaking Stenwold himself as the man whose speeches were most dreaded. He was a bald, stout and extremely short statesman who had cultivated a bushy moustache. He had clung to his seat in the Assembly by stunts and exhibitionism, rallying the mob for some pointless cause for just long enough to win some votes, before abandoning them for some other piece of business. Stenwold hoped that his involvement in the Merchant Companies was not another such brief-lived scheme.
‘Master Maker, delighted.’ Outwright clasped hands with Stenwold in what he believed was a warrior’s grip. Over his Assembler’s robes he wore a blue-enamelled gorget and breastplate, the latter etched, in silver, with a wheel of pikes and snapbows and the words Outright Victory or Death.
Stenwold nodded to him politely, feeling a little diplomacy was wise. What clowns we end up standing beside, he thought but, as of recent developments, he knew that the longevity of the Companies had become a matter of some import.
‘And this is Elder Padstock, Chief Officer of… well…’ Jodry could not suppress a pointed smile.
‘Of Maker’s Own,’ Stenwold finished for him. Padstock was a stocky, heavy-set woman, her greying hair tied back. She had come in one of the knee-length coats of buff hide that many of Collegium’s defenders had taken to, little more than an artificer’s work coat. Her breastplate was plain, but she wore a red sash over it, with a golden sword-and-book stamp and the words Through the Gate.
‘I knew you would not abandon us, Master Maker.’ She clasped his hand firmly, and held it a moment. Stenwold searched her face for clues. I cannot recall ever seeing this woman before. But then the men and women who had insisted on accompanying him from the city had been helmed, anonymous. He had assumed he was going to his death, and would have preferred to do so without their company. It was the merest chance of timing – and an Imperial general’s sense of honour – that had made them heroes and not corpses.
She was trembling slightly, he noticed, and there was the faintest glint of tears in her eyes. That moment, that suicidal moment, was still with her, no doubt the greatest day of her life, forever being told and retold. The naked adoration in her gaze made him profoundly uncomfortable but he clasped her hand again and thanked her.
‘No sign of the Coldstone boys yet,’ Jodry said.
‘Perhaps that’s just as well,’ Stenwold considered. ‘Jodry… at least tell me their livery doesn’t show a mound of dead Vekken or something. Working with Vek isn’t exactly easy going at the best of times.’
Jodry gave a snort of amusement. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Then his expression soured. ‘They use a white helm in profile as their device. The motto is, In Our Enemies’ Robes. You understand that?’
Stenwold nodded grimly. By the time the Vekken had been turned back, it was said that there was not a resident of Coldstone Street left living that did not own an Ant-made hauberk, sword and shield. He was willing to bet that a fair number still had Wasp-crafted kit stowed in the cellar or the attic, as well.
‘Well,’ Jodry declared, ‘let’s go face the people.’ He stretched his arms, waggling his fingers to release the tension. The door opened even as he reached for the handle. Revealed beyond was an Ant-kinden man, some renegade Tarkesh with waxy-white skin and steel-grey hair. He wore a tunic of grey-blue and a cloak a little darker, and he had come armed: a shortsword sat at his hip with what they called a knuckle-shield, a little wood-and-leather buckler with metal studs in its face. The promised white helm and motto were absent, along with any other decoration.
Jodry said, ‘Coldstone?’ and the Ant nodded.
‘Officer Marteus,’ he introduced himself, nodding to Padstock.
‘Well then, we are all met,’ Jodry concluded, although it was clear he would have been happier without this disreputable-looking figure standing beside them. The three Merchant Company officers regarded him distrustfully, as well they might. ‘Let us understand entirely what I am offering you, before we go in,’ he informed them sternly. ‘You know how many of the Assembly are calling for the Companies to be disbanded. Private armies are all very well in Helleron, they say, and I agree. However, I have found one other way out and, with Master Maker’s blessing, there should be sufficient voices to carry the motion. I won’t disband the Companies. I’ll legitimize them. Your three surviving forces will be recognized by the city.’
They nodded soberly, and Jodry went on, ‘I’ve had my secretary prepare some regulations: how many to be permitted in the complement, how often they must train, arrangements to borrow snapbows from the armouries, and the like. There will be a stipend, recognition, but only if you keep to the rules. This way the city will feel safe with you, you keep your pride and… well, I don’t need to tell you the third advantage.’
‘Collegium has an army,’ Stenwold concluded.
‘An army of shopkeepers,’ Jodry agreed, ‘and reason help us all. Let’s go and establish our military dictatorship, shall we? They were foreclosing on an orphanage this morning, so it’s all good works today.’
‘The future of the Companies is the future of Collegium,’ Elder Padstock declared, with utter conviction. ‘The Empire shall come again, won’t it, Master Maker?’
‘Without doubt,’ Stenwold agreed. But I fear we shall have need of you sooner than that – sooner than any of you know…
Twelve
Jaclen Courser had first come to the Migrating Home as an apprentice engineer fresh from the Great College. She had worked hard since then: from artificer’s mate to chief engineer, to navigator, to the Home’s master, taking orders only from the cartel that owned the vessel. When they were out of port, hers was the only commanding voice, or so she was used to.
Stenwold Maker, she thought. Oh, but she remembered Maker from College, twenty years ago: a plump, idealistic youth a year younger than she, always hanging about with his mad friends: that crazy Mantis and the Spider girl everyone liked so much. The Mantis had died in the war, she had heard. Some said he had ended up killing the Wasp Emperor. What had happened to the Spider, nobody seemed to know, save that Stenwold’s ward looked mightily familiar to Jaclen, the one time she had seen the girl.
Still, Maker had done well enough for himself, and Jaclen didn’t begrudge him. He did some fine work in the war, they say. The war was a sore point. Like most of Collegium’s merchant fleet she had been caught outside the city when the Vekken blockade came in, and had therefore not been able to lift a finger to help. Still, I’d rather Master Maker did well for himself in the world without involving me.
She had his note in her hand now. As per instruction, as grudgingly per instruction, she had not so much as broken the seal until the Migrating Home had pulled out of harbour. She did not like being any man’s game piece, but it seemed that her fate had now been commandeered by Collegium’s War Master.
To the Master of the Migrating Home, the note had begun. Complaints have been brought to the Assembly of increasing attacks upon the shipping of our city on its journeys east. That was Rones Failwright’s work, Jaclen well knew. The man had been agitating in the Amphiophos for an age about the pirates. Now it seemed that someone of moment had finally noticed him. Why all the secrecy, though? she asked herself. Stenwold’s note had gone on: I am arranging for a vessel, the Tidenfree under Master Tomasso, to catch up with you once you are under way. You will take on board a detachment of guards who will serve to deal with any raiders or brigands of the sea that you should meet. This is at my expense, and no demands will be made of your employers. Which was all very well, and terribly generous of the man, but Jaclen could not help wondering why they hadn’t just marched the guards on board there at the docks, with fanfare and ceremony, to let all eyes know that the Migrating Home was no longer free prey for piracy. The only logical conclusion was not a happy one, namely that Stenwold Maker was playing a game. He did not want to warn the pirates off, but instead was setting a trap for them. And I’m to be the bait, curse the man. Jaclen morosely watched the Fly-kinden corvette coming in, reefing its sails and letting its engine match speeds with the chugging Home.