The shell-house’s innards were lit in dull shades of blue by a dozen small lamps, and a ramp carved out from the building’s inner wall curled down from the hatchway to the floor below. The place was cluttered with bales of what Stenwold took to be dried weed, and at first there was no welcoming party to be seen. Wys did not seem discouraged by that, and led them down to stand in the midst of the little empty space available. Stenwold glanced left and right, and saw Fel and Phylles watching warily.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ Wys called out. ‘Some of us have other business.’
The figure that stepped out was one of the Kerebroi, Paladrya’s people. He was tall and lean, with a hooked nose and a magnificent beard ending in twin forks that coiled like ram’s horns. His hair, above a high forehead, was swept back in elegant waves. Beyond a cloak and a kilt, all he wore was a fortune in gold and jewellery, his bare chest almost hidden by an entire vest of linked pearls.
‘You have the Edmir’s prisoners?’ he asked suspiciously. Stenwold now saw movement behind him: four or five very tall, thin men and women wearing peaked helms, breastplates and greaves of some pale substance. They carried spears with long needle points, but held them loosely, without threatening Wys’s party.
‘You doubt me?’ Wys asked. ‘I’m hurt. I have more than that, councillor. I have land-kinden.’
The tall man’s hooded eyes narrowed. ‘You no doubt imagine I will pay more if I believe so.’
‘Oh, boss,’ Wys said, ‘I’ll hold you to the asking price, but these are the real deal. You, boy, do your trick.’
Laszlo glared at her but, after Fel had prodded him, he let his wings flare and ascended halfway to the distant, gloom-shrouded ceiling. The expressions on the faces of the spearmen were caught between fear and wonder, but their master merely nodded, still frowning.
‘As good as your word,’ he said. ‘And your reward is well earned in this case. Would you stay with us for word of another assignment?’
‘Pay me for this one first,’ Wys growled. ‘And, while you’re at it, how much for her?’
She hauled on Paladrya’s hand, dragging the woman forwards. The tall man’s eyes widened for a moment, his mask of disinterest slipping.
‘You?’
‘Heiracles,’ she named him dully.
Two of the thin guardsmen had levelled their weapons, on her appearance. Stenwold saw something barbed squirming alongside the narrow spearpoints.
‘What is this?’ Heiracles demanded.
‘From the Edmir’s private cells – not dead at all,’ Wys elaborated.
‘Well, then, that can be rectified. My people will be glad indeed to know that justice was truly brought upon the Traitress. We always suspected that Claeon lied.’ He nodded at his men. ‘Kill her. We’ll preserve her head for proof.’
‘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?’