‘No, no, please, help yourself to my table. I – I won’t be a moment.’ He should leave Che’s letter until they were gone, he knew, but he did not have that kind of strength, not in this.
Dearest Uncle Sten,
I hope this reaches you soon. I am afraid you will not be very happy with me, but there is not much that can be done about that. I am not coming back to Collegium right away.
I cannot explain to you what has happened to me, but it follows from the wounds I took in the war: the losses that I endured. I have healed some of them.
Achaeos is dead.
I can write that now. It is true for me now, though I am still coming to terms with it. He is dead, but he has left me with his gift – the gift of his kind, and of his Days of Lore. We call them the Bad Old Days sometimes, but I am not sure that is just. They were merely different times, when the Inapt races ruled. I know this now.
I must ask you to trust me and I know it will be hard. I have always been the one to follow, to stumble, to make mistakes. I have always leant on you, and trusted you, and been rescued by you. Now you must trust me.
I am travelling to find Tynisa. I know where she has gone and I know she is in great danger. It is time for me to mount a rescue.
I am not travelling alone, but that is another thing you must trust me on. No doubt the messengers have already told you who I journey with, and no doubt you have already mobilized the army and called for the orthopters to start up their wings.
Trust me. I do not say ‘Trust him’, because I cannot ask that of you, but just trust me, in this.
I will come home and, if it is possible, I will come home with Tynisa.
Your disobedient niece,
Cheerwell
He looked up from the letter to meet their eyes and there must have been a thunder in his expression that they had not expected. The two academics flinched, and Amnon squared his shoulders as though ready for an assault.
‘Who?’ was all he asked.
‘Master Maker?’ Praeda frowned at him.
‘Who was she travelling with? She says here, “No doubt the messengers have already told me”. So tell me, Masters, who is with my niece.’
‘I did not think…’ Berjek started, but Praeda’s eyes widened and she interrupted, ‘She must mean the Imperial ambassador.’
Stenwold went quite cold, the letter tearing slightly in his hands. ‘To the Empire? The little fool’s gone to the Empire?’
‘I very much doubt it,’ Praeda said. ‘Has her letter not told you where she was going? She didn’t tell us.’ At Stenwold’s stare she went on: ‘The Empire was trying to kill her, last we heard. I can’t think that she’d just walk into their hands.’
‘Then why is she with-?’
‘He’d gone rogue himself,’ Berjek said quickly. ‘Your niece said his own people were trying to kill him. Another reason the Empire isn’t likely to be their destination… We…?’ For Stenwold had held up a hand. ‘Master Maker?’
‘Tell me his name.’ The foreknowledge, indeed the bloody-minded inevitability of it, made him feel ill and Praeda did not have to say it. He knew already. He knew.
His opposite number. His nemesis. His curse. Thalric.
‘I should have killed him when he turned himself in to me,’ Stenwold said, and the horrified looks of his Collegiate guests passed him by. ‘I should have let Felise gut him. I should have cut his lying throat myself.’ For a moment he was purely Stenwold the spymaster, whose history and conduct were not at all those of Master Stenwold the scholar and Assembler. In that same moment someone began pounding on his door, a voice distantly shouting his name, and he was reaching for the sword he no longer wore, even as Arianna went to answer it.
Stenwold heard the insistent voice as the door was opened, demanding loudly to see the ‘War Master’.
I am not in the mood. It was a voice he had heard enough of today already. He heard Arianna trying to put the man off, but for once her charm failed and the intruder had stormed into the room before she could divert him. Master Failwright, Assembler and shipping magnate, clutching a leather satchel stuffed full of documents to his chest.
‘Maker!’ he spat out, then saw Stenwold’s guests and a moment of confusion ensued, before Failwright blurted, ‘What’s going on here?’ as though he had uncovered some conspiracy against the sea trade. Arianna hovered in the doorway behind him with an apologetic expression, but Stenwold told her, by one small shake of his head, that he would deal with this.
‘Rones Failwright, isn’t it?’ Berjek Gripshod observed, in a voice lacking fondness.
‘I must speak with you, Maker.’ Failwright spoke as though Berjek and the others were just about to leave, as though Stenwold was at the Amphiophos and not in his own home. ‘You’ll see. You’ll see when I-’
‘I’ll see nothing,’ Stenwold said. His voice was leaden, the words like stones.
The man stared at him. ‘Maker, they told me you were a man of honour.’
‘And?’
‘And they sing your bloody praises on every street throughout this town. You have to help me. They call you War Master, don’t they? Well, we’re at war, Maker! Not with your precious Empire, but war nonetheless. Our ships are under attack. More and more of them boarded or fired, robbed or sunk, or simply lost without trace where no storm ever was.’ He slammed the bulging satchel down on the dining table. A wineglass jumped from the far side with the impact but Amnon caught it almost without looking. He was merely waiting, Stenwold realized, for his host’s request to evict Failwright by force.
‘It’s all here!’ Failwright was leafing through a bundle of dog-eared scrolls. ‘It’s not piracy, but outright war! I tried to tell Broiler’s lot, but they’re up to their armpits in the Helleron trade. If we go under, they’d do nothing but get richer. Everyone knows he hates you, so you’re the only person I can turn to.’
‘No,’ said Stenwold. The single heavy word halted Fail-wright’s train of thought.
‘But everyone-’
‘I don’t care what people say of me, I was never the champion of one merchant or a hundred. All that I did, I did for my city and the Lowlands. I never asked to be War Master, and if I had, do you imagine a real warlord would care a jot about your disputes?’
‘No, no, now look…’ Failwright took a scroll from his satchel, seemingly at random. ‘The ships, I’ve itemized them alclass="underline" their cargoes, the men who invested in them, and their fates!’
‘Get out of my house.’ Stenwold’s tone was still calm, but laden with threat.
‘Maker, you have a duty-!’
‘Yes, I have a duty!’ Something broke in him, some barrier that had separated the wartime man from peaceful matters. In that same moment Stenwold wished that he possessed that trick of Tisamon’s: the inexplicable sleight that put a blade in his grasp at the merest thought. At the same time he realized that, had he possessed it, Failwright would have died there and then. There was no sword, of course, but Failwright saw it in his eyes. He was still gabbling away, telling Stenwold how it was his responsibility, but in a voice of thunder Stenwold overrode him.
‘I have duties to my family, I have duties to my College and my city, but I have no duty to be every man’s hired hand. I am not for sale or rent or lease, nor shall I take up your grimy little banner out of public love. I have a ward and a niece lost to me, and friends dead in the war, and an Assembly of men who think that the war was won instead of merely postponed, and yes, I have duties, and you now stand between them and me.’ He was forcing Failwright back towards the door without touching him, sheer restrained fury boiling off him like steam. ‘And if you are still in my sight one minute from now then I swear I will no longer be answerable for my actions.’
Failwright actually tried to thrust the scroll at him, but fell gibbering back when Stenwold raised a hand. Not striking the wretched merchant took more control than not having Thalric killed during the war, when the defecting Wasp was at Stenwold’s mercy.