‘We could leak word to Mandir,’ Nemoctes suggested thoughtfully.
‘And get me killed as well, most likely,’ Haelyn argued. ‘I’m telling you this so you take action for yourselves, not get the Man involved.’ She shook her head. ‘Why did it even get this complicated? What does Mandir really want with you, little man?’
Laszlo folded his arms. ‘Looks like little men like me run this place, lady,’ he told her boldly. ‘And your man Mandir knows which way the wind’s blowing, anyway.’ He realized that the expression had left them all quite blank. ‘He knows the value of a good land artificer, so he’s been kidnapping people from wrecks and ships and the like, putting them to work. You see, I know you lot think we’re all savage nasties who eat babies, but your Man here, he knows that we’re actually very good at, say, putting a gear train together, or drawing up a set of plans. You know.’ He pointed to Wys. ‘You heard Master Maker talking to Spillage. We know engines, and Mandir knows that we know.’
Nemoctes was looking grave. ‘I… had not known. Mandir’s kept this secret a long time. I’d not have brought you here if-’
‘Oh, sure, sure,’ Laszlo waved a hand to absolve him. ‘Not saying you meant this to happen, old man, but look: Master Maker’s being forced to work on something he really doesn’t want to, just so’s I can get out here to speak to you. So you lot better know how to spring him. So what’s the plan?’ They exchanged looks again, and Laszlo scowled. ‘No plan? Seriously?’
‘Mandir controls this place. He builds it as he wants. If they weren’t actually letting you walk out, you’d still be in,’ Diamedes told him sharply. ‘Mandir’s Onychoi are armed with… new weapons. They are very dangerous and I have seen them used. We have no forces to call on, and the last thing any sane man would do is to storm the Hot Stations.’
‘So we are waiting,’ Nemoctes put in forcefully, overriding the other man’s gloom. ‘Well-armed they may be, but they are no army. Mandir has limited warriors to call on, and life in the Hot Stations has always been tenuous. We await a moment when their attention is elsewhere. My Pelagists have told me there may be an opportunity soon.’ This was obviously news to all the rest of them, but he just shook his head. ‘I’ll say no more now. I do not know how you’d take it, if you knew, but meanwhile we wait. And we watch Claeon’s killers, too. It would be best if they do not even trouble Mandir’s guards with their intentions. We don’t want Mandir any warier than he already is.’
‘Leave that to me,’ Wys announced. ‘I’ll put Fel and Phylles on to them. Any trouble and they’ll end up in the broth.’
‘What a pleasant thought,’ Diamedes said. The local broth was a Stations speciality, made with the bitter, boiling water issuing from the vents the place was built around. It was clearly not to the Kerebroi’s taste.
‘Our time is up,’ Nemoctes decided. ‘I will have one of my people pass word, if our distraction is to happen. For now, Haelyn, return to your people, and Wys, follow her up. And landsman, back to your minders before they lock you up again.’
When Laszlo returned, Stenwold was bending morosely over some half-sketched plans, whilst Tseitus had a clockwork unravelled on the table and was moving the cogs about like game pieces. The two artificers looked up to see the small man ushered in by Mandir’s guards. It had become clear by halfway through their first meeting that there was no actual love lost between the Beetle and the Ant. Despite all logic, Tseitus still resented being left to rot beneath the sea, and he had further made no secret of his contempt for Stenwold’s admittedly rusty mechanical skills. On the other hand, Tseitus had never even heard of a snapbow, which invention had reached Collegium after his entombment beneath the waters.
Still, the two of them had one shared interest, which was escaping, and it appeared that the Fly-kinden would be the key to that if anyone would. They waited until the Onychoi had retreated, allowing Laszlo time to uncloak and scratch miserably at his stubbling head, but they were both anxious to hear any news he had to offer.
‘I hope you appreciate what I’m doing for you,’ was all he said at first. ‘This itches like a bastard.’
‘A small sacrifice,’ snapped Tseitus. ‘What is their plan?’
Laszlo shot him a level glance and addressed himself to Stenwold. ‘Well, we had a talk – Wys and Nemoctes and Heiracles’s people and I – and the most of them couldn’t find their arse with both hands if there was a crab hanging off it, to be honest, Mar’Maker. Heiracles and his lot, I wouldn’t trust ’em with a bent pin. Nemoctes has something up his sleeve that he thinks we won’t like, which in itself ’s something I don’t like. He seems honest enough, but his people have no clout here, and so he’s waiting for something to happen. I think he expects that Mandir’s people will all go peer out of the windows at the same time long enough for us to simply walk out. I’ve seen the Man’s operation from inside, and it isn’t tight, but it’s definitely tighter than that. But he obviously believes something’s coming. So Wys and I have made our own plans, and sod the rest of them.’
‘Plans,’ Stenwold said, hoping that the Fly knew what he was talking about. ‘What plans?’
‘It’s all about the Gastroi. You know them?’
‘Peasants,’ said Tseitus contemptuously.
Stenwold frowned. He had seen them; big, lumbering men and women, heavy-footed, grey-skinned, doing menial work and heavy labour that the Onychoi obviously wouldn’t touch. They seemed unlikely rescuers.
‘The Ant’s half right,’ Laszlo said. ‘Peasants – farmers, a lot of them, or herders and gatherers. From Hermatyre, too, a fair few. Loads of them live on all those little farms and stations scattered near the colony, Wys tells me. Only Claeon has ’em strung up regularly for a pastime. Just peasants, like our man says, and that’s certainly what Claeon thinks. A lot of them have been turned off their farms or just run away – run here. And they don’t like Claeon one bit, but they’re loyal to Hermatyre otherwise. They want to see Hermatyre in good hands again.’
‘And…?’ Stenwold watched him narrowly, seeing Laszlo squirm a little. Here it comes.
‘Wys and I, we kind of said that if we could get free, we’d be off to find this Aradocles.’
‘Who everyone thinks is dead,’ Stenwold pointed out. ‘Who may well be dead, for that matter.’
‘But we are off to do that, aren’t we? I mean, that was your plan, wasn’t it?’ Laszlo pressed.
‘That was my excuse for talking them into putting us ashore,’ Stenwold allowed. ‘But as for actually finding him…’
‘Oh, well, I told them that, anyway, and so did Wys,’ Laszlo said, a little awkwardly. ‘They’re… loyal, you see. They hate Claeon because he’s a nasty-minded critter, but they want the boy back, and they don’t believe he’s dead.’
‘Where is this getting us?’ Tseitus demanded. ‘So you’ve swayed the rabble? Does that mean they fight? Will they cast down Mandir? No.’
‘No,’ Laszlo agreed, ‘but they’ve got all kinds of Art, these Gastroi. I’ve watched them work. They’ve got this thing they do with their hands, so that they can just carve into stone or metal, or what have you, and cut it like it’s clay. All these pieces that the Hot Stations are made of, they’re Gastroi-cut. And that means that when Wys tips them the word, when Nemoctes’s moment comes, we’re not waiting around for the rescue party. We’re going out the back way, and stuff the lot of them. Then Wys will get us out, and we’re not anyone’s prisoners any more.’
‘And you trust Wys, do you?’ Stenwold asked. ‘Only, our record with these sea-kinden is poor, to say the least.’
‘Oh, she’s my kind of sea-kinden,’ Laszlo assured him.
Tseitus snorted and ostentatiously went back to playing with his cogs. Stenwold sighed and put his head in his hands.
‘Hold together, Mar’Maker,’ Laszlo told him. ‘I’ve got myself out of worse than this.’