‘Jen!’ Reader was shouting, and Jons bellowed at him to get below, He was calling to cast off before feeling the lurch of the deck beneath his feet — comforting even as it sent him staggering — knowing that someone on the ground had had the sense to cut the mooring ties. He had a brief glimpse of the hoist platform as it slipped past, Jen Reader standing there with the two Company soldiers flanking her, her daughter in her arms, watching the airship swiftly ascend.
The first Stormreader skittered past, looping about the Windlass’s envelope to engage the Farsphex — And how many holes did they punch in the canvas, eh? He thrust the thought away and bent to his task, gauging the wind and bringing his ship around on a course that would take them to Sarn. More of the orthopter escort were lifting past him now, and he could see flashes out in the night as they threw themselves at the handful of Farsphex that had located them. Kymene and a few of her Mynans had even taken to the Windlass’s rails with snapbows, providing a desperate last line of defence if it was needed.
Jons looked back, and down, seeing his city diminishing and becoming something less, until the night had swallowed it entirely.
Three streets away stood the wall, where the black and gold flag was already raised, indicating that segment of Collegium’s shell that was already claimed by the Empire. The nearest buildings had rapidly been abandoned by their owners: the merchants, artisans and their families fleeing the reach of the Wasps. Now only soldiers of the Fealty Street Company kept watch, awaiting dawn and the formal surrender.
And there remained one other man, on the roof of this one townhouse: a poor and ill-kept building, the shame of the neighbourhood, the dilapidated exterior of which bomb scars had barely managed to disfigure.
The battered little automotive pulling up outside it had a clockwork engine badly in need of maintenance, the gear trains clattering and ratcheting against one another, sounding on the point of working loose. The driver in his open cab was a Sarnesh in a Student Company sash. Behind him was a tailgated flatbed, hooded with canvas stretched over a looped metal frame.
As the engine was hacking to a halt, Laszlo put his head out and glanced around. There had been a rumour of Wasp death-squads stalking the streets, winged soldiers creeping into the city to kill anyone they found. Or else Spiders with their stealthy blades, come to exact a final price before the surrender. The city was alive with fear tonight.
He hopped over towards the peeling door and hammered on it, keeping one eye still on the sky. On the second repetition another Fly appeared in the doorway, brandishing an uncocked crossbow and looking furious. ‘What is this riot? Are we come to this already? Be off with you!’ His clothes were plain but impeccably neat, his face blotchy and red-eyed.
‘Where’s Drillen?’ demanded Laszlo. ‘We’ve got an airship to catch, and he’s supposed to be on it.’
The Fly at the door stared at him for a moment. ‘You’re Maker’s man? Laszlo?’ His eyes flicked towards the automotive. ‘Oh, no. .’ In a moment he was out into the street, wings taking him to the covered rear of the automotive, peering into the gloom until he locked eyes with the half-supine form of Stenwold Maker.
‘War Master? You must get yourself to the Windlass!’ he exclaimed.
Stenwold hissed in frustration and rasped out. ‘And so must your master, Arvi. Where the pits is he?’
Jodry Drillen’s secretary shook his head. ‘You can’t be here! I sent the message myself! Please, just go!’
‘I’ve had no message. I’ve been to every place Jodry owns in the city, save this,’ Stenwold rasped. ‘He’s here, isn’t he? Then go and get him. We can still get aloft.’
‘War Master,’ Arvi told him solemnly, ‘he’s not going.’
There was a ghastly, strained silence, and then a sudden clang as, with one convulsive movement, Stenwold kicked the tailgate open.
‘Mar’Maker, no. He’s right, we’ve got to go,’ Laszlo insisted, but Stenwold heaved and dragged himself to the edge. His Ant-kinden driver had dashed round the side by then to support his weight, so that he ended up on his feet at the back of the automotive, gasping, clutching at a stout stick to steady himself but plainly only held up by the Art of his helper.
‘If he won’t come. . to me,’ he wheezed out, ‘then I will. . go. . to him.’
Arvi watched him, aghast, as he lurched through the door and inside, leaning on stick and driver at every heavy step.
‘Where?’ came the War Master’s whisper, with a frustrated sigh when Arvi indicated the stairs. Before Stenwold could brace himself for the climb, though, the ponderous figure of Jodry Drillen began descending, regarding his old friend and ally with inordinate sadness.
‘Stenwold, get to the airship.’
Stenwold’s reply was lost, but Laszlo translated: ‘Soon as you get in the automotive, he says.’
Halfway down the stairs, Drillen sat. ‘I’ve given it some thought, Sten. It’s not going to happen. I’m Speaker, after all. I brought us all to this, as much as anyone did. . yes, don’t flatter yourself, just as much as you. When the word of our surrender goes out to the Wasps at dawn, I’ll take it myself.’
Stenwold’s spitting remonstrance was all but inaudible, but it needed no translation.
‘Oh, maybe, maybe,’ the Speaker for the Assembly confirmed tiredly. ‘But maybe not, after all. And if I go myself, and give myself into their hands, then perhaps it will soften the blow for the rest of the city. Perhaps I’ll be able to achieve something that way.’ He shook his head, his jowls quivering. ‘There’s always a first time.’
Stenwold looked up at him, fighting for breath. ‘You utter fool,’ he got out.
‘That’s just the standard of debate I should expect from a firebrand like you.’ Jodry forced a smile. ‘Now get gone. We don’t know what they’ll do with me, but you’ve been on the Rekef’s list since before the first war. Get out of my house, Sten. Get out of my city, for that matter. Piss off to Sarn, why don’t you?’
‘Come on, Mar’Maker,’ Laszlo insisted. ‘You know he’s right.’
Stenwold’s face twisted for a moment, but it was not clear whether it was sentiment or the continuing effects of the physicians’ alchemy that was responsible. ‘See you again, Jodry,’ he managed, as the Ant-kinden began to manhandle him back towards the door.
‘Of course you will,’ Jodry agreed hollowly. ‘Go carefully, Sten.’
They were halfway to the airfield when they heard the Farsphex engines, but none of them drew the right conclusion until the driver ground the automotive to a skidding halt. There, lifting from the city ahead, was the grey shadow of the Windlass, the fleeter shapes of the Stormreaders wheeling all around it. Gone, and already drawing the notice of the Empire with its departure.
Stenwold drew a ragged breath when the driver told him. Other than that, the news seemed unable to injure him more than he was damaged already.
Laszlo, ever resourceful, was leaning over beside their driver, giving urgent directions.
‘We’re getting clear, Mar’Maker!’ he shouted. ‘Never you worry.’
They rattled through the dark streets of Collegium, away from the Empire-held gate, for the harbour, with Laszlo all the while flitting from Stenwold back to the driver, babbling reassuring optimism whilst trying to calculate just what decisions might have been made in his absence, especially once the Farsphex started flying.
And when they reached the docks, and when the driver had brought them to a stop, Laszlo dropped out from the automotive and simply stood there, looking out to sea. Not a ship was in, not a single one. Most certainly not the Tidenfree.
For once in his life, Laszlo had no words, and he felt tears welling up — not adult tears but those of a child abandoned. He folded slowly to his knees, fighting to keep a hold on himself. The orthopters. . He had known that attack from the air was what Tomasso had feared most, and that the Tidenfree would be easy prey for incendiaries from above. He had known all that and, when he had gone to help Stenwold, he had been warned of just that. And he had ignored it because, of course, they would not go without him.