Authors: Adrian Tchaikovsky
‘
Our
work—’ Kratia started, but Stenwold held a hand up.
‘Enough. Jodry?’
The Assembly’s new Speaker bustled forward. ‘Here.’
‘It is clearly an issue of considerable weight that has brought these three women so far. Therefore think of it as your first proper diplomatic spat.’
To his surprise Jodry made no complaint, or perhaps he was just trying to display solidarity before the Ants. ‘I’ll take it from here, Sten. It’s obviously nothing to do with the . . . with your friends. Thank you for your help. Good sailing, or whatever one says in such situations.’
Stenwold went home, and managed to finish off his packing whilst arguing once again with Arianna. She wanted to know why he couldn’t take her, and towards the end of the dispute he realized that it was not that he
couldn’t
, exactly, but that he
wouldn’t
. He could have talked her past Tomasso and his crew, and he was not expecting so much trouble during his absence that he needed her in Collegium. When he dug deep enough in his heart to find the real reason, it left him sad, and ashamed of himself.
And is having a young Spider mistress not enough to make me feel young, but I have to go mimicking the misadventures of my youth, charging about with nothing but a sword and my wits to rely on? Am I getting so old, in truth, that I have to prove my vigour even to myself?
He had no answer to that, but he stuck to his position, leaving Arianna angry and unhappy behind him.
The
Tidenfree
had nudged its way in between merchantmen, sitting openly in Collegium’s harbour. It bore no overt sign of being a pirate ship and, in truth, it was not the
Bloodfly
of recent legend, instead a graceful single-masted slender thing that would have done a Spider proud as a yacht.
It was only as he set foot on board that the name ‘
Tseitan
’ abruptly made sense to him. Not a word he had heard before, but one derived from a name he should have remembered. The artificer Tseitus, who had died in the Vekken siege of Collegium; the Ant-kinden Tseitus, with his blue-white skin like Plius, like Kratia. Tseitus, whose submersible craft had sunk the Vekken flagship, and for whom the new model – Gainer’s improved prototype – was named.
‘Boats are like the kinden that make them,’ Tomasso expounded. Around them, the crew of the
Tidenfree
was casting off. From below decks the surprising sound of a solid little engine was thudding, dragging the ship backwards out of dock, whilst a half-dozen Fly-kinden had fluttered aloft, ready to bring out sail. A remarkably stocky woman was ordering them about in a voice that would have done credit to a leadshotter.
Stenwold nodded politely, sensing that Tomasso’s metaphor was about to give his people a rough time.
‘Beetle boats,’ Tomasso continued, sure enough, ‘are fat and solid and slow, begging your pardon.’ He grinned a glint of gold Stenwold’s way. ‘Spider ships are pretty and they move well, but they’re far too clever and they can never go anywhere the straight way. Mantis boats are quick and vicious, and it’s impossible to steer them anywhere.’
That brought a bark of unmeant laughter from Stenwold, although he felt guilty about it afterwards. Tomasso’s smile widened.
‘And what about Fly-kinden ships, Master Tomasso?’ Stenwold asked him. ‘Tell me about those, will you not?’
‘Oh, they’re fast, Master Maker, and they’re good for any seas, and they’ll make use of any trick to get where they’re going.’
Stenwold looked astern, seeing the Collegium harbour receding. This was the first time he had ever gone to sea. His travelling had been towards the Empire, always.
‘If you plan on killing or kidnapping me, now’s the time,’ he said evenly.
Tomasso roared with laughter that was twice as big as he was. ‘Oh, surely, Master Maker, surely, but we’re as good as our word. You can give us something that only a high-up of Collegium can, and it’s something that we can’t steal. In return we can get you to places that only a third-generation villain knows about. Now, come.’ He strutted across the deck, beckoning Stenwold to follow. The swell was building, now that they were beyond the sea wall, and the Beetle had to reach out for his balance a little before he was able to proceed. He heard a little smirking from the crew.
‘People you should know,’ Tomasso called back to him. ‘At the tiller is our sailing master, Gude.’ He indicated the broad Fly woman, who gave Stenwold a stony nod. ‘If she ever tells you to do anything aboard this ship, then you do it. I may be the head of the family, but once we’re under sail, her voice overrules mine.’ Gude’s stern demeanour made Stenwold believe it.
‘You’ve met Despard, of course. She’s below at the moment with the engine, and that’s her doman. Your other chaperone is . . .’ Tomasso glanced about, and then bellowed, ‘Laszlo! Get your backside on deck!’
‘Right behind you, chief.’ The young Fly dropped from the rigging without warning, making Tomasso’s hand twitch for his knife-hilt.
‘You, you troublemaker, can look after our guest, and make sure he doesn’t end up over the rail. Laszlo’s our factor, Master Maker. He buys and sells ashore. While we’re on board, though, he might as well look after you, so ask him for anything you need.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I meant it about the rail. This ship wasn’t designed with your kinden in mind.’ Tomasso’s gaze took in a railing that would come up to Stenwold’s knee.
A ship designed for people half my size who can fly
. He made the requisite mental adjustments.
‘Oh, and you should meet Fernaea as well, to make sense of some answers I’ll give to some questions you’ll certainly ask a little later,’ the bearded Fly continued, dragging Stenwold, and Laszlo, back towards the bows again, where stood the grey-robed Fly girl who had been tending to the sleeping old man on the
Floating Game.
‘Fern, this is Master Stenwold Maker, magnate of Collegium.’
She nodded at him, as reserved and close-faced as her Moth-kinden name suggested.
‘She’s . . . a seer,’ Stenwold guessed.
‘Oh, well done. You’re a man of uncommon experience, then, for a Beetle?’
‘You might say so,’ agreed Stenwold. Fernaea was staring at him, defensive and tense, and he wondered what mischance had brought a Moth-trained magician into the ragged crew of a pirate ship. Nothing happy, that was certain.
‘What about your . . . ?’
‘My uncle, you mean. Himself,’ Tomasso finished. ‘Isseleema’s an old friend, which means that, when she’s accepted a hefty purse to look after Himself, I can be reasonably sure that’s just what she’ll do.’ His cheer vanished abruptly. ‘Time, Master Maker, it’s just a myth to a lout like Laszlo here, but you and I are old enough to hear its wings on the air. Himself . . . Himself has time sitting, counting by his bedside, and there’s no magic nor artifice on all the wide seas that can do anything about that.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Stenwold said automatically.
‘We’re all sorry,’ Tomasso acknowledged. ‘But it’s my job to find us a future, and if the best means to that is helping you, then here’s my hand on it.’
He didn’t offer his hand, so Stenwold chalked that one up to
Figures of speech (Fly-kinden pirates).
While he was doing so, Tomasso looked him up and down critically.
‘You’ll pass, for where we’re going. For such a Big Man you dress down nicely.’
Stenwold was wearing his hard-weather gear: a suit of reinforced canvas and leather with toolstrips and pouches, such as an artificer would wear to go to war in. He had an oilcloth cloak over that, to keep as much of the sea out as would prove practical. The Fly-kinden around him all wore long-coats, or what amounted to long-coats on them: shiny with wax and oil, wool-lined on the inside, appropriate clothing for the rain and the cold wind. Most also had a woollen cap on, save for Laszlo, sporting a leather helm, and Gude, who went bare-headed, the breeze tugging ineffectually at her short light-dyed hair.
‘You’re armed?’ Tomasso asked, and when Stenwold twitched back his cape to show his sword-hilt, the Fly sniffed. ‘Anything else?’
‘In my luggage,’ Stenwold allowed.
‘Good. The port we’re headed for, it’s not good to be too subtle about these things.’
‘And where
are
we headed, Master Tomasso?’
‘Kanateris.’ The name meant nothing to Stenwold, save maybe for its last syllable.
‘Is that near Seldis?’ He racked his brains for the ports along the Silk Road.
‘Oh, we’re not pointing ourselves east, Master Maker. That’s the long way round.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re an educated man, so you see the same maps I do. It’s quicker to cut straight south, if you want to see where the Spiders live.’
Which is correct, of course, and yet we don’t.
Stenwold had learned that, and not questioned it, because sea travel had never been of interest to him.
It goes to show how knowledge is never wasted.
One of the College’s mottos, that, and how very true. ‘Enlighten me,’ he said.
The
Tidenfree
was making good headway now, the coastline receding smartly. He would have said,
the familiar coastline
, but of course he was no seagoer, so it could have been Solarno or Seldis or some city on the moon for all he would recognize the view.
‘Laszlo.’ Tomasso singled out the younger Fly. ‘Make yourself useful to Master Maker. I need to go and plot our course with Gude.’
The young Fly strutted up to Stenwold, the salt wind tugging at his coat. ‘You want the secret, Master?’
‘Is it a secret?’
‘Oh, isn’t it? But if the chief says tell, I’ll tell. Where would you sail, in order to do business with the Spider-lands, Ma’rMaker?’ Laszlo gestured expansively, as if trying to encompass all of creation with his hands. His rapid speech condensed ‘Master Maker’ into a babble. ‘Why, down the coast, of course, hoping the ships of Felyal and Kes aren’t too hungry, past the forts of of Everis and into Seldis or Siennis, a long old way. And there you’d trade with Spiders who’d charge a fortune for the goods up the Silk Road, yet pay a pittance for yours, for the chief occupation of everyone in those cities is taking bribes and levying taxes. Believe me, I know. Or, if you were a foolish man, you’d take your ship down the desert coast and look to sell to the Spiderlands direct. Know what happens to people who do that?’
‘They don’t come back,’ Stenwold suggested.
Laszlo nodded energetically. ‘Not cos the Spiders are mean, you understand, but it’s a death warrant to go that way and trade, not knowing how they do things. Eventually you bribe too much or too little, bribe the wrong man, say something you never realized was an insult, fail to compliment the women, drink in the wrong taverna. The next day, well, you’re lucky if you’re in chains and gone from being a trader to being stock in trade, if you get me. So your lot, all you get are the dog-ends from Seldis, and at a ruinous poor price, too.’
‘But you know how to get on with the Spiders?’
‘We could sail along the desert coast with no trousers and we’d get away with it,’ Lazslo replied. It was hard to tell just how old he was. He looked like a man of twenty years, but his enthusiasm was six years younger. ‘However, we don’t need to. There are two reasons why even those who know better still sail the coast road to Seldis, Ma’rMaker. Firstly, once you’re out of sight of the coast, it’s cursed hard to plot a course just by sun and stars. You reach the far shore and you’re a hundred miles from where you should be, and you with your water running low, and who knows what family owns the next port. More than that, there are the weed seas. The sea’s got forests, like the land does, with weed so tall it reaches from where the sun don’t shine all the way to the open air. Your ship gets caught in that, there’s no steering out of it, and then you starve or die of thirst or . . . well, they say there’s things that live there that’ll soon put you out of your misery. Other problem is the weather. It’s rare enough to get across without a storm, and I’d bet you a bit to a Helleron central that we’ll see one this trip. Tear a ship apart, bring the mast down on you, rip your sails off, they can. Wind, lightning like the sky’s on fire, waves that come between you and the sun—’
‘Sea-kinden,’ Gude interrupted unexpectedly.
Laszlo snorted. ‘Nobody believes in sea-kinden,’ he said. ‘And, with all that storm going on, who’d need them? Faced with that kind of weather, the coast road looks awfully inviting.’
‘But you’ve got a way through?’ Stenwold prompted.
‘Oh, surely,’ Laszlo confirmed. ‘Come up and stand by Gude now, Ma’rMaker.’
‘Stenwold. Just call me Stenwold,’ the Beetle insisted, clumping up from the deck level to the wheel. Gude gave Laszlo a warning glare, but he ignored her blithely.
‘Now, I’m betting you know what these toys are,’ he said.
They were battered and weather-worn, not the workshop-mint pieces that he had seen previously, but Stenwold was artificer enough to pick them out. ‘I see an absolute clock and a gimballed compass,’ he said.
‘And with their help, and charts, and a reckoning taken from the sky, and some fairly taxing mathematics, Ma’r Stenwold, we find our way to wherever we want to be.’
‘And you also calculate your way through storms, do you?’