Now Stenwold himself stood in the tower room below the lamp and stared out at the waves, the unquiet sea showing blue and grey in turns, cresting beneath a changing wind. He had taken refuge
here many times since its most recent change of ownership. The Tidenfree Cartel were his creatures, in as much as they were anyone’s, and he was their patron, their supporter, their
conspirator in the great secret. Only he and Jodry Drillen, Speaker for the Assembly, knew that those miraculous metals and machine parts that the
Tidenfree
crew imported to the city did
not come from some obscure city of Spiderlands artificers, as the cover story went, but instead from beneath the sea itself.
‘They’ve cleared this place out good, now, haven’t they?’ A deep voice came from behind him. It was Tomasso, chief merchant of the Tidenfree Cartel and master of its
single ship, of the same name. And a former pirate, of course, although to see him now, dressed respectably like a Collegiate citizen and wooed by a dozen mercantile concerns, one would never have
known it. He was a burly Fly-kinden with a dark beard and a mischievous look to him, for all that he was close to Stenwold’s age. His eyes roamed the walls, finding only absences there, for
his crew had already passed through the lighthouse and stripped it of everything when the Wasps had got close to the city.
‘The factora in the city is acceptable?’ Stenwold asked him.
‘Will do nicely until we chase the Jaspers away,’ Tomasso agreed. ‘This place started looking a bit exposed when their lads from the Second began setting up.’ He
grimaced. ‘I’m no engineer, but you may have to pull the old place down. Gives too much of a vantage over the city.’
‘Not that the Imperial artillery needs that, nowadays, but yes, it’s been thought of. We’ve engines in the city that have calculated the range.’ Stenwold was still
staring out to sea as though trying to divine the future from the surging waves. ‘She knows . . .?’
‘. . . Not to come here,’ Tomasso finished for him. ‘Or anywhere, right now. I hear Despard’s just back from down there, probably has letters for you even. But they know
the score, the Sea-kinden. If the Wasps were coming by boat, your lad Aradocles would be sending up his monsters by the dozen, but I reckon the Spiders haven’t forgotten the last
time.’
Stenwold nodded. The Spider-kinden – many of whom were now marching alongside the Wasp Second Army – had tried to send a fleet against Collegium, but Stenwold and Tomasso’s
newfound friends beneath the waves had dissuaded them. The tentative, secretive arrangements put in place between land and sea that rested so much on Tomasso and his opposite number below had been
bearing fruit and working better than anyone had anticipated. If the Wasps had not revived the war, a whole new age of enlightenment might be dawning. Instead of which, Stenwold’s city was
scarred with bomb craters, his people turned into soldiers, and three dozen military decisions were currently prowling about the streets, waiting for him to return and put them out of their misery.
Simply to avoid them, he had come out here, perhaps for the last time, to stare at the sea.
Paladrya, her name was. Every old man needed some romance in his life, and Stenwold’s was separated from him by a barrier neither of them could cross for long. The land was too harsh and
hostile for her, the sea a place of nightmares for him. Even their letters were cast in foreign alphabets.
‘I hear the Wasp lads are keeping their distance, since you took the air from them,’ Tomasso noted. As a Fly-kinden, control of the air was something he thoroughly approved of, and
the Collegiate orthopters were currently the undisputed masters of the skies above the city.
‘Still,’ Stenwold observed, ‘they’re not going away.’ At last he dragged his eyes away from the waves. ‘What will you do, if it comes to that?’
Tomasso shrugged easily. ‘The sea’s an open road. We’ll ship out when the time comes, and no hard feelings. You’re welcome to take a berth with us. We’ve space for
you.’ Even as Stenwold opened his mouth, the Fly held his hands up. ‘I know, I know, your place is here – noble War Master and all that. I’m just saying, though. The crew
wouldn’t begrudge the room if your Assembly decided to give you a kick.’
‘It’s kind of them,’ Stenwold allowed, and then a scuffle sounded from somewhere below and a younger Fly burst into the room.
‘Mar’Maker, there you are!’
‘Laszlo,’ Stenwold acknowledged him, abruptly tense. ‘What news?’
‘Oh, they need you right now back in the city, Mar’Maker. It’s not the Wasps but, from the look on half the faces there, it might as well be.’
Stenwold nodded heavily, knowing immediately who the Fly meant. ‘They’ve made good time then, but Ants always could march.’
‘There’s an automotive waiting to get you to the city, and I really think you should be there before this mob arrives. Otherwise someone’s going to do something
stupid.’
‘Almost certainly right,’ Stenwold agreed, and then he was clumping down the stairs, with Laszlo buzzing at his shoulder.
At the west wall of Collegium, Jodry Drillen watched the approaching force, and all around him were the city’s Merchant Company soldiers, very pointedly not doing
anything about it but plainly wishing that they could.
‘Brings back memories,’ someone could be heard to say, even as Stenwold stomped his way up the steps to the summit of the wall.
‘Where’s their representative?’ he demanded.
Jodry turned and inclined his head to indicate a silent, dark figure standing at the battlements, given a wide berth by the locals.
‘I hope you’re sure of what you’re doing, is all.’ The Speaker for the Assembly was still a fat man, but the stresses of recent events had made all that weight hang on
him as though it was sloughing off, from the pouchy bags under his eyes to the way his clothes all seemed ill-fitting. He and Stenwold had clashed a few times during the Wasps’ last
offensive, but now they were friends again, just about.
Stenwold made his way along the parapet to the Ant that stood alone there: short, ebony-skinned, and armoured against the world in a mail hauberk.
‘Termes,’ he named him, and the Ant nodded.
‘War Master.’
Together they looked out at the Vekken army.
The last time a force from that Ant city had come to Collegium, it had been for conquest, and the time before that, as well. The Ants had been the city’s enemies for most of
Stenwold’s life, certainly far longer than the Wasps had. It was a matter of scale, though. Vek was only one city, the Empire was many. Stenwold had worked extremely hard to bring the Vekken
to a point where they might consider their Beetle neighbours as something other than a threat or a prize. He had worked even harder to convince his own people that such a change of heart in their
old foes was even possible. Now here were the fruits.
‘How many?’ he asked.
‘Eight hundred,’ Termes told him. ‘That was thought reasonable.’
Not enough for an invasion, but enough to be useful.
The Vekken had considered their gesture seriously. They had no love for the Wasps and they knew that, if Collegium fell, the Empire
would be outside their gates soon enough.
‘They’ll camp . . .?’
‘Outside the city,’ Termes confirmed. He did not say,
As we did last time
, but Stenwold almost heard the echo of the words.
‘There are boats from Tsen on their way, I’m told.’
‘We are aware of that.’ Termes’s face revealed nothing. Tsen was another Ant city, further west still, and no friend of Vek’s save that both cities now found themselves
friends of Collegium. ‘We suggest they stay on the water. We will keep to the land.’
‘It might be for the best.’ Stenwold nodded and returned to Jodry’s side. ‘We’ll need them, if the worst comes to the worst,’ he pointed out, watching the
immaculately disciplined Ants break their column and begin to pitch camp tactfully outside artillery range. But, then, the Vekken would have no fond memories of the effectiveness of Collegiate
artillery.
‘We’ve Sarnesh in the city also,’ Jodry informed him. ‘I thought it best not to invite them up onto the wall. More Ants around than we know what to do with, these
days.’
‘A messenger?’
‘More than that – a full-blown tactician, as I understand it. I think our northern neighbours want to make a move. After this business at Malkan’s Folly, I think the Sarnesh
are starting to hate the Wasps more even than you do, Sten.’
There were still plenty of soldiers left on the walls as Jodry and Stenwold descended. They had not been posted there, and each would have given some humdrum excuse for his presence, but they
were keeping an eye on the Vekken, and no mistake. It took no great leap of imagination to envisage those enemies of recent memory being in league with the Wasps, forming part of some grand
betrayal. Stenwold could only hope that he had done his work well enough or, at worst, that the Vekken also hated the Wasps more than they hated their traditional foes.
The customary place to meet with foreign dignitaries was the Amphiophos, of course, but where those hallowed halls of white stone had once stood was now just one of the city’s many new
scars, bombarded by the Imperial air force into a warren of rubble and broken walls. Instead, a lecture hall at the College served, and it was there that Stenwold and Jodry, and a handful of other
Beetle-kinden who had become Collegium’s de facto high command, met with Milus of Sarn.
The Sarnesh tactician looked close to Stenwold’s own years, belonging to that generation that, on all sides, was determining the course of the war. He had a small staff with him: three
close-featured Ants of his own city and a pale Fly-kinden girl with gleaming red hair.
‘You’re making a mistake, of course,’ Milus told the Beetles, even as they came in through the door.
‘You mean the Vekken?’ Stenwold looked him straight in the eye.
‘I do, and you’ll regret it in time. For now . . . who knows? The times are certainly unprecedented.’ He made a grand gesture with his hands, just one shade from being
spontaneous. Ants had little use for body language or expressions amongst themselves, which made them both hard to read and hard to relate to, but Milus had obviously learned a stock of
conversational tools for occasions such as this. The fact that he was not making more capital out of the Vekken arrival was also telling. Here was a new sort of Sarnesh leader.
‘Tactician,’ Jodry addressed him, ‘you have us here, the best of us. I assume you don’t want the full Assembly convened? It’s been a while since we last did that,
and we’re short of somewhere to put them. It’s just the War Council making most of the key decisions at the moment.’
Milus nodded approvingly. ‘I have official business to discuss but, before that, I want to give you my personal congratulations. You’ll be well aware that, while my people value our
friends in Collegium for many reasons, your martial prowess has never been one of them. Yet you’ve scored more victories against the Empire than we have, of late, and I hear their Second Army
is still hiding from your orthopters. Well done. Sarn takes great heart from your successes.’ It was a prepared speech, but it was not what one expected, from Ant-kinden, and the Collegiates
exchanged glances, reconsidering.
‘You’re kind,’ Jodry spoke for them. ‘We’re left in the same position as you, though, with an army on our doorstep that is just not attacking
yet.
Do we
take it that your presence here indicates a shift in Sarnesh tactics?’
‘We’re gathering our forces and we’ll strike soon. Why the Eighth is just sitting there at the wrong end of the Nethyon, we don’t know, but we intend to throw everything
we have at them – our soldiers, our machines, our allies and all the tricks we can come up with,’ Milus announced, raising a hand to forestall any comment. ‘And I realize that you
will not be able to lend substantial aid to us, just as we could not aid you. We each have our own worries, right now. However, I invite you to send some of your people to our councils, so that at
least you know what we intend.’
‘You will be directing this assault yourself, Tactician?’ Stenwold asked him.
‘I will.’
‘You did not need to come in person simply to invite us to your conference.’
Milus smiled, with that same slight edge of formality. ‘But I did to offer my plaudits, War Master. Some things can only be said in one’s own voice.’
‘So, aren’t we the fast mover?’
The red-haired Fly-kinden woman froze in the midst of unpacking her satchel, kneeling on the bed the Collegiates had found for her at the College. For a second she was motionless, and Laszlo
recognized that coiled-spring quality to her, ready for betrayal, for fight or flight.
Then she glanced up at the window where he was crouching. ‘If the Sarnesh were to come in now, they’d shoot you. I don’t care what you are in Collegium, to the Sarnesh an
intruder’s still an intruder.’
He swung his legs in and perched on the window sill. ‘Te Liss,’ he named her. ‘Otherwise Lissart, or is there another name for you now?’
For a moment she just stared at him, acknowledging no past acquaintance, a hair’s breadth away from violence – and he knew full well how dangerous she was. Then the very corner of
her mouth twitched, and she said, ‘Alisse, special adviser to Tactician Milus on matters of the Inapt. On account of how he doesn’t trust Moths, and Mantids are rotten advisers.
It’s a long story.’
‘It can’t be that long. We were with the army only a month ago,’ Laszlo pointed out. ‘You must have already had a fallback in Sarn planned out somehow. But you never
said.’ He was aware how he was drinking her in but, then, she spent so little time staying in one place, acting civilly or even being trustworthy, that he wanted to make the most of her.
‘I have lots of fallbacks. It’s a spy thing. Stop staring at me like that.’ She was trying to be flippant, and Laszlo had certainly planned to appear cool and witty and
blithely unconcerned. After she left him, with the Collegiate army just about to clash with the Wasp Second, he had gone a long way towards convincing himself that this little infatuation of his
was done with. There had been work to do, after all, and he was not the kind of fool to waste time mooning over some girl. Especially when that girl had been a Wasp agent when he first met her, and
something of a madwoman – and, beyond all of that, not a true Fly at all but someone who could shoot
fire
out of her
hands.
Best left well alone, best forgotten. He had
worked hard to tell himself that.