The Sea Watch

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  The helmed head nodded, seeming tiny between the great, mounded pauldrons. The man’s gauntlets were carved into forward-curving hooks reaching over his hands, and when he raised them, Helmess flinched back, though Elytrya stood her ground. She seemed like just a child, a toy, against the vast canvas of Rosander’s armoured breadth.

  With surprising delicacy, the hands hidden under those claws pulled free the helmet. Revealed was a narrow, bald head, the skull ridged and braced beneath the skin as though to support the weight of the helm. The man was of no kinden Helmess had ever seen, his face utterly alien in its combination of high cheekbones, small eyes, wispy eyebrows and narrow mouth. The half-dozen men behind him remained faceless, only a narrow slit giving onto the dark beach. Water streamed off them, or seeped out from between the sections of their armour. There were few weapons to be seen aside from the monstrous claws of their gauntlets, that echoed those of what was surely their kinden animal squatting behind them. One held a sword fashioned of some dull metal, its thick blade curving forward to a square-sectioned point. Helmess doubted that he himself could have lifted the weapon even in both hands.

  ‘Report.’ Rosander’s voice was small and bleak.

  ‘Here’s my report.’ Elytrya held up a small package sealed with oilcloth against the wet. ‘For the Edmir’s eyes only.’

  Rosander regarded her without love. ‘Indeed.’ He reached towards her, the tip of his claw narrowly missing her shoulder. Within the cup of the hooked gauntlet his hand was still huge. Elytria carefully placed her package in his palm.

  ‘I see you’ve brought the heavy stuff,’ she said, fingers lightly skimming the coarse surface of his armour. ‘A glutton for punishment, then?’

  ‘When we come here in earnest,’ Rosander pronounced, ‘we shall bring all our might. So we must accustom ourselves.’ His accent was slow and strange, the vowels twitched all out of shape. He took another step forward, the sections of his mail grating softly.

  It is. Helmess abandoned any self-deception. It’s stone. He has a suit of stone armour, yet he’s standing right there, holding it up. Oh, it must be lighter in the water, but he won’t let that deter him, that much is obvious. Who are these crab-kinden? What do they want of Collegium? A moment later he caught his breath, for those dark little eyes had flicked towards him. In two stomping strides the huge sea-kinden had eclipsed Helmess’s view of sky and sea.

  ‘Nauarch Rosander,’ Elytrya kept pace, ‘meet Master Helmess Broiler, our man in the city.’

  ‘Land-kinden,’ Rosander addressed him, and Helmess managed a small obeisance. The bony, narrow face looked contemptuous. ‘Doesn’t look like much. You fight, land-kinden?’

  So close, feeling the presence of the man pressing on all sides, Helmess managed a brief shake of his head. Rosander made an amused sound, although no humour showed in his expression. Aside from the narrow lips and tiny eyes, his entire head could have been carved from dun wood.

  ‘Chenni!’ the huge figure snapped out, and a smaller one stepped out from behind one of his cohorts. Helmess saw a hunchbacked little woman with spindly arms and legs, no bigger than a Fly-kinden. She was as bald as Rosander and, despite her utter disparity in stature, there was a commonality about their closed, taut-skinned faces. She positioned herself a few feet away, further from the giant than Helmess was. With a sudden stab of amusement Helmess realized that by approaching any closer she would have been blocked from the big man’s view by the bulk of his own armour.

  ‘How’s it coming?’ Rosander growled at the diminutive newcomer. His gaze, by Helmess’s judgement, was not fierce but fond, however.

  ‘See for yourself, chief,’ she told him. ‘Going to be a bit of a test. Not sure if it’ll hold under the weight.’

  ‘Bring it up,’ Rosander instructed her, then swivelled his head back to eye Elytrya. To Helmess’s alarm, she clearly did not know what was going on.

  ‘I called you here to take charge of my report for the Edmir, nothing more,’ she said, her voice low and dangerous.

  ‘You called?’ Rosander’s lips retracted, showing small, dark teeth. ‘You’ve been away from the colony too long. Things are changing now. I’m not here for you. I’m here for . . . what’s your word?’

  ‘An experiment, Nauarch,’ said Chenni, her eyes focused on the sea. She spoke faster than him, but with the same accent. ‘The machinists back home will be in knots, waiting to hear from us.’

  ‘Rosander . . .’ Elytrya started, but he held a clawed gauntlet up to her face, the movement effortlessly swift. At the shoreline, Helmess saw the great crab scuttle sideways in an intricate dance of legs. Behind it something else, something much larger, was dragging itself from the sea.

  It had a great rounded front that curved up into little horns on either side. In a wash of water and weed, its snub-nosed leading edge surged forward onto the beach, allowing only the slightest glimpse of the powering legs hidden beneath its over-arching shell. Helmess would have taken it for some other kind of sea-monster were it not for the sounds from within it, the ratcheting and grind and click that told him that gears and springs drove those pistoning legs in place of blood and muscle.

  As the sea drained off from it he heard it creak as it supported its own weight. Chenni went tense: the sight was so familiar – an artificer willing her creation to work – that he had to fight down an inappropriate smile.

  It held firm, nothing cracked. The hulking sea-automotive lurked on the beach like a house-sized boulder. The little woman made a satisfied noise.

  The sounds of its workings intensified, until Helmess feared that some keen ear in Collegium might hear. The automotive lurched forward, clawing its way further across the shingle. Abruptly it began making less healthy sounds, grinding and crunching, and then the unmistakable noise of a stripped gear spinning. Chenni dashed over to the struggling machine.

  ‘Most impressive,’ Elytrya declared, but Helmess detected a slight quiver in her voice.

  ‘For a prototype,’ Rosander agreed, implacable. ‘When we come to seize back the land, we will use every weapon available. You have such things, land-kinden?’

  ‘We do,’ Helmess admitted hoarsely. He was thinking of an army of massively armoured men and beasts and machines, sitting invisibly beneath the water, swarming into Collegium from the river and the docks by moonlight, unheralded and unguessed at. ‘It is impressive . . . Nauarch,’ he said, understanding the unfamiliar word as a title. Walls staved in, claws rending flesh, seaweed and blood tracked into the halls of the Amphiophos. An enemy that we never even knew we had. And after that night, after the blood-tide has receded, who shall pick up the pieces? Not the Empire . . . and not Maker, either.

  He was unsure exactly when he had lost his last vestige of loyalty to Collegium. Through his dealings as a statesman and magnate, there was no hard line between working for the city and working the city for his own ends. It had been a long time now since he had crossed over into the realms of the parasite.

  Let Jodry Drillen enjoy his term as Speaker, Helmess thought, for it may turn out to be the shortest one in history. If the people of Collegium will not give me power, and if the Empire will try to leash me like a beast, then I will seek my allies where I can find them.

  ‘Gear train slipped,’ Chenni reported, arriving back from inspecting the machine. ‘Should have seen that coming. Out in the open air there’s no water to keep them at their proper pace, so they ran riot. We’ll sort it out.’

  ‘Get it back in the water,’ Rosander ordered, and his bodyguards turned ponderously and went over to the machine, easing it back into the sea with no obvious effort.

  ‘Remember me, land-kinden,’ came Rosander’s voice, and Helmess’s eyes snapped back to him. That narrow, ridged head was thrust forward between the massive shoulders. ‘If you betray us, these hands shall crush you,’ the giant threatened.

  ‘And if I do not?’ Helmess whispered.

  ‘I’m sure Elytrya has promised you much,’ replied Rosander
with a sneer. ‘Still, the Edmir rewards those that serve him well, as do I.’

  ‘You will need someone governing in your name, who understands the . . . land-kinden.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Rosander agreed but, under his bleak stare, Helmess had the uncomfortable feeling of being judged.

  The two Fly-kinden had led Stenwold all the way to the curving sea wall before he decided enough was enough. Perhaps it was the sight of the tower and the sea defences, still bearing their scars from the Vekken siege, that prompted him. The Flies were already setting foot on the wall’s landward stonework, and he could not see anywhere they might be heading except away from any chance of his calling for help.

  ‘So where are we going?’ he asked sharply, and something in his tone brought them up short. The two of them eyed him thoughtfully.

  ‘Now what would that be, Master?’ asked the Fly man, looking at the stubby device now gripped in Stenwold’s hand.

  ‘A gift from an old student of mine,’ Stenwold told them. The little, cut-down, double-barrelled snapbow was surprisingly heavy, and he knew it was barely accurate beyond ten yards, but it was a beautiful piece of engineering, nonetheless. Stenwold remembered the card that had come with it, printed immaculately to resemble elegant handwriting: Because I owe a great deal to my education. ‘I’ll go no further without some answers. Where are you leading me?’

  The two Flies exchanged glances. ‘Why, Master, you’ve been all day at asking questions,’ the man said. ‘So won’t you want to go where you’ll get answers?’

  ‘And where’s that?’ Stenwold’s gesture encompassed the barren sea wall.

  ‘Look down,’ said the woman, jerking her head to indicate the wall’s edge. Keeping the snapbow trained, Stenwold cast a careful look over it at the choppy sea. To his surprise there were a few boats moored there, on the wrong side of the wall. He had no idea if this was usual or not – it was not something he had ever thought about asking. One of the vessels was large enough to dwarf the others.

  ‘Isseleema’s Floating Game,’ the Fly man volunteered. ‘Scourge of every gambler from Tsen to Seldis, just put in this last tenday to mine the pockets of Collegium. You want answers, Master Maker? We’ll take you to where you can find them.’

  There was a fair number of people on the deck of the larger ship, and many of them were armed, in a fairly casual fashion.

  This is a very bad idea.

  ‘Some of us can’t fly,’ he pointed out. ‘Or am I supposed to jump in the water and get hauled out like a barrel?’

  ‘For that purpose we have invented the rope ladder,’ the woman told him shortly, obviously someone of less patience than her companion. ‘You’re a Beetle, therefore you’ll work out the basic principles eventually.’

  I could just walk away.

  But then I’d never know. And even if I came back here with a detachment of the guard, and searched every boat outside the wall, what would I be looking for? What might I have passed up on?

  ‘I keep this – and my sword,’ he said, jerking the snap-bow.

  ‘You can keep anything except standing there,’ the woman said. Her wings flashed into life, and she stepped off the wall and floated downwards with enviable ease. Her companion gave Stenwold a slightly embarrassed look.

  ‘That’s Despard for you,’ he said. ‘A short fuse with regard to everything except explosives. Master Maker, my name is Laszlo. I’m first factor of the Tidenfree, which you see there on the other side of Isseleema’s barge. My people and I want to help you, because we want your help in return. It’s simple as that, really.’

  ‘You know what’s happening to Collegium’s shipping?’ Stenwold said, which was more than he intended to.

  Laszlo just grinned. ‘Oh, Master Maker, we know all about shipping. After all, we’re pirates.’

  After that he could hardly turn them down, so he went hand over hand down the rope ladder on to the barge’s deck, where the two Flies had already cleared his credentials with the guards. They led him below, towards a wash of boisterous shouting and cheer and the delights of Isseleema’s Floating Game.

  This deck of the barge had been turned into one large, low-ceilinged room, well lit by lanterns, the curving walls draped with silks in the Spider fashion. Across a dozen tables, a mismatch of patrons were throwing their money away on cards, dice, sticks, even a tiny gladiatorial duel between a pair of hand-sized scorpions. About half the gamblers looked like Beetle-kinden locals, and not always shabbily dressed. Several even looked as though the money they were losing came from a respectable merchant’s trade. The balance was comprised of Flies, Spiders and a scattering of other kinden, their differences forgotten in the shifting tides of win and lose. Midway down the long room there was a dais backing against one wall. The only word Stenwold could muster for the Spider-kinden woman there was enthroned. She was old – old enough that no trick of Spider-kinden manner or cosmetics could disguise it. Given the difference in their life expectancies, Stenwold guessed she had probably been past her prime before he was even born. She had the look of a woman clinging with clawed hands to the fading remnants of her empire.

  Towards the bows, where the room narrowed dramatically, were a series of curtained booths, and Laszlo and Despard were taking him there, pausing impatiently when he could not slip through the crowd as easily as they could, or when some peculiar assemblage of guests caught his eye. Laszlo had to tug at his sleeve as he watched a lean Mantis-kinden woman betting fiercely with three Spiders, without a trace of the murderous loathing her kinden normally felt towards them.

  Then it was Despard’s turn, as Stenwold stopped to stare at a trio of Ant-kinden women with bluish-white skin. They were not seated at the tables, seeming as much out-of-place observers as he was. They wore dark cloaks and corselets of steel scales, and they stood close enough to Isseleema’s throne that his instincts suggested bodyguards first, and then, reconsidering, ambassadors? That skin tone indicated Tsen, the odd little Ant city-state on the far western coast, beyond even Vek. So why are they here? Renegades perhaps? Some private contract? But there was nothing of the mercenary about the three of them. Ant-kinden that had turned their back on their own cities had a certain look to them – of guilt and regret – and these three did not possess it.

  Then Despard retrieved him and guided him over to a booth where the curtain was now drawn back. There were half a dozen Fly-kinden sitting there, and Laszlo had given up pride of place, deferring to a balding man with a huge black beard, quite the most imposing Fly that Stenwold had ever laid eyes on.

  ‘They tell me you’re Stenwold Maker, and that it means something,’ the bearded Fly addressed him.

  ‘As for the first, I am. As for the second, that depends who you are and what you’re looking for,’ Stenwold told him. The Fly’s head barely came up to his chest, but the smaller man had the solid, calm presence of a general or a Mantis warrior, and there was the same kind of danger about him.

  ‘Laszlo tells me you’re looking to find out something maritime, Master Maker,’ the man continued. ‘Tell me, you’re on the Collegiate Assembly, are you not?’

  ‘I am.’ To hear this rogue pronounce those words was jarring. The response brought smiles all round, though, and if some of those smiles revealed the odd tooth missing or replaced with gold, Stenwold was prepared to overlook it.

  ‘Call me Tomasso,’ the bearded Fly said. ‘Master Maker, won’t you do me the favour of coming down to our cabin and hearing a proposition to your advantage?’

  ‘Your cabin, is it?’ Is this to be something as mundane as a kidnapping, after all this? Stenwold had replaced his snap-bow in his belt, but put a hand upon it. Such precautions seemed the norm at the Floating Game. Laszlo’s throw-away comment about piracy had seemed disarming in its candour, but there were levels and levels of bluff, after all.

  ‘A little privacy never harmed anyone,’ observed the bearded Fly. ‘And, besides, there’s someone there who needs to be present before any deals are made.’
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  ‘Well, you have an advantage over me, Master Tomasso,’ Stenwold replied. He felt a precarious balance here, and he looked from face to face, for the menials might well show what their master could hide. There was no sense of impending foul play amongst the other Flies, but a certain excitement. They want something from me, certainly. ‘I suppose that means you must take me there.’

  Tomasso nodded, and his gang of Flies were instantly in motion, passing through the crowd to the point of the bow where stairs led down to a lower deck. Stenwold, though not an overly tall man, had to stoop there, shuffling along the dim, door-lined corridor that presented itself. The Fly-kinden had no difficulties, fluttering down the stairs with a flick of wings, walking down the passageway as though it were the spacious hallway of a palace. When Stenwold encountered another Beetle-kinden coming the other way, he had to force himself into the lee of a door to let the man past.

  Laszlo was now holding a door open and steady against the faint pitch of the water outside, and Stenwold followed the Flies into a cabin that was larger than he had expected. There were bunk beds against the far wall, and a low table on the floor surrounded by shabby-looking cushions. A Fly-woman in a grey robe was sitting there by the lower bunk and, after a moment, Stenwold realized that it was because someone was occupying it. He had a glimpse of a lined and weathered face, topped by thinning grey hair.

  ‘Have a seat.’ Tomasso reclaimed his attention, taking his own place at the far end of the table. His fellows arrayed themselves on either side of him, like an attentive family. Which of course they are. It was a belated realization but, now Stenwold thought about it, if Laszlo were to grow the beard and age two decades then he would be a fair likeness for Tomasso, and a couple of the others, a man and a woman, bore a good resemblance as well. They all had the same sharp nose, deep eyes, dark hair and skin tanned brown. Despard was quite different, darker and with sandy brown hair, and the girl beside the bed was greyish-skinned, seeming almost a Moth in miniature.

  Stenwold sat across from them, feeling keenly the snap-bow digging into his paunch as he lowered himself on to the floor. Tomasso had a wide-bladed knife thrust unscabbarded through his belt, and Despard was only now untensioning the arms of her crossbow. Another woman present had a bandolier of throwing blades strapped across her chest. For all their size they looked a tough enough crew.