There was a figure crossing the yard before the house, another Beetle. Achaeos waited, very still, very quiet, and the man did not see him. This was a large, broad-waisted Beetle-kinden, clad in hard-wearing leathers, like many of their machine-priests, and he rapped at the door tiredly. Then he glanced around, almost looking straight at Achaeos. The Moth-kinden was a friend to shadows, and besides, he sensed the Beetle was looking for something else, had been expecting something more. Certainly, before the door was opened, he cast a searching glance back the way he had come.

‘Sir?’ came the thin voice of the servant.

‘Is Elias Monger within? I need to see him,’ said the big man.

‘I shall check for you, sir. Are you here from the mines?’

‘No, I am not. Tell him Stenwold Maker’s here to see him.’

The servant obviously knew the name, stiffening briefly at it, and was already retreating as he said, ‘I shall let my master know.’

The door closed. Stenwold Maker glanced around again. He was clearly on edge, Achaeos saw. Something promised or hoped for had not happened as expected.

Stenwold Maker? The memory came to the Moth belatedly but forcefully. Of course, she had mentioned the name: that of her uncle, whom some other Moth-kinden had healed once. And her name had also been Maker, had it not? Achaeos found the Beetle clan-names very similar: Maker, Monger, Shaper, all of a piece. But it was something like Maker…

He had another choice, now and flexed his shoulders again. If he could fly, and this turned out to be a bad idea, he would be away before they could catch him, but if he could not fly…

The door opened and the burly Beetle was heading inside. Achaeos would be detected now, if he moved: seen by the servant, by the guards.

He moved anyway, swiftly, opening his mouth to speak.

A hand was suddenly twisting his collar, choking him backwards. There was the twinkling point of a blade under his chin.

It was a poor place that Sinon had sent her to, and not a safe one either, as he had warned her. Tynisa had her hand to her rapier at all times, and all around there were eyes, watching her. She was an intruder, unwanted, and they were all making that clear.

Eventually she had slowed and held a coin in the air until a Fly-kinden boy of about twelve had run up to her. He had a knife in his belt, and his hand cockily on the hilt in imitation of her own stance, and he stared at her boldly.

‘What you want, miss?’ he asked. His eyes kept flicking to the coin, for all that it was just a ceramic three-bit.

‘Scuto,’ she said, and saw the name was recognized. ‘I’m here to see him. Where is he?’

He licked his lips, and then pointed over at one shack, almost indistinguishable amongst the masses. She dropped the money into his hand and then stayed him with a gesture as he made to go.

‘Same again if you tell him I’m here. Tell him Stenwold’s ward is here. Got that?’

He nodded and she favoured him with a smile.

‘Good lad, we’ll make a regular Messenger of you yet. Now off you go.’

She watched as he pelted for the shack. There were still eyes on her, people in the shadows between buildings, in the overhung alleys. They were sizing her up, working out whether it was worth the risk to see what she carried. She kept her stance disdainful, not bothering even to return their scrutiny.

A moment later the boy was out again, beckoning to her. Here goes. Sinon might have decided she was best swept under the carpet, now that she was out of his service. He might even have regretted it but it would be just business to him, and he was as much a businessman as Helleron’s greatest magnate. Tensed inside, relaxed to the outside world, she strode forward as if she had no care in the world.

A thing of some sort came out of the shack. It was mostly shrouded in a cloak, but looked as though the man beneath was smuggling insects under it. A face she took for a theatre mask, until it moved, looked at her balefully. There was a crossbow in this apparition’s malformed hands. She started wondering whether she could dodge a bolt and get to him before he had recocked it, and decided that she could.

Behind him was…

Behind him was Totho, staring at her. The sight of him brought an unexpected rush of relief to her. That even one of her friends was still alive on his feet in this greedy city seemed amazing to her. She had not realized, until now, how little hope she had been husbanding.

‘Totho!’ she called and began to run forward, but the ugly man raised his crossbow threateningly.

‘You stay right there,’ he called. ‘Not a step, or you’ll have this beauty here to deal with.’

‘Totho, what’s going on?’ she demanded. Her hand was already tight on the rapier grip and, without meaning to, she had stepped forward. Instantly the crossbowman loosed, the bolt diving neatly into the dirt before her. She tensed, but the bow was already recocked somehow, another bolt gleaming there.

‘Ask her,’ the ugly man snapped at Totho, who swallowed visibly.

‘Tynisa,’ he called. ‘What was the name of the man you fought in our match against the Shell?’

‘What? Totho, what is going on?’

‘It’s really, really important that you answer me,’ he said. ‘Tynisa, please.’ She could see the man with the crossbow getting tense. Her calculations on reaching him had gone to tatters.

‘I fought Seladoris,’ she said, frowning. ‘You fought Adax of Tark, and drew. You broke his nose. What is going on?’

The relief in the pair of them was visible. The ugly man lowered the crossbow and took the tension off the string. She approached carefully, and Totho came forward to meet her. She thought at first he was going to embrace her, lost friend to lost friend, but his nerve failed and they just clasped hands instead.

‘I’m so happy you’re safe,’ he said. ‘I felt terrible… leaving you there.’

‘We all left each other,’ she said. ‘Let’s just hope Che and Salma left us as well as we left them.’

He hung his head, although she had not meant it as a reprimand. ‘This,’ he said, pointing at the ugly man, ‘is Scuto, Stenwold’s man.’

Scuto looked even worse close-to than at crossbow’s point. He leered. ‘Come on in,’ he invited her. ‘You’ve got some catching up to do.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, when confronted with the story of Bolwyn’s death and apparent rebirth.

‘Shame. What with you being a Spider-kinden, I thought you might,’ Scuto said. ‘Seemed like your kind of thing, running off with other people’s faces.’

She gave him a sour look, which was like spitting into the tempest. ‘I have lived most of my life in Collegium, so I’m not up on the latest cosmetic fashions in Seldis this season.’

Scuto shrugged. ‘So it’s a worry, but not one we can do anything against.’

‘But you see why I had to ask,’ Totho put in.

‘I suppose so.’ Tynisa frowned at the array of incomprehensible mechanics around her. ‘This must be home away from home for you. You’ve landed on your feet.’

‘So what happened to you?’ he asked, and for a second she was about to tell him: the Halfway House, the gangsters, the deaths. For just a second she was proud of it all.

Then she looked at his face and remembered who he was, and who she was, and where they had come here from. In Collegium criminals did not boast about their deeds but kept them secret. In Collegium there was a rule of law, and murderers did not swagger about openly in the street.

‘Just surviving,’ she said. ‘Just making my way. So where are Che and Salma?’

‘Best information suggests they took refuge with some of Stenwold’s family,’ Scuto said.

‘But I tried there and they said…’ But of course it had been Sinon saying it. She had not asked them herself. What if he had betrayed her, after all?

‘That they ain’t seen ’em,’ Scuto agreed. ‘That’s the line they took with my boys as well.’