Free No Present Like Time by Steph Swainston

Emperor’s Messenger,” I said. “How can I help you?”
    “Did you see the duel between Gio and Wrenn?”
    “What’s the new Serein like?”
    “Tell us the tactic he used!”
    “Tell us if he’s married,” a girl said. Her lanky body had a passing resemblance to a Rhydanne woman and momentarily I had to control myself.
    “I just flew here…” I said.
    “Is it true there’s never been a Swordsman as good as Wrenn?”
    I tried, “I’ve just returned from Darkling. Let me tell you—”
    “I don’t believe Wrenn taught himself. He must be a genius!”
    “My name’s Dunnock,” said the boy with purple hair. “I study music—in the governor’s arty set, but she demands a lot of her circle.”
    Wonderful, I thought; other Eszai have the Fourlands’ best vying to be trained by them in the Select Fyrd; I attract gangs of disaffected youth. I tried a simple approach. “Actually the Governor sent me to find a man called Cinna Bawtere. I’ve been ordered to arrest him. Have you heard of him?”
    “What if we have?”
    “Why do you want to arrest him?”
    I rounded on Dunnock. “Show me where his lair is these days.”
    The brewers, now quiet, ushered me through the underpass. My leather-soled boots squeaked on the tiling; then we turned left on Seething Lane away from the sea, past the puppet-maker’s shop and into the artists’ quarter.
    Shop signs projected above doorways: CROSSBOW CLOCKWORK LTD and FYRD RECRUITMENT LOWESPASS VICTORY HOUSE . APPLEJACK AND FINE TEREDO CALVADOS . Bleak graffiti sporadically decorated the walls between them, declaring, “Ban the Ballista” and “¡Featherbacks go home!”
    The local resentment of Awian refugees was worse than I thought. It made me angry—they weren’t to blame for being made homeless by the Insect swarm. In fact, I thought guiltily, the swarm had largely been my fault. I knew that Tern was trying to persuade the Wrought armorers back to continue their vital tradition in her manor. Her blacksmiths worked extremely hard wherever they had been forced to settle.
    The Swindlestock Bar was dead center of the artists’ quarter. It was built inside the mouth of a gigantic Insect tunnel, like a gray hood with a rough, deeply shadowed papier-mâché texture. The tunnel had been cut from the Paperlands and shipped south for building material; the nightclub’s front projected from its opening, with two stories of green-glazed bricks and black beams. Paper curved down to the ground, looking like a huge worm cast. Windows had been cut in it. Outside the door, a sloughed Insect skin hung in an iron gibbet, its six spiked legs sticking out. It was transparent brown and gnarled; it revolved slowly, a dead weight in the sea breeze.
    I know some clubs in Awndyn that could be described as meat markets. This was more of a delicatessen. Green light so pale it was almost gray reflected on the water pooled between the cobbles. The vague and eerie light came from cylindrical glass jars by the club’s open door—larvae lamps—lanterns full of glow-worm larvae. The doorman picked one up and shook it to make it brighter.
    The brewers nodded at the doorman and walked straight in. Inside, the floor was malachite-colored tiles, the decor ebony with a matte shine. In a deep fireplace sea-driftwood burned with copper-green sparks. A lone musician up on the stage was salivating into a saxophone. He played exceptionally; he must have been one of Swallow’s students. The larvae lamps emphasized his sallow face as he leaned across their shifting light. He paused, recognizing me, and his eyebrows sprang right into his hairline, then he started up another low, sexy drone, playing his very best as if I was a talent spotter.
    The brewers vanished into the press of bodies around the stage. Dunnock turned to me and pointed at the ceiling. “Check upstairs. They ask to see track marks,” he added, agitated. “You’re not wearing a sword.”
    I raised a hand to calm him. “I don’t