Chapter 14

Angharad sat on a bench to eat alone with her thoughts, which was no mercy.

Half her cabal was long gone, and the last member… Much as the noblewoman disliked sitting there brooding and biting at the tail of her own thoughts, to share a meal with Song after their previous conversation might have been worse. That her own captain had believed it necessary to inform her she lacked manners was mortifying beyond words. That Song had then considered she might prefer finding another cabal to mending her own behavior was much, much worse.

Had she truly tarred her own reputation so thoroughly without even noticing?

Oh, it was a certain thing that the others came into the matter with blinders. Tristan had been born to the gutter and so kept sharp sympathy for those on the losing side of history while Tianxi hated slavery enough to forgive anything of those inflicted it. And Maryam, she was understandably attached to the land of her birth regardless of its genuine merits. None of this, however, excused that Angharad had been giving offense so regularly that others now expected it of her.

That the dishonor had crept up on her unseen did not unmake it, but that was not even the part she was chewing on. How did one make reparations for such a thing? Offering courtesy going forward was ending a wrong, not making a right. Monetary reparations were an acceptable manner for a lady to extend an apology to one lowborn, but Angharad was now only titled by courtesy. Such reparations might rightly be considered putting on airs. A service, then, or some manner of boon. The Pereduri would have to ponder what ceiling should be appended to such an offer – death, wound, first blood?

It was vexing that Father’s lessons on giving justice to common folk had been as their liege lady, not an associate. Then again, how many peers of Peredur had ever been placed in a position to call lowborn folk their associate?

While frowning at the stone pavement, Angharad had finished most of what she packed away as a snack – salted fish and a few cherry tomatoes – without noticing by the time footsteps had her looking up. What awaited had her wiping away her frown, but her stomach did not unclench: Captain Imani Langa was no soothing sight, accompanied by a stranger or not.

The Malani was just as lovely in the cut of a standard uniform as she had been in her more fashionable one – she filled it just as enticingly – and today her hair was worn in long intricate braids that formed waves. She was still smiling that mysterious smile, which Angharad found to her distress was made no less enticing by the knowledge Imani Langa was an agent of the Lefthand House. She made herself look at the companion instead.

That man, Angharad decided after a heartbeat, what Tristan would be if the Sacromontan mold that made him was filled with deadliness instead of charm. The Lierganen was of the same height as her cabalmate, as messily dark-haired and though he was grim where Tristan was all smiles and the eyes were brown instead of gray they were restless in that same casual, lying way. This one, though, he was leanly muscled and his face was marred by a cross scar on the chin. He had the calluses of bladework on his palms and a worn side-sword at his hip.

Angharad had known enough of the breed to say he moved like a killer, and a seasoned one at that.

“Lady Angharad,” Imani smiled. “What a pleasant turn to find you here.”

The noblewoman set aside the last of her meal and rose, clearing her throat.

“Captain Imani,” she replied. “The pleasure is all mine.”

The lovely spy offered her hand to kiss, and it would have been terribly impolite to refuse so she gently pressed her lips against the knuckles. Once more she raised her eyes to a slightly widened smile, which she took more pleasure in than she should have. Imani withdrew her hand, then turned to half-face the third.

“I thought I might introduce one of my cabalists to you,” she said.

The dark-haired man nodded a curt greeting.

“Salvador,” he said.

His Antigua had the same lilt to it as Tristan’s, Angharad thought. He must be Sacromontan as well.

“Angharad Tredegar,” she replied. “Thirteenth Brigade.”

“Alas, you refused Thando’s invitation to change that,” Captain Imani lightly deplored. “I must confess I introduce Salvador to you with an ulterior motive, my lady – he is a Skiritai as well, you see, and I must leave him behind now to head off to my own class.”

The lovely spy touched her wrist.

“He is quite shy, so I thought to leave him here to wait in good hands.”

Salvador leveled his captain with a glare that was not particularly shy but then he sighed.

“I would appreciate company,” the dark-haired man said.

“That I can provide,” Angharad said, giving him a nod he returned.

However halting the man’s conversation, it would be better than continuing to stew in her own thoughts.

“I am grateful for the kindness,” Captain Imani said, smiling in relief. “Though I fear I must now impose on your manners, for I have pressing business on Hostel Street.”

“I would not detain you, then,” Angharad gallantly replied.

“Oh, but you must,” Imani smirked. “Simply not right now. Do come by when you have the time, Angharad. I still lodge at the Emerald Vaults, you need only ask for me in front.”

The stark reminder of what it meant that Imani Langa was an ufudupoured cold water on anything that smirk and implication might have stirred in her. The other woman was not inviting her for a rendezvous but to incite her to steal from the Watch on the behalf of the Lefthand House – for though the High Queen had asserted what was being sought belonged to her and so it must be true, the Watch might well feel differently and Angharad had sworn oaths to them.

She simply nodded, leaving the conversation to die, and Captain Imani sashayed away as suddenly as she had come. Angharad turned, meeting Salvador’s brown eyes and impassive face, then swallowed.

“Fine weather today,” she tried. “Good for walking.”

The Lierganen cocked an eyebrow ever so slightly, and it occurred to the noblewoman a moment too late that the weather on Tolomontera was, in fact, dictated by Grand Orrery on a set cycle. Alas, none of the cracks between the paving stones were large enough for her to disappear inside and die.

“Angharad, there you are!”

The Pereduri turned to see Shalini Goel striding her way, and silently swore one day she would return this great favor. The curvy Someshwari was armed to the teeth, bearing four pistols and a straight double-edged at her hip – a vaal, Angharad remembered they were called. Nobles and captains of the southern Someshwar dueled using them. They were distinguished from the common aruval billhook blades by being used only to spill blood in battle, never to cut through underbrush.

Angharad thought it strange that Shalini would be trained in such a weapon when she had no noble name to defend, until it occurred to her she might have been trained to use it on Ishaan’s behalf. She felt a pang of pity for the other woman’s loss, which tainted her smile as Shalini nearly bowled the both of them over coming to a halt.

“What were you doing hiding by a statue?” Shalini asked, then shook her head. “No matter, I still found you. Who’s this?”

Angharad cleared her throat.

“Salvador, may I present to you Shalini Goel of the Thirty-First Brigade,” she said. “She is a fellow Skiritai.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Shalini said.

“Shalini, may I present to you Salvador of the Eleventh Brigade.”

The Lierganen grunted and gave a nod. Angharad sent her friend a look that was just short of pleading.

“Not a great talker, are you?” Shalini amusedly said.

Salvador shook his head.

“Throat,” he said.

Ah. A condition, then, and not simply his natural disposition.

“Sounds unpleasant,” the Someshwari said. “But worry not, I can speak for two.”

“Modest of you,” Angharad noted.

Shalini rolled her eyes.

“Islanders, they always think they’re funny,” she told Salvador. “Mine keeps making these quips about how Tianxi teas must ‘all taste equal under Heaven’ so our cabalmate is this close to just pressing a pillow over his face while he sleeps.”

Salvador snorted, then coughed into his fist.

“Imani says she will raise our allowance if we’re good,” he sympathized.

The treachery of the continental peoples of Vesper, well documented by the pages of history, was ever a burden on the greatness of the Kingdom of Malan. The noblewoman packed away the last of her salted fish with due dignity, amused to hear Shalini wish she had remembered to pack something to snack on as well. Angharad had not, in fact, remembered this.

Song had reminder her that unless she wanted to go back and forth between their cottage and Scholomance alone – a risky proposition – then she would be left to wait by the school gates for some time and should perhaps bring something to eat or read. Angharad had not thought to acquire books yesterday, so she had settled for something to nibble on instead.

The three of them headed out onto the square where they had been instructed to wait, finding the press of students long gone. Now it was only the Skiritai that were left, told as they were to wait before the gates of Scholomance for their covenant-appointed teacher to come and fetch them. The students stood around in small groups, chatting quietly – as if Scholomance’s shadow might take offense otherwise – and Angharad let her eyes stray. She recognized few faces here, though some stood out.

Lord Musa Shange was there, surrounded by others and carefully ignoring her existence as he conversed with a slender Someshwari. Muchen He from the Forty-Ninth was there as well and keeping a watch on that wolf-eyed boy from Tupoc’s cabal. ‘Expendable’, she believed? He was one of the rare students standing alone, his gaze almost never leaving the ground.

“At least sixty of us here,” Shalini said.

“More,” Salvador said, but nodded.

“I thought there might be more of us than that,” Angharad admitted. “It seems to me no cabal should be without a Skiritai.”

“Not everyone’s making a fighting company,” Shalini pointed out. “I know Ferranda in-”

The curvy gunslinger was interrupted, but not by another’s words: the clarion call that cut through was no metaphor but the actual sound of two clarion trumpets being sounded. Poorly. Angharad watched with something like disbelief as a pair of gaudily attired boys, neither older than thirteen and each wearing enough ribbons and frippery for a whole salon, crossed one of the bridges leading to Scholomance before moving to the sides.

The taller of the two, ruddy-cheeked and bright-eyed, cleared his throat as somewhere in the vicinity of sixty heavily armed students stared him down.

“Now announcing His Grace,” the boy called out. “Marshal Hermenegildo Berenguel Adamastor de la Tavarin, Count of Encoberto.”

The other boy whispered at him.

“Retired,” the page hastily tacked on.

Silence followed. The announced man was nowhere in sight.

Angharad was left in the uncomfortable position of hoping this was some manner of prank. Besides, were blackcloaks not sworn to renounce their titles when they put on the black? This Marshal de la Tavarin should no longer be a count.

“Wait, if he’s retired can he still call himself a marshal?” Shalini frowned.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Angharad blinked.

“I… think not?” she slowly said.

Had the Watch somehow been tricked by a charlatan? That was most distressing. The page boys had been shuffling on their feet, discomforted by the weight of the stares, but when they suddenly straightened Angharad glanced past them and finally saw the approaching professor.

The man was Lierganen and old, perhaps the oldest man Angharad had ever seen. He walked leaning on a brass lionhead cane, back slightly curbed, and his face was tanned and creased like old leather. Though there was still some touch of black to his eyebrows, it was his impressive pure white mustache and equally snowy long locks that commanded attention. For a heartbeat, anyway, as the old ‘Marshal’ was most eye searingly dressed.

Though his knee-length coat was Watch black, its sleeves were pinned back and vivid yellow with flashing silver buttons. His trousers and hose were pristine and white, matching his overlarge cravat, and his delicate doeskin shoes were better fit for a ballroom than the street. His hat was wide-brimmed and embroidered in silver, not that one would notice considering the almost absurd size of the yellow feather pinned back on it.

His slow, unhurried advance set the students to murmuring. Salvador let out a small noise of surprise, earning her attention.

“Farfan,” he said.

Angharad hid her bemusement behind a pleasant smile. Thankfully Shalini knew what he meant.

“Farfanes are mercenaries,” she explained. “Their companies fight out in Old Liergan for whoever will pay, even hollows. Fine soldiers, I heard, who see more blood on the regular than anyone save the Izcalli.”

The Pereduri was rather curious as to how a girl from Ramaya – near as far from Old Liergan was it was possible to be and still live within the borders of the Imperial Someshwar – had come to know of such hired swords, but this was no time to ask. With an entirely unnecessary flourish of his cane the old man came to a stop and cleared his throat once. He got the silence he had not quite asked for.

He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he was saying was drowned out by the sound of the page boys sounding their clarions again. They both stared at him expectantly afterwards, and after a moment the old man sighed and flipped them a golden coin. They put down the clarions and ran off without a second glance, chattering excitedly.

There was a sudden epidemic of coughing fits among the students, which some might have interpreted as poorly suppressed laughter.

“You may call me Marshal,” the old man announced in weathered voice, “or Your Grace. I have been charged by the Skiritai Guild to make something useful out of you.”

Angharad eyed him skeptically. Under the formal etiquette of the Second Empire, which most of the Lierganen states still followed, the proper address for a count was ‘Your Excellency’. Though he was not claiming the courtesy due a higher title, in a way it was even worse: ‘Your Grace’ was not, as far as she knew, even a Lierganen address. She vaguely thought it might have been used in the ancient Kingdom of Cathay, but it had fallen somewhat out of vogue around the same time Cathayan nobles keeping their heads became similarly unpopular.