Chapter 18

Song was the first back to the cottage.

She came in, wiped her boots and hung her cloak. Her musket was placed against the wall – until a proper weapons rack could be acquired – and she put away her powder in a bag she had hung from the wall for that very purpose. The sword belt joined the cloak as the last step, but for once putting away her affairs in an orderly matter brought no comfort. She felt… she wasn’t sure, in truth. Empty? Perhaps simply tired. It had been a long day.

The Tianxi made her way to the kitchen, trussed up her sleeves and got started on the evening meal. Chicken, rice and fresh tomatoes. No spices save salt, which was cheap and plentiful in Allazei. Her mother would have disowned her for a meal like this, but though it was simple fare the portions would be plentiful and it was not difficult to cook. It could serve as a placeholder. By the end of the week Song intended to begin a rotation so that responsibility for meals might not be entirely on her shoulders, alternating between the members of her brigade.

She had also been considering a chore sheet, considering the amount of work yet in need of doing. The cottage was still filthy, the library needed to be catalogued, the garden emptied of weeds, furniture needed to be bought and carried… the list went on. And though Song knew that when she was finished with the meal she should change into the work clothes she’d acquired in town and get to cleaning, the thought was frail. As if she were not certain of her own intentions, as if she were…

“I am not buckling,” Song hissed down at the pot of rice.

So there had been a setback. Colonel Cao had marked her a fool before her entire set of peers at Scholomance and her name would remain on that board until she erased her shame. That did not mean she would fail. It had been a lesson she must learn and the sting would only help her remember. The colonel was right, her approach had been lukewarm: she had neither hidden what she deduced to secure an advantage nor revealed it to everyone so she might earn gratitude.

The worst of both worlds: she well deserved the loss of a point.

Song set to preparing the chicken, carefully cutting and sprinkling with salt as she went. It went into an iron pot which was placed over the flame. Her distress, she decided, was only because she needed to purge the curse. She would ask Maryam to have a look tonight. It had not been long since the last purging, but it may be that Tolomontera – a great aether well, she had been told – made matters worse. Yet what she needed even more than that was a plan. A way forward, a way to rise.

Song did not anticipate her brigade would be too difficult to convince to take the trial, but that alone was not enough. She needed a way to redeem her reputation. A way to turn the tide, to catch up to… Her fingers clenched. Always behind, Nianzu had told her, slurring. You can’t fight fate, Song. No matter how we struggle, we’ll always end up behind. But what would he know?

“Should I follow you and disappear down a bottle, gege?” she bit out. “I won’t-”

It smelled burnt. Swallowing thickly, Song looked down and saw that in her fugue she had left the chicken unattended too long. The top was still pink, but when she flipped the cuts she saw they had charred stripes. The Tianxi swallowed. If she cut them out perhaps it wouldn’t show? No, they’ll still see I cut out parts. Perhaps if she sliced every piece in two, then – no, idiot, they would notice the quantity was too small. One of them would ask. They would know.

Hands shaking, tearing up like a fucking child, Song did the only rational thing she could: she put the pot off the fire, went outside with a shovel and dug a hole in a corner of the garden. She emptied the burnt chicken into it – she’d have to buy another to replace it from her own funds – and filled the hole. She had to hurry, they could be back anytime now. Song opened the windows to get rid of the smell and cleaned the iron pot before doing the recipe properly this time.

When her cabal began arriving one after the other, Song was ready. She welcomed them with a smile and a meal and her hand remained on the chisel as they all sat together and ate. Like a proper brigade, led by a proper captain.

“Would you mind if I closed the windows?” Angharad asked, polishing off the last of her rice. “It is getting rather chilly.”

Song’s hand twitched. The windows. Utter fool that she was, she had forgot to close the windows.

“I’ll do it,” she said, hurriedly rising to her feet.

Only she was sloppy in her haste, her knee caught the table and the shake tipped over a cup of water and – Abrascal caught it before it could spill. Her jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

“Song,” Maryam slowly said, “are you-”

“Fine,” she bit out.

She strode to the windows and closed them abruptly. When she turned back towards the table it was to the sight of two concerned faces and Tristan Abrascal’s mask. And why wouldn’t they be concerned, when she was making a scene like a child throwing a tantrum? She forced herself to breathe out, smoothed out her tunic.

“My first covenant class did not go as I would have preferred,” Song said.

Some of the tension left the room. That was no achievement, when she had been the one to put it there.

“Mine either,” Maryam volunteered. “Our professor effectively washed his hands of me and I’ve been forced to make other arrangements.”

She made her way back to the table, carefully. As if her feet were made of porcelain.

“That is highly improper,” Angharad frowned, and Maryam tensed. “It is a professor’s duty to attend to all students as equally as they can.”

The Izvorica shot her a look and said nothing, which still a stark improvement over the entire last month. Song crossed her legs and sat on the floor again, back straight. She reached for her cup.

“I found a teacher and framed the Forty-Ninth’s patron for arson,” Abrascal casually said.

She choked on her mouthful of water, glaring at the thief since that timing had most definitely been deliberate. He smiled back innocently.

“Is that what Masks do?” Angharad hesitantly asked.

Meaning – is this otherwise dishonorable act permitted because it is your duty, and thus honorable in a different way? The Pereduri was not difficult to understand, once you grasped the tint of the spectacles she looked at the world through.

“You probably don’t want to ask too many questions about that,” Abrascal honestly replied. “Still, I can tell you I’ll be working at the Chimerical two afternoons a week. I’ll let you know the days as soon as I learn them.”

“My own afternoons will be filled four days out of five,” Angharad contributed. “Third day is to be a rest day.”

Maryam cleared her throat, earning glances.

“And how was your class?” she asked, sounding almost challenging.

“Six of us died,” Angharad replied.

Gods. The silence that put into place lasted until the plates and remains were taken away and Song brewed a pot of Someshwari tea. It was cheaper on Regnant Street than the Republican leaves, and with good reason – their tea was inferior in every way. Only Abrascal declined a cup. It was Song who broke the uncomfortable quiet.

“There is a price to the privileges of Stripe students,” she said.

She took out the trial bounty she had taken from the board, carefully folded, and set it down on the table. It made its way around, getting a raised eyebrow from Maryam and an interested look from Angharad. Abrascal was harder to read, but if she must she would peg him as thoughtful.

“It must be complete by next week or I will be sent away,” Song frankly told them. “Every Academy recommended is in the same situation.”

The only man among them snorted.

“Ouch, poor Forty-Ninth,” Abrascal said. “They’ll be stuck doing two.”

A fine argument for why few cabals would want two Stripes, and also for why no Academy recommended would want to command a cabal of leftovers. An incompetent brigade would not bring up your score high enough to pass by the year’s end, however eager they might be to obey you. Besides that, the way the thief had phrased his sentence was promising. It implied he was willing to participate, and Abrascal had been the most likely holdout in her mind.

“This is all we have to go on?” Maryam asked, staring at the paper.

She had been the last to receive it.

“It is.”

The Izvorica sighed, passing the bounty back to Song. She did not fold it again, and made a note to smoothen it out later tonight with weight pressing down on the sides.

“Well, I won’t turn away the coin,” Maryam said. “When did you have in mind?”

“Sixthday afternoon,” Song replied.

After the elective classes, though she would leave a wide margin of time to avoid possible inconveniences. She would have been more comfortable earlier in the week, but it was better to let her brigade settle in properly instead. They confirmed the split of coin and where in the city they would have to journey before they could be escorted to the trial – a place on the outskirts of Scholomance, which had them speculating the trial would be within the school.

The conversation soon trailed off. Maryam volunteered to wash the dishes, Angharad went out into the garden for her evening exercises – most nights she spent half an hour out there doing drills with her blade – but the surprise was when Tristan lingered at the table with her. Song had reason to remain, not being done with her tea, but he himself had none. Unless he wanted to speak with her, that was. The Tianxi cocked an eyebrow and waited.

“I need information,” the gray-eyed man said. “How can you see gods?”

Her heart clenched. She put down her cup of tea before it became visible there was a tremble to her fingers. Her hands went down onto her lap, hidden by the table.

“Pardon?” Song said.

“You can see contracts,” Abrascal elaborated. “But do you know of a way people could see gods?”

Not her, she realized with relief. He did not mean her. She kept her face smooth.

“I expect there are contracts out there that might allow this,” she said, mouth gone dry. “Why?”

He grimaced.

“All right, cards on the table,” he said. “Do you know of a way for devils to see gods?”

“Once annealed, devils become a fixed shape in the aether,” Song mused. “It may be that lets them sense gods, though outright sight seems a stretch.”

“Hage could see my patron god,” the thief flatly said. “Hear them, too.”

Song let out a low whistle. Her own god did not visit enough for this to be a risk, but it was useful to know.

“Thank you for the warning,” she said, inclining her head.

He hummed.

“Well, I suppose it’s not like I got nothing for it,” Abrascal said.

She sipped at her cup.

“No?”

“Hands are expressive,” he said. “Those with training, they often keep them out of sight when trying to hide something.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

As she had at the start of this conversation, damn her. Had she given herself away? The gray-eyed man studied her face, half-frowning.

“Well, there are things we don’t ask,” Tristan Abrascal said. “I’ll leave you to your tea, Song.”

He backed up from the table and rose to his feet even as her fingers clasped the side of the cup so hard her knuckles paled. He was not so smug as to wave her way before heading up the stairs, into that stargazing tower he had claimed as his bedroom, but it still felt like she had just been slapped in the face. Abrascal had no reason to keep her secrets. If he told the others… It could turn their entire year against her, the knowledge she could peer at their deepest secrets with nothing but a glance. Even those who cared nothing for the Dimming would-

“Easy now.”

Song sucked in a breath, finding there was hand on her shoulder. Maryam was half-kneeling at her side, arms wet with a sheen. She smelled like food scraps and wetness.

“Think of the sea,” the other woman said. “Tide comes in, tide goes out. Make yourself see it in your mind.”

She barely felt Maryam take the cup out of her hands and set it on the table, struggling to do ask asked.

“Match your breath to it,” the Izvorica murmured. “It comes in…”

Song breathed in.

“It goes out.”

By the time her heartbeat had settled, she did not dare to meet Maryam’s eyes.

“What did he say, Song?”

The tone was flinty.

“Little,” Song tiredly said. “It is-”

Staring down at the table, she sagged.

“I am, by score, now the last of the Stripe students,” she confessed. “I have failed you all.”

“I doubt that,” Maryam said, sitting down by her side. “What happened?”

The story tripped its way out of her, every word of it sounding like pathetic whining to her ears.

“That colonel sounds like a real bitch,” the Izvorica mused.

“Maryam,” Song hissed.

The pale-skinned girl shrugged.

“We agreed we’d be honest with each other, when we started this,” Maryam said. “So I’m being honest: that Cao woman sounds like a real bitch.”

“She’s a highly respected officer,” Song told her.

“Agree to disagree,” Maryam easily replied.

“The last time you used that sentence, you saddled our cabal with Tristan Abrascal,” Song muttered.

“And it’s been lovely having him,” she replied, then frowned. “Though he should have known better to prod you when you’re like this.”

Song straightened.

“I am not like anything,” she said.