Chapter 2

Song had found Captain Alejandra Krac’s cabin a haven of elegance and learning.

Lined with heavy rows of books and two hung maps – one of the Trebian Sea, the other of Radamant’s Reefs – it boasted simple but pristine furniture and a few personal trinkets. Song had always appreciated that so many in the Watch disdained luxury, like Tianxi officials.

“I must confess Coyol’s works have ever been a chore to me,” Captain Krac noted as she slid the borrowed volume back into the right spot. “His histories of the unification of Izcalli are the most reliable, certainly, but those eschatological tirades grow tiresome.”

The captain was a tall and thick-set woman, with round cheeks and serious gray eyes. She was missing half the fingers on her left hand, bearing intricate wooden prosthetics in their stead, and was nimble enough in their use it was hardly noticeable. Maryam was not nearly so skilled yet.

“I find them worth suffering for the lack of Toxtle partisanship,” Song replied.

The House of Toxtle were the first Aztlan kings to unify most of what was now the Kingdom Izcalli into a single realm, putting an end to the bloody era their scholars called the ‘Rule of Jaguars’. To shore up their delicate position the Toxtle had undertaken a remarkably sophisticated effort to create a cult around themselves, including arranging for historians to present their rise to power as inevitable and ordained by the gods. It was nigh impossible to find a contemporary work not dripping with praises for the mighty, peerlessly righteous House of Toxtle.

Coyol, the third son of a conquered king, had been rather skeptical of this alleged fatefulness and too well connected for the Toxtle to suppress his works.

“Besides,” Song continued, “has there ever been an Izcalli work that did not holler about the coming end of days?”

Captain Krac did not smile, for she was not that kind of woman, but her stern face was faintly touched by rue.

“I suppose if they keep at it long enough they’re bound to be correct eventually,” the captain said. “I would offer you another pick from my shelves, but I fear you would not be able to finish it.”

Song immediately straightened to attention.

“We are soon to arrive, then?”

“It is my navigator’s estimation we will reach Tolomontera by midmorning tomorrow,” Captain Krac confirmed. “We have made good time.”

A hint of pride in the older woman’s voice, not underserved. Even if they had been lucky with the winds the Fair Vistas has recently lost a third of its crew to the Gloam. To exceed expectations in such a situation spoke to a tightly run ship.

“I would suggest you prepare your company for arrival,” the captain said, and it was not a suggestion.

It was a dismissal, and Song took the hint from the very busy woman who had extended her the courtesy of this conversation. She nodded, thanked Captain Krac and retired to the guest quarters. Abrascal had been plotting in a corner with that ever-grinning cook last she saw, which hopefully would keep him and the goddess following him like a playful cat busy for a while still. If she recalled correctly, which she did, Angharad should currently be charming the ship’s fighting contingent.

Effortlessly and in complete ignorance of what she was doing by being so friendly and polite while wiping the floor with everyone in spars.

She even had a way even with the old sea dogs, those that sneered at anyone spending more than a month a year on land. As for the young men, well, Song suspected the Pereduri would be leaving a broken heart or two behind when they departed tomorrow. Mind you the Tianxi found it difficult to muster sympathy for any boy fool enough to genuinely believe Angharad’s eyes kept flicking to the muscled arms of that Aztlan watchwoman because she was ‘curious about the tattoos’.

Song put a spring to her step, lips still twitching at the utterly transparent excuse the noblewoman had gotten out when teased about her lingering eye.

With the other two members of her cabal occupied, she was now freed to have an overdue conversation with the third. It was to Maryam’s door that her steps took her, for she knew it the signifier’s habit to retire to her cabin for time alone an hour before dinner. Song was early for that, but with Abrascal in the wind she suspected the pale-skinned woman would have retired ahead of the usual.

Song could not blame her. Watchmen were better learned that most in matters of Gloam and Glare, but Maryam was still stared at by much of the crew even after over a week at sea. Open distrust from strangers wearied the soul, no matter how unearned. Two sharp knocks against the door earned only silence, at least until there was the sound of movement behind the door and Maryam called out asking who it was.

“Song,” she replied. “I require a moment from you.”

The Tianxi waited a little longer before the other woman cracked open the door, dark hair disheveled and looking somewhat grumpy. Song cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. Though Maryam insisted she meditated before dinner, it often looked like she’d just woken from a nap when she was interrupted. The pale-skinned woman flicked a glance back and forth across the hallway – more out of habit than distrust, Song suspected – and only then opened the door all the way.

“Come in,” Maryamsaid. “Mind the candles.”

The Triglau moved out of the way and Song entered as bid. All their cabins were the same, the Tianxi had seen when they were assigned, save for Abrascal’s which was in a corner and so slightly more cramped. All held a bed, a trunk, a small table with a stool and a worn dresser. Only Maryam had propped up the table and stool in a corner, laid her blanket on the ground and placed candles in a loose circle around it. Perhaps she truly had been meditating, Song mused.

“Will this take long?” Maryam asked. “I can’t afford to burn my way through my allotment.”

“It should not,” Song replied.

Her gaze swept around for a place to sit until she heeded Maryam’s invitation to sit on the edge of the bed. The other woman stayed standing, leaning back against her dresser. She was, Song only now noticed, barefoot. Silver eyes flicked over the candles, noticing the faint pale hue to their light – Glare-touched, all of them. Interesting. She knew little of signifying, as the Akelarre Guild was tight-fisted with its secrets, but she did know it was an art of the Gloam and not the Glare. Why use such candles, then?

“We will be arriving early tomorrow,” she said.

Maryam grunted in approval.

“Good, I could do with sleeping in a proper Meadow,” she said. “I couldn’t let down my guard an inch on the Dominion, it’s been exhausting.”

The Akelarre Guild was allowed to hold private land on most Watch grounds, Song had learned, in part so that they could build these ‘Meadows’. Their purpose was obscure, save that Navigators rested in them regularly and seemed to count themselves better off for it.

“I imagine the Navigators will have a chapterhouse at the port,” she replied. “Though it is what follows after our arrival I come to speak to you about.”

A pause.

“There has been bickering.”

Maryam cocked an eyebrow.

“There has,” she said. “You should bury the hatchet with Tristan. He’s really quite sweet, you know.”

Song carefully kept her thoughts off her face. Sweet? The man was grenade with a lit fuse. Not once since the scales were ripped from her eyes had Song ever known a god to manifest as often and as clearly as that golden-haired goddess did around Tristan Abrascal. He must be either a madman or halfway to being a Saint, though eerily enough he showed none of the usual signs of incipient sainthood.

Song’s subtle inquiries with some of the Sacromontans during the trials had yielded no recognition for a goddess in the guise of a golden-haired woman in a red dress, which was even more worrying. The easiest way for a god to thrive without being known and willfully worshipped was to have been born of an event so catastrophically momentous it burned in the minds of thousands still.

Which meant Tristan Abrascal likely was a madman riding a calamity god, and though Song would not shy from using him she also had every intention of holding him at arm’s length until he inevitably got himself and quite a few other people killed.

“That is not what I meant,” Song said.

Maryam thinly smiled.

“I know exactly what you meant, Song,” she replied. “That was a warning to keep walking. Best you heed it.”

The Tianxi’s jaw tightened. Maryam was usually an agreeable woman.

“I understand your issues with Angharad’s background, but-”

“No,” Maryam harshly said. “You don’t. You think you do, and I won’t deny the gods dealt your family a hard hand, but you have no fucking understanding of this at all and I will get very angry with you if you ever again pretend otherwise.”

Song’s lips thinned, but she held her tongue. You are stone shaped by the chisel of life, she recited. Will it be your hand wielding the tool, or theirs? If she gave her anger to others, she relinquished the chisel – and that was unacceptable. Maryam’s words were no way to talk to a superior officer, but strictly speaking Song was not that until their cabal was registered.

Moreover, her earlier dealings with the other woman had been along the lines of a partnership without rank involved. It would take time for the adjustment and Uncle Zhuge had warned her that as a rule hierarchy tended to be played loose within cabals.

“We have fights enough waiting for us,” Song finally said. “Can you, at least, cease provoking her?”

Maryam’s face closed down like a house come winter, and she knew immediately she had made a mistake.

“So you’ve decided to change ships now that you no longer need me,” Maryam stiffly said. “Fine. Best I knew it now, I suppose..”

Song stiffened at the accusation.

“I have done no such thing,” she said.

“Have you had this talk with Tredegar?” the Triglau smiled.

There was no joy in it.

“I intended to-”

“That’s a no,” Maryam cut through. “Allow me to be clear, Song: she gets no apology from me for the discomfort of being reminded her people treat mine like chattel. And Stripe candidate or not, you are in no position to make me.”

Song met her eyes, for anger was a personal matter but not so a challenge to authority. If that stone cracked there would be no mending it – and Song would not be captain of their cabal in name only. She kept her voice clear, calm, free of anger. Hand on the chisel.

“A direct order from a captain,” she said, “is not refused without consequence.”

“There’s no ink on paper yet, Song,” Maryam replied. “And even when there is, we both know that there can be transfers to other cabals – without or without your captain’s permission. If I don’t stick around, do you think Tristan will?”

Even one departure might be the death knell of a cabal as small as theirs, Song thought, but two would be for certain. A cabal must count four students or be dissolved, and while perhaps one departure could be replaced in time two would cause questions to be asked. If Song stuck with Angharad they would no doubt find another cabal willing to take the both of them in, but that could not be. She needed it to be her name on the reports – Captain Song Ren – or there was no point to any of this.

It was not a threat without teeth but going belly up now would be the end of her captaincy before it even began. No one obeyed an officer they’d bent. Song measured her words, matched anger to need and found the right stride. She could not slip, not even a moment.

“You would peddle a murderous street rat with a rampant god and a Triglau signifier who can only use Autarchic Signs,” Song evenly. “Do you think it would take me more than half an hour’s work to make it so that not a cabal on Tolomontera would be willing to touch either of you even with plague gloves on?”

“I can do more than that,” Maryam hissed.

“Not well,” Song bluntly replied. “Now, let me be clear, I do not want to do this. There is no gain to be had. But if you set out to do me harm, Maryam, I will answer by throwing a torch at every single bridge you’ve so much as glanced at.”

She sneered back, but the Tianxi knew it a front. Maryam had reasons to want to attend Scholomance just as urgent as Song’s own. Now she had laid out the consequences, made it clear that an attack would be met with worse. She must now make it clear there were no chains, that she was not cornering Maryam either. A house with a lock that only one man may open is called a prison, Master Shijian had written.

“If you truly want to part ways, I will not keep you. I only require that we proceed in a civilized manner,” Song continued. “We will arrange a trade with a cabal suiting you and settle the matter without harm to either party.”

Now to address the accusation. She leaned forward, face intent.

“I came to speak to you on matters of bickering first because I have known you to be level-headed and because your provocations are purposeful,” Song continued. “Angharad Tredegar gives offense by accident, Maryam. It does not excuse her, and she is not excused, but it does mean it shall take more than a single polite conversation to begin curtailing the issue.”

She met Maryam’s blue eyes.

“Do we now understand each other, Maryam Khaimov?”

The two matched gazes for a long moment before the Triglau looked away.

“I grew angry too quickly,” Maryam finally said.

“And I approached the matter poorly,” Song acknowledged.

She had underestimated the delicacy of the matter, thinking of the other woman’s level-headedness as an absolute instead of a choice. She had broken zunyan, if only by accident. Maryam passed a hand through her long dark locks, letting out a sigh. The other woman looked tired, Song decided. There had always been rings around her eyes, but they seemed darker now.

“I’ll try to refrain from pulling at her tail too much,” Maryam said. “But if she so much as-”

“I would not expect you to answer an insult with silence,” she cut in. “Nor will I ask.”

Maryam let out a noise that might have passed for agreement and the silver-eyed woman decided it would have to do. She rose from the bed, then hesitated a moment. No, it could wait. She nodded at Maryam, but the Triglau frowned at her.

“Your hand,” she said, extending hers.

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“I was not going to ask,” Song stiffly said.

She was not so thick-skinned as to request a favor after an argument.

“I’m still angry with you,” Maryam bluntly said, “but not enough to risk your health. Your hand, Song.”

The Tianxi cleared her throat, somewhat embarrassed, and gave it. Maryam’s fingers clasped her own and the signifier closed her eyes. A moment passed then Song felt a faint ripple go up her arm – like a shiver, hair-raising and swiftly gone. Maryam let out a long breath, opening her eyes and releasing Song’s hand.

“The concentration is nearing dangerous again,” Maryam said. “Did you purge at all while on the Dominion?”

Song’s lips thinned.

“Twice,” she said. “Once during the Trial of Lines and again after we reached Three Pines.”

“You might be at a high tide, then,” Maryam said.

The Tianxi smothered a grimaced. That or the curses were gathering quicker.

“Purge tonight,” Maryam advised. “The salt in sea water should make you harder to reach but there’s still a risk.”

Song nodded and gave her thanks. A look at the candles told her that their conversation had lasted longer than anticipated and perhaps to Maryam’s material detriment. Song barely used her own candles, given her eyes, so it should be a fitting apology to gift the other woman most of her allotment after dinner. The Tianxi took her leave, briskly heading for her own rooms. There should be time enough for a purge before dinner, though she would look tired afterwards. Still, better to do it early than late. She tended to get nightmares if she did it too close to falling asleep.

Locking the door behind her, Song took from her bag a green pouch and a wooden bowl. First she untied the strings on the silken pouch, carefully spilling some of the salt to trace a circle on the floor. She would have to buy more soon, she was nearly out. She would make a note in her ledger. Then came the bowl, a simple wooden piece whose insides were blackened as if sprayed with acid. Song filled the bowl with her water jug, then stepped inside the salt circle and sat down cross-legged.

The bowl she set down at her side, and after taking a long breath dipped the fingers of her left hand in the water. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. In and out, letting her senses trail off until there was nothing but her breath and the dark.

And, after an eternity, there was the smell.

Like offal, like rot and hate and shame made into a stick of incense. Song forced herself to ignore it, to focus on the steadiness of her breathing. It was only when her fingers were touching the dried bottom of the bowl that she opened her eyes again. There was not a drop of water left in the bowl, and fresh black scarring from the curses she had purged from her body.

When she had been a girl the purge was only needed once every few years, but nowadays it was twice a month. It was getting worse with every season, for an endless sea of hatred and misery was being poured into the Gloam by every Tianxi who’d lost to the Dimming.