Chapter 27

Maryam was not having a good time.

“Black fucking Goat,” she cursed, ducking under the spinning metal blade.

It screeched and sparked above her head, suddenly whipping back as the articulated metal arm that’d shot it out withdrew into the wall. Behind her Ishanvi threw herself forward before she could be carved in two by the wall-blade coming out of the floor, Maryam leaning back to grab her by the shoulder and drag her into the next section. There had been no way to tell when they came in, the floor seamless, but now the differing heights of floor sections let you pick out them out easily.

“The dial is at three,” Song Ren evenly called out. “Shift.”

Exactly two heartbeats after Song’s last word, the floor of the oval-shaped room shifted. Split into eight sections, the surface broke up every which way. Some went up, others down, others were inclined forward or back seemingly without rhyme or reason. Maryam swallowed another curse, throwing herself onto the edge of the now backwards-sloping floor trying to toss her back onto the section with the blade traps.

She caught the edge, hoisting herself up and offering Ishanvi a hand to tug her up so she might as well. After a beat of delay the walls around them shifted forward by two slots, like a belt being slid forward, and that wasn’t even-

A sharp crack resounded, almost instantly followed by the sound of crumpling metal. Song, standing in the middle of the room on top of a raised platform she could barely fit both boots on, calmly began reloading her rifle as the armored form toppled down from the top of the wall. It was still clutching a jagged javelin in hand, now splashed with ichor from where Song had slain it with a shot through the throat.

Maryam could not quite make out what the creature under was, save that it was child-sized, hairy and had cloven feet. They were also very fine javelin throwers, as the jagged wound ripped into Emeni Maziya’s stomach could attest.

“We need to pull that lever,” Silumko shouted from the other side of the room.

He was looking a little singed from the way that gout of flame had clipped him, but his cloak had taken the worst of it. A bang resounded as Song paused in her reloading to casually put a pistol shot into another lemure. It toppled back out of sight, screeching wildly.

“That could make it worse,” she shouted back.

“Do you see anything else to do?” he asked.

“Three seconds to trap reset,” Song stated. “Two.”

Gods, how was she keeping count in the middle of all this? Maryam squinted, trying to recall what she’d seen of the trap order, but the damn thing was all-

“Darts,” Ishanvi gasped out from her side.

“One,” Song warned.

Forward would mean the wheels again, and the floor there had been lowered. Dangerous, but…

“Forward,” Maryam cursed.

She threw herself past the edge and onto the next section even as a panel opened in the wall and a dozen darts were spat out by some sort of metal contraption – she hit the floor badly, swallowing a groan as her knee burned and Ishanvi landed besides her in a horrible bellyflop that had her gasping like a fish on the shore. Both pressed themselves against the floor, so the spinning metal wheel carved into the air above them before withdrawing.

“The dial is at four,” Song said. “Shift.”

A shout from the other side. Yaq and Cemelli were absorbed in keeping their captain alive, the large Skiritai moving her from one section to another and the Savant keeping her from bleeding to death with a mix of bandages and her contract, but Silumko was still trying to solve the room. Which had apparently cost him when a gust of yellow gas shot out of the wall and he didn’t get his cloak up entirely in time. The side of his face was blistered like someone left out in direct Glare for too long.

Two beats, the sections shifted. Their floor shot up, ticking gears below pushing up a piston beneath it, while every other sloped towards the space that made – to try and forced them below the raised floor, which would then smash down on the next rotation and crush whatever lay beneath. One more tick, the belt slid. Two slots in the opposite direction as before, and Maryam did not need to guess which trap that was: the flamethrower was not clean, it’d made dark streaks around the mouth spitting out the flame.

Another crack, another dead lemure tumbling down after Song put a bullet in them. Gods, but they were lucky that after Song began shooting back at the creatures they’d turned coward, because there must be at least a dozen of them. Her captain was slower to reload with the isibankwa rifle than she had been with her musket but only by a hair, and somehow seemed to be reloading her pistol in spare moments as well. And the masses of Vesper claimed it was the Akelarre that did magic.

“The lever,” Silumko mouthed, his voice half a groan. “Khaimov, has to be you.”

Maryam bit at her lip, keeping a hand on Ishanvi’s shoulder to make sure she was there and not falling off their floor-section turned raised platform, high in the air. There were two doors to the room: the one they had entered from, which had locked moments after they entered in a grim omen, and the portcullis barring the way out at the opposite end of the oval. It was set in the wall, and to its left was an iron lever that in a place not trying to kill them Maryam would have assumed was meant to raise said portcullis.

But this was Scholomance, so it had trap written all over it.

Silumko wasn’t wrong, though, because what else was there? The walls were solid save for the parts that moved for traps, and atop them were spikes save for four gaps the lemures peeked out to promptly get shot by Song. The floor was stone, and beneath it there was room but the bottom of it was roiling machinery that would rip someone apart if they stepped carelessly. The only other standout was the dial above the portcullis, going from zero to nine with a ticking brass needle advancing with every shift.

That lever was suspicious as cousins showing up after an inheritance, but their crew was low on options.

“Three seconds to trap reset,” Song announced. “Yaq, staying in place leaves you in range of the darts from the other side.”

They couldn’t keep doing this forever, she thought. Mistakes were coming, and to graver consequences than a javelin in the belly.

“Hooks,” Maryam whispered.

Agreement was traced against the veil.

Even as the pair carrying Captain Emeni hastily repositioned to avoid the darts Maryam’s sister shot out of her shadow, dispersing into a flock of ravens. Maryam kept a hand on their logos, tugging her back together even as beneath her own feet the machinery holding her up her section began to tick. The Gloam flock coalesced back into a shadowy outline of her sister, standing by the lever and pulling it up just as a gout of flame burned beneath the raised floor she stood on – meant to incinerate anyone who would have hid there, presumably.

The moment the lever was pushed all the way up, the fire cut out and the entire room went mad.

Their floor slammed back into the ground, hard enough Maryam was thrown to the floor and Ishanvi’s glasses would have flown away if not for the string keeping them in place, but that wasn’t even a prelude. The entire room had been on fifteen-second rotations before, more or less, but now the dial moved without pause and so did the room. She was barely back on her feet when a slit opened in the wall and a gust of yellow gas was spewed out, Maryam barely able to signify a Sphere before it could be blown into her face. She still felt a burn on her forehead, the sensation searing hot.

Sticking the Sphere right against the mouth spewing gas sealed it shut after the first few fumes and since the Sign could not be moved, only broken, the threshold of pressure to puncture it was too high for the machine spitting out gas. Not that she was able to pat her own back for long.

“Back,” Ishanvi hastily said, grabbing her by the hood and pulling.

The floor’s incline shifted beneath their feet, angling downwards, and they both toppled backwards as darts tore through the air. Maryam felt the air whirl just before her face, dimly noting that without Ishanvi that would have been her shoulder. She had presence of mind enough to dismiss the Sphere before both their backs hit the floor as they slid down, moaning in pain. Maryam’s sister slipped back into her shadow as she watched with horror: further ahead, the flamethrower trap kept spitting out fire as it slowly rotated back towards them.

They both scrambled back towards the top of the angled floor, to throw themselves over the rim. Shit, what was on the other side again?

“I told you,” Maryam snarled out without looking, because she was not dying without the last word. “I goddamn told you so, Silumko!”

“No, he was correct,” Song calmly said.

The air behind her was getting warmer. Maryam threw herself over the edge, landing on another downwards slope. Ishanvi followed with a dull thud, and before either of them could move the floor righted itself before shooting down. Leaving them about the right height for their torso to be incinerated when the flamethrower caught up. Which it would, because they were stuck in a hole with moving machinery for walls – no one was putting a foot in there without getting it torn out by gears.

“Song,” Maryam called out.

“Almost there,” Song said.

A heartbeat later there was a gunshot, followed by the sound of a lemure falling. Pistol. When had she even reloaded it?

“Is there a Sign that shields from fire?” Ishanvi asked.

“That I know? The Sphere,” Maryam noted. “For about one second, before it shatters and we die screaming.”

“So we hit the floor and pray,” Ishanvi grimaced.

“No, we’re getting hit for sure,” Maryam said. “The fire’s spread gets conical further out.”

She could see the flickering, burning light just past the rim of their pit.

“You don’t sound like you’re about to die,” Ishanvi faintly said.

“We’re not going to die,” she replied. “Maybe. SONG?”

“I have it,” Song Ren replied, tone serene.

And as the last syllable left her mouth there was a sharp crack, the rifle’s bark, and after a tense second Maryam saw the fire spout gutter out. All around them, the machinery walls of the pit slowly began to spin out – as if the momentum’s source had been killed and the gears were only bleeding out what was left. While Maryam would have enjoyed some kind of triumphant emergence from the hole in the ground, the bleeding out process actually took several minutes so instead everyone else was standing at the edge of the hole by the time they were finally able to climb out.

She took Silumko’s offered hand, letting herself be hoisted up the rest of the way. Gods but the side of his face was looking bad, like he had red boils, and it touched the corner of his mouth. No wonder he’d not spoken up since that last shout. She nodded thanks to him and he nodded back. Nothing more need be said. Yaq finished pulling up a flushed Ishanvi, Maryam checking her over for wounds once before turning to Song.

“What happened?” she asked.

Song stepped aside on the now-still floor, gesturing at the portcullis. No, Maryam noticed after a beat. At right above it, where the dial was. The needle on said dial was scrapped, because Song had shot it at the exact moment it was over the number zero.

“It never went over the zero mark before you pulled the lever,” Song said. “It skipped directly from nine to one after a two second pause. When rotation became constant it did, though, and I noticed during that beat the machinery paused. I just had to keep the needle there.”

There was a moment of profound, baffled silence as everyone stared at her captain. Silver eyes blinked back at them, face blank as she hid her surprise at their reaction. Yes, Song, Maryam sarcastically thought. Because just anyone would have been able to notice the discrepancy in the middle of death roulette, figure out the solution and then manage to accomplish with a rifle shot was what was very clearly meant to be something done through holding the needle in place by hand. Fucking Song Ren, sometimes.

“The portcullis is still closed,” Maryam said instead. “I’m afraid you don’t get a passing mark, Mistress Ren.”

That the face Song made at having been told she’d failed even a theoretical exam was the closest she had looked to being bothered since they entered the murderous oval was, admittedly, one of the reasons Maryam would never be able to be angry with her for too long.

“We don’t know it’s locked,” Song insisted. “I will try forcing it up.”

Immediately she wandered off, dragging off Yaq with her for muscle while the remaining students turned still-baffled gazes on her. Captain Emeni, only standing because she had an arm around Cemelli and looking a little pale, rasped out a wet laugh.

“Well,” the other captain said. “I suppose there’s a reason the Thirteenth have a reputation.”

A beat passed.

“Ha!”

Maryam glanced to the side, finding that Song and Yaq had succeeded at raising the portcullis off the ground maybe a foot.

“I told you,” Song called out “I’d wager it was never locked in the first place.”

“So there is,” Maryam drily told the other captain. “So there is.”

—

Ishanvi painted the numbers on the wall: 13, 29, 200.

Emeni Maziya was in no danger of death so long as her physician was around, but she wouldn’t be getting any better either. It was thus a given that their crew would begin the trek back to camp, but before they did they must claim stake their claim on the solving of the room. Only after the red paint took did they begin returning through the beaten parts of what students were calling ‘the Trench’.

They’d beaten two rooms this morning, which out in the hallways of Scholomance would have been a pittance but down here was a more than respectable performance. The door at the entrance of the oval had unlocked when Song killed the machine, so they simply returned to the wind hall they’d cleared earlier. It’d been a nasty piece of work as well, walls and floor covered with nails while machines at either end of the hall alternated blowing a strong wind and sucking in air like a siphon.

Silumko had been the one to figure out a solution, cleverly finagling a grenade so its wick wouldn’t be blown out when it was sucked in by the machine. The trap itself delivered the explosives into the heart of its machinery, silencing the first of the machines and allowing them to take their time dismantling the second. Those nails had been surprisingly dangerous, too: a single unwary step would have seen one go clean through the sole of even Watch field boots, so they’d wrapped cloth around theirs just to be safe.

Maryam was eyeing said nails warily as she made her way through the ‘safe’ path, which was little more than stepping room between the jutting sharpness. Inevitably, within moments of them having crossed back into the wind hall there was loud ticking and the clang of metal as the oval room slid into the outer wall of the Trench to their left, Scholomance pulling it out of sight and into the dark as it moved around its maze to fit another room to the doorway of the wind hall.

“That is always a little discouraging to see,” Silumko commented.

“Rooms do not reset,” Maryam reminded him. “Scholomance only has so many of them to put in the Trench.”

The crew composed of the First and Thirty-Eighth had established that much last week, when encountering the same room twice and finding the traps were still disarmed. Not that the god in the walls was out of tricks despite this, as the unpleasant surprise they’d encountered in the oval room had made clear. Yaq had one of those armored lemures strapped to his back, to bring back to camp so proper teratologists might have a look at it, but there was a source of lore closer at hand. The signifier cleared her throat, her eyes on the nail-strewn floor but her mind half on what she was to say.

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“Ishanvi, you seemed to recognize something when you had a look at the corpses,” she called out. “Do you know what they are?”

“Maybe,” the Someshwari hedged. “I cannot be sure without the right books.”

“Your best guess, then,” Captain Emeni tightly said.

A pause.

“I believe they may be kobaloi,” Ishanvi said. “The characteristics fit: furred body, hooves, elementary use of weapons.”

Maryam’s brow rose. She knew about those, mainly because she’d been surprised to find out that a species of lemure that existed on Juska also dwelled in the Trebian Sea. The Izvoric called them crniglodavci, the black gnawers, though some poetic souls preferred to title them ‘the small men of the hills’. They were pack lemures that delighted in collapsing things man built by sapping below them, but rarely a threat unless some bigger beast slapped them around and made them into minions.

Satyrians, in particular, like to use them like hunting hounds to flush out prey.

“I thought kobaloi had tusks,“ Cemelli said, helping her captain through a gap.

“Some do,” Ishanvi replied. “I hesitate to name them firmly because kobaloi mutate very easily in high-Gloam environments. It is a common teratologic mistake to mistake a different species of lemure for one of their mutated breeds.”

“So we could be looking at Scholomance’s own private tribe,” Song evenly said.

“It would fit,” Ishanvi admitted. “They require relatively little subsistence to survive and won’t fall into violent competition if there is a greater creature keeping them in line.”

“Or a god,” Maryam said.

“Or a god,” Ishanvi agreed. “Though few besides gods of the Old Night would deign to make use of their kind.”

And on that cheery note they finished making their way out of the wind hall in a single file line, Maryam noting with some surprise that the god in the walls didn’t shift the hall away even as they exited it. The new room connecting to the door must be particularly vicious for it not be shuffling the paths. Past the hall they were back to the entrance of the Trench, the opening sequence of three rooms that was the unmoving common trunk which then split off into multiple routes.

Their crew had taken the leftmost path out of three this morning when it set out, but there were now five branches instead. Good luck, Ishanvi, she thought. The former scribe’s personal crusade of mapping out the Trench maze in her journal seemed to Maryam a fool’s errand, but the girl could spend her rest hours however she liked.

Past the last of the entrance rooms the seven of them paused at the bottom of what could only be called a cliff: the very same one Song had been the first student to reach when she made it through that vicious tumbling hall trap last week.

It was a sheer drop of at least thirty feet, but when its summit became the forward camp of the exploration crews a combination of students and garrison hands had put in the work to make it usable. There were pulleys settled upstairs for cargo and the brave, as well as a crank lift for the wise. The pair of garrison soldiers at the bottom of the lift saluted when their crew returned, ringing a small bell to signal the top of the cliff. The lift began creaking its way down a moment later.

It could only take three at a time so they went in batches. The wounded captain with the also-wounded Silumko and their physician first, then Yaq with Ishanvi and the lemure corpse. Song and Maryam went up last, which gave them time to talk mostly in private.

“We won’t be delving again today,” Song murmured. “The javelin didn’t make it all the way to her guts but it still went deep. The bleeding was bad enough she might have died, if not for Cemelli.”

“Silumko will have a hard time talking before he gets his face looked at, too,” Maryam agreed. “I could see us swinging a second trip with only Emeni and her doctor missing, but not with him out of the game as well.”

There was a hint of frustration on Song’s face, but she mastered it even as the lift came back down for them.

“There might be labor in need of doing at camp,” she said. “And if nothing else, we can go wayfinding.”

Ugh, Maryam thought. To both. She was neither a tinker nor particularly enthused as the notion of sniffing around the routes linking the camps and the entrance hall in the hopes that Scholomance would toss them a safer path that could replace one currently in use. Everyone could see that the god’s attention was on the Trench, it usually kept throwing dead ends at those who went wayfinding until they gave up.

Tristan, were he here, would have called it gambling without even the decency of a prize.

They both stepped onto the lift when it reached the bottom, sparing a nod for the soldiers before they were brought back up. Before long they were at the top, stepping away from the edge of the cliff and towards the Trench camp. It showed, Maryam thought, that there was no army in any land so well versed as the Watch at putting up outposts. Last week, within days of a feasible route between here and the iron wall being discovered, the garrison had built a well-functioning outpost out of only what could be carried by men.

Crates filled with loose masonry collected within Scholomance were stacked two high as an outer rampart ten feet high, while behind them benches had been positioned so that musketmen could stand and fire over the makeshift wall. The insides were organized in a grid with clear avenues for movement once delineated by chalk on the ground – half of it wiped by boots, now – that split the space between a supply depot, an infirmary, a refectory, a dormitory for the garrison and a long line of tents for the exploration crews.