Chapter 31

Song had not thought it possible to eat an orange tauntingly before this morning, but Captain Wen Duan was expanding her horizons.

He jammed his thumb in the middle through the peel, half-ripping it open, and by the way Commander Salimata Bouare was looking at him she’d order him hung and quartered if she ever had the right. Song was not entirely sure she disagreed, considering this was the second orange Wen was subjecting to this treatment and he had gotten pulp on her covers.

Her patron sat to the left of the bed, precariously balanced on a stool requisitioned from the hospital since all the chairs had been dragged to Song’s right. He had a small bag on his folded legs, containing one last orange yet spared his torments, and a folded red handkerchief he was refraining from using in what Song could only call an act of social violence.

To her right, three sat and one stood. The Someshwari contractor by her bedside, the two scribes a little further back and the Commander Salimata leaning back against the wall with her arms folded and a steel-denting scowl. She had been in a hard mood from the moment she arrived, not that Wen’s antics were helping.

Song was surprised to realize, when hearing her speak, that the dark-skinned woman was not Malani. Given that lilting accent and the elaborate earrings marked with prayers to a patron god, she must be Jahamai – from that far eastern realm bordering Pandemonium. They were not a traveling people, making them a rare sight, but Song supposed some must join the Watch.

It was the blackcloaks that still garrisoned the fortresses around Hell’s capital, after all, their order had ties to that ancient and wealthy country.

The commander had remained largely silent during the interview, trading dark looks with a smiling Wen while the elder of the two scribes – also dark-skinned but this one definitely Malani – asked the questions and the younger wrote down the account. Now that Song had been wrung out of every detail she could remember, however, the commander had finally spoken. Song rather wished she had not, and was not alone in this.

It was almost, but not quite, deserving of the ensuing citric war crimes.

“She has been very clear,” Captain Wen said, “that she will be responding only to questions provided in advance. I don’t give a shit what they want, she’s perfectly within her rights.”

She had expected Wen to be irritated at being dragged to the hospital at the crack of morning – it was barely five – but, defying her expectations, he had been almost jaunty. Mind you, Wen’s good moods always came at the expense of someone else’s so it was no surprise he was being a stone in the senior blackcloak’s boot.

“The request was made by the patrons of those slain,” Commander Salimata acknowledged, “but it is not unreasonable.”

That lilting turn to the syllables would have made her sound pleasant even if she were ordering someone whipped to death, Song thought. Wen’s jaw clenched.

“Song Ren an enlisted officer,” he bit out. “Are you refusing to uphold her rights under the Watch charter?”

Song was almost fascinated by the sight. The tall, grim-faced commander was not the highest officer of the Tolomontera garrison. Her rank would put her at the head of a battalion, at least six hundred men, while Song figured an island of this size should be held by a regiment of at least a thousand and a half. Whoever commanded the garrison would be a colonel. A commander, though, would still be one of the three highest-ranked officers on Tolomontera.

And Wen Duan was coming after her with the verbal equivalent of a scream and a table leg.

“I have not done this,” Salimata coldly said. “I have passed along a request to your student, Duan. And it is not for you to decide in her name.”

Cool brown eyes turned to Song.

“Captain Ren?”

Song knew better than to believe an attempt to get around her patron was in any way a compliment being paid.

“I may be willing to answer the question if I am allowed to read it first,” she replied.

“That is not what was asked,” Commander Salimata sternly said.

No, it was not. They wanted it asked blind in front of a truthteller because someone thought her an utter fool.

“It is what I have to give,” Song replied.

The older woman stared her down.

“Four students are dead,” she said. “This is not a trifling matter, girl.”

“Yes,” Song agreed. “My attempted murder should be thoroughly investigated.”

Commander Salimata scoffed, then looked away. Her gaze came to rest on the younger of the two scribes.

“Give her the slip with the question on it,” the commander said. “Song Ren refused the request made by the patrons of the Thirty-Fourth and Forty-Eighth but acquiesced to the question being put forward for her consideration.”

The young Tianxi scribe nodded, cleared her throat and fumbled with her pen as she hesitated whether to first put down notes or hand over the slip. She almost tipped over her inkwell, the other scribe leaning over to catch it at the last moment, and Song felt a twinge of pity at how arctic Commander Salimata’s stare turned at the sight.

Eventually she was handed the folded paper, which bore a question about as loaded as Song had been expecting: were you the first to use lethal force? Wen cleared his throat, so she bent back and showed him the contents. The resulting laugh was unkind.

“You have a reputation as fair woman, commander,” he said. “This is disappointing.”

Commander Salimata was unmoved.

“It is information that would relevant when passing judgment,” she replied. “That the question was asked in an attempt to sully Captain Ren’s reputation is irrelevant.”

Song’s haw clenched. It was not irrelevant to her.

“If it’s asked by a truthteller during an official investigation, it’s on her record for the rest of her career,” Wen flatly said. “Most officers won’t care even if she was cleared of all faults.”

Her eyes whipped back to the large man and Song’s throat caught. She had not, in fact, known that. Meaning Wen had just saved her from a permanent stain on her record. It was a disconcerting thing to feel genuine gratitude towards the man.

“I was not appointed to manage reputations,” Commander Salimata replied. “I was appointed to find out the truth. Captain Ren, the question?”

“I decline answering it,” Song replied with forced calm.

“Mark that down, girl,” the commander said, glancing at the younger scribe. “We proceed with the agreed-on questions, then. Lieutenant Kumar, if you would?”

Lieutenant Kumar Dalal – she’d learned the surname by looking at his contract – was a short and acne-ridden Someshwari. Nodding at the implied order, he began to explain the broadest lines of this truth-telling contract. Song had already read through it while they set up, but it would have been impolitic to say so.

The concepts were not too difficult to grasp. Lieutenant Kumar, after touching someone, could make ‘wagers’ about them for the following nine minutes. If he won the wager with his god, he received an infusion of ‘life’ – vitality, Song thought, though the exact meaning of that was unclear. If he lost the wager, his god broke one of his fingers.

It was one of those fond of slapstick humor.

Lieutenant Kumar touched her wrist after asking permission, then explained that he would be making the same wager every time: that Song would not knowingly lie when answering the next question she was asked. Given that he then raised his left hand upright, the results would be obvious and immediate if she did. To Song’s eyes a ghostly red hand formed around the lieutenant’s, two translucent fingers delicately seizing Kumar’s forefinger.

The lieutenant read off the four names of her attackers.

“Were you ambushed by the students I just named?” he asked.

“Yes,” Song replied.

Eyes went to his raised hand, which did not display a snapped finger. The older scribe’s pen scratched against paper.

“Did you have reasonable cause to believe them intent on killing you?”

“Renshu expressed his intention to kill me and none of the others contradicted him,” Song replied.

No finger snapped. Furious writing.

“How many of the four did you kill?”

“Only one,” she replied. “Liu.”

“How did the others die?”

There was the question she’d had changed. The original phrasing had been ‘what killed the others’, but without knowing the nature of the contract she was going to be subjected to there had been no way to tell if she would be forced to out Maryam’s connection to the entity. She had argued that her lack of knowledge about the involved entity might force her to lie by accident, which had Commander Salimata agreeing to a change.

“They were attacked by an entity that slew them through the use of Gloam,” Song carefully replied.

And now the last question.

“Have you had contact with this entity before?”

“Not knowingly.”

And that was the end of that. Lieutenant Kumar exhaled, his acne now much sparser, and the ghostly red hand that had been holding one of his fingers faded. He was no longer using his contract. He was dismissed by the commander and left after a polite nod. Commander Salimata checked over the work of the scribes, then nodded in satisfaction.

“As I have no reason to believe Song Ren is a danger to other students, I formally revoke the house arrest she has been under,” the dark-skinned woman said.

Good, she would be able to attend class. And handle the more important conversation awaiting her afterwards. As soon as the revocation was written down, the scribes were dismissed to join Lieutenant Kumar.

“My thanks,” Song said.

“None are necessary,” Commander Salimata replied. “You are hiding something, but it is clear you truly were attacked by the missing students and survived by chance.”

She paused.

“We cannot retrieve the bodies, so it is unlikely there is more firsthand evidence to be gathered,” she said. “I will conduct interviews with the implicated patrons and cabals this afternoon, but I expect that the case will be ready for the tribunal by the end of the day. Fifthday morning at the latest.”

Probably tomorrow, then. In her experience the Watch bureaucracy rarely moved any faster than it was made to move.

“Should I be determined to be without fault,” Song said, “what can I expect?”

“The brigades involved will be dissolved, the patrons reassigned away from Tolomontera and the cabal captains referred to their covenant for any further discipline,” the commander replied. “A mark will be added to their dossier regarding the matter and taken into consideration should there be any further altercation with you.”

Well, that should settle any thought of taking revenge on her for the inconvenience. Maryam had read this right, which was some comfort. Yet the absence of one name mentioned had her stomach clenching.

“And Professor Kang?” she asked.

“As an enlisted officer, Yun Kang used his right to decline being asked questions under truthteller,” Commander Salimata replied. “He denies any involvement. As there is no direct evidence of his involvement save a secondhand report, there will be a note made on his dossier but no further discipline.”

It was an effort to keep her face calm.

“None at all?” she forced out.

Commander Salimata frowned at her, then glanced at Wen. He mutilated the last orange in response, and when the gaze returned to Song it had inexplicably thawed.

“Yun Kang was assaulted at his residence this afternoon,” the commander informed her. “He was savagely beaten and right his leg broken in nine different places.”

The gaze cooled again as it was turned on Wen.

“He even has to be treated in the barracks, given the risks, since the primary suspect for this assault cannot legally be barred from having access to this room,” she said.

Song paused, then slowly turned towards her patron. The bespectacled man popped a slice of orange into his mouth, loudly chewing before he swallowed even more loudly. Had he truly assaulted another blackcloaks on her behalf? Gods, she was… it was not a fine thing to attack someone else wearing the black, obviously, and quite illegal. Yet.

“It is insulting I would be considering a suspect at all,” Captain Wen replied without batting an eye. “I was having coffee while it happened, as you know. There are three witnesses.”

“Yes, I am well aware,” Commander Salimata bit out. “The girl from Tariac, your old friend from history track and a devil. Do you take me for a fool, Duan? A beating might have been overlooked as a settling of accounts between officers, but you took a smithing hammer to his leg.”

“Spurious accusations,” Wen affably replied. “But I imagine whoever did it figured there was poetry to Yun Kang having an aching reminder of the need to watch his step for every step of the remainder of his misbegotten fucking life.”

Song let a noise of surprise, almost squirming when the commander’s furious gaze was turned on her.

“I do not understand. Can Professor Kang not seek Lady Knit’s services?” she hesitantly asked.

“It’s been over a day,” the dark-skinned officer sighed. “She will count every break as a different fix. The price for so many boons would be…”

“Ruinous,” Captain Wen grinned, biting into a slice of orange with relish.

Commander Salimata visibly reined herself in.

“You walked a fine line, Duan,” she bit out. “You often do. Best hope you never trip, or the next hole you will be buried in will make the Dominion look like a paradise.”

He shrugged.

“It’s been a pleasure, Salimata, but I believe we’re done here.”

“For now,” she said, then turned her gaze to Song. “A good day to you, Captain Ren. It is unlikely we will meet again, so I wish you fruitful years in the Watch.”

“And you,” Song replied.

The silence she left behind her was heavy. Song cleared her throat.

“If I were to ask you what happened in Tariac,” she leadingly said.

“I’d be forced to tell you to mind your own business, only not as nicely,” Wen replied.

Well, she could take a hand. Especially if it was handed to her rather insistently.

“Have you decided what you’ll do?” he conversationally asked.

“Attend class,” she said.

He actually looked amused at that.

“And then?”

She bit her lip. Song had not slept well, after Maryam’s departure, instead spending much of the night staring at the walls. But an idea had taken root, however dangerous.

“I need your help,” she said.

“Eh,” Wen said, promising nothing. “Ask, at least.”

“Do you have access to the harbor logs?” Song asked.

The large man pushed up his glasses, looking quite interested.

“Not officially,” he said. “But it can be done. Why?”

“I need you to find out something for me,” she said. “And to serve as a witness while I sign some documents.”

Wen Duan sighed.

“And this came so close to being interesting,” he mourned.

—

The garlic rice wasn’t as good as it had been last night, but after some time over the fire it was hot and fragrant.

Maryam fetched a few stripes of salted fish from the pot to prop up the breakfast, grimacing all the while. They tasted like chewy seawater leather, though given how ridiculously cheap saltfish was she knew she would have to get used it. It was hard to argue with meat that could be had for coppers and would last until the Time of Fraying so long as you kept it cool and dry.

“If you keep glaring at it, it’ll flee back into the sea,” Tristan drily said.

The glare moved up from the fish to the rat.

“I’ll not suffer backtalk from a man who asked if we have vinegar to dip that in,” Maryam said, jabbing an accusing finger.

His grin only got wider.

“What did you even eat for meat, if you couldn’t stomach fish?”

“Goat, mostly,” she said. “Pork or beef when it was slaughter season.”

She took a bite of the rice, swallowed.

“It’s the fruits I miss the most,” she admitted. “Volcesta is at the top of a valley full of orchards, the streets were thick with hawkers’ carts every morning. You could get a whole bushel for city-coins.”

He cocked his heat to the side.

“City-coins?” he asked.

She ate another mouthful of rice.

“Most kings made their own currency,” Maryam told him, “but many were trash so the coinage was only used within their own city.”

The hills around Volcesta bore iron and copper but nothing else, so the Khaimov had been some of the worst offenders among the Izvoric. Traders often refused to take Volcesta coin at all unless it was knife-money, copper shaped into a dull knife. Mother had often made sport of Father for never using his own currency if he could avoid it.

“Thus, city-coins,” he said. “As opposed to…”

“Trader-coins,” she replied. “Those had weight, size and make set by law. It was a drowning crime to pass false ones, or reason for war if done by a king’s hand.”

“It seems madness for no one to own that,” he mused. “Sacromonte fought a dozen wars to ensure the only coinage stamped in the Trebian Sea is its own. Even the mints abroad are run by the House of Fabres.”

Maryam had heard about that. Captain Totec had more than once groused about ‘Sacromontan robbery’ and how it was a self-inflicted wound by the Watch.

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“The Treaty of Blancaflor, yes?”

The great bargain that had ended the myriad small wars Sacromonte had fought against the Watch when it first began to expand through the Trebian Sea. He nodded.

“It’s half the reason any island out there still listens to the Six,” he said. “Everyone knows the City’s only got the largest fleet of the Trebian Sea on paper.”

From what little Maryam knew of the treaty, it had been considered a coup by both sides – though Sacromonte’s influence had waned over the centuries, and the granted rights that had once been a jewel on its crown were now as a drowning man’s driftwood instead. The blue-eyed woman polished off the last of the rice, leaving only two stripes of salted fish on the side of plate.

She’d get around to them eventually.

“Is there truly nothing you miss from Sacromonte?” Maryam asked. “You rarely speak of it fondly.”

“Because it’s a shithole,” he bluntly replied. “I regret some of the food, but I’ll learn to make it myself. I don’t intend to ever return there save to settle private affairs.”

“I find that difficult to understand,” she admitted.

“The evil you’ve known, it was imported,” Tristan shrugged. “Mine was born and bred just across town.”

He was finished with his plate, fish and all, and rose to put it away. She sipped at her water, delaying the inevitable.

“Are we to meet Song anywhere in particular?” he asked from the kitchen.

“Directly in Theology,” she replied. “She did not know how long the interrogation would take, so she said we should meet her there instead.”

“Hopefully she’ll not kill another four students on the way,” Tristan drawled. “I expect they’ll be less forgiving the second time.”

It was a tasteless jest but not one meant to prick – and yet Maryam found herself grimacing. Because it hadn’t been Song who killed most of her ambushers, was it? It had been some thing calling herself the Keeper of Hooks, like there was anyone alive still deserving of the title. Like Maryam’s own soul had not been a funeral pyre for centuries of Craft-lore.

Only Song had said she saw a soul inside, so what if the thing was not a thing at all? Her heart clenched.

“It was not such a barb as to warrant that face, surely,” Tristan said.

His face was still smiling, but those gray eyes had cooled.

“It isn’t about Song,” Maryam said, hand reaching for her wooden fingers. “There’s been…”

She sighed.

“We can talk about it properly some other time,” Maryam said. “I would get answers from Captain Yue first.”

He watched her silently for a moment, then nodded.

“As you say.”

He sounded not resigned, she thought, but… unsurprised? As if it were only to be expected, and that was what did it most of all. That fraying rope becoming ever more frayed, until one day she’d pull at it and find there was nothing at all. Maryam set down her cup.

“We didn’t talk last night,” she said.

An eyebrow raised.

“We did little else,” Tristan replied.

“We talked about Song, and plans,” Maryam corrected. “We didn’t talk.”

That gave him pause, she saw. He flicked a glance to his right, irritation flickering across his face.

“Your goddess?” she asked.

“I thought I heard a fly buzzing,” he airily replied.

Maryam would not have believed him even if he’d not then immediately tensed like he was refraining from shielding his head being slapped at.

“Fine,” he said, clearing his throat. “Please, continue.”

“I’m not sure I am the one who should be talking,” she honestly said. “You are the one angry with me.”

He looked surprised, as if he’d not been walking around with that chip on his shoulder since yesterday. She almost sighed.

“You came yesterday with your fists up, ready for a brawl,” she told him.

“Because I knew we would-”

“This has nothing to do with Song,” she flatly said, “and you’ll not be getting out of this conversation by bringing her into it.”

A beat passed. He smiled, prepared to put on the charm, and Maryam felt like punching him in the face. She would not, but thankfully there was an alternative.

“O great goddess,” she called out to the air. “Maryam Khaimov promises you a fitting boon should you knock that false smile right off his face.”

His eyes widened before he suddenly blanked his expression.

“Like that would-” he began then flinched, turned to his left with a glare, “-ouch, pinching, really? Are you a child?”

“Thank you, o great one,” Maryam solemnly said.

“She’s just flattering you, you vain idiota,” he complained, swatting at the air. “Just leave, would you? We’re having a conversation.”

After a heartbeat he let out a sigh, putting his elbows on the table, then gray eyes turned on her.

“That was uncalled for,” he said.

“So was preparing to give me the Ferrando Villazar grin,” she flatly replied. “Is it really too much to ask that you do not flee this conversation?”

His jaw clenched.

“That is rich, coming from you,” Tristan bit back.

She could see the moment where he realized what he had said, the way he forced his gaze not to dip down towards her hand, and knew in a heartbeat what it was about. The fingers, of course. For all that he made fun of Tredegar’s precious honor, he was no less particular about debt than the Pereduri.

“I will be more insulted,” Maryam said, “if you say nothing.”

His entire face clenched, like he was preparing to take a punch on the jaw.

“It is not fair, or true,” he said. “And so not worth mentioning.”

“Do it anyway,” Maryam said, and it was not a request.

Gray eyes met her blue. Silence stretched out like a rope pulling taut until Maryam began to open her mouth – only to be cut off at the last moment.

“You dragged me into this brigade,” Tristan bit out, “and then left me in it the moment things went south.”

“Because I left that night,” she quietly said.

He grit his teeth.

“Because you left that night,” he agreed, almost conceded. “But that is just the shark’s fin. I don’t need you to hold my hand, Maryam, but I expected us to at least be in the same fucking boat. Only whenever there’s knives out in the Thirteenth, you walk.”