Chapter 32

Tonight was the night.

Song rose early and made breakfast: eggs, bread, bacon rashers. Not at all a meal she enjoyed, but it was hearty fare and the others seemed inordinately fond of it. Tristan stumbled in a few minutes later, his hair in no way distinguishable from usual even though he had clearly just got out of bed.

“Fancy,” he said after a peek at the pan, sliding into a seat at the kitchen table.

“The eggs only had a day left,” she replied.

He took his eggs scrambled, mixed with onions and tomatoes if there were any to spare. There were just enough of the latter left from the potage that sprucing up his eggs did not feel like a waste, so into the pan they went. He waited until the bacon was added to his plate before thanking her, cutting his own slice from the loaf. Just a little diagonally, to the left of straight. Ugh.

She tried not to visibly react, but he was suddenly all smiles. The little bastard had definitely noticed.

Maryam only emerged when they were both done with their plates, dressed for the day and freshly washed. Song heated her rashers again and made her eggs cooked on both sides, which went to show that bad taste could cross the ocean. It was one of these historical tragedies that outside Tianxia only the Someshwari seemed to understand eggs were best eaten as omelets.

“Ooh, you even put in the herbs,” Maryam enthused.

With her mouth full, which rather evened out the expression of appreciation in Song’s book.

“I’ll leave the dishes to you two,” she said, getting up. “I need to get ready for the day.”

She paused and carefully did not look at the man in question.

“Will you be needing the washbasin, Tristan?”

A pause, long and thoughtful.

“Did you cook the breakfast we like just to be sure I’d feel guilty enough to agree?” the thief asked.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Song Ren lied. “I’ll leave a clean cloth for you. And a comb.”

“The things a man does for bacon,” Tristan gravely said.

“You can’t cross her, she’s the only one who can make it crunchy but still bendy,” Maryam whispered.

Confident in her victory, Song retreated upstairs as they began bickering over how Tristan overcooked his and she ‘slurped up raw pig entrails’. Uncle Zhuge had never mentioned the importance of maintaining cooking superiority when preparing her for captaincy, which was sane and reasonable but still somehow felt like an oversight on his part.

The Tianxi fetched the clothes she had laid out, closed the door to the washing room and shed her night clothes before scrubbing herself thoroughly with cloth and soap. She rinsed and wiped before checking on her braid in the copper mirror, finding it a little loose. She pulled it up and combed her hair freshly before braiding it anew, in that easy pattern Mother had taught her as a girl.

When she was finished she put on layer after layer, checking on the buttons and adjusting the collar. The combat fit for today, though her belt was downstairs with her guns and sword. Song gave herself one last once over in the looking glass, facing a neat profile with a severe edge to its cast. The impression she wanted to give, now most of all.

Her interlocutor would only see any hint of weakness as an invitation to take liberties.

Giving a satisfied nod, she changed the water of the washbasin and put away her nightclothes after folding them. She dipped back into the room to place a clean cloth folded where it could not be missed, along with a small comb and even the soap.

The latter was a long shot, but a girl could dream.

—

Tonight was the night.

Angharad had been looking forward to it ever since Lord Musa handed her the formal invitations, so she rose already in a good mood. The house was small enough the smell of breakfast spread through every nook and cranny, Angharad padding into the kitchen in her nightdress to find Rong’s usual: warm rice porridge, a traditional Tianxi meal. They made the same thing every morning, which she would have come to find tedious if not for the many plates of toppings spread around the porridge bowls on their cramped kitchen table.

Eggs, chopped turnips and carrots, some sort of ruddy bean paste, stripes of cooked chicken and fish, sundry spices: the porridge stayed largely the same, but could be made to taste rather differently according to what one sprinkled in.

Rong Ma was setting down the last plate when she arrived, and they nodded a greeting before sliding onto a stool. The room that was both their kitchen and their drawing room was smaller than most, a consequence of having one bedroom more than most houses on the street. It made for crowded common space but appreciable privacy when such was wished for.

“Good morning,” Angharad greeted them, claiming her own stool. “Were you out late? I didn’t even hear you come in last night.”

“Shalini tossed me out at the eleventh hour, so no,” Rong drily replied. “As if she wasn’t going to be up burning candles over those novels of hers whether I tinkered or not.”

Not for the first time, Angharad eyed the other blackcloak for any resentment at their once workshop having been turned into her bedroom only to find none. The Tianxi seemed to find it somewhat inconvenient to have to walk back and forth between the houses, but remained otherwise indifferent. It had been a relief not to end up on the wrong foot from the start.

“I think we’re not supposed to know about those,” Zenzele noted, walking into the kitchen.

He slid into the stool between them, immediately reaching for the eggs. He was an egg hog, Angharad had learned, though surprisingly light on spices. Mother would have called the way he ate hollow food.

“Are they not explorers’ journals?” she asked. “That seems an odd thing to hide.”

They were in Samratrava so the actual contents were unknown to her, but the covers sometimes had ship outlines on them.

“Something is getting explored in those books, all right,” Rong muttered, sprinkling turnip liberally.

“They are Someshwari filth about brave Ramayan merchant captains seducing pretty foreigners while becoming fabulously wealthy,” Zenzele amusedly explained. “Every other book an evil Tianxi admiral gives a monologue before losing to superior Ramayan charm and cunning.”

“The Yellow Earth tried to get them banned back in the Republic of Wendi on account of them being royalist propaganda, but they sell too well for the courts to allow it,” Rong sighed. “That’s Wendi for you – they’d sell pieces of the Circle, if the profits were good enough.”

“Tianxi are not alone in such habits. Pillow books about noble swordmistresses being captured and ravished by savage Sunflower Lords are quite popular with some circles, back in Malan,” Angharad admitted.

She then slid a slightly guilty look Zenzele’s way. Women’s talk, that, not the sort of thing one discussed around husbands. The dark-skinned man only cocked an eyebrow.

“The books for men are horrid,” he told her.

He popped an egg into his mouth, swallowed.

“Tree metaphors, Angharad,” he said, voice harrowed. “Tree metaphors as far as the eye can see.”

She choked on her mouthful of porridge, choking until Rong slapped her back. She sent them a grateful look and the meal was polished off with haste. The three were up earlier than trek to Scholomance would warrant, in part because the Tianxi tinker wanted to pick up some affairs from their workshop and Angharad had an appointment of her own. She began to bring away the dishes, as was her duty – unlike under Song, in the house tasks were split but did not rotate – but Zenzele stopped her.

“I’ve nothing but a lazy morning ahead,” he told her. “Leave me the dishes and see if you can get in early at the shop.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Rong said, turning to eye her. “Your dress for the banquet.”

“I planned my time so I could hold up my end,” Angharad insisted.

“I misplaced mine, so I need something to spend it on,” Zenzele said, shooing her off. “Away with you.”

“I cannot-”

“Tell me if Musa uses the wrong fork at any point tonight and we shall call it even,” he said.

It would have been graceless to push the matter further, so Angharad gave in. She returned to her room for a wash and a quick change. After her goodbyes, it was a matter of moments before her boots hit pavement.

—

Song had believed Tupoc Xical to be setting the time and place largely to inconvenience her, so it was a surprise to find he was actually hard at work.

Near the southern end of Regnant Avenue, just short of the barracks, were a few blocks’ worth of courtyard houses. The Lierganen equivalent, anyway, which was smaller and meant for a single branch of a family instead of the tree. The Watch had forbidden them from being used as housing so that the barracks wouldn’t be shooting at students if they had to turn their cannons north, leaving a row of surprisingly decent training spaces in the form of stone courtyards far from any lemures that no one had claim over.

And training was actually what Tupoc was using the house he’d directed her towards for.

Song stepped through the threshold to the sound of wood clattering against wood, finding a half-naked and barefoot Tupoc batting away the shaft of his cabalist’s spear. Expendable – Velaphi, that tragedy of a contract revealed his true name to be – growled and stepped in, trying to hammer into his captain’s chest with his grip. The Izcalli deftly danced around the blow, kicking him in the back of a knee and clicking his tongue as the amber-eyed man stumbled.

“Temper,” Tupoc chided. “Either fight with the beast or fight with your head: the middle ground is the worst of both worlds, and the gods know your best is still so terribly mediocre.”

Resting his spear against his shoulder, he then tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin.

“Also, stop holding your spear as if I were a warthog looking for a spit,” the Izcalli added. “If you flick and duck against a human, they’ll just gut you.”

“I’m not used to fighting people,” Expendable bit back.

“Pick fights with strangers,” Tupoc suggested, then revealed he had known she was there the whole time by flicking a sly look her way. “Why, hello there stranger!”

She almost rolled her eyes. The only reason she refrained was that he fed on others reacting to his antics, much like some discount Izcalli devil.

“Tupoc,” Song replied, the nodded a polite greeting at the other man. “Expendable.”

The Malani pulled down his hat over his eyes before turning her way and returning the nod, sweat glistening around his neck. Unlike Tupoc, he was fully dressed in a regular uniform.

“Captain Ren,” Expendable nodded back to you. “Good day to you. I was just leaving.”

The courtyard walls had iron spikes nailed into them, almost like makeshift racks, and the Malani hastily put up his spear there. Song entered the courtyard and moved out of the threshold to make room for him to leave, getting a grateful nod as Expendable all but fled her presence. Song turned to Tupoc, silently cocking an eyebrow.

The pale-eyed Izcalli was standing by a barrel in the corner of the courtyard, dipping a cloth inside and washing off his sweat. When he noticed her expression, he laughed.

“I have told my cabal you are a meddlesome witch who can read their thoughts with but a glance,” he casually informed her.

Most of the half-naked men Song had seen in her life had been gravely wounded, but she had seen enough aside from that to know that there was nothing natural about the perfect symmetry of Tupoc Xical’s upper body. And when she used perfect, she meant perfect: as far as her eyes could tell there was not a single asymmetry or imperfection across the whole of him, be it the muscles of his belly or the corner of his eyebrows.

“A pointless waste of all our times,” Song replied.

“Irritating you is always worth my time, Song,” Tupoc feelingly said.

The Izcalli dunked his head into the water barrel. Song’s eyebrow cocked even higher, as while he leant down she got a glimpse of his back and found there was a tattoo between his shoulder blades. An elaborate golden coin, displaying some sort of three-headed creature made of bones. Not any Izcalli coinage she knew of. He emerged after a few seconds, shaking his wet hair – which ended up settling perfectly with barely a brush of his hand – and sighing with pleasure.

“You wanted something?” Tupoc asked.

For you to put a shirt on, you immodest harlot, she almost said. That would guarantee he went half-naked in her presence whenever it was even remotely possible for months, however, so she refrained.

“I have work for your brigade,” she said. “Tonight. I’ve come prepared to offer appropriate payment for it.”

Setting down the cloth, the Izcalli padded away on the stone to pick up a larger towel and dry himself. He kept it hung loosely on his neck afterwards, which was no shirt but better than nothing.

“So you did lose Tredegar,” Tupoc mused. “Her sitting with darling Ferranda seemed significant but it was no sure thing. Unlike your needing to hire muscle.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

There had been no avoiding his figuring that out, but it was an open secret by now anyway. Song had come prepared to take it on the nose.

“She will be leaving the Thirteenth,” she acknowledged, then moved on. “The opposition I would hire you against is a-”

“No,” Tupoc easily said.

Song’s brow rose.

“No?”

“Without Tredegar you’re not nearly as interesting,” the Izcalli shrugged. “Maryam might warrant a second look if that spite ever translates into power but Tristan, you?”

He snorted.

“There is nothing more boring than a game I’ll win every time,” Tupoc said.

Arrogance, Song thought. He was better with a spear than she was with a sword – or a spear, for that matter – but he was not better than a bullet. If she caught him at a distance, or in a place where she could snuff out the lights, Song was confident in killing him. Idly, she wondered if he was truly refusing or trying to goad her into something unwise. By the way he was standing, loose-limbed and watchful, it might just be the second.

He’d love an excuse to get her in the ring, she suspected. He seemed like the sort who thought that you could only get someone’s measure by crossing blades or something equally asinine. Unfortunately for Tupoc Xical, she was less than interested in playing his games.

“If you do not let me finish my offer,” she said, “you will regret it.”

Pale eyes light up with glee.

“Are you threatening me, Song Ren?” Tupoc smiled.

Smelling a fight, he must think. It would be satisfying to pull out the rug under him.

“Of course not,” she replied. “If I were threatening you, Tupoc, I’d be telling you that the only thing it would cost me to ruin you is an inkwell and a stack of papers.”

She leaned in.

“A sheet in front of every door on Hostel Street, with your name and the knowledge that you cannot touch bats and spiders.”

The Izcalli stiffened for the barest of moments, tried to play it out as stretching. They both knew she was not fooled in the slightest.

“Admitting you can read contracts?” Tupoc mused. “Bold. A girl could get killed over that.”

They’re already trying to kill me, Song thought. Maybe Nianzu had been right, maybe there was no winning this, but they would not bury her cringing. What was the, if she spent her life toeing the line only to end up dragged into a hole so vengeful children could torture her to death? She had used her contract without truly using it, and that had to end.

“That won’t put your secrets back in the box,” she said. “How long will the little show with your cabal work, if they know killing you is easy as putting a spider in your bedroll while you sleep? The fear would be gone, Tupoc, and not only for them. For everyone.”

Because Tupoc, clever as he was picking his battles, only still drew breath because he was strong enough to fight those battles. So long as he was too dangerous to be worth tangling with over small matters. If that balance shifted even slightly, it all came down on his head. Pale eyes hardened.

“I would kill you over that,” he said.

Calmly, like it was a common and simple thing. No more difficult than drawing water from a well.

“You’d try,” Song shrugged, unimpressed. “But it doesn’t matter, because I’m not here to threaten you. I’m here to give you a gift.”

“Well, you certainly have my attention,” Tupoc drawled. “What do you have for me, Song?”

“One,” she said.

“Copper?” he said, looking her up and down. “I’m not unwilling, mind you, but it will take more romance. At least two candlelit dinners and perhaps some of that sultry Someshwari poetry.”

She eyed him with open disdain.

“I’d bed Tristan first,” she said. “At least I would not be risking rabies.”

“All right, with talk like that I’ll bargain down to the one dinner,” Tupoc conceded.

“One reading,” Song said. “Your choice.”

He opened his mouth to try to put a knife in her, but she had seen it coming from miles away.

“It cannot be a member of the Thirteenth Brigade, past or present,” she told me.

“Tredegar’s leaving you,” the Izcalli drawled, as if she had needed a reminder. “And still you’d extend her protection?”

“Congratulations,” Song said. “You can understand Antigua. We will make a civilized man of you in a decade or two, at this rate.””

“And if I insist?” Tupoc smirked.

He asked in Centzon, because someone somewhere had failed in their solemn duty to beat an acceptable personality into him.

“The terms remain unchanged,” Song replied in the same, cocking her head to the side. “Were you somehow under the impression that your pompous smugness would make a difference?”

A small twitch, almost impossible to miss, but with eyes like hers almost was more than enough.

“I could refuse,” Tupoc said.

Trying it out as a threat. He did that often, she had noticed. Putting the words out to see if the other would react, then playing them off a jest if they did not land as he liked. The parry to that was simply not to buy in.

“You could,” Song agreed. “But you won’t.”