Chapter 32

Maryam was familiar with ambushes.

The first year of her mother’s war against Malan had been a long streak of hiding in woods and along mountain paths so the Izvoric could charge out of cover and close the distance on Malani patrols before they got a volley out. The High Queen’s armies did not use massed muskets like the Watch did, but they fielded squadrons of musketeers that would scythe through even knight’s armor if they were allowed to get their shots in.

There was an art to ambushes, Maryam had learned. To the warlord’s craft of knowing just when to sound the horn, feeling the tension thickening the air as the right moment approached, patiently letting the grunts and chatter of men on the road pass you by and know that now was the time to strike. It was every bit as eldritch to her as the Craft had been to those war captains, but much like they grew a sense for Mother’s works Maryam liked to think she had developed a nose for their craft.

And the way the Twenty-Ninth Brigade waited for them on the Scholomance side of the plaza bridge had her sniffing that scent in the air. All four of them by the headless statue, black cloaks a stark standout under the Orrery’s morning light.

“Oh, they waited for us closer this time,” Ishanvi said. “That is nice of them!”

Maryam traded a look with Song, whose face had blanked. Yeah, she could feel it too. This morning there was something afoot.

“Keep your hand on that blunderbuss, Ishanvi,” Maryam quietly said. “Something is off.”

She could almost see mist rolling through skeletal branches, inhale the smoky scent of beech bark and fire-hardened spears. Stay hidden in the leaves, Little Queen, Jakov had smiled. This is a day for axework. Maryam shook off the too-vivid memory, feeling Hooks lift her hand from the veil to give her space. Another piece of her past returned to her with the colors she’d buried so the grief would not break her. Ishanvi blinked owlishly at her from behind her spectacles.

“You think the Twenty-Ninth would turn on us?” the Someshwari skeptically said. “They are our friends. Gods, we fought side by side with them just yesterday!”

“This is Scholomance,” Song replied. “Friendship only weighs so much on the scales.”

Maryam grunted in agreement, keeping her hands out of sight as they crossed the bridge. Emeni and the others wouldn’t fight them, she was almost sure, but you never knew. Hooks roiled with anger at the anticipation of betrayal, filling her dead eye, and they tasted the aether around the other brigade: heavy, clouded. Thick with emanations, though their nav was not refined enough to be able to read the nature of them. But whatever they are about to do, they feel strongly about it.

Something Maryam could have deduced without use of her nav, given the way the brigade looked. Emeni Maziya’s lips were puckered like she’d just sucked on a lemon while Yaq had his arms crossed and he was looking away. Silumko’s face was calm but the Mask kept tapping his foot against the pedestal of the statue by which he stood, while Cemelli looked openly wretched.

But not, Maryam saw, wounded. Her eye was back and whole, the flesh knitted back as if it had never been torn into by a barbed javelin.

“Captain Ren, good morning,” Emeni Maziya stiffly said.

“Captain Maziya,” Song evenly replied. “It is a surprise to find you here.”

The Malani captain’s face twitched once before she got herself under control. Even her sister’s anger cooled some at the sight of how blatantly the Twenty-Ninth’s captain was not happy with what she was about to do.

“I wish I were not,” Captain Emeni said. “I am saddened to inform you that our partnership in the exploration has come to an end. We are withdrawing from the exploration.”

Maryam’s fingers clenched, wooden and not. The still-burnt tips from yesterday left faint marks of soot against her palm. Hooks, though, drew her eye to a detail with a tap against the veil. When telling Song this, Emeni’s gaze had dipped down and to the side for a flicker of a moment before returning to Song’s face. Maryam had dismissed it as guilt, but now that Hooks dragged her to look down she found there was a chalk scribbling by Emeni Maziya’s foot. It looked like… gates? Two front gates, crudely drawn in chalk.

“-what prompts this change?” Song was asking.

“I am not at liberty to say,” Emeni said through gritted teeth.

An oath of some kind, Maryam guessed. She looked again at Cemelli, who seemed even more wretched than before, and at her restored eye. Why was she the one feeling the most guilt? A detail from yesterday clicked into place, something Maryam had not realized dug away at her. When they’d visited the hospital and found Cemelli’s door was closed, Silumko had stated Lady Knit took an interest but never said outright that it was the goddess inside the room.

“Cemelli,” Maryam said. “What price did Lady Knit ask for your eye?”

The Savant traded a look with Emeni, who after a moment of frowning nodded. Answering did not break the terms of their oath.

“Colors, Maryam,” Cemelli hoarsely said. “All of them.”

Gods, but Lady Knit was the worst sort of vile wasn’t she? The Watch had bound her so she could not truly ask terrible prices of the students in exchange for healing, but that didn’t mean she could not take from them things they loved. Taking colors from a painter? What vicious, petty thing that goddess was. Song, ever quick on the uptake, stiffened at Maryam’s right. Ishanvi caught up a moment later, bringing out from her side the small box containing her writing kit.

“What colors is the wood painted?” Ishanvi asked.

“Blue, green and red,” Cemelli replied without batting an eye.

Which she wouldn’t know from memory, Maryam thought, since as far as they knew she’d never seen Ishanvi’s writing kit before. She didn’t pay the price Lady Knit asked for. Yet her eye was back, and Maryam could think of only one other power on Tolomontera that might achieve this. Emeni Maziya cleared her throat, tucking her wide coif under her arm, and bowed ever so slightly.

“I am sorry, Song,” she said.

“So am I,” Song softly replied.

Maryam’s anger bled out at the sight, leaving only bones. The Twenty-Ninth filed past them in a row, hardly one of them meeting their eyes, as their brigade began the trek back to port.

“She really didn’t like doing that,” Ishanvi said.

“And yet,” Maryam said, “here we are.”

Did they know what it was that fueled Nathi Morcant’s contract? Maryam hoped not. It was not common knowledge and she liked to think better of them than that. But she was not sure how much of a difference it would have made if they’d known. Morcant, he did not have to drain a man dry. He could take little sips from many, hold that gathered essence for a while even if it was not all that long.

That was how you snuck up a great evil on people: you brought it in piece by piece, speaking softly of how once surely couldn’t hurt, until it was all inside the walls with you and there was no getting it out.

“No, I mean it,” Ishanvi said. “Else she wouldn’t have pulled a Malani ruse. Look at the chalk drawing on the ground, the gates.”

Maryam cocked an eyebrow at her. She’d seen the doors, yes. So what?

“The shape is the same as the gates of Scholomance,” Song said.

Maryam eyed the scribbling on stone again. Shit, was it? She couldn’t recall. More than a year of going through those gates five days a week and right now, on the spot, she could not muster a precise description of them. A flaw the other two did not share, leaving her as the slow horse in the harness. She pushed away her irritation.

“She looked down at them while talking to Song,” Ishanvi said, and that at least Maryam had noticed. “I believe it’s because she gave her word to part ways with us only ‘by the gates of Scholomance’.”

And Maryam, who might be the slowest horse present but had been down a few roads the others had not, knew exactly why Nkosinathi Morcant would have asked for such a promise.

“So we’d know we’re on our own at the last possible moment, right before they hit us,” she said. “They’ll be waiting for us in the great hall, not at either of the camps.”

Her esteem of Emeni Maziya rose a notch for having pulled the trick. The Malani captain would have guessed it let the Thirteenth – and Ishanvi – figure some things out, and also that when word got back to Morcant he would likely blacklist the Twenty-Ninth from further access to his contract. Besides, Maryam found she could not muster much scorn for the other woman in the first place. The Twenty-Ninth had been allies, and friendly, but they were no sworn brotherhood.

Maryam could not begrudge them the choice to spare Cemelli that cost, not when they had then gone out of their way to deliver a warning after.

Ishanvi cleared her throat.

“Shall we go back, then?” she asked.

They both glanced at her in surprise.

“If they are waiting for us would it not be simplest to simply… not show up?” the Laurel asked.

“That’s a fair point,” Maryam conceded. “If Morcant is behind this – and gods know I’m sure he is – he’ll have hired some hands for the purpose of slapping us around. We’re making him waste resources by not biting. He can’t keep posting people to wait for us forever, he hasn’t got unlimited funds or favors.”

Song slowly nodded, but Maryam could already see on her captain’s face she would not agree.

“That is true,” Song said. “But I find it unlikely he will not attempt this again, and next time we cannot count on a warning. We should find out what forces were mustered now instead of learning it in the middle of an ambush.”

That… was also a fair point, Maryam thought. And she almost enjoyed the thought of just strolling in, doing a headcount of Morcant hirelings and strolling back out while they stared baffled.

“Besides,” Song continued, “if we leave without a fight every time…”

“Then we are shut out of the exploration so long as he keeps paying,” Ishanvi mused. “He achieves his objective regardless. That is clever. Should he have a large enough war chest to keep this going a while, I expect the bloodless victory is actually what he’d prefer – he just needs to keep us out of the exploration long enough the lead of other brigades makes it impossible for us to win Colonel Cao’s prize. Five, six weeks?”

Maryam grimaced, because that sounded very plausible and worse it sounded perfectly within the lines of what the Watch would not give a single shit about curtailing. This wasn’t public oaths of revenge and shooting people in the back, it was the kind of entirely acceptable elbowing between students that they would be told by superior officers was a learning experience.

Nkosinathi Morcant had taken his time learning the lay of the land and then had set out to retaliate against the Thirteenth in a way that not a single officer in Port Allazei would raise an eyebrow at. If not for Song having genuine investment in getting that prize, Maryam might have been seriously tempted to argue they should just let him have that win instead of adding another fight to the Thirteenth’s already too-heavy tally.

It was a well-tailored attack, though. One that exploited how the Thirteenth could no longer afford to escalate conflicts with other students even when provoked.

“Fuck,” Maryam muttered. “You were right, Song, he’s smoother than he first seemed.”

“When not taken by surprise,” Ishanvi noted. “Or made angry.”

Wasn’t that true of everyone?

“Either way,” Song evenly said, “I would have a look at what strength Nathi Morcant has gathered against us.”

“I’d be useful to know how many Navigators he’s been able to muster,” Maryam agreed.

Song cleared her throat, turning to the third among them, but before she could even get started Ishanvi cut her off. The younger girl almost looked about to roll her eyes.

“I do not need your permission to go, Song,” Ishanvi plainly said. “Thus it is not negotiable.”

Song bit at the inside of her cheek, glancing at Maryam who shrugged back. If Ishanvi wanted to come along, let her. It’d be worth seeing if Morcant was focusing his efforts entirely on the Thirteenth, anyway. It would be darkly amusing should Ishanvi be merrily waved on through while they were stopped. Anyhow, for all that Ishanvi Kapadia tended to be all sweetness and lore Maryam had found there was an undercurrent of iron when she dug her heels in. Song evidently recognized that for the lost cause it was and gave in without further campaigning.

They crossed the plaza in silence, none of them in a mood for idle talk.

Gods, the gates really did look like the drawing. Maryam let the irritation flow, much preferring it to the knot of fear in her stomach she would be paying attention to otherwise. There were Garrison men by the gates, but otherwise the entrance was deserted. They crossed through the antechamber briskly, ignoring the spikes in the ground leading to classrooms on either side and continuing into the great hall. Whispers echoed ahead as they crossed into the well-lit room, blinded for an instant, but as they walked into the sprawling columned hall the sound abruptly cut out.

That made it resound all the louder when Maryam let out a low, impressed whistle: this was quite the welcoming party. She’d been keeping half an eye on the ‘student association’, the gaggle of independents and malcontents that she was certain Nathi Morcant was funding, so she had a decent idea of their numbers. Around twenty at the moment, with a few more only loosely aligned. Ten of them now stood in the middle of the great hall of Scholomance, and they weren’t only first years either.

Maryam vaguely recognized that tall scarecrow of a man that was the Savant from the Fifty-Third and a pair of odds and ends from the collapsed Eighty-First Brigade. The student association had picked up a notable chunk of the second years shipwrecked by Misery Square and its ensuing shuffle of cabalists. All were holding clubs or truncheons.

Interestingly, Nathi Morcant himself was glaringly absent. No member of the Forty-Ninth was here, save for Bingwen half-hidden at the back – he nodded stiffly at her when she caught his eye. She nodded back.

The teeth of their outfit were on open display lounging by the pillars: Diego Calante was waiting there, a book in hand, which he closed after their entrance before straightening up. He’d be the sword, then. Part of her had thought it might come to that from the moment she heard the student association had hired him as Navigator muscle with the slaver’s gold. Those twelve would have been trouble enough, but they weren’t alone.

The Eighth Brigade was standing on the left side of the hall, Captain Saran Pillai smiling at them viciously when Song’s gaze found him. Well, they’d courted that enmity by elbowing his brigade aside on the first day. Zama Luvuno, the bastard, was actually looking at Maryam directly for once. His dark eyes were unblinking, his face stern. He’d come intent on a dance, then.

There were also vultures waiting in the wings. Maryam was not all that surprised to see Tupoc and a scowling Alejandra watching by the pillars to the right, accompanied by Thando Fenya from the Eleventh, but she was startled when she caught sight of Amaru further in. The other signifier was accompanied by a tall, heavyset man with a rectangular face dotted with white paint – a curve under each eye, and a connecting to a line going up his forehead. That must be Fikile, the First Brigade’s designated swordhand. She would have thought this whole business beneath the First, but evidently not.

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Maryam bent her head towards Song, pitching her voice low.

“So, now we walk away?” she murmured.

“I’ll not leave the snakes grass to wait in,” Song replied, voice gone wintry. “I would know who is adversary and who audience.”

Shit, Maryam thought. While she had been taking the sheer array of enemies and potential scavengers in the hall waiting for them as sort of demented compliment on Morcant’s part, Song saw it through Stripe eyes. To her, this was not so much a slap in the face as a rolling windmill of them: that so many different brigades would be willing to turn on them so openly was a failure of positioning and positioning their crew was Song’s job.

So it was with something of a sinking feeling that she watched a straight-backed, cold-faced Song Ren take a few steps forward. Silver eyes swept the assembled students as if she were staring down wriggling worms, a faint sneer on her lip.

“Declare yourselves, then,” Captain Song Ren said. “If you’ve stomach enough for this pathetic display, have the bravery to own it.”

There was a ripple of surprise at the disdain of her tone, the open contempt. Maryam glanced to the right and, predictably, Tupoc was grinning like spring had come early this year. One of the student association crew – a dark-haired girl that looked a mix of Lierganen and Tianxi – stepped forward as if to meet her, smoothing down her black tunic and clearing her throat.

“Song Ren,” she said, “on behalf of the student association-”

“Not you,” Song scornfully interrupted. “I’ve no breath to waste on Morcant shadow puppets. Calante, Captain Pillai – what have you to say?”

Diego only looked amused at the words, while the Eighth’s captain laughed unkindly. Saran Pillai raised his voice.

“Translating for my friend here,” he said, gesturing at Zama Luvuno.

Who was staring past Song, straight at Maryam herself. She met his gaze trying to think of something cutting to say if it came to a logos duel but found she was too angry to come up with something good.

“Khaimov. Get your logos out or fuck off – we are serious about putting you in your place.”

She could almost hear Tristan muttering a half-appreciative that’s fair from her side. And, much as she did not like the taste of the brew, it had to be said she was the one to pick those herbs.

“Duly noted,” Maryam said. “Diego?”

Diego Calante rolled his shoulder.

“I’ve found this lovely roll of inyosi fabric in town, but you would not believe how expensive getting a full outfit done in it actually is,” he said without the slightest hint of apology.

“Spite and cupidity,” Song harshly said. “Anyone else?”

The tall Skiritai from the first broke his silence, deep voice carving across the hall.

“We are under order to intervene only if lives are at risk,” Fikile announced.

And Amaru Wayar, cheer nowhere in sight for once, was watching Maryam while he spoke. The Skiritai folded his arms after he finished speaking, a clear signal he was done. It was a small enough thing it should have been missed by half the crowd but he had just enough presence to pull it off. There was something oddly familiar about the man in a way that made Maryam uncomfortable. Eyes moved to the last pack around, the triad from the Fourth and Eleventh.