Chapter 34

Chapter 34

The tea was not as good as Song’s.

No, Angharad corrected herself, that was unfair. It was better than the cheap Someshwari leaves the Thirteenth used as their basic stock, instead falling short of her captain’s personal stash that was doled out as sign of favor and affection. ‘Do Sau Ghode’, the teahouse whose comfortable little sideroom she currently occupied, probably had better fare to offer than what she had been served anyhow. The Skiritai Guild was notoriously skinflint when it came to anything but equipment.

It was telling they would meet at the Do Sau Ghode rather than further up the street, at the much more elegant Han Ya teahouse. Or perhaps this was an uncharitable interpretation on Angharad’s part: this teahouse was twice the size of the other and besides the sundry discreet siderooms it also had three different access to the streets. Which mattered, when one was to have tea with a man for whom a funeral had already been held.

The dark-skinned man across from her set down his cup of Varavedan redleaf, looking a little lost.

Gatsha Jibela was a tall, stocky Malani with unruly hair. He had a bit of a paunch, which his failure to sit straight only made more prominent, and more beard than one would expect from one his age. Had Angharad not been told that her fellow islander was freshly spit back out by the Acallar, she would never have guessed. The man did seem slightly distracted, often blinking at lights and faces as if trying to recall what they were, but that was the sort of thing more often ascribed to a bad night’s sleep than resurrection.

Well, re-embodiment anyhow. Gatsha’s soul had never returned to the Circle, so Angharad suspected resurrection might not be the accurate term. Should she ever think of a way to ask Professor Artigas without heavily hinting at what went on within the Acallar, she would make inquiries as to the proper terminology.

“Marshal de la Tavarin tells me I owe you my life,” Gatsha said.

His voice kept breaking tone, like that of a boy freshly entering manhood. Angharad suspected that this was not a flaw of his new flesh but because Gatsha Jibela had forgotten what it was like to speak through his throat. The Marshal had warned them that not everything came back when you died down in the depths.

“I struck the blow that returned you to a body, but I was not alone in cornering the beast,” Angharad replied. “The better part of twenty students fought on the field, my brigademate fired a cannon into its body and Alizia Salas bought me that blow.”

“Take my thanks nonetheless,” Gatsha said, “and my apology for my shade having ever clung to your soul. It was an unthinking decision, but I am told I fed on your strength. I owe you a debt twice over.”

Angharad did not slight them both by pretending otherwise, simply inclining her head in acknowledgement.

“Have you been told what is to happen to you?” she asked.

He grimaced.

“The Dawnchasers will take me back, as they would have had I washed out of Scholomance through less unseemly a path than the grave,” Gatsha said. “Though I expect my prospects will not be what they once were. Still, it seems in poor taste to complain of the bill due for cheating death.”

He snorted.

“I would much rather be humbled than buried.”

Had she not already finished her own cup, Angharad might have toasted that.

“I wish you luck in your service,” she said, offering her hand from across the table.

“I hope we will meet again, that I might repay what I owe you,” Gatsha replied, shaking it without hesitation.

He then paused even as he withdrew his arm.

“Alizia helped, you said?” he asked. “She is an acquaintance, so I will ask leave to thank her as well before my ship departs.”

It was Angharad’s turn to grimace.

“I am grieved to tell you she died during the fight,” she said. “Taken by surprise by a hippogriff. She survived the initial wound but died on the way back to camp.”

Frederique Long, the Second’s signifier, had acted to cauterize her neck wound but it had worked too well: the neck artery was charred right through and it had killed her just as surely as bleeding out would have. By the time the Second Brigade had emerged from the tunnel, Alizia had been blind in one eye and paralyzed. Knowing death was shortly to follow, they had chosen to lay her down instead of letting her die convulsing on the road.

That all of them had been tending to her last moments while the loud business with Yaotl Acatl took place was… unfortunate. Guadalupe de Tovar’s anger was understandable, if misplaced. Gatsha breathed in sharply.

“A Skiritai’s death, then,” he said with forced equanimity.

“So it was.”

They both turned to the doorway, neither having heard the Marshal approach – he must have kept his cane off the ground – and he fluttered through the threshold, hand on today’s extravagant hat while his garish cape trailed.

“A fool’s death too, for having dropped her guard before the fight was finished,” the Marshal brutally added. “But I have known older, wiser hands to make that mistake. In the end she died having dipped her blade in ichor, and that’s as much as most of us can pray for.”

Angharad’s lips thinned. Perhaps there was truth in that, but there was also more callousness than she was willing to embrace. She could only hope that when she had been part of as many tragedies as Marshal de la Tavarin she would not grow as a cavalier with the pain of others.

“Off with you, boy,” the Marshal said, eyeing Gatsha. “And keep your hood up through town – I expect half the port knows of our business in the Acallar, but there is no need to make it obvious.”

Gatsha Jibela rose and saluted, the gesture reflexive and well drilled even after his time as a naked soul, and after one last thankful nod to Angharad he disappeared into the hallway of the teashop.

“Will he be able to speak farewells to his old cabal?” Angharad asked.

The Marshal shook his head.

“Only those in the guild get to know, and he’ll be bound by oath never to speak on the nature his return,” the old man said. “Leaks are inevitable, but we must be careful to limit firsthand tales.”

“If leaks are inevitable then why bother with such an oath?” Angharad asked with a frown. “It is not the first time Scholomance has been open, surely the secret of the Acallar has long been outed.”

“Because there’s a hundred wild tales about Scholomance floating around at any time,” the Marshal said. “And then a hundred more that the Masks planted to obscure what truly goes on here. There is a reason the great powers all send spies to study here – it is the only way for them to split the miraculous truths from the miraculous lies.”

Ah, Angharad thought. Unfortunate, if this safety by cacophony came at the price of letting a brigade believe their friend was dead, but an oath of service was rarely a comfortable thing.

“Enough of that,” the old man waved away. “That odd Mitra fellow wants a word with you, but beyond that we’ve no further business.”

Angharad refrained from voicing her opinion on the matter of Marshal de la Tavarin calling anyone else odd, even the… enthusiastically fatalistic Lieutenant Mitra, and nodded. The old man stroked his mustache, then spared her a rare smile.

“Well done with the briarid, girl,” he said. “They are tricky buggers even when blood-mad.”

“I had help,” Angharad said, not for the first time and likely not the last.

He smacked lips.

“Well, you’ve still a few years of seasoning ahead of you,” the Marshal said in what she suspected was meant to be a comforting tone. “We should be able to get you past that before you leave Scholomance.”

He brightened.

“And now that you are rid of one of your ghosts, your chances of reaching that graduation have improved,” he said. “One less tick sucking at your soul, that ought to buy you some time.”

However casual his tone, Angharad was not fooled. That had been a reminder to ask Mitra about the changed timeline of her demise, however cloaked in mockery. She inclined her head in thanks, genuinely this time. He waved her away, as if trying to shoo off a clingy child, and she left the small tearoom with an eye to finding the lieutenant as suggested. There was no need to wander far to find him, as he was still standing in the hall and pacing about. The wild-haired man lit up at the sight of her, striding her way.

“Sir,” Angharad greeted, saluting.

“Tredegar,” he replied. “A word, if you will?”

“Of course.”

They moved away from the door, though she doubted that the Marshal would be all that interested in eavesdropping. The lieutenant was distracted enough that Angharad managed to slide in a question of her own about the difference made by shedding a third of her burden before he got around to his own inquiries. The man stroked his long beard thoughtfully.

“In a broader, universal sense all things are fated to nothingness by the inevitable march of entropy,” Lieutenant Mitra said, “but in the particular I would expect a timeline of four months to now stand closer to six or seven.”

He shrugged.

“Though I would advise regular inspection by a Master of the Guild if you intend to burn your wick to the last,” he added. “It is difficult to gauge the effect of the souls feeding on you while the consequences of it are yet minor, so the prediction carries a degree of imprecision beyond that which all mortal forms are inherently condemned.”

Angharad’s fingers clenched. So, something of a breather. Presumably if she slew another creature worthy of the Steel List that timeline might extend further yet, though she would prefer not to stretch out the affair – she had been assured that upon shedding all three ghosts her soul would be mended from all its wound, thus allowing her to return to the Acallar.

“Glad news,” she said. “Thank you.”

The unkempt lieutenant simply nodded.

“Yours is a fascinating situation,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “I know of no precedent for the removal of a soul from the Acallar altar, much less an early return to flesh as you delivered.”

He was, she noted, visibly warming up to his subject.

“And even so, Cai Wei should have been the first to return! Instead the second in line was brought back, which was quite unexpected. I had a cursory look at the seal laid upon her soul earlier, but I was wondering if you might allow me a closer study.”

Angharad cleared her throat.

“Which would involve?”

“From you? Standing around for an amount of time that might grow awkward,” the Navigator said. “It does involve scrutiny of your soul’s direct emanations, which would be highly rude without your permission, and of course I would be studying young Khaimov’s handiwork.”

Angharad was tempted to refuse but she held back the reflex. The Fourth Brigade’s eccentric patron wore a silver signet ring, the mark of a Master of the Akelarre Guild. His acquaintance was one worth firming up, especially if Song might soon be making common cause with the Fourth. Besides, if he could shed light on the nature of her situation with the ghosts she would not complain.

“I have an appointment after this,” she carefully said, “but can spare some minutes.”

He cheerfully smiled.

“Lovely!” he exclaimed. “Come, let us return to the tearoom. It will be more comfortable for you to sit.”

It ended up being largely as awkward as he’d predicted, her sitting there looking at empty cups while he put out his hand palm down an inch above her head and stood there, occasionally letting out small hums or grunts. It took him about five minutes before he withdrew the hand, blinking.

“Quite the prodigy, your girl,” he finally said. “It is a delightfully devious piece of work she forced upon your uninvited guest.”

“As I understand it, the seal was meant to keep Cai Wei from gaining from what she took from me,” Angharad said.

“Which it does, and more. Khaimov’s working both prevents the spirit from absorbing what it takes from your soul and from holding it at all,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “She’s effectively become a straw for the other souls.”

He shook his head admiringly.

“It has more in common with a curse than a traditional seal and I can almost taste the spite permeating it. It is far beyond barefinger work, worthy of at least an acolyte’s ring.”

Angharad’s brow rose, proud on Maryam’s behalf at the compliment. The tin bands of the acolytes might be the least of the Akelarre rings, but none of the Navigator students on the island wore one yet. The lieutenant tugged at his beard.

“Inspiring work, and of northern origin I’d wager,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “Once you’ve sent away the second of your guests you should have it removed, but until then it is safe.”

His fingers tangled in his locks.

“As safe as our art ever is, anyhow, which is not very,” he added.

“Duly noted,” Angharad said, voiced slightly strangled.

She was not running late but pretended she was to get out faster, hurrying out of the teashop through the front door and stepping onto Templeward Street. It was a brisk walk down towards where the corner where Templeward met Hostel Street, though she would arrive well in advance of the time she had given Bibek. She slowed her stride, sought calm within herself and had found it by the time she arrived at the intersection.

From there she headed east towards the warehouses, though she would stop well shy of them. The empty, broken fountain waiting a few blocks out was overgrown with weeds but though its water was long gone it still served as a useful landmark for students. One that did not see much use at this time of the evening, but the one she had come here to see was present – though, to her surprise, not alone. Tall Bibek was standing by the fountain, but so was his captain.

Angharad mentally went over what she knew of Captain Saran Pillai as she approached, which was precious little. The man was Someshwari, of Ramayan extraction and supposedly connected to some merchant prince – but he did not have Watch ties, and like the Thirteenth belonged to neither of the princeling factions of Scholomance. That was rather the extent of what Angharad recalled, though he must not have placed highly in Cao’s rankings for said rank never to be mentioned to her.

A practiced eye noted the billhook blade at his hip and that he had the callouses of one trained in its use. A chopping weapon, she filed away, and one without a guard. Little defense against thrusts, but his blade is thicker and heavier than mine. He could shatter my saber with the right blow. Her gaze slipped away from the captain to find that Bibek had been watching her the whole time, his seemingly lazy gaze always measuring the distance between them.

His segmented war-gauntlets were hanging off his belt, but he could put them on almost as fast as she could draw her saber. Angharad found herself in the faintly uncomfortable situation of continuing to approach while knowing that Bibek was significantly more dangerous to her in such close quarters. She stopped shy of her saber’s full arc almost without noticing it. Almost.

“Lady Tredegar,” the captain greeted her.

“Captain Pillai,” she replied inclining her head. “Bibek.”

“Angharad,” he simply replied.

“I had not expected to be meeting two of you,” she evenly said. “Else I would have brought a second of my own.”

“I will not be staying long,” Captain Pillai said. “I only mean to pass a message along to Captain Ren.”

Her lips thinned.

“Do you now?”

The man turned a hard look on her.

“Seethe if you’d like,” Captain Pillai said, “but I am not the one who opened hostilities between our brigades. Ren could have let us pass first, as warranted by our earlier arrival, or even offered to make common cause. Instead she chose to throw her weight around – and it was, as the Circle ever spins, eventually thrown back at her.”

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The Twenty-Ninth had been present in that incident as well, as Angharad recalled, and yet there the man’s enmity seemed quite evaporated. As if his grudges only existed when backed by over a dozen hired thugs.

“Is that your message, then?” she coldly asked.

He shook his head.

“Tell your captain I consider the matter settled and will pursue it no further,” he said. “If hostilities resume, it will not be of my doing.”

“You answer elbowing your brigade aside with a severe beating and think you can call those scales settled?” Angharad disbelievingly asked.

“I answered humiliation with humiliation,” Saran Pillai said. “If she’s any sense, it will end there.”

With the practiced smoothness of someone who clutched onto good manners regardless of situation, the captain then offered her a slender bow and incline of the head.

“That concludes my business here,” he said. “A good evening to you, Lady Tredegar.”

“And to you,” she replied through gritted teeth, quite trapped by courtesy.

He half-smiled at her as he made his leave, passing by and offering her his back as he began his walk towards the Triangle. It left her and Bibek alone, neither in a hurt to speak. They gauged one another in silence – looking for anger, for how serious the fight would be if her saber cleared the scabbard and his gauntlets were clasped into place.

“If you expect an apology,” Tall Bibek finally said, “you will be disappointed.”

“You joined a mob for a beating that left my friend and a first-year historian laid up in bed, dosed with poppy,” Angharad flatly replied. “Give me a reason not to draw over it.”

“Kapadia’s scrappy, for a scribe,” Bibek easily replied. “Ping will have a black eye from that blunderbuss she swung at him.”

Her fingers tightened, and at the sight of her tensing frame Bibek put aside the nonchalance.

“You should not draw for the same reason I didn’t give you shit at the Crocodilian after your brigade trampled over mine,” Bibek flatly said. “Brigade politics are nothing personal, so long as they remain appropriately restrained.”

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“If you want to make those matters personal, you’ll find I have grievances of my own,” Bibek said. “Bullying and beatings are one thing but you’ve made corpses, Angharad.”

She blinked in surprise, only after a moment understanding his meaning.

“You would blame me for what happened to Alizia?” she asked, jaw clenched.

“Her captain does not,” he allowed, “but it is your unhinged Sacromontan that talked everyone into the battle that killed her. And you didn’t do a damn thing to stop him.”

“You know less than you think,” Angharad replied. “The Second Brigade are the ones who sought us out, not the other way around. Alizia herself approached me on her captain’s behalf the day we met at the Crocodilian.”

Surprise flickered across his face, then a few emotions harder to place. A moment passed and he swallowed, squaring her shoulder.

“Then I do owe you an apology,” Bibek said, “for several unkind thoughts.”

But not, she noted, for anything else. His hands remained close to the war-gauntlets, his stance steady. He had no intention of backing down, and Angharad found herself seriously considering a duel. The trouble here was that she could not find a stricture of honor broken. Their brigades had not been allies, and by the reckoning of most laws of honor the Eighth had been answering a given slight as was their right. It was how they had done it by joining hands with the likes of the Morcant that remained stuck in her throat, she eventually acknowledged.

No, more than that. They had lent the schemer a hand, profited and now intended to withdraw and leave Morcant and his cronies to suffer the Thirteenth’s retaliation alone. They had bidden their time, taken their revenge and were now on the eve of retreating without consequence. I am not angry because it was dishonorable, Angharad admitted. I am angry because we were outplayed and there is little I can do about it. And that was no reason to swing a sword, so Angharad killed the girl who would have and became another.

She took her hand off her saber and watched Bibek’s shoulders untense. He folded his arms in a matching gesture of goodwill.

“I did not care to speak of the matter when it was my own brigade who trampled yours,” Angharad said. “It would be hypocrisy to hold you to a standard I failed to meet.”

He grunted in agreement.

“I must, however, ask what your brigade’s intentions are towards the Nineteenth Brigade,” she said.

Her own line in the sand. It was one thing for Saran Pillai and his cabal to use them as cover for their own retaliation once, another to keep joining hands with the Thirteenth’s enemy.

“I am not our captain,” Bibek said, “but we’ve never joined up with one of the larger blocs before and I do not expect we will start.”

Angharad stiffly nodded. Not as strong an answer as she would have liked, but as much as she could reasonably expect.