Chapter 35

It was barely six in the morning when Maryam got back to the cottage.

She’d been bundled off to the chapterhouse last night to sleep it off, against her protests. Just because her eyes had felt hot and she had slurred her words was no reason to have her slung over some watchman’s shoulder and carried to the Meadow. Or so she would have liked to say, but even when sleeping on grass surrounded by running water she’d had vivid nightmares about being strangled and eaten alive.

Captain Yue had ‘accidentally’ ordered her shaken awake at the crack of too early, then ‘apologized’ by making her breakfast over what was a very thinly veiled interrogation about how Maryam had managed a Sign the previous evening.

And Maryam had managed a Sign. Thalassic, no less. The giddiness she still felt at that had been enough for her to suffer the horrid rice porridge that Yue was under the impression served as an edifying breakfast. It had taken a veritable sea of tea to wash it down, but at least the Tianxi stocked the good stuff and she had deigned to dip into her personal reserves.

“I have a theory,” Captain Yue mused. “Consider yourself free for the evening, it will take me some time to gather the necessary materials.”

Maryam glared at her half-heartedly.

“The last time you said you had a theory, I nearly drowned.”

The knot keeping the stones tied to her ankles had been much too tightly made.

“And from that we learned the entity has a physical anchor on you,” Captain Yue happily said. “Isn’t that worth throwing up a little seawater?”

“Tell me I won’t drown this time,” Maryam demanded.

The Tianxi considered that for an uncomfortably long amount of time.

“Not on seawater, I don’t think,” Yue said.

“Not on any kind of water,” she insisted.

“There’s water in nearly everything, Maryam, don’t be difficult,” Captain Yue complained.

So Maryam had her afternoon free, though apparently it was not a feasting day so much as a last meal. Regardless, as she gave it good odds that Song would want to retrieve their affairs from the Ninth’s storehouse as quickly as possible, this was fortunate happenstance. Song thought so as well when the Ivzorica joined her for a spell in the kitchen.

“Tristan will be coming as well,” Song said. “He will need to pick up a shift at the Chimerical tomorrow to make up for it, but Hage appears to be flexible in such regards.”

The devil, Tristan often complained, was flexible in all manners save that of remuneration. He had apparently gone out of his way to find out the usual rates of Sacromontan day laborer so he could offer measurably below them. Song sipped at her tea, humming in pleasure. The Tianxi had offered a cup, but Maryam was already filled to burst with Yue’s own. Still, she grinned at the telling detail.

“Tristan now, is it?” Maryam said.

No longer Abrascal. She did not bother to hide her satisfaction, which saw Song rolling her eyes.

“We have come to something of an understanding,” Song replied. “I will not presume on its length or strength.”

There was a salty joke in there, but sadly the Tianxi was almost as boring as Tristan in that regard. It was a shame Tredegar had gone over to the Thirty-First, Shalini was always good for that kind of a laugh. Someshwari claimed to be the finest lovers in the world – though only their part of the Someshwar, of course, not those deluded others – so their humor tended to run more earthy than the Tianxi or Lierganen ever let themselves be when sober.

“You’re allowed to smirk, you know,” Maryam told her.

To her delighted surprise, Song flashed her a wicked smirk.

“You may applaud,” her captain said.

Lips twitching, Maryam offered her a few polite claps as the Tianxi took a theatrical bow. She had not seen Song so… loose since their early days on the Rookery, and even back then there had been something coiling beneath the humor. The last few days had knocked something loose inside the other woman and Maryam did not dislike it at all.

“Where is Tristan, anyhow?” she asked.

“Out in the garden,” Song replied. “He should be sowing the carrot seeds, by now. He began weeding before I woke.”

And Song was not a late riser.

“Tristan the farmer,” Maryam mused, pushing back her chair. “That I have to see.”

“Tell him to get the dirt out of his hair before Theology,” Song called out.

She had not even mentioned the knees this time. Song truly was in a good mood. Taking the front door out, Maryam swung around to the long length of earth and greenery leading up to the edge of the hollow their cottage was nestled in. Tristan was walking back and forth across a rectangle of cleared earth wearing a loose shirt and trousers, a bag tied to his belt as he tossed seeds by the handful.

Her throat caught at the sight. For a moment she was riding down the valley road, while in the distance farmers plowed the earth before sowing barley and millet. She could almost hear the cattle bells in the distance, smell the shit and mud. Swallowing drily, Maryam licked her lips. Fool girl, she told herself. It is more than just a sea away. Leave it in the grave where it belongs.

If there was anything left of the world she had known as a child, she would only find it beyond the Broken Gates. What was with her today? She’d not had that nightmare since leaving the lowlands either. Had the Sign shaken loose some memories of home? Forcing herself to breathe in, she reached for the comfort closest at hand.

“Are you not meant to plow the ground first?” she called out. “Already cutting corners, Abrascal.”

Tristan, who for once appeared not to have heard her coming – even odds Fortuna had been chattering in his ear – turned with a start of surprise. Then her words sunk in and he turned indignant.

“It is not necessary with carrots,” he called back, sounding defensive. “The seeds are small enough for broadcast.”

She grinned and closed in, for there was blood in the water. She stayed at the edge of the broad rectangle of beaten hearth he had delineated in deference to his efforts, though.

“Sowed a lot of carrots in Sacromonte, did you?” she drawled.

“I read it in a book,” Tristan sneered back. “Besides, who are you to give me advice? If you’ve so much as touched a plow in your life, I will eat the rest of this bag.”

He shook the plump length of cloth, which was at least half full. Amusing as the thought of force-feeding him like goose might be the thief was, uh, not entirely incorrect. Had Maryam ever touched a plow? There were the yearly land ceremonies, but her older siblings had always done the symbolic plowing of the spring ground.

“My family lived on trade,” she finally defended. “Not fields.”

“And yet you meddle in my affairs,” he scornfully replied. “As usual, the humble farmhand – backbone of this country, and indeed of all countries-”

“Did you pay for that book?” Maryam challenged.

“I don’t have to answer that,” Tristan immediately said.

“The speech wouldn’t work as well if started with ‘the humble thief’, huh,” Maryam said.

He looked away, but not before she caught the corner of a grin on his face. To what would be Song’s relief there was no dirt in his hair, though he must have done the weeding on his knees before getting to sowing. The nape of his neck shone with sweat, though. It was appealing, in a rough tumble sort of way. Also very unlike him, as Tristan was a city man to the bone.

“You’re going to smell like sweat all morning if you don’t wash,” Maryam said.

The gray-eyed man rolled his shoulder.

“That was rather the point,” he admitted.

She cocked her head to the side.

“I thought Song had finally squeaked into your good side.”

“It is not about her,” Tristan dismissed. “I took drugs last night and aim to sweat them out. Field work is as good a means as any.”

Her brow rose.

“Was the mixture so dangerous?”

“There was poppy inside,” he said.

“I have seen you take poppy before,” Maryam pointed out. “Everybody uses it – my mentor once told me the Navigators have yet to encounter a land where it is not used.”

“That does not make it any less dangerous,” Tristan flatly replied. “Out in the Murk, they sell poppy in small dried sticks – clavos, they’re called. Nails. Because to shred and smoke one is to put a nail in your coffin.”

He grimaced.

“Poppy sinks its claws in you, Maryam, like few other things.”

For all that Song half-seriously made digs at his cleanliness, Tristan was perhaps the man neatest in his personal habits the Izvorica had ever met. No drink or drugs, he held gambling in distaste and disapproved of being spendthrift. That had her willing to wave away his words as a continuation of his habits, but there was something about his face… A tightness around the eyes, a half-clenched haw.

Tristan was not weaving guesses, he was talking from experience. And whatever that experience was, it troubled him still.

“I will take it I must, but I have seen the coffins of too many who used it nailed all the way shut to ever be pleased about that. The sooner I am rid of the dregs in my body, the better.”

Slowly she nodded. It must have been someone he knew, Maryam decided. It was wise advice besides, even beyond the poppy. Some ceremonies of the Ninefold Nine involved drinking ergot wine or consuming vision mushrooms, and it was known certain practitioners took to their use a little too strongly – often they went mad, shattering their minds. A disease of the will, her mother had called it.

The thief leaned back, reaching for the small brass chain protruding from his pocket to fish out Vanesa’s watch.

“It is running late,” Tristan said. “I should stop and wash up.”

Absently nodding, Maryam’s gaze flicked to the side. There had been movement. Wind in the trees? No, higher up. On the roof, nestled close to the stargazing tower, she saw another twitch of movement. A bird, she realized. Large and black-feathered with streaks of white on its side and back. A heartbeat later it was gone, hiding in a tuck of the rooftop. How charming! She would have to look into the species. Maryam had always liked feeding birds.

“Maryam?”

She shook her head, turned to face her friend.

“I didn’t catch that,” she said.

“Have you thought about you’ll do with your cut?”

She cocked her head to the side.

“My cut of what?”

Tristan grinned broadly.

“Ah, Song hasn’t told you yet,” he said. “Clever woman that she is, she pocketed part of the bounty payout before the rest was seized by the Watch. The third they promised her.”

Now that was glad news indeed. So long as no one thought to ask them to cough it back up, anyway.

“How much?” Maryam asked.

A second hooded cloak was in order, and perhaps a proper throwing axe. The hatchets in the Watch armories were well balanced but not made for that purpose.

“It’s better when you see it from the black,” Tristan mused. “Come on, Khaimov, I’m about to make your day.”

—

Professor Artigas was a skilled speaker and her subject matter hardly uninteresting – aether, both its properties as a substance and the realm from which it flowed – but Angharad found her attention waning again and again.

Her sleep had been restless, drifting in and out for hours at a time, and staring at the ceiling had done nothing to abate her fears. She must speak with Imani Langa, and urgently. Only the ufudu had answers for her. Surely Imani would realize that the departure for Asphodel changed things. It was a mercy when class ended, freeing Angharad from the guilt of being a poor student.

Ancestors, Scholomance demanded so many readings. At least Marshal de la Tavarin seemed to remember what watchmen were supposed to be for. Rong was almost vibrating with excitement when Professor Artigas dismissed them, only a warning look from Ferranda preventing them from asking for an introduction to Uncle Osian.

Mentioning her uncle’s arrival at breakfast had so energized Rong Ma they had barely touched their bowl, instead asking question after question – few of which Angharad had answers for, her uncle having been all but estranged from House Tredegar as she grew up. She was going to have to find out what a fire ship was, and if it was true her uncle had sailed one into the Hull-Breaker’s maw. Perhaps Rong would save her the trouble of asking, even. Angharad had offered an introduction, some time back, and would deliver it. But not today.

She was not yet ready to look Osian Tredegar in the eye.

Ferranda lingered behind after the others packed away their affairs, the fair-haired infanzona turning a steady look on her. Angharad straightened. Ferranda Villazur’s face was on the plain side, but it was well suited to conveying severity.

“Something happened last night,” Ferranda said, which was not a question. “Should I be concerned?”

Angharad paused a moment, choosing her words before she answered.

“My uncle has made arrangements that run contrary to my intentions,” she admitted. “I must look into them further, but it may be I cannot join the Thirty-First at the end of the month.”

Ferranda’s eyes were searching as sought something on Angharad’s face. After a moment she nodded.

“Keep me informed,” she said, then after hesitating continued. “Do you need help?”

I may have mere weeks to accomplish what should have been the labor of a whole year, Angharad thought. Help is too feeble a word for what I need.

“I am not yet certain,” she replied instead.

Ferranda pressed no further. Angharad’s gaze slid away from her, towards another table. The Thirteenth Brigade looked exhausted, but also in a fine mood. Song smiled at something Maryam said, while Tristan rolled his eyes at them both. She felt a pang at the sight. It had been freeing, to leave the cottage behind, like having the wind at her back.

Now it looked like it was no longer her the wind favored.

“Rumor goes they were involved in a skirmish last night,” Ferranda quietly said. “Something down at the port that involved the Forty-Ninth.”

The same Forty-Ninth that had been noticeable absent in class today. Angharad had not told the infanzona of the bounty on Tristan’s head, those who would collect it, as it was not her secret to share. The enmity between the Thirteenth and the Forty-Ninth, however, was common knowledge – if not the reasons for it.

“It seems to have ended well for them,” Angharad said.

She was glad. To turn on a fellow student for something as petty as coin was without honor, and the Forty-Ninth had pursued that black mark most eagerly.

“Song’s the kind of woman who lands on her feet,” Ferranda noted. “She would never have made it to Scholomance otherwise.”

That was not untrue. And yet. Song calls herself captain yet keeps secret a curse that could harm all under her command, Angharad countered in her thoughts. The Pereduri was not so two-faced as to blame another for keeping secrets, but her own were not a literal curse that might spread to others around her. One all members of the Thirteenth save her had known about, once more proving her the sole fool under the roof.

Well, at least Tristan seemed to have learned of it on his own. Angharad could hardly take offense to a Mask digging up secrets.

“She is one of those I must speak with,” Angharad admitted. “Her uncle and mine struck a bargain.”

“Ah,” Ferranda murmured. “That kind of arrangement.”

She did not answer, leaving the infanzona to read into her words however she wished. The Thirteenth turned at her approach – Maryam’s face hardening, Tristan’s hand disappearing under the table – but she was greeted with polite enough nods, if little enthusiasm. She returned them stiffly.

“Song,” Angharad said after. “I require a word with you.”

The Tianxi narrowed silver eyes at her.

“What about?”

Angharad frowned at her, wondering if the other woman was playing the fool or simply had not yet heard from her patron. If Colonel Zhuge had not come to Tolomontera himself, she supposed the matter might have been entrusted to a letter instead.

“Matters best not spoken of in the open,” she finally said. “Would a table at the Emerald Vaults this evening suit?”

“I have other commitments,” Song evenly replied. “Tomorrow evening, however, does suit.”

Angharad nodded, parting after agreeing to discuss the particulars of the hours tomorrow at Warfare. The rest of the Thirty-First had gone on ahead, but Angharad walked to the front gates with Ferranda for company – though she was in no mood for small talk, which the other woman sensed and respected. Ferranda Villazur was not someone afraid of silences, befitting her skill as a huntress.

Angharad made her excuses when they were out on the plaza, mentioning she was to look for Salvador. Which was true, because her fellow Skiritai should be able to lead her to whom she truly needed: his captain, Imani Langa.

The Sacromontan often waited for her out in the plaza so that the two of them – and sometimes Shalini – might head to the Acallar together. Today proved to be no exception, the taciturn man seated on the bench by the statue of some ancient Sologuer royal – only he was not alone. Imani Langa stood beside him in a tailored regular’s uniform, speaking quietly as Salvador nodded. Both their heads rose at her approach.

“Ah, Angharad,” Imani smiled. “Just the woman I was looking for.”

“Imani,” she evenly replied, stomach squeezing tight. “Salvador.”

The Sacromontan nodded back, then rose to his feet. He shot a look at Imani, whose face remained a pleasant mask, then offered Angharad a nod goodbye before turning a clean pair of heels on them. They waited until he was well gone to speak again.

“Sit with me, Angharad,” Imani said, lowering herself onto the bench.

“Standing will serve.”

“Sit with me,” Imani repeated, “and smile. So that we do not draw attention.”

Begrudgingly, Angharad did – making sure to keep some distance between them.

“My uncle arrived last night,” she said.

“I heard,” Imani idly replied. “And the Thirteenth is headed for Asphodel soon.”

“As are you,” Angharad said.

“And the Fourth,” she agreed. “But no longer the Forty-Ninth, I hear. They are to be disbanded. I believe the Nineteenth is next line for that assignment.”

The Pereduri frowned, trying to recall the time she had spoken with the Nineteenth’s leader. Captain Tozi, had it been? The woman with that very Izcalli haircut.

“I do not know the details,” Angharad said, “but we will be away from Tolomontera for months.”

“We?” Imani lightly said. “I believed you set on transferring to the Thirty-First.”

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“Things have changed,” she said. “My uncle made arrangements. I will be heading to Asphodel.”

Imani leaned back against the bench.

“Smile, Angharad,” she said. “As if engaged in flirtation with a pretty girl, not looking for an excuse to draw on me.”

The noblewoman breathed in, forced herself to calm. Only then did Imani continue.

“A bold choice,” Imani said, “but yours to make. Still, it seems to me a mistake to put off your labor until the last months of the year. When the other cabals are gone on assignment, many more eyes will be on you.”

Ancestors, that had not even occurred to her. If all the others left around the same time there would be what, at most twenty-eight students left on Tolomontera? As Imani was hinting, it would be devil’s work to get around unseen. And I will need a Navigator’s help, most likely. How many will even be there to request aid from? Neither Tupoc’s second nor Maryam would be eager to lend her a hand, if they even could.

“I need more time,” Angharad said. “I leave in mere weeks, and if what you say is true about the end of the year-”

“Then transfer,” Imani replied.

“There would be consequences,” Angharad told her. “For my uncle.”

“That tends to be the way, when choices are made,” Imani replied. “You have until the end of the year, Angharad. That will not change.”

She grit her teeth.

“Do you not understand-”

“It is you who does not understand,” Imani Langa coldly interrupted. “You were offered a bargain and took it. Now it becomes obvious to you that your decision has costs, and you are balking. This not a tragedy, it is a tantrum.”

“Am I to see my uncle buried and demoted for your sake, then?” Angharad hissed.

“For the sake of obtaining the help of the Lefthand House,” Imani corrected. “Unless you believe you can reach beyond the walls of Tintavel without us. A fortress that none ever escaped from.”

“Prince Wandile did,” Angharad pettily replied. “After his father sent him there to die.”

So the text of The Madness of King Issay went. The King of Hell himself spirited him out after Wandile swore to rise in rebellion against his father, setting blood against blood and thus sowing the seeds of their great kingdom’s fall. Some argued that part of the tale to be an allegory for taking bad council, and Mother had been firmly of that opinion, but Angharad would not lose the opportunity to correct Imani on an almost-lie if she had it.

“Save for one ancient prince, should one believe that part of the tale literal,” Imani dismissed with a roll of her eyes. “Do you believe your situation improved by the correction?”

“It was not worsened,” Angharad replied, the squared her jaw. “I will not harm my own kin for the promises the Lefthand House dangles ahead of me, Imani.”

She was not so much of a fool that she would be unaware the ufudu might just be intending to play her and cut her loose afterwards. What recourse would she have if they did?

“And should your father die in a cold, dark Tintavel cell would that count as harm?” Imani mildly asked.

Angharad’s jaw clenched. She forced herself not to reach for her blade.

“Do not push me too far, ufudu,” she said.

“Then do not waste my time,” Imani replied. “It is too late to back out now, Angharad. Simply accepting my offer you became complicit in the eyes of the Watch.”

“I could turn you in regardless,” Angharad said.

“You could,” Imani agreed. “At which point I will surrender, be made prisoner and kept in a cell until the Lefthand House trades me for a captured Krypteia agent. You, on the other hand, will be added to the list of those to hunted on sight in Malan – and the House of Tredegar will crumble to dust while your father rots in a cell.”

The ufudu rose to her feet.

“The end of the year, Angharad,” she repeated. “There will be no delay.”

A smile, as empty as the others before it.

“Still, I recognize there have been changes in your circumstance. Accordingly, I offer you aid.”

Reaching in her pocket, Imani took out a folded piece of paper and presented it. Angharad, grimacing, took it up.

“What is this?” she asked, not opening it yet.

“A map,” Imani said. “Your cabalist, Abrascal – he disappeared when fighting the Forty-Ninth and reappeared on the other side of a red line. There is only one way to easily explain that.”

“He fell into the layer,” Angharad quietly confirmed.

“The map leads to the house said fighting collapsed,” Imani said. “A good start, I think, for your search.”

 

And with her piece spoken, she left. Angharad stayed on the bench as the other woman walked away, ignoring her goodbyes as she stared down at the folded piece of paper in her hands. No matter how much she thought about it, how much she turned the pieces around looking for different angles, there was only one way to end this without betraying either her uncle or her father.

She needed to obtain the Infernal Forge before the ships left for Asphodel.

—

Song had not meant to stay long in the Galleries.

She was returning a book she’d borrowed from the private library, but had decided on a whim to rise to the uppermost level to have a look at the bounties. The Thirteenth had not yet done this week’s, though she was inclined to take one of the easy ones like on the previous week. The Warfare teachers had a recurring bounty to sweep their training fields for lemure nests, which earned only a pittance but could be knocked out in about an hour.

There were four such training fields, one for each contingent, and the bounty was always put back up within two days of being cleared: there was almost always one up for grabs.

With no Academy class this afternoon the lounge was nearly empty – only four other Stripes, seated around a table. Two she was acquainted with, Captain Anaya of the Twenty-Third and Captain Philani of the Thirty-Eighth, but she barely knew the others in passing. It made their staring all the more unexpected. Had word of the skirmish with the Forty-Ninth already spread? Song had expected the garrison to keep a tight lid on it for the first few days.

It was an egg on its face that a ship aiming to traffic a Watch student had been allowed to remain docked for such feeble reasons.

A glance at the bar told her that the usual servant was gone, replaced by Colonel Cao herself. The Stripe instructor stood behind the counter with a bottle and cup, writing into a slender manuscript. It was usually best not to disturb her without reason, so Song averted her gaze quickly. Ignoring the lingering stares from the others, she headed to the bounty board and skimmed through the contents.

Another of the Skiritai hunting bounties was gone, and more interestingly one of Tinker ones. Someone was being bold. Retrieving old materials from ruins out in the northwest paid very well on success, but also risked returning with nothing while a lemure attack was a near certainty.

A Warfare patrol was back up, as expected, and Song was unsurprised it had not been taken. It was the sweep for the field of the red ribbons, which was deeper in the grounds Scholomance and through a small thicket of trees. Not only did it take longer to sweep through, this one had the occasional lemure waiting in ambush.

That was enough to make her reconsider: Song’s arm was near enough healed, but after last night she was willing to set aside excitement for a time.

As she stood there wondering if she should instead grab one of the garrison patrols – never too long, but it was a spin of the wheel where or when you ended up on top of earning only ten coppers a head – she heard footsteps approaching. She angled herself to get a glimpse and found it was Captain Anaya. The Someshwari was a scowler by habit, but had a smile painted on when she came. Interesting.

“Captain Song.”