Chapter 40

“Gods be my witness,” Mayor Crespin harshly said, “but if I either of you draws a sword I will have you shot.”

Angharad’s lips thinned, back straightening as she glared down at the man. She had already given her oath, what manner of honorless cur did he take her for? Cantica’s mayor, a middle-aged man with a bushy black beard whose wildness contrasted with the tidiness of his dated woolen green tunic, looked unimpressed by her anger.

“Glare all you want, girl, but I’ve permission from the commander in Three Pines to dispose of any of you who get rowdy,” the man said. “You think you’re the first kids with chips on your shoulders who’ve blown through here?”

“I have no intention of breaking my word,” Angharad curtly said.

Crespin held her gaze a moment longer – how flat they looked, she thought, almost lifeless – before grunting in what could have been either approval or dismissal. The mayor’s dark eyes then moved to Augusto Cerdan, who was yet grinning.

“I only reached for my blade because I felt in danger, good sir,” Augusto said. “I would not dare to break your laws.”

Mayor Crispin eyed the infanzon a moment longer.

“You’re lucky we don’t give out beatings for smugness,” the mayor finally said. “Go stand with the rest.”

That wiped the grin off Augusto’s face well enough. The mayor, stroking his beard, glanced at them one last time then peeled away. The two town guards that had been looming over their discussion leaned their muskets back against their shoulders. Men with much nerve, the Pereduri thought. There were only a handful of them, to pen in five times as many trial-takers, but at no point had they shown fear at the possibility of a fight breaking out.

Angharad supposed that living on this nightmare of a place must do wonders for building one’s bravery.

“You, the new arrivals,” Mayor Crispin called out. “Send me one in front. The remainder goes with the crowd.”

The dark-skinned noblewoman turned in surprise: she’d not noticed anyone coming. Angharad let out a startled noise at what she found: Tristan, Yong and the pale-skinned Sarai. The latter looked like she had done best of the three, at least until Angharad noticed the missing fingers. The others looked like they had been savagely beaten and Yong had clearly been shot but the three were well enough to move. They were warmly welcomed by the rest of their company, Yong more so than the rest – his acquaintance with Lady Ferranda and Lord Zenzele was of long date.

It was Tristan who limped to the front as they had been instructed, the sole part of him that did not look like it had been tossed down a mountainside the worn leather tricorn on his head. The Sacromontan had decent taste in that regard, at least.

“Tredegar,” the grey-eyed man tiredly greeted her, offering a nod.

“Tristan,” she happily replied. “I am pleased you made it through.”

How he had done so was a question for later, she decided. There must have been another path through the maze, one that could be pried open without ten victors.

“You can have your reunion later,” Mayor Crespin said, brusque but not unkind. “Tristan, is it?”

“That is my name,” the Sacromontan agreed.

“Should we be expecting further survivors?” the man asked. “The girl here says all the people she ran the second trial with are accounted for.”

“Our fourth is dead,” Tristan replied, face subtly tightening. “As far as I know, there are no others left.”

Angharad could not, in that moment, recall the old man’s name. Franco, Frecho? She had been told it at some point, she knew, and a slight well of shame came at the realization she had not cared enough to remember.

“Good,” Mayor Crespin said, then paused.

Tristan was looking at him. The grey stare was even, almost mild, but Angharad shifted uncomfortably at the sight. It was an unsettling sort of calm – the kind that came right before someone smashed a glass against your head or bared a knife.

“Not good,” Crespin corrected, “but simpler for us. If everyone is there we can get the Trial of Weeds going.”

Tristan cocked his head to the side.

“Do you need anything else of me?” he asked.

“No,” the mayor grunted, then flicked a glance her way. “Same with you, Malani. You can join the others.”

Angharad smoothed away her irritation at the inaccuracy and inclined her head in acknowledgement, keeping the other trial-taker company on the short walk. No words were shared, the only sound their boots squelching in the shallow mud. Song was waiting for Angharad when she returned, gesturing for her to come closer while Tristan disappeared into the crowd.

“Shalini gave them Ishaan’s body,” the Tianxi whispered in her ear. “They’ll burn it tomorrow, after firewood has been gathered.”

“She agreed to part with it?” Angharad whispered back, honestly surprised.

“They didn’t give her a choice,” Song replied. “They wouldn’t allow a corpse to be dragged around for fear of disease.”

Which was, the Pereduri admitted, a fair concern. Having her hand forced in such a manner explained why the Someshwari looked in a foul mood, however, ignoring Zenzele’s attempts to engage her in conversation. Ferranda stood with them, the trifecta having kept together on the march, and Angharad felt a pang of envy. Everyone she had passed the first trial with was now dead or estranged, save for Song – even Brun, who she thought herself on good terms with, now preferred to stand with Yaretzi and quietly converse rather than renew their acquaintance. Mayor Crispin cleared his throat, putting an end to the small talk, and all eyes went to him.

“First off,” the bearded man said, “since I heard the sanctuary got buried I’ll first ask you this: is there anyone here who would withdraw from the trials?”

He waited for a moment, to utter silence.

“Last chance,” he said. “If you get to hear the rules of the Trial of Weeds, the only ways you’re leaving this island are in a coffin or a black cloak.”

Still silence. The man shrugged.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” the mayor said. “Follow me, I’ll give you the rules once we get to the town square.”

It was not a particularly long walk, though the lackluster streets made it rather unpleasant. They stuck to the sides as much as possible, closer to the occasional wooden planks than the mud in the middle of streets. After four minutes of passing shops, houses and a large inn the mayor slowed as they reached their destination.

The square looked almost out of place given how cramped the rest of Cantica was, all pressed against the palisade walls with narrow streets and rough wooden houses. In contrast the town square was a wide and open space paved with thick square stones. Spread out across it, facing the center, were three large iron cages. Each was taller than a man and long enough you would be able to walk inside.

Padlocks hung on their open doors.

There was a ripple of unease through their company, which Angharad would freely admit to sharing in. If there had been beasts in the cages they were now gone, and if they were meant for people then…

“Here we are,” Mayor Crespin said. “Come close now, and no chatting. I won’t be repeating myself if you miss anything.”

Dutifully, their company assembled at the edge of the paved square while the bearded mayor came to stand between the cages. Crespin spat to the side, into the mud.

“Now, the Watch is supposed to give you some spiel about the nature of the third trial before sending you off our way,” he said. “But I’m no watchman, and I’ve only heard bits and pieces of the speech over the years.”

He shrugged.

“So I’ll be giving you my own understanding of it instead.”

The bearded man swept through them with his gaze.

“The Trial of Lines is a test of skill,” he announced. “If you don’t have a plan or lick up to people who do, if you don’t have the training to make it to the sanctuary quietly or the strength to fight your way through, then you end up dead.”

Angharad winced at the bluntness of his words, but there was the ring of truth to them.

“Now the Trial of Ruins, it’s a pot,” Mayor Crespin said. “They throw you into the water and turn up the heat to see what you’ll do when it starts to boil: do you fuck over your allies, do you break or run or rise up to the occasion?”

Glances were sent this way and that at the man’s words. Tupoc only grinned at the unspoken accusations, entirely unruffled, and a flattering amount of looks went her way at the last part. Angharad straightened her back, allowing herself a sliver of pride.

It did not last.

“There’s not many of you this year,” the mayor bluntly said, “so you must not have been great swimmers.”

There was the ring of truth to that as well, Angharad thought. Near thrice their current number had walked out of the Bluebell.

“Now, the Trial of Weeds isn’t like the first two,” Mayor Crespin said. “If you got here, you’re good or you’re lucky: either way, the Rooks can use you.”

He smiled, just a shallow stretch of the lips that had precious little mirth to it.

“No, this place is about ripping out the weeds before they get into the Watch, so to speak, and the winnowing is left to your own hands.”

Another ripple of unease.

“We’re not going to put any you in these cages,” Crespin said. “You are.”

Few of them liked the sound of that.

“Tonight, in the time before you retire to your rooms, each of you will be taken aside asked to give three names,” the man said. “One for each person you think should be put in one of the cages. The three of you named the most times will then be escorted into their cage by the town guard come morning.”

Angharad frowned, then cleared her throat. It earned her an unfriendly look from Crespin.

“What happens should two of us be named an equal number of times?” she asked.

It would not matter unless the third position was the one shared, she thought, but should that happen it was possible a draw would need settling.

“You get to share the cage,” the mayor replied without batting an eye.

That was, Angharad silently conceded, callously fair.

“Come morning, you’ll gather up here again,” Mayor Crespin continued, “and after the chosen enter the cages then you get to vote on which of the three will die.”

“You can’t be serious,” Shalini replied. “You want us to kill each other?”

The man shrugged.

“You’ve already been killing each other, I imagine,” he said. “Now is when you call each other to account for it.”

He chuckled.

“I’ve seen the smile drop off the faces of all sorts of clever sorts, when it sunk it that they might have to pay for their bloody tricks after all,” Mayor Crespin said. “The way I see it, this test is for them. If you throw your allies to the wolves, well, you best be clever enough to talk them out of hanging you after.”

The mayor shrugged.

“What use would the Watch have for you otherwise?”

Half a dozen of them spoke up at the same time even as Angharad’s fingers tightened around the grip of her saber. This was madness, she thought, how could they be expected to – Mayor Crespin’s hand rose, and silence fell again. No one wanted to risk missing a piece of the rules.

“It doesn’t end there,” the bearded man said. “After that’s done, each of you will get asked a question in private: should another round be played?”

You could have heard a pin drop.

“All it takes is one yes,” Crespin said, “for there to be another.”

“That is absurd,” Augusto bit out. “How many of us will die for petty grudges?”

It was uncomfortable, Angharad thought, to be forced in a position where she agreed with the man.

“As many as you lot care to kill,” the mayor said, indifferent. “The Trial of Weeds ends when refusal of another round is unanimous. After that we’ll hand you fresh supplies and you get to toddle on north to Three Pines to join the Watch.”

Though Angharad could feel indignation about to erupt, their company held on to silence a little longer. Crespin liked toying with them. They proved right to, as the mayor chuckled a few heartbeats later.

“One last thing,” he said. “There’s one last rule, which is a secret you will have to find on your own. A way for someone in the cages not to die even if they get picked. Sniff around for it however you will, so long as you remember the rules: no violence against my folk, or each other.”

Mayor Crespin offered them a nod.

“That’s the whole of it,” he said. “My people will find you to ask the names, don’t try to go to sleep before you’re given leave.”

He walked right through their crowd, forcing them to part as if to make a point, and for a few heartbeats silence followed in his wake.

Then chaos came screaming out.

—

The first thing that happened was that Tupoc Xical walked away.

Without a word, ignoring the jeers from Ferranda and Zenzele. Angharad searched his face for fear as he walked past her, for regret, but found neither. He looked, to her dismay, thoughtful. He knows he is certain to be sent into a cage, she thought, so he is going on the hunt for the hidden rule that might save his life. He must have committed to that decision before the mayor was even done speaking. It was a tortured thing to admire Tupoc’s composure – he would not have needed to be composed, after all, were he not a feckless traitor.

Everything admirable about him was intertwined with the worst of traits. In a way his qualities made it easier to despise him, Angharad thought, for Tupoc was capable of acting with honor she he want to. He had the skill, the discernment.

It was a choice for him to be heinous.

“We should all agree now on who we send into the cages,” Yaretzi was saying. “The trial thrives on mistrust, should we simply be open with-”

“How would we know if someone’s lying?” Lan casually asked. “We’ll give our names in private, the mayor was clear about that.”

Yaretzi turned a gimlet eye on the older woman, Angharad only then noticing that one of her turquoise earrings was missing. It must have fallen during their flight to Cantica.

“Trust,” Yaretzi began, but derisive laughter cut the sentence short.

“There is still a murderer among us,” Zenzele, who’d been the one to laugh, cut in. “There should be no talk of trust, Yaretzi.”

“Chaos is to no one’s advantage,” Song opined. “Some semblance of an agreement can only help.”

“You sit on more secrets than anyone here, Tianxi, and some are fresher than others,” Zenzele Duma flatly said. “I will not invade your privacy by pressing, but do refrain from taking us for fools. I will not be a tool for your schemes.”

Song met his eyes with her unblinking silver gaze, face hardening.

Angharad’s brow rose at the tension. That was a strong claim, but a lord of Malan had spoken it so he must not believe it a lie. And he has a contract that would let him sniff out secrets, she thought. Zenzele had seen her own vengeful oath, though he had not known what it was. And now he says that what Song keeps to herself dwarfs even that. A sobering thought. Yet secrecy was not deserving a scorn: had Angharad told them all she was pursued by assassins? No, not even when she had foolishly feared that Zenzele Duma and his lover might be killers sent by her nameless foe.

“There is ruin in all our wakes, Lord Zenzele,” Angharad said. “To chase each other’s shadows is a game without a victor.”

The dark-skinned noble – taller than her even with his hat in hand, though not by much – fixed her with a steady look. Ferranda elbowed him, after which he gave Angharad a curt nod and wrenched his gaze away. Song looked about ready to speak again, but it was another who stepped in first. Master Cozme Aflor’s flair had never quite recovered from the loss of his hat, but the older man still cut a respectable figure with his finely groomed mustache and beard. The cuts he’d suffered on the Toll Road only added to it, the bandages around his arm lending him a wounded veteran’s look.

It was with his hand on the pommel of sword – loosely, resting and not threatening – that he went to stand before everyone.

“I have made mistakes,” Cozme Aflor bluntly said. “I own that.”

A burst of shrill, mocking laughter.

“Oh, sweet Manes,” Augusto Cerdan said. “To think I’d see the day where you bent that stiff neck enough to beg for your life, Cozme. The voyage was worth it just for that.”

The older man glanced at him with distaste, then ignored him.

“I tried to keep my oaths to House Cerdan beyond what was wise,” Cozme said, “but never did I bare a blade on any of you, or take revenge for a contract being used on me without provocation.”

A meaningful look was thrown at Shalini there, who sneered back.

“If you feel it has grown cold outside, then you should have thought twice before walking out,” the Someshwari replied.

Brun cleared his throat.

“One does not lightly leave the service of the infanzones,” the fair-haired man said. “Defiance is not without costs for Sacromontans, Shalini Goel.”

The short Someshwari eyed him with surprise, and some abashment at the reminder that she had come here as the close and trusted companion of a noble while Cozme was merely a retainer. Angharad, though she kept an eye on the talks, was instead taking measure inside her own mind. Tupoc was headed for a cage, that much was certain. He had made too many enemies. The only question worth asking was who else would be headed there.

“Let us not pretend being a soldier for a house right beneath the Six is the same as being a rat,” Tristan flatly said. “Pity is a fine thing, Brun, but Cozme Aflor never gave a shit about anyone but his charges until that bridge was thoroughly burned.”

“And he should be killed for that?” Brun challenged.

A harsh laugh.

“You will have to forgive Tristan,” Yong said. “He’s grown used to deciding who lives and dies.”

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

That earned the pair measuring looks – it was an obvious break in a previously cordial relationship – but Angharad was yet running down the list. No one, she thought, had made more foes than Augusto Cerdan and Cozme Aflor. It was near a sure thing that the two of them would be sent to the cages along with Tupoc. Only Yaretzi, who had fought Tupoc and been accused by Shalini, could even begin to come close.

“Everyone with a gun has that same power, Yong,” Lan blandly said, “and I see you carry two.”

“I don’t think this is going well for you, Cozme,” Augusto loudly whispered. “Perhaps you should… go with the current, old friend. It will be faster.”

Angharad almost winced – there was no almost about it for the older man – as she remembered when she had last heard that sentence.

“To consign someone to the cages does not mean death,” Angharad pointed out. “A mark of shame, perhaps, but not an oath to send them into the grave.”

“Well said,” Yong grunted. “I have been told I might be bleeding out, so I’m to look for a physician. I will, however, leave you with this: Tupoc, Augusto, Tristan. Make of it what you will.”

He began limping away after. Sarai, whose face was flushed pink with exhaustion, traded a look and a nod with Tristan before slipping away from the crowd to help Yong limp forward. The veteran looked as if he wanted to refuse, but after a moment conceded and slung an arm around her shoulder as they disappeared into the town.

“That was most unwarranted,” Augusto complained. “I’ve hardly even spoken with the man.”

“Hardly must have been enough,” Angharad evenly replied.

He cheerfully flipped her the finger, seeming unworried even though he was sure to be bound for a cage. Is this bluster, or is he genuinely without fear? Cozme, whose speech had been diverted by sundry distractions, cleared his throat and claimed attention once more.

“I have said my piece,” the older man said. “I can now only trust in the fairness of those assembled here.”

“I truly misspoke when I called you a cock,” Augusto mused. “How could you be such, when you have such a talent for fellatio?”

The infanzon chuckled.

“I trust in the fairness of those assembled here,” he repeated in a nasal voice. “At least get on your knees first, if you’re going to be working at it so hard.”

Cozme’s cheeks reddened in anger as he reached for his sword, not quite unsheathing it, and even Angharad felt her jaw tighten at the uncouthness of. Augusto had somehow become even more odious since the Toll Road, and no longer cared to keep his venom in check. By the looks on the face of those around here, that was doing him no favors. But then he would have been headed for a cage even if he turned sweet as honey, Angharad thought.

As Mayor Crespin had said, the Trial of Weeds was a reckoning for the other two.

“Talking here is pointless,” Shalini said. “Half of us can’t trust the other and there can be no serious talks with snakes coiled in our laps.”

“She’s right,” Lady Ferranda said. “And so was Yong, in his own way.

She paused.

“Tupoc, Augusto, Cozme.”

“I’ll be taking that up with the Villazur, when I return to the city,” Augusto mildly said.

The fair-haired infanzona cocked an eyebrow.

“That’d be quite a trick, without a head,” she said, and walked away.

Shalini went with her, and Zenzele flicked them a glance before clearing his throat.

“Consider Tupoc a given,” the Malani. “The rest bears thought.”

He then tipped his head at them politely and hurried to catch up after the others. There were still many of them left, Angharad saw. Of the fourteen they numbered there were still eight standing here in the square. But the moment Shalini and the other had left the prospect of keeping this out in the open had died. Even though there were numbers enough here to decide the matter if they wanted to, the illusion of unity had shattered.

Everyone would be cutting their own deals, as if this were the High Queen’s court.

Angharad met Song’s eyes and traded a small nod. They were done here, both agreed, and within a minute had taken their leave.

—

However cramped the planks on the side of the street, they were preferable to walking in the mud. Even if it made speaking as they moved somewhat awkward.

“I have a degree of acquaintance with Sarai,” Song told her. “I will seek her and find out what happened when our company and hers parted way.”

Angharad could read between the lines. The two women were acquainted, but the Triglau was less than fond of Malani. Understandable, if somewhat unwarranted – Angharad had never owned a slave nor traded in them. Their first conversation after the reveal of her origins had been… less than skillful, admittedly, so the Pereduri said nothing on the subject.

“I am rather curious what tunnel they found to escape,” Angharad admitted. “It must have been unknown even to the Watch.”

“They are a canny lot,” Song said. “I expect it will be an interesting tale.”

Angharad nodded, then cleared her throat awkwardly.

“I expect I should speak with Lord Zenzele first,” she said.

She delicately did not mention that her fellow islander had taken a clear dislike to Song. Said Tianxi eyed her from the side.

“He is not wrong,” the silver-eyed woman said. “I keep a great many secrets.”

“Your eyes bind you to such a fate,” Angharad shrugged.

It was, if anything, reassuring that Song was not prone to voicing the many hidden things that her eyes were certain to reveal by simple virtue of being in their presence. Angharad would much rather that pact be held by a woman inclined to secrecy than a blabbermouth. Song looked away, stepping through the shadow cast by the lamplights above.