Chapter 40

The galleon cast a long shadow across the dock, all of them waiting standing within it.

It was barely three in the morning, and though Tristan was not unused to keeping night hours few of his companions shared the habit. Maryam kept leaning against him, half falling asleep on her feet, and he could only roll his eyes. Had she refrained from visiting the Abbey last afternoon she would be better rested, but now that Captain Yue had given her those eerie rings that helped with her Signs she was near obsessed with practice.

Tredegar shuffled to his left, earning a curious glance as he absent-mindedly caught Maryam’s sleeve so she would not tip over. The dark-skinned noble had been uneasy since they left the Rainsparrow Hostel, tightly wound enough she’d looked like she wanted to decline when sailors had come down the ramp to take their bags onto the ship. There was something up with Tredegar these days, and he was growing increasingly sure it wasn’t some petty schoolyard affair.

Someone laughed closer to the water, one of the instructors. Sound carried far out here, and the Allazei docks were somehow both empty and swarming. There were but a handful of garrison soldiers keeping an eye from their posts by the docks, but the great galleon called the Gallant Enterprise was a hive of activity – though now that the black-clad sailors had brought in all the crates it was the ship’s deck that was the heart of it.

Not that the Thirteenth was alone on the docks, far from it, for all that the talk was sparse and quiet. Odds were that they’d only be sharing a ship with the others on the dock for a few days, but Tristan still found them worth assessing.

Captain Wen had made it clear that should some disaster strike the student brigades could call on the Asphodel watchmen or the diplomatic flotilla, doing so without a great need would wreck their performance on the yearly test. The only people the Scholomance cabals would be able to call on were the instructors and each other. In other words, the muster that’d showed up here would be the available roster for their time abroad.

He was far from the only one to have realized that. Song had been reading everyone’s contracts from under the brim of her hat and the others were looking at the Thirteenth just as intently – if without magic silver eyes. It was just the four of them standing together, too, as their patron had abandoned them in favor of an omelet cornet and ‘conversation with people I actually like’.

Some of those out there Tristan was passingly familiar with.

The Fourth kept clannish distance from everyone else, almost glaring, but Tristan noticed they were less skittish with each other than they had been at the start of the year. If Bait was to be believed the monthly fights for who got to have a name were mostly halfhearted formalities nowadays and the unpleasant names stuck on them had been used so much any sting had long been sanded off.

Tupoc caught him looking and stared back with unblinking pale eyes, subtly mouthing ‘in your sleep’ before slicing a finger across his throat. Charming as ever.

A new detail about the Fourth was how their patron, Lieutenant Mitra, was standing with them staring off at the distance. The Someshwari was narrow-faced but broad-shouldered, mostly standing out because of his unkempt hair and beard – both which spread about in long, disorderly strands. He also looked rather gloomy, helped along by eyes bearing dark circles. A glint of light caught on the ring he bore, prompting Tristan shake Maryam awake and discreetly gesture that way.

“Does the ring mean anything?

She blinked at him a moment, smacking her lips, and only then actually began seeing the things around her.

“Um,” she eloquently replied. “Silver is the mark of a Master of the Guild?”

He cocked an eyebrow, his next question silent. He was no Akelarre, to know whether a ‘Master’ should be counted some grand dignitary or messenger boy.

“The captain on the Bluebell was a master as well,” Maryam said, blue eyes now fully awake.

At that he hummed, nodding his thanks. Captain Sfizo had supposedly kept a horde of crazed lares from continuing to flood the ship before almost casually caging the Saint – though admittedly only after several had wounded it for him. Still. Lieutenant Mitra was not one to trifle with, then. Hage had once mentioned that most Akelarre did not take up ranks higher than captain by old custom, preferring to sort themselves by hidden ranks inside their guild instead.

Song leaned in close to both of them, pitching her voice low.

“This Qianfan, you know him?”

Their gazes moved to the brigade standing closest to the Fourth, the Eleventh. That one bore relatively few surprises, but the Tianxi just mentioned had been one.

Captain Imani Langa and Thando Fenya were mostly accounted for, as was their Skiritai hatchet man: a Sacromontan by the name of Salvador who Tristan would be giving a very wide berth. The man reeked of coterie in all the worst ways, and Tredegar apparently holding in him high esteem from shared Skiritai classes only made him deadlier to the rat’s eye. A killer who knew when to keep it in the sheath was twice as dangerous.

Their fourth member was the aforementioned Qianfan, a tall Tianxi boy – and a Navigator student, hence Song’s question to Maryam.

“Barely in passing,” Maryam replied. “He’s one of the most frequent visitors to the Abbey cells.”

Like the Thirteenth, the Eleventh had been abandoned by their patron – he was one of the two chatting with Wen, a heavyset Lierganen man with a shaved head and face displaying fierce jowls and the broken jaw of a street tough. A deceptive appearance, as Lieutenant Joaquin was from the Peiling Society and a mathematician of some repute as well as their designated Mandate instructor.

That decision was made all the more interesting by the identity of the third patron in that little circle: Captain Oratile was a Stripe, the patron to the Nineteenth and also the chosen Teratology instructor. That the dark-skinned Academician would not be the one teaching them Mandate had come as something of a surprise.

The Nineteenth seemed surprised when she left them behind to join the other patrons, perhaps hinting at a soft hand overseeing them. Tristan looked that way the least, for… practical reasons. Tredegar cleared her throat softly, dark eyes staring the Nineteenth’s way, and he almost winced in advance.

“That girl is still glaring at you,” Tredegar told him.

Cressida Barboza, as it turned out, had not gotten the last Aetheric Warfare slot or forgiven him for his role in that outcome. Their captain wasn’t getting involved, at least – Tozi Poloko, she of the ridiculous haircut and lying eyes. Song liked the Izcalli officer some, but something about her reminded Tristan of those merchants that gouged desperate youths on bread prices and made it seem like a favor all the while.

Beside the captain towered Izel Coyac, a broad-shouldered man with powerful arms and stubble for hair. Umuthi, Tristan had learned when he asked around, and regarded by other tinkers as both a skillful hand with a tool and a rather friendly fellow. Going by the hairlessness and what he suspected were bindings under the tunic at chest height, Coyac was also corregido – a man once believed a woman.

The last of them, Kiran Agrawal, was another of Tredegar’s seemingly endless Skiritai acquaintances. The Someshwari spearman was friendly enough he’d come over to greet her, and he had the grooming habits of someone born to coin. No one else kept their beard and mustache that neat. Mind you, the jewelry alone would have told Tristan that: it looked like real gold. Song had quietly noted him to be a contractor, though she’d not elaborated.

“Pretend you don’t notice,” Tristan whispered back.

“A spurner lover, Tristan?” Tredegar teased. “Already?”

Much as he balked in being made a figure of fun by someone who had thought Isabel Ruesta was in any way a good idea, getting scathing would only draw attention to them.

“We had a slight disagreement over class scheduling, that’s all,” he vaguely replied. “Nothing too heated.”

“That is not a heatless glare, Tristan,” Tredegar told him. “I have some expertise in spurned glaring, and would rank this firmly in the upper half of the species.”

“How is Captain Imani, Angharad?” Song mildly asked.

The Pereduri coughed into her fist, looked away and commented on the mildness of the breeze so early in the morning. Tristan shot Song and grateful look that she pretended not to notice, then let his attention drift to the last pair waiting on the docks. They stood away from the other instructors close to the ramp leading onto the galleon.

Commander Osian Tredegar, Angharad’s uncle, was one of those roguishly fashionable types that infanzonas would cause a minor society scandal with before setting aside for a more respectable marriage. He was rich but also an Umuthi, which was a shame because Tristan was not fool enough to try lifting the gold of someone who could make aether traps. Rather amusingly, Commander Tredegar had been trying to get out of a conversation for the last fifteen minutes but the other side was not taking the hint.

Sergeant Kavia was a short, middle-aged Someshwari whose rank was suspiciously low. Her looks were unremarkable and her black hair kept in a bun, but she bore a bejeweled shield on her back along with two swords at her hip and one of those strange bladed Someshwari circles called chakram. That one had Skiritai written all over her, in Tristan’s opinion.

Alas, whether or not Commander Tredegar would eventually be able to escape with dignity from that conversation was to remain unknown, as shouts from above ended their common wait. A Watch officer on the deck of the galleon shouted for them to come aboard and be received by the commodore, which gave the older Tredegar an excuse to hurry up the ramp. The rest of them began to follow after.

“There should still be an instructor missing,” Song frowned.

Tristan almost smiled. He could understand why she’d believe that, as nearly all of their shared classes and the covenant ones had a face to them. Lieutenant Mitra for Theology and the Akelarre, Lieutenant Joaquin for Mandate and the Savants, Captain Oratile for Teratology and the Stripes. Even Captain Wen for Saga and the Laurels – poor Thando, sole Arthashastra student and about to inherit Wen’s full attention for hours at a time.

Sergeant Kavia should be covering Warfare and the Skiritai, which left Commander Tredegar for the Umuthi and thus one seat glaringly empty.

“I’d be rather surprised,” Tristan said, “if the Mask were not already aboard.:

—

It was tradition for the captain to welcome passengers aboard, and Song suspected that most would have been eager to rub elbows with the collection of covenanter instructors boarding the Gallant Enterprise even should they be disciplined to humor mere students. Commodore Trivedi instead looked at them all as if they were a tedious chore. Either the woman was well-connected enough to think the passengers beneath her, or commodore was likely the highest rank she would ever attain.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Competence alone was not enough to make it into admiralty ranks.

“Welcome aboard,” Commodore Trivedi blandly said. “My officers will bring you to your quarters. Accommodations will be made for your… classes, but I will not brook any wandering around and getting in the way of my men.”

She paused, forced a half-hearted smile.

“I may extend dinner invitations, should time allow. Dismissed.”

Some of the instructors seemed amused, others irked, but it was Captain Tozi that drew Song’s eye. There was something like contempt in the other woman’s gaze. They did not linger on deck, however, for Commodore Trivedi’s word was law on her own ship – and another few, as she led the entire diplomatic flotilla headed to Asphodel. Naval lieutenants escorted them into the belly of the beast, Song taking in every scrap of detail she could. And one truth became obvious quick enough.

Unlike the last galleon they had been on, the Gallant Enterprise was a fighting ship.

It was not a groaning old dog coming apart at the seams but a modern warship with fortified decks and forty gleaming culverin cannons. There were around hundred sailors crewing it and by the looks of it almost as many soldiers.

The students were promptly assigned quarters above the cargo hold, splitting three cabins between them. Luck of the draw had the Thirteenth score one of the smaller private ones and the Nineteenth the other, thus inflicting the sharing of close quarters with Tupoc onto the Eleventh. Song offered the gods due thanks for this, burning an offering to Menshen Zhu for having kept both evil spirits away from her door.

She bunked above Angharad while Tristan took the bed below Maryam’s, the four of them unpacking their affairs as much as they intended to for the length of the trip. Beyond a short stop at the port Lavega, where the Gallant was to link up with the rest of the flotilla, it was not planned for the ship to make landfall before reaching Asphodel – meaning they’d be splitting their time between this room, the dining hall and whatever could be borrowed for teaching purposes.

Wen knocked at their door shortly after, informing them they were to return to sleep but that there would be a wake-up call in a few hours. The instructor had agreed that classes were not to be skipped even on the first day. There was no argument from the Thirteenth, Maryam’s short spurt of wakefulness already turning to smoke, and they gladly collapsing onto their narrow bunks after snuffing out the lamp.

Song woke when the ship passed through the Ring of Storms, the noise and movement stirring her out of sleep, but she went back to sleep before they were even through.

At the seventh hour Captain Wen hammered at their door, tossing a bag full of grain biscuits and salted meat when Angharad sleepily opened the door. The Pereduri narrowly caught it.

“Water barrels are down the hall,” Wen told them. “You have forty-five minutes to ready for class.”

They rushed to eat and dress, Song and Angharad padding away to the barrels to wash – a handful of the others were there as well, looking as if the manner of their awakening had been no gentler than the Thirteenth’s. Song returned with a clean face and neck but to a sight that had her wondering if she was still asleep: Tristan, sitting on his bed, was feeding a rotund black cat a piece of biscuit from the pack.

“Is that Mephistofeline?”

“It’s either that or one of the lard cuts grew fur,” Tristan replied.

Mephistofeline, indifferent to the insult, kept eating up the crumbs and biting at his fingers.

“Well,” Song muttered, “I suppose we know who your instructor will be now.”

“And Cressida Barboza’s as well,” the thief muttered. “That I could have done without.”

There was a loud snore as Maryam twisted in her covers, arm slipping past the edge of the bunk bed and hanging loose.

“You let her go back to sleep,” Song accused.

“She cursed at me in her native tongue,” he drawled back. “I’m not getting anywhere near her when she does that – not as long as she sleeps with a hatchet under her pillow, anyway.”

The silver-eyed Tianxi sighed.