Chapter 46

Thunder, the pistol bucked and Tristan’s hand with it.

Batting away the plume of smoke, he took a look at the target and groaned. Shoulder shot, again. That made the third in a row, and at this point they’d have to ask one of the staff to bring back more straw to stuff that poor scarecrow with.

“You have the stance and the breathing down,” Song said. “Only in a learned way, not yet drilled, but that will come with repetition.”

Black House, being the polite version of the Rectorate allowing the Watch to build a fort inside their own capital, naturally had a shooting range within its bounds. The reason that the pair of them were down here at six in the morning to use it, though, was that the student brigades were no longer the only ones lining up to use it.

The diplomatic delegation from the Rookery had arrived with an armed escort, who were quite high-handed in making use of the facilities. The Fourth Brigade had been evicted by them when using the range yesterday, which was why Tristan was here at six failing to improve his accuracy: at this hour every morning the retinue were running formation drills in the largest courtyard.

The thief wiped his slightly smoke-tarnished hand on the side of his uniform, for which he got glared at even though the damn thing was already black so it wouldn’t even show!

“If that’s true, then why does Strawcifer’s torso still remain stubbornly un-shot?” he challenged.

Song had first stood with him to check his stance, but since retreated to a bench by the side of the range where she was slowly drinking her way through a pot of one of those Tianxi teas that only she liked. In the Thirteenth, anyway. How she had yet to so much as spill a drop when the shots sometimes rattled the porcelain was impressive, he’d admit.

“First off, I have not and will not agree to naming the target,” Song said.

“It does not matter,” Fortuna said, sprawled besides her on the bench. “We voted, majority carries.”

She had been poured a cup even though she could not drink it and Tristan had no intention of doing so, showing that Song Ren was a quick learner in matters of divine appeasement. The Tianxi’s silver eyes narrowed as she read the lips, mouthing along. Tristan had decisively not offered to voice Fortuna’s words, knowing that once that road to Hell was paved there would be no walking it back.

“The Watch is not a democracy,” Song said. “Superior rank carries. Which is why Straw- which is why the target will go unnamed.”

“If you say so, darling,” Fortuna condescendingly said, throwing back her golden curls.

The condescension would perhaps have stung more if she did not then immediately put her hand through the teacup trying to drink it, having for the third time forgotten it was not of her own making.

“And second,” Song said, wisely hiding her amusement at the sight, “your problem is neither of those. It is that you flinch every time the powder blows.”

Tristan grimaced, because that had the ring of truth.

“I have a hard time trusting guns,” he admitted. “There is a reason Abuela did not much train me on them.”

Reasons, really. While it was fine for her to teach him how to load and fire a pistol, it would have been another for a thief like him to own one – more attention that someone intending to last in that profession ought to court. Song sipped at her cup, set it down. Her stare was considering.

“Your contract.”

He hesitated, nodded. His misfortune liked a loaded gun, loved it really. It was the kind of blowback that was easily tailored to how strong he’d pulled on the luck while being difficult for him to avoid. Which the bad luck preferred when it could easily arrange it.

“Powder in general is something I learned to be wary of,” Tristan said.

“That is not without sense,” she assured him. “But consider that you currently carry a pistol while being a middling shot. The risk is already taken, but by improving your aim you make taking it worth more.”

“You don’t need to sell me on the practice,” he said, somewhat amused. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

She nodded.

“Would that the others were as well,” Song said, “but I suppose having a designated time for the contract experimentation is for the best.”

He hid his amusement this time. He was fairly certain the only reason Angharad had suggested the arrangement in the first place was to avoid spending the better part of an hour on the range taking instructions from Song.

“Repetition is how the flinch will go,” she continued. “My eldest brother had the same issue and that was what the drillmaster prescribed to rid him of it.”

“Is he a fine shot as well, then?” Tristan asked.

Song’s face went very calm and very remote. She sipped at her tea, the winter mask only thawing a touch from that heat.

“I am afraid not,” she said. “He threatened to shoot himself if ever handed a pistol again, so our parents desisted.”

Manes, Tristan thought. How was it that Song’s living family somehow ended up being just as tragic as the rest of the Thirteenth’s buried ones?

“Well,” he said with forced cheer, “both of mine are dead so I sounds like I won’t be able to wiggle my way out. Way to dangle that false hope, Song. Think of the orphans next time, why don’t you?”

Fortuna turned an incredulous look on him, the silver-eyed girl next to her staring him down stone-faced. Then the mountain cracked, and she let out the most disbelieving bout of laughter he had ever heard. It was a solid eight seconds before she got that under control.

“Gods,” Song said, “did you really just say that?”

He shrugged.

“We can blame it on the wind if you want,” he said. “And I’m switching to musket for the next few shots, I’m more comfortable when the end of the barrel is further off from my head.”

She snorted, got to her feet.

“Then I am going to demonstrate the stance again,” Song said. “Else you’ll bruise your armpit, and Maryam will start making peach puns at breakfast again – we are weeks past any of the good ones.”

“There were never any good ones,” Tristan somberly replied. “Deep down, you know this to be true.”

Song thinned her lips in that way she only ever did when forcing herself not to smile, and the thief hid his own grin. There were worst morning routines to have, he’d admit.

—

It was harder to remain angry at Tristan now that the reason she was had been made obsolete, but through the powers of perseverance and believing in herself Maryam managed. He’d apologized, of course, but not mean a single word. No, he had to be made to feel a sting else he’d not even hesitate before doing it again. She’d forgive him, because she had been pushing further than was safe out of pride, but she could not let him get into the habit of making decisions for her.

Lieutenant Mitra had proved quite amenable to her request – made in the presence of Captain Wen, to make it official business – and almost too enthused at the notion of heading into a dangerous part of Tratheke to study a potentially even more dangerous whirlpool in the aether. Maryam had even resigned herself at the thought that Alejandra Torrero would likely be dragged along so she might learn from the experience as well.

Some favoritism was only to be expected and Lieutenant Mitra was the Fourth’s patron. Now, standing with the gathered expedition crew, Maryam could only yearn for the glowing days when she’d thought only one of the Fourth would be coming along.

“Bait,” Captain Tupoc Xical said. “How go the supplies?”

“They wouldn’t let me take the good wine,” the aforementioned Bait replied, “but I got a whole roast. With the mustard sauce.”

Murmurs of approval from the rest of the Fourth, who had taken to the sweet mustard sauce that the Black House cooks considered their specialty and slathered liberally on most meats. It was not Asphodelian in the slightest, but Maryam would take all the breaks from garlic that she was offered. Bait, whose true name was Adarsh Hebbar, straightened a little at the approval of the rest of his brigade. He then ruined that burst of confidence by nervously fiddling with his glasses.

Expendable, the Malani boy with the grand hat and a presence in the aether that felt like a wild animal howling and scratching at bars, cleared his throat. He had wolf’s eyes, this one, and rarely spoke unless directly addressed.

“Did you ask for…”

“Your cuts were set aside,” Bait volunteered. “Barely cooked.”

The Malani contractor nodded thanks while the least of the brawl-enforced naming scheme, Acceptable Losses – a slender Tianxi whose burn scars covered half her face and had turned her left eye milky white – checked her pack again. Where Bait had been charged with procuring the food for a picnic, packs that would be split between himself and Alejandra Torrero, Acceptable Losses appeared to be carrying a haversack stuffed full of explosives.

Hiding her dismay, Maryam turned her gaze on her sole ally present: Wen Duan, who busied himself nibbling at a peach. He paused in that crime on the senses to shrug.

“If Mitra thinks the place is too dangerous, we’ll collapse the teahouse and burn everything out,” Captain Wen said.

Maryam grunted. That was, in truth, a sensible decision. Almost made up for her dangerous investigation of an eldritch gate into a cursed half-layer realm being turned by Tupoc into a glorified picnic. The most horrifying part of that, admittedly, might just be how easily the Fourth had been solid on having a meal over a potential layer entrance.

They took two carriages out, but there were too many people for Maryam to be able to swing sharing hers with only her patron. She inherited Bait and Losses, somewhat offended when she realized that sharing a coach with her had been turned by Tupoc into a punishment. Well, she comforted herself, mostly likely it was Wen that they counted a lash. His Saga lesson still had the students from the other brigades wincing every time he reached for an orange.

Fortunately for everyone else, Wen cracked open a book about… Sarayan pottery patterns, really? Anyway, he buried himself in his book and pretended they did not exist, which left an awkward silence to linger as the coach rolled smoothly through the streets of Tratheke. When it got too much, Maryam cleared her throat and tossed out as inoffensive a conversation starter as she could muster.

“How are the Umuthi classes?” she asked Acceptable Losses. “I hear Commander Tredegar’s supposed to be quite gifted.”

Losses glanced at her. She could see through the burned eye, Maryam thought. Likely not well, but under the pale film she could make out the iris moving when her gaze did.

“He’s Clockwork Cathedral, which is good for me but not Coyac,” she replied. “He’s Deuteronomicon track.”

The Clockwork Cathedral, Maryam recalled, was the name for the part of the Umuthi Society that built pure machinery. The Deuteronomicon, in contrast, concerned itself mainly with aether machines. Though the first stretch of education for both tracks was much the same, later on it diverged rather radically. Aether engines could work on principles that contradicted physical laws, after all.

“Any good as a teacher?”

“Fishing for the other Tredegar?” Acceptable Losses sneered.

Maryam met her eyes and let that silence stretch out uncomfortably. The Tianxi coughed into her fist.

“He’s fine,” she mumbled.

The Izvorica’s gaze moved to Bait, who flinched. If his neck could bur itself into his body, she suspected there would be no trace left of his head.

“Please do not curse me,” Adarsh Hebbar politely requested. “…ma’am.”

Maryam approved of the ma’am – all folk should address her thus, really – but cocked an eyebrow at the request.

“Why would I curse you?”

“Your entire brigade is bad luck,” Acceptable Losses informed her happily. “The Ren needs no explanation, but Tupoc says that Abrascal is some kind of contracted corpse and everyone knows Tredegar was possessed. Not only do you look like a hollow-”

“Tread carefully, now,” Maryam warned.

“-but Alejandra says she’s pretty sure you’ve been eating Gloam creatures,” Losses finished with a smug smile.

A page turned in the corner, louder than usual, drew their attention.

“That’s untrue,” Wen said without ever raising his eyes.

A beat passed.

“Chronologically speaking, it’s more likely that hollows are the ones looking like the Izvoric,” he noted.

Ah, she should have known better than to think Wen Duan would help by now. Sighing, Maryam wrote off the ride as a lost cause and let the silence reign. However stilted, it was still better than talking to these people.

—

To her mild surprise, Maryam did not recognize the surroundings of the teahouse.

Part of it must be that it was now the Asphodel daytime, which meant half the brass lanterns went out, but it now occurred to her that she might not have been entirely out of the fugue state when Tristan helped her through these parts. The streets were not as she remembered them, too short and not as narrow, and though they were objectively better lit than they must have been that night they still seemed darker to her eye.

To begin seeing through the dark was one of the signs of Gloam intoxication: it was a lesser form of how darklings saw the world.

Swallowing a grimace, the pale-skinned woman silently revised how quickly she must forgive Tristan. He’d had better cause to worry than she grasped, however unacceptable his method of acting on it. Her nav tasted at the aether around them and found it full of small eddies: shallow but continuing ripples, as if some underground source was feeding into a small river. Much calmer than she remembered this place to be from her last visit.

“Found the entrance,” Tupoc called out.

Their entire party had come wearing the black, this time, so what few people had been out in the streets before those horrid Reeking Rows ducked out at the sight them. Blackcloaks were respected, but seen as bad omens more often than not – rare was the sight of a rook in a place where no trouble lurked. The Fourth passed through the trick window one after another, Mitra then following, but Wen took one look at the sawed-through planks and grimaced.

“Go ahead,” he said. “This might take me a bit.”

Maryam did him the courtesy of passing through quickly and not looking back. Wen was surprisingly agile, for a man of his size, but no amount of agility would broaden that windowsill. The Fourth had spread out across the room, avoiding the center. Even with her nav retracted, Maryam could feel the wisdom in that. There was… something in the air.

“No fresh tracks since Abrascal’s report,” Tupoc said. “We are the first visitors since.”

“On this side, at least,” Maryam said. “There’s the back.”

The door to which still hung open. Lieutenant Mitra, looking unusually serious as his eyes remained peeled on the center of the hall, let out a grunt.

“Tupoc, check if the back is clear,” he ordered. “Khaimov, Torrero, with me. Stand close.”

Maryam obeyed, coming elbow-to-elbow with an interested-looking Alejandra. Mitra’s hand snapped out and he traced Gloam like a charlatan would throw powders into flame, all broad strokes and verve. It was not at all how she’d been taught to trace, and the furrows of Gloam he left behind in the air felt… deeper, and somehow more nuanced? His eyes were bright when he finished and Maryam’s eyes was drawn to her feet. Around the three of them was a perfect ring of oily darkness, hovering half an inch above the floor and centered perfectly around the lieutenant.

“Do not extend your logos beyond the ring,” Lieutenant Mitra ordered. “Forward, now.”

They followed him, shuffling awkwardly, until he came to a half maybe a dozen feet away from the exact center of the room.

“Here,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “The best vantage we will get it.”

Maryam could only agree. To her nav, it felt as close to the source of the eddies in the aether as they could get without being in the eddy. She breathed out and focused her will, feeling out the waves as they passed – and brushing past Torrero’s own nav as she did the same. They came almost every minute, steady and very nearly regular.

“They are getting weaker,” Alejandra muttered. “And maybe slower? By very small fractions, though.”

Maryam grunted in assent.

“There is no impulse behind it I can find,” she added. “It feels like an echo.”

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“Because it is,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “Someone did very slapdash work cutting their way out a layer adjacent to the material and it was the metaphysical equivalent of tossing a boulder in a pond. The marks of that impact are fading, and if we return in a few days there will be no trace left at all.”

“I was in a manic state that night,” Maryam acknowledged, “but from what I recall the local aether did feel a lot messier.”

The trouble had not been that her mind was gone but that suddenly there had been too much in it. When she ripped a kernel out of the shade and consumed it, she had taken back parts of her old memories but also of the Cauldron – the ancient working woven from all the secrets of the Craft, which she’d thought lost but had in truth been stolen.

And a kernel of something so massive had been as a year of learning, most of it incomplete and incoherent but the parts that were not searingly vivid. Almost truer than her own memories, before she came back to herself. The ritual of inheritance, it had precautions to ward the mind of they who were to become the Keeper of Hooks. Devouring pieces of the shade had no such wardings.

And there was more, too. Yue had not been wrong, to say that taking from the shade would expand… Maryam’s perspective. Not only were her Grasp and Command in perfect alignment, however fading the phenomenon, the signifier had found that tracing felt different now. That she knew, instinctively, how to curve and tuck strokes so that the Gloam would not struggle as strongly against the Sign.

And that was not something that could be taught.

“- this place?”

Maryam snapped back to attention in time to tune in on Lieutenant Mitra’s answer to the question she had missed.

“The fabric of the aether should be nothing too unusual when the eddies smooth out,” the Someshwari said. “We are, in the end, nothing more than endless reiterations struggling for a different ending, inherently doomed to failure.”

He paused.

“Though I expect that if our assassin knew they would emerge here, as is suggested by their visiting the place in advance, there must be some connection to their means of crossing,” he added. “Let us have a look at that wall, yes?”

Behind them was a grunt, a curse, and then a loud thump. They all pretended not to hear Wen Duan dragging himself back up to his feet.

—

There was no trace of whatever the criminals had once kept here, save for one bottle of transparent liquor left in the middle of the too-large basement. Tupoc ripped out the cork, took a sniff and then had a swallow.

“Strong stuff,” the Izcalli said. “Tastes a little like pine.”

A moment passed as he stared down at the bottle.

“And it’s not poisoned, either, fancy that,” Tupoc happily announced. “It seems like we’ll have drinks with lunch after all.”

“Give me that, Xical, it’s contraband,” Wen said. “Very illegal stuff it is, can’t trust students with it.”

The pale-eyed Izcalli turned a cocked eyebrow on his own patron. Wen mouthed ‘half and half’ at him.

“It could be drugged,” Lieutenant Mitra smoothly agreed. “Captain Wen and I must investigate.”

He cleared his throat.

“Abrascal never found out what lies on the other side of those stairs,” he added, pointing at the set they’d not entered the bare room through. “Go do so, and take Yan and Velaphi with you.”

“As you say, sir,” Tupoc drily replied. “Bait, go back in the room where Abrascal almost got killed and ready the food. It seems like a good place to have our meal at.”

Maryam casually flipped him the finger, which only had him grinning as he sauntered off. That left behind the three signifiers and Wen, whose sole contribution was to go through the bags Bait was bringing up one at a time to fish out a pair of tin goblets. Best get this done before the patrons started drinking, Maryam thought as she picked up one of the lanterns on the ground and headed for the wall at the back.

It was as Tristan said: the stone there was the same as the roads in the empty layer.

Alejandra caught up, but driven by the same distinct as Maryam she took not a step past the lantern. Lieutenant Mitra, however, brushed past the both of them with his robes aflutter. He hummed as he paced back and forth, slashing a few lines of Gloam through the air in the form of a fast-fading Sign before laying his palm against the stone. It stayed there, Mitra closing his eyes, and she risked tasting the aether around him with her nav.

It felt, she thought, like a man rapping his knuckles against a jar. He was pulsing Gloam while pricking his metaphysical ear for an echo. What he heard, though, she knew not.

“That,” Lieutenant Mitra finally said as he withdrew his palm, “is brackstone. And of rather high quality, too: my Reverb Sign couldn’t even pass all the way through.”

“Brack-stone,” Maryam tried out. “As in ‘bracken stone’?”

“Technically they are a manner of brick, not natural stone,” Mitra mused, “but yes, you are correct. It is used for containment and protection because it bears salt inside. Much stronger against aether than Gloam, but still difficult for a signifier to pass through.”

“I’d never heard of brackstone either,” Alejandra admitted, scowling.

“It fell out of use over a century and a half ago,” Captain Wen said, and Maryam almost jumped out of her skin.

She’d not heard him cross the room, and now he was barely three feet away from here.

“The Malani discovered that adding salt and wood ash into simple bricks has about the same effect at a tenth of the cost,” Wen said. “The Imperial Someshwar stole the recipe off them and it’s spread most everywhere since.”

“The older parts of the Rookery have entire towers made of brackstone,” Lieutenant Mitra told them. “Though hardly of such quality as this wall.”