Chapter 5

It was rare for the Port Allazei docks to be so crowded: between the students, soldiers and sailors there must have been over a hundred souls milling about the stone piers. The pair of them, leaning against the old fortifications, watched the mass milling this way and that.

It was plain to see why there were so many. While six was not the most ships Angharad had ever seen docked in Allazei at once, never before had so many of them been large vessels. Three of those in sight were ancient, creaking cogs only a fool would dare to sail beyond the calm waters of the Trebian Sea but age had not made them any smaller. The others were rather more modern: a long and three-masted galleass protruded off the edge of its own pier, its oars pulled in, and towering over all the other ships was a massive galleon flying the black. And, apart from all the other vessels as if quarantined, sat Maryam’s still-nameless skimmer.

“Churro?”

Angharad slid her companion an amused glance. Izel was offering up the last of the bouquet of churros Captain Wen had bestowed upon the Thirteenth as a parting gift – wasted on the likes of you, he’d claimed, but I got them half price. Try not to die while I’m off getting drunk on Lucierna, they’d make me sober up to write the obituary – but beneath the benign expression Angharad could detect a hint of reluctance. He liked his pastries, Izel. Purely to tease him she made as if to reach for the remaining piece, then pretended to change her mind at the last moment.

“This is violence,” Izel accused, not fooled.

“Count yourself lucky Captain Wen picked the sort Tristan dislikes,” she said. “Else there would have been true competition for you.”

What the Sacromontan had against fruit pulp she did not know, but he’d taken only one bite of the stuffed churros before declaring Wen Duan to be the spiritual archenemy of his faith. Not entirely unwarranted, given that Wen had clearly done it to spite him.

“Who am I to question the wisdom of Wen Duan?” Izel demurred, biting down on the last churro.

She chuckled, pulling down the brim of her hat when a sweep of machinery far above had light burning away at her eyes – as if looking up into a pit of Glare. Mornings on Tolomontera were not often so bright, much less this early, but the Grand Orrery was burning strong and pale. It made for an odd contrast to the weather, for the wind out here by the water had an icy bite and went right through cloaks.

Fortunately, Angharad was of the High Isle and thus hardly unused to such things. In early autumn there was hardly a span of the Young Shore spared storms of cold brine whose mere breath was enough to chill the bone. These were child’s play compared to the fearsome tempests that smashed into the northern coast of Uthukile for months at a time, shattering embankments and ripping towers off fortresses, but being raised in Peredur still let her shrug off the cold better than most.

Certainly better than the few Malani bundled up in thick cloaks and still shivering with wide eyes. One could easily pick them out from the rest of the crowd milling about the docks, huddled together like penitents at prayer.

“If you start gloating any harder, it may just carve a fresh layer over the city,” Izel said.

Angharad coughed into her fist.

“I was only considering how Malani are, in some ways, a delicate people,” she said.

The large man cast her skeptical look.

“I am not seeing any Izcalli wearing fur-lined cloaks a few days into the ninth month,” Angharad replied, slightly defensive. “It is barely even winter!”

“Swaths of the southern reaches of Izcalli are a desert,” he reminded her. “Even the heartlands of Malan are cool in comparison. You simply haven’t run into many southerners, I expect.”

She cast a meaningful look at his own standard-issue cloak, which he had not even pulled tight. Izel snorted.

“I was raised in Kukoya,” he said. “It is an upland valley that lies under snow for almost half the year. This is lukewarm weather, by my reckoning.”

Angharad eyed him as he devoured another third of the stuffed churro. Izel did not often speak of his house, or even the Kingdom of Izcalli at large. She well understood such reluctance, sharing in it regarding the circumstances of her own departure from Peredur, but if he opened the door himself…

“Which mountains?” she asked.

The famously fertile valleys at the center of Izcalli were ringed by several mountain chains, after all.

“Near the Imperial Someshwar, the northeastern end of the Smoking Mountains,” he said. “On paper it more or less borders the Raj of Kuril, but in practice the only good roads are north towards the territory of a Sunflower Lord and then into the Grand Duchy of Huac. It is a remote place, and the winter snows cut it off from the rest of Izcalli during the worst of winter.”

That rather sounded like the sort of holding a rising man would be assigned as a means to humble him, or at least keep him far away from the capital. A king’s esteem was a fickle thing, often fading when not regularly bolstered by fresh service.

“Ah,” Angharad managed, coughing into her fist. “Apologies, I had thought your father to be…”

“In favor with the Grasshopper King?” Izel completed. “He was. Is, far as I know. Kukoya was his choice. Courtiers praised his humility, but the truth is he wanted the iron mines. He has a great interest in cannonry.”

She cocked her head to the side.

“Is that what drew you to tinkering?” she asked.

Izel snorted, shaking his own.

“I never took to making weaponry,” he said. “Gods allow, I never will. If there is call to find a source to my calling, let us say it is how the valley of Kukoya holds one of largest and oldest candles in Izcalli.”

Angharad could recognize when a subject was being closed, and nodded in swift concession. A beat passed.

“Izcalli cloaks would not help with the chill anyway,” Izel said. “For most warrior societies cloaks are meant as trophy displays, not anything as cowardly as warmth. Many feathers, very little of anything that actually stops wind.”

“That sounds… impractical,” she offered.

“You must mean traditional, surely,” Izel said. “Tradition is never wrong, Angharad, else it would not be tradition.”

Her brow rose.

“That rather sounds like a quote,” Angharad hazarded.

“Some Eagle Society grandees have strong opinions on the matter of uniforms,” Izel said. “My household, in turn, had strong opinions on the matter of Eagle Society grandees.”

He rubbed his palms together, as he often did when uneasy, then played it off as if he had been warming his hands. Angharad opened her mouth, but before she could further change the subject interruption came in the form of heavy crashing sound followed by shouting. They both startled, turning to look at the minor disaster unfolding. The crew of the galleon had been hoisting up a large crate up the side of the ship, but something must have gone wrong with the knots because that crate was now a shattered wreck spilling bundles of black cloth all over the pier.

No one seemed to have been hurt, but with how dozens of students were waiting by that ship to board it had dropped close enough that some were alarmed. With reason: cloth or not, a crate that heavy was likely to cripple a man even if it did not happen to take their life outright. The distraction, however, was not quite enough for her to miss the faint sound. It was the stutter in the steps that gave him away, the way he tried to time the movement with her breath so it would not be heard. It stood out as trying.

Angharad waited a heartbeat then elbowed behind her, pulling the blow, and hit soft flesh. Tristan groaned, stumbling forward, and was revealed shooting her an aggrieved look.

“The belly, truly?”

“Truly,” she replied, then cocked an eyebrow. “If you time the steps so obviously it tells me you are sneaking up on me.”

The Mask chewed at the inside of his cheek, looking thoughtful.

“Noted,” Tristan said.

And meant it, too. It was a rare thing for Tristan Abrascal to make the same mistake twice, at least in such matters as these. Izel cleared his throat.

“Entertaining as this always is, Tristan, you did head out for a reason. The others are…”

“Likely on their way by now,” Tristan replied. “They were finishing up with the captain when I left.”

“Was it going well?” the tinker asked.

Tristan and Angharad shared an almost amused look. Izel, in his defense, had had little occasion to see Song Ren unleashed onto a negotiating table. Their contracts since returning from Asphodel had involved little haggling.

“I expect that by sheer dint of lecturing that poor woman will have been taught the entire text of the Watch Port Ordinances of 23 Sails,” Tristan said. “The lines may even have a leading role in her nightmares for a few months.”

“The garrison should not have tried to change the docking fees,” Angharad firmly said.

Using the pretext of the wave of ships docking at Allazei to try and hike the price paid by poor Maryam to keep her skimmer docked was hardly honorable, even if it was lawful, and deserved the retaliation it received. Namely, Song had dug up the official port ordinances as set out by the Conclave some eighty-one years ago. These rules were considered dated and often unworkable in practice, but they were still theoretically on the books and set down by the highest authority of the order.

Angharad did not approve of rules that were not enforced, they either should be or not be rules at all, but that irritation had been eased by taking on the perspective that said ordinance no longer truly applied. It was only that the Conclave was still going through the long, arduous process of agreeing on something long enough to replace them with fresh rules and so they remained as placeholders until then.

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Regardless, Song and Maryam had early this morning gone to the garrison with a list of twenty-one ordinance breaches that they argued invalidated Maryam’s need to pay anything at all, spending the hours since haggling a compromise with the captain handling harbor affairs. Angharad had a suspicion that the fees would not be raised but lowered by the time the dust settled.

The shark’s grin Song had failed to contain when she realized that the outer wall of Fort Seneca was a whole Lierganen foot and half too close to the docks – and thus, by some interpretations, would have to be demolished so a smaller and more defensible fort might replace it – had been endearing. This sort of land law squabbling was usually men’s work, it was rather charmingly domestic of their captain to enjoy it so much.

“It was good of her to spend her morning on this when she is leaving with the tide,” Izel said. “I expect her instinct would otherwise have been to claw the first place in that line.”

He gestured at the flock of black cloaks waiting by the stretch of the pier where the galleon crew would be lowering the ramp soon, the students – and some older watchmen as well, from the garrison – waiting in broad queue with their travel bags at their feet. The Timely Dispatch, which Angharad had to admit was auspiciously named, would be sailing for the port of Concordia before long.

Though that city was now a possession of the Kingdom of Malan, the same peace treaty that had ceded it to the High Queen had also enshrined the Watch’s right to use it as a supply depot. From there Song should have no trouble making her way to the Republic of Mazu, which was less than two weeks away from Concordia with the right winds.

“She’ll end up in one of the dormitories no matter how early she shows up,” Tristan shrugged. “There are real officers to accommodate, no student will get anywhere near a cabin.”

Not that it would have stopped her, Angharad thought. For Song it would have been a matter of principle to be there early. Movement at the edge of her sight had her half-turning, a black-cloaked pair passing through the covenant pillars and stepping into the light – Maryam in her blue-bordered hood, Song in a regular’s uniform with her traveling bag slung over her shoulder. The pair were waved over, their captain’s eyes lingering on the wrecked crate whose spilled cloths the crew were still gathering. Wondering if it meant a delay, perhaps.

“All hail the returning victors,” Tristan called out. “List your conquests, o mighty warlords.”

Maryam raised her fist to the sky,