Chapter 8

It was pleasant out.

The Grand Orrery lights were blue and bronze, brushing softly against the pavement stones, and a breeze too soft to push against the morning mist trailed down the street. If Song were a fortunate woman, she would be sitting in the delightful garden terrasse of the Emerald Vaults, sipping at a cup of Jigong green as she waited for Angharad to join her so she might give a full report over her evening at the Old Playhouse. They might share some of the honeybread Song had heard so much about from Uncle Zhuge, perhaps even have a word about the tension with Maryam while waiting on her to return from the Akelarre chapterhouse.

But the Ren were cursed, beloved only of misery, so instead Song she was headed to a detainment house to get Tristan fucking Abrascal out of it.

The Watch did not call it a jail, which was a balm on her heart as if a member of her brigade had gotten thrown into jail before classes even began Song might just have to throw herself into Allazei Bay to end this debacle early and spare herself further indignity. A god for opponent could be overcome, but not a pig teammate. Only the thought that this might not be of the thief’s fault kept her from growing too furious with Abrascal, who might have been the victim in whatever affair saw him tossed into not-a-jail.

Abrascal deserved a fair hearing, regardless of her concerns about the man.

The same Watch clerk to tell her he had never come back last night had been kind enough to give her directions to the detainment house that’d sent word they had him, so at five forty-five sharp she showed up at its door dressed neatly, freshly bathed and combed with her coat buttons polished. From the outside the building looked more akin to an inn than some gaol, save for the two half-asleep watchmen lounging by the door. They straightened when she approached, though their gazes remained bored.

“Plaque,” the taller of the two asked.

Wordlessly she presented the silver seal, which the watchman examined before giving back.

“Thirteenth, huh,” he snickered. “Lucky you. You’re here for the kid that ended up on the wrong side of a red line?”

Tristan Abrascal, I am going to murder you, she swore. Gods and Circle, could you really not make it a single day?

“I am sure it is only a misunderstanding,” Song lied, smiling politely. “May I enter?”

The guard lazily waved her in. The Tianxi found that her earlier impression had some truth to it: the building had clearly been an inn at some point in the past. The common room seemed much the same as before, though stripped of some tables in favor of weapons racks, and what must have been the rooms for lodging in the back were now for holding students under arrest. Inside a handful of blackcloaks sat at the table by the hearth, two of them reading while others chatted over steaming mugs of tea.

One of them, a woman of Someshwari looks, glanced back and then rose at the sight of her.

“Thirteenth?” she asked.

Kuril accent, Song noticed. Unusual, as that mountain people rarely left the continent, but some were said to turn to mercenary work during lean years and the Watch recruited heavily from soldiers of fortune – both the Garrison and the free companies.

“I am Captain Song Ren of the Thirteenth Brigade,” she confirmed. “Here for Tristan Abrascal.”

“Leftmost room,” the Someshwari said. “He’s with Sergeant Hotl, you can go right in.”

Song nodded her thanks, then moved to put an end to this mess as quickly as possible. She was but a few feet away from the door when she heard Abrascal shout from inside, jaw tightening in quicksilver anger. It was one thing to hold a member of her cabal, another to beat them. That would not be tolerated. Hand on the chisel, Song reminded herself, but wrenched open the door harder than necessary.

Only to be faced with Abrascal sitting with Sergeant Hotl over a game of cards, moaning as he lost a hand to the Aztlan blackcloak. Loudly enough neither noticed her arrival. His calamity god was lounging against the wall, able to look at Hotl’s cards though such a thing was no doubt beneath her. Abrascal had been shouting at his loss, not a beating, and so the world was righted: Song was allowed to be furious at him once more.

“Three valets?” Tristan groaned. “The torture rack would have been kinder.”

“Do not tempt me,” Song coldly said, entering and closing the door behind her.

At last they noticed her, Sergeant Hotl chuckling and Abrascal straightening like a child caught pilfering sweets. The gray-eyed man shot her what he must think was a winning smile, which had her tightening her jaw. She hated that most about him, the way he played it all off – as if it were a game, a jest. As if this situation was not deadly serious, a potential black mark on their cabal’s reputation they might be working off for months.

“Your plaque,” Sergeant Hotl asked, leaning back in his chair.

Song dutifully handed it, glancing lightly above Hotl’s head at the rows of golden letters hovering there and further unfolding beneath her gaze. Written in Centzon, not Omeyetl, so easy enough to read. She only had moments to peek at his terms before he returned the plaque, but it was enough to glean that the contract seemed to concern memory. Sergeant Hotl – Itzcuin Hotl, she learned through the terms – asked for her name and nodded after receiving it.

“Your man here is in detainment for being found past a red line by one of the western patrols, Captain Song,” the sergeant told her. “He told his tale of how he got there and it seems to check out with an accidental crossing. We had the details investigated.”

Song, standing ramrod straight before the two, bent her neck to nod.

“Am I to understand that an accidental crossing is a lesser offense than willful one?” she asked.

“It’s not an offense at all,” Sergeant Hotl said. “He’s been detained because while he passed a Judas test he could have been brainbent. He’s spent a night contained without going into a mania episode, however, so that doesn’t appear to be the case.”

The Judas test, Song had read, was one of the Watch’s means to determine if someone had been possessed. Sixty-six seconds exposed to brumal silver, a metal that induced allergic reactions on the flesh of individuals ridden by gods. That explained why their brigade plaque was silvery – though it must be an alloy, brumal silver was wildly expensive – but now why Tristan had needed to be tested for possession in the first place.

That interrogation could wait, Song decided.

“He is cleared of risks, then,” she said.

“He is,” Sergeant Hotl conceded.

She glanced at Tristan.

“Up,” she ordered. “You can attempt to convince me this was not your fault over breakfast.”

He was thoroughly underserving of the Emerald Vaults’ honeybread, but the world was an unfair place and she would not deny herself petty pleasures. Only the thief did not move and Hotl cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Your man is also the reason two students are in the hospital,” the watchman said. “He’s not going anywhere until your patron comes to collect him.”

Song turned a look on Abrascal, silently demanding an explanation.

“The second’s not even my fault, really,” he complained. “The house collapsed and the man got hit by loose masonry standing in the street like a fool.”

“The house collapsed because you threw a grenade at the roof,” Sergeant Hotl reminded him.

It was evidently not the first time they’d had this conversation. Abrascal’s calamity god, whose name burned Song’s eyes even to glance at when she glanced at the hovering contract, was laughing at something. Perhaps glee at violence done in her name?

“It was just fireworks, which I threw at a Skiritai student,” Abrascal peevishly said. “And he’s just fine, you told me, even though he was blinded, deaf and on the roof when it fell. I threw the damn thing and still got bruises.”

The thief glanced at her.

“It’s unfair that other people also get to have a Tredegar,” the gray-eyed man seriously told her. “I much preferred it when we had a monopoly on that sort of thing.”

Song always disliked it when she agreed with something he said. It made her feel like she had joined a particularly embarrassing circus. The Tianxi cleared her throat.

“Our patron has yet to arrive on Tolomontera,” she told the sergeant. “We have no notion of when they might, meaning Tristan might remain in your custody long past the beginning of classes.”

A pause, an encouraging smile. Smiles tended to get you further than frown when you were a young woman. Unless you had a musket out, anyway.

“Would it be possible for me to undertake the necessary duty as his captain and have him released to my care?”

“You’re behind,” Sergeant Hotl replied. “Your patron arrived late last night and sent word that Tristan here is not to be released under any circumstances until he arrives.”

Song breathed in. She did not enjoy looking the fool, which she had just made herself pass as. Hand on the chisel, she reminded herself. If anything, that their patron had finally arrived was fine news. She had many questions to ask him.

“Would you happen to know when they are to arrive, then?” she politely inquired.

Before the sergeant could answer, the sound of small commotion in the common room drew their attention. Song barely had long enough to turn before the door was brusquely opened and a man was revealed to her eyes.

“Shit,” Tristan said.

It took her a moment for her to recognize the man who entered the room, but only that, and once more she joined the circus.

Lieutenant Wen had not lost so much as a thimble of weight since the Dominion, his belly still barely tucked into his black coat and gilet. Her fellow Tianxi was holding a brace of fresh churros through a small folded cloth, one recently bitten into – he was chewing loudly, and did not bother greeting anyone in the room after entering. Sergeant Hotl got to his feet and saluted.

“Sir,” he said, “I am-”

Wen raised a finger, silencing the Aztlan officer, then noisily swallowed. Song would have thought that the end of it, but he then wiped his hand on his coat and went looking inside a pocket for his pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. He carefully put them on, resting them on his nose, and Sergeant Hotl opened his mouth again. Only to be silenced by a finger again.

Lieutenant Wen took another bite of churro and made them all wait in silence as he chewed and swallowed before finally letting out a pleased sigh.

“Ah, that’s much better,” Wen happily said, then turned a steady look on the room. “All right, my morning has now become tolerable enough to suffer through this. Proceed, sergeant.”

“Sergeant Hotl, sir,” the Aztlan said. “I relieved Sergeant Gentry, who wrote and sent the report you received, but I have familiarized myself with the details.”

“It’s a pretty straightforward case,” Lieutenant Wen amiably said. “Tristan’s a shifty little prick, but it’s the Forty-Ninth that picked their fight and he didn’t break any of the Scholomance rules on purpose. I have been told of the situation so there’s no further need for Garrison involvement.”

“As you say, sir,” Sergeant Hotl replied. “I’ll just need you to sign him out and he’s all yours.”

The fat officer bit into a churro again and Song only barely hid her twitch. Wen’s absolute lack of manners, the deliberate flouting of politeness, never failed to infuriate her. Especially in a Tianxi who should know better.

“Let’s,” Lieutenant Wen said. “The others should be waiting for us on Hostel Street by now, and I’m not giving these brats my entire day.”

—

Mere minutes later they were on the street, walking back towards their lodgings.

Song had never quite settled on whether Lieutenant Wen was yixin or not – that is, Cathayan of race but raised in a foreign culture. The blue-lipped twins on the Dominion had been that and almost proud of it, but the large officer was more difficult to place. Tristan could not seem to look at Wen without visibly wanting to wince, so Song took it upon herself to break the silence.

“A pleasure to meet you again, Lieutenant Wen,” she said.

“Captain Wen now,” the man corrected with a hard grin. “Who would have thought those years of formal complaints about Vasanti would end up paying off? I was a lone voice of truth ignored by a negligent commander, Ren, a veritable unsung hero.”

He bit into his churros with relish, letting out indecent noises as he did. Song still could not quite put a finger his accent in Antigua, which sounded like Erlangi but not quite as throaty. Not from a southern republic, that much was certain, but he didn’t sound like he had been raised speaking Machin either – the dialect of the eastern republics was too particular to the ear to mistake.

If he were yixin it would explain the manners, she thought. That and him being an asshole, which he manifestly was.

“Happy news,” Song politely replied. “I must admit I did not expect to see you so soon after the Dominion, much less have you named as our Scholomance patron.”

“It was a surprise for me as well,” Wen replied. “Here I was at the Rookery, summoned before a tribunal to determine if I was to be demoted, and instead they cleared me in less than an hour before offering me a position I’d not even applied for. Out on the first boat I was, Mandisa with me.”

“You must have distinguished yourself during the crisis,” Song said.

The man bit into his churros again.

“Nah,” he said, mouth half full. “I’m thinking instead that someone on the Obscure Committee has it out for your cabal. Since I recommended Tristan here be shot in my report on the Trial of Ruins, they’re hoping I’ll get you all killed.”

Song swallowed. Had she been the one to cause this? She’d heard rumors that a sitting member of the committee ruling over Scholomance had kin in Jigong, though they were only rumors. Abrascal was finally moved from muteness, which at least distracted Wen from her temporary distress.

“Shot, really?” he complained. “That was hardly warranted.”

“You miss all the public executions you don’t ask for,” Captain Wen philosophically replied. “Thought I might get lucky and get you tossed into a Garrison camp as a compromise, but apparently you’re the pet of someone high up in the ranks.”

“The word you are looking for is pupil,” Abrascal sharply replied.

There was genuine heat in his eyes, a rare sight. Unlike the dark glee in Wen’s, who looked like a man who’d just found a new favorite toy.

“Did I hear correctly that Sergeant Mandisa accompanied you?” Song asked, steering away from the explosion. “Might she have been promoted as well?”

“No, Mandi’s still a sergeant,” Wen grumpily said. “I had to pull strings to get her out of the Dominion, too, they wanted to assign me a sergeant from the Tolomontera garrison.”

It was not a long walk back to Hostel Street and the first stretch of it was spent in silence, so when they turned the corner Song was not surprised to find they were in sight of the Rainsparrow Hostel. Out in the street before it stood the three waiting for them: Maryam, who at last looked properly rested, then the chatting pair of Angharad and Sergeant Mandisa. Both a display of tall, attractive dark-skinned women with a lethal streak to them.

Not Song’s cup of tea, but she could understand why they were drawing lingering stares even at so early an hour.

Wen had finished the entire brace of churros by the time they joined the others, which she would not have thought possible if not for the evidence before her eyes, and seemed in a marginally better mood. A silver lining.

“Wen,” Sergeant Mandisa greeted him. “Done bullying the rooklings?”

“It’s not bullying if they deserve it,” he replied.

He spent a moment on greeting Maryam, politely, then Angharad with some genuine fondness. Mandisa did the same with them, teasing Tristan with a grin before offering Song her hand to shake. She took it.

“Congratulations on being named captain,” Mandisa said. “I hear you can get the position formally conferred if you graduate with it.”

That was Song’s aim, yes. Cabalists were outside the general chain of command of the Watch, unable to use their ranks to command regulars, but they were also answered directly to the high-ranking officers they were assigned to and could not be commanded by anyone else. It was the best, quickest way for her to be able to take on the kind of work that would restore her family’s name.

“I will endeavor to live up to the privilege,” she replied.

“Look at you, saying the Stripe sayings,” the sergeant grinned. “Cute as a button.”

Song did not scowl, but it was a near thing. She was nearly twenty, far past the age for such childish compliments.

“All right,” Captain Wen said. “I need to brief the brats and I hear the Chimerical opened here so I’ll be taking two birds with that stone. Mandisa?”

The tall sergeant wrinkled her nose.

“No thank you,” she said. “I’ll go see if our luggage is there yet, straighten out the rooms.”

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“Much appreciated,” Wen said, then turned his eyes on them.

He grinned unpleasantly.

“Come on, it will be a learning experience.”

—

Despite the ominous words, it turned out the Chimerical was a little shop tucked away in a corner a mere few streets away from the tall facades of Hostel Street.

It looked dingy. The wooden front was stooped and dirty, the sole glass window caked with old dust and the shop sign faded. Once a chimera had been painted in gold, but time had worn away much of the body and all the heads save the serpent’s. The silhouette of the lemure would have been unrecognizable if not for the name of the place, which was writ on the straw welcome mat. It took two attempts for Captain Wen to wrench open the thick wooden door, and then the smell wafted out.

Strong, bitter and lingering.

“This is a coffeehouse,” Song said, genuinely surprised.

The Malani drink was wildly popular in Izcalli and swaths of the Trebian Sea, but it had never gained much of a following in the Republics. Tea was bound to too many of the rituals that maintained society.

“The only one on Tolomontera,” Captain Wen agreed. “Don’t spread the word.”

She was first in behind the captain, narrowing her eyes at the inside. The Chimerical was not any neater there, and still uncomfortably cramped. The entire shop was little more than three tables in walled booths and facing a counter behind which she glimpsed the tools to make coffee – roaster, mortar and sundry copper pots for the boiling. Yet the smallness of the shop would not have been so oppressive, Song thought, if the proprietor had not decided to fill it with a multitude of knickknacks.

A stuffed alligator hung from the ceiling, a row of green jars with froggy legs floating in preservative were by her head, a large globe whose painted borders matched no existing nation turned slowly, no fewer than seven Izcalli dueling spears were put up like trophies and was that potted nightshade in the corner? With every look she found further cluttering claptrap, none of it arranged sensibly or even in a way that was pleasing to the eye. It was genuinely awful.

“Oh,” Angharad said, coming in behind her with wide eyes. “How charming!”

Song was mistress of herself, and so she did not shoot the other woman and betrayed look. However deserved one might have been. Instead she followed Wen as he claimed the booth furthest in, whose table was currently occupied by a prodigiously fat black cat. It flopped belly up the moment the captain stroked it, purring loudly as Wen showed more affection towards the animal in an instant than she had ever seen him express towards a person not Mandisa over the length of their entire acquaintance.

“Good boy,” the captain praised. “You’re a good boy, yes you are.”

Maryam, who had caught up to her while Abrascal and Angharad stared at the globe and excitedly discussed something while pointing at a sea that Song was somewhat convinced did not exist, came by her side and shot the feline a skeptical look.

“More buoy than boy, that one,” the signifier muttered her way.

Song was startled into a snort, which she politely turned into a cough.

“The owner appears absent,” she said. “Perhaps we should-”

“Take a seat, by all means.”

It was a near thing, but Song refrained from reaching for her blade. The voice came from behind her, the counter where she could have sworn there had been no one. Now there stood a tall old man, his brown hair touched by strokes of gray. Dressed in a slashed rusty jerkin over a high-collared gray doublet and matching hose, a jauntily angled black beret spruced up with an ostrich feather atop his head, the proprietor met her gaze soberly.

His eyebrows, she could not help but notice, looked much like the ears of the stuffed grand duke owl to his left.

Wen abandoned the cat, which meowed plaintively at the withdrawal of belly rubs, and turned to the owner. He looked surprised at the sudden appearance, so perhaps it was common practice. A trapdoor behind the counter, perhaps? There did not seem to be a back room for the proprietor to live in, much less a second story.

“Hage,” Captain Wen greeted the man.

“Wen Duan,” Hage replied, his impressive eyebrows rising. “Back from exile, I see.”

“I simply cannot be contained,” Wen happily said, then patted the meowing cat’s head. “What is this beautiful boy called?”

“Mephistofeline,” the proprietor replied, smiling broadly. “Prince of Hell, felonious claimant to the throne of Pandemonium.”

And everyone save Wen went still, as beyond a row of neat white teeth was a maw of fangs. Devil, this Hage was a devil. Mephistofeline broke the silence by leaping down the table and landing with an undignified thump.

Song had half expected him to bounce.

“The Office of Opposition will try to assassinate you again if they hear that,” Wen amusedly replied.

Hage dismissed the words with an indifferent wave.

“It will give Asher something to hiss at,” the devil said. “Your usual?”

“Please,” Wen said.

The devil turned his gaze – placid brown eyes which he was not using, not really – on them.

“Your orders?” he prompted.

“I’ll invite you this once,” Wen told them. “Do as you please.”

“Do you have Uthukile beans?” Angharad hopefully asked.

“I’m not a savage, girl, of course I have Uthukile beans,” Hage said. “Southern Tsenda, heart of the riverlands.”

The Pereduri perked up, the words evidently having meaning for her. Song had never heard of Tsenda, though she did know the ‘riverlands’ referred to a region near the border between the islands of Uthukile and Malan. It was the wealthiest and most populated part of Uthukile, on account of being furthest from the coast of the Low Isle and its infamous storms.

“Then I would have a cup, if you please,” Angharad said. “Unadorned.”

The devil nodded approvingly then moved on to the rest of them.

“I will have the same as Captain Wen,” Maryam volunteered.

A cocked eyebrow and a nod. The devil turned his eyes on Song, who forced a smile.

“I do not suppose you have tea?” she asked.

Hage sneered, turning a look on Wen who held up his hands defensively.