Chapter 9

“That is untrue,” Angharad sighed.

“Which part?” Shalini Goel asked with a grin. “The one where the Unluckies robbed a slaving ship, the one where Maryam uses the souls of the damned to soak up bullets or the one where you lot killed an entire cabal and got away with it because they hadn’t picked up their plaques yet?”

Shalini had shown up half an hour early at the Crocodilian, wearing under her cloak flattering Someshwari skirts in pale orange. They were matched with an elegant cream blouse over which a cloth in matching orange had been draped, the look something like a fitted gown’s though likely easier to move in. It certainly drew the eye to how Shalini’s ancestors had seen fit to bless her with ample charms, which the way she sat with her elbows on the table made difficult not to notice. Angharad had already forced herself not to glance twice.

“No ship was robbed,” Angharad insisted. “And no student was killed.”

Shalini’s brow rose and she leaned in. Gravity did its best but Angharad’s eyes bravely fought the pull.

“I note you do not deny souls of the damned,” Shalini amusedly said.

While she could have denied the plural of souls, Angharad knew that would good as confirm the rest. As for Lady Khaimov, Angharad could not confidently state she was not damned – she had never received a comprehensive explanation as to what Hooks was, besides a soul and Maryam’s sister. For all Angharad knew, Hooks could absolutely be damned by some spirit.

“I hesitate to make statements over the matter of Signs,” she said instead.

“Pereduri,” Shalini snorted, then straightened. “Ferranda’s been sniffing at the rumors something fierce since she came back, so I got her to write off this meal as a brigade expense so long as you answer me a few questions.”

It was Angharad’s turn to be amused. How low the merchant cunning of Ramaya had fallen, that Shalini should be reduced to tricking her captain of only enough to cover tavern grub and bad cider.

“By all means, ask away,” she graciously offered.

“Is it true you freed slaves?”

“The Watch did not formally free them,” Angharad noted, “but we did help five of Maryam’s countrymen leave bondage to House Morcant.”

Whose scion was a contemptible twerp. Throwing away his weapon to call himself unarmed; what next, emptying his pockets to call himself poor? That kind of blatant chicanery made mockery of the very rules he was calling on for protection.

“That already covers most of my second question,” Shalini said. “They’re really from the northern continent?”

Angharad nodded. Different parts of it, she was told, though all from what Maryam called the ‘lowlands’. The gunslinger gasped.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see another Izvoric,” Shalini said. “They’re not exactly common sight, Khaimov aside. Good on her for getting them out.”

Angharad blinked.

“I did not know you to be an abolitionist,” she said. “I had heard Ramayans…”

“Trade in flesh?” Shalini finished. “It’s true. Not as much as the League of Kanish up on the Towers Coast, but Ramaya has slave markets in all its largest ports. I passed through one when I was a girl, with Ishaan, and it was a pit of misery.”

She cleared her throat, seeming somewhat embarrassed.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a firebrand,” she said. “Abolishing votaries would be madness, most of them wouldn’t even want it, and bonded labor is a good way to clear debts and small crimes. But akranta, the kind of slavery when men can be bought and sold? It’s a blight and should be done away with.”

Votaries? Ah, she must mean the temple-slaves. It was a Someshwari peculiarity that nearly half the slaves in their empire were property not of men but of temples. Angharad vaguely recalled being taught that temple-slaves could not be sold and that their rights were defined by strict law codes not even kings dared to break – they were, in a way, considered slaves to the patron spirit of their temple and thus to strike one would be to offend that spirit.

“I rarely gave the matter much thought before encountering Maryam,” Angharad admitted. “It is considered an unseemly trade to be involved in, of course, but beyond that…”

And Angharad recalled with some shame, the trading was much more frowned upon than the owning of slaves. To look down upon the owning of a slave would be to implicitly question the honor of their owner, after all, while the trade itself could be called messy without pointing a finger at anyone in particular.

“It’s the money that fucks us,” Shalini philosophically said. “When there’s enough gold to be made in something, nations will line up to suck at that tit no matter how evil the milk.”

Angharad choked at the image evoked, getting an impish look from the Someshwari.

“Last question,” Shalini said. “And that one’s just between us.”

She leaned in again, lowering her voice.

“What are the odds that Nathi Morcant is about to trip into a barrel full of knives and we’re all very sad about his bleeding out while all the Thirteenth is seen eating in a public place?”

Angharad, alas, could not even be offended by the implication. Maryam would have almost surely killed Nathi Morcant if she thought she would get away with it, and the main reason Angharad did not believe she would succeed was that just as surely Tristan would assassinate him first to ensure she could not be charged with anything. Angharad was not a fool: she had a more than decent guess as to why the thief had slipped one of the gatehouse officers a few silvers yesterday.

The gatehouse was where they kept the records about where new students were assigned rooms to sleep in.

“Song was warned by Commander Bouare that such a thing would be severely frowned upon,” Angharad shared.

Song wanted to avoid the garrison coming down on them, and for that vigilance Angharad was grateful. She still wished their captain’s insistence that Nkosinathi Morcant could not be induced into an enthusiastic spar and have his eyes coincidentally slashed out might be reconsidered. The wretch had not only gravely insulted Maryam in public, he had attempted to strike her. An honor duel was the least of what he deserved. If a nobleman acted this way without consequence, it was the duty of his peers to check him.

“So Morcant’s sticking around for a while, then,” Shalini grimaced. “Ugh. You know he’s been asking around about the Thirteenth, right?”

“We expected as much,” Angharad said.

“Shame the garrison officers stuck their oar in it,” the Someshwari mused. “Would have been a damn statement for you lot to off two Forty-Ninth Brigades in a row.”

Angharad paused.

“Pardon?”

“You hadn’t heard?” Shalini asked, sounding surprised. “Your friend is now Captain Nkosinathi Morcant of the Forty-Ninth Brigade. He already has two cabalists lined up, one of them a first-year Skiritai. Everybody’s been talking about it.”

“I have not had much time for social affairs,” Angharad said. “We spent yesterday settling Maryam’s countrymen and that did not leave time for much else.”

Not her personally. Given the way the young boy Koval’s eyes had gone wide at the sight of her, Angharad hardly begrudged Maryam suggesting she not be one of the cabalists accompanying them. Whatever her friend had told them in Recnigvor after making introductions had somewhat loosened the tension there, but they remained wary. It was like ash on her tongue to know that the behavior of House Morcant abroad might have so tarred the reputation of all Peredur.

Song had disappeared into the Gallery last night and returned only this morning, digging for a way to allow the Izvoric to remain, and over breakfast had mentioned she was meeting with garrison officers to run down a lead. Meanwhile Izel had volunteered yesterday to go with the harbormen and fetch Maryam’s ship from where the garrison had beached it, predicted to return at noon today, and those twin absences left Tristan and Maryam to handle the Orels. Showing them around the streets they were allowed to wander and then making sure they were fed, clothed and comfortable.

This in turn had left Angharad to handle matters Song and Tristan usually would, taking up most of yesterday afternoon and this morning. Meeting with Captain Wen, buying supplies and withdrawing funds from the vault. She’d even added lines to the Thirteenth’s brigade ledger, which had felt mildly sacrilegious given that only Song’s elegant writing had filled the book until then. The distances to cover took up as much time as the obligations, she found, that unfortunate back and forth between town and cottage.

There was a reason the Thirteenth had a room in town, though had they not done the Rainsparrow’s owner a few favors last year to get a heavy discount that would have been an expensive luxury indeed.

“Social is what tonight is for anyway,” Shalini shrugged. “Misery Square is just one big cauldron of posturing and elbow rubbing. It’ll be even worse this year, the first years will be bulking up existing blocs and starting their own.”

“I am looking forward to that,” Angharad admitted. “We did not get to attend last year.”

“You’ll get plenty of eager first years asking about Asphodel,” the gunslinger predicted. “Not that you wouldn’t have stood out anyway: Ferranda mentioned Colonel Cao will be putting a wooden board with Stripe brigade ratings on them. You Unluckies taking third place without being Watch princelings will get people talking.”

“I did not think it would ever get to that,” Angharad mused, “but I do believe I might be getting tired of telling Asphodel war stories.”

It was a sad day when not even the thought of impressing beautiful women with her deeds was enough to make telling a tale feel less tedious. Shalini cackled, feigning a swoon and pressing herself against Angharad.

“Oh, Lady Tredegar, do tell me about how you fought the high priest again,” she teased. “You were ever so valiant.”

She pawed at Angharad’s muscles jestingly, batting her eyes, and the Pereduri chided herself for noticing how her friend’s breasts were pressing against her arm and her eyes were fetchingly lined with kohl. Shalini was a grieving widow, not an admirer. Still, perhaps a reminder of how her friendliness might be mistaken would not go amiss.

“If you are so intent on feeling up my arms, my lady, a private showing can be arranged,” she drawled, glancing at the fingers still on her biceps.

Shalini hummed, close enough that Angharad could almost feel the vibration on her cheek like she did the warmth of her breath.

“And how might one go about getting that show?” Shalini Goel asked, tone gone husky.

Angharad stilled. Wait. Wait. Was she really-

A wooden bowl hit the top of the table, filled with boiled potatoes and thick slices of lamb. Angharad drew away like she had been burned, coughing into her fist and finding that on the other side of the table Salvador stood with a pleased look on his face.

“Utensils,” he rasped at her. “Be back.”

Then his gaze moved to Angharad’s side, and what he found there had him blanching.

“Salvador,” Shalini frostily said. “I notice you are fifteen minutes early instead of, say, fifteen minutes late.”

The Sacromontan gestured at his bowl.

“Ternasco,” he said.

“For lamb?” Shalini growled.

“Ternasco,” Salvador replied defensively, gesturing at it again. “Half-price. Ternasco.”

Angharad cleared her throat, rising to her feet.

“I am feeling peckish myself,” she said. “I will grab a bowl. Shalini?”

The Someshwari eyed her for a moment, then deflated.

“Please,” she said.

Angharad returned a few minutes later with two bowls and a pulse that had slowed down. She could untangle that sudden realization later, it was not why she had asked the other two to meet in town.

“Word got around about the lamb,” she told them. “Wise of you to come early, Salvador, any later and they might have run out.”

There were so many Sacromontans in here you’d think a colony was being founded, and any moment now Angharad expected Tristan to pop out of some shadowy corner to claim his own bowl. Salvador, chewing on a fatty piece, let out a noise of agreement. Bowls were passed and as was only polite Angharad waited until everyone had partaken for a bit before bringing up the matter she had asked them here for. She straightened in her seat and reached for the two journals and several scrolls she had brought, which had Shalini cocking an eyebrow.

“Ah, so now you tell us why you have enough monster hunting notes for two Desolation war parties,” the gunslinger said. “I have been wondering.”

And also had been snooping through the papers when Angharad was not looking, apparently. The Pereduri cleared her throat.

“I have, over the break, sought and largely obtained methods to kill the twenty-three lemures currently on the Steel List,” she said.

Five of them were largely ‘stack powder barrels near the cage exit and shoot them when the beast is close’, but that was only more reason to seek out fresh eyes. Angharad had not been able to obtain enough powder for five such kills anyhow. Two at most, if she was conservative with the charges.

“My brigade spent their break in Sacromonte attending the Feast of Torches and getting drunk for a month,” Shalini noted, “but to each their own.”

Salvador frowned, pulling at the cross scar on his chin.

“Why?”

“Time is running out for the souls in the Acallar,” Angharad said. “If arrangements are not made, it is almost certain some of them will pass into death. It will only get worse when the first years go through their culling, I fear.”

A fresh batch of deaths on the tally would make second years more reluctant to risk themselves. Anyone who died then would be stuck behind last year’s old deaths and this year’s fresh lot before they could be redeemed from the grasp of the Acallar. Considering their year had not even succeeded in clearing their own plate when no one was adding fresh helpings, those odds were not pretty. Salvador kept frowning, and said nothing.

“I’ll look at these,” Shalini slowly said, hand lying atop the journals, “and should we get a fine angle and a solid fourth for the crew I am open to taking a crack at the Steel List. But there’s a difference between that and running down death one monster at a time, Angharad.”

“Will not die for the dead,” Salvador rasped out.

“I am not asking you to take on all of these,” Angharad assured them. “I would, instead, have your support in seeking out all the slaying crews. I would have us wage a war on that list instead of attacking it piecemeal. These crews we made, they exist only because we will them to. There is nothing preventing us from matching the best fighters, the best contracts and arms, to every hunt on that list.”

She could feel the hesitation from the other two.

“It was one thing to compete when all that was wagered was our own safety,” Angharad continued, “but now refusing to band together is consigning our fellows to death for nothing but what – bragging rights, rankings and honors that hardly matter now and will mean nothing in a few years?”

Shalini raised her hands in appeasement.

“It’s not that I think you don’t make sense,” she said. “I do. But all these plans-“

She rapped a knuckle atop the stacked journals.

“- mean dust if we don’t get the other crews on board,” Shalini continued. “And to be frank, I’m not sure we can get the other slaying crews on board.”

Angharad folded her arms.

“But you agree, in principle, with the approach,” she pressed.

Shalini glanced at Salvador, who shrugged.

“Yes,” she said, and when looked at the Sacromontan silently nodded.

“Then we have a beginning,” Angharad said.

And she had much talking left ahead of her. Fortunately, there would be no need to run around Allazei trying to find the other Skiritai: in a few hours they would all be gathered in Misery Square.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

—

“He’s sick,” Tristan told her, rolling his eyes.

The thief did not have to roll them while saying ‘sick’ for Angharad to know that Izel had been less than accurate when claiming this, but she appreciated the commitment to derision. The tinker had apparently come down with a severe case of trying-to-avoid-his-former-betrothed shortly before the Unluckies at the cottage set out for town, leaving the rest of the brigade to head into Misery Square without him.

“It may just spare us a screaming match in front of nearly the entire student body,” Song said, “so his sickness has my full endorsement. He can settle his private affairs in private.”

Angharad frowned.

“Yaotl Acatl is a princess,” she said. “Surely she would know better than to do this.”

Maryam snorted. The Pereduri spared her friend a glance, suppressing a wince at the sight of her: Maryam Khaimov looked deeply exhausted in at least three ways, like the cloth of her was being pulled so taut it had begun to fray. Hopefully a good night’s rest would help, but Angharad had doubts. Some kinds of tired sleep did little to mend.

“Meek girls don’t join infamous Watch death schools in pursuit of their betrothed after being ditched,” Maryam said. “And the only thing Izcalli love more than talking about doom is someone making a scene.”

Angharad spared her a skeptical look, but did not argue. She did not know many Izcalli, or their ways, while Maryam’s mentor was of that land. A cleared throat from their captain put an end to the talk anyhow.

“Your broach is off-center,” Song told Maryam. “Kindly adjust it.”

They were all inspected by that silver gaze, Angharad taking some pride in the approving nod she received and some amusement in the way Song twice opened her mouth to say something about Tristan before simply sighing and keeping silent. In the thief’s defense, his formal uniform was clean and he had washed mere hours ago. That his clothes looked so rumpled should not have been possible, and yet here they were. And that was a very fine tricorn he had on, even if it was mostly worn to hide the golden stripe in his hair.

With Song as satisfied with their appearances as she would get, they set out on the last stretch of road to Misery Square. It was not an unpleasant walk, much of it in the nicer part of Port Allazei. They walked up Templeward for a time, past the shops and in the company of more than a few students moving alone or in throngs, then headed straight north through narrow streets past the end of the Triangle. There would lay the tail end of Arsay Avenue, not that they would reach it since shortly before the southern end of that avenue waited a large plaza: Misery Square.

Angharad had never been before, and in truth the closest she ever came to it was in a layer. Usually when heading to Arsay Avenue from town it was quicker to take Crescent Road, which curved off the northern end of Regnant Avenue. In principle it was a longer walk, but the garrison used Crescent to move patrols towards Arsay Avenue so the grounds were clear of spirits and well-paved. In practice, that made it the shorter and safer route. So it was with some anticipation that Angharad leaned in after they turned the corner, revealing an expanse of- and she swallowed, for what she beheld defied easy description.

It should have been simple to speak of. A large open square of worn cobblestones, surrounded by two half-razed temples and what had been a palace to the ancient kings of Sologuer before two wars and the Morningstar shattered it. And it was that, but there was a… blight, to this place. The stone had been eaten away at by what looked like leprosy, if such a disease could afflict stone, and there was a bleak presence to Misery Square. The shadows ran too deep and long here, an old hunger looming in the spaces between the lantern lights.

She thought she could see bones lying there in the dark, and ghostly faces looking at them from empty corners.

“Song?” she managed to get out.

It was not the Tianxi who answered, even though her silver eyes were flickering this way and that.

“It’s Gloam,” Maryam said. “Old Gloam, like…”

A swallow.

“Like a wave swept over this place and left puddles of death behind,” the signifier finished. “They have yet to dry out.”

Angharad believed it wholeheartedly. The remains of the temples bore great lanterns put there by the garrison and among the shattered palace stood a great mirror-device that was as a small lighthouse, but there were alleys of dark curving in between the lit spaces that felt like they were a little too deep, too black. Not mere darkness.

“Sakkas did this,” Tristan slowly said.

The hollow priest Tristan had met in the layer, the same one to pass the cottage onto their custody. Not a comforting thought, that they would sleep under the same roof as someone capable of leaving such a scar on a city.

“Who was he, anyway?” Angharad asked. “I had never heard the name before Tristan first told us of it.”

“He hardly ever makes it into the histories,” Song said. “Sakkas the Lecturer, he was called, and chroniclers thought him only a scholar before the fall of Allazei. He was said to be one of the earliest cultists of the Sunless House, but mostly known as a teacher to more famous names.”