Epilogue

He’d never liked the Rookery.

It was a purely personal dislike, Captain Osian Tredegar would admit if pressed. He had spent half a year down in the Lanes after enlisting, becoming fit for deployment, and though that had been a foul time it was also long enough ago he hardly remembered. His antipathy nowadays came from the fact that since he’d been inducted into the Umuthi Society he had only ever returned to the Rookery for a fresh squabble over funds with Conclave bureaucrats.

The worst part was, of course, that these squabbles were largely meaningless. The Conclave’s army of clerks and bookkeepers could not actually make any decision, only pass recommendations to the Conclave itself. Which would then proceed to make no decision at all, because it did not directly allocate funding to the works of the Clockwork Cathedral whose continued funding Osian was sent to argue for. The Conclave, in practice, did not actually decide much of anything.

At the founding of the Watch the chamber had been small enough to be functional but over the years the assembly had simply become so large it was not practical for it to decide on anything but the broadest strokes of policy. Execution of those policies was then passed on to committees who ended up wielding the power the Conclave had invested in them with… varying degrees of oversight.

There was some truth to the complaints from the captain-generals that some Garrison regions were essentially rival free companies funded by Conclave coin.

But fair or not it was committees that ran the Watch, and it was such a committee that had ordered Osian Tredegar to sit in a cold damp hall and wait for his name to be called. There had been ten of them out here when he’d arrived, but one by one the other rooks had gone into the small room tucked away in a forgotten corner of the Old Chantry.

And one by one they had left, until there remained only him and the monster.

She looked like a frail old woman but Osian knew better. Fenhua had sent him word last night, warned him that he was looking not as some retired cloak but fucking Nerei Name-Eater. The worst part was that he would never have guessed if he’d not been warned. Even now he almost doubted himself, looking at how she seemed to ache from the wet cold and shiver in her shawl.

There were some who said that creature was older than the Republics, that she’d fought in the last assault on Pandemonium. Nerei glanced at him, as if sniffing out his thoughts, and offered a warm toothless smile. Ancestors, but she looked like someone’s favorite grandmother.

“I’m sure it will be soon, dear,” the Name-Eater assured him in a faint Sacromonte accent. “There is no need to be so tense, I am certain your niece will be fine.”

Osian stiffened, for he had never spoken a word to Nerei and he’d certainly never said anything about Angie around that monster. His hand habitually drifted to where his pistol would be, had he not been ordered to leave it behind at the Old Chantry’s gates.

“Oh, no need for that,” Nerei chided him. “Such a lovely girl, your Angharad. I’m sure she will be a darling friend to my Tristan. And a mirror-dancer, how precious! They rarely leave Peredur nowadays.”

“I am not without friends,” Osian coldly replied.

His work on the Isibankwa had put him firmly on the good side of his superiors. They had already done him favors, but he should be able to squeeze out a few more.

“Or debts, of late,” Nerei said, tapping her wrinkled chin. “That was most amusing to hear. To think it took the Wednesday Council itself to curb your enthusiasm!”

Osian grit his teeth. The ruling council of the Umuthi Society had not officially spoken with him at all, Professor Akia had sat him down in private so there would be no mark on his record, but the Name-Eater was a Mask and that breed always made a point of rubbing your secrets in your face when they could. Not that he would let himself-

The door opened, the same middle-aged watchman as always leaning through.

“Captain Osian, Officer Nerei,” he called out. “The committee will see you now.”

Osian bit down on his words, trying to smooth the anger off his face.

“Come, dear,” Nerei warmly said. “Let us find out what it is the Obscure Committee has to say.”

Breathing out, Osian Tredegar forced himself to calm down. The monster had just been toying with him the way a cat would with a mouse. She had no true interest in Angharad, he told himself as he followed behind the thing wearing the form of a little old woman. He must keep his mind on the Obscure Committee waiting ahead. Not that it was truly called that, at least on paper.

Its formal name on the rolls was ‘Lesser Committee for the Trebian Northwest’, the kind of name that got made fun of at parties when officers mocked Conclave bureaucracy over cups of wine. It was an oft forgotten detail, however, that the ruins of Scholomance lay in the northwest of the Trebian Sea. Though a ‘lesser’ committee would naturally not have authority over the greater committee overseeing the same region, its existence as an independent entity meant it was not subject to that greater committee’s authority either.

In practice, that meant Scholomance and all matters connected to it had been made the private fiefdom of the four people Osian found waiting inside the small, cramped room. That alone would have been worth wariness but altogether more dangerous was that this authority had apparently been granted to them by a sealed vote of the Conclave, meaning the matter was kept secret.

The Obscure Committee was called that because more than nine tenths of the Watch would have absolutely no idea it existed even though it now held great power and influence.

There were four high desks inside the room, covered with stacks of paper and inkwells, and the four members of the committee sat behind them. The watchman from earlier closed the door, leaning back against it, and Nerei trudged forward to stand before the desks. Osian followed, moving to her right but putting enough space between them he would have been able to draw and fire his pistol in time.

If he still had it.

The gesture did not escape the attention of the leftmost sitter, who raised an eyebrow at him. Brigadier Anju Laghari was a middle-aged woman of plain looks, her wavy brown hair going down to her neck. She was built like a barn door, broad-shouldered and muscled enough to wrestle a bull, and by the looks of the scar around her neck someone had once tried to hang her. Most importantly Anju Laghari was an Academian, a Stripe.

The Academy was the largest of the seven covenants, about as large as all the others put together, so its claiming one of the committee seats had never been in doubt. There was another edge to that blade, however: competition within Academy ranks for the appointment would have been brutal. That meant Brigadier Laghari was as much a political creature as a military one, for all that she looked like she should be leading some charge in the Bleaklands instead of sitting at a table.

And by the disgusted look she sent the monster at Osian’s side, she was no fonder of the creature than he.

“Officer Nerei,” Brigadier Laghari said, her voice sounding like she gargled rocks, “this is revolting. You look like someone’s grandmother.”

Nerei smiled.

“Where lies the trouble, dear?”

The brigadier shivered.

“I saw you eat a man’s entrails with my own eyes, back in seventy-three,” Laghari flatly replied. “Head right in the belly, like a pig with a trough. Put on a shape that I won’t want to shoot.”

The old creature cocked her head to the side, noticeably not moving to obey. Osian had no idea if by right she should, and neither would most in the room: ‘officer’ was the placeholder rank that the Krypteia used when they were not assigned to a duty and thus not forced to reveal their actual rank to the watchmen around them. Anju Laghari might be a sitter on the Obscure Committee, but if Nerei was of higher rank she would not actually need to obey her.

Only one person in the room was likely to know, and all eyes went to him.

At the rightmost desk sat Lord Asher of the Krypteia. He looked like a handsome man in his fifties, his short salt and pepper beard lending him a distinguished air. His clothes were perfectly tailored, their buttons gold, and if not for the polished cane in his hand Osian would have never guessed he had a limp. Lord Asher also wore spectacles, which he never took off because no matter how well a devil took care of the shell they wore the eyes tended to look a little off after a century.

Osian made sure not to look at the rings on his hand or the charming smile on his face. There was no telling if the rumors that Lord Asher was a founding member of the Krypteia were true, but there were records of the man going back centuries and when devils got that old they grew warped. The young ones, fresh out of the forges in Pandemonium, they just wanted tainted aether of any kind. The old ones who annealed grew discerning and addicted to particularities, specific tastes.

First love, fear of water, paternal pride – any of the endless corners of mankind’s soul. No one knew what Lord Asher was addicted to, but most figured it was secrets. He had certainly been in the Krypteia long enough to get his hands on a trove fit to topple an empire. As for the devil’s own rank, well, who knew? The Masks never gave that kind of information forced, and even then sometimes lied.

“Let us be courteous, Nerei,” Lord Asher warmly smiled. “Change for the brigadier.”

The old woman laughed, and after a heartbeat she fluttered. There was no other word for it, as if she had for an instant become made of a hundred thousand slices of paper moving with the wind. When the blur passed the old Sacromontan woman was instead a small Someshwari boy clutching at his too-large clothes, sending a gap-toothed grin up at the Stripe. He could not have been older than five.

Anju Laghari went red with rage, fumbling for a pistol under her desk.

“Change right now,” she hissed.

“D’you want to shoot me now, Brigadier?” Nerei asked.

The cutesy tone, just like a little boy’s, made Osian’s skin crawl. It was like looking at a crocodile wearing a person’s face.

“Asher,” the brigadier snarled, turning to the devil, “this is a threat. She can’t just wear my grandson’s face and-”

“Perhaps,” Lord Asher politely smiled, “next time you will remember to be more careful with your phrasing, Anju. Always a lesson worth learning, no matter one’s age.”

The brigadier was livid and likely to press the matter, Osian judged, but it would not get to that. The sitter next to her cleared her throat. The sound was irritated.

“This is not the Academy, Laghari,” Captain Isoke Falade said. “Your whims are not orders, and we have wasted enough time indulging your sensibilities.”

The committee seat the Guildhouse had got its hands on had been filled by an Akelarre rather than a Skiritai, which was no surprise. The Militants had well-earned their reputation for general awfulness at Watch politics, in part because of the high attrition rate in even in their most senior officer ranks. The Navigators, on the other hand, were arguably the oldest of the seven covenants and they were everywhere.

They always had favors to call on, and they were more than willing to cover for the Skiritai if they got to speak for both of the Guildhouse’s guilds in exchange.

Their representative on the committee was Captain Isoke Falade, a seemingly frail old woman in her seventies wearing humble grey robes. Her head was nearly shaved and she looked half-blind, pale cataracts in both her eyes, but she was always smiling and cocking her head to the side as if she could hear things no one else did. Given that she was rumored to be one of the most skilled signifers alive, that was entirely possible.

Despite the seemingly low rank, Isoke Falade had in her time served as Captain-General to the infamous Dawnchasers and survived a decade attached to the court of the High Queen. Long before Rhiannon’s time, so Osian’s sister never knew her, but no one survived at the feet of the Queen Perpetual without learning how to get their hands dirty. A good thing, that. Angharad was headed for the Skiritai Guild, so Captain Falade would be on his side for the coming review.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

That and he had bribed her personally, as well as the Skiritai who’d recommended his niece. It always paid to be sure, usually in gold.

Osian’s eyes moved to his other ally in the room, seated besides the signifer. Professor Fenhua He was Peiling Society, not Umuthi like him, but the College always stuck together against outsiders – especially around budget time. Fenhua was a tall and willowy beauty, their long dark hair flowing behind their back as they offered a sunny smile. Their robes were pristine silk in the traditional Jigong fashion, with billowing sleeves and discreet touches of color, every part of them meticulously neat.

Fenhua He’s specialty was epistemological foundationals – attempting to establish objective truths about the aether – and that was as much of an opposite from Osian’s work in the Clockwork Cathedral as one could find but they got on well regardless. Sharing a war room during the hunt for the Hull Breaker had left them with some ties of friendship, at it had most who took part in those months of horror. Fenhua caught his eye and winked, forcing Osian to swallow a grin.

Yeah, Fenhua had his back.

“If Officer Nerei causes such unseemly emotion in our colleague, let us finish our business with her as quickly as possible,” the professor said. “Shall we move to review the candidature of Tristan Abrascal, Scholomance candidate under Krypteia sponsorship?”

Osian cleared his throat.

“Captain Osian,” Lord Asher acknowledged him. “You have a question?”

“Sir,” Osian nodded. “May I ask why I am to be in the room when this Tristan Abrascal is to be reviewed?”

“He and your niece will be joining the same Scholomance cabal, should the reviews end positively,” the devil amiably said. “It was judged unnecessary for the questionings to be kept separate.”

Osian’s lips thinned, but he nodded. Though he misliked the possibility of some Sacromonte rat dragging down Angie with him, he would gain nothing by arguing a decision that would have required a majority vote to pass.

“If that is all, let us proceed,” Captain Falade sleepily said. “We have all read the reports from Lieutenant Wen and Sergeant Mandisa as well as the transcripts from the observers manning the Panopticon Mirrors. The boy effectively led the crew that collapsed the Red Eye’s prison and the mountain with it, though it was not his hand that did the actual deed..”

A heartbeat of silence, then the assessments began.

“He should be shot,” Brigadier Laghari plainly said. “He buried two Watch fortresses, led to the deaths of dozen of our rooks and broke a seal we have no real replacement for. A bullet to the brains is the least of what he deserves.”

Lord Asher smiled.

“There we must disagree,” he said. “As far as I am concerned, Tristan Abrascal is the only individual to have ever passed the Trial of Ruins – if I could, I would amend every preceding file on record as having retroactively failed.”

“Fucking sneaks,” Brigadier Laghari sneered. “You always-”

“You are boring me, Anju,” Professor Fenhua sighed. “All acts undertaken in the trials that do not break the rules qualify for amnesty, as you well know. Stop wasting our time on a tantrum.”

They leaned forward after, eyeing Nerei curiously.

“You have it in your written recommendation that your little maskling was likely involved with forbidden experiments classified under the name ‘Theogony’,” Fenhua said. “Elaborate. I would know if he is a potential danger to fellow students.”

Osian hid his amusement. A transparent fishing attempt, not that they were likely to be called on it. Nerei beamed up at Lord Asher, looking for permission. The monster looked like a child playing in their parents’ clothes, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Spirits but it was obscene.

Lord Asher nodded.

“House Cerdan ran a red shop out in the Murk,” Nerei brightly said, “contracting with the local co-caw-coteries for a supply of fresh bodies and running experiments that were in breach of the Iscariot Accords.”

The shape of the five-year old preened, as if the child was proud of having said all those difficult words without tripping.

“To what aim?” Professor Fenhua asked.

It was not Nerei that answered, this time.

“We are yet uncertain,” Lord Asher said, sounding ever so slightly irritated. “Like every other fool out there they tried to make a stable Saint, but they also attempted some exotic contract accommodations.”

He paused, sending the Tianxi a knowing look through his spectacles.

“They used forceful aether taint as a base for their research,” the Mask noted. “Nothing you would be interested in.”