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Chapter 42
🕑 Added 2026-01-09 17:00:06 +0000 UTCOn a rainy seventhday morning, huddled inside the tent with two hand-drawn maps between them, Song Ren sat with her brigade and considered the death of the Lord of Teeth. As an intellectual exercise, she must admit she found it quite stimulating.
On paper, logistics were the greater part of the work. While strong and dangerous, the Lord of Teeth would not survive sustained cannon fire and rifles should give it pause – unlike muskets, their shots would get past the thicker outer layer of the dantesvara flesh and score real wounds. In principle, therefore, killing the Lord of Teeth was largely a question of getting those cannons and rifles in firing range of the monster without spooking it.
Their main limitation in that regard would be where they could put the artillery, so naturally she consulted her artilleryman on the matter.
“Practically speaking, we have two options,” Izel mused. “Either we position those cannons on the high grounds by the Nests and fire down-”
His finger traced the left edge of the canal, the paved road beyond which the Nests began.
“- or we put them down in the canal and draw the dantesvera into our line of fire.”
He tapped the inside of the canal, the stinking beach that plunged into the waters of the bay beyond. Presumably the artillery pieces would be pulled further back from the water and the dantesvara drawn onto solid land, lest the monster simply rush out of the water and overwhelm the batteries before they could fire a shot.
“We could petition the Garrison for ships and bombard it from Rhodon Bay,” Angharad pointed out.
“Tactically that might be viable,” Song replied, “but I suspect that politically it would not be.”
Any ship assigned directly to the defense of Tolomontera would be under the authority of Colonel Azocar. In other circumstances perhaps the man might be willing to take a risk, but would he still when Colonel Cao was trying to oust him? Song doubted it. If the dantesvara turned on the Garrison ships and sunk them, it would hand Cao everything she needed to be rid of him. No, Azocar would leave this in the hands of Marshal de la Tavarin so that if blame was to be laid it would be laid at the old Skiritai’s feet.
They would have to proceed by land. Which meant that logistics were now only one part out of three, because securing a land route to the canal beach was rather more complicated than just getting the guns physically in place.
As the Nineteenth – and, if Tristan’s assessment was correct, likely the Ninth as well – had demonstrated yesterday, the Thirteenth and their allies now had to contend with other hunting crews just as much as they did lemures. Since the Unluckies had gathered in full it would take a much higher threshold of force to check their advance, but not all sabotage need be obvious. And any demonstrable progress we make towards victory will put increased pressure on rival crews to stop us.
There was, thus, a political aspect to it as well: before the Thirteenth set out, it must have secured a position that made assailing them unthinkable.
The third and final part was, for lack of a better term, rearguard action. Within the confines of the hunt, there was only so much that could be done to them. The Lamb Hill camp was under enforced truce, and while violence was tacitly allowed out in the wilds few had resorted to it so far. That did not mean, however, that their crew could not be acted against outside those bounds. Making trouble for key fighters in town, for example, stealing supplies and equipment before they reached Lamb Hill or even dragging brigades into feuds with other students.
The Thirteenth would be particularly vulnerable to this, going forward. Not only were they short on reliable allies – even more so now that Ferranda’s brigade had apparently imploded – but when Song had humiliated Colonel Cao she had made a powerful enemy. By Tupoc’s recounting the truce had been dead before she even walked out of the room, and all the captains had swiftly made excuses to leave – not only for the night, but for the delving days as well. They were, quite blatantly, leveraging Cao for better terms.
There would be retaliation for that, and given that multiple officers had made it clear to the Unluckies that tolerance for their ‘antics’ was wearing thin the brigade did not have much room to maneuver.
“We need to move aggressively,” Song said. “On the ground here to establish whether the brushlands are a viable route for cannons – or can be made into one – but also outside the field.”
“You want to make more allies,” Tristan predicted.
“That is one part of it,” Song agreed. “But to be frank, it is one we should delay. If we approach another crew, or even crews, it must be with a practical offer. The trouble will be at our back: Yaotl Acatl, Nathi Morcant and now Colonel Cao. We must put them on the defensive, else they will have the freedom to strike at us from behind.”
“Throw the Second Brigade in there as well,” Tristan said, to the surprise of some others. “I’ve some suspicions as to who actually introduced the Nineteenth to our friend Diego.”
Angharad let out a hiss.
“When I visited their fire that night, Frederique Long was missing,” she said, referring to the Second’s own Navigator. “They told me he’d retired for the night due to exhaustion, but...”
“He could have been in town brokering a deal instead,” Song finished. “That is in line with de Tovar’s preference in tactics. She prefers striking from blind angles, or indirectly.”
Setting two enemies against each other was exactly the sort of move she would make. The silver-eyed captain drummed her fingers against the map of western Allazei.
“Angharad,” she said. “When is the next gathering of Malani lordlings?”
“It has been delayed indefinitely, given the constraints in the schedule of most participants,” she replied.
Ah. Sensible, but unfortunate for her purposes.
“But I believe I could arrange an informal evening along such lines,” Angharad added. “Am I to understand you want me to act against Morcant through such an avenue?”
“Do you believe it would work?” Song asked.
She cocked her head to the side.
“I would have the backing for it,” Angharad said. “But he would not attend if I was the one to arrange it. I will have to ask another to do it for me, and that means owing a favor.”
“Make that deal,” Tristan quietly supported. “If Morcant fucks with our backline again, it will end up costing us a lot more than a minor favor’s worth.”
Angharad’s gaze sought the others for permission – it would not be a personal favor to Angharad but to the whole of the Thirteenth, since she struck the deal on their behalf – and she got the nods she was canvasing for.
“Then I will shop around for the least costly debt to take on,” she drily said.
“Good,” Song nodded. “Tristan, can you handle the princess?”
“I’ve irons in the fire already,” he said, “but to wrap things up in a timely manner I’ll need to borrow Izel.”
“Borrow me how?” the tinker warily asked.
Tristan hummed, as if choosing his words, and then naturally picked the worst.
“I’m going to put you on a hook and dangle you around like big, juicy bait,” he said.
“I wish you had chosen a different metaphor,” Izel informed him.
“That didn’t sound like a no,” Tristan happily said. “Don’t worry, Izel, we’ll have the best of times. Well, I will. Your happiness is largely optional.”
“Now you sound like my mother,” Izel drily replied, which was funny but in distressing sort of way.
Song caught Tristan’s eyes before moving on to Cao, but he shook his head. He’d not found the letters yet, then. It was only to be expected that an old fox would have many burrows.
“Maryam and I will be acting to check Colonel Cao,” Song said.
“We will, will we?” Maryam asked.
“I thought you would object at my being the only one who got to throw a glass of wine on the carpet of the Colored Arches,” Song mildly said. “Was I wrong?”
“I didn’t say that,” Maryam hastily replied.
“I can’t tell if that was a bribe or bullying,” she heard Tristan whisper to Izel.
“When it works, it’s called leadership,” Izel replied in the same.
They were, alas, too useful to have tossed into the waters of Allazei Bay never to return. Maybe tied to a rope first, Song mused. She could ask a tinker to rig up some sort of crane and dunk them repeatedly until sense ensued. That was the dream.
“That leaves the Second Brigade,” Angharad said.
“They are trickiest to handle,” Song admitted. “We have nothing public to retaliate over, so we would look like the instigators in a conflict. And, despite the troubles, the play with the Navigator sabotage was a relatively moderate ploy.”
She paused.
“I am inclined to invite Guadalupe de Tovar for tea and end the conflict, if it is feasible,” Song said. “Unless there are pressing objections?”
“I would be in favor,” Izel immediately said. “It was a frustrating day, but no one was harmed and her involvement in the matter was peripheral besides.”
It was plain to see he blamed Yaotl Acatl most over the scheme, and that was not unreasonable. Yet Song suspected his personal anger was guiding his judgment here, since without the Second Brigade making introductions it was doubtful the princess would have been able to hire Diego Calante at all. Serving as broker here had been hostile action in and of itself.
“The upside of the Second having kept their involvement discreet is that we don’t lose reputation for making peace,” Maryam noted. “I’m in favor.”
“Our list of enemies is already too long,” Tristan agreed. “I’ll not argue with crossing off a name so cheaply, assuming she’s willing.”
Song’s eyes moved to Angharad, who sighed.
“It sits ill with me to agree, as by facilitating revenge against our entire brigade instead of merely Tristan she made the matter more than personal,” Angharad said. “But I am not so proud I must fight to the death over every slight. You have my agreement as well.”
“Good,” Song said.
Especially since she saw very few avenues to act against the Second should her brigade insist. Guadalupe de Tovar might be a yiwu harpy, but Song must reluctantly admit that the other woman played the Stripe politics with a deft hand. Even a victory against her would come at a cost.
“All this, however, is when we get back to the town,” Song said, rolling up the maps and handing them back to Izel. “Let us begin with the groundwork.”
Back into the rain they went, to find out if the brushlands were a fool’s errand or not.
--
The key to it had been to grasp that Chunhua Cao trusted no one.
She couldn’t, not when the foundation of her influence was blackmail as much as it was favors owed. That meant if she had anything precious, something she couldn’t do without – like, say, written assurances from a backer that her coup was viable – then it had to be in Port Allazei. It had to remain under Chunhua Cao’s eye, where she could check on the papers and know if someone had tried to get to them. And there were only so many places in Port Allazei where one could stash damning papers.
Tristan ought to know, he had a list.
First, there was under her own roof. Cao kept a home in the Triangle, in a nice little stripe of Watch houses that Tristan had taken his time to case before breaking into. It was light on defenses besides it being in a watchful neighborhood, pun fully intended, which turned out to be because Cao barely used the place. It was hollow shell where she kept nothing of importance, even the cupboards were bare. Her main domicile, in practice, was actually the Galleries.
Now, the garrison offered students and teachers the use of personal lockboxes on Hostel Street, inside one of the warehouses, but that had been a dead end as well. Cao’s name was on their list, but after Tristan broke in all he found was a pouch of gems and a very large sum in ministry papers, the Tianxi paper money backed by their Ministry of Rites. Worthless to him, he’d learned nothing save that the fee the garrison asked for a lockbox was too high considering all they brought to the table was Gongmin locks and a tight guard rotation.
That left only two reliable places to stash her damning correspondence: Scholomance and the Galleries. Tristan had, naturally, begun with the easier of the two.
It wasn’t nearly as difficult to break into the Galleries as the Stripes thought it was, especially when you had someone on the inside. Instead of scaling the side of the building in the dark of night or popping open tiles so he could come down through the roof, Tristan walked through the front door on Imani Langa’s arm.
Among the second-years Stripes the one who best fit his height, skin tone and hair color was Captain Beremundo of the Eightieth. After slapping on a false mustache and padding the uniform some – Beremundo had muscles as well as that enviable mustache – he had the basics covered, though he still took the time to put on a hat that covered his golden streak and properly apply cosmetics to better pass. He’d even secured a false plaque by having a false coating added to one, which should pass unless tested for the properties of brumal silver.
It was a little disappointing that the guards did not glance at said plaque longer than half a second and simply waved them in. The younger of the pair for a moment seemed suspicious of them, until Tristan realized he was simply sneaking looks at Imani Langa’s buttocks.
“This is the best the Academy was able to muster?” he murmured as they went up the stairs.
“It was a tighter net last year, but with the fresh batch of students there are simply too many coming and going for those measures to be kept up,” Imani replied just as quietly. “I expect that Cao plans to open some of the floors to the members of brigades that do well in her list as a reward.”
Tristan hummed. That sounded about right. Those rankings were the source of much of the authority she had over Stripe students, since her actual Obscure Committee-mandated authority ran rather thin outside her classes.
“So the upper levels will be more closely watched,” he said.
“And the private rooms even more so,” Imani said. “Not that I would dare imply you intend to break into our dear colonel’s quarters.”
She hadn’t been told what he was here for, but then she wasn’t an idiot.
“I would never dare,” Tristan agreed. “My purpose today is to take in the sights, nothing more.”
Their deal was purely to help him get in so they parted ways on the stairs. She continued walking up, heading to the top, while he split off on the level just above the dining floor.
Gods, what a waste of space. And the air was warm, too, how much wood were they burning to keep this cathedral of ostentatiousness from turning into a coldbox? Anyhow, above the dining room and kitchen was the level where a handful of high-ranking Stripes had their private officer and quarters. Not only Cao but other teachers as well, Professor Iyengar from Mandate being the only one he’d rubbed elbows with. Tristan stopped by the entrance, kneeling to tighten the laces on his boots.
The layout was plain, same as in the drawings he’d bought from Cressida. The story was divided into eight blocks – four wide, two deep - with narrow hallways between them, each block containing three rooms. Usually it was one private bedroom and two offices, but there were also storage rooms and one elaborate bathroom that allegedly took up a whole block. The stairs led to an entrance flanked by a balcony on either side, a short span of carpet then feeding straight into the hall between the second and third blocks.
Two garrison soldiers stood in the way, loosely alert in the way of guards who expected no trouble save for a reprimand if they were caught slacking, and past them at the crossroads stood another idling pair. There should be a third pair somewhere patrolling, but Tristan saw no sign of them.
Before he could draw notice by lingering too long, he finished tightening up his laces and resumed climbing the stairs.
It should be doable, he thought, if the angles upstairs allowed and he was quick enough about it. The smart thing, what he’d been taught to do, would be to retreat after he finished checking the next story and return at a time of his choosing. Take his time, do it right.
But today was the fourteenth of the second month, one day shy of halfway through the deadline Andreu Claver had given him. He had less than six weeks to get Fortuna out, he was running out of time. Cao was too dangerous to keep at the Thirteenth’s back without a way to knife her back, and she had been infuriatingly careful about where she hid her papers.
So it was today and it was now.
The level above was an overly ornate sprawl of nooks and private salons for Stripe students to hold meetings in, a fortunate turn for him. The same precautions built it to prevent easy eavesdropping on Stripe business would serve to limit lines of sight. The place was mostly empty, besides, with only the gap beneath one door lit up and a trio of first years occupying a nook on the far right.
He would have preferred taking that side, as it was where Cao’s office lay, but left would have to do. Tristan slipped in, running a hand down the length of the polished balustrade as he moved. He peeked over the edge, confirming there was no one climbing the stairs and he was tucked out of sight from the door guards at the bottom. Yes to both. The balustrade was old, solid wood but too smoothed out for his tastes. He’d have to be careful.
Tristan eyed the angle of the entrance at the level below, the support pillars flanking in and the placement of the hallways, then breathed in and went over the balustrade.
Smoothly, quickly, he shimmied down until he was gripping two of the balusters to keep from falling then pushed himself back to have more room swinging forward. Once, twice, and on the third swing he threw himself forward. For a moment he thought he’d botched it and would hit the balustrade below, but twisting into a roll let him fall a hair past it. There was a dull thump, muted by the carpet, but he kept moving and rose into a crouch to disappear into the hallway before the entrance guards could see him.
The stretch of hall in front of him was empty, but there was still the pair waiting at the crossroads and the wandering patrol.
He stayed in a crouch, pricking his ear. One of the entrance guards approached, drawn by the sounds, but after a few steps she said something in Cathayan to the other guard and turned back. Good. Now he just needed to get to Cao’s office – he’d written off the personal quarters as a place to stash her correspondence, given that housekeeping had access. Song’s directions got him there in moments, moving from dead angle to dead angle as the patrol went past him and then curved to the front to stop and chat with the entrance pair.
Cao’s office lock wasn’t workshop fare, unlike most the others here: She must have had her own put in. Tristan snorted after a few exploratory touches with a pin, however, because someone had confused complexity with quality. This was one of those fancy Someshwari five-lever locks, which were harder to pick than the usual and took a long time to tumble even for steady hand. Unless you had a racoon pick, anyway, which held the levers in place with one part while the pick proper lifted the levers to the right height.
And the colonel couldn’t even get an Akelarre to trap the door, because it needed to be accessible to anyone come to meet her. Hilarious.
It took Tristan two minutes to pop the lock open and he smoothly slipped in, closing the door behind him. He scratched a match, lighting the candle he’d brought, and went through the room quickly. Not as ornate as the rest of the Galleries, Cao wasn’t that gaudy in her tastes, but everything here was quietly expensive and difficult to obtain. It almost made Tristan want to come back to rob it, but alas he had to keep his visit hidden if he could.
Her desk had drawers but only one was locked. He felt it out enough to confirm there was a trap set in and moved on – too obvious, and if he triggered the trap she’d know someone had come. The library? A minute’s work revealed one of the books was hollowed out – The Rise and Fall of the Second Empire, volume 3 – and contained several stripes of paper with sequences of numbers on them. Tristan transcribed them and moved on.
Nothing behind the paintings. The only thing under the small bust of King Chongsheng – must be an ironic pick, the man had good as started the Succession Wars by most historians’ reckoning – was a tea stain and the writing desk had a loaded pistol tucked inside but that was more amusing than useful. Beneath the glass case displaying awards and medals he found a key, which was a match for the drawer. Not that he intended to use it. Rising from his crouch, Tristan glanced at the left wall with its three paintings and only then noticed one was slightly more forward than the others.
Ah, there it was. He took the central painting off the wall, a Tianxi depiction of some mountain fortress being besieged, and carefully unmoored the frame. It was a good thing he was wearing gloves, as the lining was touched with traces of a white powder he did not recognize but was careful not to touch or breathe in. Either way, inside he finally found two thin dossiers that he promptly removed. He paged through both of them by candlelight, frowning. The first was a collection of names – students and teachers both – with two numbers besides them.
He hadn’t brought enough paper to copy all of it down, so he’d have to be selective about what he got. All of the Thirteenth save Angharad and Izel were there, as was Captain Wen, so he could start with that before adding a few more names of influential sorts.
The second dossier was not what he’d come for, unfortunately, or even what Song had sent him after. It was incriminating correspondence, but not Chunhua Cao’s. They were letters from Colonel Azocar to several other rooks, asking for help to deal with Cao’s ambitions. Several interesting names were among them, including Brigadier Pascual Chapul and Admiral Zokufa of the Western Fleet. The aim was clear: Azocar was trying to get around the Obscure Committee for help in dealing with Cao, appealing to the local powers.
These were copies, Tristan decided, but they would serve Cao’s purpose well enough anyway. If she clawed back the Glass Repository and went to the Obscure Committee fresh off that victory with these letters in hand, she might just secure their blessing to replace Azocar’s administration with her covenant council. Tempted as he was to burn the papers, Tristan refrained. These wouldn’t be her only copies. And she must have someone in Colonel Azocar’s secretariat, something to keep in mind from now on.
Tristan put everything back, his lips thinning in displeasure. Not here, then. It must be her Scholomance office, under the assumption that even though it was less defended by the Watch the hungry god in the walls would serve as a deterrent. He’d thought that was the most likely place – it fit his read of Chunhua Cao to rely on a deniably lethal defensive measure for her secrets – but had hoped he was wrong.
Alas, he now had fresh legwork to get started on. As soon as he got out of here, anyway, which wasn’t going to be pleasant. Not difficult either, but definitely not pleasant. It’d be a long drop down the laundry chute, then waiting hidden in the pile of stinking clothes until he could make his way out.
Well, dallying wouldn’t improve the smell so he got a move on instead.
--
One of the many and entirely valid reasons that Song disliked Guadalupe de Tovar was that she was a mistress of the mixed message.
The captain of the Second Brigade had promptly accepted her invitation to have a talk over tea, a good sign, but then also insisted that it take place in the Galleries. Which was to say, the headquarters of Colonel Cao, the high-ranking and influential officer that Song had recently declared war on. This was, one might say, not a good sign.
So, a mixed message overall.
Significantly less mixed of a message was the way that two of the guards at the door of the Galleries informed Song that they did not recognize her and would have to call on a superior office to confirm her identity before allowing her entry despite being shown her brigade plaque. Song flatly met their stare. She knew them both by name, Julia and Dumisai, and both cleared their throat before looking away.
“I’ll get the sergeant,” Julia said before beating a hasty retreat.
Song’s stare moved on to Dumisai. The man was only a few years older than her, so the weight of it had him squirming in a way that wouldn’t have worked on an older soldier.
“Cao’s order?” she asked.
“Can’t say,” Dumisai said, coughing into his fist. “But it, uh, sounds like a pretty good guess to me, ma’am.”
“As far as retaliation goes, this is somewhat petty,” Song noted.
She only realized the insidiousness of it when she’d been waiting by the door for the better part of half an hour, Dumisai so embarrassed he looked like his neck was trying to flee down into his body. Two Stripes had entered while she waited, eyeing her curiously. Both were first years, unacquainted with her, so the first impression they would get of Song was of a slightly comical figure being made to wait by the door for entry. If they were curious enough to ask, they would get the story and their impression would be set accordingly: Song Ren was waiting out in the hall, at the mercy of the colonel she had unwisely crossed.
Cao’s attack lay not in the delay itself but in what the sight of it would do to Song’s reputation.
After half an hour had passed, finally a lieutenant showed up with an empty smile and apologized for the delay and misapprehension. There were suspicions there’d been a break-in, the officer told her, so security was being tightened. Surely she understood. The man, she decided, was enjoying this a little too much.
“Lieutenant Jose Pedrosa,” she mused, enunciating every part carefully. “I’ll remember the name.”
Suddenly the lieutenant no longer looked like he was enjoying himself all that much. She’d pass the name on to Tristan, in case he ever needed a scapegoat. She wondered if her Mask had actually left a trace of his infiltration yesterday or this was just a pretext from Cao. Most likely the second, she mused, else the colonel would have tried to bar her access entirely. Knowing something Cao did not brightened her mood some, though not enough to make up for the rest.
Song showed up to tea with Guadalupe nearly fifteen minutes late, her effort to arrive in advance quite undone. One of the servants on the dining floor claimed he did not recognize her, implying he would need to fetch a guard to confirm her identity, but Song caught his gaze with a stony expression and watched as the claims died on his lip. Ignoring the fool after that despite a half-hearted protest, she walked across the hall to a table by the balustrade and sat across from Guadalupe without an apology for the lateness.
She had, after all, received exactly the message that Guadalupe wanted her to: Song was on the outs with Colonel Cao, and needed to be careful about picking any more fights lest she go from treading water to drowning in it.
“I ordered for you,” Guadalupe idly said. “Blackleaf, as I recall, and do try the cake – it’s quite exceptional today, the cooks added candied fruit.”
Song forced a smile, sipping at her tea – Sanxing blackleaf, which irritatingly she did actually like – and was further put off when the cake truly was quite good. Some sort of Lierganen brioche cake that tasted of oranges and had candied orange slices pressed into the dough. Not the sort of thing she would eat a whole plate of, but to nibble on it was a treat.
“Good taste,” she reluctantly praised, giving the devil her due.
“I know,” Guadalupe pleasantly smiled.
Song took another polite sip from her tea before setting it down on the porcelain saucer.
“I expect you know why I sought this conversation,” she said.
“Do I?” Guadalupe asked.
“We could dance around the matter,” Song acknowledged. “Speak in implications and laden phrases. I might even enjoy such a bit of sport, were times different.”
“But your brigade has courted multiple strangulations instead, so you’ve decided to be a blunt instrument,” Guadalupe idly said. “Typical of you, expecting accommodation from others for troubles you chose to chase.”
Song let that pass right through her. It wasn’t even really meant as an insult, just a way to rile her up.
“It was an indirect blow, and you were not entirely unprovoked,” she said. “As these things go, I am not unwilling to end the matter there.”
“How surprising,” Guadalupe replied, her smile like a line of broken glass. “I acknowledge nothing, of course, but if I had? I might say that it was a trifle that your cabalists suffered, compared to Coyac and Abrascal all but dancing on Alizia’s grave less than half an hour after she saved the rat’s fucking life.”
Something of a mischaracterization of events, as far as Song had been told, and trusted Tristan’s cold-eyed assessment of his own missteps more than the anger in the cast of Guadalupe de Tovar’s jaw, like teeth gnawing on an old bone.
“As I said, not unprovoked,” Song said. “But you must not be unaware that we were not the ones to force that conversation and that they were unaware of Alizia Salas’ death throes. It would not have taken place otherwise."
There was a flash of rage in the other woman’s eyes and Song was almost surprised to find she thought better of her for it. Whatever else could be said about her, Guadalupe de Tovar had genuinely loved the girl who died. She would not be acting so harshly over her death if she hadn’t. The Lierganen captain sipped at her own tea, jaw unclenched by the time the cup returned to the porcelain saucer.
“I disagree with your description of the events,” Guadalupe said, “but it seems you are to be lucky again, Ren.”
Song’s brow rose.
“How so?”
“To side against you is not only that, it is also to side with Colonel Cao,” Guadalupe sneered. “As she is no friend of my aunt’s, I will not lower myself to do such a thing. You might consider my grievances shelved for the time being.”
A cold smile.
“But I will have my price for it,” she said. “I expect public apology from Abrascal at a time and place of my choice.”
Anyone else Song would have hesitated, but Tristan was entirely willing to fold his pride like a paper crane for advantage. He would be, she suspected, more offended if Song tried to refuse on his behalf.
“So long as it does not put him in danger,” Song replied.
The other captain sharply nodded. A deal struck.
“You did not ask for Izel to apologize,” Song noted.
“The way the princess tries to force his affections is disgraceful,” Guadalupe flatly said. “His outburst might have boorish in the extreme, but it was truly an outburst. Not scheming theater, as your rat put on.”
Song set aside the urge to defend him, to tell her he hadn’t known. That Tristan would not have if he did. De Tovar already knew that, she wasn’t a fool. It just didn’t matter to her, and Song found she wasn’t sure she could condemn the other woman for it. She was not so sure she would not have done the same, in her shoes.
“I’m sorry about Alizia,” Song quietly said. “We never met, but Angharad speaks highly of her.”
Guadalupe swallowed.
“She deserved better,” she said, jerking away her head to look past the balustrade. “Better than clowns putting on a show while she died in our arms, and better than me. I failed just as much.”
Her fingers tightened around the cup.
“I’ll not forget it, what your men did,” Guadalupe said. “But I’ll not forget that Tredegar was by her side at the end either. That is all you’ll get from me, Song Ren.”
“It’s all I can ask for,” Song gently replied.
They finished the last of their tea in silence, and Song left her sitting there. She had what she’d come here for today, but it did not feel like much of a victory. But then she was not so sure Guadalupe had been her enemy in that way, not really.
It was a start anyway.
--
Izel forced himself to do the test, just to be sure.
Obtaining a caged lemure was simply a question of filling the right paperwork, and by terceday he was sent a caged lycosi. The garrison men brought in the drugged creature and set it down in the device vetting chamber before leaving to wait outside of the Workshop, smoking pipes near the dead fountain. While it would have been more professional to wait until the lemure was awake so the drug could not be said to have influenced the result, Izel found the prospect too cruel to countenance.
He set up the lenslight, adjusting where the beam pointed, then pulled the trigger.
It wasn’t instantaneous, the way it had been with the nyxian marble. Lemures were saturated with Gloam but it was not necessarily concentrated. So when the lenslight’s beam touched the lycosi, instead of making it explosively decompress as it had the veins of dark in the marble the ray cooked the creature. Like a cut of meat on a searing pan, the evaporation of the Gloam in the flesh releasing instant and violent heat. He’d aimed at the head, but the death was not instant.
It took several seconds of continued contact until the brains were broiled, the lycosi waking up long enough to let out on stomach-curdling howl of pain before it died.
Gods. His lenslight was a weapon, whatever else it might have been.
He had to bury this. The thought pulsed in him like a heartbeat, like a cold trickle of panic slithering down his spine. Izel rammed a spear in the lycosi twice to make sure it was dead, then dragged it out of the cage and drenched it with oil before setting the corpse aflame. No traces of the results could be left behind, he’d even throw the scorched bones into the sea. When there was nothing but ash and bone left Izel aired out the room and gathered the remains in a bag before sent for the Garrison men and had them take out the cage.
When one casually asked what’d happened, he simply called the test a failure and elaborated no further. They were not particularly curious and did not ask again, but it was not them he worried about. Izel had to bury this or it would spread. First the lenslight would be aimed at lemures, surely, but that wouldn’t last. It would be only a matter of time before someone figured out that a larger lenslight could be used to start fires from a distance, to kill men.
He went to Professor Achari first. The old man invited him into his study, sat him down across that desk weighed down by trinkets and let him speak. Whatever property there might be, Izel told him, was unstable. Too volatile to be considered for use. The entire affair was a dead end and best forgotten.
“I apologize for wasting your time,” Izel made himself say.
Professor Achari peered at him from across the desk, then sighed. The old man opened a drawer, fishing out a crystal bottle filled with an amber liquid and two small matching cups. He poured for them both, pushing the liquor in front of Izel
“Drink,” the professor ordered.
Izel swallowed, not quite daring to refuse, then knocked it back in a single gulp. He immediately wished he hadn’t, because he almost choked on the strength of the drink. It kicked like a mule, though after the strength of the drink faded he could feel a strong taste of coconut and... woodsmoke, maybe? Something woody anyway.
“That was forty-year-old Mahabharan brandy you just downed, boy,” Professor Achari amusedly said. “Perhaps work it a bit, next time.”
Izel politely coughed into his hand as the old man took a small sip of his own cup.
“It’s uh, strong,” he said.
“I keep it on hand to take the edge off unpleasant conversations,” the old man said, then sighed. “I won’t force your hand, Izel but what you’re trying to do won’t work.”
He thought about denying it, for a moment, but what was the point? He’d been seen through so easily it would be childish to keep pretending it, toddler dragging a blanket out of bed.
“Caer Wylwr won’t steal the experiment you wrote about,” Izel said. “It is against Umuthi convention.”
While half the reason the Wednesday Council existed was the money – getting it and distributing it – the other half was arguably preventing tinkers from stealing each other’s work. There were strict rules in place protecting the work of Umuthi, and should someone try to steal his lenslight all Izel would have to do was prove it was his original design to see the thief harshly punished.
“It’s yours for five years, then anyone can have a crack at it,” Professor Achari corrected. “If you’d made a deal with the Watch to manufacture a device by then it would be one thing, but if you bury your lenslight you’ll have no further rights on it when times runs out.”
He’d known all this, as the professor must suspect. But he had to take the chance anyway.
“Five years is a long time, sir,” Izel quietly said. “It will be one paper in a large pile by then.”
Or so he hoped. He would have to bet on the natural Umuthi tendency to prioritize one’s own designs over those of strangers, a tendency often enforced by the simple law of limited funds. He figured his chances were good: Caer Wylwr was considered a backwater, so it would have a matching budget.
“Might be,” Professor Achari said, stroking his beard. “Or maybe some apprentice will remember and get curious. Or maybe in three months someone in Tianxia that’s got nothing to do with the Watch will find the same phenomenon and start experimenting.”
“Those are maybes,” Izel replied. “I like them not, but they are still better than certainty I have made the world worse.”
“Weapons don’t make the world worse,” Professor Achari said. “Men do.”
“And they find it easier work with better weapons in their hands,” Izel flatly replied.
Maybe it was true that the box of horrors could not be kept closed forever, that he’d come across the contents by chance and they weren’t really his. But he could try, at least. He had to. What else was there?
“It’s your choice to make,” the old professor acknowledged.
Izel’s head bobbed.
“Thank you for not fighting me on it,” he quietly said.
“I don’t approve of your choice, to be clear,” Professor Achari replied quite bluntly. “But I cannot call it unprincipled. You are throwing away the wealth of an in-demand patent and a seat in the frontierworks for your beliefs, and that is a rare thing.”
The old man ushered him out of his office, after that, and promised the paperwork would be handled on his end. Izel wasted no time doing the rest of the rounds, approaching everyone else who had helped with the lenslight tests to silence the last possible avenues for leaks. Jingyi was easiest to find, buried in a library nook as he often was. When told the experiment was a dead end, his friend shrugged.
“It happens,” Jingyi said, voice low in deference to the same quiet that’d drawn him to the room. “Don’t take it too much to heart, Izel. As my father always says, success can only be built on the foundation of failure.”
And that made one. He caught Mei Qiao on her way out of Ossuary after an afternoon class, as always surrounded by a flock of other Tianxi students speaking in quick-flowing Cathayan. The batch of second-years from the Sanxing republics, all drawn from families and workshops that knew each other, tended to stay together in an informal clique. Mei smiled when she saw him waving, taking her leave from the others and joining away from the crowd as his invitation.
“Izel,” she smiled. “God to see you.”
“And you,” he nodded, meaning it.
He’d seen little of the Qiao siblings this year, given the ever-mounting pile of duties the Unluckies were wrestling with.
“Did your experiment go well?” she asked, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“The opposite,” Izel told her. “It appears to be something of a dead end, but I wanted to thank you for your help in designing the tests.”
“It was my pleasure,” Mei told him. “It was an interesting exercise, and the company was pleasant.”
She snuck a luck at him through her lashes that had him thinking of the lovebite he’d yet to learn the author of. Hopefully it wasn’t her brother. Hong Qiao was almost painfully uptight most of the time, but get a few drinks in him and he was the kind to dance on tables.
“You really should come to the Ossuary more often, you know. You’ve been a rare sight at the parties this year.”
“I’ve had work,” he grimaced. “Though after the hunt and delve are finished, it should have a looser grip on my hours.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Mei said, gently touching his arm. “Take care of yourself, Izel.”
And with that, two down. Helena needed no finding, as they’d made plans for the evening. They met on Templewards rather early, idling past the bookshop and ending up nibbling on brioches at the pastry shop. He might as well spring it early on her, Izel figured, so he could then forget about it and enjoy the evening out.
“In ah, other news,” he said. “The lenslight won’t be working out. I’ll be pivoting to another project. I’ve been tinkering with an aether spike for the hunt, to-”
“What do you mean it won’t be working out?” Helena asked, frowning. “You had results, I saw them myself. Something was happening.”
“Not reliably,” Izel lied. “It might be worth pursuing in a few years, but not right now.”
“You’ve been tinkering with that thing since last year,” Helena flatly said. “If you don’t want to tell me why you’ve stopped it’s fine, but don’t pretend it’s nothing.”
He grimaced. That was fair.
“It could be used for dangerous things,” he finally told her. “I talked with Professor Achari and he’s agreed to let it die.”
Helena’s brow rose.
“He’s not my head instructor, but that doesn’t sound like what I’ve heard of the man.”
“He thinks I’m being a fool,” Izel tiredly agreed. “But I think my being willing to throw away a patent and a frontierworks assignment impressed him enough he’ll let it go.”
She choked on her brioche.
“You’re throwing away what?”
“Nothing was set in stone,” he hedged. “He only mentioned it as a possibility.”
“Izel, when a man with those kinds of connections mentions a possibility it’s not idle talk,” Helena hissed. “He’s got friends on the Wednesday Council, it’s not empty words. And you think it was patent material too?”
“Maybe several,” he admitted. “Different sizes and all.”
“He’s right, you are being a fool,” Helana bluntly said. “It’s a lot of coin, a posting in the finest research workshop of the Watch and getting your name on all the right lips. You should run back to Achari right now and tell him you’ve changed your mind.”
“I will not,” Izel evenly said.
She looked at him, then, like he was a stranger she’d just seen for the first time.
“You’re serious,” Helena slowly said. “All this because you’re afraid what you built could be dangerous?”
“I know it would be,” he sharply said. “And I think we’ve talked about my work enough.”
He cleared his throat.
“Did you hear about that foldable bridge by Awonke Bokang?” he forcefully asked. “I got a close look at the original, it’s a cut above all those imitations we’re getting orders for.”
Helena stared at him for a moment longer before shaking her head. They spoke for a while, finishing their pastry, but then she remembered a chore she’d put off and had to leave. Izel recognized a brush-off when he got one, watching her retreating back as his stomach clenched. That look on her face, he knew it: someone losing respect for him. His eyes dipped to the last of her brioche, a reddish Orrery light above dancing across the crumbs and for a moment lending them the look of trails of blood.
An omen. Blood belonged to many, but he suspected he had the measure of whose touch this would be. Was the Headless Traitor chiding him for betraying the Umuthi through his fear, or his arrogance in thinking he could lie in Helena’s face and get away with it?
Either way, Izel suspected there would be no third outing.
Comments
Gwennafran
Rereading the chapter, i think it's interesting to point out, that the weapon Izel always planned to make to used against the dantesvara is the aether spike he talks about to Helena. Not the lenslight. Izel have no issues with making the aether spike specifically, as it's intended use as a weapon is highly specialized and restricted. He seems to even argue to himself it hardly counts as a weapon. The real interesting question is if he'll start to throw in little extra bits with the new knowledge he now has.
Gwennafran
Dumisai also is a regular name from the cultures Malan is built on.
MonkeyontheMoon
The guard who stays with Song is a reference to Akua’s father Dumisai of Aksum iirc
Sheyaan Bhesania
Alright, so Tristan has to return back into Scholomance, possibly alone or with Maryam or some other navigator. Considering the last time Scholomance and Tristan went head-to-head, this may be interesting. Tristan doesn't even have Fortuna to use whatever god powers she did last time to tell Scholomance to go fuck itself. De Tovar seems like it will be kind of settled after forcing Tristan through some embarrassment. I still hate her for that, dude was the first one at her side after she rescued him, and this is not the first time her judgment has been less than reasonable. The hippogriff situation from before had already unendeared me to how she viewed situations. And gonna be honest, if you can't handle a skiritai dying in a fight without losing all sense of logic, don't get a skiritai into your cabal. You guys signed onto a fight, and she died saving someone, and you seem keen on blaming him entirely and not the woman wanting to cut his fingers off, and even helped that same woman fuck with them further, the same woman who started the entire drama you're angry about. Good shit, Tovar, hope you lose a limb this book. I want to see more Tupoc. I've been waiting to see more Tupoc since he dangled working with them many chapters ago.
