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Chapter 18
🕑 Added 2025-07-18 16:00:20 +0000 UTCThe Colored Arches was the most expensive tavern in Port Allazei, but it didn’t look like much from the outside.
It was just a long, sloping building with a dark green façade and a sign displaying a rainbow. The inside, though, Maryam found to be fittingly luxurious. The antechamber was all smooth, polished wooden panels and elegant pillars of cloth in a shade of green that matched the paint outside – as did the livery of the dark-skinned servants welcoming the students, wiping their boots and skillfully divesting them of their cloaks.
Maryam idly flicked out her nav to follow where it was being taken away, Hook returning a few heartbeats later to tell her there was a cloakroom to the side and that their cloaks had both been placed under a slate displaying the number 13 even though the servant had never asked their brigade number. She told Song as much, leaning in to whisper as they were led deeper inside.
“Considering the rates I am told this all fetches, learning the brigades was the least they could do,” Song whispered back.
Colonel Cao must have coin to blow, then, because this certainly wasn’t coming out of the garrison coffers. Word was she’d rented the whole place out instead of just a part like the Malani lordlings did. The servant paused by the entrance of a drawing room, gently bringing to their attention a basin of perfumed water by which another woman in livery stood with a soft cloth. The pair of them duly washed and wiped their hands before entering the drawing room, which Maryam immediately saw was too small to be where the meet would take place.
Though a few comfortable chairs had been laid out, the drawing room seemed to serve as a foyer of sorts – some students stood there chatting with drinks in hand, but all with an eye on the door. Waiting for missing cabalists, Maryam guessed. By the door to the hall ahead a beautiful slate in yellow stone marked the names of those in attendance, divided by brigade, and the servant besides it courteously asked for their name so they might be added to the display.
The whole thing left Maryam with an odd taste in the mouth, which she only put a name to when they were ushered into the banquet hall.
“Trouble?” Song quietly asked.
She shook her head.
“I have never had Malani treat me like this before,” Maryam murmured back. “It feels… peculiar.”
Islanders were not usually rude to her outright and Maryam was not unfamiliar with courtesy from Malani. But never before had so many acted… fawningly, like they had to please her instead of the other way around. She had never seen them act this way towards any Izvoric at all.
“If it makes you feel any better,” Song said, “I would wager the lordlings get their boots even more thoroughly licked whenever they have their little parties.”
Maryam hummed. Strangely enough, that did make her feel better. She rolled her shoulder.
“Let us proceed, Captain Ren,” she solemnly said. “Into the breach! I think I just saw a plate of cakes going around.”
The banquet hall matched the room Angharad had once described to her, all polish and warm lights, and stood about half-full. Students milled around, offered morsels and refreshments by greenclad and smiling servants. Song took a cup of wine when offered, Maryam knowing from experience she would then proceed to sip at it for the rest of the night while never imbibing more than a third. She herself took a cup of chicha when offered, as she was fond of the Izcalli maize beer – it was sweeter than most beers, and went down easy.
There was a second adjoining banquet room, they soon discovered, connected by several sliding door panels that had been removed for the occasion. It was only slightly fuller than the last. The two of them strolled through the crowd with their drinks in hand, trading smiles and greetings – well, Song did anyhow – until they settled in a corner near a small table meant to hold drinks. Maryam twice ambushed servants going around with plates of those little sweet rice cakes, inhaling the first and nibbling away at the second more sedately. Song sighed but said nothing, wise woman that she was.
“Mowre hwere people than I’d fwought,” Maryam said through a mouthful of rice cake.
“Swallow,” Song ordered.
Maryam swallowed the small possible piece she could, then offered Song a rice-filled grin.
“Ovwer a hundred, that’s morwe than the hunt ghot,” she continued.
Only when her captain physically cringed did she finally deign to swallow the rest. Her toll had been exacted.
“It is a greater number of students than the hunt,” Song agreed. “But much of the difference comes from underclassmen.”
A lot of the faces in the first hall had been unfamiliar to Maryam, but she’d assumed they were simply brigades she had never paid attention to. Song would know best, though, and it made sense since the first years didn’t know what they were dealing with quite yet. They hadn’t seen the worst of what Scholomance had to offer, so they likely thought the exploration the lesser of the dangers. Maryam rather believed it the other way around. You could run from the dantesvara, but once you were inside Scholomance you only went where it let you.
“My concern,” Song murmured, “is that.”
She gestured discreetly and Maryam glanced at what she was indicating. Or rather, who. Captain Vivek Lahiri was standing in the center of the room chatting away with Captain Philani, which Maryam thought little about until she recalled their respective Stripe rankings. Vivek’s First Brigade had come in first according to Colonel Cao, while Philani’s Thirty-Eighth had come in fifth place.
Despite personal skepticism as to how accurate Cao’s esteem was to their actual worth as brigades, Maryam had to concede that the rankings were good at weeding out the second stringers. You didn’t enter the top ten without having strong teeth, much less the top five. Which meant that if the First and the Thirty-Eight joined hands, they’d have a spread of competence that would be very difficult for anyone else to match.
“Philani’s like us, right?” she asked.
“He got into Scholomance through a trial,” Song agreed. “His brigade is mostly assembled from those without a strong background.”
Which showed, Maryam thought, since no Akelarre had judged him fit joining up with. That would likely change if Philani looked to be holding up this year, though. What a Navigator wanted of a brigade varied as much as any with other covenant, but there was a price of entrance to even be considered: would they be able to cover you while you traced in a fight, would they be able to help you through mania and assurances they wouldn’t need coin badly enough to ask foolish things of you.
The Thirty-Eighth fit all these and looked like a rising brigade besides. Some Navigator would want to trade their losing horse for this one, it was just a matter of time.
“We’re not going to outbid Vivek Lahiri,” Maryam bluntly told her captain.
The First Brigade was even richer than the Garrison princelings, going by rumor. The one thing the Thirteenth had once had over them was reputation, but that coin was somewhat devalued of late.
“And I’d rather not scrap with the First,” she continued, “because Wayar is a walking mindfuck and a half.”
Amaru Wayar was a perky, chatty, delicately pretty Aztlan girl. Maryam hadn’t thought much of her until the bitchier of the Emain twins condescended to her last year, Wayar then promptly signifying said twin into thinking she was walking up stairs until she had one foot past the edge of the Abbey pit. Maryam had never seen anyone that good at slipping in Acumenals without the target noticing, it was terrifying. Even worse, near-murder was apparently the way to get on the good side of the Emains so now three of the most dangerous assholes in their year were as sworn sisters.
“We are short on choices, for allies. The only other brigade in the top ten here is the Eighth,” Song murmured. “I am not comfortable with such an alliance, considering that their signifier is close to Musa Shange.”
Maryam’s teeth clenched at the thought of the man in question, Zama Luvuno. They’d crossed paths before. The mute had helped Angharad and Tristan when they were in trouble, but it did not make up for his casual contempt for her existence.
“Their Akelarre is not someone I can work with,” she curtly said.
Song eyed her, then slowly nodded.
“Understood.”
And the way she said it, it felt like a door closed and locked. Gods, but there was a reason that Maryam had stuck with Song even after their first arguments. How refreshing it still was, to be able to tell someone of a line in the sand and see it drawn for them as well. Hooks hesitated, tracing a thought against the veil. Ah, good point. Maryam coughed into her hand.
“Besides, you’re incorrect,” she relayed. “There’s another-”
“They do not count,” Song hissed. “The Fourth-”
“Oh my, my ears are aflame.”
Tupoc Xical, much like other evil eyes drawn by mere mention of himself, slid up to them with dancer’s grace. Like the pair of them he was in his formal uniform, though he’d left his partly unbuttoned to show a stretch of flawless skin. The rest of his brigade followed behind. Alejandra Torrero, who Maryam traded a polite nod with, then the ever-nervous Bait and the inexplicably-still-breathing Cressida Barboza smirking like she knew something they didn’t. That’d be the day.
Maryam blinked at the sight of a fifth member, though, since that was very much new.
“What sweet whispers await me, Song?” Tupoc asked, batting his eyes.
“You will die alone,” Song replied without missing a beat.
“Don’t we all?” the Izcalli mused. “But your amiable banter distracts me, friend. I came to introduce you to my newest cabalist.”
Said cabalist stepped forward and Maryam raised an eyebrow brow. He was Tianxi, short and stocky. Built like a red-cheeked barrel with a messy topknot. With those strong arms and a rough beard sprouting from a leathery face, he looked like every mountain bandit Maryam had ever seen depicted on a Tianxi painting scroll. A Skiritai? The Fourth could use the muscle.
“Emergency Rations,” the man introduced himself, Antigua accentless. “Of the Umuthi Society, Deuteronomicon track.”
Maryam paused, reconsidering. The mountain bandit was a tinker. And his track might explain why the Fourth had gone for Scholomance instead of the Lord of Teeth, too. Besides Tupoc there weren’t a lot of frontline fighters left in the Fourth.
“Also,” Emergency Rations cheerfully added after a beat, “you are both worthless idiots.”
Maryam blinked, so genuinely surprised that she spent a moment wondering if she had somehow misheard. A tracing on the veil had Hooks assuring her she had not. Song laid a restraining hand on her arm, but she was honestly too astonished to be angry.
“Two for the Ren,” Rations told Tupoc, “and one for the hollow.”
Her jaw clenched. In her shadow, Hooks roiled angrily.
“Oooh,” Emergency Rations said, eyes widening as he stared at her. “Hollow was a six, though.”
Was he measuring her reaction?
“If you use your contract on us again,” Song conversationally said, “I will cut out your eyes.”
Rations stepped back, hands raised defensively.
“No need to get all defensive on me, girl,” he said. “I was just joking aro-”
He did not finish, because Alejandra Torrero socked him in the stomach with her prosthetic. Rations doubled over, wheezing, and with her flesh hand the other signifier caught him by the scruff of the neck to make him bow low.
“Rations here meant to apologize for his rudeness, Captain Ren,” Alejandra said. “The words must have got mixed up in his fool mouth.”
“Yes,” Rations groaned out. “Very sorry. Words confusing.”
Tupoc clapped, beaming at them.
“Nothing like a round of introductions to set the mood,” he said. “Alas, Tristan’s still under arrest so none of us will get shot in the back as we leave.”
He wiggled his eyebrows.
“Unless one of you ladies is game?”
Maryam hid her smile. Tupoc was often genuinely amusing, but then his type often was. She’d known many men like him: captains of raiding bands who kept their warriors loyal by a mixture of charm, fear and prowess at arms. Most of them eventually got knifed by one of their men. The clever ones, though found a king to serve as Tupoc Xical had done with the Watch. Father had thought little of such men, but they had flocked to Mother like crows to a carcass and served loyally.
Until it looked like she was going to lose, anyway.
“I’m sure that should we go looking we can find someone to shoot you in the back, Tupoc,” Song politely replied. “You make a new volunteer every day.”
Serving as a proper minion, Maryam mimed shooting the Izcalli with her fingers. He winked at her in return.
“I can’t help it that I’m a friendly man at heart, Song,” Tupoc said. “Which is why I’m here, instead of out there gossiping with all our fellows about how it’s such a shame about the Thirteenth – so skilled, so brave, but then they’re a little unstable aren’t they?”
He leaned in.
“Best be careful around the Unluckies, you never know what will make one of them snap,” he whispered.
“Not you, despite the effort,” Maryam said.
He laughed.
“Of course not, Khaimov,” he said. “We both know you can’t draw on me after Abrascal had a little episode, no matter what I say. It’d sink you all the way to the bottom of the barrel.”
He was right, of course. Tupoc tended to be when whenever what he spoke about was deeply unpleasant. If Song and Maryam got into a loud altercation tonight, the Thirteenth’s reputation would plummet right into the gutter instead of merely sit on its edge, dipping in a toe. But there were other ways to deal with provocation than a screaming match or pulling a trigger.
“I don’t need to draw to curse you,” Maryam conversationally said. “How good is your contract a purging Gloam, Tupoc?”
Pale eyes met hers and he smirked.
“Ah, the lesser Khaimov steps in,” he said. “Bring out your sister, would you Maryam? She’s the fun one.”
Hooks traced against the veil, sending a wave of support, but beneath the current Maryam could feel she was ever so slightly flattered.
“Do you think it’ll be trickier to look like a hard man, if I make you shit your pants in public?” she calmly asked.
Seemingly amused, Tupoc flicked a glance at his second.
“Sure,” Alejandra said. “Most of us can do it. It’s relatively easy on an unmoving target, the Sign’s one of those rare Ancipital curses.”
The Sign’s actual name was the Lingshu Needle and it had some medial uses, but everyone called it the Crapper because that was what signifiers actually used it for.
“And you would not protect my honor from Khaimov’s northern witcheries?” Tupoc said, hand over heart.
“Eh,” Alejandra shrugged.
“So much for brigade loyalty,” Cressida Barboza slipped in with a smile.
“Rich, coming from you,” Bait muttered.
The Mask turned a hard look on him and he twitched away in fear, but then he visibly forced himself to turn back and glare. Good on you, Bait, Maryam thought.
“You are a faithless traitor,” Rations stage-whispered to Cressida.
She cocked an eyebrow at him and a moment passed.
“Really?” Rations said, blinking. “Not even a one?”
“There is dissension in the ranks,” Tupoc mused. “I will beat a retreat for now, Thirteenth, but I’ll be back!”
He wagged his finger at them, like the villain in some Ramayan serial, then smiled at Song and the playfulness thinned until Maryam could glimpse the leopard’s eyes watching them through the cracks.
“I would offer you terms now, but there’s no point,” Tupoc Xical said. “See you after you’ve knocked at every other door, Song.”
“One day Alejandra will finally kill you,” Song told him, “and I will help her get away with it.”
“If she needs the help, I will be very disappointed,” Tupoc replied, seeming entirely honest.
He waved them goodbye and strolled off, whistling. The others followed: Alejandra waved, Bait nodded, Rations called them manly flatfoots and Cressida spared them a sneer. A beat passed.
“Is it wrong,” Maryam finally said, “that every time we run into them I feel better about the Thirteenth afterwards?”
“I hope not,” Song muttered, “because I do as well.”
Neither of them quite needed to turn to see the quirk of the other’s lips. Maryam let herself savor the complicity, just a moment, then let duty drag her forward.
“Rations’ contract,” she said. “Is it what I think it is?”
“He sees how insulted we are by any insult he speaks while calling on his contract,” Song agreed in a murmur. “The prick is contracted to the Tail-Puller, of all things. In most parts of Tianxia that thing’s not even considered a god, just the idiot in a story who thought that pulling a fox god’s tails would make him immortal.”
Unless Maryam had misheard, that was tails plural. As in more than one. She coughed into her fist.
“Well,” Maryam finally said. “I have some guesses as to how he ended up in the Fourth, at least.”
“Do you?” Song drily replied. “Mostly I am surprised Izel never mentioned him. There are fewer Deuteronomicon tinkers than Cathedral track and I cannot possibly see those two getting along.”
Considering Rations seemed almost compelled to insult everyone he met and Izel had once apologized to Maryam when she spilled tea on an essay he’d been working on for two days, the signifier was inclined to agree.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if ending on the wrong side of a pricklier Malani is how that one landed among Tupoc’s lot,” Maryam mused.
Song grunted in what sounded like agreement but her attention was clearly elsewhere. Maryam followed her gaze, finding it wandering around the banquet hall. Picking out those who had been discreetly eyeing the two brigades while they talked and were now pretending to have been doing anything else.
“We didn’t make a scene,” Maryam quietly said. “That has to be a mark in our favor.”
“Yes,” Song said, then her lips thinned. “Yet it occurs to me now that Tupoc did not exactly rush to meet with us.”
Maryam grimaced at the implication there: that no other brigade had seen it fit to approach them first. Maybe that would change now that Tupoc had tested the waters, the Izcalli’s unpleasant temperament ironically proving the Thirteenth to be capable of conversation without drawing a knife. But as Maryam drained the last of her chicha she found that no one else was stepping forward. Considering how before the mess at the Old Playhouse seemingly everyone had wanted a piece of the Thirteenth, the absence was felt all the more starkly.
“Fuck,” she muttered. “All right, so we’re in worse position than expected.”
And the two of them had come in tonight with the intention of making at least a few allies. Exploring the depths of Scholomance as a pair with no one to watch their back was a recipe for getting themselves killed.
“My contract is not known,” Song said. “And while your work at Misery Square was impressive, the exploration is not likely to be a heavy combat assignment.”
Meaning that, from the perspective of those looking at them, the two members of the Thirteenth present weren’t bringing much to the table and their brigade’s reputation was freshly stained. If the five of them had been here, Maryam thought, the balance might have been different.
“Tell me our only choice isn’t the Fourth,” Maryam pleaded.
“No,” Song replied, to her relief. “Is saw Captain Emeni Maziya in the other halls. Tristan tells me their Mask is something of a tinker and they lack a signifier. They are by no means a leading cabal, but they have bite and a need for what you can offer.”
And they were not so famous or in demand that Song was likely to get the grass cut under her foot when feeling them out for an alliance. Maryam slowly nodded.
“I can-”
She cut off, cocking her head to the side as Hooks slipped into her body fully and her eye saw into focus. Gloam, a great deal of it, was being gathered in the other room. Yet there was no reaction to a Sign being traced, shouts or gasps or – ah. Someone was calling a conclave.
“You will have to go without me,” she said instead. “My guild is gathering for a talk.”
Song’s silver eyes swept the room.
“I see no Sign,” she murmured.
“You wouldn’t,” Maryam said, clapping her shoulder.
They were fine eyes, Song’s, but they could not see through walls.
“Good luck with Maziya. I’ll find you when we’re finished, or when Cao arrives.”
“And you,” Song stiffly nodded back.
Maryam lengthened her stride heading to the other banquet hall, already wondering who it was that was putting out the call. Her expectation it would be Amaru Wayar turned out incorrect: in the back corner Zama Luvuno stood with one hand behind his back, slowly layering more and more Gloam into a sphere out of sight.
It was a Command exercise, one of those elementary tricks you learned starting out, but when done by someone who’d pursued their mastery there was enough Gloam being gathered it felt like someone stacking a large tower of wooden blocks just beyond the corner of your eye to every Navigator nearby. Someone brushed against Maryam’s arm and she stiffened, but she turned to the sight of a beaming smile.
“Maryam!” Amaru Wayar happily said. “There you are, I was thinking you’d disappeared.”
Wayar had a round face, with bow-shaped lips and rich brown hair that somehow made every hat she wore look like it’d been designed just for her. Between that, the warm brown eyes and the slender figure she was a sight, though more pretty than beautiful – which worked well for her, given her usual cheer. If the world were a fairer place Amaru Wayar’s frightening skill at Signs, good looks and personal charm would have been balanced out by some sort of grave defect.
As far as Maryam could tell, there wasn’t. Wayar just genuinely enjoyed being nice to people, which sounded like some sort of disease but which Maryam supposed could happen naturally in people.
“Wayar,” she replied, inclining her head. “Any idea what Luvuno’s calling us for?
“Oh, I expect just to establish rules of engagement,” Wayar said. “The Stripes can have their games, but there’s no need for us to squabble too much over it.”
A pause.
“And I told you to call me Amaru,” she reproached.
Maryam ignored that, as she had every time before and would every time yet to come.
“Imagine what the Watch would be, without Academy pissing matches,” Maryam mused instead.
The other signifier laughed as they crossed the last of the hall towards Luvuno.
“Oh, we must let them have those,” Wayar said. “Otherwise they might actually try to run the order, and that just wouldn’t do.”
The mute Malani the corner raised an eyebrow, making a few quick signs with his hand.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say we are slagging the Stripes,” Wayar demurred.
“We were slagging the Stripes,” Maryam confirmed.
The Malani snorted. He had not, she noted, looked directly at her yet. In her experience, he would not until conversation forced him outright.
“What’s this about slags?”
Alejandra Torrero swaggered in, eyebrow raised. Maryam had always admired how she managed that, considering she was one of the shortest in their year – and if all the scowling and hard talk were in part to ward off any other opinion at the pass. Amaru Wayar giggled, Luvuno rolled his eyes and Maryam scoffed.
“We were discussing how Tupoc is such one he counts as plural,” replied.
“Can’t argue with that,” Alejandra agreed without a beat of hesitation.
Maryam choked. Luvuno signed again, Wayar letting out a scandalized gasp.
“He’s not a dish, Zama, he’s former Leopard Society,” she said.
Her tone was almost chiding, and she spoke the latter half of the sentence the same way someone else might have said he has syphilis. Their circle spread to accommodate two more in quick succession. First came Diego Calante from the Twenty-Third – with the death of his brigade’s captain at Misery Square, it was a surprise to her he’d show up – then Shumise from the Seventy-Ninth. The latter’s brigade was nowhere in sight, which Maryam found odd, but she soon learned there was a reason for that.
“I transferred to the Eleventh,” Shumise told them. “Solid crew and well suited to delving Scholomance.”
That the dark-skinned signifier had no intention of going anywhere near the dantesvara if she could help it went unsaid. So Imani Langa had replaced Qianfan already. Quick on the trigger, that one. Normally getting an Akelarre in your brigade killed would see you informally blacklisted, but Misery Square deaths had largely been given a pass.
They waited a minute longer quietly chatting about the new Sign benchmarks assigned for the year’s final exam – the only one pleased about the two required tracking Signs was Calante, who for some twisted reason actually enjoyed them – and waiting for anyone else who would have felt the layering of Gloam. The invitation had also been a test, in the end: any signifier not capable of picking up on it was implicitly uninvited.
There was a slight tinge of unfairness to that though, Maryam thought. No doubt several of the Akelarre first years she’d seen earlier had noticed but not yet been taught what it meant. Still, no point in wasting time.
“That’ll be all, I think,” she said.
“I’ll put up a curtain,” Wayar volunteered, raising a hand but then pausing.
One last arrival squeezed in at the last moment, a short Tianxi with uncharacteristically loose hair and what Maryam thought she had once heard Song call ‘fox eyes’ - sharply angled eyebrows and eyes. Maryam glanced at Alejandra with a raised eyebrow and the other woman shook her head. A first year, then.
“Apologies, I had to extract myself from conversation,” the young man said.
“No trouble at all,” Wayar smiled at him, fingers dancing across the air even as she did.
The trails of Gloam were so thin that Maryam could barely see them. Amaru Wayar had greater Command than Grasp so precision work came easier to her, but her sheer skill was always a pleasure to the eye. And she had delved deep into Acumenals, Maryam recognized maybe two of the symbols making up that Sign and no more. Some kind of perception filter, she thought. A lot fancier than the usual curtain put up over Akelarre guildtalk, which was just a buzzing noise with a small visual distortion to make it hard to lipread.
“I must confess I do not know you,” Shumise told the last arrival.
“I am an underclassman, ma’am,” the young man politely replied. “My name is Bingwen, from the Forty-Ninth Brigade.”
He turned those fox eyes on her as he spoke the number, smiling pleasantly. Looks were traded, but Maryam simply cocked an eyebrow and said nothing. Interesting, that the slaver’s crew would go for the exploration. Then again the choice might not be about the work itself – Nathi Morcant might be more interested in the favors he could collect by playing field healer inside Scholomance. It was, she conceded with distaste, actually a rather good plan.
She’d asked around, and though few second years had taken a bite Morcant had made quite a few friends among the underclassmen by sparing them a deal with Lady Knit. Normally she would have asked Tristan to look into how he’d gathered the juice to do it, but at the moment she did not quite dare.
Zama Luvuno cleared his throat and signed something longer than usual, the two among them who understood Izcalli finger-talk – Wayar and Diego Calante – following his fingers as he did. Then the pair eyed each other, Diego inclining his head in an unspoken go-ahead that Wayar beamed back at.
“As Zama was saying,” Wayar said, “we should agree on field etiquette before we set out into Scholomance. Our captains will make demands when we are out in the field, so it is best to make our agreements beforehand.”
Standard practice as they were taught. Always strike a deal with your fellows, Captain Yue had once told her, so a captain trying to order otherwise isn’t fighting you but the Guild itself. Luvuno nodded decisively, as if confirming her words.
“I think we can all agree on forbidding Thalassics and Ancipitals aimed at each other,” Maryam opened, reaching for the low-hanging fruit.
The shallower Ancipitals weren’t likely to be lethal, but there were none who were harmless. For a member of the Akelarre to use a Sign from the two branches that shaped raw Gloam on a guildmate was not exactly taboo, but it was frowned upon.
"Agreed,” Shumise immediately said. “Anything less would be unconscionable.”
There was no appetite for disagreement. The Autarchics needed no quibbling over, being entirely self-contained to the signifier using them, so meat of the debate was over the two branches of the Art that could be used on each other without real harm: Acumenals and Didactics. The veils and the abstract.
“Look, we’re going to be asked to sabotage each other,” Alejandra flatly said. “And I know Acumenals are considered gentler than Didactics out here, but inside Scholomance? A Runaround’s a lot more likely to get one of us killed than a Kneelock.”
“Depends on when you slap on the Kneelock,” Diego Calante objected. “The old bitch in the walls isn’t running out of love for pendulum traps anytime soon.”
Neither of them was wrong, really. The Runaround was an advanced Acumenal Sign that tricked the mind into going around in circles while thinking it was going straight, which in Scholomance might deliver you right into one of its traps. The Kneelock, on the other hand, was a Didactic curse that restricted the range of motion of someone’s knees – it was scalable, going from preventing people from taking strides too long to locking a knee down entirely. Being unable to run inside Scholomance would be no pleasure either.
To Maryam’s eye, though, no one was really arguing to ban the most dangerous of the branches – they were trying to shut down the one they were worst at. Which was why Amaru Wayar and Diego Calante wanted to shut down Didactics, while Alejandra Torrero and Shumise wanted to ban Acumenals. Zama was presiding and the first year’s word did not currently count for much, so that left Maryam as a tiebreaker. She was flatly better at Didactics, and Hooks had twice traced on the veil to say that was the side they should fall on.
But, to be honest, she didn’t think that banning either branch was the right call.
“This agreement’s worthless if we don’t follow it,” Maryam said. “Which we won’t, if it disadvantages us too much.”
Zama Luvuno hesitated, then pointedly looked at her and nodded in agreement. He gestured in her direction, an unspoken invitation to elaborate. Funny, how she’d been invisible until she looked like the best chance at breaking a deadlock that would reflect badly on the Navigator presiding.
“We allow both,” she suggested, “but ban use of all heavy Signs. Nobody’s going to die from a Blindfold or a Sap unless they’re being an idiot, but they’re still very much hindrances.”
“And if we are pressed for something that will slow another brigade for more than moments?” Amaru Wayar asked.
Wayar was losing the most from that restriction, they all knew it. The more advanced Acumenal Signs could easily affect an entire brigade, while Didactics that could do the same were rare and difficult. There, though, Maryam stacked the deck ever so slightly her own way.
“We do logos fencing,” Maryam said. “Our brigades will be relying on us to lock down the paths ahead, which we can’t with our logos confined.”
The end of such fencing bouts tended to be the loser’s logos being run out of the aether and forced back into their body, after which it was trivial to slap a weak seal over their soul to keep it inside. Nothing that would last, but enough that it would take genuine effort to cut it off from inside your own soul.
“Fencing can go wrong,” Diego pointed out. “We can damage the logos if we don’t hold back.”
“So we hold back,” Maryam shrugged. “The same’s true of Signs, Calante – none of this means anything if we don’t trust each other to act with restraint.”
“And why should anyone assume restraint,” Bingwen smiled, “of the Friendly Fire Brigade itself?”
When the words sunk in Maryam looked not at him but at the others – at those silent, expectant faces. Wayar had winced and Alejandra was amused, but the others were only watching. No one would chide Bingwen for what he had said, because for all that seniority mattered among the Akelarre mastery mattered even more. There was a reason that Captain Yue was the senior on the island even though there were several older Navigators on the island and a few who had served longer.
Because she had faced and crushed challenges just like the one Maryam must now meet.
Strings, she decided. Enough to force his mouth shut, and strong enough that he wasn’t able to break through them without hurting himself. That would say everything that needed to be said and add a dash of humiliation to the plate. She drew on Gloam, hand steady, but immediately her Grasp slipped – she had meant to gather a goblet but she pulled out a cauldron, too much for anything but a Thalassic, and every last one of them stiffened at the sensation. Fuck, again?
Bingwen’s eyes widened in fear and he drew almost as deep to have the weight to ward her off. If she dismissed the Gloam now, Maryam knew she would look like a complete incompetent. Like she couldn’t signify properly. But plastering the man across the wall would be even worse. She could feel in his nav the tremble of fear at the thought of the wild Unluckies and – huh. Loose grip, he’d drawn too quickly and his hold on his tracing was weak.
So there was another way.
Maryam dispersed the Gloam she’d drawn as if she had meant to the whole time, letting it waft up like a puff of oily black smoke and her hand snapped forward through the cloud even as her nav moved in perfect alignment. In a heartbeat she felt the Gloam being formed into a Sign, and from the flow of the half-formed Sign she saw where Bingwen’s own nav must be. She struck, carving into the Gloam right behind where his nav was.
For half an instant their soul-effigies touched, like brushing fingers, before she pushed off his nav and finished carving through the Gloam – he was left holding but a thimble of what he’d drawn and she stole command of the rest from him. Her hand closed around the incomplete Sign, closing into a fist, and she smothered the Gloam an instant before her fingers would have touched it.
She opened her hand afterwards to show there was nothing left, the sight drawing a few sharp breaths. She looked at the pale-faced, sweating man.
“Your seniors are talking, Bingbong,” Maryam mildly said. “Be silent.”
A few snorts, though Wayar sent her a reproachful look.
“Ha,” Alejandra chortled with glee. “Bingbong. You’ve got too much of a mouth for your bite, Bingbong.”
The man’s jaw clenched.
“My name is-”
“I can agree to logos fencing,” Amaru Wayar said, cutting him off. “With the understanding that it is better to cease than to inflict damage.”
Bingwen turned a startled look on her, having perhaps assumed kindness would mean sympathy. But no one was going to side with him now: not only was he a junior disrespecting a senior, Maryam had just Sign-shattered him. To snatch someone’s Sign away as they were tracing it then kill the Gloam was a flat display of superior mastery, the Akelarre equivalent of stealing someone’s drawn sword from their hand and slapping them across the face with it.
“I can as well, and the restrictions on the advanced Signs,” Diego Calante said, “but with one additional agreement: none of this applies to brigades without one of us.”
“Or brigades allied to our own,” Shumise pressed. “Else some of us may be forced to go back on promises.”
“I’ll sign onto that,” Maryam immediately agreed.
Song was using her as a selling point for an alliance, which wouldn’t work if she could not ward their allies. She flicked a glance at Zama Luvuno, who was back to ignoring her but nodded agreement at Shumise. Alejandra and Wayar threw in their assent after, which settled the matter. No one looked at Bingwen even when he cleared his throat and agreed. Maryam had made him a ghost. The gathered Navigators did not shake hands, or swear solemn oaths. For Akelarre, your word to another of the Guild was enough.
Breaking it would make you the worst sort of pariah.
The sole ceremony was how they waited for Zama Luvuno to call the conclave to an end, as he had been the one to call for it, and after he did they dispersed. Wayar looked like she wanted a word but Maryam put her off with a shake of the head. Instead she stayed behind, staring down a blank-faced Bingwen. His eyes, though, said everything his face did not. They burned like coals.
“Is it now time to gloat, Khaimov?” he thinly smiled.
Maryam looked at him, then. The tenseness of his shoulders, the way he held himself like a fraying rope – just a tug away from snapping. It would be child’s play to get him to strike at her. And she could feel the lingering navs of some of the others, peeking at them, so if he drew on her they would all know. If she played it right, and she could see the right strings for it, then this would all blow up in the Forty-Ninth’s face. Clip their wings before they began making headway among the exploration crews. Hooks was roiling up her shadow in anticipation, almost licking her chops.
“Let me give you a piece of advice,” Maryam said.
“Oh?” Bingwen tightly smiled. “Am I to get one the famous speeches? Between the Ren and your Sacromontan, a high bar has been set.”
All it’d take was mocking him and he’s snap, she thought. And it would harm the Forty-Ninth, cut them deep. But Maryam had no fight with a number, or with the humiliated young man standing before her. Her fight was with Nkosinathi Morcant, with the man and the power that stood behind him. So instead she told him what she hoped some would have told her, if she stood there in his place.
“This isn’t about that,” Maryam quietly said. “Brigades are brigades. But no matter the number you slap onto your uniform, Bingwen, you will always be an Akelarre.”
She gestured at the departing others.
“If you get in over your head, it’s your Guild that backs you,” Maryam told him. “And whatever has been said today, has been done, do not ever doubt for a moment if you are in danger I will aid you – because that’s what it means, to be one of us. You get to be on that side of that chapterhouse walls no matter who comes knocking.”
She sighed.
“You’ll meet a dozen Morcants, over the span of your career,” she said. “They’ll come and go, but the Guild stays. So don’t torch your name in the eyes of your fellow Navigators for a Nathi Morcant, Bingwen. In twenty years he won’t know your name, but we’ll still be here.”
It was tempting to walk away after that, throw a stone in the pond and stalk away proudly, but this wasn’t Maryam slapping down an unruly junior. It couldn’t be, if she was to genuinely be heard. So instead she stayed and met his stare, calm. After a moment he stiffly nodded.
“Thank you for the advice,” Bingwen quietly said.
She inclined her head.
“See you around,” Maryam said.
--
She had expected to find Song with a captain when she returned, but instead found a rather different sight.
Ishanvi Kapadia, looking disheveled and absolutely exhausted despite a freshly pressed uniform, was standing with her captain instead. Maryam took only one look at the girl before stopping a servant and plucking out a small cup of millet wine. The strong kind, like they made in northern Tianxia. Though she took no pains whatsoever to keep quiet as she approached Ishanvi still almost jumped out of her skin when Maryam ‘appeared’ besides her.
“Good gods,” the Someshwari muttered. “Ah, pleasant evening Warrant Officer Khaimov.”
“Maryam will do,” she said, and pressed the cup into her hand.
Ishanvi blinked at her through her spectacles, looking down at the cup then back at her.
“Drink,” Maryam firmly said.
Ishanvi looked down at it again, hesitating, then drained half the liquor in a single gulp. She let out a coughing gasp afterwards, slightly choking.
“That is… strong,” she said, pushing up her spectacles.
“Not nearly enough for whatever you’ve been up to,” Maryam said.
Hers did not seem like purely physical exhaustion. A thought had Hooks feeling out Ishanvi’s presence in the aether, and though she didn’t seem to have been wounded parts of her were too… clean. Like flesh freshly rubbed with a pumice stone, all the dead skin sanded off. Something had fed off her, and not something small. Ishanvi drained the rest of the cup, set it down on the table and after she let out a long breath her stance firmed.
“As I was saying,” she said, “I apologize for not reaching out to you sooner, Captain Ren, but between Misery Square and this expedition I found myself short on opportunities.”
“That is no trouble,” Song said.
Maryam knew her well enough to be able to tell she was wary. She tended to be, when favors were about to be called in.
“But I am here now, so I would ask you to hear out my request,” Ishanvi said.
Song glanced her way and Maryam shrugged. What was there to lose by hearing her out? They were committed to nothing, and if the request was too much Maryam would simply step in and point out the favor had mostly been done to her so it was her role to repay it. Maybe she should anyway.
It was about time she picked up the bills of others instead of the other way around.
“Of course,” Song said.
“I would like to join the Thirteenth Brigade,” Ishanvi bluntly said. “I am currently a cabalist of the Two-Hundredth, but we are a holding brigade and there would be no issue transferring out.”
It hadn’t been fashionable in their year to have holding brigades – temporary brigades formed purely to meet Scholomance requirements so one could take longer to find long-term cabalists – but apparently it was all the rage with the first years. Last year, even if you had picked such a brigade on purpose you’d probably have been treated as if you were in one of the leftovers. Not that any of this mattered, given that the request was impossible for reasons unrelated to classes.
“You’re a first year,” Maryam said. “You do not know it yet, but there is a reason we must all spend five years at Scholomance.”
Ishanvi thinly smiled.
“You would be surprised what I know, Maryam,” she said. “And transfer a year upwards is allowed with the right permissions.”
“I looked up the rules,” Song said, to Maryam’s absolute lack of surprise. “There is no such permission.”
“You looked up the rules set down at reopening, I assume,” Ishanvi said. “I am using the old promotion track bylaw from Scholomance’s previous tenure, which was never revoked. I have had it confirmed the bylaw still applies.”
“The permission slip you needed Commander Salimata to sign,” Song slowly said. “That’s what it was for, isn’t it?”
Maryam frowned, tracing against the veil. Their nav slipped out, feeling out Ishanvi Kapadia’s presence in the aether again. They tasted the feel of her soul, ever so briefly – like a too-full book kept groaning shut by clasps – but then instead of the emanations they focused on the boundary itself. It was somewhat rude to do, peering so closely, but Hooks felt the girl out anyway and found that her soul’s form was unusually firm. And perhaps slightly thicker.
The difference was still subtle, but already it was closer to that of an upperclassman than a first year. Their nav withdrew. I know what you did, Ishanvi Kapadia, Maryam thought. Had she thought to compared the Thirteenth’s souls before and after they went through the fear room, they would have looked much the same.
Ishanvi Kapadia had gone through the Lugar Vacio.
Recently, too, else her soul would not feel so… picked clean. Yesterday at the latest, but most likely today. It could have been one of the other rooms, Maryam then considered. The joy one or those Professor Sasan had not named when the Thirteenth went into the Lugar Vacio. Yet she doubted even the kindest of them was anything near to pleasant. Gods, no wonder she looked disheveled.
“- will have to take the tests for both years, of course, but I have already passed the final examinations for Saga and Mandate,” Ishanvi was saying. “I am taking Teratology and Theology next week.”
“Impressive,” Song allowed, “but-”
“You are running yourself ragged,” Maryam cut in. “What makes you so desperate to join us?”
Or for that matter to show up to an evening like this after having gone through that room?
“I need to finish the promotion track for reasons unrelated,” Ishanvi evenly said. “But I did pick the Thirteenth Brigade out of all the second-year cabals to approach, that is true.”
“Why?” Maryam bluntly asked. “You’re not a second stringer, you can get in a top brigade for your own year. Maybe even one of the better second-year ones, if you insist on going up. Our reputation just pirouetted into a pit and we have a history of being dragged into dangerous situations.”
“Precisely because of that,” Ishanvi curtly said. “I don’t care about reputation – I care that you killed a god on your first yearly test and didn’t hesitate to slap two great powers in the face doing it.”
A pause.
“I have a contract I need done, after graduation,” she reluctantly added. “And I would like the Thirteenth Brigade to take it.”
“You do not need to be one of us for that,” Song pointed out.
“I don’t expect the chances are good you’ll accept unless I have been one of you for some time,” Ishanvi frankly replied.
The honesty of that gave them both pause. To Maryam’s surprise, Song answered in kind.
“The Thirteenth is not in a place to bring in more cabalists,” she said. “We have situations to sort out.”
“I don’t mean tomorrow,” Ishanvi said. “Nor do I expect you to accept because of the small favor I did you. Consider it repaid by not dismissing me out of hand. My tests are not all yet passed, anyhow. We can revisit this later in the year.”
She cleared her throat.
“Before that, however, I would offer my candidature for your exploration crew,” she said.
Maryam crossed her arms.
“You’re a Laurel,” she said. “History track, as I recall. What do you bring to the table that we’d want?”
“I am a fine shot with a blunderbuss,” Ishanvi replied without batting an eye. “Besides this, I was trained as a scribe for the House of Autumn with all that entails and I possess means to divine secret knowledge.”
Maryam let out a low whistle. The House of Autumn was a school, one that held the greatest library in the entire Imperial Someshwar. Many called it the first university of Vesper and being trained there was nothing to sneer at. Song, however, focused on the latter part.
“You have neither a contract nor a boon,” Song stated.
“No,” Ishanvi admitted. “I have a… friend.”
She did not elaborate, and neither of them asked. Her captain had already been walking close to the line of acceptable by saying what she had. Song and Maryam traded a look, none of them quite sold on it.
“And I have read records from when Scholomance was last open,” Ishanvi hastily said. “Including in-depth discussion of the god and the Glass Repository.”
That, however, was a point in her favor.
“We could use someone with a deeper Theology background,” Maryam murmured at her captain. “How did it go with the Twenty-Ninth?”
“Maziya tentatively agrees,” Song murmured back. “Their fourth is a Savant physician, so no great scholar of theology.”
An area Ishanvi claimed to have some learning in, and she probably had grounding in teratology as well: she had named the dantesvara at a look, during Misery Square. Song’s face was hard to read but after a moment she turned back to Ishanvi and nodded.
“You will have to take my orders while we are delving,” Song said. “And this does not mean you can call our brigade into your disputes outside of the exploration.”
“Understood, ma’am,” Ishanvi said, then saluted.
“You don’t need to salute,” Song sighed. “We are all warrant off-”
The sound of sharp whistle interrupted her. Their attention was drawn back to the first banquet hall, though the source of the noise ended up being at the threshold between the two. Colonel Chunhua Cao had finally made her entrance, though it was the sight at her side that had Maryam raising an eyebrow. The tall man was Balthazar Formosa, the head instructor for the Akelarre Guild.
Given the argument they’d caught between Cao and Captain Yue, Maryam was surprised to see him here.
“Attention,” Colonel Cao said, then frowned and glanced at her side.
Professor Balthazar lazily snapped up his wrist and traced a Sign – the anchor-symbol for it was a wedge pointing upwards, so most likely an Ancipital.
“Attention,” Colonel Cao repeated, and this time the sound reverberated across both rooms. “You have been given sufficient time to prepare. I now direct you to the briefing for the assignment.”
A pair of garrison soldiers joined the covenanters at the threshold, each carrying a wooden box about the length and width of a forearm. Its front was transparent glass, and through it Maryam saw a dark and thick liquid inside of which floated a small sphere of amber.
“I will not waste our time with pleasantries,” Colonel Cao said. “No doubt you have questions as to how, in practice, you are to attempt to reach the Glass Repository. The key is the devices you see displayed before you.”
She allowed a moment for everyone to crane their neck and have a good look. Maryam joined her nav to the few she sensed tasting the aether near the boxes, Professor Balthazar gracing them with an amused look. The liquid inside was not Gloam, not exactly, but it had been touched by Signs. Either many or a single one maintained for a long time.
“These devices called yatrameters,” Colonel Cao said. “Some of you will recognize them as operating on similar principles as the roseless compasses used to travel through Scholomance.”
She cleared her throat.
“The relevant difference is that while the roseless compass requires a physical component, a yatrameter is an abstract device that can be attuned to a theoretical location,” she said.
Which, Maryam thought, explained why the thing had clearly been calibrated by a signifier. It reeked of Didactic Signs, the branch of the art that dealt with abstract concepts.
“In practice, they serve a single purpose: determining whether movement through Scholomance brings you closer to the Glass Repository or not,” she said. “This serves as a low-grade solipsistic effect, which will force Scholomance to put down set paths.”
In essence, once a room had been observed to be leading closer to the library Scholomance could not make it lead in another direction for at least a few hours. That wouldn’t last, though, and usually solipsistic effects faded almost instantly when there was no perspective around to enforce them. In other words, if you didn’t have a way to independently lock down the paths you created they would disappear the moment you left. You’d need to either reach the library in a single continuous trip or have a means to maintain the paths.
Cao cleared her throat.
“Think of it as setting down pavement stones: once it has been established that a room leads closer to the Repository, it will always lead closer to it. We will then forge lasting connections between these rooms by using spikes, slowly creating a road to the Repository.”
“In practice,” Professor Balthazar said, “we expect there will be several roads simultaneously growing.”
“Only four yatrameters were secured and they are Garrison property,” Colonel Cao said. “This means they will only be used by Garrison hands, under Garrison supervision.”
She graced them all with a thin smile.
“While Colonel Azocar has deigned to allow his soldiers to use the devices and nail down spikes, everything else will be left in your hands,” she said. “It would be more accurate to consider you the escort of these men than the other way around.”
She folded hands behind her back.
“As for the evaluation equivalent of the yearly test, the manner of it will be straightforward,” Colonel Cao said. “Your grade will rise with every room bringing the Watch closer to the Repository you discover, solve, clear or disarm. Any devices built that significantly contribute to exploration will earn you the same.”
She cocked an eyebrow.
“Simply reaching the Glass Repository will not be sufficient to pass,” she said. “It would allow some among you to coast by on the efforts of others, thus below a certain threshold of contribution you will be failed.”
A smile.
“Of course, should the Glass Repository be found before the time for the yearly tests has come then those among you who fail will be allowed to take them instead,” she said. “That would mean, however, being at the mercy of the work of your fellow students. I do not recommend it.”
Her gaze swept them one last time, as if looking for weakness, and against her own will Maryam found she straightened.
“Exploration will begin on fifthday afternoon, with Garrison support” she said. “On sixth and seventhday you will be supported by the garrison for a morning and afternoon delve. Anything beyond this will be undertaken on your own, though it can still result in improved grade.”
Colonel Cao stared them down.
“This will not be swift or easy work,” she said. “Do not expect this to be a lemure hunt: you match wits with a god who seeks to bar your way, and you will need to outwit it again and again until you snatch the jewel from its grasp.”
Then she smiled.
“But for those of you who succeed,” she said, “you will have rendered a great service to the Watch. The value of the Glass Repository to our order cannot be understated – it is one of the greatest collections of volumes in existence, many of them rare or outright unique. You will win a reward matched to the service you have rendered to the black.”
Colonel Chunhua’s gaze swept through one room, then the other.
“This is not an exaggeration,” she said. “Or an empty offer. The crew that most distinguishes itself will receive from me a favor, which I will deploy every lever at my disposal to fulfill. Think carefully on what you might ask.”
And Maryam had already bargained for what she needed, but looking at Song’s face – the way it clenched with need – she knew that Song Ren had just been had. And she even knew why: the Repository might not guarantee Song the book she needed, it was only a chance, but Chunhua Cao’s favor would.
Now they just needed to crush everyone else who wanted that favor.
Comments
Pteromys Momonga
I double-checked, and a student contracted to the Tail-Puller was mentioned all the way back in the beginning of Book 2, during the first Mandate class. I love those bits of continuity; it shows that any background character could eventually become supporting cast or even main cast, which makes every interaction feel significant. There are no red shirts or NPCs here, just characters living out their own stories that might intersect with the one we're following.
Alex
Tristan my beloved where are you. A part of me wants him to go full rat, but rather than it being soley to protect his own hide, it would be to save what is essentially a partner in life. It would uncurl the selfish nature of the cornered rat into something still a bit selfish, but coated by beauty rather than muck, even if the methods he may choose look off-putting when taken on their own. Tristan is as much Fortuna as Tristan is Tristan at this point. Her contract not only shaped how he handles situations, but it shapes himself at such a core level that their souls feel inseperable. He has also been with the 13th long enough that he can do things without hurting them and they can LET him do things because they trust him back. I've always been of the mind that if you give Tristan a behavioral blank check, he is the most capable by far of accomplishing immediate goals. His immediate goals also coincidentally accomplish Angie's goals, so its a win/win. Angie can even be the angel on his shoulder if he's about to go TOO hard, but otherwise give him free reign. This is where he shines.
Patneu
No, they rebuilt it. Parts of it, at least.
Jacob Burton-Edwards
How does a relative backwater, closed to the rest of the world, which was as far as we know unoccupied two years ago, have luxury accomodations? Did they just close the school and leave Allazei occupied for a century with nothing for them to really be doing on the island?
