erraticerrata
patreon
Chapter 16
🕑 Added 2025-07-04 16:00:19 +0000 UTCThe bulk of the students would have set out for the Old Playhouse, by now.
The thought itched away at Tristan, like coarse cloth against the skin – the more he rubbed it, the worst it got it. But Izel had needed to stop by the workshop, and though the tinker had offered to head out alone and catch up to them later Tristan had no intention of letting him wander around Allazei alone. He’d already found the three houses that Yaotl Acatl had claimed for herself and the newly founded Nineteenth Brigade, but if the princess grabbed Izel off the street and held him in one getting Izel out without killing anyone would be difficult. The Nineteenth’s roster would see to that.
So instead Tristan was waiting outside the Umuthi workshop with Angharad, sitting on the edge of a dried-out fountain. The Orrery cast down on them in pale and gold, a reminder that every minute brought them closer to the time of the meet. The thief forced himself not to tap his foot. It would have been petty, and transparent besides.
“-my uncle’s rifles may be able to punch through the dermis,” Angharad said. “We would have to test it out.”
The prospect of actual useful progress being made, even if it was just information acquired, was enough to drag him back out of his irritation.
“The targets from Warfare can be adjusted,” Tristan said. “We could go visit grounds tomorrow after Saga.”
He blew out a breath.
“My concern is how quickly it moves,” he admitted. “We won’t be killing the dantesvara until we find a way to lock it down.”
“Kang suggested poison, in his own way,” Angharad said, tone carefully even.
Worse, it was a good suggestion. If dantesvara were as gluttonous as Teratology had suggested, then it was just a matter of ensuring the creature found the bait and he had some notions about that. Angharad wouldn’t like them, but that could be worked around.
“Bit of a pain how useful he’s being, isn’t it?” Tristan said.
Her lips thinned.
“Continuing along these lines may yet salvage his reputation,” she said.
And that didn’t seem like a coincidence, did it? He grunted in assent. Like all things about the curse, Song had taken Yun Kang’s turnaround as some mark of personal failure. Tristan, and Angharad as well evidently, believed instead that this was about the man realizing that last year had taken an axe to his career and if he did not want to end up in a backwater posting after Scholomance he needed to clean his slate. Fortunately for him, mobs had short memories. Few would remember and fewer yet care that he’d tried to get a student killed after a few more months of the man being interesting and useful.
“There’s few ways of getting rid of a teacher at Scholomance, save slitting their throat,” Tristan said.
He’d looked into it, not even Colonel Azovar could do dismiss a teacher – only detain them. The matter would be kicked up directly to the Obscure Committee.
“Kang will keep,” he stated.
They had enough to handle without adding cleaning up for Song Ren to the list. She was quite capable of helping herself, these days, even if- Tristan’s teeth clenched until his gums ached. It was unfair to think that, he knew. Half the reason Song had made the choice she had was that if she did not Maryam’s countrymen would be evicted from Tolomontera. But Tristan’s eyes sought the shape of a woman in red sprawled across the fountain, or critiquing the fountainhead, and found nothing. Fortuna would have chided him for the unfairness, but she wasn’t there. So it fucking stood.
A light touch on the edge of his sleeve.
“Izel is back,” Angharad said, pointing at the distance.
Tristan’s eyes lingered on the sleeve after the fingers withdrew. Tredegar was being… touch-prone, lately. Not in a way that discomforted him, she was careful about it, but she kept drawing his attention to things and he could not recall ever speaking so much with the Pereduri as he had these last few days. Izel loped their way across the cobblestones, a pair of scrolls tucked under his arm.
“Sorry,” he called out. “I had to sign out one of these at the archive registry, apparently it’s a restricted scroll.”
Tristan rose to his feet, as did Angharad.
“We’re not running late, but the margin has thinned,” he said. “Best we get moving.”
“Of course,” Izel said. “Apologies again, I did not-”
Tristan bit down on a flare of irritation.
“No trouble,” he cut in.
From the corner of her eye, he saw Angharad gesturing at Izel’s left. Where his roundhead mace was strapped, hanging from the handle. ‘Loose strap’ she mouthed, and Izel nodded thanks before tightening it with the scrolls shoved up against his armpit. They all went armed, of course. Even if this were not a hunter’s meet, after Misery Square most brigades had begun to carry not only blades and pistols but muskets as well.
The Thirteenth had not been an exception. Angharad had added her uncle’s rifle to the usual saber and pistol, Izel some kind of wooden cylinder protruding arrowheads to his own standard pair and aside his knife and pistol Tristan had tucked away in his coat two vials – dragon snail venom and the most concentrated extract of volcian yew he could get his hands on.
The three of them moved through the small, blocky streets at the heart of southeast Allazei as fast as they could without running. It was all crumbled shops and tall, narrow houses around here, crowding the streets that spread out between the hospital, the Umuthi workshop and the Ossuary. Tristan’s hand rarely left the knife at his hip, for few of these ruins had been reclaimed. The Ossuary housed both the Arthashastra and the Peiling Society classes, which along with the proximity of the workshop ensured these streets were oft tread, but few had settled among the houses.
A combination of rats, humidity from the wind – the seawall was more dust than stone - and nearly all the shops being in the Triangle. More stray cats dwelled here than men.
Mind turning on the road ahead and what lay at the end of it, Tristan found himself eyeing Angharad Tredegar as she strode that measured mirror-dancer’s stride. He had a few questions, and she had been unusually voluble around him of late. And those questions needed to be asked, because while as a general policy Tristan disapproved of Cressida Barboza being correct, but she’d had a point this once: something was off about Marshal de la Tavarin.
Scholomance had no lack of secrets so usually he would have been content to let that be someone else’s trouble, but he could afford this no longer. The hunter’s meet would be run by the Marshal, and largely the hunt as well. Burying his head in the sand was no longer an option, so Tristan had gone digging instead. Still, at the end of the day going through sifting through record and rumors got you so far.
You needed someone who’d rubbed elbows to get a sense of what made someone tick, and luckily he had at hand someone who had spent a year under the tutelage of the man in question.
“Tell me about the Marshal,” Tristan bluntly asked, since subtlety would avail him nothing.
Angharad cocked an eyebrow at him. Izel, who flanked him to the right, leaned forward in interest. Any more of that and his spine would snap, Tristan thought, from the wretched angle he put it through.
“He is the senior Skiritai on Tolomontera,” Angharad ventured.
“Truly?” the thief said, brow rising. “A stunning revelation.”
She rolled her eyes at him.
“I am not sure what you ask for,” Angharad said.
“Your take on the man,” Tristan said. “I know a hundred rumors, but Skiritai are tight-lipped about what goes on down in the Acallar.”
Angharad hummed, looking ahead.
“Callous,” she finally said. “The Marshal is callous.”
Tristan kept silent, watching her sort out her thoughts.
“Deaths do not matter much to him,” Angharad continued. “He expects them, counts them part of turning us into Skiritai in the span of time he was given to teach us.”
“But he is not cruel,” Tristan probed.
“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “He… I do not think he cares about laws so much as rules. He will not bat an eye at lawbreaking, but someone breaking the rules he set for the Acallar will offend him.”
“That sounds like a petty tyrant,” Izel quietly said. “Caring about his fiefdom and little else.”
“Then I have misrepresented him,” Angharad replied. “He is, I think, a very fine instructor. One who cherishes what it means to be of the Skiritai Guild – and that means he will only let us put on that name if we will not shame it. His methods are harsh but only ever to serve that purpose.”
By the tense cast of Izel’s jaw, the man was less than convinced. Tristan had a guess or two as to why. In spars, either in Warfare or at the cottage, Izel always moved in a way that was a little clumsy – nothing like the fluid, brutal fighter that had slain Tozi Poloko in a single blow. Maryam had won against him as often as she lost, early on, and Tristan held her in esteem but Maryam Khaimov was not exactly a mistress of armed combat.
It’d come together when they first encountered a lemure out on a patrol bounty, Izel casually splitting open a lycosi’s head before Tristan even finished drawing his pistol. Izel knew how to kill, but he was not used to sparring. Whoever had taught him to use that mace didn’t believe in blunted weapons and pulling blows. He really should have picked up on it sooner, but part of Tristan had balked at matching a habit you usually found in coterie killers to the son of Izcalli’s finest general. Foolish of him. Cruelty cared not for the cut of your clothes.
He cleared his throat, drawing Angharad’s gaze back on him before she could pick up on Izel being skeptical.
“Would you say he acts nobleborn?” Tristan probed.
Angharad’s lips thinned.
“I cannot confidently speak as to the habits of nobility beyond the Isles,” she replied.
Tristan traded an amused look with Izel. That’d been a Pereduri no.
“Encoberto truly exists, in case you were wondering,” he shared. “It’s a sitiada to the northeast of the Meridian Road, right in the middle of the Peones, and it is known for its mercenaries.”
“Truly?” Angharad said, sounding… relieved?
Oh gods, Tristan realized with horrified amusement. She made sure never to look up if Encoberto is real so she wouldn’t have to call him a liar if it doesn’t. He turned to meet the eye of- empty space. Always empty space, though he kept looking like a fool. He forced the smile to stick on his face, though he could feel it turn stiff. Izel cleared his throat.
“The Peones,” he repeated. “I’m unfamiliar with the… region, is it?”
“Region,” Tristan confirmed. “When the Second Empire took a dive right into the pit, the parts that first went dark were mostly the heartlands and the east. Where the wealth and people were. The Trebian Sea coast was barely touched because except for Saraya it was a backwater.”
He paused, let the image of the southern Issa going dark while the northern rim of the continent remained alight.
“The Peones are the good farmlands between the coast and what went dark, or at least what’s left of them,” Tristan said. “Much of the place was lost to Gloam during the Century of Strife.”
That tended to happen, when half the great lords in a region put on imperial red and started knifing each other even as the hordes of the Sunless House knocked at the door. Old Liergan hadn’t needed to collapse the way it had, their Saga lessons had made that clear. It could have contracted, kept going the way Izcalli did during the Whirlwind. But after five centuries of the Paz Liergana no one had really believed Liergan could fall, so instead of closing ranks the grandees had kept jostling for better seats as the empire went dark city after city.
There was a reason the Watch existed: Vesper could only afford so many mistakes of that scale.
“There’s no telling if he was truly the Count of Encoberto,” Tristan said. “Still, the mercenary angle does lend credence to how he goes around dressed like a farfan who stole a Watch coat.”
“The Watch does recruit heavily from mercenaries,” Izel agreed.
And why wouldn’t it? The Garrison offered worse pay than most kings, but it paid on time and its contracts lasted for seven years so it was popular for those who preferred steady coin to looting. It was a passing rare thing to be recruited directly into a covenant, of course, but then the Marshal’s early years were a mystery – his record started abruptly in 68 Sails with him already being a full-fledged member of the Skiritai Guild.
It wasn’t like the man was some sort of secret, either. The dossier Hage kept on him, which had none of the work under seal or private contracts in it, was the better part of forty pages long. Yet for a man who’d been in the Watch at least sixty years, precious little could be found about who ‘Hermenegildo Berenguel Adamastor de la Tavarin’ actually was.
“I have noticed,” Izel then slowly added, “that while College professors often joke about him, they never treat the man himself like a joke.”
Tristan hummed in approval, for he’d noticed that too. The Marshal often acted like a clown but he wasn’t treated like a clown by other officers. And that was telling, because no matter how good you were at killing things if you went around wearing garish clothes with personal pages to announce you people were going to roll their eyes. And they did, but watchmen rolled their eyes at the antics and not the man. That implied a level of respect.
This wasn’t some over-the-hill Skiritai that his guild had sent to Scholomance as a way to get him out of the way, or tricked into teaching as a subtle means of retirement. The Marshal was the man the Militants had wanted in Scholomance, and apparently with good reason: he’d been able to force through his hunt-as-test idea in the face of opposition from Colonel Cao, the best-connected Academy officer that Tristan had ever met.
“I do not recall ever seeing him defer to anyone,” Angharad admitted. “Though marshal’s rank certainly would warrant such disregard.”
If he weren’t retired, Tristan completed in his head. Although how retired the man was if he taught at Scholomance was a subject worth some debate. The conversation petered out naturally, as they were now in sight of their destination: the Old Playhouse, from the outside a sloping hill with stairs carved into its stone.
“I have been looking forward to having a look at the inside,” Izel enthused. “I’ve never seen what lies past the crest of the hull.”
Tristan’s lips twitched. Well, at least one of them would be getting joy out of this. He glanced at Angharad as they began climbing the stairs, wondering if she found this as oddly nostalgic as he did. She caught his eye and smiled.
“Should I wish you to draw first instead, this time?” she teased. “Surely we ought to take turns.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he mused. “Last time you drew it was a butterknife, and that turned out decently for us.”
Izel cleared his throat.
“Didn’t you end up feuding with the Ninth, get your affairs stolen and miss out on the Misery Square assembly?” he asked. “Everyone was talking about it last year.”
“It turned out decently for us eventually,” Tristan conceded.
“Draw first, Tristan,” Angharad gravely said. “I’ve left my favorite hairpin in our room.”
He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.
--
There was no servant playing the gatekeeper this time, and hardly anyone at all in the lodges.
The two upper rings, at least. The Old Playhouse was a hollowed out hill whose inside had been turned into three concentric rings of lodges, growing smaller as they neared the bottom, and below the last ring lay the floor where plays had once been put on and rather more recently a wooden stage been built. Time and nature had swallowed the walls and seats, leaving behind something akin to ring gardens.
The lowest of the rings – closest to the stage and the one with the largest lodges, telling Tristan everything he needed to know about who had once sat there – still had seats and a modicum of discretion if you cared to look for either. A few students were speaking there, or looking at the crowd below since it was there that the main body of students had gathered.
They stood there chattering away before the wooden stage, as if this were some sort of garden party instead of an assembly of students who had signed up to hunt a slavering monster out in one of the most dangerous parts of Port Allazei.
Tristan had no intention of heading down there: he had better view of the lot from up here, and less chance of being dragged into the inevitable bickering between some of the rivals he’d already picked out. The thief sat on a stone so worn there was no telling what it had once been, leaning forward past the edge of the stone railing. Angharad silently slid into a seat by his side, and after a moment Izel flanked him from the other.
Tristan kept silent for a time, eyes flicking across the crowd below. Counting, measuring. There were more than eighty students waiting at the bottom of the Old Playhouse, most of them broadly sticking to their brigade. That made it easier to pick out the faces Tristan did know, and there were quite a few – the majority of those attending were upperclassmen. Word was that the first years had been advised by their patrons to wait until they were used to Scholomance to sign up with either test, which was wise but did their already ailing reputation no favors.
“We have quite a crop here,” Tristan finally said. “More of the top Stripes are present than I’d anticipated.”
The exploration was Cao’s game, after all, not the hunt. His eyes marked the standouts one after another. Ninth Brigade, second place. Second Brigade, fourth place. Twentieth Brigade, seventh place. Third Brigade, tenth place. Tristan was mildly surprised not to find Tupoc Xical and his Fourth, who had ranked eighth place and with the Thirteenth would have meant over half the top ten Stripes had joined to the hunt. He’d slip a word to Song later about needing to expect that particular stone in her boot.
“Are there?” Izel asked. “I did not pay close attention to the rankings beyond those who beat the Thirteenth.”
Tristan slid him a reluctantly amused look. In all fairness, the Mask could not name the top five out of the College lists. All three societies kept public lists on a wall at the Ossuary, though these were strictly scholarly rankings as determined by examination marks.
“Shall I walk you through it?” Tristan teased.
“Please,” Izel fervently replied. “I’ve already had to learn what feels like a hundred new names from the first year tinkers. You wouldn’t believe how many Zichens we have now, it gets damnably confusing.”
“Give them nicknames,” Angharad suggested. “We have two Bibeks, so we named them Short and Tall.”
How unusually diplomatic of the Militants, Tristan mused, not to have merely named one Short Bibek and constantly slighted them.
“We have at least eight Zichens,” Izel miserably said. “We’ll run out of things to differentiate them by.”
Tristan tamped down on his petty urge to suggest they hand out numbers, instead turning his eyes back below.
“We can do a quick pass,” he said. “First, if I may direct the gentleman to the left…”
He theatrically gestured, Izel rolling his eyes in answer but still following along.
“Those I can name: Ninth Brigade,” Izel said. “Sebastian Camaron’s crew, they came in second last year.”
He said that almost defiantly, like knowing the ranking of one of the literal two brigades above the Unluckies in Academy rankings was an achievement to be lauded. The thief decided to let him have it.
“If the stories about their yearly test are to be trusted,” Tristan said, “Camaron is a fine enough shot to hit rope with a pistol from across a deck and sufficiently charming to talk a pirate princess out of her betrothal.”
“He’s good-looking,” Izel acknowledged. “That always helps.”
They both glanced at Angharad, who shrugged at them.
“Alas, I have not been moved by his looks,” she drily said.
Yes, because that had clearly been what Tristan was implying.
“The rest of his cabal are all decent hands at fighting,” Tristan continued. “Their Savant, Claver, is skilled with a cutlass while their Mask-”
Izel cleared his throat questioningly.
“The Mask is the Tianxi,” Tristan shared. “Ruo Xuan Liu. Good with knives, even better with his fists.”
“He irritates Song,” Angharad noted. “Something about the Wendi accent in Cathayan sounding pompous.”
Ruo also acted nobleborn, Tristan thought, which probably had more to do with Song’s dislike of him than his accent. His finger moved to the hooded woman speaking with Ruo.
“Jayati Banerjee,” he said. “Navigator, one of the best in her year. Maryam says she’s haughty but knows several books’ worth of curses. Cousin to the Banerjee in the Third Brigade.”
“That must be awkward,” Izel tried, “given the enmity.”
“Not really,” Tristan said. “They hate each other worse than Chapul and Camaron, he sought out the Third himself after Jayati joined the Ninth.”
He cleared his throat.
“Last is their Skiritai, Musa Shange,” he said, and glanced at Angharad again.
“One of the finest swords among the second year Skiritai,” she volunteered. “I’d say maybe six of us can defeat him reliably."
"Did you not cripple him using a butter knife?" Izel frowned.
He was saying that, Tristan amusedly thought, like she could not most likely do the same to the two of them facing her together.
“He was angry and unprepared,” Angharad said. “And the grounds were in my favor, besides. Talon school tends to perform best in tight, enclosed spaces – I find him difficult to deal with when I do not have room to maneuver.”
High praise, coming from Angharad. She was not prone to bragging but neither was she shy about her skills.
“They’re a heavy combat brigade,” Tristan summed up. “Better geared for men than monsters, but it’s not a coincidence that their Navigator is also a teratologist and their Savant is a theologist who can fight. Camaron built a crew of door-kickers specialized in the kind of contracts that make you dead or famous before you hit thirty.”
Which fit the mentality of a marshal’s son who knew he would never hold command in Lucierna. It was Watch policy never to let relatives succeed each other in Garrison commands, after a few too many far-flung fortresses had decided to proclaim themselves petty kingdoms. The only way for Sebastian Camaron to ever reach the heights his father had would be to become the head of a famous brigade, preferably one affiliated to Lucierna so he could keep leaning on those connections.
“On the other side of the room,” Tristan said, “we find their sworn rivals, the Third Brigade. Tenth place in the rankings.”
“Their captain is Nenetl Chapul,” Izel recalled. “It’s an Izcalli name, but she does not talk like someone who was raised speaking Centzon.”
Considering she had been born in Lucierna, Antigua was a likelier native tongue.
“She is a Garrison princess, like Camaron is a prince,” Tristan said. “Both from Lucierna and they cannot stand each other. She lost half a leg at Misery Square, but…”
All their eyes went to Nenetl Chapul, whose leg had not been put back together by Lady Knit. Instead a simple but stoutly made prosthetic in forged iron replaced the missing limb from shortly below the knee – a temporary measure, Tristan thought. With a tinker in her cabal she was likely to get something personally fitted to her before long.
“She stands on that iron leg if it were flesh,” Angharad quietly said. “Song says her contract might aid her there, but it is still remarkable.”
Nenetl’s contract was a perfect awareness of her body, apparently. Considering she was healing from a missing limb, Tristan considered that something of a mixed blessing – she would never, not for a moment, be allowed to forget what she had lost.
“Nenetl’s a fine sword, but her draw is that she has a knack for tactics,” Tristan said. “Apparently she’s unbeaten in the skirmishes of her Warfare class. She certainly built her brigade for a less direct approach than Camaron’s.”
He pointed at the sullen Someshwari speaking with Nenetl.
“Ritwick Banerjee, the obligatory Navigator,” he said.
Tristan would have to poke around and find out if someone had taken up Ruo on the report about him. It’d be worth reading if they were going to rub elbows going forward.
“He likely saved my life at Misery Square,” Angharad said. “He most definitely spared me injury.”
The thief filed away that debt. Nenetl should know to overplay her hand when calling it in, but Tristan was not nearly as familiar with the way that captain operated as Song was. His fingers clenched. That would be no trouble, if she were there.
“Then you have Jeronimo de Aznarez,” Tristan said, forcefully even. “Skiritai.”
He slid a look to his left.
“He leads one of the slaying crews down in the Acallar,” Angharad agreeably provided. “Sword and dagger man, but he was clearly trained with a spear. He moves oddly with it, though - at a guess he was taught to use it when mounted.”
Not unusual, for a man with a noble Lierganen name. Izel frowned, then shook his head.
“I know the last of them socially,” he said. “Awonke Bokang. He’s a powderman, good enough even the Tianxi students take him seriously.”
It was something of a platitude to assume that Tianxi knew their way around blackpowder best, even though the substance was their invention, but there was just enough truth to the old assumption that it’d never faded. Certainly the Sanxing still made munitions that no one else had ever figured out.
“He rigged up a machine that punched through the wall of a cult’s treasure vault last year,” Tristan said. “It got Krypteia attention on account of being relatively quiet.”
By tinker standards, anyway.
“There’s workshop gossip he is contracted,” Izel shared.
“That never made it into Malani dinner circles,” Angharad said. “If it is true, he keeps it quiet.”
“Either way,” Tristan said, “Nenetl Chapul didn’t put together a band of swords: they’re finely tuned clockwork, meant for finesse. In a straight fight against a pure combat brigade they will get chewed up, but given time to prepare they are a heap of trouble.”
Their ranking was also something of a mislead. Had the Third not ended up dragged into the middle of some noble dispute during their Old Saraya contract last year they would have done better, though still probably not broken into the top five. Chapul didn’t seem to consider it much of a priority, which Tristan considered wise. By not getting caught up in the race for the top rank like Camaron was she could pick contracts that got her genuinely useful payouts instead of being stuck chasing Colonel Cao’s fickle approval. He cleared his throat.
“Which brings me to the halfway house between the Third and Ninth, the Second Brigade.”
His finger moved towards the recognizable silhouette of the Guadalupe de Tovar, with her ridiculous red scarf. Royal red, like she was some emperor’s long-lost daughter. Nobles with a de to their name were all old Second Empire bloodlines, but there were limits to what even the pretentious should imply.
“Captain Guadalupe de Tovar, whose distinguishing mark from other well-connected Garrison princelings is that she has a combat-oriented contract and collected the same,” Tristan said. “As usual Song held back on details, but it manifests as a mist that de Tovar can shape and put people to sleep with. It works best on lemures.”
His finger went through the other three members in quick succession.
“Fanyana Khosa, Savant,” he said. “Contracted.”
Though the details on how were scarce. Something subtle.
“Alizia Salas, Skiritai.”
“Leads another slaying crew,” Angharad provided. “And contracted. She can walk on air for short amounts of time.”
“And the last is the obligatory Akelarre,” Tristan finished. “Their calling card as a brigade is the contracts. They’re worse than the Ninth in a brawl and not as flexible as the Third when given time to prepare, but they’re fast on their feet and the contracts let them strike in unusual ways.”
A pause.
“Now, the Second landed fourth place in Stripe rankings last year, right behind us. And because of that de Tovar intensely dislikes Song, which reading between the lines seems fairly mutual,” he said. “Potentially they could be trouble for us.”
“I know Lord Khosa socially,” Angharad volunteered. “I would not say we are friendly, but neither are we unfriendly.”
“Lean on that if you can,” Tristan agreed. “But it’d be ideal to make allies to bolster our position, and since Song’s not keen on taking sides between the Third and the Ninth that means looking at some of the lesser players.”
He first pointed out the Twentieth Brigade first, which besides claiming a respectable seventh place in Stripe rankings stood mostly on account of their captain having twice doubled up on the Guildhouse: the creepy Emain twins made two Akelarre while Short Bibek and a sawblade-wielding Izcalli made two Skiritai. Angharad was not impressed by the Izcalli, claiming Musa ran rings around her whenever they sparred. With that out of the way, Tristan could move to the brigade he truly considered the best pick.
“Runner-up in rank, twelfth place last year, are our friends by the stage.”
He pointed discreetly, and as expected Angharad grimaced when she found who it was. Not that she wouldn’t have known from the ranking alone.
“The Thirty-First Brigade,” she flatly said.
“We’ve got history with Ferranda Villazur and her lot,” Tristan said. “Some parts of it nicer than others, but putting that aside their brigade is one we would gain much from having with us.”
Izel frowned.
“Rong Ma is a deft hand with traps,” he conceded, “but pure Clockwork Cathedral track. What I can make will be more apt in dealing with a lemure.”
“I wasn’t actually comparing tinkers,” Tristan amusedly replied. “Ferranda Villazur is an accomplished huntress in need of muscle, which makes her a good fit for us, but the true draw here is Shalini Goel.”
Angharad breathed in.
“Her contract price,” she said.
Tristan thinly smiled, spelling it out for the somewhat confused Izel.
“Shalini’s contract quickens her reflexes,” he said. “But by using it she becomes a beacon in the aether that draws in lemures of all sorts.”
Izel sucked in a breath.
“Even if that does not draw the dantesvara outright, given how territorial it is the lemures the prices attracts might well bait it to us anyway,” the tinker said. “That would be very useful.”
Yes. And as far as Tristan was concerned, being able to dictate the time and place of the engagement was the single most useful thing a contract could grant them when facing this beast. It was the reason he had come ready to push for the pick in face of Angharad’s inevitable reluctance. Tristan cleared his throat.
“That’s it for the leading brigades, and what I consider our best choice for an ally,” he said. “There’s five more full brigades from our year and many more independents, but no one I would consider a standout.”
A pause.
“Of course, I would be remiss if I did not bring up our most likely potential issue.”
Izel stiffened. Quick on draw, that man, when it came to trouble.
“No,” he said. “Already? It’s barely been two days.”
“I’m afraid so,” Tristan said, tipping his head towards the left of the stage. “The Nineteenth Brigade, under Captain Yaotl Acatl.”
They were spread out among the first years, so difficult to pick out, but the Izcalli princess herself stood out. Izel put his face down in his hands.
“How bad?” he groaned.
“She filled up her brigade,” Tristan said. “Full seven.”
Angharad immediately straightened.
“What are we looking at?” she asked.
“Skiritai,” he replied.
A long moment passed.
“Skiritai,” Angharad repeated, and Izel groaned even louder.
“They’re all Skiritai, aren’t they?” he darkly said.
“All seven of them,” Tristan confirmed. “Most Izcalli, but not all.”
Those that weren’t were best described as mercenary. The princess had not been shy in splashing gold around.
“That seems,” Angharad hesitantly said, “…potentially unwise.”
“She’s putting a brigade together as if it were a Jaguar Society lodge,” Izel sighed. “It’s what she was trained for. I wouldn’t be surprised if she seeks out Allazei youths to serve as texoloh.”
Tristan cocked a brow at him.
“Squires,” the tinker translated.
“If that is not forbidden by the Watch, it should be,” Angharad icily said. “The people of Allazei are owed our protection, not to be dragged into the exercise of our duty to them.”
“Worth keeping an eye out for,” Tristan said, “but the real question is this: how will she be coming at us, Izel?”
Because Yaotl Acatl had taken up the mantle of the Nineteenth and stacked her brigade with Skiritai, so there was no doubt at all that she was coming at them. Neither of these were the actions of someone intent on playing the long game.
“Straight,” Izel said. “Blunt, by your standards. We don’t have to worry about anything like an ambush or officer involvement. She will announce where and when she attacks, then seek to crush us on the field where everyone can see.”
Tristan flicked a look Angharad’s way, and predictably enough she seemed rather charmed. Ugh. What was it about tits that turned people into such fools? It was a sorcery greater than any Sign.
“Today?” Tristan pressed.
“I don’t know,” Izel admitted. “But if so, she will wait until after the Marshal is done addressing us. It counts as personal business, so it will wait after duty is seen to.”
The thief worried at his lip. If a truce was unfeasible, it might be best to nip them in the bud. Violence, yes, but in a manner controlled and measured.
“How many first-year Skiritai in a row do you think you can take?” he asked Angharad.
She blinked.
“Pardon?”
Tristan specified ‘in a duel’, but his words were drowned out by the sound of trumpets.
Even before he looked up to find the Marshal at the top of the stairs, Tristan scrabbled to his feet. Best not to end up in the way of that. His eye strayed to the side, ready to roll his eyes at a complaint that – his chest clenched. Again. How was it a fresh cut every time? The blade was supposed to dull. The three of them hurried down, mixing with the other few students who had been up in the lodges as they joined the crowd below.
He still had the presence of mind to catch Ferranda’s eye as he went down, and he inclined his head. He got the same in turn before she turned to whisper in Zenzele’s ear.
Despite the pageantry, Marshal de la Tavarin had deigned to share his entrance: four more blackcloaks came down with him, walking past the young pages still blowing their trumpets with more effort than skill. Tristan only recognized one of the teachers, Professor Rhys Kota. The Pereduri half of the married pair teaching their class Warfare. Going by the murmurs around them, the other three taught the same class. The Marshal roped in other teachers, then.
The old man took to the stage with little fanfare, coat trailing behind him as he hopped on. His pages ran behind him, trumpets put away and now carrying a massive scroll. The boys unrolled it, revealing a large if somewhat imprecise map of Port Allazei - though the pages held it upside down until the Marshal shook his cane at them and yelled. The Warfare teachers lined up behind him on the wooden stage. Tavarin still runs this, then.
The old man did not bother to greet them, or introduce himself. It was a powerful statement, in its own way, as was the silence waiting for him.
“We have confirmed that the Lord of Teeth is still in the Old Canals,” Marshal de la Tavarin said, cane rising to point out the three southwards stripes representing them on the map. "In making a lair so close to the Nests, it has stirred up a host of lemures that currently make approaching its territory for an attack… impractical.”
Tristan’s brow rose. By which the Marshal meant a large incursion would devolve into a shooting gallery and mass bloodspill, both of which would draw in ever more lemures and turn the situation into a sandpit that killed everyone involved. The Marshal let whispers spread, then pressed on.
“The hunt will begin thus,” the old man said. “At noon on terceday, you will set out with a contingent of garrison soldiers to establish a fortified camp on Lamb Hill, which lies northwest of the Ashgarden.”
The cane went up to designate where this Lamb Hill stood. Just south of the bottom right of the Old Canals, Tristan noted. If the heights were tall enough, it would grant a commanding sight of both the canals themselves and the roads that led eastwards to the shrine district. Not only a camp but a watchtower, then. And it’s about as close to the canals as we can set up without provoking the dantesvara into attacking the camp directly.
“Once the campsite has been secured,” the Marshal continued, “you will be tasked with clearing out the lemures currently establishing new nests in the region before they can settle in them. Keep proof of your kills: a tally will be put in place that serves as your evaluation for this part of the hunt.”
Tristan’s jaw clenched. Always a game, always a contest. He pushed down the anger. So long the competition over the kills did not turn into a hindrance, he did not have to care.
“Once our toothy friends have been thinned out, you are to find the location of the Lord of Teeth’s lair and a working path towards it.”
The cane went down, rapping against the wound.
“Only then will we muster for a strike, employing the finest plan proposed,” the Marshal said.
He stepped away from the map, gesturing at the Warfare teachers. It was Professor Rhys who stepped up to the front.
“This will be dangerous work, and you are allowed to rescind your participation at any time,” he said. “For those who keep at it, the hunt will require commitment on your part. Time, supplies, likely injuries.”
A pause.
“Which is why we offer some accommodations,” he said. “For those signed onto the hunt, Warfare class will be suspended and elective classes will be instead taught on firstday afternoons, which no covenant will claim. This will allow you spend fifthday to seventhday in the fortified camp, uninterrupted.”
He folded his hands behind his back.
“You will not be forbidden to join the hunt at other times, but only on those three days will you have garrison support,” Rhys Kota said. “If you sally out unprepared and get yourself killed, we will not waste good soldiers trying to save you from your own stupidity.”
He retreated, after that, and left the stage to the Marshal again.
“We will not steward you,” Marshal de la Tavarin said, “or hold your hand. Steal or buy proof of kills from others, if you’d like, or steal the kills themselves. The garrison will keep order only within the camp, where any disturbance will be met by flogging and eviction for a week.”
The old man leaned forward, putting his weight on his cane.
“The rules of Scholomance still apply, of course, but beyond that?”
He shrugged.
“Wield any armaments you can muster, any methods,” he said. “Craft your plans and pick your fights. This is a proving ground for the worthy, preparation for the hunts you will be expected to lead out in Vesper – where you will not have the luxury of teachers and garrison men to seek aid and advice from. Take this for the opportunity it is.”
He grinned.
“I care only for results,” the Marshal told them. “The head of the Lord of Teeth is what I want of you – should you ignore everything else I said today and bring me that head, you will still be considered to have passed your yearly test.”
He stroked his mustache.
“Terceday at noon,” he said. “The expedition will assemble at the bottom of Regnant Avenue, in sight of the chapterhouse. I suggest you bring your own supplies – the camp will offer some, but a significant markup.”
And without another word, he walked off the stage. The pages looked confused, for a moment, before they yelped and began rolling up the map. The teachers shared looks, then with put upon good grace followed the Marshal off the stage – towards where Song had mentioned there lay hidden tunnels.
Conversation exploded in the wake of the departure: some excited, others troubled. The crowd had pressed up to the stage when the Marshal was on it, eager to hear him well, but now that tension had released and it began to spread out across the floor again. It meant a quiet chaos, but Tristan had kept half an eye on the Thirty-First so he knew where to find them. Ferranda was currently talking with the captain from the Thirty-Ninth, but it wouldn’t be her he sought out anyway. He leaned close to Angharad.
“If you cannot work with the Thirty-First no matter the terms, now is the time to tell me,” he murmured.
She grimaced, but after a beat she shook her head.
“I have no better brigade to suggest,” Angharad murmured back. “But do not expect me to pretend fondness for Captain Villazur.”
“I don’t particularly like her myself,” Tristan reminded her, and peeled away.
Ferranda was on the better end of the scale, as far as infanzones went, but still high-handed and ruthless. Already a pack of second-year Skiritai were converging on Angharad, drawing eyes as they did, so he used the distraction to leave her and Izel behind. With the conspicuous lot drawing eyes, Tristan could quietly talk terms with the soul on the other side that’d have them.
It was not hard to find the man he was looking for, because the Thirty-First had been keeping an eye on them just as much as the other way around. A year had dulled the raw edge of grief on Zenzele Duma, let him grow into the painted eye and the uniform, but he still had that widower’s air about him. The soft melancholy of someone who felt lost from the absence at their side, like a spyglass without the glass. But today he had the diplomat’s face on, because he was not coming as an old acquaintance from the Dominion but the envoy for the Thirty-First Brigade.
“Tristan.”
“Zenzele.”
Nods were traded.
“It is promising that you would seek me out,” the Malani said. “You are open to working together?”
“Mutual aid is on the table,” Tristan said. “I expect you’ll be looking to keep the Ninth from elbowing you out of the lemure hunts.”
“And you the Nineteenth,” Zenzele calmly replied. “If not the Second as well.”
He felt the man’s eyes on him as he added the last part, fishing for a reaction. Tristan knew better than to give it.
“We know each other’s ballast,” the thief simply replied, confirming nothing. “The only contention is if we’re after different ends.”
Zenzele inclined his head.
“Ferranda is looking for open commitment,” he said. “A common meal in town at the Crocodilian. For the roster, we open the door to any independents who might want to join.”
Tristan mastered his expression, barely. Little of that suited him.
“Your captain pissed away Tredegar’s goodwill like it was day-old beer,” he replied. “You don’t get to borrow her reputation after that.”
He had no intention of getting in between Angharad Tredegar and a lemure, but this? He could keep the bedbugs out of her sheets, as a professional courtesy.
“We are not looking to cower in her shadow,” Zenzele said, “just to use her a stick to chase off Musa preemptively.”
Tristan smiled thinly.
“Then you’ll be willing to settle for her having a public night on the town with Shalini,” he replied.
While the thief had no real notion as to whether or not the gunslinger had finally been taken up on her increasingly blunt hints, it didn’t matter. If Angharad and Shalini Goel were seen walking arm in arm around Port Allazei it would be enough to set rumors aflame. At the moment, the Ninth wanted to avoid the Thirteenth turning on them enough they’d avoid sabotaging the brigade of Angharad’s ‘lover’.
Camaron’s position looked strong, but there was a reason he was pulling out all the courtesies towards the Thirteenth: since the Ninth had become the face for the Garrison princelings fighting the free company princelings of the First, an informal truce had formed between First and Third. The Thirteenth could feasibly forge friendly ties to both at the price of turning on Sebastian Camaron, who they did not particularly like. He was trying to get ahead of such trouble as much as he could without looking weak.
“She agreed to this?” Zenzele asked.
“I do not foresee much difficulty in getting her to accept,” Tristan drily said.
Zenzele hummed.
“Not as strong a statement as a meal, but an acceptable compromise,” he said. “Regarding the independents-”
“No,” Tristan said.
The Malani’s brow rose.
“No?”
“I don’t care if Ferranda wants to prop up her Stripe ranking by organizing the loose students, we’re not bringing them in,” Tristan flatly said. “They can join up for individual expeditions, but they don’t get to call on us.”
The moment Angharad became responsible for their safety she would choke on that rope. Hunting the Lord of Teeth would fall behind protecting lives she had become answerable for, and Tristan had no intention of wasting his time saving every hardheaded fool dreaming of glory.
“It would represent leverage,” Zenzele evenly said.
“Leverage is your problem, not ours,” Tristan bluntly replied. “Chase Colonel Cao’s esteem on your own time.”
“You underestimate how committed we are to that idea,” Zenzele said.
Tristan eyed him.
“That’s a shame,” he finally said. “Good luck on the field, then.”
Neither of them moved, or broke eye contact. The Malani’s jaw clenched.
“You don’t have a solid replacement for us.”
“The Emain twins named themselves in Maryam’s debt,” Tristan said. “I have the Twentieth if I want it, and while I hate to call that marker so early I swear on every Mane listening I’ll still do it if the alternative is empire-building for Ferranda Villazur.”
How wretched Maryam must feel, that she would tell him he could call on that debt. Would that her feeling wretched mattered half as much at it should. It didn’t.
Zenzele eyed him for a long moment.
“This is you,” he suddenly said. “Not Angharad, Coyac or even Song Ren. You’re not offering a compromise because this crosses your personal bottom line.”
Tristan’s fists clenched. That was the trouble, going to talks with trained negotiators: they tended to have a knack for it. And Zenzele, even without his contract, had always seen more than he let on.
“Joined funds when buying supplies,” the thief finally said. “I’ll open that to independents. That’s all you’ll get from me.”
Zenzele inclined his head.
“Then I will take it,” he said, offering his hand. “To fruitful relations.”
Tristan shook on it. There’d been more strings attached than he had wanted, but making concessions would only strengthen the arrangement. Zenzele had been right to slip in that sideways reminder that to be steady an alliance must benefit both sides.
“I’ll brief Tredegar on her new assignment,” he gravely said, reaching for levity.
Best not to end on a bad note.
“And I’ll tell Shalini that she can put away the scissors, the neckline doesn’t need to go any lower,” Zenzele drily replied. “Good tidings, Tristan.”
“And you, Zenzele,” he replied.
And meant it, too. Zenzele Duma went about bargaining in that very noble way that saw such matters not as transactions but relationships. Profit was not as important as forging ties, the kind of philosophy that could grow on the grounds of plenty but also made him a reliable confederate. Tristan slipped through the crowd, finding Angharad and Izel engaged in conversation with a small circle of Malani nobleborn – Musa Shange from the Ninth, Awonke Bokang from the Third and Fanyana Khosa from the Second.
Khosa was speaking enthusiastically at a blank-faced Izel, the others mostly carried along by that tide. Despite the enmity between Third and Ninth, the two men from them seemed quite cordial when addressing one another. And not in a barbed, poison tongue sort of way either. Interesting. Tristan caught Angharad’s eye and gestured to the side, leading to her excusing herself and dragging a relieved Izel off with her as Tristan moved to join them.
“-orgot he is an admirer of your father’s,” Angharad said. “Apologies, I should have warned you.”
“It’s nothing,” Izel said. “It is not so rare, I simply did not expect it from a highborn Malani.”
Tristan clapped Izel’s shoulder and leaned in between them.
“I have a working arrangement with the Thirty-First, if Angharad is willing to make a great and terrible sacrifice for the cause.”
Izel looked troubled, Angharad cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Which would be?”
“You must,” Tristan solemnly said, “take Shalini Goel out for a night in town.”
A moment passed. Angharad cleared her throat.
“For the good of us all,” she solemnly replied, “I will undertake this mission.”
Izel sighed.
“Well, I suppose at least you didn’t offer her hand in marriage,” he said.
“I also secured us pooling funds together when buying supplies,” Tristan said. “It should let us bargain for better prices to buy in bulk, and Zenzele suggested opening that arrangement to the independents.”
“That would be a fine gesture,” Angharad approved.
Izel’s eyes narrowed, catching on there was something afoot there. Tristan innocently blinked back at him. They would have kept that up for a while, if a gunshot did not shatter the peace.
Half the crowd ducked low, reaching for blades or guns, while the rest scattered. Tristan’s eyes were drawn upwards, to the sight of what had been shot. Some sort of powder mixture, by the looks of it. The almost-fireworks fell like golden rain for two heartbeats before fading, leaving an empty swath in the middle of the crowd and standing on the stage- fuck.
“If I may have a moment of your attention,” Captain Yaotl Acatl called out, hand resting on her sawblade’s hilt as she stood exactly where the Marshal had.
The Nineteenth was a full stack brigade, but on the stage besides the princess Tristan counted only three. Which meant- the crowd gasped as three blades were suddenly drawn, room made around the Thirteenth as the other three Skiritai moved on them. Izel and Angharad got their weapons out, but Tristan found himself with a blade at his throat before he could finish drawing his knife. A tall Izcalli woman, barefaced liked Nenetl, held a long saber beneath his chin.
“By refusing to surrender Izel Coyac to me so he might make up for his offenses, the Thirteenth Brigade forces me to offer them enmity,” Yaotl Acatl announced. “My Nineteenth are no cowards, so we declare war on them here before the eyes of gods and men.”
Posturing, Tristan gauged. His gaze flicked back to the Izcalli with a blade at his throat, who winked and blew him a kiss. Tall, bony, worn hands. More muscle than one would expect from her frame.
“The name is Ahuic, Lierganen,” she said. “Remember it.”
The blade remained still under his chin, not even the slightest of trembles, as the princess continued to posture up on the stage. Tristan did not spare a second look at the span of steel less than an inch away from his throat, because it didn’t really matter. Ahuic wasn’t going to open his throat, they both knew that. Instead he watched the princess’ painted face as she bombastically cast her challenge at the Thirteenth Brigade, the rest of her pack of Militants standing around like smirking props.
They were enjoying the attention on them, the weight of so many looks. This was their debut, their debutante ball, the send-off of their time of glory at Scholomance.
Tristan was a fair hand at reading faces, and no matter how hard he looked he found no malice in Yaotl Acatl. That should have been a relief, because rivalry could be shaped. Could be made into something useful in a way that hate could not – the difference between a torch and a house fire. That was the smart play, putting a yoke on her and pointing her at the dantesvara with a taunt or a wager. She would die or help, a gain either way. But even as the girl continued to boast and strut, all Tristan could think of was: I know you.
That look in her eyes, the way she stood… Like she was not cowed by the staring of the students because deep down she thought she should be stared at. It was her world, her stage, and in playing out her little spectacle with Izel Coyac she didn’t particularly care what she broke. Even if she knew that her strutting could cost Tristan his – Fortuna, even if she knew that she wouldn’t give a shit.
Tristan knew Yaotl Acatl because he’d met here before. The likeness of her. Rich kids who came to have a taste of the Murk: cheat at cards, get into a brawl, steal a kiss off some pretty barmaid. Then they went back to the Orchard and boasted to their friends about their edge, never mentioning the ten hard men bearing steel who’d shadowed them everywhere.
Tristan knew that face, that unthinking confidence. Prosperity dyed so deep in the bones that they thought of misery as a game because they knew it would never follow them home. Never mind the men they’d robbed, the limbs broken, the mangled lives they left behind. They lived wearing the invisible armor of gold and breeding, the mud never so much as reaching their boots, so to them the mud wasn’t real.
She had that way about her, Yaotl Acatl. Like the mud hadn’t ever touched her boots so she’d never learned to watch her step.
“- should pack up your things,” the princess smirked. “You will be leaving Scholomance soon enough.”
And then, like an actress on a stage, she flipped her hair over her shoulder and began to stalk away. The Izcalli holding him up, Ahuic, caught his eye and blew him a second kiss before she sheathed her sword with a fancy flourish and swirled her cape turning. Performing her role in this play, protected by rules and arrangements and the distant warding sword of consequences. Wading through the sewer without the slightest fear of shit on her shoes.
None of them were even looking back, so it was the simplest thing in the world: Tristan drew, aimed and shot that swaggering fucking idiot in the back.
He would have liked to say it was a calculated decision. It wasn’t. The execution was calculated, almost absent-mindedly. He avoided the quick killers – thighs, groin, neck – and angled away from the spine, but the movement itself had been a spasm. Like a sneeze, if those came in boiling red. Ahuic dropped screaming, the bullet punching through her cloak and uniform into the side of her stomach. A shame the princess had been too far.
Like a stone in a pond, consequence rippled out even as Tristan’s mind ran cold. Swords and guns drawn anew, shouts and screams and even some laughter. It was a shiver, the way the Nineteenth turned towards them even as Angharad drew and Izel shouted for everyone to stop, and Tristan knew it had been a mistake. There had been better plays, safer angles. He should have taken his time and used them instead of raised the stakes, he’d trimmed away options. Established a level of acceptable violence that did not favor him.
But it was done, and before witnesses. The Nineteenth could never be anything but enemies now, he had wounded them. So he must wound them as deeply as he could. He looked around, at the faces, and picked his play.
Ahuic was still screaming. Her sort of wound was excruciatingly painful, spilling stomach acid all over her inside. The hourglass on her death had been flipped: only so long before she bled out. Tristan moved and in a moment he was on the fallen Skiritai, flipping her with a kick in the side as she wailed. The princess had leaped down the stage and was closing even as he reached inside his coat and produced a small vial.
He popped it one-handed, crouching over the wild-eyed Ahuic, and- a flicker, Acatl jumping off stage towards him with that fancy sawsword in hand, almost close enough to strike.
“If you any closer, I might fumble the dosage,” he said.
“You yellow-bellied-”
Tristan forced open Ahuic’s mouth and poured a third of the vial in. She struggled and screamed, but he squeezed her nose and made her swallow.
“You think a painkiller will make up for this?” Yaotl Acatl disbelievingly said.
Tristan blinked at her once, then laughed.
“Painkiller?” he wheezed as he corked the vial. “Gods, no. This is dragon snail venom.”
The sawsword cut at the air with a whistle, coming a mere foot away from his skull before Angharad forced it down with her saber. The mirror-dancer’s face looked like it had been carved out of stone, but her eyes looked ahead and that where her anger was pointed. Tristan rose to his feet easily, made a show of it.
“It’s not lethal, Acatl,” he said. “Not at this concentration anyway. What it will do, instead, is shred the part of her brains that controls her body.”
“Tristan,” Angharad breathed out. “Stop.”
He did not.
“Uncontrollable shaking,” he said. “She will piss and shit herself like a toddler, struggle to articulate even simple sounds. All this for the rest of her life.”
Or until Lady Knit exacted so ruinous a price that even a pawnshop would balk.
“I will see you shot for that,” Yaotl Acatl snarled.
“On what grounds?” Tristan asked. “She’s not dead: leave now and you can bring her to the hospital in time. The venom is not lethal. I have not broken a single rule of Scholomance.”
He raised his hand, using the time to glance around and gauge the crowd again. The Thirty-First was near them, he found, but everything else he saw told him there was no need to bank on it. Acatl hesitated for a heartbeat at his words, surprised, so he slid the knife in the gap.
“You threaten us to run us out of Scholomance and you think we will what – applaud?” Tristan said, methodically beginning to reload his pistol. “This isn’t Izcalli, princess. No one here cares what make-believe story you use to justify yourself: when you pick a fight, a fight happens.”
“I’ll take a leg in recompense, then,” the princess sneered. “You can crawl to the-”
“You’re not paying attention,” Tristan said. “Why are you under the impression that anyone here would just let you?”
She looked around, then, and finally saw what part of Tristan had known even in the midst of his flash of rage: Yaotl Acatl had no friends in the Old Playhouse.
Room had formed around them, at first, but the circle had closed. Firmed. Weapons had not been stowed away and the Nineteenth Brigade slowly realized that their antics on stage had impressed no one. The faces looking at them were somber, scowling. It didn’t matter to the students in black cloaks whether or not Izel had slighted her. Izel Coyac was a second year. He had paid his dues. He’d fought in the mud, he’d shown his mettle, he had a record here.
Acatl was the greatest of names, in Izcalli, but Izcalli was very far away.
Tristan saw it sink in her like a knife that if she tried to fight here, if she pushed? She would not be fighting the Thirteenth alone. The few other underclassmen were edging as far away from her as they could, as if afraid of being associated, and the upperclassmen? All they saw was a cocksure first year who thought she could swagger in and run out of town a second year cabal. After the runout at Misery Square, not even brigades who despised the Thirteenth would be willing to stand on that side. None were willing to allow the precedent.
“Coward twice over,” the princess scorned. “First you shoot in the back, and now you hide behind a crowd.”
She turned her gaze on Izel, no doubt aiming to drag the conversation back there to grounds she was better prepared for, but why would he let her?
“We could have settled this peacefully, as blackcloaks,” Tristan said. “But you’re not interested in that, are you Yaotl? Because you’re not really here to join the Watch.”
Murmurs from the crowd. The order drew from everywhere, but in Scholomance? Here most of them were legacies, generations of the black. There was pride in that, and pride could be used. He smiled in contempt that was not in the least feigned.
“You’re just putting on the cloak for a few months until you’ve settled your accounts with one of us, then you’ll run home and have your uncle clean up behind you,” he conversationally said. “You’re a sightseer, Yaotl Acatl. You’re here on holiday, counting the days until you run back to Izcalli.”
Even through the paint, he could see the way her face went red. Oh? It was even true, then.
“No one here owes you respect,” Tristan said. “Least of all the poor fools you’ve roped into facing the tribunals for you when you leave.”
And there his gaze went to the other cabalists, the Skiritai who had not quite dared to attack even after he shot one of them.
“There are two ways sticking with her can end,” Tristan Abrascal told them. “A dead career, for having helped an Izcalli princess swindle the very Watch you came here to join.”
He then pointed at the half-corpse he had made of Ahuic.
“Or that.”
He met their eyes.
“Is the pay good enough to merit either?”
A beat of silence.
“Sleeping God, Tristan,” Angharad cursed in a whisper. “This is the last time I ever tell you to draw first.”
Comments
Young Youghurt
Second years crawled trough gutter to get to survive. Freshmen don't get it... yet.
Notcreepycreeper
I love this series. It's grimdark with flawed characters that allows for catharsis in a way other books don't. But that catharsis also comes with real consequences, stopping it from being teenage wishfullfillment and instead chances for character growth
Aguido Horatio Davis
Does Yao feel worse about this than Angharad did about the whole infernal forge debacle, do you reckon?
Ed
so we have a angry lady knit, morcant's contract and the princess tantrun, that girl could be healed and tristan would need to be more carefull, on the other hand a mask has called the princess an outsider, morcant would need to be very carefull too if he want to take her in his brigade.
