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Chapter 12
🕑 Added 2025-06-06 16:00:15 +0000 UTCThe taste against the roof of his mouth was foul, like rotten flowers.
What had it been – mafeisan, juniper, letheon? Not letheon, it would have knocked him out faster. It must have been mafeisan, the Tianxi tincture supposedly had over ten different herbs in it. Tristan slipped out of the sheets, bare feet against the wooden floor, and crouched to put on his boots. Move, don’t think. Move. His clothes were on the chair in a neatly folded pile, Song Ren’s quiet touch, and methodically he put back on what the physicians had removed in his sleep. Under the clothes he found his weapons.
Not that’d he used a single one of them tonight.
He turned, ready to reply to the mocking quip, but no one stood there. Bile rose in his throat. Move, don’t think. Soft steps in the hall, a dimmed lantern approaching. One of the gray-robed physicians going around the hallway paused by the open door, frowning down at him, and checked the slate she carried under her arm.
“Tristan Abrascal?”
His pistol had been unloaded and cleaned. Song again. He tucked it away, strapping back into place his knife and blackjack.
“You are to stay in bed until discharged,” the physician said.
He considered her, just a moment. The stern face, the hunched shoulders of someone whose shift had been going on for too long. By instinct he tried to run his fingers along the side of the cup, to feel the rattling of the dice – the strength of the odds gathered here – but there was nothing. A spasm of fresh grief burned out any affability he might have been able to scrape up.
“Then consider me discharged,” Tristan flatly said, and walked through the doorway.
She tried to block him, but between the slate and the lantern she couldn’t quite place herself right. He shouldered her out of the way, none too gently, and ignored her call to come back while heading for the stairs. By the time she was threatening to call the guards on him, still in a lowered voice since she was afraid to wake up other patients, he was already going down the steps.
He had to get out. To find a place to go to ground. Already he had broken down in front of Tredegar and – his jaw clenched until his teeth ached of it. Tristan spat out a breath as he hurried down. Tredegar could be trusted. He had her measure, and tonight she had saved his life at great risk to her own. That went in the ledger. But he couldn’t think here, with all these things and people to watch out for. He needed quiet, he needed dark, he needed for there to be no one around.
There were no guards at the bottom of the stairs. Only another gray-robed physician, another woman who- shit. That wasn’t a woman at all, was it?
“Now, what do we have here?” Lady Knit purred.
The goddess didn’t move, not really. Her body was a trick of the eye, an assemblage of threads to let you buy into the lie that she was something like a person. And when she dispensed with that deception, it was the strands themselves that moved – like a plume of blood in water, an almost lazy spurt of threads. They curled around him in the blink of an eye, almost close enough to touch, and like a line of flipped cards she rewove herself into a person’s shape besides him. Almost. She was still too tall, too slender, too elongated. And even in the dim light of the lantern, he could make out the faint lines of the threads making up her ‘face’.
In a sick way, the horror of it was a comfort. A rabbit had no time to spare for grief when standing before a fox.
“Honored elder,” Tristan tightly greeted her, fist over heart as he bowed.
“Tris-tan Ab-ra-scal,” Lady Knit spoke into the air, as if tasting the words. “It has a ring to it, doesn’t it? A roll of the tongue. It fills the mouth.”
“Your praise honors me,” he said.
The goddess… fluttered, for lack of better word. Every thread of her moving all at once.
“It does not,” she said. “You are out of bed.”
“I am leaving,” Tristan said. “I would not haunt your hall any longer than required.”
The thing laughed. A shiver, half of her disassembling like a pulled thread while she reformed on the other side of him, bent over to whisper into his ear.
“And you no longer require my aid, Tristan Abrascal?” she said. “Come now, the hollowness inside you echoes. Celebrant to an empty altar, contracted to a corpse. Every step you take rattles in the wind, Tristan Abrascal.”
He did not like how she said his name. Did not like it at all. It felt intimate in a malformed way, like someone playfully trailing a finger against the inside of your lungs.
“A sad state of affairs, for a Mask,” he drawled, putting on a charming smile. “I will spare you further rattling, my lady, and remove myself from the premises.”
“She isn’t dead, you know,” Lady Knit idly said. “Not yet.”
Every part of him clenched, a man made into a grip. The thief almost reached for his knife before stopping that foolishness. What would a knife do, save weaken his position? His instincts were being too vicious, too reckless. Reckless got rats killed.
“What do you know?” he demanded.
“I know that the imposter-beast swallowed her whole,” Lady Knit said. “And I know she went against her own nature at the end, Tristan Abrascal.”
She leaned in just shy of his skin, this spindly thread-thing, and breathed in deep as if savoring the scent.
“She spent herself to save you,” Lady Knit said. “It’s on you still, we can all feel it. The last prayer of the Lady of Long Odds: that the jaws would miss you. That you would live. And it smells delicious.”
She had- he swallowed, wanted to weep. Fortuna had? But gods, gods could not go against their nature. Could not change, could not truly love because it was outside of what they were and they could only ever be that. And still Fortuna had… No, not here. Not now. He could not crumple, there would be no recovering from it.
“It swallowed her whole,” he said, concentrating on the most important part, “but she still lives?”
She must. Song, Song had said the contract was still there. Just dulled.
“Like a snake swallowing a mouse, it must render the fat of her,” Lady Knit said. “Digest her, layer by layer."
"How long does she have?” Tristan pressed.
A flutter, a riot of threads, and like a flock erupting back into itself the tall goddess stood tall and whole before him with her hands tucked into her sleeves.
“It seems I have something you want,” Lady Knit said. “Shall we make a bargain, Tristan Abrascal?”
And the urge was there to accept. To leap into the pit, to snatch the apples from the display and run. But that was the first thing a good thief learned to kill, that little voice that told you there just wasn’t enough time and you had to do it now. He was in Scholomance. There were Savants here, instructors and libraries that few on Vesper could rival.
He might need what she peddled, but he didn’t need her.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing much,” Lady Knit purred. “Only that little prayer, Tristan Abrascal. Not even something of yours.”
Tristan cocked his head to the side.
“So it has a use of some kind for gods,” he said. “That is good to know. Thank you for the information, Lady Knit.”
And he walked away.
A hiss of anger and the threads skittered angrily, a roiling mass with only her head forming at the end. She slid along the floor, keeping up with him as he made for the front door.
“You will regret this,” Lady Knit said, and the writhing threads sounded like a thousand wriggling worms. “I am-”
A mistake, how he had done it. Slighting her. There might come a day where he needed her services and gods held grudges. He should back down now, give her a victory to chew on. And yet. His teeth ached from the blind urge to take a fucking bite.
“You are a pawn shop with priests,” Tristan cut her off. “You feed on mistakes, honored elder, but you’ll not find such an easy meal in me.”
They were in the great hall, by then, and the weight of gazes made Lady Knit pull away. A god was not such a fearful thing, after you had seen them throw a tantrum, and Lady Knit needed that fear. How many students would knife her in revenge for the price she’d exacted, given half a chance? Not few, and the number would only grow after tonight.
Tristan walked out of the accursed place and did not look back. A green star burned far above, morning’s mark, but it was fading.
He might still make it in time if he hurried.
--
The Chimerical was closed.
That would not have stopped him, never had before, but he did not need to pick the lock as despite the sign the door was not barred. There was a murmur of talk inside, momentarily drowned out by the rush of warm and bitter air as he closed the door behind him. Even after over a year Tristan had not come to enjoy the smell of coffee.
The cramped insides of the shop were not entirely full, but still had more seats filled than would be usual at this hour – a mere stroke before seven. Two of the walled booths were occupied, between them fitting five Masks who all looked up as he entered. Tristan graced them with a nod, then went straight for the counter.
Behind it stood Hage, cleaning up a cup with a moist rag and an obsessive need for every nook and cranny to be pristine. The old devil only acknowledged him with a nod before inclining his head towards the booths. Good, Tristan had not arrived so late he would have to pay a fee. Hage never missed an opportunity to squeeze something out of them, even if it was just coppers the devil had no real use for.
The other students were familiar sights, Hage’s pupils in one of the two subjects he taught. The fuller of the two booths boasted the three he had first encountered during the hunt for the Deicide class. Cressida, hat off and on the table, graced him with a bored look as she sipped at a steaming cup of black tar. Silumko, who sat by her, offered a smile and pretended not to notice while the Someshwari on his other side - Ira of Vennai, Silumko’s old ally from last year – stole a piece of shortbread from his plate.
There was little room left there so his eyes moved to the other booth and its occupants. Imani Langa sat in the middle, smiling at him in every way that Silumko had not, but it was a thin mask. Her face was drawn tight, the cast of her shoulders slumped. She must have lost someone last night. Part of him sympathized, but another marked the angle.
The other Mask there was Ruo Xuan Liu, a fresher acquaintance. The Cryptic from the Ninth Brigade gravely greeted him, though the impression was somewhat undercut by the way Mephistopheline was half-perched on the Tianxi’s shoulder and purring loudly, shoving his wet nose into Ruo’s ear as the man tried and failed not to show discomfort. Tristan slid onto the bench besides Imani Langa, on the opposite side from Ruo.
Hage set down the long-clean cup, checked the clock on the wall and only turned to face them when it struck seven.
“As of this morning, your orders have changed,” the old devil told them. “You will no longer be aimed at your underclassmen.”
There was not a word of disagreement, even though for some of them it would mean leaving coin on the table. The assignment of tricking the first year Masks into seeking the tutelage of fake teachers had been popular – especially after he and Ruo settled on how much they would charge for the ‘information’ they were selling – but after Misery Square there was no longer a taste for it.
It felt like a distraction, because it was.
“You are all now on fishing duty,” Hage said. “Marshal de la Tavarin pushed through his scheme of slaying the Lord of Teeth as surrogate yearly test, so the student body will be split between that hunt and the response that Colonel Cao arranged. We want eyes in both.”
Tristan tried to hide his ignorance but evidently he was a beat too slow. Imani Langa leaned in, beads clattering.
“Exploration crews are to be sent into the depths Scholomance to find a path towards the Lightbringer’s own library, where dwells a god that may have answers for us,” she murmured.
He forced himself to smile and give a thankful nod. It was so minor a debt he was not truly worried over it, but it was a debt still. Langa had taken every opportunity to put him in these since Asphodel, and he knew exactly why. She wanted him to owe her enough that should Angharad ever come for her neck he would warn her first. Ira cleared her throat, getting a nod from Hage.
“Are we fishing for anything in particular, or just going out to sea?”
Fishing was a tradecraft term when used in that manner. To ‘go fishing’ was to insert yourself into an enterprise or movement and gather information from the inside. This could be done for a particular reason like ‘going fishing for a cult’ or ‘going fishing for treason’, or it could be done in the more general sense of investigating the situation. The latter was referred to as ‘going out to sea’.
“After revision of last night’s events, there are some concerns that a third party might be attempting to help Scholomance by attacking the Watch,” Hage said. “Investigation and pursuit of such a party takes precedence over anything else you might encounter.”
Vague words, too vague for the revelation he had just dropped on a room full of suddenly blank-faced Masks. Tristan cleared his throat, getting a permissive nod from the devil.
“What kind of third party?” he rasped out. “Because this doesn’t sound like the work of our cousins.”
The ‘cousins’ were too many to count, but everyone knew the important names: the Lefthand House, the Monkey Society, the Kautilyaka, the Yellow Earth and even the Ambassadorial. The Monkey Society and the Lefthand House were sure to have people in Scholomance, and likely the Kautilyaka as well, but letting loose a Lord of Teeth on students did not sound like their kind of play.
“I must agree with Master Abrascal,” Ruo Xuan Liu said, sipping at a cup of Totochtin gold. “Even the most radical of Yellow Earth zealots would balk at the death being courted by such an attack.”
Tristan was inclined to agree. If the Watch got a name to blame for tonight, bodies were going to pile up. It was a very public black eye for the Obscure Committee and none of its sitting members sounded like the sort of people to take that without pulling a knife.
“Could be the Kautilyaka,” Ira suggested. “Some are bold enough to bet that without knowing which clan is responsible the Watch won’t dare to retaliate.”
Which would be foolish. It might have worked for a tap on the nose, but a mess like this? The Watch would just turn the screws on all the clans until they started giving up those responsible.
“The Crooks don’t move without a reason, they’re mercenaries,” Cressida pointed out. “Who in the Imperial Someshwar has both the means and a reason to want last night to happen?”
“Nobody’s suggesting the Ambassadorial might be behind it?” Silumko lightly said. “Strange.”
Some sparse laughter, none from Tristan. Sacromonte’s diplomatic service was usually considered the least competent of the spies fielded by great powers, often making them the butt of such jokes. But Tristan was in no laughing mood and his eyes stayed on Hage. There was one rival institution that the word ‘cousins’ excluded, the one with which the Watch was never at more than a temporary truce.
“We do not suspect the Office of Opposition at this time,” Hage told him. “Our working theory is a hostile entity, so keep an eye out for… influence.”
He breathed in sharply and was not the only one. ‘Entity’ could mean quite a few things, but usually it meant a god. Fuck. Another god might be helping Scolomancia eat the Watch, and its idea of an opening move was apparently unleashing a Lord of Teeth on a student gathering.
“You will be expected to give weekly reports,” Hage told them. “And I would suggest taking care in writing them, as they will be passed directly to Lord Asher.”
Which had an obvious implication.
“He’s to stay on Tolomontera, sir?” Imani asked.
“Until the current troubles are brought to a conclusion,” Hage agreed.
He picked up his rag after, and grabbed another cup to clean. A signal that the briefing was at an end, though not a dismissal. If receiving assignments was the only reason to come here, they would not have all come at the same time. Tristan might not even have shown. No, it was for what was now to begin he had dragged his tired body across Hostel Street to the coffee house. Hage’s part was finished, so now the students could begin horse trading.
“I’ll trade for anything on Marshal de la Tavarin,” Cressida announced. “Skiritai don’t usually have the kind of pull he just showed.”
“And your offer in exchange, Mistress Barboza?” Ruo Xuan asked.
“A firsthand report on the effects of candlesteel against the-”
She was universally booed by the rest, since any Stripe in good standing would be able to get access to that anyway. The report was sure to end up filed in the Galleries, they’d all know the contents within a few days.
“Fine,” she scowled. “Information on Yaotl Acatl and how she ended up in Scholomance.”
She sent him a smug look as she made the offer, which he did not react to. However pleased she might be at the notion of using what she saw as his coin to buy up she wanted, he’d had no intention of airing Izel’s dirty laundry. She robbed him of nothing.
“I’ll put up the identity of three lemures getting added to the Steel List this year,” Silumko said, “for quality roseless compass schematics.”
That got some whistles. So the Twenty-Ninth was leaning the way of Scholomance exploration. Tristan ran a quick mental tally of their members. They were run by a nobleborn Malani, a Stripe by the name of Emeni something, then they had a Skiritai in Yaq and an Izcalli scholar from the Peiling Society. A better fit for exploration than the hunt, Tristan agreed.
“I’ll take that,” Ira called out.
No one bid over her, so on it went.
“I would require a list of known candlesteel weapons in Port Allazei,” Ruo Xuan asked. “For the trouble, I offer a detailed dossier on Ritwik Banerjee for any to peruse.”
That was the name of the signifier from the Third Brigade. How like the Tianxi to try to screw over his brigades’ rivals even when he was paying up. Going for a list of candlesteel was good as stating the Ninth was aiming at the Lord of Teeth, which meant decent odds the Third would be doing the same. Good news for Tristan: the more of the princelings went after the beast, the better. The Thirteenth would help him get Fortuna out, he was sure of it, but it was not work for a single brigade.
Imani Langa asked for information on a student whose name Tristan did not recognize – shopping for a replacement? – and offered in exchange a report on the relationships inside their year’s circle of Malani lordlings. Shallow give, but shallow ask. Ruo Xuan matched it, but Cressida did as well and added an introduction to said student by a friendly acquaintance. The Tianxi declined to bid further, ceding way. Ira passed her own turn, preferring to listen, and eyes turned to him.
He hesitated. Not struggling with the words – he had known every single one before opening the Chimerical’s door – but because saying them would make it real. Strip him of the distraction this small interlude had been and back into the bleak reality of Fortuna being gone. Weakness, he snarled at himself. He would not let his own fragility get in the way of getting her back.
“I need blackmail material on a Savant specialized in practical theology,” Tristan said, tone even. “Or a question answered by one such with a guarantee of privacy.”
Calculating eyes all landed on him.
“For?” Cressida asked, leaning forward.
He reached inside his cloak, pulling out from a patch sown inside the pocket a small thing. A piece of nacre, no longer than a nail because that was exactly what it was. He set it on the table with a small clack.
“A piece of solidified luck,” he said.
“Fuck me,” Silumko muttered. “That’s from when you almost went Saint, isn’t?”
“He howled like a pup with a thorn when they had to pull it out of his finger,” Cressida smiled.
He inclined his head at her. Unpleasant as she was being, she was also vouching for the authenticity of what he peddled.
“I’ll take that,” Silumko hastily said, eyes never leaving the nacre.
“I will match you, Master Silumko,” Ruo Xuan said, “and add that the inquiry will be answered within…”
He pulled out a pocket watch, checked it and smiled.
“The next hour and fifteen minutes,” he said.
Tristan’s eyes flicked back to Silumko, who sighed and shook his head. The thief might be closer to the Malani, but the sooner he had his answer the better.
“Done,” he said, sliding his former nail across the table.
Ruo Xuan carefully palmed it, placing it in a handkerchief he then folded and tucked away. The Tianxi then rose to his feet.
“Should anyone desire to take up my trade, I will be here tomorrow evening,” he said. “Otherwise, I bid you all a good day.”
He bowed to them at large, then again at Hage, and cocked an eyebrow at Tristan.
“Shall we, Master Abrascal?”
“By all means,” the thief said, following him out.
--
Why Ruo Xuan had felt so confident to bid and even set a timeline became quite obvious after the man led them into the garden tables of the Emerald Vault and sat across one of his fellow cabalists.
Andreu Claver was a tall, curly-haired man with a quick smile and an easy wager. He wore a cutlass and moved like a man comfortable bearing it, which made sense given his faint Riven Coast accent. It was a prized weapon in that chaotic stretch of coast, in a way the symbol of the turbulent pirate kingdoms that rose and fell there seemingly at a whim. It would have been unwarranted, of course, to assume that the man was a former pirate just because he came from the Coast.
But it wasn’t an assumption, because the Claver were famous pirates. They were one of the oft-quoted examples of pirates ‘made good’, their family having become the unofficially hereditary palace mayors of the city of Mendebal. The kings of Mendebal changed every few years, but never the last name of the palace mayor and the wise men knew who it was deals must be struck with. Ruo introduced Andreu as a member of the Peiling Society, which Tristan had known, and a specialist in theology – which Tristan had not. The other thing he knew, though, was that Claver liked a drink and was one of the worst gossips in their year. So much for the guarantee of privacy.
Tristan turned an unimpressed look on the other Mask, who produced a pair of small bracelets of black stones, barely more than beads. They were painted with Cathayan symbols in gold, though Tristan recognized none of them. The sort of bracelet, though, was somewhat familiar. He had seen something similar on Tupoc Xical’s arm back on the Dominion of Lost Things. While he had never seen the last pair used, Angharad had told him of them.
“Oath stones,” he said.
“Fascinating things,” Andreu Claver said. “One of the Second Empire’s cleverest creations, though they had to hack up Antediluvian ruins for the materials. It is an aether seal, in practice, but one that can only be placed under very specific circumstances.”
“It is not lethal,” Ruo Xuan informed him. “Breaking the oath would instead wipe out a year’s worth of memories.”
“Likely less,” Andreu mused. “It has been used before and the methods to restore it are imperfect.”
Even if it were only six months, Tristan thought, it would still be deterrent enough.
“That will do,” he said.
“Then we have an accord, Master Abrascal,” Ruo Xuan replied.
The Ninth did business like the princelings they were: they paid for his breakfast, the three of them choosing the terms of the oath before the Ruo and Claver put on the bracelets and took it. Ruo then polished off the last of his soup and left them to speak privately. Andreu flashed him a smile, dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief.
“Lay it on me, Abrascal,” he said.
Tristan simply slid a folded paper across the table. The Savant picked it up and his brow rose.
“I will need more information than that,” he said.
He leaned to the side, opening a small pack and taking out a steel-tip pen and ink.
“Ask,” Tristan said.
Claver hummed, flipping the paper to have the empty part looking up and quickly began to sketch out what looked to Tristan like an equation – though one with several strange symbols in it.
“The deity in question,” he said. “Where does it fall on the scale of orders?”
“Presumed fourth,” Tristan said. “She has not manifested.”
The Savant quickly scribbled a few numbers above two of the symbols.
“This will be an estimate,” Claver warned him. “I would need a precise measure of the deity and of the creature trying to digest it for precise numbers.”
“As close as you can, then,” Tristan replied through gritted teeth.
“Assuming that the Lord of Teeth is not a metaphysical anomaly and that Gloam is not involved – which would make the entire formula mathematically impossible to solve,” Andreu Claver muttered, “you are looking at…”
One last stroke of the pen, then he slashed through the numbers.
“Between one hundred and nineteen to one hundred and fifty-three days,” the Savant said. “Second Empire standard.”
Three to five months, Tristan translated.
“This is barring exceptional deviation from either entity involved,” Claver cautioned him. “Still, it would be highly surprising for a fourth-order entity to remain coherent past the upper boundary I gave you.”
So that was the timeline, Tristan thought. Three months, with anything past that a mounting risk. Any longer than five and what was left, if anything, would no longer be Fortuna. He rose from his seat, politely declining Claver’s jovial offer of sharing a few drinks and ‘getting to know each other’. Checking on the wounded of the Thirteenth was, thankfully, good enough an excuse no one could get offended. Three months. His fists clenched. It was so little.
But he wasn’t alone, he had the Thirteenth. He just needed to find them.
The Rainsparrow first, then.
--
The unpretentious shabbiness of the Rainsparrow Hostel had grown on Angharad, not unlike a sort of earnest weed.
It helped that the Thirteenth had come to patronize the Rainsparrow’s eatery regularly by simple virtue of having lodgings here. The contract – and following discreet favor – they had done for its owner Master Frazao had obtained a room here at the fixed price of four silvers a month, a significant discount that would only grow more significant as the months passed and prices began to rise again. Angharad had also grown used to the eatery being half-empty at the best of times, but that was not the case this morning. Very much the opposite, alas.
Carving into her potato omelet, Angharad put on a smile for the fourth student to have stopped at her table in the five minutes since she had sat down to eat.
“-to your name,” Captain Ohtli of the One Hundred and Seventy-Fifth Brigade said. “It was a brave deed, to stand alone against the Lord of Teeth.”
The long-haired Izcalli was not simpering as some of the others had been, a mark in his favor. The potato omelet was not an impressive meal but not so shoddy that tepid flattery would be preferable to it.
“My thanks,” Angharad replied, “but you praise me too highly. Had Amaru Wayar of the First Brigade not used a Sign on the beast I would not have reached it in time.”
She had made a point of learning the name of the First Brigade’s signifier last night in part to avoid such laurels being laid at her feet alone. Men tended to remember the jumping about more than the Signs, when it was a subtle a touch as the one Amaru had used. It had been no chore to speak with her, besides, as by Akelarre standards the woman was positively social.
Amaru was also not Izcalli, as Angharad had mistakenly believed, but an Aztlan from the small Kingdom of Kantusuyu. She had been raised under the Black Dog Brigade, a free company based in that kingdom and one of the largest working in Izcalli. Another fearsomely connected member for the First, as was their custom.
“Amaru Wayar did not leap atop the head of the beast,” Captain Ohtli insisted.
Angharad almost rolled her eyes. That tale had gotten out of hand. The way it was being told now, she had flown in the air like a bird and landed on the dantesvara’s back with a flourish and a taunt. As she had already done twice this morning, she explained to Ohtli that the beast had lowered its body to break down the tower and then further lowered its head to impale her on a horn. She must have been unclear, because for the third time this failed to convince her interlocutor the story was being exaggerated.
Still, after further uncomfortable accolades Captain Ohtli got to the reason he had truly approached her.
“It is being said the Watch will arrange a hunt of the Lord of Teeth,” the Izcalli said. “Do you intend to lend your blade to the effort?”
And there we were. Again.
“My brigade has not yet made a decision,” Angharad flatly replied.
The man tried to press her a little further, but Angharad pointedly began to eat her by now lukewarm potato omelet. The temperature did the already middling meal no favors. Eventually the Izcalli left and Angharad allowed herself a sigh. Allazei was rife with rumors of this purported hunt, and already many were attempting to find out who would and would not try their hand at it.
Angharad did not begrudge the caution – she too would hesitate to commit to such an enterprise before knowing who would share in it – but the talk had an unfortunate scent of politicking to it. Most of those who had approached her this morning were first-year students, whose reputation as a whole had plummeted after last night. Somewhat unfairly, given that a number of them had fought and died with the second years, but that the leading upperclassmen brigades had been the ones to helm the ship during the storm had set the tone of the tale being told.
Her read of it was that first-year captains saw the hunt as a way to redeem the reputation of their brigades but remained wary of the risks involved. As one of those who had stood out last night, Angharad represented a way to gauge where the second years stood on the matter. Did the upperclassmen think it feasible, worth attempting? Likely they assumed that if ‘even’ Angharad refused to involve herself the whole affair would be a wash.
Unfortunately for them Angharad represented nothing in particular, as she had no real idea of what was happening. She had woken up barely half an hour ago, leaving Song to her snoring before coming down for a bite. Hurrying to dig into her meal before she could be interrupted again, Angharad did not notice a hush had fallen over the room before she put down her knife and the clatter of it echoed. Raising her head warily, she found a sight that gave her pause.
How Marshal de la Tavarin had managed to fit his hat through the doorway, given that it was at least a foot broader, had her mind stalling for a moment. As did the way that, most unusually, his clothes looked almost sober. Though his pinned sleeves were still an eye-searing shade of pink, his trousers and hose were now Watch-black to match his coat, as was his cravat. Even the foot-long feather on his hat was black, save for a midnight blue peacock eye.
His lionhead cane rang against the floor as he crossed the room, the old man pausing once he was halfway through to stroke his snow-white mustache as he eyed the crowd.
“Out,” Marshal de la Tavarin ordered.
By now the second years knew the man by sight, so not a single one of them hesitating longer than a moment to rise. Bait, who Angharad only then noticed had been sitting in a corner this whole time, eyed his plated mournfully then crammed half an omelet in his mouth and made for the door. Angharad rose to join them, but the old man caught her gaze.
“Not you,” he said. “Sit down.”
Swallowing, Angharad did.
Within ten heartbeats the kitchen was emptied of cooks. The sight of them and the upperclassmen heeding the stranger’s order rippled out across the first years. They might not know who the Marshal was, but they could see people who did obeying him. The first to go were the nearly done and the cautious, then the eddy of the current drew in the others ever more strongly as the room turned empty and none wanted to be the last.
Every empty seat made her staying behind stand out a little more, until she was reduced to awkwardly finishing the last of the potato omelet for lack of anything better to do. The Marshal ordered the last out to close the door behind him, then turned a look on her.
“Good morning,” he cheerfully said.
Angharad saluted and tried not to choke on her last mouthful as she did, setting aside the cutlery.
“Good morning, sir,” she gasped out.
The brass lionhead cane rapped sharply against the ground as Marshal finished crossing the room, coat trailing behind him.
“How can I help you?” she tried.
The Marshal moved a seat aside, placing it on the side of the table, then slid in the seat across hers and after a flourish of his sleeve produced a silvery trinket. Two thin cylinders curved at the base to meet, a smaller cylinder emerging from that union to be set into a small round steel box. It looked a little like a music box with a fork stuck in it.
“Accusations of cheating have been made,” Marshal de la Tavarin told her. “Tell me, Tredegar, have you recently seen anything unusual? Or perhaps been struck by sudden waves of exhaustion?”
Was he implying that she was… But then why would he call that cheating? Jaw clenched, Angharad reached inside her coat and produced her brigade plaque. She placed the full of her palm against the brumal silver alloy, counting down through the Judas test, but there was not so much as a twinge of pain. She was not possessed. The Marshal had patiently waited through the minute and six seconds, and now cocked an eyebrow as he expected his answer.
“I cannot think of anything too unusual,” she admitted. “Or inexplicable exhaustion.”
“I’m not surprised,” the Marshal said. “You are fresh off a bite of Scolomancia, that will have buried the usual warning signs.”
He set down his trinket on the table.
“Still, so few marks is unusual,” the Marshal mused. “Someone has been playing it quiet. Clever girl.”
“Pardon?” Angharad asked.
“Not you,” the Marshal said, and twisted the base of the trinket.
She was prepared to wince, but nothing happened – at least not until he flicked one of the cylinders and the sound of if reverberated. It was the most horrid vibration, and Angharad covered her ears but it did nothing. Until suddenly the noise went out. Not, she realized, because the vibrations had stopped.
Because the seat the Marshal had moved to the side of the table was now filled.
A dark-haired Tianxi sat there, an unremarkable face with a beauty spot on the cheek and a slightly fleshy look about her. She wore Watch black and kept her hair in a topknot. She was dimly familiar, someone Angharad had seen before, but there were so many students at Scholomance these days.
“That was unnecessary,” the apparition said.
The Marshal hummed, hand going to the base of the trinket and turning it slightly forward. Immediately the Tianxi let out a half-shriek, clutching at her face, and Angharad staggered back. A wave of exhaustion tore through her limbs, like she had just run a mile.
“What is this?” she croaked. “Who are you?”
The Marshal cranked back the device, his message having been received. The apparition calmed, though her eyes were still wild.
“Did I really make so little an impression on you, Tredegar?” she asked.
Narrowing her eyes, Angharad finally placed the face. This was the same girl she had glimpsed standing under the Allazei gates on the day Song departed for the Republics. And that meant…
“Cai Wei,” she said. “You are Cai Wei. How?”
“I didn’t know either,” the ghost said. “Why you, I wondered? Why then? But then, last night, you mentioned you were a dollmaker’s victim.”
Angharad’s fists clenched. How many times could she be made to pay for one mistake?
“If you were possessing me, the brigade plaque would have reacted,” she said.
“She isn’t possessing you,” Marshal de la Tavarin said.
She had almost forgotten he was there. The old man looked entirely at ease, but that did little to calm her. If you dropped him in a pit of lemures he would look just the same.
“If a mara is brainworm, then our friend here is something akin to a mosquito,” the Marshal continued.
Angharad’s eyes snapped back to the Tianxi.
“You are feeding off me?” she asked.
“Not nearly quick enough,” Cai Wei replied, unashamed. “At this rate it will be months before I get anywhere.”
“Given time she will devour you entirely,” Marshal de la Tavarin noted. “It will start seriously damaging your body after four or five, I expect.”
“And I will come back spending that coin,” the ghost said. “A life for a life.”
“So you are still bound to the Acallar,” Angharad slowly said, eyes moving between the two of them. “Yet haunting me.”
“The Acallar is what tethers her to the material,” the Marshal said. “Only she slipped the net down below and grafted onto you somehow. And that, my dears, I take offense to.”
The movement was so natural, so effortless that Angharad did not realize he was holding the pistol until he had put it against Cai Wei’s head.
“I do not tolerate shortcuts from my students,” Marshal de Tavarin coldly said. “Consider yourself expelled.”
“Wait, wait-” Cai Wei began, but his finger was on the trigger and- “I’m not the only one!”
The Marshal’s finger left the trigger and Angharad exhaled. She was not even sure she disagreed with the execution, but she had not been ready for one.
“Elaborate,” he ordered.
“There are two more,” Cai Wei said. “Down there we were… dreaming, and it was like a splash of noise and color in the dream. We were the three closest to the surface, so we managed to grab on.”
“To me,” Angharad harshly said. “To devour me.”
“We didn’t know,” the ghost said. “Not then. It was unthinking.”
“You knew after, though,” Angharad said. “Later. And you kept out of sight so I would not suspect until it was too late instead of warning me.”
Cai Wei looked away, refusing to meet her eyes.
“If you kill me, the others will panic,” the ghost told the Marshal. “Claw up her soul from the inside. There is nothing we can do to stop Navigators removing us, but there is nothing they can do to stop us making a mess first.”
“I will not be held hostage,” Angharad snarled. “Better I bleed than have my blood drunk, you parasite.”
“But there’s another way,” Cai Wei said.
The Marshal leaned back his pistol against his shoulder, stroking his mustache with an amused look.
“I see,” he mused, then turned a look on Angharad. “They are still bound to the Acallar, Tredegar. They are still part of the machine. Which means you can buy back their lives with glorious deeds.”
“And you’ll even get something out of it,” Cai Wei hastened to add. “It will fix the wound on your soul, doing that. Mend what let us latch onto you in the first place.”
“And why should I believe anything you say?” Angharad scorned.
“Don’t,” Cai Wei bluntly said. “Ask Navigators. But they’ll tell you the same thing.”
The ghost flicked a glance at the Marshal.
“And you don’t have a choice, anyway,” she said. “Do you really think you can go back down in the pit like this?”
The old man cocked his head to the side, feather dangling.
“In your current state, I cannot allow you back into the Acallar,” the Marshal acknowledged. "Not when other souls might grasp onto you.”
Angharad breathed in sharply. So much for all her plans regarding the Steel List. It was, in a way, cutting irony. She had sought to take it on her back to assure the return of these dead souls, and gotten what she sought in the worst of ways. But what could she possibly do, without the Acallar and the lemures down there?
“If I cannot return, then what am I supposed to slay to-”
Angharad paused, watching in horror as the old man began to grin. It was a pleased, leering thing.
“You cannot be serious,” she said. “The Lord of Teeth?”
“It would pay for Cai in full, and likely the second in line as well,” Marshal de la Tavarin mused.
“It’s the only choice,” Cai Wei insisted. “You owe it us to us to-”
The old man’s gaze cooled, and without batting an eye he turned the base of his device all the way until it clicked. Angharad was mildly ashamed of how much satisfaction she got out of Cai Wei’s pained scream, the ghost vanishing entirely after a moment.
She left a long moment of silence in her wake.
“Think on it,” the Marshal finally told her. “I will prevail on Captain Yue to inspect you and confirm the claims that were made, so remain close to port.”
Angharad inclined her head and muttered something like thanks. The old man rose to his feet, picking up his silvery trinket and tucking it away.
“It would not be wasted time for the rest of your cabal,” Marshal de la Tavarin told her. “The hunt will be considered a surrogate for the yearly test of anyone joining it. The same with the little jaunt that Colonel Cao is putting together, but that would be of no help to you at all.”
“What would you do?” Angharad quietly asked.
The old man laughed, twirling his cane.
“Whatever I want,” he said. “It is the only decent way to live, girl.”
He walked away, whistling some old tune under his breath as the lionhead cane rang against the floor. He left the door open behind him and Angharad watched him disappear into the hall, sitting alone with her thoughts. After a moment she rubbed the bridge of her nose, breathing out. Nothing would be decided sitting here, she thought. Her appetite was shot so she might as well find the others instead.
Passing the doorway she reached for her blade when she glimpsed someone leaning against the wall to its left, but her fingers dropped off at whom she found. Tristan Abrascal stood there silent and still, hair messy and eyes just a little wild. Angharad knew that stare, she thought. She had seen it often enough in the mirror after she fled Peredur, that subtle tightness that was the only sign one pull at the wrong thread would be enough to unravel the whole of you. To leave behind only a raving, screaming thing wanting to hack away at the world. He was, she realized, only barely keeping it together.
“Tristan,” she got out. “What happened?”
“I need help,” he said. “She’s still alive, but the hourglass has been flipped. I need the dantesvara dead.”
“How long?” Angharad asked.
“Three months,” he said. “At the earliest. Every day past that is…”
Slowly she nodded. Gray eyes flicked up and down her – not like that, and how comfortable it was to know it would never be like that with him – and his lips thinned.
“You’re rattled,” he stated.
Angharad swallowed.
“It appears,” she said, “that an old mistake may have come back to haunt me. And that my sole acceptable way out of the pit may just coincide with yours.”
His expression tightened.
“Immediate danger?”
She shook her head.
“My timeline is at least four months,” Angharad said. “Not much longer than you.”
“Then we have no time to waste,” Tristan said. “Song is upstairs?”
She nodded. Assuming their captain still slept.
“I’ll go wake her,” Tristan said. “We can all visit Maryam together.”
“I left my pistol upstairs,” Angharad said. “I will go with you.”
As it turned out, there was no need to wake up Song because she was already up. Their captain was at the front desk by the stairs, talking with-
“Oh thank the gods you two are all right,” Izel called out, looking past Song’s shoulder.
He swept past their captain to almost-hug them, as if hesitating to touch, with an anguished look on his face.
“I must have heard ten different rumors every street corner,” Izel said. “What happened?”
“Not here,” Tristan said.
Song caught his eyes and then Angharad’s, nodding.
“All hands meeting in Maryam’s room,” Song Ren said. “There are some things we need to talk about.”
Comments
Clément Lanteigne
Nah, in book one the physician apprentice that Angharad met on the Bluebell was really nice, he provided painkillers for the injured signifier. What was his name again?
Pteromys Momonga
Between Lady Knit and Morcant, EE is definitely playing against the "healers are nice" stereotype!
Nathan Fish
“Exploration crews are to be sent into the depths s//of/ Scholomance to find a path towards the Lightbringer’s own library, where dwells a god that may have answers for us,” she murmured.
