erraticerrata
patreon
Chapter 9
🕑 Added 2025-05-16 16:00:16 +0000 UTC“That is untrue,” Angharad sighed.
“Which part?” Shalini Goel asked with a grin. “The one where the Unluckies robbed a slaving ship, the one where Maryam uses the souls of the damned to soak up bullets or the one where you lot killed an entire cabal and got away with it because they hadn’t picked up their plaques yet?”
Shalini had shown up half an hour early at the Crocodilian, wearing under her cloak flattering Someshwari skirts in pale orange. They were matched with an elegant cream blouse over which a cloth in matching orange had been draped, the look something like a fitted gown’s though likely easier to move in. It certainly drew the eye to how Shalini’s ancestors had seen fit to bless her with ample charms, which the way she sat with her elbows on the table made difficult not to notice. Angharad had already forced herself not to glance twice.
“No ship was robbed,” Angharad insisted. “And no student was killed.”
Shalini’s brow rose and she leaned in. Gravity did its best but Angharad’s eyes bravely fought the pull.
“I note you do not deny souls of the damned,” Shalini amusedly said.
While she could have denied the plural of souls, Angharad knew that would good as confirm the rest. As for Lady Khaimov, Angharad could not confidently state she was not damned – she had never received a comprehensive explanation as to what Hooks was, besides a soul and Maryam’s sister. For all Angharad knew, Hooks could absolutely be damned by some spirit.
“I hesitate to make statements over the matter of Signs,” she said instead.
“Pereduri,” Shalini snorted, then straightened. “Ferranda’s been sniffing at the rumors something fierce since she came back, so I got her to write off this meal as a brigade expense so long as you answer me a few questions.”
It was Angharad’s turn to be amused. How low the merchant cunning of Ramaya had fallen, that Shalini should be reduced to tricking her captain of only enough to cover tavern grub and bad cider.
“By all means, ask away,” she graciously offered.
“Is it true you freed slaves?”
“The Watch did not formally free them,” Angharad noted, “but we did help five of Maryam’s countrymen leave bondage to House Morcant.”
Whose scion was a contemptible twerp. Throwing away his weapon to call himself unarmed; what next, emptying his pockets to call himself poor? That kind of blatant chicanery made mockery of the very rules he was calling on for protection.
“That already covers most of my second question,” Shalini said. “They’re really from the northern continent?”
Angharad nodded. Different parts of it, she was told, though all from what Maryam called the ‘lowlands’. The gunslinger gasped.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see another Izvoric,” Shalini said. “They’re not exactly common sight, Khaimov aside. Good on her for getting them out.”
Angharad blinked.
“I did not know you to be an abolitionist,” she said. “I had heard Ramayans…”
“Trade in flesh?” Shalini finished. “It’s true. Not as much as the League of Kanish up on the Towers Coast, but Ramaya has slave markets in all its largest ports. I passed through one when I was a girl, with Ishaan, and it was a pit of misery.”
She cleared her throat, seeming somewhat embarrassed.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a firebrand,” she said. “Abolishing votaries would be madness, most of them wouldn’t even want it, and bonded labor is a good way to clear debts and small crimes. But akranta, the kind of slavery when men can be bought and sold? It’s a blight and should be done away with.”
Votaries? Ah, she must mean the temple-slaves. It was a Someshwari peculiarity that nearly half the slaves in their empire were property not of men but of temples. Angharad vaguely recalled being taught that temple-slaves could not be sold and that their rights were defined by strict law codes not even kings dared to break – they were, in a way, considered slaves to the patron spirit of their temple and thus to strike one would be to offend that spirit.
“I rarely gave the matter much thought before encountering Maryam,” Angharad admitted. “It is considered an unseemly trade to be involved in, of course, but beyond that…”
And Angharad recalled with some shame, the trading was much more frowned upon than the owning of slaves. To look down upon the owning of a slave would be to implicitly question the honor of their owner, after all, while the trade itself could be called messy without pointing a finger at anyone in particular.
“It’s the money that fucks us,” Shalini philosophically said. “When there’s enough gold to be made in something, nations will line up to suck at that tit no matter how evil the milk.”
Angharad choked at the image evoked, getting an impish look from the Someshwari.
“Last question,” Shalini said. “And that one’s just between us.”
She leaned in again, lowering her voice.
“What are the odds that Nathi Morcant is about to trip into a barrel full of knives and we’re all very sad about his bleeding out while all the Thirteenth is seen eating in a public place?”
Angharad, alas, could not even be offended by the implication. Maryam would have almost surely killed Nathi Morcant if she thought she would get away with it, and the main reason Angharad did not believe she would succeed was that just as surely Tristan would assassinate him first to ensure she could not be charged with anything. Angharad was not a fool: she had a more than decent guess as to why the thief had slipped one of the gatehouse officers a few silvers yesterday.
The gatehouse was where they kept the records about where new students were assigned rooms to sleep in.
“Song was warned by Commander Bouare that such a thing would be severely frowned upon,” Angharad shared.
Song wanted to avoid the garrison coming down on them, and for that vigilance Angharad was grateful. She still wished their captain’s insistence that Nkosinathi Morcant could not be induced into an enthusiastic spar and have his eyes coincidentally slashed out might be reconsidered. The wretch had not only gravely insulted Maryam in public, he had attempted to strike her. An honor duel was the least of what he deserved. If a nobleman acted this way without consequence, it was the duty of his peers to check him.
“So Morcant’s sticking around for a while, then,” Shalini grimaced. “Ugh. You know he’s been asking around about the Thirteenth, right?”
“We expected as much,” Angharad said.
“Shame the garrison officers stuck their oar in it,” the Someshwari mused. “Would have been a damn statement for you lot to off two Forty-Ninth Brigades in a row.”
Angharad paused.
“Pardon?”
“You hadn’t heard?” Shalini asked, sounding surprised. “Your friend is now Captain Nkosinathi Morcant of the Forty-Ninth Brigade. He already has two cabalists lined up, one of them a first-year Skiritai. Everybody’s been talking about it.”
“I have not had much time for social affairs,” Angharad said. “We spent yesterday settling Maryam’s countrymen and that did not leave time for much else.”
Not her personally. Given the way the young boy Koval’s eyes had gone wide at the sight of her, Angharad hardly begrudged Maryam suggesting she not be one of the cabalists accompanying them. Whatever her friend had told them in Recnigvor after making introductions had somewhat loosened the tension there, but they remained wary. It was like ash on her tongue to know that the behavior of House Morcant abroad might have so tarred the reputation of all Peredur.
Song had disappeared into the Gallery last night and returned only this morning, digging for a way to allow the Izvoric to remain, and over breakfast had mentioned she was meeting with garrison officers to run down a lead. Meanwhile Izel had volunteered yesterday to go with the harbormen and fetch Maryam’s ship from where the garrison had beached it, predicted to return at noon today, and those twin absences left Tristan and Maryam to handle the Orels. Showing them around the streets they were allowed to wander and then making sure they were fed, clothed and comfortable.
This in turn had left Angharad to handle matters Song and Tristan usually would, taking up most of yesterday afternoon and this morning. Meeting with Captain Wen, buying supplies and withdrawing funds from the vault. She’d even added lines to the Thirteenth’s brigade ledger, which had felt mildly sacrilegious given that only Song’s elegant writing had filled the book until then. The distances to cover took up as much time as the obligations, she found, that unfortunate back and forth between town and cottage.
There was a reason the Thirteenth had a room in town, though had they not done the Rainsparrow’s owner a few favors last year to get a heavy discount that would have been an expensive luxury indeed.
“Social is what tonight is for anyway,” Shalini shrugged. “Misery Square is just one big cauldron of posturing and elbow rubbing. It’ll be even worse this year, the first years will be bulking up existing blocs and starting their own.”
“I am looking forward to that,” Angharad admitted. “We did not get to attend last year.”
“You’ll get plenty of eager first years asking about Asphodel,” the gunslinger predicted. “Not that you wouldn’t have stood out anyway: Ferranda mentioned Colonel Cao will be putting a wooden board with Stripe brigade ratings on them. You Unluckies taking third place without being Watch princelings will get people talking.”
“I did not think it would ever get to that,” Angharad mused, “but I do believe I might be getting tired of telling Asphodel war stories.”
It was a sad day when not even the thought of impressing beautiful women with her deeds was enough to make telling a tale feel less tedious. Shalini cackled, feigning a swoon and pressing herself against Angharad.
“Oh, Lady Tredegar, do tell me about how you fought the high priest again,” she teased. “You were ever so valiant.”
She pawed at Angharad’s muscles jestingly, batting her eyes, and the Pereduri chided herself for noticing how her friend’s breasts were pressing against her arm and her eyes were fetchingly lined with kohl. Shalini was a grieving widow, not an admirer. Still, perhaps a reminder of how her friendliness might be mistaken would not go amiss.
“If you are so intent on feeling up my arms, my lady, a private showing can be arranged,” she drawled, glancing at the fingers still on her biceps.
Shalini hummed, close enough that Angharad could almost feel the vibration on her cheek like she did the warmth of her breath.
“And how might one go about getting that show?” Shalini Goel asked, tone gone husky.
Angharad stilled. Wait. Wait. Was she really-
A wooden bowl hit the top of the table, filled with boiled potatoes and thick slices of lamb. Angharad drew away like she had been burned, coughing into her fist and finding that on the other side of the table Salvador stood with a pleased look on his face.
“Utensils,” he rasped at her. “Be back.”
Then his gaze moved to Angharad’s side, and what he found there had him blanching.
“Salvador,” Shalini frostily said. “I notice you are fifteen minutes early instead of, say, fifteen minutes late.”
The Sacromontan gestured at his bowl.
“Ternasco,” he said.
“For lamb?” Shalini growled.
“Ternasco,” Salvador replied defensively, gesturing at it again. “Half-price. Ternasco.”
Angharad cleared her throat, rising to her feet.
“I am feeling peckish myself,” she said. “I will grab a bowl. Shalini?”
The Someshwari eyed her for a moment, then deflated.
“Please,” she said.
Angharad returned a few minutes later with two bowls and a pulse that had slowed down. She could untangle that sudden realization later, it was not why she had asked the other two to meet in town.
“Word got around about the lamb,” she told them. “Wise of you to come early, Salvador, any later and they might have run out.”
There were so many Sacromontans in here you’d think a colony was being founded, and any moment now Angharad expected Tristan to pop out of some shadowy corner to claim his own bowl. Salvador, chewing on a fatty piece, let out a noise of agreement. Bowls were passed and as was only polite Angharad waited until everyone had partaken for a bit before bringing up the matter she had asked them here for. She straightened in her seat and reached for the two journals and several scrolls she had brought, which had Shalini cocking an eyebrow.
“Ah, so now you tell us why you have enough monster hunting notes for two Desolation war parties,” the gunslinger said. “I have been wondering.”
And also had been snooping through the papers when Angharad was not looking, apparently. The Pereduri cleared her throat.
“I have, over the break, sought and largely obtained methods to kill the twenty-three lemures currently on the Steel List,” she said.
Five of them were largely ‘stack powder barrels near the cage exit and shoot them when the beast is close’, but that was only more reason to seek out fresh eyes. Angharad had not been able to obtain enough powder for five such kills anyhow. Two at most, if she was conservative with the charges.
“My brigade spent their break in Sacromonte attending the Feast of Torches and getting drunk for a month,” Shalini noted, “but to each their own.”
Salvador frowned, pulling at the cross scar on his chin.
“Why?”
“Time is running out for the souls in the Acallar,” Angharad said. “If arrangements are not made, it is almost certain some of them will pass into death. It will only get worse when the first years go through their culling, I fear.”
A fresh batch of deaths on the tally would make second years more reluctant to risk themselves. Anyone who died then would be stuck behind last year’s old deaths and this year’s fresh lot before they could be redeemed from the grasp of the Acallar. Considering their year had not even succeeded in clearing their own plate when no one was adding fresh helpings, those odds were not pretty. Salvador kept frowning, and said nothing.
“I’ll look at these,” Shalini slowly said, hand lying atop the journals, “and should we get a fine angle and a solid fourth for the crew I am open to taking a crack at the Steel List. But there’s a difference between that and running down death one monster at a time, Angharad.”
“Will not die for the dead,” Salvador rasped out.
“I am not asking you to take on all of these,” Angharad assured them. “I would, instead, have your support in seeking out all the slaying crews. I would have us wage a war on that list instead of attacking it piecemeal. These crews we made, they exist only because we will them to. There is nothing preventing us from matching the best fighters, the best contracts and arms, to every hunt on that list.”
She could feel the hesitation from the other two.
“It was one thing to compete when all that was wagered was our own safety,” Angharad continued, “but now refusing to band together is consigning our fellows to death for nothing but what – bragging rights, rankings and honors that hardly matter now and will mean nothing in a few years?”
Shalini raised her hands in appeasement.
“It’s not that I think you don’t make sense,” she said. “I do. But all these plans-“
She rapped a knuckle atop the stacked journals.
“- mean dust if we don’t get the other crews on board,” Shalini continued. “And to be frank, I’m not sure we can get the other slaying crews on board.”
Angharad folded her arms.
“But you agree, in principle, with the approach,” she pressed.
Shalini glanced at Salvador, who shrugged.
“Yes,” she said, and when looked at the Sacromontan silently nodded.
“Then we have a beginning,” Angharad said.
And she had much talking left ahead of her. Fortunately, there would be no need to run around Allazei trying to find the other Skiritai: in a few hours they would all be gathered in Misery Square.
--
“He’s sick,” Tristan told her, rolling his eyes.
The thief did not have to roll them while saying ‘sick’ for Angharad to know that Izel had been less than accurate when claiming this, but she appreciated the commitment to derision. The tinker had apparently come down with a severe case of trying-to-avoid-his-former-betrothed shortly before the Unluckies at the cottage set out for town, leaving the rest of the brigade to head into Misery Square without him.
“It may just spare us a screaming match in front of nearly the entire student body,” Song said, “so his sickness has my full endorsement. He can settle his private affairs in private.”
Angharad frowned.
“Yaotl Acatl is a princess,” she said. “Surely she would know better than to do this.”
Maryam snorted. The Pereduri spared her friend a glance, suppressing a wince at the sight of her: Maryam Khaimov looked deeply exhausted in at least three ways, like the cloth of her was being pulled so taut it had begun to fray. Hopefully a good night’s rest would help, but Angharad had doubts. Some kinds of tired sleep did little to mend.
“Meek girls don’t join infamous Watch death schools in pursuit of their betrothed after being ditched,” Maryam said. “And the only thing Izcalli love more than talking about doom is someone making a scene.”
Angharad spared her a skeptical look, but did not argue. She did not know many Izcalli, or their ways, while Maryam’s mentor was of that land. A cleared throat from their captain put an end to the talk anyhow.
“Your broach is off-center,” Song told Maryam. “Kindly adjust it.”
They were all inspected by that silver gaze, Angharad taking some pride in the approving nod she received and some amusement in the way Song twice opened her mouth to say something about Tristan before simply sighing and keeping silent. In the thief’s defense, his formal uniform was clean and he had washed mere hours ago. That his clothes looked so rumpled should not have been possible, and yet here they were. And that was a very fine tricorn he had on, even if it was mostly worn to hide the golden stripe in his hair.
With Song as satisfied with their appearances as she would get, they set out on the last stretch of road to Misery Square. It was not an unpleasant walk, much of it in the nicer part of Port Allazei. They walked up Templeward for a time, past the shops and in the company of more than a few students moving alone or in throngs, then headed straight north through narrow streets past the end of the Triangle. There would lay the tail end of Arsay Avenue, not that they would reach it since shortly before the southern end of that avenue waited a large plaza: Misery Square.
Angharad had never been before, and in truth the closest she ever came to it was in a layer. Usually when heading to Arsay Avenue from town it was quicker to take Crescent Road, which curved off the northern end of Regnant Avenue. In principle it was a longer walk, but the garrison used Crescent to move patrols towards Arsay Avenue so the grounds were clear of spirits and well-paved. In practice, that made it the shorter and safer route. So it was with some anticipation that Angharad leaned in after they turned the corner, revealing an expanse of- and she swallowed, for what she beheld defied easy description.
It should have been simple to speak of. A large open square of worn cobblestones, surrounded by two half-razed temples and what had been a palace to the ancient kings of Sologuer before two wars and the Morningstar shattered it. And it was that, but there was a… blight, to this place. The stone had been eaten away at by what looked like leprosy, if such a disease could afflict stone, and there was a bleak presence to Misery Square. The shadows ran too deep and long here, an old hunger looming in the spaces between the lantern lights.
She thought she could see bones lying there in the dark, and ghostly faces looking at them from empty corners.
“Song?” she managed to get out.
It was not the Tianxi who answered, even though her silver eyes were flickering this way and that.
“It’s Gloam,” Maryam said. “Old Gloam, like…”
A swallow.
“Like a wave swept over this place and left puddles of death behind,” the signifier finished. “They have yet to dry out.”
Angharad believed it wholeheartedly. The remains of the temples bore great lanterns put there by the garrison and among the shattered palace stood a great mirror-device that was as a small lighthouse, but there were alleys of dark curving in between the lit spaces that felt like they were a little too deep, too black. Not mere darkness.
“Sakkas did this,” Tristan slowly said.
The hollow priest Tristan had met in the layer, the same one to pass the cottage onto their custody. Not a comforting thought, that they would sleep under the same roof as someone capable of leaving such a scar on a city.
“Who was he, anyway?” Angharad asked. “I had never heard the name before Tristan first told us of it.”
“He hardly ever makes it into the histories,” Song said. “Sakkas the Lecturer, he was called, and chroniclers thought him only a scholar before the fall of Allazei. He was said to be one of the earliest cultists of the Sunless House, but mostly known as a teacher to more famous names.”
No man of the Sunless House could be called harmless, Angharad thought. Their cardinals might have grown famous for the hollow kingdoms they carved out of the dark they brought down onto the Second Empire, but the cult was said to have spread its heresies across the empire unseen for decades before – for every famous cardinal smothering Antediluvian wonders, there had been a thousand quiet traitors eating away at Liergan from the inside.
“It is a grim place to hold a soiree at, this Misery Square,” Angharad finally said.
“Fitting, I would say,” Maryam replied. “A good reminder that there is more to the world than our petty squabbles.”
A sentiment Angharad could get behind, considering what she intended for her evening’s work.
They quickly found a place to stand, walking through the beginnings of the crowd. Already the two great power blocs had set up on opposite ends of the square. To the left the First Brigade, led by the amiable Vivek Lahiri, and to the right the Ninth under the imperious Sebastian Camaron. Their closest allies clustered around them, brigades whose ranks were stacked heavily the way of the Garrison or the free companies and had picked a side accordingly.
The Thirteenth avoided both, coming to stand by the broken pillars of an old temple that not-so-coincidentally sat across from two wooden poles holding up a board. It displayed Stripe rankings, as established by Colonel Cao. She was not the only one to slide Song an amused look at the choice of position.
Before Angharad could even begin to pick out the Skiritai she meant to speak with, they were called upon. Captain Nenetl Chapul of the Third Brigade made a point of stopping by for a chat with her cabalists. Angharad already knew two of the three – one was a Skiritai, part of Alizia Salas’ crew, while Awonke Bokang was a familiar sight from the gatherings of Malani nobleborn. Their fourth member, a Someshwari signifier, only spared more than a few words for Maryam.
They parted ways cordially after a few minutes, Captain Nenetl’s statement plain for all to see: her brigade was on good terms with the Thirteenth, and unlike the First and the Ninth she was not too proud to seek out allies instead of waiting for them to come to her. She had, it seemed, not put away her ambitions to dislodge the Ninth Brigade as the port of call for Garrison-aligned students even though the Third had only placed tenth according to Stripe rankings.
“Morcant did not reach out the Third, then,” Song quietly said. “It will have been either the First or the Ninth.”
“I can look into the Ninth,” Angharad offered.
“Not too quickly,” her captain said. “Otherwise it will look as if we are worried – or worse, picking a side.”
It was still permission, and one that suited Angharad’s needs anyway. Musa Shange was one of the crew leaders she needed but it would be a mistake to approach him early. Angharad slipped away and first sought out a few faces she knew. Tall Bibek from the Eight Brigade, then Alizia Salas from the Second. Both were willing to sit down with her before classes started to discuss the Steel List and to bring their crews with them, which should give Angharad enough leverage to now move on to the names that would be inclined to refuse her.
She returned to the Thirteenth to find that Tristan had disappeared, Maryam was leaning against a pillar while suspiciously still and silent with her hood down and Song was speaking with Alejandra Torrero.
“The first years are only now beginning to arrive,” Alejandra pointed out. “I bet their patrons told them to show at seven instead of six, to give us more time without the fresh faces.”
“Some of last year’s brigades dissolved over the break,” Angharad said. “They needed the time to put new ones together.”
The Watch formed brigades as they wished from those who had not joined one by the time classes began, but over the previous year members of those imposed brigades had largely found other students they would prefer to work with for their second. Those unfortunate few who had again found no brigade were desperate to find one tonight. It would be death on their reputation to be assigned to one of the ‘leftover brigades’ twice in a row.
“Has anyone approached us?” Angharad curiously asked.
A brigade could have up to seven members, after all, and the Thirteenth had only five. Song shook her head and Alejandra laughed, the sound of it unkind.
“Maybe near the end of the night you’ll get a few,” she said after. “But not before. You Unluckies live a little too hard and loud for that.”
Coming from someone whose captain was Tupoc Xical that was rather insulting, but Song took no visible offense so Angharad let it pass. She made polite conversation for a span, agreed that the first-years now trickling in seemed too young and then went back on the prowl. Best to start with the easiest of the two, she figured. Musa Shange ignored her when she tried to catch his eye and move for a private conversation, forcing her to visit the Ninth Brigade openly and suffer through the spectacle Sebastian Camaron made of their purported friendliness.
At least she could be certain Morcant had not gotten to the Ninth, because Camaron would not be proudly introducing her to so many of his allies if they were now enemies. It was ten minutes before she could get to Musa, and at least the swordmaster was amused enough by her poorly hidden discomfiture he was visibly in a better mood. Not that it lasted.
“What need is there to discuss anything?” he frowned when she brought up the talks. “We will slay what we can, that is all.”
“Sharing methods, sharing information and even weapons, could make a significant difference for all of us,” Angharad said, then allowed a beat to pass. “Bibek and Alizia agreed.”
He eyed her pensively.
“But not Lindiwe,” Musa said.
It had been too much to hope he would not notice that. Arguably Lindiwe Sarru led the most successful of the crews, so the absence of her name would be made all the more noticeable by the presence of all the names nipping at her heel.
“I have not yet asked her,” Angharad replied through gritted teeth.
“Because if I agree, you have all the leading crews except for hers,” Musa Shange noted. “She would look like a fool for refusing, since getting the rest to agree will already be enough to get most of the fighters without a regular crew to show up.”
Her lips thinned and she did not answer. He was right, of course, and openly enjoying how she had to force herself not to squirm at the accurate dissection of her intrigues.
“Fine,” Musa finally said. “My crew will come. But that is a favor owed, Tredegar.”
Resentfully, she inclined her head in agreement. It sat ill with her that gathering for the cause to save their own should require the trading of favors, but she would not deny that successfully arranging such an alliance would then lend her a great deal of influence among their cohort. She had barely extricated herself from the Ninth by the time Lindiwe Sarru ambushed her, not waiting to be sought out. The Malani in her finely tailored formal uniform put herself squarely in her way, forcing Angharad to either stop for her or bowl her over. She almost bowled her over out of petty spite.
“I hear you have been scurrying about make deals, Tredegar,” Lindiwe said.
“One whose ear is pressed to the ground will hear mostly dirt,” Angharad easily replied.
She was quoting a proverb, which freed her from the need to be accurate. The sally got her a haughty look, but no quip back.
“So what is this about a meeting of the slaying crews?” Lindiwe asked. “I suppose you might need the help, but it is unlike you to ask.”
Angharad wondered whether it was Tall Bibek or Alizia who had talked. Well, it hardly mattered. With Musa’s agreement she now had the heft to force Lindiwe’s hand anyway.
“A sharing of means and strategy to clear the Steel List,” she said. “I would see our year organize and set about it properly.”
Lindiwe’s face twisted strangely – as if trying to sneer but not quite able to bring herself to.
“That is wise,” she said, spitting the words. “I would gladly commit my own crew to such a discussion.”
Genuinely agreeing, or having seen that Angharad was just coming back from talks with Musa and all that implied? It might be both. Lindiwe did seem intent on getting back her fallen comrade if she could, one of the more respectable parts of the other woman’s character.
“Then I will send a message when a time and place have been settled on,” Angharad replied.
They shared nods and Lindiwe hesitated before leaning in.
“Watch your back, Tredegar,” she said, lowering her voice. “That Izcalli princess that’s to become one of us? She has been asking many questions about the Unluckies.”
Angharad could not quite hide her surprise, which got a sneer out of Lindiwe.
“Do not read too much into this,” she said. “Allowing a fresh arrival to trample on a second year’s reputation would lessen all of us in their eyes.”
“Naturally,” Angharad replied, her tone ever so slightly dry. “My thanks for the warning.”
So Yaotl Acatl had found out which brigade Izel Coyac was in. Tristan had already dug up that she was to be a Skiritai and an eventual visit had been duly expected, but it was fresh news that the princess already had the Thirteenth in her sights. Song could use the warning that a visit was near certain tonight. She returned to find out that not only Tristan was still gone but now Maryam had also disappeared.
“The Akelarre are prodding at some old piece of Gloam and arguing,” Song told her. “Maryam was recruited to contribute, something about ‘logos sensitivity’.”
“And Tristan?” Angharad asked.
He had been gone at least half an hour now.
“I am not sure,” Song admitted. “Last I saw him he was speaking with that pompous Wendi ass from the Ninth Brigade. It could be Mask business – they did seem to be haggling over something.”
It was probably best not to know, Angharad mused. Tristan would tell them if it ever came to concern them. A flicker of movement coming their way caught her attention, and what began as a mere side glance turned into a full look. There was, after all, no mistaking who was marching towards them: Princess Yaotl Acatl was one of the most striking women Angharad had ever seen, and even in simple tailored Watch blacks she stood out.
Tall and finely formed, balancing the razor’s edge between shapely and toned, with long black hair that flowed unbound with an almost reddish luster. Her face was painted in a simple but eye-catching way: her forehead red, with an unpainted stripe in the middle, and two thick lateral stripes across her face at the height of her nose and chin. Her eyes were discreetly ringed in black, which made the brown of them pop out. She walked with the lazy grace of a hunting cat, and her hands were calloused like killer’s.
It was a struggle not to stare, but she mastered herself. Mostly.
“The princess is coming over,” Angharad noted.
“I can see that, yes,” Song replied through gritted teeth.
Women with looks like hers would command attention even if they were not also princesses, so it was no surprise more than a few gazes followed Yaotl’s march towards them. Whatever was to come would not go uncommented on.
“She will likely want to discuss Izel,” Angharad said.
“I am aware,” her captain hissed.
While sorely tempted to add ‘everyone is looking at us’, Angharad suspected that might be pushing her luck. Song Ren had too many means of petty revenge at her disposal to be crossed for the purposes of light entertainment. Instead Angharad put a mysterious look on her face and artfully posed against the pillar, her hands hooked into her belt. If it happened to be in a way that drew attention to both her saber and the length of her legs, well, these things happened.
Song glanced at her, gaze lingering only long enough to express utter disgust. Angharad haughtily raised her chin back. Izel no longer considered them betrothed, the princess was unattached. And also upon them, as of now.
“Good evening,” Yaotl Acatl greeted them, inclining her head. “Am I correct in understanding you are of the Thirteenth Brigade?”
Song inclined her head back.
“Captain Song Ren,” she said. “Academy.”
Angharad waited until the beauty’s gaze had found her before inclining her own, aloof.
“Angharad Tredegar,” she said. “Skiritai Guild.”
Yaotl’s gaze dipped to her sleeve – the wrong one, though – so her reputation must have preceded her.
“Yaotl Acatl,” the princess introduced herself. “I was recommended to the Skiritai Guild as well.”
She did not have the right callouses for spears, Angharad thought. At the moment the princess only had a knife at her hip, one of those thick double-edged pieces in the Izcalli style, but Angharad would wager her to favor the sword or axe over the mace. It was in the way she moved, angled her arms – she was used to carving, not smashing. The angles were not the same.
“Well met,” Song replied.
And then said nothing. Angharad took a moment to admire the gambit of simply trying to make it too awkward to continue the conversation the princess had clearly come over to have. Alas, royal acumen triumphed over revolutionary wiles.
“You are, I hear, captain to Izel Coyac,” Yaotl barreled forward. “Son of Oxomo Coyac, baron of Kukoya.”
Oh, interesting. It was the first time Angharad heard the given name of Izel’s father, which she had always heard called by his sobriquet of ‘Doghead’ Coyac.
“I am,” Song said.
Yaotl waited for more, but nothing was forthcoming. The gambit continued, Angharad amusedly thought. Let it not be said Song Ren gave in after the smashing of a mere first barricade.
“I see,” Yaotl said, clearing her throat.
She glanced at Angharad, who cocked her head to the side and returned a cool look. The princess’s eyes flicked up and down her, though alas they lingered on her saber more than her legs.
“I see,” Yaotl Acatl repeated, then squared her shoulders. “Regarding this matter, please dismiss Izel Coyac from the Thirteenth Brigade.”
Angharad instantly straightened, settling into proper footing even as Song’s eyes turned to ice.
“And why,” their captain asked, “would I do that?”
“It is a personal matter,” Yaotl said.
Angharad frowned. It had ceased being that the moment she involved Izel’s superior officer in it.
“Your troubles with Izel Coyac are best left behind in Izcalli,” Angharad advised.
“So he did tell you who I am,” the princess lightly said. “I am glad to see he had courage enough for that.”
Angharad shared a look with Song, coughing into her fist afterwards. While they disliked her speaking ill of their comrade, Yaotl was not wrong that Izel’s avoidance of her was not exactly worthy of praise.
“Your former betrothal-” Song began.
“We are,” Yaotl harshly cut in, “still betrothed. My house prevailed upon the priests to suspend the betrothal instead of dissolve it. After the proper ceremony is had, it will be resumed in full.”
“If you yet intend to wed him,” Angharad frowned, “why ask he be dismissed from the Thirteenth? It is no guarantee he would join your cabal.”
If such a thing were even allowed between students of different years, which she doubted.
“I do not want him to be in any cabal,” the princess flatly replied.
Song understood a heartbeat before Angharad did.
“You are trying to have him expelled from Scholomance,” her captain said. “But he would still be Watch if that happened, Acatl.”
“But no longer a covenanter,” Yaotl calmly said. “For appropriate compensation, retirement from the ranks of the regulars can be arranged.”
The calm, certain tone raised Angharad’s hackles in a most unpleasant way.
“He does not want to go back to Izcalli,” she flatly told the princess.
“I did not want to be humiliated in front of the entire capital,” Yaotl said. “Or barred from the Jaguar Society. I certainly did not want to enter betrothal talks with his brother. But want is dust and the Wheel spins on.”
Her gaze was still flat and, under that veneer of calm, Angharad could feel boiling fury. Like a volcano only a kick away from erupting.
“Izel will be returning to Teskatlan, where he will atone before the gods and return everything he took from me,” Yaotl Acatl told them, as if it were written across firmament it would be so. “Whether this happens without your own careers being wrecked in the process is the only part of this journey yet unknown.”
Angharad crossed her arms, unimpressed.
“You are not the first to threaten us,” Song evenly said.
“I will be the last,” the princess replied. “But I do not want to fight you, Captain Song, as I take pains to make clear. Name a reasonable price for the favor I ask, and I will pay it.”
She spread her hands.
“I am no daughter of the main line of Acatl,” she said, “but I am not in disfavor with my blood. Gold, books, weapons – much can be obtained by sending a single letter back to Izcalli.”
Had Angharad not been so long acquainted with Song, she would not have noticed the slight tension of the shoulders when books were mentioned. Did Song need some rare volume? She had not said anything of the sort, but then they’d hardly had a moment to speak since she returned to Allazei.
“Walk away,” Song told her. “And consider this subject closed.”
The princess stared them both down, unblinking.
“I have no enmity with you,” she said. “But if you stand between me and Izel Coyac, there may be damage of a collateral nature.”
“You threaten us with clumsiness,” Angharad scorned. “I promise you, Acatl, that should I inflict you damage not a speck of it will be collateral. Izel Coyac is a comrade: I will not praise his misdeeds, but neither will I let you ruin him in spite.”
Yaotl’s eyes moved to the side.
“Captain Song?” the princess prompted.
“I do not take bribes,” Song Ren mildly said, “and it would be best that I did not have to tell you to walk away a third time.”
Yaotl stared at them a moment, then nodded.
“Regrettable,” she said. “I can respect the integrity, if not the purpose it is put to. I will hope this matter can be brought to an end without doing you too great an injury.”
Without another word she pivoted and walked away. Angharad could not even bring herself to enjoy the sight as she watched her leave with Song, in silence, until suddenly she snorted.
“What is it?” Song asked, already sighing.
“We truly are famous now,” Angharad said, almost pleased. “Now we do not even have to make enemies, they come to us by themselves.”
Silver eyes stared at her incredulously for a long moment and she met them without blinking. Then Song’s mask splintered and she cracked up, Angharad laughing as well. After that last bout of tension, if felt like lancing a wound. She laid a hand on her friend’s shoulder, smiling, though her grip strengthened in surprise when shadow cut across the light. Only for a moment, and she turned expecting to see some first year had stood before the mirror-device in the palace by accident - only to find it had not been a man at all.
From the shattered corpse of an old king’s lair rose three great curving horns, each taller than a man and set on the great head of what Angharad might have called an ashen horse if not for its craggy, rock-strewn hide. The creature rose to a full height, disgustingly fingered hands helping it climb from its hiding place to display a tower’s height, and there was a heartbeat of stunned silence at the sight of the hulking shape before it let out a shout that had the cobblestones beneath their feet rattling.
Angharad drew her blade, one of many to do so, and shouting erupted along with half a hundred pistols – only for the creature to crush the mirror-device underfoot and chaos to come howling out in a burst of searing light.
Comments
Davis
All of our enemies are so smug; I hate that type, especially when things go their way. Which they obviously will, at the start of our conflict at least. Too bad.
Aguido Horatio Davis
His brother?
Ed
this the difference between izel and the others. all the thirteen have problems back home but they want to return and resolve them, izel had not plan at all, like out sight out of mind, the princess will correct that one way or another.
Mark W
“You hadn’t heard?” Shalini asked, sounding surprised. “Your friend is now Captain Nkosinathi Morcant of the Forty-Ninth Brigade. He already has two cabalists lined up, one of them a first-year Skiritai. Everybody’s been talking about it.” “Yaotl Acatl,” the princess introduced herself. “I was recommended to the Skiritai Guild as well.” Oh good, they're consolidating our first year problems into one brigade so we only have to care about one of the freshman groups. Even reusing the same 'short sighted antagonist group' number, that'll keep things simple. The 13th might be unluckies (to friends and foe) but the 49th is outright damned.
celerity
"The [rumor] where the Unluckies robbed a slaving ship [...] Is it true you freed slaves?" Every Unlucky we've followed since the Docks Incident (Maryam, Song, Angharad) has been laser-focused on immediate damage control, such that nobody has paused to consider the broader political implications. The Thirteenth are almost fully locked-in as 'the firebrand abolitionist brigade' now, in the eyes of the other students. And they have every incentive not to backpedal, given the Orels' precarious position. Angie's remark that they "do not even have to make enemies anymore" is more prescient than she realizes.
Markos El-Far
Join in next time on "Angharad will fuck anything that moves if it has tits"
Aurelian Ungureanu
*bonk* Angie, straight to horny jail! I find the comparison very funny, of our first 2 protagonists: one's thoughts are half the time about lusting over someone with a nice pair of 'charms', while the other is an asexual whose idea of doing something exciting with a stranger's pair of underwear is to use it to deliver poison. On a completely different note, there is something really appealing about seeing the depth of a side character. Thinking of Musa Shange here, who we are first introduced as the typical arrogant noble whose main defense mechanism is self over-estimation. Initially, he is humiliated by Angie in an honor duel after which, he could have simply been cast into the eternal shadows of the background. Instead, it turns out he is part of a good team which he coordinates successfully in the arena, is a sly social fox in the aristocratic environment and one of the main influences in the dynamic power plays of the Skiritai students.
