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Chapter 8
🕑 Added 2025-05-09 16:00:13 +0000 UTC“Lay them out, you fiend,” Tristan challenged. “You can’t possibly have picked up that many knaves twice in a r-”
Yayauhqui of the Twenty-Ninth Brigade, also known as Yaq, laid down his cards. First a knave of Clubs, then one of Cups and finally a third of Coins. The scarred Izcalli stretched out the reveal, obviously enjoying himself, and the moment the last knave hit the table uproarious laughter erupted along with Tristan’s loud imprecations. Maryam watched with half a smile, listening as the thief bemoaned how Yaq ‘didn’t even have the decency to cheat’ while robbing them blind.
“If I keep losing, I’ll have to dig into my tinkering funds,” Izel mourned, sliding his coppers across the table.
He rose and bent forward rather than extending his arm fully when doing so. Izel moved the bandaged limb as little as possible, and still occasionally winced when shifting in his seat pulled at his body. A shallow wound, the physician said, and Izel had been lucky enough the bullet ripped flesh but no muscle. Eyebrows were raised when the tinker refused poppy for the pain, but Maryam had not been among those surprised. Izcalli warrior societies tolerated the use of soporifics, but they looked down on the use of painkillers.
Angharad was the only one to have folded early this round and thus avoided being robbed, the Pereduri noblewoman doing the best of the players after Yaq. She had made a small but noticeable profit and still looked so genuinely baffled by this Maryam very much doubted she was using her contract.
The cards were picked up and Tristan began to shuffle, Maryam looking away. She could feel how Hooks itched to sit and play with them, but she had no taste for it personally. She was mostly busy keeping her foot from tapping, her teeth from gnawing at her lip. It had been at least twenty minutes since the sergeant told them of Song’s arrival, was that too long? Was it a bad sign? It was like an itch under her fingernails, how everything about keeping Izvoric out of shackles was in someone else’s hands.
Good hands, she told herself. Song would see it through, she would not let Maryam down.
Closing her eyes, she forced herself to breathe. In and out. Maryam leaned her head back against the wall. She had propped herself up against the wall opposite the entrance, drumming her fingers against her arms as she fought down the urge to keep glancing at the door. Surely the talks must be finished by now? The wood of her own fingers brushed harshly against her sleeve, grain catching against the cloth, and she angrily pushed up from the wall long enough to place her hands behind her back.
Sometimes she forgot about the prosthetics for hours, even a whole day. It then surprised her when she remembered she had lost those phalanges, and though she did not regret why the fresh pang of loss that came with every remembrance was… unpleasant. How long would it take, she wondered, before she stopped expecting her hand to be whole when she looked? She could only hope it was not as many years as she had lived before losing the fingers.
The door was suddenly wrenched open and in a heartbeat Maryam was entirely off the wall, shoulders tensing as she watched the Someshwari sergeant from earlier walk in. The man’s oiled-up curly beard shone in the lantern light as he cast them a disinterested gaze, clearing his throat before stepping aside to allow the person behind him to enter.
Song Ren, Maryam thought as she took in the other woman for the first time in over two months, looked exhausted. Maryam was something of a maven when it came to lackluster sleep and she doubted her Song had slept a whole night in weeks. Hers was the kind of tired that had settled deep in the bone, that could not be washed away with a good nap and tucking in early. The rest of the Thirteenth hastened to their feet, like children caught sneaking candied dates, and after a moment Yaq did as well.
“I thought about leaving you all in here,” Song noted, “but it isn’t my turn to cook tonight, and I don’t deserve to be punished.”
Maryam sought silver eyes and found them, her friend holding the gaze and giving a shallow nod. Relief flooded her. Of course Song had come through. She hated slavery as well, she wouldn’t let Maryam’s people get dragged back onto that ship to be beaten and cut and strung up. Exhaling, she felt a knot in her stomach loosen. They weren’t going to die. She was not going to fail them.
By the time her hands had ceased shaking, Song was thanking ‘Warrant Officer Yayauhqui’ for his aid, informing him there were no longer any demands on his time today and that she would be contacting his captain tomorrow to settle any remaining matters between their brigades. The tall Izcalli nodded back, still silent – though he was not mute, he had spoken a few words during the game – and was gone after trading a few firm handshakes.
Maryam was drawn out of her daze by a faint touch on her sleeve. Looking up, she found gray eyes and a smile waiting.
“See, Song had it in hand,” Tristan murmured. “They’ll be all right.”
Maryam nodded. She had known Song would do her best, of course, but the stakes… And Maryam was not all that conversant in the laws, Watch and otherwise, that might have applied to the matter. She had not known, not for sure, and uncertainty ever hewed closer to fear than hope.
“It will not have been for nothing,” she murmured back. “I must find out the butcher’s bill.”
Coin, favors, apologies? She would ask though not before Song was properly welcomed back. Her friend seemed on the ragged edge so Maryam kept it light, merely pulling her in for a short embrace, and by the time the rest of the Thirteenth was through with her the Tianxi seemed slightly less disheveled. She had missed them too.
“Come,” Song told them. “I need to wet my throat and the rest of you need to hear about what is happening.”
Maryam felt wretched, but she still had to speak up.
“Song, I must-”
“Your countrymen will be answering questions from harbor officers for a while yet,” her captain said. “We have time to spare for a cup of tea.”
Pushing down her irritation, Maryam nodded. It was a short, brisk walk to the Rainsparrow Hostel with none of them inclined to idle chatter given the serious look on Song’s face. The eating hall at the back of the hostel was open, its dusty drapes and moth-eaten tapestries a less than appetizing sight despite the smell of fresh bread filling the room. Tristan and Izel went to the kitchen counter, coming back with two pots and assorted cups while the rest of them settled at a long table near the corner.
They got a few curious looks, mostly from fresh faces. With all the new students coming into the town the Rainsparrow was filled to the brim again, so even its lackluster eating hall was half full at this time of the afternoon. Pots were poured out, Maryam taking a sniff of the tea and finding it must be the end of a batch. The drink smelled heavily of lemon, which the cooks of the Rainsparrow added to the large cauldron of tea they kept out back when the leaves at the bottom began to turn tasteless.
That Song did not even bother to sneer down at her cup before wetting her lips was a sign they were not yet out of the woods.
“The killing of the four soldiers was declared legitimate by Commander Salimata Bouare, the officer the garrison sent to adjudicate the matter,” Song told them. “There will be no consequence for their deaths, not even a fine.”
Maryam straightened in her seat, blowing at her steaming cup. Good news. Better than she had hoped for, but then blood money was not as common in these parts as she was used to. Song turned to Izel.
“The wound you suffered was also waved away, unfortunately,” she said. “There will be no reparations.”
“I had not planned on asking for any,” Izel shrugged, then winced.
He should have taken the poppy, Maryam thought. For someone who had fled from the likes of the Jaguar Society, Izel held a surprising amount of their customs in esteem.
“And my people?” Maryam asked.
“The Watch declined to pass judgement on the legality of the paper you made Morcant sign,” Song said, “but they also refuse to compel your countrymen to return to bondage.”
She breathed in. That was… well, Maryam had threatened the man before too many witnesses to have a right to hope for better than that, she supposed. Refusing to return her people was manumission in practice, anyhow. Slavery only existed so long as the Malani were there to enforce it, whatever their laws might say.
“Thank you,” she sincerely said.
“Don’t thank me too quickly,” Song replied with a grimace. “It nearly slipped through my fingers, would have if not for some unexpected help. Are any of you familiar with a girl by the name of Ishanvi Kapadia? She is Arthashastra Society, on the history track.”
Quick shakes of the head from Tristan and Angharad, all their gazes then lingering on Izel. He shook his head as well, after a moment.
“I will not claim to know every second-year Laurel, but I would hazard her to be a new face,” he said. “I can tell you Kapadia is a northern surname, common in the Raj of Dragada and the eastern end of the Towers Coast.”
Maryam only knew so much of the Imperial Someshwar’s lay, but she dimly recalled Dragada being one of the larger kingdoms inside it, situated to the northeast and sharing a border with both the ocean and the Desolation. Song hummed.
“Either way, Commander Salimara was inclined to simply nullify the contract and keep the Watch out of the matter until Ishanvi Kapadia provided a legal argument against it,” she said. “A favor is owed, and she intends to seek us out during the Misery Square gathering.”
“That leaves me some time to go digging,” Tristan idly said. “I’ll see what I can find.”
“I can ask around the College crowd as well,” Izel volunteered.
Song spared them a half-smile.
“I would appreciate it,” she said, then the smile went away. “There are further complications. The first is that while your countrymen might be no longer be slaves, Maryam, neither are they currently allowed to stay on Tolomontera.”
Maryam winced. She should have thought of that, given how tightly the Watch controlled who could actually enter the city beyond the harbor.
“Where are they meant to go?” she asked. “Dropping them off in some random Trebian port is good as killing them, Song.”
Or enslaving them again. All it would take was one word to the Morcant ship about the destination and its captain could sail there to appeal to the local rulers about taking back the ‘stolen property’.
“We have been granted a few days of grace, and it may be possible to have your people admitted to Tolomontera,” Song said. “I do not know how or for what, but I will be heading out to the Galleries to make inquiries as soon as I can spare the time.”
Maryam nodded, suppressing the spark of guilt at the thought of keeping an obviously exhausted Song working. No one else could enter the Galleries, and if there was anywhere in Allazei that would have answers it was the private library of the Stripes. Which left a smaller but no less pressing problem. Maryam cleared her throat.
“Until then, they will need a place for to sleep,” she quietly said. “I know it isn’t what we rent the Rainsparrow room for, but if I may ask-”
“Yes,” Izel immediately said.
Tristan waved the matter away, as if his agreement had been a sure thing, and Song gravely nodded. Only Angharad did not answer, startling when she realized Maryam was looking at her.
“Of course,” Angharad said, sounding faintly surprised at needing to be asked. “By freeing them they became our responsibility, it is our duty to provide hearth and protection.”
Maryam breathed out slowly, slumping into her seat. She passed a hand through her hair, hiding her face with her arm. What would she have done, if some of them refused? She didn’t know. Never before had the abysmal state of her finances been such a concern – she simply could not afford to support five people, not on the coin she still had. It wasn’t that she thought her friends would refuse, that she thought so little of them, just that they had the power to if they wanted. And powerlessness was always a fearful thing.
“Thank you,” she croaked out. “All of you.”
They were kind enough not to say anything about the redness around her eyes when she brought her arms down.
“The second complication,” Song continued, “is Nkosinathi Morcant himself.”
“Yes,” Angharad said, face hardening. “Given that the prominent house he comes from, his shameful behavior I witnessed was surprising.”
Maryam’s fingers clenched like a spasm, wood scratching against wood.
“There is nothing surprising about that,” she coldly said.
Hooks roiled on her shoulder, bleeding agreement out in the aether. Her sister might not recall home the way Maryam did, not exactly, but she remembered enough. Brown eyes found hers, Angharad suddenly looking wary. And Maryam was angry, just not at her.
“The Morcant, Angharad, are the worst of the slavers,” she hissed.
She forced herself to calm, at least enough she could speak without choking on her own spite.
“The first slavers that came with Malani ships bought slaves as slaves were sold by the markets. Then came those from the colony-towns, and they also took captures and prisoners.”
Warriors, criminals, vagrants. But only those who fought them, or those who dwelled on the territory they had built their colonies on. Maryam’s teeth ground at the thought.
“Last came the Morcant and we came to call them the zeljezari, the ironmen.”
Angharad listened, unblinking and still as stone.
“The Morcant didn’t care about the laws,” Maryam said. “Anyone’s laws. They took, take, children and kinsmen as they like, emptied entire fucking villages. If you melted down every iron shackle the Morcant brought across the sea, you could reforge the Broken Gates.”
The Pereduri sat stiff in her seat, and stiffly she nodded.
“I meant no offence, Maryam,” she said.
“You don’t offend me,” Maryam tiredly replied. “That the world would expect better of anyone wearing the gray seal on their clothes is what I cannot quite swallow. That by putting a sea between them and their evil they are known as a prominent house instead of the living curse that they are.”
She thought better of the word curse a heartbeat later, wincing, and found Song’s face blank. Their captain cleared her throat.
“Misdeeds aside, House Morcant of Port Cadwyn is one of the wealthiest houses in Peredur,” Song said.
Angharad snorted in derision, to everyone’s surprise. Song cocked an eyebrow at her, inviting an explanation.
“Well, I suppose it depends on how you measure wealth,” Angharad conceded. “By land and property, the Morcant do not even make it into the ten greatest houses of Peredur. All their wealth comes from trade.”
Maryam blinked. Where else was wealth supposed to come from? Volcesta had subsisted off its orchards and cattle, but it was the tolls on the high road trade that had filled her father’s coffers.
“That’s worse, Angharad,” Tristan quietly said. “I understand what you mean – trade comes and goes while land keeps – but being a trading house means the Morcant have their wealth in gold instead of holdings. They might be poorer than the houses you’re thinking of as a sum whole, but they might well have more coin at hand.”
Angharad cocked her head to the side, slowly nodding. It occurred to Maryam, then, that land in Malan must be entirely leaseholds. That owning it meant rent for nobles, instead of just an inheritance fee. It was not unheard of as a practice in the lowlands of her birth, just… greedy. The thought that even as she sat here Volcesta might have been turned into renting lands put a touch a frost to her voice as she spoke up.
“So they’re rich,” Maryam said. “That only gets you so far in Scholomance. In a few months coin in this town will be worth less than pouch carrying it.”
It might do work before that, admittedly, but not as much with second years. Those students had been taught that, come the later months of the school year, being owed a favor by another brigade would be worth more than a pocketful of gold.
“Rich is only half the issue,” Song said. “Nathi Morcant has a contract that allows him to heal.”
Maryam clenched like a fist.
“You’re sure?” she forced out.
Song nodded.
“And more,” she continued. “I could not get a full read, but the contract seems to be about changing flesh and not merely healing. It is done at the cost of drawing on someone else’s…”
She paused there, turning to another.
“Angharad, do you happen to know what ‘ubunjalo’ means?”
The dark-skinned noble looked surprised.
“Now that is an old-fashioned concept,” Angharad said. “The most accurate translation in Antigua would be ‘vital essence’, I would think. It is best understood as everything that makes a person a person, but the notion has fallen in disuse. I have never seen the word used outside the Madness of King Issay.”
One of the Great Works of the Kingdom of Malan, Maryam recalled, the nine books they made every child read during their four years of mandated schooling as the isikole. The last of them was about the High Queen’s unification of Malan, and she sometimes wondered if a tenth would one day be added to chronicle the bloody empire the Isles was forging across the oceans.
“It is what he draws to affect flesh,” Song told them. “I would need a longer look at his contract to understand the limitations and the price, but healing is already bad enough.”
“He will be rolling in favors, if he can serve as a second Lady Knit,” Maryam darkly agreed.
And favors, as she had so recently thought, were worth quite a lot in Scholomance.
“There will be limits to what he can take and distribute,” Izel said. “Even if the price exacted is steep, no contract would offer such power without constraints.”
“Agreed,” Tristan frowned. “Healing contracts are already rare, that he could do even more than that implies the god in question operates from a different angle.”
Song drummed her fingers against the table.
“He also acted in a more measured manner than I expected from your reports,” she said. “Morcant was calm, polite and at some points almost eloquent.”
She stared at Song. Calm? He’d had a vile temper on the docks. But then Maryam could not deny that when the blades came out and it began to look like it might go badly for his side, he had kept his cool and tried to wriggle out with an apology. And from what she had gleaned of Pereduri nobility through Angharad, a man constantly blundering about would have gotten himself cut down in a duel no matter how wealthy his family.
“It might simply be that he was faced with a superior officer instead,” Song said, “but we cannot dismiss him as a fool. A simple fool would not have received the contract he did.”
Maryam gritted her teeth, but did not argue. Being a slaver did not make a man simpleton. The world was not so fair a place as to make the practice of evil the sole province of the inept.
“I’ll looking him up as well then, shall I?” Tristan drawled.
Song waved him away almost lazily.
“As if you weren’t already planning on it,” she said.
Maryam felt a pang of envy at the easy air between the two. She had noticed, these days, a closeness that she was forcing herself not to dislike. It was fine for them to get along, for the better even. Hooks boiled in her shadow, curling around the chair, as if disagreeing. Song cleared her throat.
“I make no accusations,” their captain slowly said. “But Commander Salimata warned me off Nathi Morcant turning up dead in a few days. Even should the apparent cause of death be terminal stair-falling.”
No one looked at Tristan, which in a way was the same as looking.
“I could probably cripple him in an honor duel,” Angharad pensively offered.
Song turned a glare on her even as Maryam swallowed a smile.
“Did you not hear a word I just said?”
“I am not an amateur, Song, he would not die of the wound,” the mirror-dancer replied with a frown.
“No honor duels,” Song replied, tone flat. “We will keep an eye on Nkosinathi Morcant, but we cannot be the party that resumes hostilities. We have stretched that rope too much as is.”
Maryam thought it somewhat unfair that everyone should get to murder Scholomance students except for her and – her gaze swept across the table, checking down the list. Her and Angharad? Surely that couldn’t be right. Even as Maryam searched her memory for a Scholomance student that Angharad Tredegar might have killed Song let out a long breath, rose to her feet and downed her cup in a single swallow.
“Come,” she then said, turning to Maryam. “I expect your people will be free to go by now.”
--
The jail the other Izvoric were being held in looked more like a house than a dungeon, which went some way in easing Maryam’s heart.
It was where misbehaving students would end up, and though it would have her chewing wood to imply that getting out of slavery was anything like student misbehavior Maryam chose instead to take comfort in the fact that the rooms would be hospitable. The watchmen had no reason to be unkind, either. None of the Izvoric had slighted the Watch in any way, and in Maryam’s experience most watchmen thought little of slavery.
The world being what it was that did not mean watchmen would not stare at the color of your skin, but then the five in the jail were not putting on black cloaks and joining the order. Maryam had learned that men found it easier to pity those who did not claim to be their equal. The two watchmen outside waved them in without a word, and the sergeant inside was aggressively bored – barely glancing at the writ of release Song produced before pointing at the door to the right. Her captain, to Maryam’s surprise, did not move to accompany her inside.
“Take some time with them first, without one of us hovering behind you,” Song said. “I want to have a look at the report that was drawn up on them anyway. Knock thrice on the door when you want me to enter.”
“Thank you,” Maryam said, though she had said those words so often today they now felt meaningless.
She entered after rapping her knuckles once to warn them.
It had been over an hour since the skirmish on the docks but the five still looked hesitant, as if they could not quite believe what had happened. In good light and with fewer distractions pulling at her gaze, Maryam found the relation between the boy who had been carrying the chamber pot and one of the men was immediately obvious. They had the same blue eyes, the same slender eyebrows and pointed chins. The others did not look like kin, but none of them had hair a whisker lighter than raven-black and that sight had Maryam’s heart aching.
She had hoped to avoid a spectacle, but it was not to be. Within a heartbeat of her entering the same old man from earlier was on his knees, thick white chevron mustache trembling on his lip.
“Princess Maryam,” he gabbled. “You return. Praise to-”
She suppressed a wince at the word he’d used. Kneginja, which meant ruling princess and not merely daughter of a king, which would be kraljevska. The latter would have been at least somewhat true, though more a style of address than a title – as a craftswoman, she was unfit to inherit her father’s throne so to call her by it would have been a courtesy. Maryam took the old man by the arm, to his visible shock, and hoisted him back up. He had a surprising amount of muscle to his arm, for someone who looked worn as old wood.
“On your feet,” she said. “There is no need for kneeling, much less praise.”
“That I cannot agree to, princess.”
Kneginja again. Her eyes moved to who had spoken: the sole woman of the five, a stout matron in her forties with thick red cheeks and strong teeth. Calloused hands and strong arms, all packed in someone at least an inch shorter than she.
“Our freedom is not such a small thing as to merit neither,” the older woman said.
She then cleared her throat and curtsied, still in her drab Morcant livery.
“I am Orel Poltava, and I thank you humbly for your efforts in freeing us from the ironmen.”
“I am Orel Holvat,” the old man hurried to introduce himself, bowing low. “Old Holvat, call me! I saw you before, princess, I did. I was there when you rode with Queen Izolda through the streets of Dubrik after chasing out the vultures.”
Thousands had been there that day, Maryam remembered. Even after the Malani first took it by force, Dubrik had remained one the great cities of the coast and its people had filled the streets like a living sea after Mother drove out the Malani garrison. The older of the two kinsmen stepped in before she could answer anyone, bowing hastily. This was beginning to feel like an ambush as much as a conversation.
“I am Orel Koval, princess,” he said. “I cannot thank you enough for saving my son.”
He gently pushed forward the boy in question, who was messy-haired and gangly in that way that boys who had just begun to grow often were. Twelve, thirteen? She could not believe fourteen. The boy glanced back at his father nervously, then hastily bowed as well.
“Orel the Younger, your majesty,” he said, more pleading than telling.
She smiled at him then flicked a quizzical a glance at the father.
“It is a family name,” Orel the Elder coughed. “On his mother’s side as well.”
The last man, still standing in the back of the room, let out a snort. He was only a few years older than herself, Maryam thought, and handsome in a sharp way – a thick horseshoe moustache and cutting cheekbones stood out below dark eyes.
“Koval the Elder and Koval the Younger, we usually say,” he said. “Surnames kept our lives from a surfeit of confusion.”
He then stepped forward, placing his hand over his heart and bent in a courtly bow.
“Kraljevska,” he said, “I am ever in your debt. I am Orel Bolic, free knight of Zarla’s Drift.”
Maryam hid her amusement. While form his manners she did believe him a noble’s son, the ‘free knights’ of Zarla’s Drift had been little more than pirates with nice coats and courtesies. Before the Drift fell they had been such a plague on their neighbors that when the Malani first campaigned against them the news had been the toast of half the lowlands kings. The years that followed had cleaned up that reputation, mostly by tarring Malan’s.
“The wind my horse, the tide my road,” Maryam quoted. “From sea to sky stretches my abode. You are a long way from home, vitez.”
He straightened, offering a pleased smile either at her courtesy of being called a titled knight, a vitez, or from hearing the opening lines of the Chronicle of Five Towers. Which was another kind of courtesy, given how flattering the epic was to Zarla, the first of the free knights.
“Your cordiality gilds your father’s reputation, princess,” he replied, inclining his head.
Still using the right word, at least. Thank the gods for that. There was impatient tugging against her soul and Maryam rolled her shoulder.
“Do not be alarmed,” she said.
Hooks stepped out of her shadow, and Maryam took her in for a baffled moment before rolling her eyes. Her sister was in full ceremonial dress, an ornate deep blue dress heavily embroidered around the sides and covered by an open cape of pure white tied by clasps of gold at the neck. Her hair was kept long and loose, thought covered by a white veil bordered in blue and kept on her head by a slender string of black pearls.
Old Holvat immediately went back down on his knees, and Maryam clicked her tongue in irritation. The two Kovals took a startled step back and Poltava’s face pulled together in fear. Bolic, though, leaned in with curious eyes. Evaluating them already. Hooks turned a look on her that was insufferably smug.
“My sister, youngest daughter of King Goran Khaimov and Izolda Cernik,” Maryam introduced. “Her name is veiled."
None asked more of the matter, even if some might not know what it meant. Wise men did not ask too much about the ways of the Craft.
"Rise, good Holvat,” Hooks said with a gentle smile. “You have been on your knees long enough.”
It was an effort not to look incredulously at her sister. Who was she pretending to be, exactly? When had maidenhood sprouted in Hooks, who yesterday morning had flipped Maryam’s porridge bowl as retaliation for an honest answer about how well silver jewelry suited her – and then mysteriously disappeared when Yue told them to clean it up! No, it didn’t matter. Let her play the sweet princess if she wanted to, Maryam had real practicalities to discuss with them.
“Your freedom has been assured in practice, if not by law,” she told them. “The Watch will not return to you to House Morcant, but beyond the next few days your stay on this island is not assured. I will have to bargain with my superior officers for it.”
Hooks smiled, all sweetness and light, and to Maryam’s disbelief the others looked charmed. Most the others, at least. Bolic was discreetly angling to see if Hooks cast a shadow, like in the junak tales. He seemed more impressed than worried that Hooks did not.
“We have secured a room for you to dwell in until then,” her sister was saying. “With the help of our allies, the Thirteenth Brigade.”
A rippled of thanks and naked relief. Maryam suspected that no matter how cramped the room after the Rainsparrow might feel for five people, it would still be a palace compared to their accommodations on the caravel.
“You mentioned ‘superior officers’, princess,” Bolic slowly said. “You have joined the blackclads, then? This Watch.”
“A captain among them saved me from the Malani hunting me after my mother’s death,” Maryam told them. “I enrolled in their ranks, and will serve for some years yet before I can return to Juska.”
“I had not yet awoken form my slumber, then, and merely accompanied her,” Hooks added.
Some looks were traded between the others that Maryam found hard to read.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
Old Holvat looked troubled.
“In the lowlands, men claim that you went through the Broken Gates to gather a great army of highlanders, that one day will return and drive out Malan,” Old Holvat hesitantly said. “Songs are sung of the freedom that you will bring at the head of this great host.”
The weight of their gaze was an almost physical thing, the disappointed expectation that until this moment she had not known existed. Maryam’s spit felt sour against her tongue.
“The Malani would have known that untrue,” she said. “My teacher had to force them to withdraw.”
“That explains some things,” Poltava said. “What got the people talking was how Governor Bafana refused leave to declare you dead when he was asked permission for funeral rites by the archpriests of the Threefold. Many said it meant you survived, that the Malani feared you.”
Maryam wasn’t sure why that should mean she had somehow crossed the Broken Gates, but that was not even the strangest part of the tale – why in all the gods would the archpriests of the Threefold Crowns would want to handle her funeral rites? That was an honor for kings and heroes, not apprentices in the Craft.
“A sad day, if Malan must look across the sea for foes,” she dismissed.
“It is our last hope, Vraneckeri,” Old Holvat said. “There is no one else left.”
Maryam frowned at him.
“There is still the Old King in Korkesac,” Maryam said. “And the twin-queens of the Floodlands have a hundred captains sworn to them.”
A quarrelsome lot, the men of the Floodlands, but strong fighters. Had they sided with mother, after Dubrik, the war… Well, perhaps it would still have been lost but the Malani would have paid even more dearly for it.
“Korkesac was razed to the ground, princess, the Malani built a fort on the ruins,” Poltava quietly replied. “And half the Floodlands are gone.”
“After the governor’s first march was driven back, the swordmasters of Malan slew the river gods,” Old Holvat said through gritted teeth. “The waters that unleashed swept up half the towns.”
“Men bearing turtle-shells poisoned the gods, is what I heard,” Poltava contested. “That it was their trashing in pain driving the rivers wild.”
Maryam barely listened to the brewing argument. Korkesac, gone? It was the strongest fortress in the lowlands, never fallen to siege. A jutting spit of rock surrounded by steep hills with narrow roads that no cart could traverse, its octogenarian king had laughed off Mother’s envoys. There are no paths for their cannons to reach me, Vranasestra, he’d said. I will outlive you all yet. And the line of the twin-queens went back to the oldest days of the Izvoric, unbroken even– Maryam made herself breathe, swallow the dry spit in her mouth.
Her gaze went to the others, demanding answer. Bolic shrugged.
“I was taken five years ago,” Bolic told her. “I did not even know of Izolda’s Rising before these two told me.”
Maryam’s teeth grit, and her sister’s smile disappeared as well. Izolda’s Rising. What a pretty way to call those dark days, and the yet darker ones waiting at the end of the road.
“We were on Arpadi for ten years with my wife, before they sent us across the sea,” Koval the Elder said for him and his sone. “We heard a thousand tales, all of them wilder than the last, and had no way to tell truth from story.”
Half the room made a gesture to ward off evil at the name of Arpadi. The folk of that island had been the original owners of the sobriquet of mornaric, the ‘sailing people’, for unlike the Izvoric they had dared to risk the deep waters. It had been on Arpadi that the thrice-cursed explorer Winile of Isasha landed when she became the first captain of Aurager to cross the black waters. Now Arpadi was known not only as a great slave port but also as evil’s first toehold, the island without which Malan might never have found them at all.
Maryam’s fingers clenched.
“Well, the truth is that I put on a black cloak,” she stiffly said. “I have won a ship that may let me sail up the Broken Gates, one day, but I have sworn years away to the Watch first.”
How had it gone wrong so quickly? When Captain Totec took her in, Malan had held the lion’s share of the lowlands but not everything. Around the edges there had been strongholds, in those places where the history of the Izvoric ran deep. But while she was gone, wrapped in a warm cloak under a strong roof being taught Signs, it had all…
“It has been a long day,” Hooks firmly said, even as Maryam avoided looking any of them in the eye. “And there is more ahead – our captain must ask you questions, and we must show you to your dwellings.”
The freedmen nodded, deference writ all over the way they listened to her. What strange things time could make of the world, Maryam thought. When she had been a girl, a spirit in the clothes of a king’s daughter would have had men either fearful or spitting on the floor. Now they nodded along to Hooks’ words as if she were their won princess. Maryam went back and knocked thrice once the door, letting in Song.
Neither of the Kovals nor Poltava spoke much Antigua, while everyone in the room save Maryam was fluent in Umoya, but they still insisted on speaking the Lierganen tongue instead. Song was well received by those who had been on this side of the sea longest, being Tianxi, and gently asked them a few questions. Mostly what trade they had practiced. Fishermen for the Kovals, Poltava a blacksmith and Horval a tavernkeeper while Bolic called himself a sailor and war captain.
Song raised an eyebrow at Maryam, who nodded, and wrote down pirate instead.
“Our companions will have emptied the room you are to stay in while you spoke with Maryam,” Song told them. “The Watch restricts you from wandering too far from Hostel Street and you are not to return to the port unaccompanied, but beyond that you have the freedom of Port Allazei.”
News well received, and visibly so. Several of them looked like they wanted to speak with Maryam again, but instead she made herself smile as Hooks slipped back into her shadow and gently nudged them along towards the Rainsparrow.
She had just found other Izvoric for the first time since she left home, and now she wanted nothing more than to flee from them.
Comments
General Corteau
I wonder how the Izvoric are going to react to the sight of Maryan being cabal-mates with Angharad, a Pereduri / Malani
Andrew Duan
Maryann being annoyed that everyone got a turn to murder a fellow student except her and angharad
