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Chapter 7
🕑 Added 2025-05-02 16:00:14 +0000 UTCSong had asked well in advance to borrow the room, which was the only reason the quartermaster did not manage to deny her the use of it. Between the garrison men being rotated in and the fresh batch of students, the Timely Dispatch was packed to the brim and its crew had grown increasingly irritable as the journey from Concordia ran long from the lacking winds.
Still, there really was no way to deny a request that had been made to and approved by the captain more than a month ago no matter how much the quartermaster resented having to wake up in the early hours of the morning to unlock the trap door leading down into the sail hold. The middle-aged Someshwari eyed Song with antipathy before passing her the key and leaving her to climb down a short ladder into the room. The sail hold was usually meant to stock replacement sails, but Timely Dispatch had none so the squat space beneath the gun deck was empty save for two crates of ballast.
Lantern in hand, Song locked the trap door from the inside, checked that it was locked and then forced herself not to climb back and check a second time. Descending to the bottom of the gently rocking ship, she set down her two bags and hung the lantern on a wall hook. From the first bag she produced her wooden bowl and a waterskin, setting them aside in the corner near the crates, then she crouched in the middle of the sail hold and undid the strings on the green silk pouch. She canted it only ever so slightly, as it was quite full, and poured out a salt circle on the floor.
Only when it was clean enough to satisfy her did Song tie up the pouch, fetching the bowl and the waterskin. The simple wooden piece, a gift from her father, had grown so warped and blackened that every time she purged nowadays she feared it would finally crack open – yet she was reluctant to use another. She filled up the bowl with the water from the skin but it was an imprecise business and she cursed harshly when some spilled on the ground, wiping the trickle with her boot so it could not reach the salt and spoil everything.
Breathing in, mastering her temper, she corked up the skin and tossed it in the corner before stepping into the salt circle with the bowl in hand. Song sat cross-legged, lowering the bowl to the floor on her left and dipped the tips of her fingers into the lukewarm liquid. Song Ren closed her eyes, breathing in and out, and let her senses ease away as she smothered her own sense of self. Emptied her mind, let herself become one with nothing.
As always, it was the smell that brought her out of the trance.
Gods, but the reek of it. Like rotting offal, as if the bowl of water was an incense burner for the poisonous loathing of all Tianxia. Her eyes fluttered open, glancing to the side and with a hiss of fear hastily withdrew her fingers from the bowl. Purging should leave nothing behind but blackened wood, the water evaporated, but instead at the bottom of the bowl was a small splash of boiling black tar. It bubbled, or so Song thought, but then in the feeble lantern light it seemed to her that some of those bubbles might instead be eyes. Empty but watching. Hungry.
Swallowing, she pushed down her exhaustion and rose to fetch the waterskin – she drowned the muck in water, covering her mouth and nose when a foul black vapor wafted from the contact.
“Its strength grows.”
Song was halfway through drawing her knife when she saw there would be no point. No knife she possessed would let her cut Luren, and the god looked unusually serious besides. He was crouched by the edge of the salt circle, pilgrim’s staff resting against his shoulder while his left hand kept his straw hat in place on his head. His monk’s robes were still stained and unkempt and he smelled of liquor, but the eyes Song could not see appeared to be considering the still faintly smoking bowl.
“The curse?” Song asked.
“The curse is only silk, spun by men,” Luren replied. “Beware the silkworm, Song Ren.”
“The god, then,” she grimly said. “It is beginning to think.”
And the curse had been even worse at the estate. The pond gone, turned to cracked black earth. The creek by the hill full of floating dead things, even running water struggling to hide the poison. Her fingers clenched. And still they insisted, damn them. She reached for one of the two objects she kept stashed in her cloak pocket, the small ox bone by Uncle Zhuge’s letter. Song ran a finger against the carved script displaying the sequence of twelve Luminary cycles preceding Aihan Ren’s date of birth, feeling out the faint cuts. It had been a petty thing, stealing it. Mother would just have another made by the astrologer.
She did not regret taking it.
“I won’t let it take her,” Song swore.
“When a door is slammed in a fool’s face, that fool seeks revenge on the door,” Luren chided.
Her jaw clenched. The implication there was plain.
“They have their reasons,” Song forced herself to say.
“So does the door,” the false monk noted. “Someone swung it.”
And like that he was gone, leaving Song alone with her salt and wooden bowl and anger that was like a hiltless sword: it could not be wielded without carving into her hand. Her eyes flicked to the bowl, which still held despite the accursed sludge that had boiled inside it. Blackened as it was, the world had not broken it yet. She had already found a remedy, Song comforted herself. Uncle Zhuge came through and found it for her: the Book of the Lofty Mountain. All she needed was to get her hands on a copy, and Tolomontera counted more than a few influential officers. It was just a matter of paying the price.
Breathing out, she set to cleaning up the mess.
There was always a mess to clean.
--
The Timely Dispatch sailed into port smoothly, its captain an old hand and the crew well trained. They had been making Watch transport runs for years now, the galleon itself refitted for it – lighter on cannons than a fighting ship should be, an entire gun deck turned into dormitories and a second larder. Song waited on the main deck with the wind in her hair, her uniform freshly cleaned, as the ship made to dock. The wait might have been boring, if not for what her eyes let her see ahead in port.
Never before had Song seen Port Allazei so full, its docks a riot of exotic vessels surrounded by a crowd behaving like a freshly kicked anthill. There was even of those infamously fragile Izcalli skimmers – flowship, flyship? – that she recognized from the eye-catching crocodile stone sheath. And to think there were still two days before classes began. She spared an appreciative look for the caravel they were headed to share a dock with, a slender ship with elegant brass railings that looked fresh out of the shipyard. The make of it was modern, with a fore and sterncastle as well as one of the four sails being square.
Song’s gaze moved to the docks as the black-clad sailors on the deck began shouting and preparing the ramp, standing first in the long line of students waiting to be disgorged onto the city. She had sent a letter with the mail ship while waiting in Concordia for the Timely Dispatch to arrive, so barring mishap her brigade should have been warned of her arrival.
That was how Song knew something had gone wrong before she even got off the ship.
She had not been sure how many of her brigade she should expect at the docks, but she had been confident at least one would be there. Instead she was presented with the sight of a grim omen: Captain Wen Duan sitting on a barrel, which he overran on both sides, and wantonly tormenting an orange. Song was the first student off the ship, only moments behind the sailors that leaped down onto the pier and secured the ramp, but her steps stuttered halfway down.
Blood on the stone of the docks. To eyes like hers, there was no mistaking it. By the way it had sprayed… one throat slit from behind, one shot in the head, one heavily bleeding head wound and the last death had come in two parts. A limb first, likely arm, and then decapitation. Both blows in quick enough succession that the blood splashes were very close. The number of people on Tolomontera capable of taking a limb and then a head in two succeeding blows was remarkably high, given the amount of Skiritai running around, but there was a picture being painted here. Dagger, pistol, sword and what could easily be the work of a mace.
The favored weapons of most the Unluckies have taken lives on these docks, and recently enough that the blood had not finished drying.
Song kept her face calm, untouched, even as her stomach clenched. Already? Classes had not even – hand on the chisel, she ordered. They might have been the ones being attacked, despite what looked to be an overwhelming victory. You need favors, the ugly part of her whispered, and troublemakers do not get favors. Song pried open her jaw anyway, made herself breathe and even smile. Her brigade was not trying to sabotage her, they could not know. Serene as Sangshan snow, she resumed her walk down the ramp before the student behind her could get impatient. Her steps the rest of the way to Captain Wen were slightly choppy, but perhaps he would not notice.
Wen Duan took one look at her, a small filament of pulp staining the edge of his spectacles, and even as she resisted the urge to tell him to clean it up he finished swallowing his mouthful and let out a low whistle.
“Saltless Gods, I owe Mandisa silver,” he said. “She was right: it took a year to unwind you but a little Ren time was all it took to wind you back up twice as hard. Nothing fucks you like family.”
Song stonily stared back, filling a moment with her anger and releasing it into the breeze. There was no point in fighting him: smacking a fire with a branch only made more fire, and a fool besides.
“How bad?” she asked instead.
Captain Wen slid off the barrel, popping another piece of orange into his mouth and slurping it down noisily. She did not flinch. She refused to give him the pleasure.
“Walk with me,” he said.
Song followed him into the crowd, some of which she could not help but notice were now pointing at them and whispering. Some were blackcloaks, mostly second years, but there were some foreigners as well. Whatever had taken place here, it had not been quiet and would not go unnoticed. The list of officers she might be able to ask a favor from narrowed, to her smoldering anger. What teacher would want to reward a brigade that – Song made herself imagine the pristine snow on the summit of Sangshan, that blessed mountain, how it shone under the light of the Heavens.
She, too, would be imperturbable.
“Four dead, but they are not Watch and they pulled on watchmen in our own port,” Wen told her.
Song pulled her travel bag tight against her shoulder, following her bespectacled patron as he led them through the throng. He was leading her towards the gatehouse.
“Why?”
Wen pushed up his glasses and grinned nastily.
“Well, some Pereduri lordling took Khaimov for one of his slaves,” he said. “Told her to fetch his bags and attempted to slap her when she didn’t hop to obey.”
Her steps stuttered again, and it took Song every ounce of her restraint not to flinch. She could not imagine Maryam answering such an insult with anything but violence and Song would not blame her for it. She needed to begin considering the damages – four dead but none Watch, which painted the picture of escalation after Maryam was provoked and then the lordling’s guards being put down when they stepped out of line. Which the Watch would hardly bat an eye at, she thought, save if another watchman was involved.
“The lordling in question, he is a student?” she asked.
“Nkosinathi ‘Nathi’ Morcant, an Academy recommendation,” Captain Wen confirmed. “And yes, that’s the Port Cadwyn Morcants in case you were wondering.”
Her fingers clenched. Song was no deep student of Malani commerce, but even she knew that Port Cadwyn was one of the centers of the slave trade. The harbor was on the southwestern tip of the Duchy of Peredur, the last port of call for ships sailing to the western colonies. The slave trade had turned a once middling regional port into one of the busiest of the Isles. The House of Morcant was one of the richest in Peredur, perhaps even the broader Kingdom of Malan.
“Tell me they did not kill him,” she said, just to be absolutely certain.
If they did, House Morcant would spend enough gold on assassins to literally drown the Thirteenth in it. And not laying down but standing up. It wouldn’t matter even if the head of the Morcant cared little for the boy, and that he had looked for the fight besides. It would be a matter of honor to avenge their kin.
“No, they didn’t kill him,” Wen said, and though he didn’t add anything afterwards Song knew better than to relax. “The four dead were his guards, who took offense to Maryam’s own offense.”
He looked at her through the corner of his spectacles – and that damnable pulp was still on his spectacles, he had to see it so why would he not get it off? – and swallowed a grin, as if savoring what was to come.
“They just made him kneel with a metaphorical gun to his head while the crowd from the busiest arrival day watched, telling him to free his slaves or then they’d kill him,” Wen said with relish. “They narrowly had time to get him to sign papers before the garrison came in and detained everyone.”
Song partitioned the events inside her mind, placed them in order. Which parts of the violence she could justify under Watch law, which she would have to work around. We can squeak through, she thought. At least when it came to the killing. The slaves, though, the slaves were a problem. The Watch was not to practice or facilitate slavery, by its own laws, but most of Vesper did in one form or another and that meant the Watch did not consider slavery to be ‘universally unlawful’, as the Republics did.
What her brigade had done, unfortunately, might well fall under armed robbery by the standards of the black.
“What happened to the slaves?” she asked after a heartbeat.
It was too early to call them freedmen, unfortunately.
“They’re being held in the other detainment house,” Wen easily said. “Took a bit to make them understand what was happening, since not all of them speak Antigua well. Not unexpected considering where they’re from.”
Song’s brow rose.
“Provincials?” she asked.
Most city dwellers across Vesper spoke some Antigua, save for the deeper parts of the Someshwar where the Second Empire’s influence had never reached. Beyond the cities, though, it was far from certain. The times when Liergan’s hegemony had let them cram their language down the throat of the world were long past.
“Triglau,” Wen gleefully corrected.
Song breathed in deeply. Ah. There was no room for any sort of negotiation, then. Maryam would kill Nathi Morcant before allowing any outcome save unconditional freedom for her countrymen.
“The ship’s captain is kicking up a fuss, but Abrascal was clever enough to get you a witness,” Captain Wen said. “They’re all cooling their heels waiting for you to arrive, since the officer sent down from Fort Seneca refuses to rule on the matter without the captain of the Thirteenth Brigade present.”
She exhaled that deep breath. A cup of tea and a rest would have been pleasant, but the mess came first.
“Can I speak to them first?” she asked.
Wen shook his head, not needing ‘them’ to be specified.
“Their written accounts of the encounter have already been taken and will be provided,” he said. “It’s you and me for the Unluckies, the sea dog and the Morcant for their side.”
Song let out a sneer at the thought of slavers being allowed to sit in when her cabalists were still detained, but there was no getting around it. Nkosinathi Morcant had no captain to speak for him so he must do so himself, and the captain of Pereduri ship would want answers for his dead men.
“Thank you for the warning,” she said, inclining her head.
He shrugged. They had barely taken another three steps before Wen touched his chin and hummed thoughtfully.
“Oh, before I forget: Izel got shot.”
She flinched, head whipping his way.
“What?”
“Upper arm, relatively shallow,” the fat captain airily continued. “The wound has been seen to and he’s declined the attentions of Lady Knit.”
Song gritted her teeth. The prick. Wen, not Izel. He’d kept that back to shock her and finally gotten his flinch. She set aside the flare of anger, focusing on what lay ahead as they passed through the shade of the covenant pillars. What did she want from the conversation in the gatehouse? First, she thought, was to avoid sanctions inflicted on the Thirteenth for the deaths, both as a whole or individually. Second was to have the freedom of the former slaves confirmed by the Watch, which while more difficult should not be impossible.
It helped, having practical goals. Her stride lengthened as purpose set her shoulders. Song Ren pulled her bag back in place over her shoulder, looking straight ahead as she left the shade of the pillars for Orrery light. She could no longer hear the crowd, but she remembered. Ren, she made out. Unluckies. She did not waste a look back at the whisperers.
She didn’t have the time to care about them, not this year.
--
There were four of them sitting facing the desk.
To the left sat Captain Wen Duan, now martyring a fresh orange, and Song herself. To the right sat the captain of the Crest of Brass, a stooped older man by the name of Captain Rhys, and Nkosinathi Morcant. The young lordling was unharmed, save for the way his rich clothes were dirtied. Song barely paid either man attention, pretending she was still reading through Maryam’s written account of the events while from the corner of her eye she scanned the golden letters above the Pereduri yiwu’s head.
He was not tied to a Pereduri god. She had known that from the moment she saw the contract was Umoya instead of Gwynt, but the name of the deity in question would have sufficed. ‘Tender of Reeds’, the direct translation of it was. She knew that because last year the Tender of Reeds had been used in Theology class as an example for an entity straddling the line between third and second order.
In Malani stories the Tender of Reeds was the very first spirit of that land, one who had taught their forebears how to live on the Middle Isle. The oldest law code in Malan was called the Song of Reeds, their own Great Works placed him as King Issay’s spirit advisor. He was the Malani patron god of kingship and order in everything but name, deeply intertwined with their people’s understanding of the concepts.
And this formidable god had seen fit to grant Nkosinathi Kennauc Morcant an exchange contract that was more than three paragraphs long, yet written with mathematical precision. Song did not recognize the units being used – they must precede the Second Empire – or the metaphysical concept being measured, which was an old Umoya formal word she recalled meaning ‘to be’. Whatever it meant, Morcant could take it from others and grant it to people for stated uses that had Song struggling not stare.
Not only ‘mending flesh’ but also ‘changing flesh’ and ‘strengthening flesh’? That sounded a lot like he could not only heal but also – a rap of knuckle against wood had Song jolting her stare away before she got anywhere near the price. Her gaze went to the officer that had been assigned to handle this matter, and who was a sight perhaps not familiar but neither unknown. Commander Salimata Bouare looked at them all like they were badly trained dogs who had just pissed on her favorite carpet, which was too apt a comparison for Song’s comfort.
“Finished?” she asked.
There was only so long Song could string this out without angering the commander, so she nodded. She had the facts, as reported by Maryam and by Silumko of the Twenty-Ninth Brigade. The latter of whom she suspected would soon be receiving gold from the Thirteenth’s brigade funds for this assistance, a move that positively smacked of Tristan. Bless him. You could always count on Tristan Abrascal to have an eye on an escape route when consequences came calling.
“Sally, my friend,” Captain Wen grinned, chewing on orange as he did. “How’ve you been? Would you believe me if I said I missed you?”
The dark-skinned commander’s elaborate earrings tinkled as she turned to address the two watchmen standing behind her.
“Should Captain Duan refer to me by anything besides my formal rank going forward, you are to remove him from the premises,” she said.
Even as the two soldiers saluted Song’s patron mimed locking his mouth and throwing away the key, smirking all the while. The worst part was that Wen did not even have the decency to be embarrassing her in private. While a corner in the back of the gatehouse had been cleared, a desk and chairs readied for this impromptu tribunal, there were still watchmen furnishing new students with brigade numbers and plaques less than twenty feet away.
Gods, there was even some other student in need of the commander’s time waiting on a chair by the wall. The Someshwari girl with her long plait in a net might be sitting quietly, but eyes rested curiously on the spectacle. She did not even try to pretend she was not listening, smiling cheerfully back when Song tried to quell her with a dark look.
“This is absurd. What need is there to debate anything when hundreds saw the events unfold?”
Song had admired the sleek shape of the caravel as her own ship sailed into port earlier, but now wished she could take that admiration back. The Crest of Brass, for that was the caravel’s name, had been the very ship bearing the fools at the source of this entire mess. Its captain was proving to be an additional headache. Captain Rhys was an old man with a thick salt-and-pepper beard and barely any hair left, his skin turned leathery by decades at sea.
That he was a ship’s captain and a man was not wholly unusual, but neither was it common. Malani and Pereduri, as a rule, tended to favor women as captains and ship officers – save for quartermaster, a position almost universally reserved for men. He must be well trusted by the lady of Port Cadwyn, to have been granted the captaincy of as fine a ship as the Crest of Brass.
“Hundreds saw the fighting after it had begun, and then the contract that Nkosinathi Morcant signed,” Commander Salimata corrected.
“Signed under duress,” Captain Rhys cut in.
Commander Salimata’s gaze cooled, but she let the interruption pass. Song’s lips thinned, but she could not deny that was a correct description of what the Morcant had been subjected to. And that duress was the thread that might just undo the work her brigade had done in getting those slaves out of their metaphorical shackles.
“Few bystanders paid attention to the beginnings of the altercation,” Commander Salimata said. “The witnesses we do have swore that-”
“They were paid off,” Captain Rhys snarled. “And killed one of my men, to boot! How could they possibly be taken as neutral wit-”
“Captain,” the commander icily said. “You have my sympathies for the deaths and the trouble, but allow me to assure that if you ever interrupt me again you will be swimming home to Port Cadwyn.”
The Pereduri captain swallowed, eyes flicking around. He found no support, not even from ‘Nathi’ Morcant whose face betrayed more irritation than sympathy. He cleared his throat.
“Apologies, ma’am,” he said. “I meant no offense, my frustration over the matter overcame my sense.”
Song wished that Commander Salimata had been slightly less intimidating, so the man might have kept blustering and pushed the Watch to dismiss him outright. But between Salimata’s stern mien and Captain Rhys evidently being able to recognize a reef of the ship-killing kind, it was not to be.
“An understandable mistake,” the commander replied, in a tone that made it clear it had been a mistake nonetheless. “As I was saying, our only two witnesses of the beginning of the altercation swear that it was Nkosinathi Morcant who first resorted violence by attempting to strike Maryam Khaimov.”
She paused.
“One testimony on the matter was given by Warrant Officer Yayauhqui, who then slew one of your crew and thus stands disqualified as a witness,” she said, fixing the Pereduri captain with a flat look. “Yet we have confirmed through bystanders that Warrant Officer Silumko of the Twenty-Ninth Brigade did not participate in the violence, so his testimony still stands.”
Commander Salimata turned a hard look on the young man sitting by the Crest of Brass’ captain.
“The entire trouble was begun by you, boy.”
Song studied the ‘boy’ in question, making no effort to hide it. Nkosinathi Morcant did not seem cowed by the fierceness of the scowl currently turned on him. And though her expectation was to find disdain or conceit on that round face, neither was present. He was listening attentively, deferring to Commander Salimata without being in any way apprehensive. This was not the arrogance of someone who thought they were untouchable, Song thought. It was something different, and that meant he might not be as much of a fool as his behavior on the docks would imply.
Unfortunate, since he would almost certainly be an enemy to the Thirteenth going forward. If Song had not misunderstood his contract and he truly could heal, setting him up as an alternative to Lady Knit, then that would be trouble. In a place like Scholomance, such a contract would be worth its weight in diamonds.
“I mistook the Akelarre as a slave in service of my house and sought to discipline her when I did not have the right,” Nathi Morcant said. “I was unaware that any Triglau served in the Watch, or even could given that to my knowledge none of their tribes were brought into the Iscariot Accords.”
Trying to excuse why he had almost struck a woman wearing Watch black, Song thought. It was not a strong justification, but neither was it entirely groundless. As an excuse it would fail, but it might serve as a decent way to lessen the gravity of what he had done. Which she could not allow, if the Thirteenth was to get away with the deaths.
“It was an overstep,” the Pereduri acknowledged, “but also an honest mistake.”
Commander Salimata’s gaze then moved her way, an unspoken invitation, and Song straightened in her seat.
“Warrant Officer Maryam Khaimov wore Watch black and stood besides two more wearing the same,” she said. “That the mistake was honest is irrelevant. Given its depth and severity, I put forward that the response given to the provocation was proportionate.”
The commander crossed her arms, flicking a glance at the ship captain besides the Morcant when the old man cleared his throat.
“The witness, this Silumko, was openly paid by one of the killers,” Captain Rhys said. “How can his word be trusted?”
Song hid her pleasure at the misstep. The more they disputed the facts and dragged in the Twenty-Ninth, the worse this would go for them. The commander might take the side of the Pereduri if they were in a dispute with a single brigade, but more than one? That began to look like interference in Watch affairs.
“Warrant Officer Abrascal testified that his payment was solely for Warrant Officer Yayauhqui’s help in case violence erupted,” Commander Salimata replied. “Warrant Officer Silumko testified the same.”
She paused, eyeing Captain Rhys.
“Do you have any practical evidence to bring forward contradicting this?”
The man looked angry, but he mastered it quickly when Nathi Morcant laid a hand on his arm.
“We do not dispute the warrant officer’s testimony in this regard,” the younger man said. “I do dispute that, beyond the first exchange of my attempting a blow and being struck in turn, the Thirteenth Brigade acted appropriately.”
The commander leaned back in her seat.
“Make your case.”
“While the four sailors killed were armed, they only bore those arms in the service of securing my release from visible touch of Gloam against my body,” Nathi Morcant said. “It was the Thirteenth Brigade that first refused to release me, then escalated to lethal violence.”
Clever, Song thought with irritation. Gloam was inherently dangerous, enough so that unlike the hatchet Maryam had also put to his neck it could be argued to have been a danger to his health even when not actively being used to harm him. Thus justifying his guards bearing arms to free him of it. Alas for Morcant, she already knew how to bury that line of advance. Commander Salimata’s eyes returned to Song, eyebrow cocked.
“I dispute that the Thirteenth was the party to escalate to lethal violence, given that this ‘Sergeant Keli’ put a pistol to an unarmed boy’s head before hundreds of witnesses,” Song mildly said. “I also remind all involved that while Warrant Officer Khaimov took out a weapon, she was an injured party. The rest of my brigade only drew weapons after the other party had.”
The Morcant opened his mouth to reply, Song waiting until he had almost begun to plow through whatever he had been about to say. It was still her turn, after all, so he could not even complain of rudeness.
“Beyond that, commander, I must ask you a question,” she said.
Salimata Bouare’s eyes glinted with something like amusement.
“Must you? Proceed, warrant officer.”
Song smiled pleasantly at Morcant even as she addressed the commander.
“Has the policy of the Obscure Committee on the matter of allowing foreign soldiers into Port Allazei changed?” she asked. “If it has not, I must wonder at the legal absurdity of complaining about the death of soldiers who should not have been present in the first place.”
Wen let out a delighted chortle, popping a piece of orange into his mouth, and there was a sound of approval from behind Song, where – wait, was that Someshwari girl taking notes? Song had not even heard her take out the book, much less the steel tip pen.
“Each of those killed were paid crew on the Crest of Brass,” Captain Rhys harshly said. “Some had sailed with me for years.”
Commander Salimata’s answering look was cool.
“This is not Peredur, captain,” she said. “Word games will avail you nothing. I am perfectly capable of deciding whether a bodyguard is such regardless of whether they were written into your crew manifest.”
She scoffed.
“Whether your assertion of them being sailors or Warrant Officer Ren’s own that they were soldiers takes primacy is irrelevant: in practice, they acted as soldiers and thus will be judged accordingly. I deem that their execution after they bared arms was not a crime.”
Captain Rhys looked furious, but Nathi Morcant simply nodded. Song almost stared. She had expected a tantrum, not what seemed like genuine acceptance.
“It would be equally absurd to qualify fighting for one’s life to be a criminal act, however,” the commander noted. “Thus the gunshot wound inflicted on Warrant Officer Coyac will not be tallied as an infraction House Morcant must answer for.”
Both Pereduri looked relieved at that, Rhys more visibly than the younger man. They must have been concerned this would blow back on House Morcant, which wealthy or not the Pereduri nobles could ill afford.
“Nkosinathi Morcant did not further attack the Thirteenth Brigade beyond his initial mistake and the matter of the deaths is settled, so this aspect of the incident is to be considered resolved,” Commander Salimata ordered. “Leaving only the matter of slaves.”
“Slaves no longer,” Wen Duan mildly said. “A legal act was signed, leaving them free men – and woman.”
“This act was signed under threat of violence, Captain Duan,” Nathi Morcant politely replied. “That makes it invalid.”
“Isn’t it funny,” the large man smiled, pushing up his spectacles, “how you can make them slaves by threat of violence, but they cannot then be freed by the same?”
Wen might as well just call them evil hypocrites and be done with it, but no matter how right he was the large man was also making a mistake because this could not be turned into a matter of morality. The Watch would not be moved by moral law alone, it could not be given the practical realities the order must live with. Song knew she had to move the contest to grounds of law or this was good as finished.
“It is illegal for a watchman to own slaves,” Song intervened. “Divesting one of the slaves cannot thus be counted a crime, since legally he should not have been able to own them in the first place.”
“Morcant?” the commander prompted.
“The slaves are not my property but that of House Morcant,” the young man replied. “They were only assigned to my service, as any servant might be. Their deeds of ownership are on the Crest of Brass and will prove as much.”
He was Pereduri, Song thought, so odds were he was not even lying. Not that it would matter if he was: unless she could find a witness willing to state that those deeds were a forgery, the commander would have no reason to doubt them. Still, Song was not quite done squeezing that angle. It was the closest thing to a genuine legal argument she had, if she allowed it to be dismissed then she would be entirely grasping at straws. Maryam would be counting on her to handle this.
“Slaves were unloading the luggage and property of a member of the Watch, on Watch grounds,” Song pressed. “That is abetting slavery, at the very least.”
Morcant almost smiled at her words, and just like that she knew she had made a mistake. Commander Salimata shook her head.
“Ships chartered to bring students to Tolomontera are not subject to our laws or intervention without given cause,” the older woman said. “That includes crew, slave or not.”
Then Salimata Bouare’s eyes flicked back to Nathi Morcant.
“What does give me pause, boy, is that the harbor officers tell me Captain Rhys here paid upfront for the ship to remain docked for a week,” she said. “To use slaves in the service of your house while enrolled in Scholomance would be a breach of our slavery laws.”
The young man inclined his head in acknowledgement.
“I had no intention of making use of their labor, or requiring from them any act of service,” Nathi Morcant said.
Song liked to think she had always had a fine nose for such things, but a year of Angharad Tredegar’s company had refined her sense for what Pereduri liked to call the ‘words exact’. Her eyes went up to the golden letters above Nathi Morcant’s head before she could think better of it. To affect flesh with his contract, the man had to draw units of ‘ubunjalo’ from a source, as fuel for the power. To take such a thing from slaves, Song darkly thought, would not be considered labor or an act of service.
Her jaw clenched. She could not make that accusation without revealing her contract, which she could not afford to.
“You are tiptoeing around some ugly trick, I expect,” Commander Salimata noted, “but I did not come here to pass judgment on what has not taken place. As matters stand, the testimonies establish that you were forced to sign the contract freeing these slaves. While no actual violence took place there was still coercion, so I am inclined to nullify the contract on that basis.”
Her gaze swept back to their side of the desk.
“Ren?”
Song could feel it slipping through her fingers. Even if she outed her contract and accused Nathi Morcant of planning to use his own contract on the slaves, she doubted it would tip the balance – it might not actually be illegal under Watch law, she was not fluent with those regulations enough to be sure. What other angle was there? She should have tried to get the slaves freed as reparations for the overstep by Morcant. Idiot, idiot. She had been too worried with the Thirteenth being charged with something to press the advantage and now the matter had been declared settled so it was too late to try.
Three heartbeats passed under Commander Salimata’s calm gaze and Song could feel she was about to close the matter. Breathing out, she made her decision. She would need to keep the debate open to keep the Crest of Brass in port long enough that the Thirteenth would be able to rescue them. Song was considering how best to force that when they were all interrupted by a cleared throat. Incredulous, Song turned to look behind her. The Someshwari girl with dark brown eyes and elaborately plaited hair was smiling at them cheerfully.
“And you are?” Commander Salimata asked.
“Ishanvi Kapadia, ma’am,” she replied. “I am here for-”
“-written permission to die young,” the commander cut her off. “I recall now. What do you want, girl?”
Ishanvi dipped her head courteously, having set aside the book she was scribbling in earlier to demurely fold her hands in her lap.
“I tried not to pay attention,” she happily lied, “but could not help but overhear some details of the case.”
“And Laurels will be Laurels,” Commander Salimata impatiently said. “Get on with it.”
“Did I correctly hear that the purported slaves are currently in Watch custody, being held in a detainment cell?”
Song’s eyes narrowed. What was she doing?
“That’s right,” Commander Salimata said.
“A Watch gaol is not a stockroom,” Ishanvi said. “It holds individuals, not property. Implicitly the Watch has decreed these five to be persons and not property.”
“And?” the commander challenged. “That is an assumption only, it has no weight.”
“That is true,” Ishanvi serenely said, “but as of the General Charter Revision of 3 Dominion, to surrender a person under the authority of the Watch to either bondage, serfdom or any ‘compelled service without recourse’ will be considered trafficking men should the surrender in question not be obligated by applicable law.”
Song breathed in sharply when she caught on. Ah. Either the Watch had authority over the slaves and thus could not surrender them, or it did not have authority over them and thus had no grounds to hold them or force them to return to the ship.
“Unless the assumption of personhood is revoked,” Commander Salimata mildly said.
“That is certainly under your authority,” Ishanvi noted, “though doing so would be a legal act and thus expose you to formal protests lodged with the Obscure Committee, which would require you to justify that revocation. Failing satisfactory answer, you may be charged for practicing slavery by a tribunal.”
There was a heartbeat of incredulous silence.
“It is the very legal definition of slavery to make a person into property, ma’am,” Ishanvi Kapadia gently said.
The commander drummed her fingers against the tabletop. Song’s heart caught in her throat, hope rising.
“Laurel,” Commander Salimata finally said. “Legalist track?”
The Someshwari shook her head.
“History, ma’am,” Ishanvi replied.
Salimata Bouare snorted, clearly disbelieving.
“You speak like a seasoned jurist,” she said. “No matter. You are correct that, while the Watch cannot pronounce itself on the matter of the legal freedom of the five in question, so long as they are on Tolomontera they may not be compelled to resume being slaves.”
Captain Rhys gritted his teeth.
“You would let your students rob the House of Morcant?” he challenged the commander.
“There can be no robbery here, Pereduri,” Song coldly replied, “as no member of the Thirteenth claims to own another person.”
Nathi Morcant again put a hand on the captain’s arm.
“We do not dispute the verdict,” he evenly said. “But it does not preclude settling matters between ourselves, as I understand it.”
Commander Salimata did not contradict him, remaining silent. Nathi Morcant turned to face Song fully for the first and only time since they had met each other, expression serious but lacking the sneer she half expected.
“Captain Ren,” he said. “I noticed that your Akelarre cabalist is lacking fingers. Should you rip up the contract I was coerced to sign and remove your brigade from this situation, I offer to grow one of these fingers back.”
It was a good thing Maryam was not in the room, Song dimly thought. She would have killed him for that, armed men in the room or not. She forced herself to wait a heartbeat, filling it with every sharp thing she wanted to shout and releasing them. When she spoke, her voice betrayed nothing.
“I must decline,” she said.
The young man frowned.
“I would prefer to end this matter without rancor,” Nathi Morcant told her. “I understand I gave offense to your signifier, and thus offer this olive branch. But you must meet me halfway.”
And Song could see in his eyes that he genuinely believed what he was saying. That it had all been an unfortunate accident and that he was now offering a reasonable way out that left everyone walking away with their face saved. It was not a lie what he was saying, not exactly. But neither was this: your peace offering is to hollow out a man like pomegranate, digging out the seeds for others to eat.
But Song, Song was not here to right all the wrongs of the world. She wore no yellow sash, she did not believe that knives and pamphlets were the ladder to Heaven. Either you chose the wars you waged or you ended up losing them all, like the Kingdom of Cathay had. And she could not afford to lose, so she met Nathi’s eyes calmly instead of scorning him further.
“Let me give you a piece of advice,” Song Ren said. “Take the loss.”
“Pardon?” he said, tone tight.
“Call it a learning experience,” she said. “A bad investment. Call it whatever you want, and then put it behind you.”
“Are you threatening me, Captain Ren?” Nathi Morcant mildly asked.
“If I were threatening you,” Song said, “I would tell you that last year, when the causes for dead students were tallied my brigade was fourth on that list. I would tell you that on the Dominion we broke a mountain and on Asphodel we killed a god. I would tell you that we have enemies, but every year less.”
Their eyes stayed fixed, silver to brown.
“But I am not threatening you,” she said. “Nor will I ever, Nkosinathi Morcant. A threat is a warning, and if I ever decide you need to die the only warning you’ll have is that half-instant of pricking pain before the bullet goes the rest of the way through your skull.”
His composure made him hard to read, but when he moved to talk the faint tremble of his chin betrayed him. Anger, barley held in check.
“You choose enmity, then,” he evenly said.
“I choose to forget you,” Song replied. “Take that gift and walk away.”
His jaw clenched and he flicked a glance at Captain Wen, who let out a shrill laugh for a long three seconds then smiled.
“No,” Wen Duan flatly said.
The young man inclined his head.
“I see,” he said, rising to his feet.
He offered a salute to Commander Salimata, who nodded back.
“I will see to my affairs, then,” he said. “If I may be dismissed?”
“You are,” she confirmed.
Captain Rhys’ face was thunderous and he pulled at his beard, but the old man kept silent and followed the Morcant out. The rest of them watched them walk out of the gatehouse, pushing past a line of students waiting.
“That kid is definitely coming for your scalp,” Wen noted. “I look forward to finding out what brigade patron the Morcant kind of money can buy.”
Song’s lips thinned. A wealthy nobleborn with a contract capable of healing and an honor feud was a different sort of enemy than the Thirteenth had dealt with so far. But there was nothing to mourn here, she decided, for the man had been their enemy the moment he sailed a ship into Allazei that bore Maryam’s countrymen in chains.
“Restraint will be expected of you,” Commander Salimata warned her. “We will not smile on him turning up dead in a few days, girl. And don’t think you got off with everything you want.”
“I would not dare, ma’am,” Song replied.
“The slaves are no longer slaves,” the dark-skinned commander said, “but that does not make them Watch or sanctioned inhabitants of Tolomontera. They get a few days of grace, but after that they must have a reason to remain here or they will be expelled from Port Allazei.”
Song smoothed away her grimace before it could fully take hold. She foresaw in her near future a journey to the Galleries to find out exactly how one might become such a sanctioned inhabitant. Commander Salimata dismissed her after that, but even as she listened to Wen continuing to play with fire with half an ear Song went to stand before the Someshwari girl. Ishanvi Kapadia, book in hand once more, set aside her pen and offered her a happy smile.
“Your help was appreciated,” Song frankly said. “I will not forget it.”
Instead of waving away any implied notion of debt, Ishanvi inclined her head in acknowledgement. So she did want something.
“I look forward to speaking with the Thirteenth Brigade when the great gathering in Misery Square takes place,” Ishanvi said.
And that request would wait until the entire brigade was there. Song’s day felt like it should be over when in truth she had barely even begun handling this, so this once she would take the offered mercy without looking the gift horse in the mouth.
“I look forward to it,” Song replied.
Until then, for her, the work continued.
Comments
Morgan Whiting-Fawcett
I think it's definitely just "not another fucking thing to deal with" vibe
Adam Woods
I can't decide if Song's reaction to "Izel got wounded" comment hints at romantic interest or purely platonic worry about a cabal member?
JD Wessinger
Based on EE’s storytelling I imagine the Curse god will actually end up turned into a “Calamity trails at her heels like a favoured hound” with Song Ren being not cursed, but a curse to all the rest of the world. The rest of the Unluckies being the manifestation of your basilisks coming home to roost.
