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Chapter 5
🕑 Added 2025-04-18 16:00:26 +0000 UTCIt was rare for the Port Allazei docks to be so crowded: between the students, soldiers and sailors there must have been over a hundred souls milling about the stone piers. The pair of them, leaning against the old fortifications, watched the mass milling this way and that.
It was easy to see why there were so many. While six was not the most ships Angharad had ever seen docked in Allazei at once, never before had so many of them been large vessels. Three of those in sight were ancient, creaking cogs only a fool would dare to sail beyond the calm waters of the Trebian Sea but age had not made them any smaller. The others were rather more modern: a long and three-masted galleass protruded off the edge of its own pier, its oars pulled in, and towering over all the other ships was a massive galleon flying the black. And, apart from all the other vessels as if quarantined, sat Maryam’s still-nameless skimmer.
“Churro?”
Angharad slid her companion an amused glance. Izel was offering up the last of the bouquet of churros Captain Wen had bestowed upon the Thirteenth as a parting gift – wasted on the likes of you, he’d claimed, but I got them half price. Try not to die while I’m off getting drunk on Lucierna, they’d make me sober up to write the obituary - but beneath the benign expression Angharad could detect a hint of reluctance. He liked his pastries, Izel. Purely to tease him she made as if to reach for the remaining piece, then pretended to change her mind at the last moment.
“This is violence,” Izel accused, not fooled.
“Count yourself lucky Captain Wen picked the sort Tristan dislikes,” she said. “Else there would have been true competition for you.”
What the Sacromontan had against fruit pulp she did not know, but he’d taken only one bite of the stuffed churros before declaring Wen Duan to be spiritual archenemy of his faith. Not entirely unwarranted, given that Wen had clearly done it to spite him.
“Who am I to question the wisdom of Wen Duan?” Izel demurred, biting down on the last churro.
She chuckled, pulling down the brim of her hat when a sweep of machinery far above had light burning away at her eyes – as if looking up into a pit of Glare. Mornings on Tolomontera were not often so bright, much less this early, but the Grand Orrery was burning strong and pale. It made for an odd contrast to the weather, for the wind out here by the water had an icy bite and went right through cloaks.
Fortunately, Angharad was of the High Isle and thus hardly unused to such things. In early autumn there was hardly a span of the Young Shore spared storms of cold brine whose mere breath was enough to chill the bone. These were child’s play compared to the fearsome tempests that smashed into the northern coast of Uthukile for months at a time, shattering embankments and ripping towers off fortresses, but being raised in Peredur still let her shrug off the cold better than most.
Certainly better than the few Malani bundled up in thick cloaks and still shivering with wide eyes. One could easily pick them out from the rest of the crowd milling about the docks, huddled together like penitents at prayer.
“If you start gloating any harder, it may just carve a fresh layer over the city,” Izel said.
Angharad coughed into her fist.
“I was only considering how Malani are, in some ways, a delicate people,” she said.
The large man cast her skeptical look.
“I am not seeing any Izcalli wearing fur-lined cloaks a few days into the ninth month,” Angharad replied, slightly defensive. “It is barely even winter!”
“Swaths of the southern reaches of Izcalli are a desert,” he reminded her. “Even the heartlands of Malan are cool in comparison. You simply haven’t run into many southerners, I expect.”
She cast a meaningful look at his own standard-issue cloak, which he had not even pulled tight. Izel snorted.
“I was raised in Kukoya,” he said. “It is an upland valley that lies under snow for almost half the year. This is lukewarm weather, by my reckoning.”
Angharad eyed him as he devoured another third of the stuffed churro. Izel did not often speak of his house, or even the Kingdom of Izcalli at large. She well understood such reluctance, sharing in it regarding the circumstances of her own departure from Peredur, but if he opened the door himself…
“Which mountains?” she asked.
The famously fertile valleys at the center of Izcalli were ringed by several mountain chains, after all.
“Near the Imperial Someshwar, the northeastern end of the Smoking Mountains,” he said. “On paper it more or less borders the Raj of Kuril, but in practice the only good roads are north towards the territory of a Sunflower Lord and then the Grand Duchy of Huac. It is a remote place, and the winter snows cut it off from the rest of Izcalli entirely during the worst of winter.”
That rather sounded like the sort of holding a rising man would be assigned as a means to humble him, or at least keep him far away from the capital. A king’s esteem was a fickle thing, often fading when not regularly bolstered by fresh service.
“Ah,” Angharad managed, coughing into her fist. “Apologies, I had thought your father to be…”
“In favor with the Grasshopper King?” Izel completed. “He was. Is, far as I know. Kukoya was his choice. Courtiers praised his humility, but the truth is he wanted the iron mines. He has a great interest in cannonry.”
She cocked her head to the side.
“Is that what drew you to tinkering?” she asked.
He snorted, shaking his own.
“I never took to making weaponry,” he said. “Gods allow, I never will. If there is call to find a source to my calling, let us say it is how the valley of Kukoya holds one of largest and oldest candles in Izcalli.”
Angharad could recognize when a subject was being closed, and nodded in swift concession. A beat passed.
“Izcalli cloaks would not help with the chill anyway,” Izel said. “For most warrior societies cloaks are meant as trophy displays, not anything as cowardly as warmth. Many feathers, very little of anything that actually stops wind.”
“That sounds… impractical,” she offered.
“You must mean traditional, surely,” Izel said. “Tradition is never wrong, Angharad, else it would not be tradition.”
Her brow rose.
“That rather sounds like a quote,” Angharad hazarded.
“Some Eagle Society grandees have strong opinions on the matter of uniforms,” Izel said. “My household, in turn, had strong opinions on the matter of Eagle Society grandees.”
He rubbed his palms together, as he often did when uneasy, then played it off as if he had been warming his hands. Angharad opened her mouth, but before she could further change the subject interruption came in the form of heavy crashing sound followed by shouting. They both startled, turning to look at the minor disaster unfolding. The crew of the galleon had been hoisting up a large crate up the side of the ship, but something must have gone wrong with the knots because that crate was now a shattered wreck spilling bundles of black cloth all over the pier.
No one seemed to have been hurt, but with how dozens of students were waiting by that ship to board it had dropped close enough that some were alarmed. With reason: cloth or not, a crate that heavy was likely to cripple a man even if it did not happen to take their life outright. The distraction, however, was not quite enough for her to miss the faint sound. It was the stutter in the steps that gave him away, the way he tried to time the movement with her breath so it would not be heard. It stood out as trying.
Angharad waited a heartbeat then elbowed behind her, pulling the blow, and hit soft flesh. Tristan groaned, stumbling forward, and was revealed shooting her an aggrieved look.
“The belly, truly?”
“Truly,” she replied, then cocked an eyebrow. “If you time the steps so obviously it tells me you are sneaking up on me.”
The Mask chewed at the inside of his cheek, looking thoughtful.
“Noted,” Tristan said.
And meant it, too. It was a rare thing for Tristan Abrascal to make the same mistake twice, at least in such matters as these. Izel cleared his throat.
“Entertaining as this always is, Tristan, you did head out for a reason. The others are…”
“Likely on their way by now,” Tristan replied. “They were finishing up with the captain when I left.”
“Was it going well?” the tinker asked.
Tristan and Angharad shared an almost amused look. Izel, in his defense, had had little occasion to see Song Ren unleashed onto a negotiating table. Their contracts since returning from Asphodel had involved no haggling.
“I expect that by sheer dint of lecturing that poor woman will have been taught the entire text of the Watch Port Ordinances of 23 Sails,” Tristan said. “The lines may even have a leading role in her nightmares for a few months.”
“The garrison should not have tried to change the docking fees,” Angharad firmly said.
Using the pretext of the wave of ships docking at Allazei to try and hike the price paid by poor Maryam to keep her skimmer docked was hardly honorable, even if it was allowed, and deserved the retaliation it received. Namely, Song had dug up the official port ordinances as set out by the Conclave eighty-one years ago. These rules were considered dated and often unworkable in practice, but they were still theoretically on the books and set down by the highest authority of the order.
Angharad did not approve of rules that were not enforced, they either should be or not be rules at all, but that irritation had been eased by taking on the perspective that said ordinance no longer truly applied. It was only that the Conclave was still going through the long, arduous process of agreeing on something long enough to replace them with fresh rules and so they remained as placeholders until then.
Regardless, Song and Maryam had early this morning gone to the garrison with a list of twenty-one ordinance breaches that they argued invalidated Maryam’s need to pay anything at all, spending the hours since haggling a compromise with the captain handling harbor affairs. Angharad had a suspicion that the fees would not be raised but lowered by the time the dust settled.
The shark’s grin Song had failed to contain when she realized that the outer wall of Fort Seneca was a whole Lierganen foot and half too close to the docks – and thus, by some interpretations, would have to be demolished so a smaller and more defensible fort might replace it – had been endearing. This sort of land law squabbling was usually men’s work, it was rather charmingly domestic of their captain to enjoy it so much.
“It was good of her to spend her morning on this when she is leaving with the tide,” Izel said. “I expect her instinct would otherwise have been to claw the first place in that line.”
He gestured at the flock of black cloaks waiting by the stretch of the pier where the galleon crew would be lowering the ramp soon, the students – and some older watchmen as well, from the garrison – waiting in broad queue with their travel bags at their feet. The Timely Dispatch, which Angharad had to admit was auspiciously named, would be sailing for the port of Concordia before long.
Though that city was now a possession of the Kingdom of Malan, the same peace treaty that had ceded it to the High Queen had also enshrined the Watch’s right to use it as a supply depot. From there Song should have no trouble making her way to the Republic of Mazu, which was less than two weeks away from Concordia with the right winds.
“She’ll end up in one of the dormitories no matter how early she shows up,” Tristan shrugged. “There are real officers to accommodate, no student will get anywhere near a cabin.”
Not that it would have stopped her, Angharad thought. For Song it would have been a matter of principle to be there early. Movement at the edge of her sight had her half-turning, a black-cloaked pair passing through the covenant pillars and stepping into the light – Maryam in her blue-bordered hood, Song in a regular’s uniform with her traveling bag slung over her shoulder. The pair were waved over, their captain’s eyes lingering on the wrecked crate whose spilled cloths the crew were still gathering. Wondering if it meant a delay, perhaps.
“All hail the returning victors,” Tristan called out. “List your conquests, o mighty warlords.”
Maryam raised her fist to the sky,
“Half fee for six months and first pick of shipping contracts when I am cleared to sail,” she proclaimed.
“I could have talked her up to eight months if I had another hour,” Song groused. “Would that they had tried this earlier.”
The timing did not strike Angharad as a coincidence. While she did not believe Song infamous enough that the garrison would pick their moment to avoid her presence in specific, that they would do so to more broadly avoid having the captain of Maryam’s brigade involved was entirely believable. A regular cabalist had much weaker bargaining position than a brigade captain, who might make an official ruckus and more easily draw the brigade’s patron into the squabble.
Still, Angharad had learned to be grateful she was no captain. That small helping of influence came along with several more generous ones of the most horrid sort of busywork.
“Six will serve just as well,” Maryam said, patting Song’s hand. “I just need to get the route started.”
Angharad eyed the pale girl sideways. It was not her place to cast doubt on Maryam’s plans, but as the heiress to Llanw Hall she had been raised to the realities of sea trade and suspected the signifier would find shipping goods for the Watch rather less lucrative than she thought. Serving as a middleman for goods could be profitable, certainly. Under her mother House Tredegar had made good coin shipping ironwork, venison and salted fish to Port Cadwyn.
But when running as short a route as moving goods from one part of an island to another, a skimmer might be the single worst kind of ship to employ. Not only was it fragile and costly in upkeep, it lacked cargo space and beyond a crew of sailors it also required the continued employ of both a signifier and a tinker – very expensive specialists, though Maryam at least covered half that ground and Izel seemed content to cover the other out of simple geniality.
Sudden excitement from the crowd had them all turning. The Timely Dispatch’s crew was still gathering up the spilled goods but the sailors on the deck were bringing up the ramp and it had the waiting blackcloaks enthused. With reason. Angharad might not be cowed by the biting wind, but she would not pretend she was enjoying standing in it either.
“I had best get moving, it seems,” Song stiffly said. “It would not do to miss the bugle call.”
The Tianxi stood there uncomfortably. Angharad wrinkled her nose at the hesitation, stepping in to pull her close – which was resisted for a moment before the embrace was returned. Not for long, though, before they came apart. Naturally, the likes of Song Ren were much too serious for anything as frivolous as showing affection in public.
“Winds be with you,” Angharad said. “And give your kin my regards.”
“That will make for an interesting conversation,” Song noted, smiling. “Take care, Angharad.”
She stepped away, leaving Song room to give the others her farewell – a simple squeeze of the arm and nod with Tristan, shaking Izel’s hand and then Maryam swept her into a hug as well, stepping on Song’s foot as a warning when she tried to break the embrace as quickly as she with Angharad. Hooks’s hand slipped out of Maryam for a squeeze of fingers, too, though no more than that. The Khaimov sisters were careful not to show too much of their entwined nature where those outside the Thirteenth could see.
Embarrassed, Song cleared her throat and gave them all a final nod before striding away with a little too much haste to her steps. Angharad watched her retreating back, feeling a faint pang of envy. It soon passed. Even after her mistakes she was allowed to leave Tolomontera, but where would she go to? She had been refused knowledge of her uncle’s whereabouts and their letters were inspected by the Krypteia before making it into the Tredegar hands on either end of the correspondence.
“Let’s hope they did not send for her because one of her sisters took sick,” Maryam quietly said. “She would not take that well.”
A chorus of grimly assenting noises answered. It had long been clear to Angharad that much of the fire burning in Song’s belly came from a desperate desire to protect her younger sisters from the depredations of the Ren curse. Her friend would see it as a failure should the family curse reach one of them, regardless of whether such a thought was reasonable, and Song was not someone who dealt elegantly with failure.
“Well,” Angharad said, trying to put a smile on it. “Perhaps they recalled her for a betrothal meet. She is at the right age, and a promising officer besides. It will not be long before she has the means to afford a husband.”
Tristan choked, while Maryam turned a wide and disbelieving grin on her. What? Song Ren would make a fine household head, it was only natural for her parents to seek a match. It might even steer her away from… unwise dalliances with royalty in the future. Given Tristan’s common birth and that, no insult was meant to her, while nobly born Maryam had also been a witch living in the woods for much of her life, their reaction was not unexpected. Izel’s blank expression was.
His father was a calpuleh, a baron ruling over a temple-fortress and a dozen townships. He ought to understand the virtues of finding a good match early. The Ren were certainly in dire need of allies.
“Could one even bring a spouse to Allazei?” Izel said. “I am not certain the Watch would allow it.”
“They have allowed the families of shopkeepers and soldiers to settle in port,” Angharad pointed out, then frowned. “But you are correct, I do not know if students are allowed that same liberty.”
“Given the… metaphysical troubles plaguing her family, I expect there would be risks to such an entanglement anyway,” Tristan said.
Ah. That was true, Angharad conceded with a nod. She had forgot that the curse god hounding the Ren might well extend its ire to anyone taking on the name regardless of their lack of actual blood ties to the infamous Chaoxiang Ren. The four of them stood there and watched as Song joined the line, which soon stirred as the ramp was fully lowered and after a bugle call the guests began boarding. Song turned a look on them before stepping onto the planks, waving after a beat of hesitation, and they returned the gesture. They lingered even after Song disappeared into the belly of the galleon, reluctant to disperse despite the sharp breeze. Several of them would be parting ways for much of the remaining break. Angharad cleared her throat.
“Has it been decided when you will cloister in the Abbey?” she asked Maryam.
“The day after tomorrow,” Maryam said. “I ought to be in there for at least a month, though Captain Yue says it might take longer. I will send a message to the Rainsparrow if it does.”
No one tried to ask if visiting her at the Abbey might be allowed. The reclusiveness of the Navigators was near proverbial.
“Yue would keep you on a slab until the end of days, if she could,” Tristan said disapprovingly.
“In this case she is right to,” Maryam said. “What I’m trying to do is… uncomfortably experimental, which is rarely a good thing when it comes to signifying.”
A shiver of darkness stirred on the pale woman’s shoulder, a sign that Hook would have liked to argue the point but circumstance forbade it. It had Maryam pausing a moment, but she pressed on.
“Even if everything unfolds perfectly, my soul will be vulnerable for some time afterwards. The Abbey is where I will be safest.”
“I know,” Tristan grunted out, still sounding less than pleased.
As someone who had recently been possessed, Angharad could only praise the caution on display. The Akelarre Guild had declared her soul clean of any lingering contamination some months ago, but they had also warned her that the marks the mara had left meant she would remain sensitive to such predations for years. A humbling thought, that a single mistake might haunt her for so long. And a lesson worth remembering.
“You’ll be busy with your shrine anyhow,” the signifier tacked on.
Angharad leaned in, for that matter she had some passing interest in.
“Is the arrangement with the garrison confirmed, then?”
Tristan nodded.
“I went to the designated grounds of our new ‘temple district’ and claimed Fortuna’s share,” he said. “It won’t be as fancy as what some of the others are apparently planning, but I have plans.”
A shame, that. Such a lovely goddess deserved only the finest of temples.
“If you need any particular decorations, make me a list and I will see what can be done,” Izel offered. “I do not recall Khalkea being particularly known for its stone carving, but I expect that given a likeness I could get a statue of your patron done by local artisans.”
Tristan inclined his hands in thanks.
“I don’t intend on having a statue, but I appreciate the offer,” he said.
Izel nodded back, not quite hiding his surprise. Izcalli temples were known to favor stonework, Angharad recalled, and statues in particular. It was said the painted statues of the temples surrounding the Calendar Court were so artfully done a man would not truly believe them stone before touching them.
“If either of you need anything from the market,” Izel said, turning towards them and trailing off in invitation.
“If you can find a bestiary that concerns itself with the slaying of basilisk or manticores, I would be much obliged,” Angharad said. “Even the library of the Galleries lacked such volumes.”
Normally she would not have counted on such a request being feasible, but Khalkea was no petty Trebian kingdom. The island itself might not be all that large, but they had learned in Mandate how it was one of the cornerstones of Watch power in the Trebian Sea. Rich veins of copper and calamine had led the order to build foundries and workshops there, great works that were said to surpass even those of the Rookery in output.
A large market town had sprouted around the busy harbor, and its sprawling market was said to be full of hidden gems for those with discerning eyes. The Umuthi Society offered its students a sponsored month-long journey there over the break, that they might learn from the senior tinkers at the foundries and chance the market in search of cheap parts and materials.
“I will keep an eye out,” Izel seriously replied.
Maryam waved away the offer.
“We have all we need,” she said. “It is you who must be careful, Izel. Khalkea might be a Watch island, but they still allow in foreign traders.”
“I’ll not wander the market alone,” he assured her. “While I doubt there is a knife waiting for me there’s no sense in being reckless.”
“Izcalli assassins do not lack for boldness,” Angharad mildly said.
She spoke from experience there. Tristan slid her a smirk that she pretended not to notice. Besides, anyone deserved his amusement it was Maryam, who had slept through Angharad’s attempted assassination even after placing a warding sign on her door.
“Let’s get off these docks,” Maryam said, throwing one last glance at the galleon. “I’ve had enough of the wind.”
“We could grab a bite in town,” Izel suggested. “The Crocodilian will have a stew on.”
That did sound lovely, in this weather. Angharad wasted no time in agreeing. Maryam hesitated, until Tristan leaned over to offer covering her plate.
“Well, if you insist,” she happily said. “Shall we?”
They left the docks behind, turning towards the pillars, and Angharad caught sight of movement in the shade. A girl in Watch black, Tianxi. The face was somewhat familiar – from one of the princeling brigades, perhaps? She was long gone by the time they reached the pillars, gone into the city, and the Pereduri put it out of her mind. She fell in with Tristan, discussing the paint he intended for his shrine, and let the warmth of the chatter wash over her. She might lend him a hand once or twice, she thought, but for her break she had other plans.
Marshal de la Tavarin might refuse them access to the Acallar until classes resumed, but he had not forbidden them any of the ledgers – neither of the dead nor of the beasts still rattling the cages down below the earth.
And by the time her second year began in earnest, Angharad intended to have a plan to kill every beast in the Steel List.
Comments
Sean Boyd
Would she garuntee to get it back?
Sean Boyd
I believe that veins/blood vessels are the organs associated with the Navigator related signs (Thassalist or some such spelling). Fun tie in to her dealing with Hooks and the ties of blood too.
Pteromys Momonga
I wonder what Maryam is going to obscure next. If the brain is the traditional Izvoric starting point, is there a typical second organ as well? Or maybe she could obscure her damaged eye, though that seems close to the brain both thematically and locationally.
Arlen
i just wonder... why is maryam not just loaning/renting her ship out to the watch?
