Her mornings on Asphodel had become routine, if not rote.
(What is on the seventh page of the leftmost book? Maryam asked. Angharad rose to her feet, walked the hall two doors down and entered the bedroom. There were four books on the bed. She flipped open the leftmost to the requested page. It was a small journal, and that page held nothing but a sequence of inked numbers: seven, nineteen, three hundred and two, one.)
Letting out a long breath, Angharad opened her eyes and found an expectant Maryam looking at her from across the table, steel tip pen at the ready.
“Leftmost book, seventh page,” she said. “Seven, nineteen, three hundred and two, one.”
It had been one of the more interesting discoveries that everything she saw in a vision was temporarily fixed in her mind, near impossible to forget for at least a day afterwards. Maryam hummed, jotting down what had been said, then went down the hallway to check. She came back smiling.
“It is correct,” the pale-skinned woman happily announced. “And it was not knowledge I personally possessed, as Song was the one to write these down.”
Angharad slowly nodded.
“So the knowledge within my vision is not dependent on that of the people in my presence,” she said.
Which was for the best. Mind-reading was not forbidden under the Iscariot Accords, but it was mandatory to report and register. Maryam snorted.
“That is one test pointing in that direction,” she said. “I’m not willing to confidently repeat what you just said until at least another seven point the same way.”
While Angharad appreciated the thoroughness and would hardly oppose it when it was being put to work in her service, she was not trying to establish the limits of her contract up to some obscure Akelarre standard. As far as she was concerned, a truth had been learned. Another touch of color on the painting taking shape, establishing that her contract lent her true foresight and did not simply borrow from the minds around it to guess.
Angharad had believed this already proven, but Maryam insisted that the visions could not be treated as simply larger glimpses. It had almost irked her, a first, but now she was coming around to the notion. There was something… different about the visions. The glimpses felt like exactly that, a quick look at what lay ahead. Angharad remained apart from them. The visions, however, felt raw in a way that blurred the boundary between dream and material.
Almost as if she lived them, though admittedly not as deeply as she had that first time on the Dominion.
The Izvorica finished jotting down her notes, then carefully blew at the ink ‘til it dried before closing the journal. Angharad waited patiently until she was done, then silently inquired as to whether they were done.
“I would not mind practicing your tell,” Maryam said, “but I believe we might run late if we do.”
“My affairs are already packed and aboard the coach,” Angharad told her, “but it might be for the best to end this now anyhow.”
The Black House coachman would be taking her to the northwestern ward – not on an official Watch coach, mind you, a rented one – and there the carriage that Lord Cleon had recommended her would be waiting for the longer trip out to the country. It would be two days of traveling by road to the Eirenos estate, and she was meant to stay at least two nights there before returning. Lord Cleon was to receive guests for a small soiree, but she would be arriving the day before that so he might show her the estate and they could go on a hunt together.
Given that the moment they left Tratheke the beautiful First Empire roads of the capital would be a thing of the past, to leave a little early could not hurt. The roads in Tratheke Valley were said to be bad enough that carriages habitually carried spare wheels and axles. Would that Angharad could ride a horse instead. She would tire after an hour or two, she expected, but she was barred from this regardless as her slow but steady recovery had to be hidden from the society she was joining.
It was her troubles that made her fine bait for the cult of the Golden Ram, though the more the Thirteenth discovered the more it seemed like that name might have become a façade for something darker.
“I need to prepare my own affairs for the trip back to the Rows anyhow,” Maryam said.
“Bringing flowers to the brackstone wall, I hear,” Angharad said.
And not entirely succeeding at hiding her skepticism, by the amused look on the other woman’s face.
“Not just any flowers, Asphodel crowns,” she replied. “They’ve a large place in the tale of the god Oduromai and echo strangely in the aether. If I can match that echo to whatever lies behind the shrine…”
“Then you could put a name to the imprisoned spirit,” Angharad finished, inclining her head in acknowledgement. “Even failing to match would be information, in a way.”
“Assuming I can feel anything through the brackstone,” Maryam said. “It is not a given.”
At least she would be safe even if her Signs turned on her again, Angharad thought. Captain Wen was heading out with her, as he had with the archives. She was beginning to wonder if the large Tianxi might not have decided on a favorite after all. They parted ways cordially, the noblewoman combing through her room one last time to ensure she had not forgotten anything.
She was about ready to believe so when there was a small knock against the doorway. She turned half-expecting Song to be there, but it was her uncle. Osian Tredegar came dressed in his fine blacks, smiling, and after she silently invited him in he closed the door. Not a simple goodbye, then.
“Word has come from the palace that our delegation will be taken to the shipyard tomorrow,” he plainly said. “Myself and three others, all covenanters.”
She slowly nodded.
“Is a tinker from the Deuteronomicon to accompany you?” Angharad asked.
Among the Umuthi Society, those were the men and women who studied aetheric machinery – and thus were most likely to recognize an infernal forge should they encounter one down there. Half-grimacing, Osian nodded.
“A Savant and a Laurel as well,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow at the last, until her uncle explained the woman in question was a cryptoglyph scholar. An Antediluvian shipyard was likely to be full of inscriptions in the First Empire’s scientific language, some of which might shed light on its original purpose.
“I wish you luck,” Angharad said, lowering her head.
She was not sure whether she ought to rejoice of or dread his visit to the shipyard and the news he would bring on his return.
“They can only keep us drugged for so long,” Uncle Osian quietly said. “It will give us a better idea of how close the entrance to the shipyard is to the capital.”
And the shipyard was to be where the infernal engine lay. Perhaps. It was not known for certain there was an infernal engine on Asphodel in the first place. Yet recent news had improved the odds in Angharad’s eyes. Twice now members of the Thirteenth had run into Lord Locke and Lady Keys in places they should not be, while Hage – a devil of some age – had passed down a stern warning to avoid angering them.
If the pair were ancient devils themselves, or at least Lady Keys as the one Tristan reported to be of unusual strength, then there must be a reason for their presence on Asphodel. She could think of few greater prizes for an annealed devil than an infernal forge, for their like endless font of lives but a helping pair of hands away. More worryingly, it might mean competing with an ancient devil for that prize.
Not a prospect Angharad was likely to survive at the moment.
“It will be all right, Angie,” her uncle said, squeezing her shoulder. “We approach answers with every step.”
The kindness in his eyes burned. She had kept the Thirteenth away from the machinations of the Lefthand House, for now, but she had already dragged Osian Tredegar deep into their net. Oh, he had involved himself of his own will but deep down Angharad knew she had wielded her own life like a knife to force him. The same reason he was helping her was why he deserved better.
Part of her resented that something was holding her back from taking the risks she needed to see her father out of Tintavel, but that anger smacked of shame. Her uncle had spent decades rising up the ranks of the Watch then put the work of a lifetime on the line for her. To help her save a man he did not even like. Angharad was not blind, the two were never close.
Uncle Osian did it all for love of her. How could there be honor in this, in making a good man ruin his life? There wasn’t. That was the hard truth of it, she admitted to herself. There was not a speck of honor in any of it, no matter how much she pulled and twisted the facts to try and make it otherwise.
“Imani Langa,” she blurted out.
Osian Tredegar blinked.
“She is the ufudu,” Angharad admitted.
“The captain of the Eleventh Brigade?” her uncle frowned.
She nodded.
“I do not think my visit to the country will see me in danger,” she said, “but the Sleeping God alone knows. Should I pass…”
“I will ensure she does not outlive you long,” Osian Tredegar calmly said.
There was not a hint of doubt in his eyes as he spoke the words. She believed him. Angharad passed a hand through her hair, biting her lip. That was not what she had meant.
“See to yourself first,” Angharad quietly replied. “Please. Use it however you can to remove yourself from this pit I dragged you into.”
“You did no such thing,” Osian denied.
Her lips thinned.
“In my heart, I am still the lady of Llanw Hall,” Angharad admitted. “I played at it with all the other nobleborn islanders, the lot of us crowding room and table pretending as if it were a salon and we were all rulers in the making. It felt…”
She grimaced.
“It felt like my right, to make the decisions I have,” she said. “Whatever I must to free my father. I thought I was being a lady, making the hard calls Mother so often spoke of. The costs to everyone around me were regrettable, but not regretted.”
Her uncle listened in silence, face inscrutable. She rubbed her forehead.
“But I am not lady of Llanw Hall,” Angharad said, though the words felt like molten iron. “And what I thought a lady’s refrain now sounds like the wailing of a child.”
An honorable woman would not have let it all turn out like this. Like some… endless twisting knot, a rope dragging ever more people into the pit. She had made bargains, cut corners, all because it felt hopeless to struggle otherwise. And for what? A liar’s promises. Bait she swallowed down to the last drop no matter how bitter the taste grew.
“It has not been a year since you watched it all burn, Angharad,” her uncle gently said. “You are… I do not expect you to embrace it so quickly, the black. It was not a life you sought. I did, as a young man, and still it took me time.”
She closed her eyes. He did not understand, not really. Could not. Osian Tredegar saw in her his sister’s ghost and loved the shade too much to glimpse through it at what his niece had become. The Fisher had chided Angharad, once, for clinging to the victories of a child while fighting a woman’s battles. And while the spirit was ancient and cruel, a tyrant of the Old Night, in its own mad way it saw things clearly.
It was time to grow up. Her debts were no one else’s to settle.
She kissed her uncle on the cheek, bade him goodbye and left him stand there troubled. Another regret, but the only words she had to soothe him were lies. The Thirteenth were waiting for her in the courtyard, chatting by the coach. Maryam and Tristan trading barbs, Song eyeing them amusedly. They were… They stood in the light of the Tratheke morning like a lit hearth, and Angharad a stranger. One of her own making.
“Tredegar, are you taking up lurking? Don’t put me out of a job, I need the salary.”
She answered Tristan’s teasing by approaching, the thief studying her face seriously as she did. Debts to settle, Angharad reminded herself. How stiff was her pride, that she must chew on it for months before she could swallow? Stiff enough she nodded at Tristan and shook a surprised Maryam’s hand before finally turning to Song. She breathed in.
“When I asked you about the death of Isabel Ruesta,” Angharad said, “I walked into that room having decided on the answer. For that, I apologize.”
Silver eyes met her own.
“Apology accepted,” Song Ren finally said.
The noblewoman stiffly inclined her head.
“When I return from the country,” Angharad continued, “I would ask you again.”
Her captain gave a slow, measured nod back.
“I await that conversation, then,” she simply said.
They left it at that. Debts to settle, Angharad thought again as she climbed onto the coach and the door was closed behind her. It had not felt good, swallowing her pride. She wished it had, that virtue would be sweet on the tongue, but it hadn’t.
But neither had treason, and she would sleep better after this.
—
Song had come to the rector’s palace to personally report matters best not put to paper, expecting the trip there and back to take up most of the time involved, but that had been foolish optimism on her part.
Lord Rector Evander, upon being informed that Song was to run down a lead concerning a potential second brackstone shrine, had made a snap decision. That was why, an hour and change after entering the palace, Song Ren was being glared at by Prefect Nestor – commander of the palace lictors, the Lord Rector’s personal guards among them. It was unfair of the man to be turning that ire her way when Song had spent the better part of half an hour trying to deny his king.
It was, unfortunately, difficult enough to refuse the Lord Rector anything even when he did not have something passingly resembling a valid point.
“Nestor, make your peace with it,” Evander Palliades advised. “My mind is made up.”
The commander of the lictors grit his teeth.
“At least let me send a whole squad with you,” he said.
Lord Rector Evander, dark eyes glittering with amusement, turned to Song with a cocked eyebrow. Would that she could strangle him. He knew exactly what she was doing, foisting off the answer on her.
“This is meant to be a discreet investigation, prefect,” she said. “Twenty heavily armed lictors surrounding us at all times would be too conspicuous.”
The glare deepened, still turned on her. He could not afford to be angry at his master so Song was paying the price on their behalf.
“Two guards are too few,” Prefect Nestor said. “Since your brigade has failed to find the assassin, Captain Ren, it -”
Enough.
“My brigade is not contracted to find your assassin,” Song icily replied. “If the lictors are incapable of doing so, hire a Watch team to make up for your incompetence – another team, as mine is already on contract.”
“Watch your tone, girl,” the prefect warned.
“Watch your words, prefect,” she flatly retorted. “I have tolerated, in the spirit of cooperation between Asphodel and the Conclave, the throne’s constant impositions on my brigade’s contracted duties. Yet there are limits.”
She smiled blandly.
“Further interference will force me to consider the throne of Asphodel in breach of contract, and thus any obligations on the Thirteenth Brigade’s part voided. We can withdraw to the Lordsport by day’s end, if you would like.”
The older man gritted his teeth, looking like he wanted nothing more than to start snarling, but he had to know that he had no real grounds to complain on – he had been out of line. Instead he looked askance to the Lord Rector, whose eyebrow remained cocked.
“I spoke in haste,” Prefect Nestor reluctantly said. “Yet it remains that His Excellency descending into an unsavory part of the city with only yourself and two guards as escort is an entirely unnecessary risk.”
“I agree,” Song said, to his surprise. “While I concede that the throne has a vested interest in what is being investigated, I would prefer an observer to accompany me instead. As I have repeatedly stated.”
She turned a cold gaze on Lord Rector Evander, who idly waved her irritation away.
“The matter in question is of importance to House Palliades and must remain secret,” the bespectacled young man said. “I will not bring in another soul when all that is required of me is to walk down a street and listen while Captain Song asks a few questions. It would beirresponsible of me.”
Prefect Nestor looked like he shared Song’s opinion, which was that the irresponsibility in play was Evander Palliades putting himself in a situation where the bullet put in his skull would become the opening shot of a civil war over his succession, but he could no more argue than her. He was a retainer, not someone who could question his master over the affairs of his own house.
And House Palliades had a right to keep the matter of the brackstone shrines and aether seal secret, Watch bylaws guaranteed it. Song had checked. Thrice, in different languages, to see if there might be any wiggle room using a different translation. Unfortunately, the Laurels were very thorough in their work.
“Most of the traveling will be done by coach,” Song offered. “And there is no reason that a larger force could not be waiting inside the ward to escort him back in greater numbers, so long as it remains covert.”
Much of the heat gone out of his eyes, though not all, Prefect Nestor curtly nodded.
“I will arrange that immediately,” he said. “Your Excellency, Captain Ren, please excuse me.”
She simply nodded, while Lord Rector Evander smiled and leaned over to share a few quiet words before letting the old prefect leave. The look he turned on her afterwards almost seemed approving, the warmth in those dark eyes making her a little uncomfortable.
“You handled yourself well,” Evander Palliades said. “Captain Duan would be pleased, I’m sure. Nestor’s a tough old hound, half the reason I picked him as prefect is that he is too stubborn to be bent.”
“He is also correct regarding this entire affair,” Song flatly replied. “It is an unnecessary risk, and while I acknowledge that you have a right to attend I do not believe the reasons you gave for it are your true ones.”
He leaned back into his seat, lips twitching for some strange reason. Had he somehow failed to grasp that she was implying him to be a selfish prick complicating her life for the sake of his petty whims? He had demonstrated not to be a dimwit in other regards, which made his reaction all the more baffling.
“The last few days have been smothering,” he acknowledged. “I cannot so much as walk down a hall without a full squad of lictors behind and ahead of me.”
“My sympathies,” Song blandly said. “Unfortunately, your inclination to use my brigade a means to escape your situation puts us in the position of being responsible for your life even as you carelessly risk it.”
“It is our lictor escorts that would be responsible,” he denied.
Song flatly stared him down until he coughed and looked away. If Evander Palliades was killed while tagging along on a Watch investigation, it would be puerile to pretend that the blackcloaks would not get the lion’s share of the blame whether lictors were present or not. It was not at all unlikely that the Watch would end up blamed for the ensuing civil war as well.
While strictly speaking getting the Lord Rector killed on her watch would not end their contract with the throne Asphodel, thus failing the yearly test, Song suspected such a thing might… detrimentally affect the Thirteenth’s performance assessment.
“I’m not unaware that you would be made liable for my decision, should some catastrophe strike,” the Lord Rector admitted, and straightened in his seat. “I will obey your orders in the field, Captain Song, and find a way to make it up to you.”
The informally spoken, almost teasing last part had her flushing in irritation.
“You will dress as a merchant,” she ordered. “You will not speak unless I allow it, and your escorts will obey my orders until your life is demonstrably in danger.”
He nodded, smiling, and the warm satisfaction it brought was purely that of a daughter of Tianxia subjecting a despot to the rightful yoke of law.
“Then, while I continue to protest, I reluctantly agree to your accompanying me to the site in question,” Song said.
“Capital,” Evander amiably replied. “Where is this site, anyhow? You did not clarify beyond the northeastern ward.”
He paused, coughing into his fist.
“Will we be passing through the ‘Reeking Rows’?”
He said those words, she observed with some amusement, much in the same tone her sisters used to talk about that shrine to the White-Tailed Consort in the woods a few hours away from their home. Scandalized fascination. She cleared her throat.
“We will not,” she said.
She would not have thought his face one suited to pouting, between the stubble and the angular features, but some might have called the expression on his face endearing.
“Though we will come close,” she added, and he lit up. “I take it you have not visited that part of the city often?”
“Try never,” he replied. “It was the first Palliades rector who ordered that district’s consolidation, so it has long been a source of curiosity to me. I’ve not had opportunity to visit the ward before.”
“You’ve never set foot there?” she asked, honestly surprised.
Disreputable or not, it contained almost a quarter of his capital.
“First I was too young, then under regency,” he said. “And after I took the crown, the first few years were… difficult. Lady Floros prepared me to reign, but Palliades or not I did not command the respect she does. It was as if the machinery of state had rusted overnight, and every failure had my name written on it.”
“You seem to have grown beyond those beginnings,” Song honestly said.
While his rule was weak, it was not through any particular failing of his own and he was taking steps to remedy this – indeed, his success seemed to be why his enemies were growing bolder. Song felt a twinge of guilt at keeping from Evander that his suspicions were correct, that there was a coup brewing under his feet and the Council of Ministers was up to its neck in it, but she ruthlessly rubbed it out.
There could be no good kings and the Watch did not take sides.
“That is what I owe my name and my people,” he said, smiling wanly. “It does not leave room for much else, but my father liked to say that duty is not a verse but refrain – it will return so long as we keep singing, and what else is there but to sing?”
It was easier when you thought of kings as distant figures on towering thrones, Song thought. Before you saw what lay under the crown and the dragon robe, the flesh and bones. The kings of the Feichu Tian did not get tired or wistful, did not sound determined to filially live up to their legacy. They did not sound like they were drowning in their own reign.
It changed nothing, she reminded herself.
And yet half a smile fought its way through Song’s better judgment, as she cleared her throat and drew him out of the soft melancholy he’d fallen into.
“To answer your earlier question in full,” she said, “we are to visit a paying establishment.”
“A tavern?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.
“They do serve wine, I hear,” she noted, “but I expect that is not the main draw.”
“An eatery?”
Her smile widened.
“Have you ever been in a brothel before, Your Excellency?”
By the way he choked, she would hazard he had not.
—
It was the first day of the investigation, so Tristan took the time to case the place. To ask around, spend a few coppers and get a feel for it.
The Kassa family’s workshop on Chancery Lane was not a single edifice but three of them, tightly clustered together and effectively occupying an overlarge city block. Two of those buildings, large one-story squares with a tall ceiling and a flat roofs covered with gas lamps, where their weavers turned the wool imported from the mountains into the cloth shipped out to the Lordsport. From there it was headed mostly towards southern Izcalli, Tristan learned.
Asphodel wool was considered of lesser quality and was thus sold at more affordable prices, often undyed. Cheap clothing was attractive to the Izcalli lords bordering Tianxia and the Someshwar, who always had fresh serfs to clothe and no great desire to dress them expensively. It was a common enough sort of trade for small Trebian islands, though often Tianxi and Someshwari traders stepped in as middlemen to fill their pockets.
Profits cared little for irony.
The two squares had been turned into one large building, the space between them walled in with cheaper stone than the Antediluvian sort while the separating walls were knocked down to make of them a single large floor. Not so with the third edifice, a three-story building pressed against the side of the others that had been turned into dormitories for the workers – with the nice, windowed upper floor reserved for foremen and overseers.
The alley door that the Brazen Chariot had mentioned was a narrow slice of street between the Kassa workshop and rented warehouses, a back entrance that should lead directly to the workshop floor. Had the assassin been unable to secure a bed in the dormitories, or perhaps been afraid that in a crowd someone was bound to talk? That might be it, if Song was correct and that illusory contract had to be consciously used – those tattoos were distinctive, and sleep would have revealed her true face for anyone caring to look.
Satisfied he had the layout of the place comfortably settled in his mind’s eye, Tristan began making more pointed inquiries. Was the Kassa workshop hiring? What kind of workers, what were the wages, who should be sought to get a foot in? There were taverns close, cheap enough they were meant to cater to the workers and not the whipmen, and there he found fertile grounds for answers so long as he spent some coin on drink or food.
“The Kassa are always hiring,” a wan-faced barmaid told him. “But not for the good wages you’re looking for, boy. Those weavers are locked up in contracts so tight not even Old Dragfoot could hammer them open, the Kassa keep that in-house. They only take fullers and traveling men.”
Tristan swallowed a mouthful of watery stew, forcing himself not to grimace. Watch meals had spoiled him.
“Do they full with bats or feet?” he asked.
“They’re traditional, so it’s feet in the piss for you,” she chuckled.
Not ideal. He wasn’t too proud to spend hours stepping on woolen cloth in a tub full of human piss, but the stink would be hard to wash off. Not ideal to sneak around after.
“And the traveling men?”
“They’ll work you to the bone,” the waitress warned. “Not just warehouse work, but riding the coaches and filling in everything that needs to be filled. You might just end up stepping in the piss anyway, for lesser pay.”
Ah, Tristan thought, but it also sounds like work that’ll get me in everywhere. He pretended to heed her advice, made sure to tip her as well as the fresh migrant he was pretending to be could, then moved on to another haunt. He slipped in with a wave of hammer-men from a larger workshop down the road, waiting until they’d had a few beers with their meal to ingratiate himself with further drinks and ask his questions.
“Don’t know who told you Kassa would take you, but they were full of shit,” a big man called Pantelis laughed. “They only hire by recommendation, even their traveling men – had trouble a few years back with a fire they blamed the Anastos for, now they’re careful as cats.”
“Try the Euripis warehouses, down on Charon Street,” his wife advised. “They take in Sacromontans, and the pay’s shit but it comes with a bed and one meal a day.”
The next crowd told him much the same, though they warned one of the Euripis foremen liked pretty boys and did not like it when they refused. When he asked about how one might get recommended to the Kassa, the answers were not promising.
“Work a year or two for them at their northwest warehouses,” he was told. “Or have a cousin inside.”
He picked a particularly drunk woman to ask about bribes, counting on her not remembering his face in a few hours, and was told it wouldn’t work.
“If you’re caught taking coin they slice you,” she said. “No one’ll risk it for some nobody like you, kid.”
She was likely right, unless he offered a suspiciously large bribe that might just get him outed anyway.
Fortunately, through the mass of largely useless dross he’d gathered through hours of this he found one useful detail: the Kassa warehouses in the northwest were in bed with the local basileia. And, more importantly for him, that relationship was close enough that recommendations handed out by said basileia – no one could tell him the name – were enough to get you in.
That, Tristan decided, sounded like an angle he could work.
—
Irritating as it was to have the Lord Rector foisted onto her for the trip, at least Evander did not waste time getting ready.
By the turn of the hour they’d left the palace, smuggled out with their two lictor minders on the supply lift, and boarded a coach. Forty lictors would be following in a fleet of coaches after a delay, but Song intended to be done with the investigation long before they could ruin her efforts blundering about.
The two hard-faced men accompanying them screamed ‘soldier’ even out of lictor’s uniform between the blades, the scars and the ramrod straight posture, but Song was hoping they would be taken as hired guards for a wealthy young man trying out the seedier side of Tratheke. Lord Rector Evander, despite wearing clothes in muted colors and no jewelry – even his spectacles had been changed for a set with smaller lenses and a cheaper iron mount – could not pass as anything but ‘well bred’.
It was nothing he could help: soft hands, well-kept hair and the easy confidence of man who’d never had to lower his eyes in his life were not something that could be hidden by a change of clothes. His barely hidden enthusiasm and curiosity were, but Song saw no point in asking. On the contrary, better he marked as a young master out on an adventure than anything needing deeper thought.
If atrocious price gouging on the wine and room were the worst they had to suffer today, she would count herself lucky.
In a drab brown doublet and workman’s trousers, his hair kept under a cap, Evander Palliades looked at the run-down streets of the Reeking Rows’ approach as if they were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. Song kept close, hand near her blade, and watched him as he eyed streaks of filth on alley walls not with disgust but curiosity. She shot him a dubious look.
“I had read myrmekes ate such things,” the Lord Rector said. “I wonder if it is the Rows that drove off local lares.”
Song hummed.
“I have not seen stray dogs or rats here,” she acknowledged. “But that is not so rare in the poorer districts of any city.”
Anything went into the cookpot, when you grew hungry enough.
“Tratheke has little vermin compared to the other cities of Asphodel,” Evander told her. “Most of the city is stone or brass, it repels many insects.”
And with them the creatures that fed on them, presumably. Song had not fallen behind on her Teratology readings so knew every animal to be part of an intricate cycle – a part of that cycle could not be yanked out without consequences rippling out.
“I expect the smell around here would drive off men as well, if they could leave,” Song mused.
He glanced at her through his spectacles.
“You disapprove of the arrangement?”
She frowned.
“You do not?”
“It was done for sensible reasons, which have not changed,” the Lord Rector informed her.
“It sensibly ruined a quarter of your capital, or near enough,” Song replied.
“Those trades have to go somewhere,” Evander said. “It cannot be either of the southern wards, and what use is there in moving them northwest instead? There is no machine there to blow the air upwards.”
“The air only became poisonous because of the concentration of trades,” she said. “If you dispersed them across the city-”
“Then I have districts up in arms about their homes suddenly smelling like tanneries and slaughterhouses,” he said. “The dye workshops used to be in the southwestern ward, Song, and there were riots during summer when it went too long without raining. The fumes from the heat were deadly to children.”
“And your solution to this is making a district where the desperate are forced to work knowing their lungs rot for it?” she replied, unimpressed. “The entire ward might well be uninhabitable if not for the Antediluvian wind machine.”
Whatever those great rotating blades were truly for, in practice they blew the reek upwards.
“The edge of the district connects to two major avenues and the broadest canal in Tratheke,” Evander said. “The trades are clustered there because the ward is far from where the goods are headed and those are the easiest paths to remedy this.”
“An argument that matters much to the magnates owning those slaughterhouses,” she said, “but I expect rather less to those dying in them. The latter are your subjects as well, Lord Rector.”
“And what is your solution, then?” he replied in irritation.
“Spread out the trades within the whole northeastern district,” she said. “Keep only the worst near the machine. Air in the Rows will thin out and the ward becomes inhabitable again, which will draw people back into the empty districts.”
“That would mean reclaiming the ward,” he said. “Which means patrols and clearing out the lemures, thus expanding the lictors. Which is expensive. Then for there to be a wide movement of populace I would need to either offer a bounty to families moving here, expensive, or force them to move – tyrannical and still expensive. It means refurbishing the streets, the lamps, the lesser canals. It means bringing magistrates to settle disputes and collect royal rents.”
He scoffed.
“What you suggest is the founding of a colony town within Tratheke,” Evander said.
Song nodded, for that was entirely true. She only knew so much of the unique structures of this ruin-city, but the bare numbers of it she had considered before speaking.
“An endeavor that would take years, significant coin and much effort,” she agreed. “It would also ease the crowding of the southern wards, bring in revenue through taxes and royal rents as well as drain the recruitment pool of your basileias.”
She paused.
“But, most important of all,” Song pointedly said, “you would cease to tacitly endorse the poisoning of your own subjects less than an hour’s walk away from your own palace.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Even if I could spare the coin for that – which, between bringing the lictors up to strength and restoring a First Empire shipyard, I assure you I do not – it would not matter,” he said. “Such a great investment would not be solely mine to decide, it must be approved by the Council of Ministers.”
Song frowned. That, admittedly, she had not considered.
“And they would not allow you to spend that much improving Tratheke when the current state of affairs suits them better,” she said.
“They would see it as gilding the Palliades reputation with the people and strengthening my grip on the city, neither of which they will let me spend a copper on if they could prevent it,” he flatly said. “There are checks on my power. Lawful and not, for if you imagine for a moment the Trade Assembly would not pour a fortune into that district colony to steal it out from under me you are being most naïve.”
If they can better serve the people than the throne, they would be right to, Song thought. A king’s power first sought to preserve itself, then doled out kindness like crumbs. Only authority issued by citizens and answerable to them could truly be relied on to observe their dignity.
“The power of thrones is always contested,” Song simply said.
He looked at her through those brass spectacles, dark eyes flat.
“Your republics war on each other constantly through mercenaries, squabbling over farmland and profits,” Evander Palliades said. “The children of your bureaucrats are nearly guaranteed to win such offices, your elections are awash with gold and blood, even your famous Luminary lottery is rigged so that the three most powerful republics always win.”
His brow rose.
“It seems to me that a republic is not a remedy so much as a different set of troubles.”
“Tianxia is no less troubled by evils than any other land,” Song acknowledged, to his visible surprise.
“But?”
“But when our rulers fail to end these evils, they are removed and replaced by those who will,” Song said. “Without needing to wait out a lifetime or wage a civil war. We are a method, not a result.”
“Results are what matters to a nation,” the Lord Rector dismissed. “The rest is wind.”
Song looked around her, at the dying district.
“As you say, Your Excellency,” she replied.
His face tightened. Her words put silence between them all the way to the edifice with the yellow crescent hung outside. It was not wise to anger the ruler of the land one must fulfill a contract in, but Song did not regret her words. Truth was truth, and if the man insisted on debating her she would not lie to assuage his feelings. Besides, if he was miffed enough by her words perhaps he would find another sniffer to accompany him on his outings.
It would be better for them both if he did.
The brothel was exactly as she had been told, the sign with a yellow crescent its only advertisement. It was three stories tall and rather broad, from the outside looking more like a Port Allazei hostel than a den of debauchery – though it was still in the stone, green glass and brass typical of Tratheke. There was no one at the door and the windows were all shuttered tight, but there were lights inside.
“On me,” Song told the Lord Rector and his escorts. “Follow and do not speak.”
She waited for nods from all three before entering. The entrance hall was dimly lit with bad oil lamps – not Glare oil, by the glow – and it smelled strongly of incense. Not the good kind, and Song had prayed at enough street shrines to know what cheap incense smelled like. A man with a club and a dead eye waited there, but he let them pass without a word. It was not a madam who welcomed them at the desk but a procurer, a small man with dark hair and blue eyes dressed more like a shopkeeper than a flesh peddler.
He smiled easily and shallowly, eyes always moving between them.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said. “The Amber Crescent is always pleased to receive guests.”
It took effort for her not to inform him that crescent’s shade of yellow had not been anywhere near amber. His eyes lingered on the two lictors behind them.
“Especially those with coin.”
The procurer licked his lips.
“What pleasure can I provide you?” he asked, gaze darting between her and the Lord Rector. “Most of my girls are free, though should you be interested in boys instead…”
Song took out a small pouch of silver and placed it on the desk. The upside of the Lord Rector having come along was that she could bill the payment to the throne instead of paying out from brigade funds.
“We require not your girls but your discretion,” she said.
Eyes flicked between her and Evander again. He tested the weight of the pouch, looking pleased.
“Of course,” he smiled. “A room, and never a word will pass these lips.”
“Prepare it,” Song ordered. “And while we wait, I was told you have a selection of wines?”
“My cellar is yours, my lady,” the procurer hastily said. “I can have brought up-”
“We have very particular tastes,” Song blandly said. “We will choose ourselves.”
Another piece of silver was put on the desk.
“Unless you object?”
The small man picked it up, adding it to the earlier pouch. He’d unstrung that so discreetly she never noticed.
“I would not dare,” the procurer smiled. “Verico will show you the way to the cellar. I will personally see to your room, my lady.”
“Do,” Song thinly smiled back.
Verico was the name of the one-eyed guard, who kept silent as he led them past a few closed doors to a set of narrow stairs leading down into the basement. The door at the bottom was not locked. Song glanced at the Lord Rector meaningfully and he gestured for the lictors to stay out, remaining on the main floor with Verico – who handed them a stinking, smoky lamp before closing the door behind them.
The basement was a disheveled pile of barrels and bottles, not all of which were on racks. Many were simply on the floor, there for anyone to trip over, and some of the bottles in straw-stuffed crates were empty. Song’s fingers clenched at the sight but she kept herself in check. She was not going to organize a brothel basement for that seedy man upstairs, even if someone ought to.
“I don’t recognize any of those bottles,” Evander Palliades said, sounding amused. “And some are larger than I thought wine bottles even came in.”
“We are not here for the wine,” Song murmured back.
Lamp in hand she pushed through the mess to find what they truly had come from. The back wall, while obstructed with barrels and a collapsed shelf, turned out to be exactly what the Brazen Chariot thug had said: brackstone, entirely so. The Lord Rector, come to stand by her side, clicked his tongue.
“So your signifier was right,” he said. “There’s more than one shrine – and unless there’s some other aether prison out there, these are the anchors for it.”
Song slowly nodded.
“Not here,” she said. “Grab a bottle and we use the room for a span, then head back.”
He chose a bottle of bright red glass with a seal on it, snatching it out of the crate, and followed her up. The procurer ‘preparing’ the room for them turned out to be changing the sheets on a miserable straw mattress and topping up the oil lamps. Two clay cups were brought up as well, clean enough Song might be willing to drink something out of them.
The small man might have tried to eavesdrop on them, she figured, if not for the two lictors that went to stand by the door. They had naturally discouraging expressions.
Evander closed the door behind him, and while Song sat on the bed after inspecting it enough to be reasonably sure it did not bear lice he broke the seal on the bottle and took a sniff.
“Cherries?” he muttered.
He poured them both a cup, but she merely held hers after it was handed.
“You have never heard of these shrines, I take it,” she said. “Is there truly no record of their construction?”
“If there are, I do not know them,” Evander admitted as he turned as chair to face her. “My family has journals dating back to its ascension to the throne, but they do not mention anything like this. Mostly Lord Rector Charilaos was trying to figure out which noble bride he could pick without getting assassinated.”
He grimaced.
“No one expected House Lissenos to be so suddenly snuffed out,” he said. “Charilaos Palliades was a compromise candidate, not a lord anyone expected to ever come near the throne. Our ancestral lands are a goat farm, for Oduromai’s sake.”
“I thought your family were the closest relatives to House Lissenos,” Song said.
“That became true,” he said, “after they spent two decades and change purging the lesser branches of their house following a spectacularly botched coup by their closest kin. Before that Charilaos was, I think, fifty-fourth in the line of succession? The genealogy books of the time don’t even mention him by name, only our house at large.”
Evander snorted.
“I doubt the time he spent in the presence of the last Lissenos rector ever reached the sum of an hour. He was not someone House Lissenos would have shared ancient family secrets with.”
“So the knowledge might have been lost when they died out,” she said. “Did they not leave behind records of their own?”
“Everything we inherited is in the private archives,” Evander said.
“Implying there is more in someone else’s hands,” she noted.
“The interregnum between the end of Lissenos and the coronation of Charilaos Palliades left the palace in the hands of the steward of the time,” he said. “Lady Myrto Eirenos.”
Her brow rose, impressed at the breadth of his knowledge.
“I had no idea before I read the journals yesterday,” he drily told her. “Charilaos was convinced she robbed the palace of everything that wouldn’t be noticed missing and stewed for a decade that there was not much he could do about it.”
“Are the Eirenos not minor vassals to Tratheke?” she asked.
They did not sound like all that troublesome an opponent for the lords of all Asphodel, however precarious their throne.
“Back in those days they owned about a tenth of Tratheke Valley,” he said. “They had to sell most of their land when their mine on Arke ran dry and debts were called, keeping mostly the hunting lodges that are their sole current claim to relevance. Even maintaining those is stretching their means.”
That, Song thought, would have been very useful to know before Angharad left for the Eirenos manor. Was it too late to send a messenger after her? She had only been gone for hours, it might not be. Song would ask Wen what means they had at their disposal to contact her. It was frustrating that they could not rely too much on Black House for it, lest Angharad be outed as a watchwoman. As her silence lingered, Evander cleared his throat.
“You believe the cult of the Golden Ram to be related to this imprisoned god, then?” he asked.
“The last such cult existed during the Ataxia and was used a puppet by the god known as the Hated One,” she said. “My Navigator found evidence – circumstantial – that these brackstone shrines might have been built shortly after the end of Ataxia.”
She paused.
“Now the containment layer is found breached while the Golden Ram cult makes a sudden resurgence, deepening its ties with those nobles most likely to plunge Asphodel into civil war. It has a conspiracy’s shape.”
“Yet your report claims an aether lock is meant to starve gods to death,” he noted. “If the Hated One is the god that escaped, then it was inside for over a century: would it then truly settle for impersonating the god of a minor cult and feeding on dregs of worship? That seems unusually restrained of a starving beast.”
That was… a very good point, admittedly. One neither she nor Maryam had considered.
“We do not yet have the whole picture,” Song admitted. “Leads are still being pursued.”
And it was a relief that their growing theory, the resurgence of the Hated One and the ties to the Council of Ministers, was proving to have flaws. Song would admit as much to herself. For if that was the truth of this mystery, then it followed that the assassin was not in the employ of the cult – because if they were ready to pull the trigger on their coup and forcefully seize the capital, they already would have.
Which left the Yellow Earth as the likely culprit for the attempt, considering the assassin was Tianxi and had fled to a workshop believed to have ties to the local sect.
Fingering Tianxia for the crime, because it surely would be all Ten Republics that got the blame and not some radical Yellow Earth faction, would sink Ren name deeper into the mud back home. She would not put it beyond some Yellow Earth sects to vilify her to draw the ire away from their own comrades, a fresh heaping of curses tossed onto her family’s shrine.
Evander risked a sip of his chosen wine, grimaced at the taste then took a deeper one.
“Horrid,” he cheerfully said. “You should try it, Song. We ought to be in here at least half an hour before leaving, lest we stand out in the wrong way.”
Song snorted, trying a sip and finding no trace of the purported cherries – the wine tasted, if anything, like… plums? Overripe plums, maybe. Regardless, it was just as horrid as promised. She swallowed an almost teasing question about taking only half an hour. A thought best buried very, very deep.
The Lord Rector drained his cup in a few long sips before pouring himself a second, the most Song had ever seen him drink. He usually watered his wine. Setting aside his cap, the man brushed back his long hair and let out a sigh. Evander Palliades had almost insultingly pretty hair, for a man. It was quite eye-catching, especially when he tossed it about like some young lion.
“It is not a good time for old gods to return to haunt us,” Evander said. “The city is a powder keg and this has the look of lit match.”
“The god might still be largely imprisoned,” Song told him. “Squeezing out through the cracks could be the work of years yet.”
“Chaos does not need reasons, only an excuse,” he quoted, drinking again.
Quoting Soyarabai, but she would forgive it since it was from her only good work. She should have stuck to philosophy and admitted her unfitness for serious scholarly work.
“The Council of Ministers will try to knock me off the throne the moment they think they have a chance and the Trade Assembly might well attempt the same to keep them off it,” Evander ruefully said.
The Ministers are already brewing a coup, Song thought, wishing she could tell him. Whatever his flaws, he seemed a better man than those trying to replace him. He emptied his cup, then set it down.
“You weren’t wrong, about the Rows,” he suddenly said. “Maybe not right, either, but…”
He laughed mirthlessly.
“Tacitly endorsing the poisoning of my subjects less than an hour’s walk away from my own palace,” Evander murmured. “Now there is a turn of phrase. One that I will not be forgetting anytime soon.”
Song said nothing, only watching him.
“I’m so close I can feel it,” he told her, biting his lip in frustration. “I only need to last through a year, maybe two, and my position will strong enough to reach terms with them. To finally do something more than just… fight to stay seated where I am.”
Only it was not so simple, was it?
“That won’t be the end of it. You will fight them your whole life, Evander, or others like them,” Song honestly said. “All that will change is who has the most guns and gold on their side.”
He turned a bright gaze on her. The drink could not have touched him so quick, she knew, but she almost believed it anyway looking at that expression on his face.
“Twelve days you have been on this island, Song Ren, and I have gotten more truth out of you than I have from anyone else in the last twelve years,” Evander Palliades chuckled. “It is madness.”
Song’s jaw clenched.
“I have been too familiar,” she said. “I will-”
“No,” Evander said. “Not that. This.”
He leaned in, glasses askew, and Song froze. And was tempted to remain frozen, to let it happen. It was not her mistake, if he was the one kissing her. And she was… curious.
But she was also a Ren.
Song drew back, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him. She shook her head. The Lord Rector immediately stopped, then turned red in mortification. He flinched away like he had been burned.
“Apologies, Captain Ren,” he croaked out. “I was, I thought-”
He coughed.
“The wine,” she evenly said.
“Yes, the wine,” he awkwardly said. “Please forget I ever…”
“It is forgotten,” Song lied.
Neither of them spoke another word for the next twenty minutes, or dared to look at each other.
—
With the day’s work done and some time to kill before the evening meal at Black House, Tristan decided to allow himself a small indulgence: namely, investigating how hard it would be to break into the Nineteenth Brigade’s secret safehouse.
He picked up his burglar’s kit and took a roundabout route back to the dead-end alley he’d watched them go into, first taking a look at the surroundings. Of the half dozen or so buildings around there only two currently seemed in use, one being the Nineteenth’s rental. The other was a suspiciously clean two-story house whose shutters and locks had recently been changed and were of visibly better quality than the rest of the house.
They were also the kind that didn’t let sound out, which reeked to Tristan of coterie torture chamber until he climbed up on a neighboring roof and got a sniff at the scent wafting off the house’s second story. Poppy, and not some extract for the pain – the kind you stuffed in pipes and smoked. This was someone’s private drug den, then, not an interrogation pit. Probably some magnate or magnate’s kid who didn’t want to be known as a poppy fiend and figured that renting a den in the worst part of the southwestern ward counted as discretion.
The rest of the dead end was, if not exactly in ruins, then close to it: the houses were full of holes, be it in the walls or roof, and there were no shutters in the windows. As seemed common practice in Tratheke they had been raided for stone, brass and tiles then left to take the wind. No beggars had made a home there, which told Tristan whoever owned these regularly had them cleared by either hired men or the lictors. There would have been takers otherwise, no matter the holes in the roof.
The alley was less than half an hour of walk away from some of the liveliest streets of one of the richest wards in the city, as fine begging grounds as one could ask for. It brought out a shallow sort of amusement, to see that even in Tratheke the rich were willing to pay to keep their property free of rats even when they had no use for it.
The drug den was not in use at the moment – unless the fiend was sleeping it off inside – so Tristan allowed himself to take his time studying the Nineteenth’s rental. Fortuna whined at being asked to keep guard at the corner and kept returning to his side, but he ignored her. Two shuttered windows facing the street, heavy planks with brass stripes keeping them in place. None of that Asphodelian green glass behind them, so raising the bars might well let him inside.
He refrained.
“Just go inside,” Fortuna whined. “Come on, I bet they left all sorts of stuff lying around.”
“Cressida was here,” he replied. “And if I were her, I’d snare the place to know if someone came in.”
“You think she put something on the windowsill?” the goddess asked, looking enthused at the thought.
He nodded and she brightened further. The Lady of Longs Odds loved complications, so long as they were inflicted upon anyone but her. Should it be otherwise they would, of course, be found out as fundamentally unfair and morally intolerable.
“And likely the door as well,” Tristan added.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she drawled, vanishing.
If he had asked her to look inside the house for him a minute ago she would have agreed immediately, but now it was all but certain should he request it Fortuna would pretend to be hard of hearing. The thief did not mind. Opportunities to ply his craft with such low stakes were passing rare, and he must keep his skills sharp. Growing to rely too much on the goddess’ eyes would leave him lost without her aid.
The lock on the front door was child’s play, a tumble lock he could have done one-eyed with a hand tied behind his back, but he refrained again. Instead he brought up his lantern, peering at the small gap between door and doorway. There was nothing so obvious as string, but he thought he might be seeing a thin filament that could be a blonde hair. Tristan hummed, stepping away.
There were no shutters on the second story, but there was a chimney coming out of the rooftop. He slipped into the pilfered house to the right of the Nineteenth’s rental, up the skeleton of stairs then through a hole in the roof to reach the spread of tiles there. Given how closely clustered the buildings were, it was barely a leap to cross over to the other roof. He silently tread over the angled tiles to the chimney, hiding from the street through the angle and putting his bag down.
Fortuna, predictably, took the first halfway decent excuse to abandon her post and join him on the roof. She sat on the other side of the jutting chimney, skirts spilling out on either side like a small red tide, and golden eyes eagerly peered downwards.
“You want to sneak in through there?” she asked.
“Maybe,” Tristan hedged, removing a small mirror from his bag.
His lantern was already shuttered down to the barest slice, so it was just a matter of carefully angling the light and mirror before he could have a look down the chimney. It’d been cleaned, he found, but not recently: little soot but much dust. More importantly, leaning back and sweeping with the reflected light he found there were no caltrops at the bottom and no iron grid preventing entry.
“Cressida, you amateur,” he crowed. “We always cover the chimney, you ought to know better.”
“While this is the most interesting you’ve been all day,” Fortuna said, peering down, “is there a point to anything you’re doing?”
He shrugged.
“Might be the Nineteenth left papers lying around. There could be information to pass to Song about their investigation.”
“She could just ask Captain Tozi,” Fortuna said. “They seem friendly. Are you sure this isn’t about showing Cressida you’re the better Mask?”
“That has nothing to do with it,” Tristan lied.
She squinted at him for a moment.
“I believe you,” she lied back.
And on that merry note, he packed the mirror away and instead took out the necessary supplies: gloves and rags. The rest of the bag would only be a hindrance, no need to bring it.
He did not jump in immediately, carefully testing the chimney walls instead. Without much soot the stone was not too slippery, though it’d still be no easy task to make his way down without breaking a leg falling. With gloves and boots he managed, scooting down slowly and carefully until he was close enough to the bottom to let himself drop. There were some loose stones about halfway up, whose location he committed to memory for the climb back up that lay in his future.
The hearth was spotlessly clean but his boots were not, so he stood on the edge of the hearthstone and wiped both the stone and his boots clean before putting away his dirtied gloves so he would leave no visible mark.
His first impression of the Nineteenth Brigade’s safehouse was that it was derelict.
Probably the single cheapest place they had been able to find in the southwestern ward, he figured. It was a single large room at the bottom, where he’d entered, and what little furniture there was all boasted missing legs or cut up surfaces. By the height of holes in the wall there’d once been cupboards hung on the side wall, perhaps a kitchen, but those were the only trace of it left. The only fresh addition here was a barrel of water, which the Nineteenth must have bought at the market.
Upstairs was, if anything, even more desolate. There were two rooms, one of which had effectively collapsed when part of the roof caved in – it could not be seen from the outside, though no doubt the elements would eventually finish digging their way in. He’d bet rain went right through already.
They’d put the chamber pot in there. Not recently used.
The second room, a cramped and bare thing, was decorated only by four bedrolls on the ground and a pack of Watch supplies in the corner. Dry rations, blackpowder and blades, bandages and liquor. He put it all back into place after having his look.
Tristan went back down, slightly miffed at how the Nineteenth had left nothing at all of use to him. Checking the front door confirmed his suspicion, at least – there was a hair across the doorway that would rip if it were open, kept in place by a nail. He patted himself on the back for having seen that one coming, and the same for the small pots of clay atop the two shutters. Cressida had been clever, he would concede, simply not clever enough.
It was getting late enough he saw no need to linger when there so little to do here, though he spent some time debating whether he should move every piece of furniture around slightly so the Nineteenth would feel a dim sense of discomfort when they returned. Mhm, perhaps next time. He didn’t want to spend the surprise too early, they might start using the place more over the coming weeks.
Besides, the idea of returning more than once without Cressida noticing was rather pleasing.
He was already preparing to leave when he saw lights in the alley, immediately killing his own. Those out in the street were talking quietly, but the voices were young and numerous enough they could only be the returning Nineteenth. Swallowing a smile, Tristan went back to the chimney. He climbed back up, stopped at that spot with a few stones askew and wedged in his feet.
He’d not be able to stay there for long, no more than ten minutes before his legs started shaking too much, but ten minutes was plenty. Sound carried well up the chimney so he would get to eavesdrop his fill so long as they did not head upstairs. It was a good start to overhear Cressida telling the others to stop, checking the hair on the door before opening it.
“No one’s come in since we have,” she told the others.
One for me, Barboza. The brigade piled in, locking the door behind them and lighting some lamps. To his pleasure, they did not waste time before continuing what he learned had been bickering out in the street.
“-omeone could notice he’s missing,” Kiran Agrawal said.
“He’s allowed to visit the city,” Captain Tozi replied, unworried. “There is nothing suspicious about that.”
“This ward has the most brothels in Tratheke, that will be the first assumption,” Cressida said, then her tone hardened. “It is his lateness I dislike.”
“We are late as well,” Izel Coyac pointed out.
“What does it matter for either of us?” Kiran snorted. “We have nothing to report. No progress made.”
Their patron, Captain Oratile, was a woman. It could not be her they were speaking of. So who is it they believe they must report to? It should not be a blackcloak, given that all the officers bunked at Black House and so did the Nineteenth, but who else would they answer to? Their test was the tracking of the contracted killer, Tristan mused, which might mean working with the lictors. Perhaps they had bribed one for information, or a member of some basileia.
Either way, this was turning out much more interesting than he’d expected.
“Letting the heat pass was necessary,” Captain Tozi flatly replied. “There were too many eyes on the business.”
“Kiran speaks true regardless,” Izel said. “We have not pursued the matter any further. That is not a loss but an opportunity – let us tell him that we are finished with…”
Groans from the others.
“Oh, get off that high horse,” Cressida said. “We tried your plan, didn’t we? Paid the guard to grab him. A clean grab with no one hurt, you said.”
And as they kept talking, Tristan’s blood ran cold. Paid the guard? That sounded like…
“And I was wrong,” Izel said. “The man died. I thought this could be done without harm and was proved mistaken. This entire business is sordid and we should be done with it. Besides, given the behavior of the Ivory Library’s men when they were caught at the docks their assurances of good treatment ring hollow.”
“It’s too late for scruples, Izel,” Captain Tozi evenly replied. “Our families made the bargain, it’s on us to deliver. Unless you want your fathers’ tolerance for your career choices to run out?”
“We could-” he began.
Only Coyac was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Tristan’s legs ached, but even if they had been bleeding he would have stayed where he was. He would not miss a whisper of this. Someone was ushered in, the man they must have been referring to, and there was the sound of gloves being tossed on a table.
“Let us be done quickly,” a faintly accented voice said, “I do not have long to spend here. How soon can you get us Abrascal?”
Confirmation, part of him icily thought. Someshwari, the rest decided. Not Ramayan, or wherever Kiran Agrawal was from.
“It is delicate work, lieutenant,” Captain Tozi said. “Especially since the fools you also hired got themselves caught and put the Thirteenth’s guard up.”
“I did not come to listen to excuses,” the man replied. “We were promised results in exchange for the favors given.”
Favors to family, it sounded like. Given that Izel Coyac’s father was a prominent Izcalli general this was not a petty matter.
“If he were so easy to grab, you would have done it already,” Cressida mildly replied.
“We do not need to grab him, we already paid your families for it,” the man scorned. “I’ve looked at the Thirteenth and I am less than impressed. The mirror-dancer is a cripple, the captain is stuck in the palace half the time and the savage almost killed herself with her own Signs. How hard can one rat be to catch?”
There was tense silence.
“I have been befriending Song Ren,” Captain Tozi said. “Developing trust. When it is established, we will pick our moment and strike.”
“The ship will only wait so long in the Lordsport,” the man warned. “You will not enjoy the consequences if you fail to deliver.”
Gloves were snatched off the table.
“Do not approach me at Black House,” the man said. “In one week, at the same time, I will return here. There had best be results by then.”
There was shuffling as if someone was getting out of the way, then a door was wrenched open. Though the Nineteenth was sure to continue speaking after this, Tristan did not remain. He hurried up the chimney, as quickly as he could without making noise.
Below were enemies, but there was one in the street as well.
His bag he left on the roof, he would return for it later. He took a lamp, rope, a rag. Careful, careful, he reminded himself as he tread across the tiles. The man was down in the street, already speeding away. Eager to be gone, already gone in his own mind – and that meant he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. Tristan slipped back down through the hole in the roof, down the stairs, and was down in the street by the time the stranger turned the corner.
He followed.
In his forties, Someshwari in looks. Short dark hair, narrow shoulders, not the muscles or stride of a fighter. Pistol and knife at his side. His clothes were neither cheap nor expensive, in muted shades that did not stand out. He was headed in the direction of the Collegium, towards the ward’s larger streets – where he would be able to take a coach and Tristan would lose him.
He’d not get there. This was not a nice part of town, and at this hour the streets were mostly empty. Workshops locked up, shutters closed. Taverns full, but there were few around here – and when the stranger turned past one, through an alley, the thief quickened his step. Softly, quick but quiet, watching him peer ahead as Tristan’s fingers closed around his blackjack and he darted through the last of the distance.
It made noise, enough the man turned. But he did not turn quickly enough to avoid the blow on the back of his head. Careful again, so careful – else he might kill the stranger, and the thief did not want that at all. There was no scream, only a groan as the Someshwari dropped. Out cold. Tristan put away the ‘jack and picked up the man. He dragged him away from the tavern, into another side street.
There were three shops there, but only one had a basement with a street entrance. He picked the padlock, checked inside – coal and metal scraps, that would do. He dragged the man down into it, careful not to be seen. Closed the doors, lit a lamp, tied the man up and gagged him before making him look at the wall.
Tristan sliced off his left ear, standing behind him, which woke the Someshwari up. The gag mostly took care of the scream. Blood sprayed, coursing down his neck in small rivers.
“I have questions for you,” the rat said, feigning a deeper voice. “Scream and you will die.”
Dropping the cut ear onto his lap reinforced the point. A tangible, permanent loss at the beginning will strike terror, Abuela had taught him. It will establish from the beginning the stakes of disobeying you. The Someshwari hastily nodded, proving her right again. She was always right.
Tristan lowered the gag.
“Name?”
“Lieutenant Apurva,” he babbled. “I’m a blackcloak, from a Circle. You’re making a mistake, I-”
“Which Circle?” Tristan asked.
The man paused, surprised.
“The Umuthi Society,” he said. “A tinker. I have coin, I could make you rich if you-”
Tristan put the knife against his throat. He took the hint.
“Why are you in Tratheke, Apurva?” he asked.
“I’m part of the delegation to the Lord Rector,” the Someshwari emphasized. “I’m expected, they will look for me. This is all a huge mistake, but if you let me go-”
Tristan sliced at his shoulder through the cloth, shallow, and the man yelped – more in fear than pain.
“Tell me about the Ivory Library,” Tristan ordered.
“The what?” Lieutenant Apurva tried, but when he felt steel against his throat he changed his tune. “Wait, wait! I’m not even a member, I just work with them. All I know is they study contracts and they’re influential, they have men in many free companies.”
His jaw clenched. What had he done to earn their attention? He should be nobody.
“Why,” he said, “are they trying to abduct the boy from the Thirteenth?”
The lieutenant twitched.
“How do you know that?”
Tristan lightly laid the blade against his remaining ear. The man licked his lips.
“His contract, there’s something strange about it,” he said. “I don’t know anything else, I only…”
The thief forced his breathing to remain even. Anger would not serve him. He must be cold as the steel in his hand.
“Who is your contact?” he asked.
There had to be one, someone who would handle the ship and the moving of an abductee. Lieutenant Apurva wriggled, tried to get out of the ropes.
“You have to let me go if I tell you,” he said. “I just-”
The blade dug into the right ear, blood trickling down, and the Someshwari whimpered.
“Sergeant Ledwaba, from the escorts,” he said. “And there’s another, someone high up, but I don’t know who. Ledwaba handles everything with me.”
High up. Brigadier Chilaca, a commander? His fingers clenched around the knife.
“The ship in the Lordsport,” Tristan rasped out. “Give me a name.”
“The Grinning Madcap,” Apurva wept. “That’s everything, I swear. There’s nothing else for me to tell.”
A breath in, a breath out.
Had he been born under a fool’s star, to keep making the same mistake again and again and again? No matter the color of the cloak, he would always be a rat. Meat for the cats.
“No,” Tristan Abrascal agreed. “You have nothing else to tell me.”
He’d not bothered to feign the voice, this time, and Lieutenant Apurva twisted around to look at his face. He got his look, though whatever he might have said was swallowed by a gurgle when Tristan cut his throat.
Blood sprayed on the cellar wall.
He watched his enemy die in silence, mind already racing ahead. The Watch would come looking for him, eventually. They would have contractors, Masks. I must clean up here, he thought, then get rid of the clothes and the body in running water. A canal would suit. Then he must double back for his kit and hurry to Black House, to ensure he was seen and would not stand out as a suspect.
Someone high up, the dead man had said. How high up did it go? No, it did not matter. No matter the rank it was enough he could no longer afford to stay in Black House. He would have to tell Song… Something, an excuse could be made. And Maryam, she- he swallowed. Calm. Fear and the rest, they could wait until he had dug his way out to the grave.
A hand on his shoulder. He did not need to turn to know who it was, for he felt not even a tremor of fear from it. It was as familiar as his own breath.
“What will you do?” Fortuna asked.
He closed his eyes. Tozi Poloko. Kiran Agrawal. Izel Coyac. Cressida Barboza. Hunt him, would they?
“What else?”
His fingers tried to close around a tile that wasn’t there.
“I’m going to kill them all,” the rat said.
Pale Lights 