Pale Lights - Book 2: Chapter 14

Angharad sat on a bench to eat alone with her thoughts, which was no mercy.

Half her cabal was long gone, and the last member… Much as the noblewoman disliked sitting there brooding and biting at the tail of her own thoughts, to share a meal with Song after their previous conversation might have been worse. That her own captain had believed it necessary to inform her she lacked manners was mortifying beyond words. That Song had then considered she might prefer finding another cabal to mending her own behavior was much, much worse.

Had she truly tarred her own reputation so thoroughly without even noticing?

Oh, it was a certain thing that the others came into the matter with blinders. Tristan had been born to the gutter and so kept sharp sympathy for those on the losing side of history while Tianxi hated slavery enough to forgive anything of those inflicted it. And Maryam, she was understandably attached to the land of her birth regardless of its genuine merits. None of this, however, excused that Angharad had been giving offense so regularly that others now expected it of her.

That the dishonor had crept up on her unseen did not unmake it, but that was not even the part she was chewing on. How did one make reparations for such a thing? Offering courtesy going forward was ending a wrong, not making a right. Monetary reparations were an acceptable manner for a lady to extend an apology to one lowborn, but Angharad was now only titled by courtesy. Such reparations might rightly be considered putting on airs. A service, then, or some manner of boon. The Pereduri would have to ponder what ceiling should be appended to such an offer – death, wound, first blood?

It was vexing that Father’s lessons on giving justice to common folk had been as their liege lady, not an associate. Then again, how many peers of Peredur had ever been placed in a position to call lowborn folk their associate?

While frowning at the stone pavement, Angharad had finished most of what she packed away as a snack – salted fish and a few cherry tomatoes – without noticing by the time footsteps had her looking up. What awaited had her wiping away her frown, but her stomach did not unclench: Captain Imani Langa was no soothing sight, accompanied by a stranger or not.

The Malani was just as lovely in the cut of a standard uniform as she had been in her more fashionable one – she filled it just as enticingly – and today her hair was worn in long intricate braids that formed waves. She was still smiling that mysterious smile, which Angharad found to her distress was made no less enticing by the knowledge Imani Langa was an agent of the Lefthand House. She made herself look at the companion instead.

That man, Angharad decided after a heartbeat, what Tristan would be if the Sacromontan mold that made him was filled with deadliness instead of charm. The Lierganen was of the same height as her cabalmate, as messily dark-haired and though he was grim where Tristan was all smiles and the eyes were brown instead of gray they were restless in that same casual, lying way. This one, though, he was leanly muscled and his face was marred by a cross scar on the chin. He had the calluses of bladework on his palms and a worn side-sword at his hip.

Angharad had known enough of the breed to say he moved like a killer, and a seasoned one at that.

“Lady Angharad,” Imani smiled. “What a pleasant turn to find you here.”

The noblewoman set aside the last of her meal and rose, clearing her throat.

“Captain Imani,” she replied. “The pleasure is all mine.”

The lovely spy offered her hand to kiss, and it would have been terribly impolite to refuse so she gently pressed her lips against the knuckles. Once more she raised her eyes to a slightly widened smile, which she took more pleasure in than she should have. Imani withdrew her hand, then turned to half-face the third.

“I thought I might introduce one of my cabalists to you,” she said.

The dark-haired man nodded a curt greeting.

“Salvador,” he said.

His Antigua had the same lilt to it as Tristan’s, Angharad thought. He must be Sacromontan as well.

“Angharad Tredegar,” she replied. “Thirteenth Brigade.”

“Alas, you refused Thando’s invitation to change that,” Captain Imani lightly deplored. “I must confess I introduce Salvador to you with an ulterior motive, my lady – he is a Skiritai as well, you see, and I must leave him behind now to head off to my own class.”

The lovely spy touched her wrist.

“He is quite shy, so I thought to leave him here to wait in good hands.”

Salvador leveled his captain with a glare that was not particularly shy but then he sighed.

“I would appreciate company,” the dark-haired man said.

“That I can provide,” Angharad said, giving him a nod he returned.

However halting the man’s conversation, it would be better than continuing to stew in her own thoughts.

“I am grateful for the kindness,” Captain Imani said, smiling in relief. “Though I fear I must now impose on your manners, for I have pressing business on Hostel Street.”

“I would not detain you, then,” Angharad gallantly replied.

“Oh, but you must,” Imani smirked. “Simply not right now. Do come by when you have the time, Angharad. I still lodge at the Emerald Vaults, you need only ask for me in front.”

The stark reminder of what it meant that Imani Langa was an ufudupoured cold water on anything that smirk and implication might have stirred in her. The other woman was not inviting her for a rendezvous but to incite her to steal from the Watch on the behalf of the Lefthand House – for though the High Queen had asserted what was being sought belonged to her and so it must be true, the Watch might well feel differently and Angharad had sworn oaths to them.

She simply nodded, leaving the conversation to die, and Captain Imani sashayed away as suddenly as she had come. Angharad turned, meeting Salvador’s brown eyes and impassive face, then swallowed.

“Fine weather today,” she tried. “Good for walking.”

The Lierganen cocked an eyebrow ever so slightly, and it occurred to the noblewoman a moment too late that the weather on Tolomontera was, in fact, dictated by Grand Orrery on a set cycle. Alas, none of the cracks between the paving stones were large enough for her to disappear inside and die.

“Angharad, there you are!”

The Pereduri turned to see Shalini Goel striding her way, and silently swore one day she would return this great favor. The curvy Someshwari was armed to the teeth, bearing four pistols and a straight double-edged at her hip – a vaal, Angharad remembered they were called. Nobles and captains of the southern Someshwar dueled using them. They were distinguished from the common aruval billhook blades by being used only to spill blood in battle, never to cut through underbrush.

Angharad thought it strange that Shalini would be trained in such a weapon when she had no noble name to defend, until it occurred to her she might have been trained to use it on Ishaan’s behalf. She felt a pang of pity for the other woman’s loss, which tainted her smile as Shalini nearly bowled the both of them over coming to a halt.

“What were you doing hiding by a statue?” Shalini asked, then shook her head. “No matter, I still found you. Who’s this?”

Angharad cleared her throat.

“Salvador, may I present to you Shalini Goel of the Thirty-First Brigade,” she said. “She is a fellow Skiritai.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Shalini said.

“Shalini, may I present to you Salvador of the Eleventh Brigade.”

The Lierganen grunted and gave a nod. Angharad sent her friend a look that was just short of pleading.

“Not a great talker, are you?” Shalini amusedly said.

Salvador shook his head.

“Throat,” he said.

Ah. A condition, then, and not simply his natural disposition.

“Sounds unpleasant,” the Someshwari said. “But worry not, I can speak for two.”

“Modest of you,” Angharad noted.

Shalini rolled her eyes.

“Islanders, they always think they’re funny,” she told Salvador. “Mine keeps making these quips about how Tianxi teas must ‘all taste equal under Heaven’ so our cabalmate is this close to just pressing a pillow over his face while he sleeps.”

Salvador snorted, then coughed into his fist.

“Imani says she will raise our allowance if we’re good,” he sympathized.

The treachery of the continental peoples of Vesper, well documented by the pages of history, was ever a burden on the greatness of the Kingdom of Malan. The noblewoman packed away the last of her salted fish with due dignity, amused to hear Shalini wish she had remembered to pack something to snack on as well. Angharad had not, in fact, remembered this.

Song had reminder her that unless she wanted to go back and forth between their cottage and Scholomance alone – a risky proposition – then she would be left to wait by the school gates for some time and should perhaps bring something to eat or read. Angharad had not thought to acquire books yesterday, so she had settled for something to nibble on instead.

The three of them headed out onto the square where they had been instructed to wait, finding the press of students long gone. Now it was only the Skiritai that were left, told as they were to wait before the gates of Scholomance for their covenant-appointed teacher to come and fetch them. The students stood around in small groups, chatting quietly – as if Scholomance’s shadow might take offense otherwise – and Angharad let her eyes stray. She recognized few faces here, though some stood out.

Lord Musa Shange was there, surrounded by others and carefully ignoring her existence as he conversed with a slender Someshwari. Muchen He from the Forty-Ninth was there as well and keeping a watch on that wolf-eyed boy from Tupoc’s cabal. ‘Expendable’, she believed? He was one of the rare students standing alone, his gaze almost never leaving the ground.

“At least sixty of us here,” Shalini said.

“More,” Salvador said, but nodded.

“I thought there might be more of us than that,” Angharad admitted. “It seems to me no cabal should be without a Skiritai.”

“Not everyone’s making a fighting company,” Shalini pointed out. “I know Ferranda in-”

The curvy gunslinger was interrupted, but not by another’s words: the clarion call that cut through was no metaphor but the actual sound of two clarion trumpets being sounded. Poorly. Angharad watched with something like disbelief as a pair of gaudily attired boys, neither older than thirteen and each wearing enough ribbons and frippery for a whole salon, crossed one of the bridges leading to Scholomance before moving to the sides.

The taller of the two, ruddy-cheeked and bright-eyed, cleared his throat as somewhere in the vicinity of sixty heavily armed students stared him down.

“Now announcing His Grace,” the boy called out. “Marshal Hermenegildo Berenguel Adamastor de la Tavarin, Count of Encoberto.”

The other boy whispered at him.

“Retired,” the page hastily tacked on.

Silence followed. The announced man was nowhere in sight.

Angharad was left in the uncomfortable position of hoping this was some manner of prank. Besides, were blackcloaks not sworn to renounce their titles when they put on the black? This Marshal de la Tavarin should no longer be a count.

“Wait, if he’s retired can he still call himself a marshal?” Shalini frowned.

Angharad blinked.

“I… think not?” she slowly said.

Had the Watch somehow been tricked by a charlatan? That was most distressing. The page boys had been shuffling on their feet, discomforted by the weight of the stares, but when they suddenly straightened Angharad glanced past them and finally saw the approaching professor.

The man was Lierganen and old, perhaps the oldest man Angharad had ever seen. He walked leaning on a brass lionhead cane, back slightly curbed, and his face was tanned and creased like old leather. Though there was still some touch of black to his eyebrows, it was his impressive pure white mustache and equally snowy long locks that commanded attention. For a heartbeat, anyway, as the old ‘Marshal’ was most eye searingly dressed.

Though his knee-length coat was Watch black, its sleeves were pinned back and vivid yellow with flashing silver buttons. His trousers and hose were pristine and white, matching his overlarge cravat, and his delicate doeskin shoes were better fit for a ballroom than the street. His hat was wide-brimmed and embroidered in silver, not that one would notice considering the almost absurd size of the yellow feather pinned back on it.

His slow, unhurried advance set the students to murmuring. Salvador let out a small noise of surprise, earning her attention.

“Farfan,” he said.

Angharad hid her bemusement behind a pleasant smile. Thankfully Shalini knew what he meant.

“Farfanes are mercenaries,” she explained. “Their companies fight out in Old Liergan for whoever will pay, even hollows. Fine soldiers, I heard, who see more blood on the regular than anyone save the Izcalli.”

The Pereduri was rather curious as to how a girl from Ramaya – near as far from Old Liergan was it was possible to be and still live within the borders of the Imperial Someshwar – had come to know of such hired swords, but this was no time to ask. With an entirely unnecessary flourish of his cane the old man came to a stop and cleared his throat once. He got the silence he had not quite asked for.

He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he was saying was drowned out by the sound of the page boys sounding their clarions again. They both stared at him expectantly afterwards, and after a moment the old man sighed and flipped them a golden coin. They put down the clarions and ran off without a second glance, chattering excitedly.

There was a sudden epidemic of coughing fits among the students, which some might have interpreted as poorly suppressed laughter.

“You may call me Marshal,” the old man announced in weathered voice, “or Your Grace. I have been charged by the Skiritai Guild to make something useful out of you.”

Angharad eyed him skeptically. Under the formal etiquette of the Second Empire, which most of the Lierganen states still followed, the proper address for a count was ‘Your Excellency’. Though he was not claiming the courtesy due a higher title, in a way it was even worse: ‘Your Grace’ was not, as far as she knew, even a Lierganen address. She vaguely thought it might have been used in the ancient Kingdom of Cathay, but it had fallen somewhat out of vogue around the same time Cathayan nobles keeping their heads became similarly unpopular.

“Follow,” the Marshal idly ordered, and with another flourish of his cane turned about.

The old man began crossing the bridge anew, and after a heartbeat of hesitation students began to follow. Angharad shared a look with Shalini, who shrugged.

They followed.

—

They had been told to gather at the Old Playhouse by the fifteenth hour but Song knew within moments they were not to stay there.

The great structure was simply too large and empty to serve properly as either a classroom or salon. Oh, the Old Playground could likely be pressed into such service if there was need. But was there? Song doubted it. The Academy was the largest and the wealthiest of the covenants – in absolute numbers, if not comparatively – and if the Navigators had been able to afford a chapterhouse in Port Allazei then the Stripes were sure to have their equivalent.

Something in a better state than this ancient theater, which had weathered the years impressively but was still very much a ruin.

Still, she allowed herself some time to study the grounds where an evening had taken place she had not attended. There were few traces left of the festivities, little more than lines of ripped earth in the grass and swaths of recently cleaned stone contrasting to the natural grime of the rest, but she could imagine the lay of it all. The pavilions, tables and torches, the way the guests would be incited to mingle on the bottom floor but there would be room for private walks in the lodges-turned-garden. It would have been a lovely evening, no doubt, and her eyes would have gained many useful insights.

But the Ren name would not have fit through that door.

Instead of lingering on that unpleasant reality, Ren picked out one of the prettier lodges for herself. A stone railing behind a stretch of grass and fragrant red flowers, perched on the ring nearest the bottom while moderately distant from the stairs leading there. She had arrived at twenty before three but found half a dozen students still preceded her. Captain Philani from that same morning was one, so she detoured to trade polite greetings. The captain Thirty-Eight Brigade was polite and welcoming but there was no warmth to it so she did not linger.

It was Song’s duty to make alliances with other captains so that the many rivals of the Thirteenth would take pause at the enmity aggression would earn them, but the Thirty-Eighth was not high in the list of candidates – she was satisfied with having established Captain Philani was not hostile to her even when Angharad was no longer there to impress.

Song had been of the early birds but by the time she returned to her lodge numbers had begun trickling in. Many headed down to the bottom floor, where the playhouse stage lay, and began chatting there. It would not have been a bad time to begin making connections, as some captains were doing before her very eyes, but the Tianxi had her reasons to hold back. Given the number of enemies the Thirteenth already boasted she should get the lay of the land before wading in, and even beyond that it was her personal preference to favor quality over quantity.

Better even a single skilled, reliable ally than a gaggle of fair-weather friends.

She was approached in her lodge by Captain Anaya of the Twenty-Third – leader of the Malani boy who’d broken the ice during Mandate class by answering first – and found herself delicately probed by the grim-faced Someshwari. It took a moment for Song to be certain what the other woman trying to find out, but when she did she made sure to immediately give it.

“Of course, we all carry our enemies with us. One of my own cabalists nearly dueled Tupoc Xical to the death on the Dominion of Lost Things,” Song idly said.

Captain Anaya frowned, but not in displeasure. She was, as far as Song could tell, simply a natural frowner.

“A singularly unpleasant man,” the Someshwari said.

“That is the only reliable thing about him,” Song agreed. “I would not wish an alliance with him on my worst enemies.”

Captain Anaya made her excuses soon after that, leaving the silver-eyed captain amused. Tupoc had made enemies of the Twenty-Third Brigade, at least enough that its captain would approach Song to ascertain where the Thirteenth would stand if conflict erupted. Playing this like Dominion trials will get you killed, Xical, she thought. Not that she was inclined to help him by saying as much.

By the time the trickle of arrivals tapered off entirely there were precisely sixty students present, including herself, and that simply had to be a quota.

And with the last arrivals came a second visitor. Her study of where the pieces were falling was interrupted by the sound of boots on grass, the Tianxi turning with a pleasant greeting smile – only to find Ferranda Villazur looking back with an amused look.

“Song,” she said, nodding.

A single strand of blonde hair had come loose from her bun, which Song had to force herself not to mention.

“Ferranda,” she replied instead. “You are cutting it close.”

It should be mere minutes now before the appointed time came to pass. The infanzona stepped forward to lean against the stone balustrade by Song’s side.

“I went and had a look at where the Umuthi Society hole up for their classes,” Ferranda said. “The Tinkers have a proper workshop tucked away to the east of the docks, it was quite surprising.”

Song inclined her head, acknowledging the gift, and returned it in kind.

“They are not alone in having such luxuries at hand. The Navigators have a chapterhouse close to Hostel Street.”

A thoughtful hum.

“It must have cost a fortune to rebuild Port Allazei so it would be habitable beyond the garrison barracks,” Ferranda said. “And quite a bit of time as well. I wonder how long the Watch has been planning all this.”

And why, she did not say out loud. That they all wondered, because the answer would shed a great deal of light on what the future held for them all. Why had the Watch opened the ancient, murderous school anew? There must be a reason, a plan or a need. The two of them remained comfortably silent after that, eyes on the unfolding alliances below.

And Ferranda was quite noticeably not leaving.

They both knew that was a statement to anyone who cared to look, which was nearly every captain on Tolomontera.

“Are you certain?” Song simply asked.

“That Musa prick won’t lay off Zenzele just because Angharad trounced him once,” Ferranda pragmatically replied. “My enmity with the Ninth isn’t up to debate, just the precise degree of it. Together we don’t look nearly as soft a target.”

“You could come to an accord with the Third,” Song lightly said.

The fair-haired infanzona rolled her eyes.

“So I can become Captain Nenetl’s stalking horse in getting rid of Sebastian Camaron?” she replied. “I must decline that honor, same as you.”

Song smiled. One clever ally was worth ten.

“They have been so open about their rivalry I have wondered if it is feigned,” she admitted.

“Oh, I can tell you she genuinely hates his guts,” Ferranda said. “I had them together once at a captain’s council and it was quite an experience. There’s just no way that sheer amount of petty spite was faked.”

That was good to know, and once more reinforced the use of attending such a council. Song inquired when the next one might take place and was told the schedule was not yet decided but that she would be informed as soon as it was. The pair, now solidly and openly in the same boat, then set to picking out the currents around them.

Familiar faces abounded. Song had been glared at by Captain Tengfei of the Forty-Ninth earlier while his would-be replacement Ramona waved cheerily instead – she’d nodded back, intending to make peace with the brigade if the opportunity came. Tupoc had blown through and was now displaying an unexpected capacity for conversation not involving insults by entertaining two Izcalli students with a fast-paced story that had them both laughing loudly.

But these were small fish, and there were whales in the water: down below, on the bottom floor, three rival courts had formed.

Captain Sebastian Camaron of the Ninth presided over the largest, over a dozen students mingling around him. Song committed their faces to memory, knowing them for possible tools she might have to face. One of them she thought might match Abrascal’s description of Captain Imani Langa but the silver-eyed Tianxi held out hope she was wrong. If she was not, prying Angharad away from the charms of such a sultry beauty was going to be a long and thankless labor. It was Ruesta all over again, only more dangerous for the new woman’s lack of general uselessness.

To put a name to the leading figure of the second-largest gathering, the strongest rival to Sebastian Camaron’s, she required the help of Ferranda.

“That’s Captain Vivek Lahiri of the First Brigade,” the infanzona said.

The captain had a contract, Song noted, and one of the longest she had ever seen – the equivalent of pages of text in what appeared to be Samratrava. She was itching to have a better look.

“Background?” she asked.

“The way I hear it he’s got relatives in every Someshwari free company worth remembering the name of,” Ferranda said.

“So we have one princeling from the free companies and the other from the closest regional seat of the Garrison,” Song said. “That reeks of blackpowder.”

The most powerful of the free companies would have ordered their children to band together and edge out the Garrison students – the other way around being likely true as well, though accounting for internal enmities in both branches of the Watch. Now that Scholomance was open again everyone had an interest in securing the school. Even setting aside whatever secret design there was for this place, simply dominating an institution that would make covenanters by the literal hundreds was something worth a sea of gold.

“They’re steering clear of each other for now,” the infanzona said. “Though that won’t last. Sooner or later one of will want to show they have the biggest stick and they’re the boy king of Allazei.”

Song hummed.

“And then trailing behind them,” she said, “we have our old friend from the Third.”

Captain Nenetl Chaputl of the Third Brigade, her delicate features atop a rotund silhouette difficult to mistake for another’s, had gathered a court of her own. It was noticeably smaller than either of the other contenders’, however, and of lesser quality as well.

“She’s picking up the leftovers from both the free companies and the Garrison,” Ferranda noted. “It’s halfway clever, but it will only get her so far.”

They had not been the first picks of the greater forces for a reason, and Captain Nenetl would not have as convincing a banner to wave to keep them behind her as the other two did. Still, the position was hardly bad. For now.

“She only needs to last with some degree of prominence until Camaron stumbles, then she can usurp the parts of his faction she can use,” Song said.

It would be a delicate line for her to walk until then, however, juggling such disparate interests. And if Sebastian Camaron did not stumble on his own, she must arrange for him to trip or see her position wither on the vine. Only the most foolish of gamblers kept backed a losing horse. Still, in the end between them the three leading captains had barely half the sixty students gathered below. Many of the captains had come down to pay their respects but were now keeping their distance and would for months still.

A sudden quiet below, the courts turning quiet in a heartbeat, drew her gaze and Ferranda’s. They saw the reason for it in an instant: their professor had arrived.

“Up.”

The order was clear, crisp, and it sent every student who had come to the bottom floor hurrying back up to the first ring.

It had come out of a Tianxi’s mouth, a woman in her late forties cutting a sharp figure in her formal uniform. She was short, Song thought, and her face plain. Yet she had presence, piercing eyes that straightened backs wherever they passed and her look was only strengthened by the austere bun she wore her hair in. The red silk scarf worn in a knot around her collar was the sole departure from the traditional uniform, which was finely made but very functional.

The professor came to a halt at the end of the stage, the sword and pistol at her hip glinting dully under the pale Orrery lights.

“My name is Colonel Chunhua Cao,” she said. “I was sent here by the Academy to bring you up to an acceptable standard before you graduate Scholomance.”

Colonel Cao pitcher her voice to carry.

“My qualifications for teaching you are as follows: I have served under both free companies and Garrison forces.”

Her stare continued sweeping across the crowd.

“I held a frontline command during the general Watch muster called to suppress Loving Kiss and went on to serve as field officer during both the Long Burn and Sordan War. I was a named negotiator at the Peace of Concordia and dictated terms of surrender at the siege of Yueliang Shan.”

The Peace of Concordia, Song knew, was the treaty that had put an end to the Sordan War. As for the siege mentioned it had to be part of the Red Rice Rebellion, when a bandit cult in the Sanxing had risen in revolt at the urging of a conspiracy of mountain gods. Their hidden fortresses were said to have offered brutal resistance long past the cause being lost.

“Of the ten highest decorations granted by the Academy I hold seven,” Colonel Cao stated, “and I have twice refused promotion to lieutenant-general.”

A rank that, while beneath that of marshal, would have given her a fortress to command and a seat on the Conclave to go with it.

“It has been prevailed on me to teach at this school, but I warn you now that I have no patience for lackluster effort or petty arrogance. If you fail to perform to my standards, I will see you thrown out of my class and Scholomance with it.”

A look told Song some were skeptical of that, which Colonel Cao noticed. She offered up a cold smile.

“I have spent thirty years as an officer in the worst fires known to our order,” she said. “I am owed more favors than I know what to do with and I have buried enough bodies to fill a lichyard. By all means, write to your patrons.”

She leaned forward.

“They will tell you the same thing I do now: step out of line and I will have you on the next ship out of Port Allazei.”

This time even the princelings knew better than to show doubt. Silence stretched, until finally Colonel Cao nodded in satisfaction.

“That will do,” she said. “You may now come down. I will show you the way to the Academy’s seat on the island. Do not dawdle and be certain to commit the path to memory – I will not show it to you again.”

A fire burned in Song’s belly, not at the thought of the lodge or even the first class: it was the teacher that had her thrumming with enthusiasm, much as she tried to hide it.

How could she not be excited, when it seemed she was going to be taught by a woman who was everything that she wanted to be?