Pale Lights - Book 2: Chapter 22

To say that the Skiritai students were allowed to choose the creatures they would fight would not be entirely correct.

A worn leather booklet filled with scribbles in what was suspected to be Marshal de la Tavarin’s own handwriting had been provided to the class, and in that overly loopy handwriting were outlined three lists of lemures. The Marshal said that Watch teratologists ranked the dangers of the creatures on a scale of one to ten but that he found this to be lacking flair so instead he would provide them with a different one: flint, iron and steel.

The Flint list was for ‘disappointments in the making’. It appeared to be lesser lemures and even some of the most dangerous breeds of lares, some of them needing to be kept in packs to represent a threat to well-trained and well-armed students. The Iron list, he claimed, represented the caliber of opponents they were most likely to end up facing out in Vesper. The lower end was along the lines of a pack of lupines while a nemean – the lion creature Angharad’s band had faced on the first day – was in the upper end.

“The Steel list is for those of you headed for either history books or an early grave,” the Marshal then cheerfully added. “Sometimes both!”

The rules were thus: once a week, every student must be part of a band of no more than four that faced creatures down on the grounds of the Acallar. Groups were allowed to choose an opponent from whichever list they preferred. Those who fought in Flint and Iron would draw a slip of paper from the Marshal’s hat to find out what they fought, but those who fought in Steel were allowed to choose from that list directly. And unlike the others the lemures in the Steel list would not be replaced as the year went on, making every victory a lasting feat.

On firstday a band of four tried to make a splash by slaying a muchakabeta, a massive snake with six horns and an upper body that was troublingly like a man’s. The creature wielded blades made of bones and had been agreed on by many to be the weakest of the Steel list.

It killed half the band before thirty breaths had passed.

Only volleys of musket fire by the watchmen were able to drive it back into its cage long enough for the Marshal to lock it in again. No one had since dared to try the Steel list, and Angharad’s band was to be no exception. They had chosen Iron instead of Flint but waited until secondday to step forward so they could practice two formations: one for attack and one for defense. They were the first to draw from the Marshal’s hat today, though the name proved unfamiliar to all.

“Monos picudos,” Angharad muttered as they strode across the grounds.

“Beaked monkeys,” Shalini helpfully provided.

That the breed sounded more humorous than dangerous was no reason to let her guard down. The Watch would not have bothered capturing them if they were not in some way perilous, much less the Marshal placed them in the Iron list.

“Beaks could mean birdlike,” Expendable said, eyes on the ground as he followed.

Honesty compelled Angharad to admit she had not wanted to keep the man – whose true name was Velaphi, though he insisted on being called Expendable – as part of their band. Shalini, however, had strongly argued for it. The Pereduri had her suspicions as to why.

Shalini Goel’s contract had a treacherous price, so sympathy for a man who appeared to have it even worse was not altogether surprising. The Someshwari had a kind streak as well as a ruthless one. Angharad might yet have opposed the arrangement, if their last companion had not tacitly acquiesced when the matter was brought up.

“Hope not,” Salvador grunted. “Flyers are tricky.”

The quiet Sacromontan was eyeing the cage the Marshal stood by warily, and not without reason. Wings alone were a reason to be bumped up to from Flint to Iron, in Angharad’s opinion. She had not thought so at first, but seeing Muchen He’s band struggle against a flock of dog-sized birds with human faces last afternoon had driven home how difficult dealing with such mobility could be. Those creatures had only been passingly clever but they still had taken nearly an hour and several flesh wounds to deal with.

Best to make certain. She reached in and

/the door blew open, a flock of five creatures bursting out as they screeched. Beaks and feathers, but also fur and a tail. Shalini’s shots downed one but the rest scattered and/

she breathed out. It would be a headache if the lemures were allowed to scatter.

“Let us take the spear formation,” Angharad said. “It is best we thin the herd from the start regardless of whether they are winged.”

“Fair enough,” Shalini shrugged.

Salvador nodded his assent, and if Expendable had an objection he kept it to himself. They moved into place, if not smoothly then with purpose. Angharad and Salvador hid themselves on the right side of the cage, sword in hand, while Shalini loaded her entire set of pistols and Expendable spun about his spear to loosen his muscles. It was the Someshwari who was the key to the formation, so it was she that called on the Marshal to open the cage. There was the sound of iron being pulled, and then just like in Angharad’s glimpse the door blew open.

One shot, two, three – so quickly succeeding she could barely tell them apart – and then the Pereduri charged out with Salvador at her heels.

The creatures were worse now that she saw them properly. None smaller than a dog, brightly colored in red and blue with a vaguely simian leathery face ending in a sharp beak. The neck was more fur than feathers, as was the red tail sprouting from their bottoms. Shalini had caught two with her shots, one dead and the other writhing, but Angharad did not pause to finish the lemure off. Salvador, on her heel, would take care of it.

Instead she went on the attack.

The beaked monkeys were fresh out and their eyes were on Shalini, baited by her contract price, which let her cut the first down in complete surprise – downwards blow, right between the wing and the shoulder. She angled her wrist even as there was a wet crunch, bone and flesh parting beneath her saber stroke, and when she ripped free her blade the lemure’s stinking innards came spilling out. She struck out again, but the monsters were nimble. One ducked low, then took flight, and the other landed to scuttle away on what she realized were clawed monkey’s paws.

A gurgle behind her, Salvador cleaning up the loose end.

She ignored the one flown off and chased after the one on the ground, lengthening her stride but to little avail: the creature was fast. Once it was more than twenty feet ahead it turned, screeching mockingly as it waved its feathered buttocks her way, and – its head turned to red pulp, Shalini’s fourth shot finding its mark. Angharad turned in time to see the last lemure, whipped into a frenzy by the gunslinger’s contract, dive down at her from above. Expendable’s spear missed it by a hair, the lemure chattering a laugh, but then the Malani snatched it out of the air barehanded.

She chose not to look at Expendable smashing it against the stone violently even though she could hear the screeching. Or to notice his limbs had been convulsing, the monster sealed inside him aching to get out and spill blood.

Marshal de la Tavarin only strolled back into view after the last of the screeching abruptly cut out, looking somewhat irritated.

“That was staggeringly boring to watch,” he said. “Let us hope that next week reserves a greater challenge – a good blade dulls when used to cut grass.”

Angharad flicked the blood off her blade and nodded in acknowledgement.

“Let us hope,” she agreed.

He squinted at her.

“Tempted as I am to sprout a second on you immediately, I suppose it is yet early in the year,” the Marshal said. “Go on, then, and send down the next band.”

They assembled before moving towards the exit, some relieved chatter blooming as they all politely pretended not to notice there was a feather on the corner of Expendable’s lips. Surely he had not eaten the… would it even possible, with a man’s teeth? It was not as if the beaked monkey had come cooked and sauced.

“-cision, Angharad,” Shalini was saying. “Those things looked a lot clever than the birds Muchen got, it would have been tricky if they scattered.”

Angharad cleared her throat, mildly shamed she had not been listening.

“It felt like the correct decision at the time,” she said.

“It was,” Salvador rasped. “Good instincts.”

Not instincts at all, and she felt like a heel for cheating even as she enjoyed the compliment. The conversation broke up when they took the stairs, emerging back onto the balcony where the students waited until the fights were done for the day. As usual the large space was barely used, scattered cliques of students nesting in their own corner even as more sat near the balcony’s edge for a better look at the violence. Their arrival got a few friendly waves, but no cheers as some of the fights in the past had.

Theirs had, Angharad would admit, not been exciting enough to warrant such a thing.

Yet it was proving sufficient to warrant something else: lounging by the head of the stairs like a panther at rest, an impeccably dressed Lord Musa Shange was waiting. He pushed himself up at the sight of them, stretching in a way that drew the eye to his admittedly muscled arms. Everything the man did was a performance.

“What do you want?” Shalini called out.

A tad rudely, but Lord Musa had earned little courtesy from the Thirty-First.

“A private conversation,” the man replied, then nodded at her. “Lady Angharad.”

“Lord Musa,” she coolly replied.

“Like that’s going to be-” Shalini began, but Angharad gently laid a hand on her arm.

“I can speak for myself,” she said.

Gently still, despite the presumption. Her friend spoke from care, and Angharad owed Shalini and the rest of the Thirty-First Brigade a great deal. She had relied on their kindness for many things since moving out of the cottage.

“We will not be leaving the open,” she informed Musa.

It had his face tightening, but he did not argue. How could he, when his own captain was a known robber? She gave a reassuring nod to the rest of her companions and followed the Malani up a few rungs of benches, far enough they could not easily be overhead. Once they were there, however, the man looked hesitant.

“What can I for you, Lord Musa?” Angharad asked.

Only marginally more polite than what Shalini had said, but he had little courtesy from her either.

“It has been pointed out to me,” Musa stiffly replied, “that the discord between us might be needless.”

Her brow rose but she said nothing. The Pereduri had no intention of apologizing for stepping in when he sought to force Zenzele into a duel. And while mention of that fact had been largely a pretext at the time, it remained true that the false Yaretzi that’d attempted to kill her had received Sandile coin. Not for her own death, but the connection remained.

“I spoke to you impolitely without good reason,” Lord Musa admitted. “In my eagerness to avenge the insult done my cousin, I myself gave insult. I would withdraw my words from that evening, if you will allow.”

Angharad hid her surprise. Withdrawing one’s words commonly served as an apology among Malani highborn, as it avoided acknowledging fault outright while expressing a desire to restore relations to where they stood before the words were spoken. She had never thought much of the practice. Apologies should be given when one overstepped: that giving it marred your honor was the very point, not an unfortunate coincidence. If a noblewoman had committed something worth apology the stain was deserved.

Yet her friends from the Middle Isle had called such an opinion ‘charmingly provincial’, so she was not unaware it was not how Malani saw things. By his standards, Musa was making a genuine effort.

“For the disrespect offered me, I give leave,” Angharad replied after a heartbeat of hesitation.

Which buried personal enmity between them but made it plain she still stood with the Zenzele and Thirty-First. As well she should, Sleeping God. They had been her friends before, but now they were her benefactors as well.

“There is nothing else I would withdraw,” Lord Musa flatly replied.

She could respect that. Musa had a right to be angry on his cousin’s behalf. By fleeing their betrothal and spurning her so openly, Zenzele had damaged her reputation in the eyes of all her peers. Rumors would follow her for years, all the more considering the Sandile were a great house and the Duma lesser – why would the young man flee such an advantageous match, if nor for some hidden defect on Lady Arafa’s part?

Deep down, Angharad thought Musa more right than wrong. House Duma had done badly by Zenzele, betrothing him without his involvement, assent or even knowledge, but that was no fault of House Sandile’s and their reputation was still scoffed by the affair. But that does not excuse, Angharad coldly thought, the use of assassins. That black mark was not Musa Shange’s however, and he should not be made to answer for it.

“That is your right,” Angharad agreed.

He nodded in acknowledgement, seeming pleased they understood one another.

“As a gesture of good will, I would extend an invitation to dinner,” Musa smiled.

Angharad mastered her face. In Malan, she would have needed to watch her tongue. She did not know much of House Shange, but they appeared well connected and were likely wealthier than the Tredegar. Avoiding causing offense in turning him down would have been paramount. But they were both Watch, now, and in principle neither stood above the other. She could answer frankly, and the thought was so novel she could not help but indulge.

“The intimate company of men holds no appeal to me,” she frankly replied.

Musa politely coughed into his fist, though not so quickly she did not see the ghost of a smile.

“Nor that sort of invitation, Lady Angharad,” he said. “Some of us highborn from the Isles are gathering for a private dinner at the Galleries next fourthday. There was talk of inviting you, and I volunteered to extend the opportunity.”

Likely turning talk into decision by doing so, a further gesture of goodwill. The man seemed serious about making amends.

“It would be my honor,” Angharad said, inclining her head in thanks.

“And ours,” Lord Musa easily replied.

He paused.

“Should you be looking to obtain the services of a tailor, Sebastian knows one familiar with our fashions,” the nobleman said. “He offered to make introductions if you would like.”

It was an effort not to grind her teeth. A man who had robbed her wanted to share a tailor? She would rather attend naked.

“I will keep that in mind.”

Musa’s lips twitched.

“I thought that might be your answer,” the Malani lordling said. “You will find, my lady, that your… temporarily absent belongings await you at the Rainsparrow Hotel. Give the attendant the word and they will be brought to your room.”

Musa half-bowed, which she was surprised enough to return half a heartbeat late.

“Sebastian only had animosity with the Thirteenth Brigade,” he said. “Never Angharad Tredegar herself. You are invited to keep that in mind, going forward.”

And with that he took his leave, stalking away lithely as Angharad was left to watch his back. The noblewoman was no fool, to confuse a thorn being pulled out for a favor being done, but it would have been almost as foolish not to acknowledge that Captain Sebastian was making a gesture. Unprompted, with no one forcing his hand. She knew better than to believe it was out of the goodness of his heart, of course. Angharad had been right in a way: she was being courted.

Only it was as a sword instead of a woman.

—

After a bath and a change of clothes the last thing Angharad wanted was to head back to the streets, but there was no helping it. She had already put off this chore too long.

Not that her lodgings at the Rainsparrow Hostel were worth lingering at. The room was a glorified closet and even going back to fetch her affairs had not managed to make it feel any less empty. It was the bareness of the walls, Angharad felt. No pretense was being made that the room was anything but a place to pass through. Not at all like the cottage, where they had all-

No, better the bare room than the cottage. Bleak as it was, it was no lie. There were things about that night Angharad regretted, but leaving was not one of them. It had done her good, to distance herself from the tumult. Standing in that room it’d felt like there was no choice but to claw back, but that was a mirage. It would be ungrateful for Angharad not return the favors done to her on the Dominion, but she was not some Izcalli serf bound to serve the Thirteenth ‘til death.

She could leave if she wanted to, and after three days away from the others she’d come to believe that she did. Pulling her coat tighter around her neck, Angharad gave the blackcloak in front a nod as she walked out the door. The man had earlier confirmed Lord Musa’s words: the belongings taken from her had been returned and were not awaiting her leisure.

Angharad had yet to decide whether she would accept the gesture.

Port Allazei evenings were cool, kept so by the sea breeze, but the streets were still full of cloaked silhouettes. As one of the three main streets outlining the Triangle, Hostel Street was still thick with garrison men and students even though the hour approached six. Mere moments after passing the door Angharad was waved at by an acquaintance, Captain Philani of the Thirty-Eighth, and she slowed her stride to talk with the amiable Malani.

Small talk – the Thirty-Eight did not have a Skiritai, he was curious about the class – but he did have a question.

“Will you be at Dregs tonight?” the captain asked. “Most of my brigade will be, I thought to make introductions.”

“I believe so,” Angharad replied. “Ferranda has been trying to convince me their fish pie is edible, I suppose I ought to try it.”

‘Dreg’s Draughts’ was a tavern by the docks, whose sign had swiftly been vandalized to be boasting of ‘Dregs’ instead. The owners, far from insulted, had embraced the name. Though their ale was almost insultingly terrible it was also cheap and plentiful, which meant about a third of the Scholomance roster went through those doors any given night.

“Lierganen cooking,” Philani agreed, rolling his eyes. “It almost feels a lie to speak the words.”

Angharad smothered a grin.

“They make fine hams,” she loyally replied.

They parted in amusement. Barely two street corners later she ran into Captain Nenetl of the Third, in conversation with two others, but the Izcalli called out to her and made introductions.

“Izel Coyal, meet Angharad Tredegar,” she said.

Izcalli, she thought from the name. A tall, strong-shouldered man who seemed hairless even by the standards of Aztlan stock. He nodded a greeting, which she returned.

“And-”

A heartbeat into the introduction, Angharad placed the other face. It had seemed familiar.

“Kiran Agrawal?” she interrupted.

The Someswhari looked surprised, pleasantly so.

“Indeed,” he said.

Angharad smiled at him, then offered Nenetl explanation.

“We are both Skiritai,” she said. “His band faced some sort of bull lemure last week and I was impressed by his spearwork.”

“My thanks,” the man replied, faintly accented. “Your swordwork is superb, as I am sure you know.”

“Oh, please do not let this turn into another blade flattery session,” Captain Nenetl sighed.

She laughingly solicited Izel’s support in changing the subject – he was a Tinker, it seemed, though Angharad believed those calluses on his hand also from training – and the conversation did not long last after courtesies. Both belonged to the Nineteenth Brigade, she learned, and in truth shared classes with Angharad. Their brigades had simply never formally met.

That last part put a shadow to Angharad’s smile, driving her to end the chat early. What was it that had kept the Nineteenth away from them – Song’s name, the enemies Tristan brought or just another of the hundred black marks on the Thirteenth Brigade that she had never cared to notice? She had been so blind.

A mere three evenings with the Thirty-First had been enough to open her eyes. Their brigade was split between two small houses near the western edge of the Triangle, Rong and Zenzele sharing one while Shalini and Ferranda shared the other. The only appropriate arrangement: Zenzele was a young widower, or close enough. For him to live with two unattached women would have been scandalous. Angharad had supped at the former and twice accompanied them to Dregs, and the difference had been…

Sleeping God, she had missed society. The cottage was so insular, far from everything. There was intimacy in that, but also a certain staleness. To be able to go out in company without concern about Song’s name or Maryam’s paleness had been a breath of fresh air. She had spoken to more of her fellow students in the last four days than she had since making shore in Port Allazei.

It felt like she had been let out of a prison cell.

Even the simple exercise of finishing the Saga readings with the Thirty-First on firstdday, sharing a table with them at the Crocodilian, had been refreshingly painless. Ferranda’s cabal was not frictionless, with Rong often growing irritated at Shalini for her blitheness while Lord Zenzele struggled with giving his opinions in ways that did not step on his captain’s toes, but the stakes were so low. No one was struggling against crushing burdens, set fire to houses or report being run out of their own covenant.

They had read the assigned readings of their professors, shared a pitcher of bad cider and broken early for a meal. No one died or wept in the process.

The rest of the way to her destination was not far. She left Hostel Street for Regnant Avenue, then followed it south towards the garrison barracks. There were clusters of small courtyards there, abandoned, that were sometimes used for students for sparring and practice. The house she was looking for had been well described to her, and the red awning stood out enough there was no mistaking it. She dragged her feet the rest of the way to the open doors, hearing the sounds of a scuffle inside.

Part of Angharad wanted to find an excuse not to cross that threshold, but that was weakness. She had already used the move and her changed circumstances as an excuse for too long. Evening out her expression, the noblewoman breathed in and passed through the open gates of the courtyard.

The inside was worn but still in fine enough state, a broad sparring yard with an upper gallery surrounding it. Weapons racks had long collapsed into scrap, but someone had recently nailed spikes into the stone wall to hang a few practice weapons. Some of them were being used as she watched: Tupoc Xical, a dull axe and dagger in hand, was dancing around that Tianxi girl from his cabal with the burns and the milky eye. She wielded a long spear, the bread and butter of the republican militias, and the reach should have given the Izcalli trouble.

Instead he was toying with her, catching the shaft with his axe or dagger before darting in for killing strokes – never harder than a tap – and giving grounds to begin again. It took Angharad two passes of watching the girl grow increasingly angry and sweaty as she failed to land blows to realize what Tupoc was doing. He was trying to break her drilling habit and teach her distance as used in duels instead of the march-and-thrust the Republics demanded of their infantry.

After the third pass Acceptable Losses, as she recalled to be the Tianxi’s sobriquet, looked angry enough to snap her own spear.

“You are too much better at this,” she said. “There is no point-”

“There is no point in you thrusting at where I am,” Tupoc interrupted. “You need to thrust where I am going to be.”

She looked inclined to argue, but he raised an eyebrow over those pale eyes and the Tianxi sighed. Only then did she spare a glance for Angharad, who was yet standing by the gates, and sneered before walking off. There was a small door beneath the galleries that Angharad had earlier missed.

“Angharad Tredegar,” Tupoc greeted her. “I had begun to wonder if you would ever come to collect.”

“I merely had other affairs to settle,” Angharad replied.

“Yes, moving back into the Rainsparrow,” the man mused. “I heard.”

Angharad said nothing, knowing that to give him any thread to tug at would be a mistake. After a moment, the man chuckled. He gestured at the training weapons against the wall.

“Care for a spar?” he asked.

“No,” she flatly replied. “I came for-”

“Did you know,” Tupoc lightly interrupted, “that there are now only sixty-eight cabals left?”

Angharad frowned.

“I do not recall how many there were before,” she admitted.

She thought Song might have mentioned it in passing, but she had not committed the number to memory.

“Seventy-two when classes began,” he told her. “One collapsed from their Stripe being tossed out of Scholomance, but nothing so near for the others.”

“Deaths?” she asked with a frown.

There were now eight dead Skiritai students, though this Lady Knit ruling the hospital seemed able to cure much anything short of death. She had heard rumors of more deaths from Port Allazei and even one student taken by Scholomance, but nothing she would dare to call a fact.

“Arguments,” Tupoc replied. “And poaching. The first deaths made holes in brigades, whose captains recruited to fill. The brigades being recruited from in turn had to poach, and down the ladder it went.”

“Until the bottom rung,” Angharad said, cocking her head to the side. “Those collapsed.”

He nodded.

“And became spare parts for brigades to pick from,” he said. “At the turn of the month, there will be a lot of desperate sorts willing to do anything so a cabal takes them in.”

“A warning, Tupoc?” she challenged.

He grinned.

“I merely worry of the Thirteenth’s health,” he piously said. “First you move out of their secret hideaway, then most of you cease talking in public? Your pet rat even stopped coming to class.”

Angharad’s teeth grit. Tristan had been absent today and the day before, though she had been assured he still lived.

“Why would you care even if there were trouble?” Angharad snorted.

“Why, Tredegar, we are all old friends,” Tupoc said. “How could I not worry about dear bosom companions like you, Song or Maryam?”

“I only barely consider you an acquaintance,” she coldly replied.

He was, unfortunately, only enthused by her words. What little patience she’d come here with began to thin.

“I did not come here to entertain you,” Angharad said. “You promised me answers, Tupoc. Deliver.”

He leaned his axe back against his shoulder, then hummed.

“I was in the thick of it, that night,” he said. “Much like you.”

She nodded.

“I recall.”

He had been one those meeting the cultists with steel instead of blackpowder, keeping the raiders at bay.

“I do not believe any of you grasped how close-run that skirmish was,” Tupoc mused. “If not for the muskets on the stairs, we would have faced the full warband and been swept up. If not for our fighting line proving so fierce, a few of their warriors could have toppled our firing line in moments.”

He paused.

“Hollows well versed in fighting soldiers know better than to assault a dug-in position,” the Izcalli continued. “Given the fine cover a dark forest makes, I was concerned that their captain would send a few warriors to swing around and strike at our musketmen.”

“So you kept an eye on behind us,” Angharad put together.

“As much as the fighting allowed,” Tupoc said. “I did not see who shot Isabel Ruesta, Tredegar, but from the way she fell to the ground I can tell you who did not: the cult of the Red Eye.”

She breathed in sharply.

“You are certain?” she pressed.

“She was facing the tower when she was shot,” Tupoc said.

And the musket ball had struck the front of her face, not the back of the head. Angharad had thought her spun around by the shot. She closed her eyes. Who had been up there? Cozme and Tupoc had been in the thick of it with her. Who did that leave? Brun, who had been enamored with killing and closest to the corpse. He did not have a musket, only a pistol. Lan, who Angharad had never seen use a weapon. Shalini, who had only used pistols as well. And then their two sharpshooters: Ferranda Villazur and Song Ren.

Angharad could still remember the last heartbeat of that fight: a shot from the woods, and then one from the near the tower. Where Ferranda and Song had stood.

“Either Villazur or your dearest captain,” Tupoc said, echoing her thoughts. “That is my best guess.”

“And you said nothing?” she curtly replied.

He shrugged.

“I thought I might need that little tidbit if either of them tried to get me hanged,” he replied. “It was best kept under wraps until I could make use of it, and now I have.”

“Would you testify to this?” she asked.

He burst out laughing. It took an obnoxious, teeth-gritting full minute until he ran out.

“Oh gods,” Tupoc breathed out. “That just made my week.”

“This is not laughing matter,” she said.

“It is,” the Izcalli replied. “All that takes place on the Dominion falls under amnesty, remember? Even if Ferranda confessed to a Watch tribunal tomorrow the words would not earn her so much as a slap on the wrist.”

Much as she would have liked to punch that grin off his face, he was unpleasantly correct. As far as the Watch and its laws were concerned, the Dominion was a done thing. Without another word, Angharad turned and walked out. Tupoc had not given her sufficient reason to insult him, only for lesser rudeness of this sort. She ignored his taunting calls, fingers still bunched up into fists.

It was not proof, but it was not nothing. And it made one thing all the clearer.

Angharad need to sit down with Song Ren to tell her that when the month ended, she would be leaving the Thirteenth Brigade.