Pale Lights - Book 2: Chapter 3

Before her house’s demise, Angharad had only twice journeyed at sea longer than a week.

Once while Mother showed her the northern coast on the way to visit their distant kin in House Bethel, the other time heading to the isle of Seler Seithenyn. On both occasions she had sailed with House Tredegar’s trading carrack, the Swift Alder, which as Mother had liked to tell her was neither swift nor made of alder. Though she had made smaller trips to southern Malan several times a year, in truth most of her time out on the water had been when training her footing had been out on smaller fishing boats borrowed for a day, so Angharad would confess to knowing less of ships than a daughter of Rhiannon Tredegar should.

She did, however, know a great deal about ports.

It has once been the hope of her parents that the largest town sworn to Llanw Hall, Patrwm, might be grown into a port to rival Port Cadwyn to the south. The town was nestled against what the locals called Tredegar Bay, and what her father had taught her was a natural harbor. Deep waters allowed for easy anchorage, and the promontory of Hare’s Rock protected the bay from storms. The smallness of the bay and the lack of good roads to neighboring territories had worked against the town, but both these could be remedied with works.

Yet Mother had known that though House Tredegar’s fortunes had risen enough under her stewardship that these works could now be afforded, it was unlikely they would be finished in her lifetime. She had, therefore, instructed Father to see to it that Angharad would be educated in the necessities of a trade port. The noblewoman was not above admitting she had resented the exercise, which had involved much coin-counting and squabbling about rights and privileges – men’s work! – but she had made the bare bones of an effort to learn.

It was how she could now look at Port Allazei and decide it was not a very good port. It was, to start, entirely unprotected. There were no breakwaters or landbridges to protect the jetties from the storms, and though that might be forgiven given what Song had said about how the Ring of Storms kept the elements at bay the state of those docks was not so easily set aside. The waters here were deep enough the galleon could boldly sail in, but the jetties it approached were nothing but twenty thin, spindly lines of stone jutting out from the city.

The causeway they all led into was hemmed in by low walls leading to what appeared to be some kind of overly large customs office, leaving so little space past the docks the causeway would be constantly crowded should the harbor be even halfway filled. As things stood there was only a pair of carracks docked, moored at opposite ends of the jetties. The captain of the Fair Vistas seemed intent on claiming one of the middle jetties, keeping her distance.

Angharad eyed the port again and sighed. The Pereduri was yet awed by the Grand Orrery’s towering spire and looming Scholomance – its towers jutting out like teeth biting into the dark – but the city at their feet appeared to be little more than an overgrown ruin with second-rate docks.

“And what sets you to sighing so despondently, if I may ask?”

Angharad flicked a glance at the man who’d addressed her. Tristan Abrascal still watched his tongue around her, as the lowborn often did around nobles, but she thought it a good sign he sometimes unbent enough to tease her. She walked a fine line around the man herself, not yet certain of the boundaries. In the world beyond the Watch they would have been kept distant by blood and title, but now they both wore the black. How much did birth matter, once you put on the cloak? She was not yet certain, and so she refrained from offering the man used of her comb even though she’d twice had the half-jest on the tip of her tongue over the last week.

“Those jetties are much too narrow,” Angharad opined, leaning against the railing as they stood up on the forecastle. “It would be difficult to unload large cargo here.”

The gray-eyed man considered Port Allazei in turn, his stare measuring. Sacromonte was one of the greatest ports in the world still, for all its faded glory, so he should be able to see what she had.

“Or even just a large amount of it,” Tristan finally agreed. “This is no trade port.”

His words had the woman past him stirring from her quiet doze.

“It’s meant for defense,” Maryam said. “That wall looks short now, but they would have built…”

The pale-skinned woman frowned, biting her lip.

“Ograda od dasaka,” she said, flicking a glance at Song.

The Tianxi asked Maryam something in a language that sounded like Cathayan, but slightly off. Maryam replied in the same, looking relieved, and nodded.

“Hoarding,” Song translated. “Like a wooden walkway atop the wall, covered by a roof and with arrow slits in front.”

Arrows? How very Century of Loss.

“The jetties are narrow so few warriors can get out once,” Maryam said. “The causeway is small so the press pushes the invaders into the water. This place was built to fight.”

What a wonder, Angharad thought: Maryam Khaimov could speak without adding some sly implication. Perhaps it was Tristan’s presence, for she did seem to make something of an effort to curb her tongue around the Sacromontan. The noblewoman debated making an effort at pleasantry with the Triglau but could not bring herself to offer a surfeit of politeness when she was so certain it would be returned by rudeness.

“I’m no military man,” Tristan noted, “but those walls look to me like any galleon could level them with its cannons from far enough arrows would mean nothing.”

“Tolomontera is an ancient land,” Song said. “It has been settled since at least Morn’s Arrival.”

By which the Tianxi meant the walls had been built in a time before blackpowder made many once-great fortresses into little more than rubble-in-waiting.

“You seem correct in your assessment about the impracticalities around cargo,” Song continued. “There is a lighthouse west of here with a beach where some ships were dragged ashore. I imagine that is where the Watch unloads what the port does not allow for.”

Angharad leaned back, trying to get a glimpse of this lighthouse, but they were close enough to Port Allazei now that the Orrery lights made it difficult to see beyond their span. In truth she suspected that even out at sea she would not have seen what Song did, for those silver eyes seemed to pierce through darkness and illusion alike. One of the Fair Vistas’ fighting contingent – a young man by the name of Emiliano – came to them and shyly passed along Captain Krac’s compliments and that they were soon to dock. Which they could all see, but was only polite to convey.

Emiliano, tall but hunched over, mostly looked at her while speaking and blushed all the while. Angharad replied politely, as was due, but made sure not to smile. Though she would prefer to think watchmen above such things, it was her experience that young men taken with her sometimes took smiles as encouragement. Such a thing could sour, should they then try their luck and learn her interest ran strictly to the fairer sex. It was simpler to keep a distance.

“Our compliments returned to Captain Krac, and my personal thanks for the lending of books,” Song replied. “The trip was swift and pleasant. We have our affairs in hand and will require no escort.”

Emiliano tried to linger, but Song’s cocked eyebrow was a fearsomely disapproving thing and he was soon routed. Song, Angharad thought not for the first time, seemed comfortable in command. Almost as if she were nobly raised, though of course such a thing would not be possible in Tianxia. Angharad was not certain it was wisest for her friend to lead, regardless of Scholomance rules, but she would not deny it was a relief for the burden to be on another’s shoulders.

It would not have occurred to her, for example, to send them all back to their cabins to gather their affairs ahead of docking so they would not get in the way of the sailors as the galleon pulled into port. Her private concerns aside, it was pleasing to have someone with knowledge of the waters they were sailing with their hand on the helm.

The galleon skillfully slid into place close by the jetty, where dockworkers were thrown heaving lines to secure the ship. Heavier hawsers followed until the Fair Vistas was pulled tight and tied. A plank was thrown down after, and a sailor saw them out. Angharad was a little surprised at the informality of it, which must have shown on her face.

“Something wrong?” Song asked.

“I thought the captain would see us off, or at least the first mate,” she admitted.

Maryam let out a snort from behind her. The sound was unkind. Angharad’s teeth clenched, for after weeks of this her patience was waning thin with the other woman. Having been born to a savage land was no excuse for having refused to learn manners since.

“We do not warrant such attentiveness,” Song said, not unkindly. “We are Scholomance students, Angharad, nothing more. Captain Krac commands a galleon, a respected position. We are beneath her notice.”

The noblewoman’s lips thinned, but after a moment she conceded the point. She was used to more amiable treatment from crews, as either the captain’s daughter or a paying passenger, but she was neither on the Fair Vistas. She was but a soldier under the Watch, the same as any other watchman the captain might be ordered to ferry by her superiors. She turned to watch Tristan come down the plank, the man’s stride unhurried as he bit into what looked like a leathery piece of jerky.

Angharad sent him a questioning glance.

“Traded for it,” he idly said. “Want a piece?”

“I will hold out in hope of a decent meal at our accommodations,” she replied. “Though I thank you for the offer.”

“I ever admire optimism,” Tristan told her.

Angharad frowned, for though this sounded a compliment she could not help but feel she had been made sport of. Tristan Abrascal was clever with words, though she sometimes thought he might be a little too clever with them. The kind of cleverness that led men to get in too deep. Regardless she was left with no time to spare for thought on the matter when Song took the lead, hoisting her bag and striding onwards towards the end of the jetty. Angharad followed, sailors leaving the galleon in their wake and beginning to organize with shouts.

The dockworkers, stout men and women that seemed of mostly Lierganese stock, paid them little attention as the four walked down the causeway towards the structure flanked by walls she had earlier marked a customs house. Angharad had been wrong in this, as she now realized deeper consideration of the matter would have yielded. The island belonged to the Watch and was closed to all others, who would such taxes be levied on?

No, the edifice ahead was something else entirely. It would have been only somewhat accurate to call it a gate, for though it was that it was also much more. The structure seemed about a hundred feet wide and thirty tall, an elegant pale hall on each side supporting a layered rectangular roof of stone. The roof must have been topped by bronze statues, once, but the elements had worn them down to bare bones. It was the wide space between the halls that drew the eye, for seven pillars filled it from floor to ceiling and each was a delicate wonder.

They approached, almost warily, and Angharad’s eyes could not help but flick from one to another. Each was exquisitely carved deep gray slate, marked prominently with the colored heraldry and words of a noble house – though she did not see any lineage’s name. It took her a shamefully long moment to piece it together. Seven houses, watchmen setting aside noble titles? These were not noble lines but the covenants of the Watch. Her steps slowed and she was not the only one.

“Which is which, do you think?” Tristan mused out loud.

“I know mine,” Maryam said. “It’s there.”

She pointed at the rightmost pillar, where lay a blue crescent moon within a white circle. Angharad found the words of the Akelarre Guild ambiguous – Beyond the Horizon.

“The Academy is in the center, as always,” Song shared, tone dry.

Its crest was two diagonal yellow stripes across a hand, Angharad saw. Their words were A Duty and Privilege, though it seemed someone had painted a black line across all the words save ‘privilege’ and it’d only mostly been scrubbed out. The Pereduri marked the sight of a golden tree emblem which must be the Umuthi Society – whose name came from the Umoya word for tree – and its motto of A House of Steel.

She could hazard a guess at which covenant the green laurel wreath belonged, and perhaps the white quill as well, but her attention was commanded by what must be the Skiritai Guild’s pillar. Angharad stepped closer and her fingers gently trailed the simple heraldry, crossed silver falchions. She shivered at the words she read beneath: Gods Bleed, the Militant simply said. The fewest words of any writ beneath a crest, and so lacking in embellishment they felt more like an oath than a boast.

She was shaken out of her reverie by Tristan’s soft laugh as he stood by the leftmost pillar. What Angharad had thought to be heraldry was only some unevenness in the stone, the pillar’s sole imperfection. Going around to join the Sacromontan, she saw what he had found. Hidden in the shade of the roof a simple black carnival mask had been carved into the slate. Hunt the Night, the Krypteia scrawled below.

Something about the stillness of the gate – even the halls on the side were empty, all bare stone – straddled the line between reverence and eeriness. It was, Angharad thought, as if they had entered a shrine not to some god but to the Watch itself. The spell only broke when she caught sight of movement past the gate. There the causeway continued for a few dozen feet until it ran aground of a squat, square building whose sloping windows were all shuttered tight.

Past the building was a crossroads, both sides of which led deeper into Port Allazei, but black-cloaked watchmen stood guard by a low barricade in the way. More stood guard before the edifice, and one of them caught sight of their crew beneath the gate. She whistled sharply to catch their attention before gesturing for them to approach. Song moved first, the rest following.

“You lot came with the ship that just arrived, I take it?” the tall woman asked.

She had the Tianxi look, much like Song, but her accent was Someshwari. She must have come from those bloody borderlands between the Republics and their greater neighbor.

“We did,” Song agreed.

“Then in you go, ducklings,” the watchwoman said, gesturing at the open door past her. “Straight to Sergeant Itoro, he’ll sort you out. He’s the one at the desk in the back looking like he could use some sleep.”

“Don’t we all,” another blackcloak muttered. “Fucking double shifts.”

There was some laughter from the others, and before Angharad could decide whether this was soldier’s humor or she should be appalled at the lack of professionalism they were ushered through the threshold. Most of the ground floor was a single room, flanked by wooden stairs to the left and what must be a private office at the back. The great room was a collection of desks, most of them groaning under the weight of paper stacks and surrounded by shelves bearing even more of it.

No wonder the shutters were all closed, a single gust of wind in here would mean hours of work.

Sergeant Itoro was not difficult to find. As dark-skinned as the Malani name had implied, he was perched behind a desk with four large manuscripts on it and scribbling on a piece of paper when they approached. He did look like he could use some sleep, Angharad mused. The rings on his eyes were even darker than those around Maryam’s, though given the paleness of the Triglau’s skin Angharad had wondered if hers were merely faint rings standing out from contrast.

The watchman was also, well, small. He could not even be five feet tall, Angharad thought, and was slightly built. They stood before the desk, waiting patiently as he finished the last of his scribbling with a flourish, and only then did he look up at them. Dark eyes took them in, then he cleared his throat.

“Students?” he asked.

“Yes,” Song replied. “We were told you would sort us out.”

The small man blew on the paper he’d been scribing, then set it aside and reached for the topmost of the books on his desk. He cracked it open, lines and lines of ink revealed to Angharad’s eye, and dipped his quill in an inkwell.

“I am Sergeant Itoro,” he said. “You currently stand in the gatehouse of Tolomontera, which you will not be allowed to pass through again this year save for your test. Do you have your affairs at the ready?”

His gaze swept through them, earning nods back.

“Good,” he said. “Now, I must give you a warning. If any of you is not truly a sponsored student whose name is on my list, you are in breach of Watch law for setting foot on a closed island. You will be caught, tortured for information and summarily executed.”

He paused to let his words sink in, leaving Angharad to wonder why watchmen always seemed to threaten execution when she first encountered them. At least it seemed a rote speech for this one, unlike Lieutenant Wen’s elaborate pantomime with Sergeant Mandisa back on the Dominion.

“Give yourself up now and you will be able to keep your life,” the sergeant suggested.

The Malani waited a moment, as if to give them the opportunity to confess. Tristan cleared his throat, getting a hard look from Song that he blithely ignored.

“Has anyone actually ever given themselves up?” he asked.

It would be uncouth to ask, of course, but then Angharad had not. It was purely coincidental her own curiosity would be sated as well. Good man.

“One of the Garrison recommendations thought it’d be a fun lark to pretend she was, make a stir,” Sergeant Itoro mildly replied. “I hope she had a good laugh, I really do. Good enough it’ll carry her through ten years of serving as a rower on a Watch galleass.”

Only Angharad and Maryam were properly sobered up by that answer. Rowers died like flies, and at times were hardly treated better. In Malan there was such a lack of men willing to take up the role that criminals were used by the royal fleet.

“I’ll need your names for the records,” the officer said. “We can handle cabal matters after.”

Sergeant Itoro was efficient about jotting them down, then blew the lines on the ledger and once satisfied the ink would not smudge closed it and reached for another.

“Good, now the welcome speech,” the Malani said.

He cleared his throat.

“There are only three rules on Tolomontera,” he said. “First, students of Scholomance may not kill each other. Second, the sections of Port Allazei marked with red paint are not to be entered. Third, every student of Scholomance must be part of a registered cabal.”

This, Angharad thought, smacked of lawlessness. The well born could be expected to behave by virtue of their education – well, most of them anyhow. Infanzones had not impressed her on the Dominion. Still, what was to guide everyone besides nobles here on Tolomontera? Officers, she told herself. Is the Watch not an army? It felt like a lacking answer. Sergeant Itoro tapped his fingers against the thick leather-bound ledger without seeming to notice.

“To elaborate on the third rule, a cabal must be made up of at least four students but no more than seven. Anyone who is not in a cabal when classes begin will be placed in one made up of fellow spares as assigned by – well, either myself or Lieutenant Bao depending on who has the shift. I do not recommend this.”

Song looked about to speak up, but the sergeant raised a warding finger and her mouth closed.

“A cabal assignment is not permanent,” he continued. “You may at any time request a transfer to another, and should the request be accepted by their captain you will be added to their rolls so long as it would not bring their number over seven.”

He leaned.

“Cabal themselves are not permanent,” he continued, “for should one at any time have fewer than four cabalists its captain will have fourteen Scholomance days to recruit back up to four. If they fail, the cabal is dissolved and its members will be given a grace period to join another cabal. Failing that, they will be assigned to a cabal of spares.”

He paused.

“Ren, you had something to say?”

“The four of us intend to form a cabal,” Song replied.

He shrugged.

“That is your prerogative, and I’ll mark it, but first it is mandated that all students should know their rights,” Sergeant Itoro said. “There is no need to worry if you do not know anyone. Classes will begin in two days, but tomorrow all students present on Tolomontera will gather at Misery Square so that they might mingle and form cabals as they wish.”

His dark gaze sharpened.

“Regardless of what you may have been told, even by a patron, no student can be compelled to be part of a specific cabal and any such agreement made before coming here – even if legally binding – is null and void,” he said. “The purpose of Scholomance is to form a generation of exceptional cabalists, not gild the name of cliques outside these walls.”

Sergeant Itoro squinted at them.

“Knowing this, I now ask whether the four of you want to form a cabal,” he said.

Song nodded, Maryam close behind, and after a heartbeat Angharad followed suit. It was Tristan who held them up.

“I have been told,” he said, “that should a Stripe be part of the cabal they are considered the captain by default?”

The look Song threw him was unkind but Angharad would admit it was a fair question. It implied a certain lack of trust, admittedly, but to inquire about rules was not outright an accusation.

“That’s correct,” the small man said. “It’s considered part of their classes to lead you. You’ll get a deeper explanation of how cabals function when you meet your school patron, but I can say captaincy is not necessarily permanent. An incompetent leader can be voted out and replaced.”

The gray-eyed man nodded.

“Good to know,” he said. “I’m in as well.”

Sergeant Itoro nodded, finally opening the second ledger.

“All cabals are registered under a number,” he told them. “You will be issued a silver plaque with that number stamped onto it, which serves as your identification and the only way for you to access cabal funds.”

Three or eleven might suit, Angharad thought, though the hopes were swiftly dashed.

“The numbers one to fifty were forged in advance, but most students arrived weeks ago so it is slim pickings left,” Itoro said. “You may ask for any number under one hundred not already taken to be forged as a plaque, but that may take a few days.”

Given the warning Tristan had received from his enigmatic mentor, it seemed to Angharad they would have to scrape the bottom of the barrel.

“Which numbers are left?” she asked, leaning forward.

The small man hummed, thumbing through his ledger. He began at the last page, Angharad saw, but all the lines were crossed on it. On the second there was one free.

“Forty-four,” Sergeant Itoro offered.

There was a pause.

“No,” Song flatly said.

Angharad started in surprise at the firmness of the refusal. She leaned closer to Maryam.

“Why?” she whispered.

The Triglau snorted.

“Tianxi superstition,” she said. “Four sounds like-”

“Death,” Song sharply said. “It sounds like the Cathayan word for death. Very bad luck. My ears work just fine, you two, and I tell you now I refuse to be the captain of the Double Death Brigade.”

Truth be told Angharad thought that ‘Double Death Brigade’ sounded respectably fearsome, but she suspected that opinion would not be well received.

“Surely there must be another plaque left,” she said instead, smiling at the watchman.

The Malani had been paging through his ledger while they talked and nodded at her words.

“One other,” he confirmed.

“It’s going to be four, isn’t it?” Tristan grinned.

“No,” Sergeant Itoro said. “That one’s taken.”

Song blinked in disbelief.

“It is?”

The watchman traced the line with his finger, following it to the matching list on the opposite page.

“Yes. It was claimed by Captain Tupoc Xical,” Sergeant Itoro said.

A chorus of groans ensued, not the least her own.

“Well,” Maryam noted, “at least the man knows what he’s about.”

“An acquaintance?” the sergeant asked, openly curious.

“We went through the trials on the Dominion of Lost Things together,” Song answered.

Sergeant Itoro let out a low whistle.

“Heard this year was a real bloody mess,” he said. “Good on you kids. It’ll prepare you better for this place than anything silver spoon free company princes got up to.”

He cleared his throat.

“Still, there’s a reason this one’s the other left,” Sergeant Itoro said as he presented them the ledger.

Following his finger, she saw it was by the number thirteen. Ah, Lierganen did think that number bad luck she recalled. Something about the Second Empire’s fall.

“So Double Death it is,” Tristan said.

Song glanced at him.

“Thirteen is a good gambling number,” she told him. “What do you have against it?”

“First off, there is no such thing as a good gambling number,” he firmly replied. “And second it’s the worst possible luck, Song. We might as well just name ourselves ‘those unlucky bastards’.”

Maryam cleared her throat meaningfully.

“Women can be bastards too, Maryam,” the gray-eyed man amiably informed her.

“You’re letting us all down, Tristan,” Maryam said. “Just gird your loins and call me a bitch.”

“I’m not going to do that,” he replied.

The Triglau leaned back, catching Song’s eye.

“Song, my vote’s on thirteen.”

There was a pregnant pause as the Sacromontan narrowed his eyes at his friend.

“Does it count if I do it on the inside?” Tristan finally asked.

Angharad frowned down at him.

“It most definitely does,” she sternly said. “I will vote for thirteen as well, Song.”

Tristan threw her a betrayed look but it was deserved punishment. A gentleman should not refer to a lady in such a manner, not even in his thoughts or if she was not truly a lady at all. Sergeant Itoro, though they were wasting his time, seemed too amused to chide them for it.

“You can get a plaque forged,” he reminded them. “Anything under a hundred.”

“There will be no need for that,” Song smiled. “We will take the number thirteen. Thank you for your patience, sergeant.”

“It’s either this or doing the rosters, so by all means feel free to keep arguing,” the small man shrugged. “If there are no further objections, I’ll be putting you down for the Thirteenth Brigade.”

The Malani looked hopeful of another argument, but Tristan sighed and caved in. Twice now Angharad had heard someone call the cabal a brigade, which meant it was no coincidence.

“If I may,” she said, “why is it that you refer to the cabal as a brigade? I thought them to be-”

“The Watch doesn’t use ‘brigade’ as a name for a military formation as the Kingdom of Malan does,” Sergeant Itoro cut her off. “We do have the ranks of brigadier and brigadier-general but the first is an administrative rank and the second commands a division, not a brigade.”

“That seems…”

Angharad trailed off, looking for a polite word.

“Pointlessly complicated,” Tristan suggested.

She sent him a disapproving look at the rudeness, however accurate. The small Malani chuckled.

“The Watch’s built from the bones of older beasts, boy,” Sergeant Itoro said. “After the fall of the Second Empire, the wandering bands of Rooks called themselves brigades. When the Watch began to gobble them up the word came along with them, though nowadays it’s for covenanters only.”

He dipped his quill in his inkpot and began writing their names down, stopping at – Angharad leaned forward. Hers?

“Tredegar,” he muttered, then leaned back his chair.

“Soaps,” he called out. “Look in the correspondence box. Don’t we have something for a Tredegar?”

“Get up and check,” a woman called back from the back office.

“What’s that, Soaps?” Sergeant Itoro mused. “Noon and midnight shifts until the end of time, you say?”

Rather inventive cursing answered him. There was the sound of someone cracking open a chest and then some ruffling. A mere minute later a rather tall Tianxi – a head taller than Song, who was not short – strode out, braids askew and a pink stripe on her face like she had been resting her cheek against a table. She had a small letter bearing a red seal with the two-tailed snake of House Tredegar, perking Angharad up.

“For an Angharad Tredegar,” ‘Soaps’ said, passing the sergeant the letter. “Anything else?”

“Plaques for the Thirteen Brigade,” Sergeant Itoro said. “Four of them.”

The woman stomped back through the door to the backroom but Angharad paid it no mind. The small man passed her the letter, which she cracked open. It was not much, only a few lines.

“My uncle confirms he is on his way to Tolomontera,” she told the others. “He also sent me a gift as congratulations for surviving the Dominion, which he entrusted to the local garrison. I need only go to the appropriate warehouse and show this letter to collect it.”

“You’ll need your plaque as well,” Sergeant Itoro informed her. “It should be in the farrago warehouse even if your uncle’s Watch – at the left end of Hostel Street, the building made of kiln bricks right before the turn.”

Angharad inclined her head in thanks. ‘Soaps’ stomped back out of the backroom, returned with a cloth bag she dropped on the table besides the sergeant’s ledgers.

“I only asked for four plaques,” Sergeant Itoro said.

“So I went above and beyond, you might say,” the Tianxi smiled.

She retreated, seemingly in a better mood now. The small man sighed.

“Take your plaques,” he instructed them as he reached for his third book. “I’ll see what I can do for lodgings.”

Tristan’s hands were quickest, undoing the knot keeping the bag closed with what Angharad could only call suspicious deftness, and he held it open for the rest of them. Song reached inside, withdrawing a glint of silver, and Angharad was second. Her fingers closed around a round seal, which she drew out and studied more closely as Maryam went fishing.

The silver was rough more than polished; on one side the number thirteen was encircled by a sleeping, snakelike dragon while on the other a thick stripe ran around the edge of the circle with words engraved in what must be Cantar – the mother tongue of Antigua, now spoken only by scholars. She flicked a curious look at Song, who hedged.

“It is Cantar from the Union period, which I cannot read perfectly,” the Tianxi warned.

“That is still more Cantar than anyone else here can read,” Angharad pointed out.

Seeming pleased, Song flipped her plaque to study the back.

“Thus,” she slowly began to translate, “we – they?- have learned the… secret, mystery? Language, maybe. Of things that breathe and do not, but with the suffix for ‘being’ attached. The rest is numbers, but not a number.”

“Thus I have learned the language of all living things; its name is violence,” Sergeant Itoro softly quoted. “So spoke the harvestman of ruin, toppler of thrones.”

Tristan choked and Song looked surprised. The sergeant traced a circle against the table, an Orthodoxy superstition meant to disperse ill luck.

“Our school words,” the Tianxi slowly said, “come from Lucifer?”

From who? Sleeping God, she could not be serious. For some reason the man seemed to find that hilarious, laughing his fill before wiping his eyes.

“Ah, youth,” Sergeant Itoro said, and none quite dared to ask more.

Gathering herself, Angharad saw that his third ledger was open and he seemed to have made some notes in the margins while they were looking at the seals.

“You will be lodged in the Rainsparrow Hostel,” he informed them. “A single room with six beds. The baths are down the street, if you are so inclined, and all three of the taverns on the street will serve you if show your plaque.”

Before any of them could inquire as to crude necessity of payment, the Malani elaborated.

“Everything is free until classes begin,” he said, “but the taverns keep a drinks tally for each brigade and will charge you if you get too expensive.”

“And after the classes begin?” Angharad asked.

He shrugged.

“You’ll be assigned a patron, they will fill you in as to the practicalities of life in Port Allazei,” Sergeant Itoro said.

Angharad nodded, displeased at the brush-off but aware she was in no place to make demands.

“I was advised to seek rooms in the Emerald Vaults,” Song said. “Could something be arranged?”

The small man snorted.

“You and everyone else, Ren, only they got here weeks earlier,” he said. “It filled up ten days ago. No nice single rooms with a balcony and bath for you.”

Alas, Angharad deplored. Cheated of the comforts of civilization once more, though at least Song had made a valiant attempt on their behalf. Sergeant Itoro scrawled a few words on paper and handed them to the silver-eyed Tianxi, referring to her for the first time as Captain Song.

“Good luck,” Sergeant Itoro told them, and so they were dismissed.

They left the office, back to the street, but Angharad stilled at the threshold. She thought for a moment she had gone mad, for the world looked like a fever dream, but she had not: everything truly was wreathed in green. The false star above that was painting the world in its color slowly passed above them, leaving a light tinged by gold in its wake. Angharad swallowed. The Grand Orrery’s cast had been pale since they left the ship, as if they were under direct Glare, so she had entirely forgot that they were not below a pit.

“That is going to take some getting used to,” Maryam grunted. “It even feels different in the aether.”

Troubled one and all, they put a spring to their step. Though they had not been told of the exact location of the Rainsparrow Hostel, it turned out to be unnecessary. Hostel Street was not all that long, a mere ten edifices – three taverns, two warehouses and five hostels for travelers much larger than those Malani law mandated be built by the side of royal roads. They were stone, too, and the facade positively dripping with statues of sparrows hinted strongly as to their destination.

By unspoken agreement they decided to first claim their room and set their bags down there instead of wandering about burdened.

The Rainsparrow Hostel was an old mass of worn granite three stories tall, its front facade boasting a dozen large double-windows facing the street. Between each of these a statue of a hawk – nesting, flying, clawing at the unseen – was fixed, most of them in fine state. The doors were wide open, leading into a tiled antechamber left empty save for a narrow writing desk behind which sat a bored blackcloak with a massive ledger before her.

Song handed her the paper Sergeant Itoro had scrawled on and was met with a raised eyebrow.

“Itoro must like you, to claim a sixer on your behalf,” the watchwoman said. “I suppose we still have the room – you can have twenty-seven.”

She marked down their names and cabal in her ledger, asked to be shown their plaques and only then went rifling inside her desk to remove two small iron keys.

“Second story,” she said. “Right end of the hall. Oh, and there’s one last thing.”

She cracked open her book to the last page, unmarked, but there a few letters were tucked away. The watchwoman idly traced through them before seizing on.

“Tredegar,” she said. “You’re in luck, you got here in time.”

Angharad took the offered letter, blinking in surprise.

“You seem quite in demand,” Maryam said.

The tone made it ambiguous whether that was an insult or not, so Angharad’s lips thinned as she opened the letter. Unsealed, and she could see why. It was not private correspondence, strictly speaking.

TO LADY ANGHARAD TREDEGAR,

You are cordially invited to an evening at the Old Playhouse on the twenty-eighth of the twelfth, for light refreshments and informal company. We-

She scanned through the rest of lines, lips tightening as she found the very last. Raising her gaze afterwards, she saw expectant looks waiting.

“I have been invited for an evening at the Old Playhouse,” she said. “It appears to be some kind of party.”

“So why,” Maryam said, “do you look like someone just socked you in the stomach?”

Just past the end of the paragraph, the part mentioning she was encouraged to bring a guest along, was the names of those who had invited her. Captain Nenetl, went one.

But the other went Lord Thando. A Malani name. A Malani noble’s name.

“Apologies, Song,” Angharad said. “It appears that I had enemies waiting here as well.”