Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Tristan needed a way in.

The infanzones had claimed a corner of the hold and were entertaining the sole foreigner they’d decided was worth their time, mere feet away but far beyond his reach. The thief did have to admit the Malani they’d picked was a fearsome specimen, with two inches of height on him and a build hinting she could handle that saber she was dragging around. Unlike the noblewoman he was unlikely to get invited for refreshments, however, so he’d have to find another angle. Fortunately one was there for the taking: the infanzones had brought attendants with them. Six people in all, and one would be his key.

The soldiers, as soldiers did, went to dice the moment their masters ceased paying attention. Even the grim-faced Malani huntsman in Villazur service went, joining a tall man in Ruesta colours and the man Tristan would kill before this was all over: Cozme Aflor, thrice accursed and may the fucking devils of Pandemonium eat him whole. There had already been a game going near the mass of crates in the back of the hold, so after the soldiers joined Tristan simply did the same. The welcome was lukewarm until he flashed some coppers, which were in short supply. Most were playing for buttons or trinkets.

“We’re playing Augur,” a dark-haired woman enthusiastically told him. “No matches, Sacromonte rules.”

“Which are nonsense,” a scarred Malani complained. “Why would the Lovers’ Stars make you lose?”

Considering most the circle was Sacromontans, she won herself a few unfriendly stares with that.

“We call them the Rat King’s eyes,” Cozme smiled, stroking his beard. “He is not a god whose attentions are kind.”

Tristan smirked. It was an old legend that the Rat King had been but a pack of rats, once, but that they had devoured one of the Manes – those great pristine gods so beloved of the infanzones – and become a deity even those old things feared. There were a thousand gods worshipped and bargained with in the mud of the Murk, but few as beloved as the Rat King. He was as a patron to the lost and beggared, those who dwelled in shadow and filth. Not the kind of god that would look well upon the likes of Cozme Aflor.

“It’s the usual way,” the same dark-haired woman insisted. “Play or leave.”

The grizzled Malani sighed but picked up the dice, dropping them in a wooden cup before shaking it. Tristan had played Augur before, it was the simplest of dicing games, and so he was not afraid of losing too badly. He was not here to win anyhow. Betting low, he made sure to stay in the game as the dicers began to chat. The pushy dark-haired one who’d lit up at the sight of his coppers was called Aines, and now he recognized her from earlier. She was the woman married to the dust addict. Said man was napping, which spared him the sight of his wife losing badly at Augur.

Gods but Tristan had never seen someone so genuinely terrible at a game of chance.

He was grateful for it, as her emptying pile of buttons loosened tongues. Winning always put folk in a fine mood. Information slowly trickled in. The huntsman come with the Villazur was named Sanale, though he spoke little save when the other Malani addressed him in some foreign tongue. Tristan knew a little Umoya, but whatever they spoke only seemed to have so much in common with the best known tongue out of the Isles. Inyoni, the older woman with the scars who’d complained about the rules earlier, was a great deal chattier in everyone’s shared Antigua. The thief asked casually about the other two Malani she’d come with earlier in the day, soon surprised at easily getting an answer he’d figured he would have to finesse out.

“The boy’s my nephew,” Inyoni said. “I’m coming along to keep an eye on him.”

“Family is the most important thing,” Aines agreed.

The man in Ruesta colours rolled his eyes at them. This one was called Recardo, and though he was not as large as the Aztlan legbreaker it was a close thing. Closely shaved, he had the kind of well-proportioned face that Tristan knew was considered handsome. He was also, to put it in a single word, a shit.

“Women’s talk,” Recardo mocked before pushing a copper on a bet below four.

Aines bet two buttons on above nine, solid odds she had somehow already lost thrice on.

“There’s no need for rudeness,” Cozme drawled, pushing his own bet on eight precise.

He liked to look like a good man, Cozme Aflor. Tristan had been young but he remembered that much. The others on the List had been demanding, often rude, but Cozme had always been kind with his father. Told him with a smile that it would be over soon, that he just needed to get through it. He’d still had that same smile on his face when pulling the trigger. The thief’s gaze must have lingered, for the bearded man glanced at him curiously. There was not a speck of recognition on the Cozme’s face, not that he had expected one. He’d been but a child when they last met. Tristan smiled, burying his hatred deep.

“What is it like, working for infanzones?” the thief asked, feigning fascination.

Cozme did not hide his smugness.

“Exhausting, but rewarding in its own way,” he claimed. “Though in truth I serve not the brothers but one of their uncles, so they must listen to me in all things.”

Tristan doubted that very much but nodded as if admiring. Recardo, who’d been listening to them, laughed.

“The perks are shit when working for the Cerdan,” the big man said. “Now me? I get to look over Lady Isabel and her pretty little maids, there’s a real prize.”

It was not the first time tonight he mentioned the maids, which he seemed to be laying claim on to an entirely disinterested audience. The huntsman Sanale eyed the other man, then muttered something to the other Malani. Tristan smothered a smile when he recognized the words in Umoya, which translated to something like ‘crow-meat’. A grinning Inyoni rolled the dice, a three and five. Aines cursed disbelievingly, Cozme smirking as he claimed the pot. Recardo looked none to pleased at having lost, his coppers thinning.

“We ought to get the valet in there,” the big man said. “Go get him, Cozme.”

“Gascon attending to the brothers is why I can sit here in peace,” the bearded man replied, shaking his head. “Besides, he’s not as bad with money as you think.”

And like that Tristan had what he wanted: names and faces for all six attendants. Recardo seemed like the kind of man that would be easy to get talking when plied with liquor and flattery, but entirely too unreliable to be used. Neither Sanale nor Cozme could be his key either. The Malani was quiet and distant while Tristan was not sure how well he’d be able to hide his hatred if he spent too long around the other man. That left the personal servants. Since the Cerdan valet was even now polishing the boots of the brothers, Tristan’s gaze moved to the Ruesta handmaids. It’d have to be one of them.

Now he just needed to get rid of one last problem.

“Four radizes on below five,” Fortuna demanded in his ear, draped over his shoulder. “This one’s a win, I can feel it in my bones.”

Tristan grimaced. He could not risk even a whisper, not so close to so many people. Irksome when he was itching to point that she did not, in fact, have bones.

“Come on,” Fortuna insisted. “When have I ever steered you wrong?”

Every single time he’d gambled, he silently replied. He put two coppers on six exact instead.

“Wait, no, you’re right,” she muttered. “This is better. All in, Tristan. Bet everything.”

Fortuna, as befitting of the Lady of Long Odds, only had two stratagems in games of chance: doubling down or going all in. He ignored her, which proved warranted when a moment later two fives were rolled and he lost his coppers. He then used the loss as a pretext for retreat, forcing himself to ignore Fortuna’s indignant howling.

“We had them, Tristan,” the goddess bellowed. “Our luck was turning around, I’m sure of it. We just needed to keep at it a little longer.”

Abuela had taught him that gods always craved something. It was in their nature: they were aether given face through mankind’s touch, leaving them with hungers that they could only satisfy through men. It was what gods got from contracts, a way to sate those hungers, and the same reason that if he listened to Fortuna he would bet on bad dice until he was destitute. It was that one in a hundred thousand victory she craved, the Long Odds come true. To her losing a thousand times for that single unlikely win would be nothing more than suffering through overcooked greens to get at a juicy side of pork.

“We’ll try again later,” Tristan murmured, pretending to be brushing his knee so he could hide his mouth.

“You always say that,” Fortuna pouted, “but then we never do.”

She was pouting, so the storm had passed. She’d stay snippy about it for a bit then before the turn of the hour entirely forget. With that seen to, he turned his attention back to the handmaids. Both were near their mistress, who was playing at court with the other nobles and ignoring them so long as she did not need anything fetched. One, a short dark-haired woman whose name he had learned was Beatris, was finishing up mending a coat with needle and thread. The other, a redhead whose name was Briceida – information obtained through Recardo’s boasting he would get her in bed – was paging through a book with a bored look. Tristan got closer but not enough to earn more than an indifferent glance from either, waiting for an opportunity.

It came when Beatris began to put away her needle in a neat box, a sight he answered by immediately borrowing luck.

The ticking began in the back of his mind, a clock’s moving gears, and a heartbeat later the box slipped through the maid’s hands. Needles and threads spilled all over the floor, the woman letting out a horrified gasp, and even as he rose to help her Tristan released the luck he’d borrowed. Fortune snapped back, lightly so for the lightness of what he’d taken, but it returned with unerring aim. A wooden bobbin rolled under his foot and he slipped with a started yelp, falling forward. Tristan landed on his knees, only a hand keeping his face off the bottom of the hold, and did his best to ignore Fortuna’s hysterical laughter.

“Sweet Manes, are you alright?”

Sighing, the thief looked up at Beatris’ face – she was trying to hide her amusement but failing – and dragged himself back up.

“Nothing was wounded save my pride,” he wryly replied. “Would you like a hand?”

“That is kind of you to offer,” the maid said, sounding surprised. “It would be appreciated.”

The threads had rolled away in every direction and needles were hard to pick out in the gloom of the hold, so it was genuine work to get them back. The other maid ignored them as they scuttled about, at first, until finally she closed her book with a loud sigh and got up. Brushing back red curls, she bent and picked up a single bobbin of blue thread as Beatris was reaching out for it. It was dropped into the box almost contemptuously before Briceida turned a sneer on the both of them.

“Careful the vagrant doesn’t pocket some of Lady Isabel’s things, Beatris,” the redhead said, then her lips quirked cruelly. “Though maybe he’ll cut you in so you can finally afford a decent dress.”

“I’ll take responsibility if there is a mishap, Briceida,” Beatris curtly replied.

“Drop things less, then,” Briceida advised. “Your breeding is showing.”

And on that parting shot she flounced away, leaving dark-haired Beatris struggling not look furious. It passed after a moment and the maid turned an apologetic look on the thief.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“What for?” Tristan snorted. “She seems a horrid bitch.”

A gamble, but he liked his odds. Beatris’ mouth closed but she was not quite able to silence the laugh startling its way out of her throat. Under Tristan’s smiling gaze the maid convulsed a few times, then erupted into giggles.

“She really is,” Beatris admitted. “You’d think she were a king’s daughter instead of a drapier’s.”

Ah, Tristan thought. So it was like that. Drapiers were wealthy men and the pressing reason one’s daughter would be serving as handmaid to a lady was so she might use that foothold in noble circles to marry up. Meaning Briceida was a maid only until she found better, while Beatris would be a servant for life. Their status – and treatment – would be starkly different. Good for him, though. An enemy, especially a common one, would make it easier to forge ties.

“My sympathies,” the thief told her, finding he meant it.

The dark-eyed maid looked up at him for a moment, then hummed. Bringing her hand to the side of her dress as if to straighten it, she discreetly curled her fore and middle fingers. The thief hid his surprise at the sight of the Mark of the Rat being made, pretending to scratch at his sideburns while returning it. Beatris smiled.

“Had a feeling you might be,” she said.

“Born in Feria,” he told her.

Feria District was of the nicer parts of the Murk. He’d not stayed there – without his father, there had been no affording the rent set by the Cerdan – but telling Beatris he’d cut his teeth in rougher places like Araturo and Cayerar would do him no favours. The dark-haired maid’s smiled grew more genuine.

“I am as well,” she told him. “The north end, near Araturo.”

“East for me, around Weeper’s avenue,” he shared.

She looked impressed, though she should not have been.

“Before they prettied it up,” he clarified.

These last few years the noble House of Cerdan had cleaned up some of the many streets they owned in Feria. Mostly so they could raise the rents, throwing out the old tenants and replacing them with wealthier migrants that couldn’t find rooms in the ever-overcrowded Quays. A lucrative racket, by all reports.

“Figures,” Beatris drily said, eyeing him up and down.

He grinned back. Tristan was cleaner than most, for a dirty thief would not be allowed into anywhere worth robbing, but he still had filth under his fingernails. He’d not bathed in a few days even if his clothes were clean. Not so for the maid, who even smelled faintly of lilac. Before he could tease her about that, an interruption bowled them over. Lady Isabel Ruesta was barely taller than Beatris and just as dark-haired, but she was hard to mistake for the other. The infanzon had an indolence about her particular to those that’d never done a day’s work in their life.

“It was lovely of you to help Beatris,” the Ruesta told him, smiling and laying a hand on his wrist. “May I have your name, sir?”

It was an effort not to allow distaste to show on his face.

“Tristan,” the thief smiled back. “It is my honour to meet you, Lady Ruesta.”

The infanzon tittered.

“Call me Lady Isabel,” she insisted. “It is the least I can do for someone who so gallantly helped my maid.”

She shot Beatris a look of condescending fondness.

“She is not usually so clumsy, I swear to you.”

Beatris bent her head before her mistress, murmuring apologies that were airily dismissed. Practice kept Tristan’s smile from growing visibly stiff.

“It must be the ship,” the thief said. “Journeys have their difficulties.”

The noble brat nodded.

“Too true,” she said, smile brightening. “Yet they are so very exciting!”

She patted his arm again.

“I do hope to see more of you, Tristan,” the Ruesta said. “We shall talk again.”

She flounced off as suddenly as she had flounced in, returning to her nest of nobles. The grey-eyed thief waited until she was settled to turn to Beatris and roll his eyes.

“Would it be rude,” he said, “to offer my sympathies twice?”

The dark-haired maid blinked, then turned an intense gaze on him.

“No,” she slowly said. “But you mean-”

Beatris hesitated.

“Did you not find her charming?”

“The opposite,” Tristan frankly replied.

It was said the folk of Rasen thought their island the only untainted land in all of Vesper, hiding their bodies outside it so they would not lead evil back to their home. All Tristan could tell about the Raseni was that she was about of height with him, tall for a woman, and that those gloves and boots were worn from use. The boots in particular were – the thief stilled.

“Yong,” he murmured. “Look at the Raseni’s boots.”

“They do look comfortable,” the Tianxi agreeably replied

“What colour would you say the stitches are?”

The soldier shot him a strange look.

“Dark blue?” he finally said, shrugging.

So they were. Tristan had not met many Raseni, but back when he’d run messages for a Roja frontman near the docks he’d learned a few things about them. Like the way they never wore anything blue below the belt, since it drew the attention of evil gods. There was no way a Raseni religious enough to observe full veiling would not know that. Which means I’m not looking at a Raseni. Hitching himself up, the thief brushed his trousers clean before walking away from a baffled Yong. Unhurried, Tristan crossed the hold until he reached the false Raseni and leaned against the wall to her left.

“I do not believe,” the stranger said, “that we have been introduced.”

No accent. Her Antigua had that cadence to it common to those who’d learned the language late, but nothing about the way she spoke hinted about where she was from. It was, he mused, an aggressively unaccented way of speaking and so almost certainly practiced. He didn’t immediately reply, instead leaning his head back against the wall. When he finally spoke, his tone was barely above a whisper.

“I am trying to think,” the thief said, “of a reason for why you’d pick Rasen of all places as way to hide your identity. I can’t seem to find one.”

He looked up at the ceiling, the play of shadows lined by the lantern lights.

“In Old Saraya masks are worn by certain trades,” he said, “and surely hair dye would have been easier than going around in a full Raseni veiling if you only sought to hide your identity.”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“You’re wearing blue under the belt,” Tristan plainly said. “Raseni do not.”

“Not unless we have been exiled,” she replied.

A tense moment passed.

“Did you think I’d buy that?” he curiously asked.

A sigh, then she shuffled on her feet.

“I should have sprung for the boots without stitches,” she muttered.

He hummed. Her eyes were blue, he glimpsed through the slits of the copper mask.

“You’re not going to introduce yourself?” she asked.

“You’ve kept an eye on me all day,” the thief said. “You already know my name.”

A guess, but one he liked his odds on. She did not deny it.

“So the Tianxi’s your ally,” the stranger said. “Thought as much.”

“You had to be looking close to notice that,” he said. “What is it you’ve been looking at us for?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she lightly replied. “Besides, that’s ahead of us. Here and now I would like to offer you a deal.”

He cocked his head to the side.

“Your silence,” the veiled woman offered, “for knowledge that might save your life.”

Tristan eyed her searchingly but there was no face to read, only dull copper and cloth. It might end up useful leverage to out her as an impostor, he considered, but it was not certain. Most here did not have a reason to care. Better to get something certain than hold on to something he might never use. And if she told him something useless? Then he would still have learned something, only about her.

“Agreed,” he replied.

“The noblewoman picked up by the infanzones,” the stranger said, “has ten silver lines tattooed on her left arm.”

“So she’s a Malani swordmistress,” Tristan frowned.

They were dangerous folk, he’d heard, feared even by the bloodthirsty champions of Aztlan warrior societies.

“No,” the woman said. “It’s on the wrong arm, in the wrong colour. She’s a Pereduri mirror-dancer.”

Wasn’t Peredur part of the Kingdom of Malan? One of the islands.

“There’s a difference, I take it,” the thief said.

“Swordmasters gain their lines in honour duels. Bloody fights, but deaths aren’t common. On the High Isle, to win a line you’re taken to the shore on a specific day of the year.”

“To duel?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she said. “There’s a kind of lemur there called grey mirrors. They prey on lone travellers and fishermen, taking their form and then eating the body to gain some of its memories.”

Tristan’s disbelieving gaze, against his will, went to the noblewoman they were talking about. Blissfully unaware of the attention, she was telling a story to the Villazur.

“You can’t be serious.”

“They wait until the mirror takes the form of the one trying for the line,” the stranger evenly said, “then toss it a sword of its own, for fairness. They win or die, facing themselves year after year.”

If the Mala- the Pereduri could only take such a trial once a year and she had ten stripes, she must have begun when she was still a child. Ten, eleven? Young.

“Don’t ever face that woman sword in hand,” the stranger warned, “unless you are looking to die.”

That was knowledge well worth a secret kept, and Tristan did not hide his appreciation. He’d come out ahead in this bargain, perhaps even a little too much. Best to even the scales, lest he be in the stranger’s debt.

“The Ruesta girl has a contract that charms others,” he murmured. “Though there are restrictions.”

The veiled woman stayed a silent for a moment.

“That,” she finally said, “could be trouble.”

It was obvious enough he did not bother to voice agreement. Besides, he’d got what he came here for and more. It was time to take his leave.

“Since you have my name,” Tristan said, “it would only be fair for me to receive yours.”

She shot him a considering look, as if debating what she would use.

“Sarai.”

“It’s been worthwhile, Sarai,” he said, inclining his head.

“So it has,” she agreed. “We’ll speak again on the island.”

Surprisingly, he found himself looking forward to it. He’d barely taken a step away from the veiled woman when he heard a gunshot, body tensing as he went for his knife. He realized a moment later that it had come from the decks above, though he’d not been the only one alarmed: there were several others on their feet and just as wary. A second later another shot sounded, then what had to be a dozen more. They did not stop.

“We’re under attack,” Cozme Aflor shouted. “Arm yourselves!”

Pirates? Surely not, for what kind of a fool would attack a Watch ship when they carried few goods and were certain to be full of soldiers? Even as the travellers of the hold went for their weapons, Tristan’s gaze swept through them again as instinct had him counting the heads. Shit, the thief thought. Marzela was still missing. The same terrified girl he was certain had been drawing on her contract compulsively since coming onboard. A sinking feeling in his stomach, Tristan brushed past the pair of Ramayans and climbed atop one of the crates in the back. He heard a man’s voice laughing, asking if he was going to hide, but he ignored it as he crawled forward.

The back of the hold was a tightly packed mass of crates, but over one’s edge Tristan saw some sort of cloth peeking out. Cursing again he crawled closer, seeing then it was not cloth at all. It was some sort of webbing, like a spider’s. And behind that crate, nesting among threads of webbing, was horror. What had been Marzela barely clung on to human shape, milky blind eyes having grown all over her head while spindly legs ending in claws had ripped their way out of her sides and torso. She held herself in her own arms, the skin webbed together, and when a noise of terrified disgust ripped its way out of Tristan’s throat she suddenly twitched. She’s waking up. Milky eyes swam into focus and the thief threw himself back.

“SAINT,” he shouted. “SAINT IN THE HOLD!”

He didn’t even see what hit him, a keening sound filling his ears as pain exploded across his back and he tumbled through a broken crate. Fuck, his shoulder. Tristan rose out of a spill of seeds just in time to see the Saint scuttling through the hold while half a dozen people fired at it, carelessly slapping down the Aztlan legbreaker when it stood in her way. The god wearing Marzela let out a moaning sound when shots tore at its flesh, but it would take more than musket balls to put it down. Not that it seemed inclined to stay at the bottom of the ship: bleeding black ichor, the monster climbed up the wall to the ceiling and ripped its way clean through the wood.

“Oh spirits,” someone moaned.

Even as it climbed through the hole, the Saint let out another keening moan before disappearing. A moment later Tristan got a glimpse of what the blackcloaks had been shooting at all this time. Mantics. Of all the bloody things, it was mantics. Leering creatures barely two feet long, dragging themselves on long clawed hands as their disturbingly humans faces bared fangs. Only the scavengers were gone wild, spilling down into the hold by the dozens and savagely going for those closest to them. Tristan backed away from the mess, watching as Tupoc Xical calmly finished putting together a spear and harpooned the closest lares without batting an eye.

Violence broke the spell of surprise, the rest of the hold exploding into action. Keeping an eye on the infanzones, Tristan saw that they were already moving towards the upper deck. Looking to the blackcloacks to save their necks, no doubt. But they were leaving fighters behind, only Cozme heading up with them, and the cold place in the back of his mind saw the opening. The mirror-dancer was sticking close to Isabel Ruesta, and since the infanzones were sharing soldiers that meant... The thief moved towards his medicine cabinet. While mantics kept slithering down and fighting sounded above, he discreetly grabbed a small vial from the upper right compartment and felt out the lining of the door.

There were long needles, just like he’d learned in Alvareno’s Dosages, and he palmed one.

A look told him that Beatris was on her way up with her mistress and that Yong was fine – though visibly drunk, he was reloading his pistol without fumbling – so there was no need to stick his neck out. Better to wait for his moment, and until then take the opportunity he’d been handed. That crone Celipa had promised to see him beaten if he got into the crates, but now one was open and no one likely to be paying attention if he had a look at what was inside the others. Even as he uncorked the vial he’d taken and dipped the needle in the brown, viscous Spinster’s Milk within he snuck into the back of the hold. The vial was tucked away carefully, as was the needle, and he turned his attention to the mystery.

He'd been thrown into seeds earlier, but prying open other crates showed him the rest of the goods. At least two full of muskets, powder and swords, another of trinkets, but there was a lot of food. Some was military rations but also dried meats and a large amount of those cheap seeds, the kind that didn’t come from Glare-crops and so ended up used only to feed poor men and darklings. What does the Watch garrison on the island need with so much food? Something to keep in mind, though he best end this before he was caught. Leaving the cover of the crates, Tristan returned to find the tail end of a fight. Most the travellers had gone up like the infanzones, leaving only a handful behind to hold the stairs as mantics kept slithering in through the hole in the ceiling.

“Tristan,” Inyoni called out. “Hurry, we’re closing the door.”

Clutching his knife tightly, the thief tiptoed around the pack of scavengers being kept at bay by swords and a musket fixed with a bayonet. The noise caught their attention, and unlike the others he’d not earned their fear by piling up a few corpses: they came at him hard. Waddling forward with deceptive quickness the mantics moved to cut him off as he broke into a run, and though he leapt over the first that tried to bite his leg he was caught after he landed. Claws ripped into his trousers and he hissed in pain, slashing at the creature’s eyes. It howled in pain as he ripped through flesh, releasing him just fast enough he was able to run to the bottom of the stairs before the rest could do more than nip at his heels.

“See, I told you he was too slippery to die,” Inyoni drawled, idly slashing away at the mantics.

It held them back, Tristan saw. It wouldn’t have earlier, when the Saint had been there and they were gone entirely rabid. Now they were capable of fear again.

“Too slippery to fight, too,” Recardo grunted.

That got him contemptuous look from the remaining two, Inyoni’s nephew and the acne-ridden noblewoman from Asphodel. Best to nip that in the bud, he still had a use for a decent reputation.

“I was looking to see if the Saint left anything behind,” he lied. “She looks like a spider, so I was concerned of eggs.”

Ah, and away went the contempt.

“Shit,” Inyoni’s nephew quietly said. “Were there any?”

“Couldn’t find some, but I can’t be sure. I didn’t want to risk touching the webbing,” Tristan said, feigning reluctance at the ‘confession’.

“That was wise of you,” the Asphodel noble reassured him. “Nothing come of a Saint is harmless.”

“We can all pat ourselves on the back later,” Recardo cut in. “Let’s close this damn door and bar it shut, we’ve wasted long enough.”

Tristan smoothed away his smile. He’d known the Ruesta soldier would be there. See, every other infanzon would have a sword hand already with them. Cozme for the Cerdan brothers, Sanale for the Villazur and finally the Pereduri for Isabel Ruesta. Recardo was bound to be the one they left behind, and they had to leave someone behind so it wasn’t too obvious they’d abandoned everyone the moment danger arrived. Reputation and honour, yes? So now he only needed to play his part. How fortunate that Recardo was such a prick he hadn’t even had to bait out an insult.

“They’ll attack when there’s fewer of us,” Tristan said. “Like scavengers always do. The last of us will have a fight on their hands.”

Inyoni nodded, about to speak up when Tristan sniffed. He painted offended pride on his face.

“Recardo and I can take the role, if he so doubts I can handle a knife,” the thief said.

There was no argument. None of the others would clamour for the place of danger, and Recardo couldn’t even begin to try wiggling out of this without withdrawing his careless insult from earlier. Which the man would not, because he was a prick. And so as the others began to withdraw up the stairs, Tristan palmed the long needle he had put away earlier. To be safe, he waited until the third time the mantics came after them. He half-slipped on the stairs, drawing the scavengers after him eagerly, and even as he scampered back up the stairs in the chaos he pricked the large man in the fat of the leg. Recardo yelped and glared down, but Tristan withdrew quick enough it looked like a mantic had been at fault.

The thief scampered up, the two of them keeping the creatures away as the others disappeared up the stairs one by one. Tristan waited. Spinster’s Milk was an extract from a breed of lemures commonly known as Caotl’s Spinsters, horse-sized scorpions that’d earned the sobriquet because their venom was not mortal. As if needy spinsters, the beasts instead paralyzed their prey so they could eat them alive bite by bite. So Recardo did not die, as that would have been much too suspicious. Instead he slowed, limbs growing numb, and then made a mistake. When time came to avoid a snap of teeth the large soldier misjudged the length of steps and down Recardo went.

Tumbling down the stairs and into the pack of hungry mantics, who would conveniently eat the evidence.

“Hurry,” Inyoni hissed into his ear, dragging him by the shoulder. “He’s dead, kid, there’s no helping him.”

The thief made sure to protest once that he could still save his beloved comrade Recardo before allowing himself to be talked into abandoning him. He was not an amateur, so he did not smile as the door closed behind him.

One, Tristan Abrascal counted.