Chapter 7

Chapter 7

People could be funny about death, Tristan thought.

Dozens died in Sacromonte’s gutters every day and no one batted an eye, but if you tossed forty bodies on pyres and made people look at them suddenly it was the greatest tragedy in the world. Watching Isabel Ruesta bawling her eyes out the thief held back from rolling his own. Her admirers were already flocking to offer her sweet words of consolation, though he noticed they looked shaken too. That was the thing with nobles: they’d lived such pretty lives it never really sunk in that they were always just one mistake away from dying. They thought they were important, that the world should somehow care, but Tristan knew better. Your life only ever really mattered to yourself.

“I think she might truly be grieving,” Fortuna said, peering over his shoulder.

He snorted.

“Sure she is,” he murmured. “Her chance to marry her rich cousin just went up in smoke.”

Literally. Maybe one of the blackcloaks would be nice enough to help her pick out the right column. Keeping the amusement off his face, he flicked a glance backwards when footsteps creaked on ash-strewn mud. Yong’s black hair, tousled by warm breeze, was absent-mindedly pressed aside as the older man approached with a grimace.

“Thought I was done smelling this after leaving Tianxia,” Yong said, then spat to the side.

It was a hellish sight, the thief thought, the burning red glow and thick smoke swirling around them. It was what he thought Pandemonium might look like, that great monstrous city of devils in the far east. All the evils in the world, kept sealed inside Hell’s capital by the arms of the Watch. It had all felt very far away, once, but not so now that he’d left Sacromonte for this strange shore. Shivering despite the heat, the thief spoke to fill the silence.

“So you’ve been in wars,” Tristan said.

“It’s Tianxia, boy,” Yong snorted. “There’s always a fucking war on.”

So the word went. The republics making up Tianxia were famous for their squabbles, be they mercantile or military. Only the rough business of driving out the Imperial Someshwar had ever succeeded at getting them to set aside their enmities for more than a season.

“Killed some folk, didn’t get killed back,” the Tianxi continued. “As good as career as a soldier gets.”

His hand, Tristan saw, was inching towards the flask of drink in his coat pocket. It stopped when he noticed the thief’s stare.

“Anyhow,” Yong brusquely said, “they’re burning the bodies naked. Means the equipment is still around here somewhere.”

Tristan inclined his head.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He didn’t make promises and the former soldier didn’t ask for any. Neither was fool enough to think getting caught stealing from the Watch would end in anything but summary execution. The show of sorrow was coming to an end, besides, Isabel Ruesta sniffling as her admirers swore she would be safe and her maids wiped her cheeks with soft handkerchiefs. Tristan saw most of the others were still milling about uncertainly, waiting among the ashes of the dead for a welcome that had yet to arrive. There were only a few blackcloaks tending to the pyres and they cared little for talk, while no one had quite dared approach those standing near a set of storehouses further up the beach.

A few enterprising souls shook the surprise before the rest, though. Ju and Lan, who’d failed to secure a place in Tupoc Xical’s crew despite heavy courting, were looking around for something. Either the rest of the blackcloaks – Tristan counted only a dozen, way too few for an outpost this large - or the same potential loot Yong had sniffed out. They earned unfriendly looks from the watchmen standing guard when they tried to casually approach the storehouses, almost making the thief smile. They might have been rats of a finer coat than he, but to the Watch they were rats still. Counting that situation as in hand, he moved out through the smoke.

In passing he found Tupoc Xical and his little band standing unusually close to a pyre, hiding one of them from sight with their bodies. The Asphodel noble with the acne, Acanthe something or other. Tristan watched them carefully, trying to make out what they were doing, but did not dare linger when he was seen. The Aztlan had shaken him down for painkillers on the boat, having recognized the box Tristan had stolen from Alvareno’s Dosages. The implied threat of having it revealed that he was going around carrying a poisoner’s kit had been enough for Tristan to pay up, but the matter was not finished. People who twisted your arm for payment always came calling again.

That crew was too dangerous to tangle with for now, but who knew how the trials would go? Patience was the key to many a lock.

The thief edged around the fires, taking a longer look around as the rest of the people began spreading out in their impatience. The Watch’s foothold on the island was no great fortress, only a couple of long stone storehouses that must have served as both storage and dormitories. Old lamplights cast a dim glow all around, the dirty lanterns hanging off them burning cheap oil. There was a sloping watchtower past the storehouses that overlooked the bay, the muzzle of three cannons peeking out from its top, but aside from these there was little here but docks, pyres and a muddy beach.

The docks weren’t even much to talk about, just a stretch of half-rotten wood jutting out into the water. Only two ships the size of the Bluebell would have been able to dock at the same time and only one to unload. Sailors were now bringing out crates from the cog’s belly, moving them towards the storehouses, and it was plain there would not have been room for a second crew to do the same. Instinct nagging away at him, the thief drifted closer to have a look at the crates being moved - though not close enough to earn suspicion.

“We’ve seen that crate before,” Fortuna suddenly pointed out.

He knew exactly which one she meant. The same crate the poor girl who’d turned into a Saint had tossed him into when she came out swinging, spilling seeds everywhere. It’d only been roughly fixed, tarp nailed onto wood to prevent further spills, and so had a distinctive look. As far as he could tell most of the crates being taken out were from the same part of the hold, and that had him curious. The Watch was bringing out cheap seeds, the kind from plants not grown in Glare light and so carrying none of that light within them. None but darklings and the poor ate anything made of that unless they had a choice.

“It can’t be meant for the blackcloaks,” he muttered. “There’s no natural Glare on the island, only the lights they brought. They should be eating only proper food to stave off Gloam sickness, not this shit.”

“They took out those boxes full of trinkets too,” Fortuna noted.

And yet, as far as he could tell, none of the crates that’d held muskets, blackpowder or military rations. This place was not, he deduced, truly the seat of the Watch garrison on the island. Only an outpost used to herd those who took the yearly trials. That and one more thing. His thoughts were interrupted by another’s approach, and there was no mistaking whose: Sarai, clad in the grey dress and veils that hid her from head to toe, was unlike anyone else come out of the Bluebell. Tristan did not move away when she came to stand by his side, as their last trade had been profitable to both. He was not averse to continuing the relation.

“I believe you’re the only other to have come looking at the crates,” Sarai said. “Those smiling twins came close, but only looking for grave goods.”

The thief snorted.

“No point in that,” he told her. “Either the blackcloaks will let us help ourselves openly or now’s the worst time to be trying.”

If there was anything he and Yong decided they absolutely needed, he’d wait until there were fewer people around to steal it.

“Practical,” Sarai approved. “But what has you looking at the crates?”

He hummed, not turning to meet the copper mask around her eyes. It would give him nothing.

“What has you doing the same?” Tristan retorted.

“We’ve been told that Captain Crestina’s only a few minutes out,” Sarai easily said. “I came to warn you.”

Half a lie. She was counting the crates too, the thief had noticed. But it’d been useful what she said, so he gave a little too.

“This isn’t where the real Watch garrison is posted,” he said. “Crates full of arms and rations are still in the cog. They must have a fort elsewhere on the coast the Bluebell will be sailing for.”

It was hard to tell, with the veils, but he thought she might have smiled.

“The sailors chattered about a town called Three Pines back on the ship,” the othered shared. “This can’t be it, so we are in agreement.”

He nodded. The two of them stood there, counting the crates, for a long stretch of silence. Only when it became clear the sailors would take nothing else out of the cog was Sarai stirred to speak again.

“You must have figured out what this place is really about,” she finally said.

Tristan weighed his options. If she was counting, then so had she. There was not much to lose by speaking his mind.

“It’s a trade post,” the thief said. “Or something like it. Crates of black seeds and trinkets? There’s darklings here on the island and the Watch trades with them.”

“Trinkets,” Sarai slowly said, as if trying out the word. “Yes, that is a good way to call them. Glass and mirrors and kettles.”

He glanced her way, but there was no reading the woman beneath the veils.

“The Malani love to use trinkets up north,” she said. “They bribe lowland kings with them to win rights to slaves and copper. They’ll trade the kings everything out of Malan, really, save for the one thing the blackcloaks aren’t trading here either.”

“Muskets,” Tristan quietly said.

“That is so,” Sarai agreed, the faintest touch of a strange accent touching her voice, then turned his way. “I counted fourteen crates. You?”

“The same.”

“Then we know there are hundreds. Likely more than a thousand.”

Tristan grimly nodded. Seeds didn’t keep forever and, if fourteen crates of them were to be sown soon, then there must be enough darklings on the island to sow them. That was troubling, even though Tristan was no sneering Redeemer to believe all darklings at best a step removed from beasts. He’d rubbed elbows with their kind in the worst of the city’s slums, near the old mines where many dwelled. Tristan had found them a strange folk, but not so different from other men. Yet here the Watch was taking great care to keep muskets out of their hands and that was a telling thing.

“Has to be cults,” the thief said. “The old stories say that the island’s called the Dominion of Lost Things because the Watch throws away all sorts of old evils on these shores to be lost forever.”

“Cults would be a greater concern than simple lemures,” Sarai replied. “They’ll go out of their way to hunt us.”

Darklings who worshipped the bloody-handed gods of the Old Night were rightly feared by all civilized peoples of Vesper, as their cults sought a great many things but blood was always one of them.

There were three crates of miner’s rations, dried meat and sourdough bread with nuts and berries, all neatly wrapped in packs. Besides them were crates of cheap waterskins, bedrolls, lanterns and fire-starters. All were invited to help themselves, courtesy of the Watch, though many refrained as they had better equipment already. Tristan did not, but because others did he felt comfortable going straight to the three sprawling piles besides the crates with no fear of being left without supplies. There the watchmen had dumped the equipment of the deceased, separating them into three broad categories: weapons, clothes and the rest.

Lieutenant Sihle left them to it after a last reminder they were to be gone by the end of the hour.

A semblance of order formed around the crates, begun by Angharad Tredegar lining up behind a surprised Vanesa. Those that would have elbowed the old woman aside without a second thought did not dare to pick a fight with the Pereduri, ensuring temporary civility as others lined up, but Tristan spared the affair no more than a glance. His fellow rats were coming for the grave goods and there would be no courtesy to be had there. Ju and Lan were already sniffing around the weapons, Ocotlan the legbreaker elbowing one of the twins aside to grab a long-hafted axe no one else would have been able to use anyhow.

Tristan grabbed a leather tricorn in the Malani style out of the clothes pile and set it on his head before joining the fray, just as Brun and the married pair – Aines and Felis – began looking too. Most of it was useless to him, swords he did not know how to use or hunting spears, but he grabbed a hunting knife to serve should his own blade break. The dozen muskets lined up were useless to him as well, but the pistols warranted a second look. The thief had little training with the weapons, for Abuela considered them loud and imprecise, but he knew basics. And from close enough a pistol was hard to miss with.

Best to have it and not need it than the other way around, he decided.

He grabbed a wooden powder flask from the pile and began rifling through the pile of pistols, stilling when he came across a familiar sight. As far as arms went it straddled the line between decorative and practical, engraved with wolves chasing each other’s tails while a tassel hung off the bottom bearing an incrusted red gem. The cold metal of the barrel, though, was functional and without frills. Tristan’s mother had owned a pistol much like this, once, though her own Raseni relic had preferred foxes to wolves. Breaking out of his stupor, he - Ju’s fingers closed around the pistol and she shot him a sly blue grin.

“Too slow, rat,” she chided, and flicked a finger against the gem.

It rang prettily.

“Not too pure a ruby, but still worth a tidy sum,” Ju decided.

She had no idea what the relic was really worth, then. Tristan could have told her he’d seen it first, but the claim would have meant nothing to either of them so he didn’t bother.

“Give it here,” he said instead.

The Meng girl frowned, reading his face and then taking half a step back.

“Help yourself to another,” Ju said. “Plenty left.”

Tristan’s hand slid towards the blackjack at his side, not quite subtly enough for her to fail noticing it.

“Last warning,” the thief said.

From the corner of his eye he saw they’d drawn some attention, so it was too late for either of them to back out. Whoever did would be marked as easy meat for anyone that felt like throwing their weight around. Ju flicked a glance behind him, seeing something that strengthened her resolve, and sneered.

“You wouldn’t dar-”

He aimed the blow for the side of her mouth, hard enough it’d hurt but not knock teeth out. Ju yelped in pain as she stumbled onto the ground, cradling her cheek, and Tristan pivoted out of the way. He moved out of the path of the swing he’d expected, seeing his attacker’s face: Lan had grabbed a musket and tried to smash it into his back like a mace, but she was no trained scrapper and it’d gone well wide. The thief took a quick step forward, resting the side of the blackjack’s leather strap against her neck before she could recover. Lan went still.

“From here on out I go for crippling blows,” Tristan evenly said. “Ju, give me the pistol.”

The spectacle drew scavengers. Broken-nosed Ocotlan, interest caught by the violence, approached with an expectant air. He was looking at the relic pistol as well, likely wondering what was worth a scrap there and whether he should try his hand at taking it. Tristan schooled his face not to reveal he’d seen Yong silently moved behind the big man, a hand on the hilt of his sword. Brun stepped close as well, eyes watching them all closely with that perennial calm smile. That one worried him more than the big Aztlan, if only because he was much harder to read.

“They won’t let you get away with it,” Lan said, but her voice was shaking.

Tristan’s jaw clenched. He’d already given as many warnings as he cared to: offer too many of those and people stopped taking you seriously. His arm tensed as he drew back for another blow, but the sisters gave first. Ju threw the pistol at his ankles, just strong enough for it to sting.

“There,” she spat. “Choke on it.”

He gave Lan a warning look and the other sister took a step back, grimacing, as he bent to pick up the relic. His eyes were already moving on to Ocotlan, who looked like he’d come to a decision. That nasty grin heralded nothing good but the big man was too late. Angharad Tredegar, wearing that coat ever in need of mending, strode boldly onto the scene and Tristan almost smiled because it’d been about time. Now that the scavengers had clawed at each other, their benevolent saviour would naturally come to restore order.

“What is going on here?” the dark-skinned noble demanded.

And there went Ocotlan’s smile. He would be under orders by Tupoc to avoid tangling with the mirror-dancer, Tristan figured. A practical sort of bastard, Tupoc Xical. Unfortunately not the kind of man who could be counted on to get himself killed on his own.

“An argument over goods,” Tristan said. “It has ended.”

Tredegar glanced at the blackjack still in his hand with surprise and some distaste. Ju had, of course, elected to remain on the ground and was now cradling her cheek like he’d struck her twice as hard as he actually had. Betting on the Pereduri getting the relic back for her, was she? Unfortunately for her, Tristan knew exactly how to deal with the likes of Angharad Tredegar. Having given his answer, he turned and walked away. Not in another direction, for that would have smacked of retreat, but instead past the noblewoman. She was half expecting a confrontation, it was writ in her stance, but the thief instead said nothing and continued past her before she could recover from the surprise and try to interrogate him again.

Even if the twins went whining to her now, what would Tredegar do – shake him down for the pistol in front of everyone? That wasn’t the kind of person she thought she was. She’d stepped in to save someone, not serve as legbreaker for a pair of sisters who were more than a little bit suspicious. The Pereduri wouldn’t like it, but the matter was good as finished. The thief was aware he’d soured the first impression he had made on a dangerous woman and crossed another two, but he was still smiling as he moved towards the back of the line for the rations. Yong came to stand behind him to wait, as if by coincidence.

“So what was worth the mess?” the soldier asked, voice slightly slurred.

Drinking again. It hadn’t taken long. Tristan ripped the string keeping the tassel tied to the bottom of the relic, shoving it into his pocket after. Angling the pistol so that only he and Yong would see, he then pressed his thumb against one of the wolves. There was a slight click and panel popped open, revealing a small stone no larger than thumbnail. It gave a soft, pale glow that the thief allowed to be glimpsed for only a heartbeat before sliding the wolf panel closed again.

“Rhadamanthine quartz,” Yong whispered, startlement sobering him up in an instant.

Found only within the city-state of Rasen’s famous quarries, the precious stone was worth a fortune. Rhadamanthine quartz held the Glare as few other materials did, almost day to day: a year soaking in the light meant bout a year holding it. The piece in the relic pistol Mother had owned had gone inert, lessening its value – once it lost the first light for good, the stone was said to begin holding it less and less – but it had still been pawned for enough the two of them to live on it for years.

“No Gloam disease for us,” Tristan said, not hiding his satisfaction. “Even if the lights go out.”

Keeping it against their skin for a few hours a day would keep the sickness from coming upon them until the stone died. Raseni families considered the relics to be heirlooms, passing down from parents to children and treasuring them greatly. The rarity of their sale only made them more precious.

“Worth the enemies,” Yong agreed.

There was no more excitement as the trial-takers claimed their supplies, the mood somber now that Tristan’s actions had laid bare an ugly truth: survival was more important to everyone here than civility. That did not mean all were eager to go off on their own, though. If anything the corpses still burning on the pyres were a stark warning as to the risks of that approach. When a handful came together in conversation away from the rest, Tristan immediately saw the writing on the wall. Who they were spoke loud as to what would follow: Ferranda Villazur and Augusto Cerdan for the infanzones, Tupoc Xical for his own band and grizzled Inyoni for the two pairs of youngsters with her. Every group with clout had a voice there, to an evident purpose.

They all wanted to stick together for the early part of the Trial of Lines.

That it would happen was good as a foregone conclusion. Everyone wanted numbers until they were certain there was no Red Eye ambush waiting along the road or large roving packs of lemures. Once everyone was further in people would begin turning on each other again, but for now all would prefer safety over seeking an edge. Tristan dismissed the talks from his mind, seeking instead the company of the other ally he’d struck a bargain with. Both of Isabel Ruesta’s handmaidens had changed out of their dresses into more practical trousers and jackets for the walk ahead, Beatris’ were visibly shoddier than Briceida’s.

Tristan figured that, unlike the drapier’s daughter, his fellow rat had not had the coin to put on getting clothes she might never wear again tailored. She was also the one checking on the bags one last time before departure, Briceida instead attending to their mistress, but the thief was glad of that much. It was easier to approach her than if she were close to the infanzona, who Tredegar and the younger Cerdan were circling like bees would a flower. And largely for the same reasons, as far as Tristan could tell. He made no effort to hide his approach, and though he stopped well short of being in reaching distance of the bags Beatris still turned to glance at him. Brushing back dark hair, she scowled.

“That show tarred your reputation good,” Beatris informed him. “If not for your medicine cabinet, they might have thought twice about bringing you along.”

“But they haven’t changed their minds,” Tristan pressed.

She shook her head. Good. That had been his worry, that a miffed Tredegar would try to oust him. His bet had been that the Cerdans would oppose her out of pure dislike and it was good to see it had paid off.

“I have work,” Beatris told him. “I must get back to it.”

He pushed down a frown. She had never asked if he’d gotten Recardo killed and he’d not offered up the truth of it, but since that day she had kept a distance. She’d not turned on him, remaining friendly, but she knew he was dangerous now. Capable of killing and keeping it quiet. And so Beatris, sensibly enough, seemed to have decided he was someone best kept at arm’s length. Tristan would have preferred to keep on better terms, but if their relations were take a cooler tone he would adapt. Casting a quick look around to ensure no one was watching, he reached in his pocket for the jewel-incrusted tassel and tossed it at her.

Beatris fumbled the catch but picked it up from the floor quickly enough, surprise painted on her face. She turned a questioning look on him.

“I have no use for it where I’m headed,” Tristan shrugged.

Whether that be the grave or the Watch, a small ruby would do him no good. For her, however, it might just represent a turning point in her life. With the coin pawning this would earn her, it was no longer certain she must stay in the service of House Ruesta for the rest of her life. Beatris bit her lip before nodding, putting away the gem before anyone could see her taking it.

“This is a trade,” the thief reminded her. “I scratch your back...”

The dark-haired woman shook her head.

“I know how this goes,” she replied. “I’ll keep an ear out for anything of interest to you.”

The grey-eyed man dipped his head in thanks, troubling her no further. She still had work to do and it wasn’t like the nobles would deign to carry their own supplies. It took another quarter hour for the informal council to finish, but his prediction proved accurate. A pact was struck and protection offered for those who would obey some simple rules. All were to pitch in for the group’s protection as they marched, a roster would be made for keeping watch when camp was made and so long as one joined the company there would be no violence against each other. Only a fool would have refused the terms, so no one did.

They hurried after that, Captain Crestina’s demand they be gone by the hour’s turn not something anyone cared to test. Under the stares of the blackcloaks the thirty-one of them settled into a thick marching column, bristling with lamps, and a lumbering march forward began.

Behind them the lanterns of the Watch grew distant, darkness hemming them in from all sides, and the Trial of Lines began.