Epilogue

Epilogue

He’d never liked the Rookery.

It was a purely personal dislike, Captain Osian Tredegar would admit if pressed. He had spent half a year down in the Lanes after enlisting, becoming fit for deployment, and though that had been a foul time it was also long enough ago he hardly remembered. His antipathy nowadays came from the fact that since he’d been inducted into the Umuthi Society he had only ever returned to the Rookery for a fresh squabble over funds with Conclave bureaucrats.

The worst part was, of course, that these squabbles were largely meaningless. The Conclave’s army of clerks and bookkeepers could not actually make any decision, only pass recommendations to the Conclave itself. Which would then proceed to make no decision at all, because it did not directly allocate funding to the works of the Clockwork Cathedral whose continued funding Osian was sent to argue for. The Conclave, in practice, did not actually decide much of anything.

At the founding of the Watch the chamber had been small enough to be functional but over the years the assembly had simply become so large it was not practical for it to decide on anything but the broadest strokes of policy. Execution of those policies was then passed on to committees who ended up wielding the power the Conclave had invested in them with... varying degrees of oversight.

There was some truth to the complaints from the captain-generals that some Garrison regions were essentially rival free companies funded by Conclave coin.

But fair or not it was committees that ran the Watch, and it was such a committee that had ordered Osian Tredegar to sit in a cold damp hall and wait for his name to be called. There had been ten of them out here when he’d arrived, but one by one the other rooks had gone into the small room tucked away in a forgotten corner of the Old Chantry.

And one by one they had left, until there remained only him and the monster.

She looked like a frail old woman but Osian knew better. Fenhua had sent him word last night, warned him that he was looking not as some retired cloak but fucking Nerei Name-Eater. The worst part was that he would never have guessed if he’d not been warned. Even now he almost doubted himself, looking at how she seemed to ache from the wet cold and shiver in her shawl.

There were some who said that creature was older than the Republics, that she’d fought in the last assault on Pandemonium. Nerei glanced at him, as if sniffing out his thoughts, and offered a warm toothless smile. Ancestors, but she looked like someone’s favorite grandmother.

“I’m sure it will be soon, dear,” the Name-Eater assured him in a faint Sacromonte accent. “There is no need to be so tense, I am certain your niece will be fine."

Osian stiffened, for he had never spoken a word to Nerei and he’d certainly never said anything about Angie around that monster. His hand habitually drifted to where his pistol would be, had he not been ordered to leave it behind at the Old Chantry’s gates.

“Oh, no need for that,” Nerei chided him. “Such a lovely girl, your Angharad. I’m sure she will be a darling friend to my Tristan. And a mirror-dancer, how precious! They rarely leave Peredur nowadays.”

“I am not without friends,” Osian coldly replied.

His work on the Isibankwa had put him firmly on the good side of his superiors. They had already done him favors, but he should be able to squeeze out a few more.

“Or debts, of late,” Nerei said, tapping her wrinkled chin. “That was most amusing to hear. To think it took the Wednesday Council itself to curb your enthusiasm!”

Osian grit his teeth. The ruling council of the Umuthi Society had not officially spoken with him at all, Professor Akia had sat him down in private so there would be no mark on his record, but the Name-Eater was a Mask and that breed always made a point of rubbing your secrets in your face when they could. Not that he would let himself-

The door opened, the same middle-aged watchman as always leaning through.

“Captain Osian, Officer Nerei,” he called out. “The committee will see you now.”

Osian bit down on his words, trying to smooth the anger off his face.

“Come, dear,” Nerei warmly said. “Let us find out what it is the Obscure Committee has to say.”

Breathing out, Osian Tredegar forced himself to calm down. The monster had just been toying with him the way a cat would with a mouse. She had no true interest in Angharad, he told himself as he followed behind the thing wearing the form of a little old woman. He must keep his mind on the Obscure Committee waiting ahead. Not that it was truly called that, at least on paper.

Its formal name on the rolls was ‘Lesser Committee for the Trebian Northwest’, the kind of name that got made fun of at parties when officers mocked Conclave bureaucracy over cups of wine. It was an oft forgotten detail, however, that the ruins of Scholomance lay in the northwest of the Trebian Sea. Though a ‘lesser’ committee would naturally not have authority over the greater committee overseeing the same region, its existence as an independent entity meant it was not subject to that greater committee’s authority either.

In practice, that meant Scholomance and all matters connected to it had been made the private fiefdom of the four people Osian found waiting inside the small, cramped room. That alone would have been worth wariness but altogether more dangerous was that this authority had apparently been granted to them by a sealed vote of the Conclave, meaning the matter was kept secret.

The Obscure Committee was called that because more than nine tenths of the Watch would have absolutely no idea it existed even though it now held great power and influence.

There were four high desks inside the room, covered with stacks of paper and inkwells, and the four members of the committee sat behind them. The watchman from earlier closed the door, leaning back against it, and Nerei trudged forward to stand before the desks. Osian followed, moving to her right but putting enough space between them he would have been able to draw and fire his pistol in time.

If he still had it.

The gesture did not escape the attention of the leftmost sitter, who raised an eyebrow at him. Brigadier Anju Laghari was a middle-aged woman of plain looks, her wavy brown hair going down to her neck. She was built like a barn door, broad-shouldered and muscled enough to wrestle a bull, and by the looks of the scar around her neck someone had once tried to hang her. Most importantly Anju Laghari was an Academian, a Stripe.

The Academy was the largest of the seven covenants, about as large as all the others put together, so its claiming one of the committee seats had never been in doubt. There was another edge to that blade, however: competition within Academy ranks for the appointment would have been brutal. That meant Brigadier Laghari was as much a political creature as a military one, for all that she looked like she should be leading some charge in the Bleaklands instead of sitting at a table.

And by the disgusted look she sent the monster at Osian’s side, she was no fonder of the creature than he.Updated from novelb(i)n.c(o)m

“Officer Nerei,” Brigadier Laghari said, her voice sounding like she gargled rocks, “this is revolting. You look like someone’s grandmother.”

Nerei smiled.

“Where lies the trouble, dear?”

The brigadier shivered.

“I saw you eat a man’s entrails with my own eyes, back in seventy-three,” Laghari flatly replied. “Head right in the belly, like a pig with a trough. Put on a shape that I won’t want to shoot.”

The old creature cocked her head to the side, noticeably not moving to obey. Osian had no idea if by right she should, and neither would most in the room: ‘officer’ was the placeholder rank that the Krypteia used when they were not assigned to a duty and thus not forced to reveal their actual rank to the watchmen around them. Anju Laghari might be a sitter on the Obscure Committee, but if Nerei was of higher rank she would not actually need to obey her.

Only one person in the room was likely to know, and all eyes went to him.

At the rightmost desk sat Lord Asher of the Krypteia. He looked like a handsome man in his fifties, his short salt and pepper beard lending him a distinguished air. His clothes were perfectly tailored, their buttons gold, and if not for the polished cane in his hand Osian would have never guessed he had a limp. Lord Asher also wore spectacles, which he never took off because no matter how well a devil took care of the shell they wore the eyes tended to look a little off after a century.

Osian made sure not to look at the rings on his hand or the charming smile on his face. There was no telling if the rumors that Lord Asher was a founding member of the Krypteia were true, but there were records of the man going back centuries and when devils got that old they grew warped. The young ones, fresh out of the forges in Pandemonium, they just wanted tainted aether of any kind. The old ones who annealed grew discerning and addicted to particularities, specific tastes.

First love, fear of water, paternal pride – any of the endless corners of mankind’s soul. No one knew what Lord Asher was addicted to, but most figured it was secrets. He had certainly been in the Krypteia long enough to get his hands on a trove fit to topple an empire. As for the devil’s own rank, well, who knew? The Masks never gave that kind of information forced, and even then sometimes lied.

“Let us be courteous, Nerei,” Lord Asher warmly smiled. “Change for the brigadier.”

The old woman laughed, and after a heartbeat she fluttered. There was no other word for it, as if she had for an instant become made of a hundred thousand slices of paper moving with the wind. When the blur passed the old Sacromontan woman was instead a small Someshwari boy clutching at his too-large clothes, sending a gap-toothed grin up at the Stripe. He could not have been older than five.

Anju Laghari went red with rage, fumbling for a pistol under her desk.

“Change right now,” she hissed.

“D’you want to shoot me now, Brigadier?” Nerei asked.

The cutesy tone, just like a little boy’s, made Osian’s skin crawl. It was like looking at a crocodile wearing a person’s face.

“Asher,” the brigadier snarled, turning to the devil, “this is a threat. She can’t just wear my grandson’s face and-”

“Perhaps,” Lord Asher politely smiled, “next time you will remember to be more careful with your phrasing, Anju. Always a lesson worth learning, no matter one’s age.”

The brigadier was livid and likely to press the matter, Osian judged, but it would not get to that. The sitter next to her cleared her throat. The sound was irritated.

“This is not the Academy, Laghari,” Captain Isoke Falade said. “Your whims are not orders, and we have wasted enough time indulging your sensibilities.”

The committee seat the Guildhouse had got its hands on had been filled by an Akelarre rather than a Skiritai, which was no surprise. The Militants had well-earned their reputation for general awfulness at Watch politics, in part because of the high attrition rate in even in their most senior officer ranks. The Navigators, on the other hand, were arguably the oldest of the seven covenants and they were everywhere.

They always had favors to call on, and they were more than willing to cover for the Skiritai if they got to speak for both of the Guildhouse’s guilds in exchange.

Their representative on the committee was Captain Isoke Falade, a seemingly frail old woman in her seventies wearing humble grey robes. Her head was nearly shaved and she looked half-blind, pale cataracts in both her eyes, but she was always smiling and cocking her head to the side as if she could hear things no one else did. Given that she was rumored to be one of the most skilled signifers alive, that was entirely possible.

Despite the seemingly low rank, Isoke Falade had in her time served as Captain-General to the infamous Dawnchasers and survived a decade attached to the court of the High Queen. Long before Rhiannon’s time, so Osian’s sister never knew her, but no one survived at the feet of the Queen Perpetual without learning how to get their hands dirty. A good thing, that. Angharad was headed for the Skiritai Guild, so Captain Falade would be on his side for the coming review.

“Which brings us to your niece, Captain Osian,” Lord Asher said. “She makes an interesting case.”

Osian straightened his back. Interesting was never a word pleasant to hear coming from a Mask’s mouth.

“I have not read the full reports,” he carefully said, “but what I got my hands on seems a glowing recommendation.”

“If you try to rob my colleagues out of an eighteen-year-oldmirror-dancer, Asher, there is going be a veritable shitshow to deal with,” Captain Falade warned him. “After that report from the cabal in Cantica there was already a fit about the Stripes getting the Xical boy, we won’t get cheated twice on a single draw.”

Brigadier Laghari looked faintly smug.

“I do not doubt her value,” Lord Asher dismissed, “but I do find it concerning that her contract appears to be with a second-order entity. Peredur is full of things best left buried.”

Osian’s jaw clenched. He knew not the nature of Angie’s contract, but the whole thing reeked of Gwydion. Rhiannon had been much too taken with the triumph of winning the darling of the season to ever dig into her husband’s past, but Osian had always found him suspect. A young man from a fallen house that was barely peers suddenly becoming the flower of Pereduri society when he made his debut? No, Gwydion had been wildly suspicious even before Rhiannon’s enemies began having a rash of mysterious accidents all involving spirits.

If the man’s meddling hurt his daughter from beyond the grave, Osian was going to get his hands on the body just to feed it to stray dogs. Thankfully, he had anticipated that the Krypteia would dig and stacked the game well in advance.

“There has been no conclusive proof it’s a genuine god of the Old Night she contracted with,” Professor Fenhua mildly said. “More likely it is some ancient oracular river-god that was missed during the High Queen’s purges.”

It took effort for Osian not to do the intellectual equivalent of pretending he could not see something right in front of him when the purges were mentioned, the trained reflex still there after all those years. It was not acknowledged that such purges had ever happened, in Malan. Or that it might be in anyway unusual that the High Queen had ruled for over five centuries.

Lord Asher shrugged.

“Absence of proof is not proof of absence,” he said. “All worries could be put to rest by allowing the Krypteia to-”

“No,” Osian burst out.

All eyes went on him. He licked his lips, ignoring Nerei beaming up his way with that childish grin.

“I mean,” he said more calmly, “that as Angharad Tredegar’s personal sponsor, I do not consent to interrogation by the Krypteia.”

As if he would let the Masks anywhere near her. Knives were the least of what their interrogators had in store.

“That settles the matter, as far as I am concerned,” Captain Falade mildly said. “Professor Fenhua?”

“It is my professional opinion that Angharad Tredegar’s reported contact with the Red Eye is highly unlikely to have resulted in contamination even if she is truly contracted with a second-order entity,” the willowy beauty replied. “I have no objections to her candidature.”

With a senior signifier and Peiling professor coming down on his niece’s side, there was no one left in the room with the professional standing to argue further. Lord Asher’s brow furrowed, but the devil said nothing more.

“I have concerns as well,” Brigadier Laghari announced, drumming her fingers against the desk. “Not about the girl’s contract, but of the potential trouble that Captain Tredegar brought to our door on her behalf.”

The Pereduri did not grimace. He had been forewarned this would likely be brought up during the review.

“I am willing to answer any question, Brigadier,” he evenly replied.

The older Someshwari hummed.

“You’re a senior officer but not all that highly ranked in the Umuthi Society,” she said. “Yet you have disbursed a sum that is around-”

She glanced down at a paper, then let out low whistle.

“Well, around the budget for our entire Dominion operation for a year,” Laghari said. “Where is the coin coming from, Tredegar?”

“That seems an unnecessary intrusion,” Professor Fenhua said. “Surely there is-”

“Sustained,” Lord Asher cut in.

Captain Falade said nothing, leaving Osian to sigh.

“As some of you may know,” he said, “the Clockwork Cathedral allows its members to register inventions with them, giving all rights over the Watch in exchange for a flat portion of revenues in perpetuity.”

One in a hundredth, which could mean either a pittance or a king’s ransom depending on what was registered.

“What did you invent?” Laghari asked, sounding interested.

To say Osian had ‘invented’ the rifle would be untrue, for there were already some in the Republics and allegedly in the northern Someshwar, but he had invented the Isibankwa-pattern rifle. Which was accurate nearly a third further than the Tianxi attempts and could be made at half the price. Most importantly, the casting process required only a few tool changes from the current Watch musket workshops. That would save the order millions over the next decades, something he would not gain coin from but had earned him many an indulgence from the Wenedsday Council. Unfortunately, his rifles were not yet being made on any large scale.

The first workshop had only just been refitted last month.

“A weapon, but it is only registered and not yet in service,” Osian admitted. “I borrowed from the Watch on future revenues.”

“Huh,” Captain Falade said, sounding amused. “How far ahead?”

No one came to his defense this time, not even Fenhua. They looked as curious as the rest.

“By the Cathedral’s estimates, I have borrowed the next eighty-three years of revenue,” Osian said, coughing into his fist embarrassedly.

All four of them were veterans, so the only indication of surprise was Fenhua’s lips slightly twitching.

“Well,” Brigadier Laghari grunted, “if you were splashing that much gold around, it explains the mess in Ixta. I won’t weep over the cutters cutting each other, but I was given to understand you nearly caused a major diplomatic incident in Sacromonte.”

Osian’s jaw set mulishly.

“I only paid for retaliation on whoever was targeting my niece,” he said. “I did not give instructions to-”

“A mansion belonging to a house of the Six was torched, Tredegar,” Laghari flatly interrupted. “The coin was tracked back to one of our payhouses in the city and House Salavera lodged a formal complaint with the Conclave.”

If the infanzones wanted to play the hirelings, Osian disdainfully thought, they should not complain of being treated as such. Besides, their hands were hardly clean: after the incident, in a fit of spite the Salavera had ordered all their contacts in the Guardia to join in the hunt on Angharad. It was half the reason Osian had done more than pretend to obey when Professor Akia had told him to pull the contract and steer his niece towards Scholomance instead.

“I was not aware that we now answered to Sacromonte yiwu trash,” Professor Fenhua sneered.

“Maybe not in your libraries, but some of us live in the real Vesper,” Brigadier Laghari flatly replied. “We import more than half the food for our Trebian holdings through Sacromonte, Fenhua. We don’t poke at the Six without a good reason.”

“Our order has a long history of taking in lost souls with nowhere else to go,” Lord Asher smiled, never quite showing his teeth. “I do not believe you want this to change, Anju, so what is it that you are proposing?”

“That we don’t rub their face in the girl joining the black any more than we need to,” Brigadier Laghari said. “Let the offence die down some by sending her cabal somewhere quiet and out of sight for its first test. We can take the temperature before their second year, see if the storm has passed.”

“There is some sense in that,” Captain Falade conceded, pawing at a stack of papers and ripping out a sheet with a noise of satisfaction. “And here: the Asphodel Rectorate requested for us to find their latest cult, it seems a fitting assignment.”

Osian’s brows raised in alarm at the suggestion. Rooting out a hollow cult was supposed to be a quiet assignment? Professor Fenhua noticed his expression and let out a snort.

“Bored nobles playing cultist, not a true cult,” Fenhua assured him. “Last time we caught them they were dealing with some fertility god for party favors. There’s not much trouble to be found in Asphodel. Captain Osian.”

“An acceptable compromise,” Lord Asher mused. “Under this constraint, I vote to maintain Angharad Tredegar’s candidature for Scholomance.”

The other three agreed, one after the other and like that it was done. It would be all right, Osian told himself. He had been to the Rectorate once or twice, if barely beyond the port, and it was a faded power. A backwater past its prime, more concerned by its petty squabbles with other third-raters than its own diminished standing. As quiet as it got in Trebian Sea.

How much trouble could one really get in somewhere like the Asphodel Rectorate?