Chapter 49

Chapter 49

It wasn’t a Meadow, as the Guild would never allow one to be built outside land they controlled, but Black House did have a lovely roof garden centered around a pond fed by a false river. Sitting by it felt like drinking half a swallow of lukewarm water instead of quenching your thirst, but it still soothed Maryam’s mind to listen to the flow while Lieutenant Mitra finished his examination.

The wild-haired signifier let out a small noise of interest, then withdrew his nav from her.

“I have rarely seen such a textbook case,” Lieutenant Mitra said.

Maryam breathed out in relief.

“You have seen this before?” she asked.

“Only twice in person, but I’ve studied the theory in depth,” the Someshwari said. “You smashed your head against an aether seal.”

Her brow rose and she crossed her legs under her, bare feet tickled by the well-kept grass.

“That,” she began then hesitated, swallowing a flinch.

The memory of the two words she had read in the Graveyard Book still felt like a gong being struck next to her ear. Even when she thought her way around them she still felt the... vibration in the air, so to speak.

“The words,” Maryam settled on. “They were layered atop something I could not make out. They are the seal in question?”

“Correct,” Lieutenant Mitra said.

He sat haphazardly, legs extended and kept sitting only by leaning on his palms put against the ground.

“The good news is that you suffered aetheric backlash only because you kept trying to peer past it,” he continued. “A few weeks of not doing that will let the resonance fade. You are to avoid any and all contact with the seal until then.”

“And it will repair the damage?” she asked.

He laughed.

“A body does not heal merely grow over its wounds,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “Think of the backlash as small doses of poison swallowed with every attempt to peer through the seal. Over time your body will pass the toxins, certainly, but it does not undo the reality of having drunk arsenic.”

“How bad?” Maryam quietly asked.

“Permanently? Negligible enough it could not be measured. Temporarily? Fragility for a few weeks, perhaps months. The most noticeable part will be the sensitivity of your logos, like skin with a rash.”

“But I can still signifiy,” she said.

“Everything is permitted,” Lieutenant Mitra noted. “All limitations are arbitrarily drawn lines in the sand, the futile attempt of trembling children to make sense of entropy’s inevitable embrace.”

She cocked an eyebrow. A moment of silence passed.

“Yes,” he sighed. “You can still signify. Be careful with your logos and try not to place your soul in too much disarray.”

His gaze was knowing when he spoke that last part. He had suspicions, then. It made sense, considering Alejandra had apparently told the rest of the Fourth that Maryam ate Gloam creatures. A detail that was entirely untrue only when it came to the plural.

“I will keep your advice in mind,” she blandly replied.

The man laughed.

“I’m sure,” Lieutenant Mitra dismissed. “Still, I will confess to some surprise at finding an aether seal in a place like Asphodel. It does explain that empty layer you encountered, at least.”

“What is an aether seal, sir?” she asked. “None of my teachers ever mentioned them.”

“Likely because they are more than passing rare,” he noted, “on top of being ruinously expensive to make and usually not all that effective against the entities most warranting their use.”

He pushed forward, hair moving with him, and snatched a small rock from the grass before setting it down between them.

“Consider a god,” he said. “An aether intellect that fed on emanations sufficiently to form a coherent mind and ethos. A creature that simultaneously has boundaries, a set consciousness, and none – it will keep growing and self-redefining until it no longer can. How does one destroy such an entity?”

“Conceptual damage,” she replied. “Offering charity to a god of greed, earth to a god of the sea.”

He nodded.

“Now consider a god whose ethos is too esoteric to be turned into a weapon,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “The example most frequently used is that of Fenquzhu, the Tianxi god of philosophical mereology – that is, the study of the connection between part and whole.”

Maryam bit the inside of her cheek, considering conceptual poison for that. Difficult without knowing more of mereology, which she supposed only fed into Mitra’s point. She shrugged her surrender.

“Several kings of Old Cathay attempted to destroy it, as its embodied philosophy contradicted the teachings of the fledgling Cathayan Orthodoxy, but they found that mereology was a sufficiently well-crafted system that it could incorporate opposing arguments into itself,” Mitra told her. “Imprisoning the god changed nothing, either, as the ideas themselves could not be caged so prayer kept reaching it.”

“So what did they do?” Maryam asked.

“They killed the god repeatedly over the next centuries and drove the scholars underground through persecution, resulting in a hidden sect,” Mitra said. “A branch of it still exists in the modern Republics, I hear, though it has little to do with the original philosophical society.”

“That isn’t a solution,” Maryam frowned, “it is painting over the problem.”

“Indeed, though the seed of a better answer lies inside those old royal decrees,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “The modern god Fenguzhu, while bearing the same name as that ancient deity, is observably quite different. It was made so by its worship and teachings being constrained to a hidden sect for centuries instead of being openly debated by scholars, resulting in a rather more mystical interpretation of a once purely philosophical concept.”

“The aether taint it fed on was different, so it became different,” Maryam summed up.

“It is so,” Mitra agreed. “It thus follows that a god can be leveraged through prayer, through the aether it feeds on. An aether seal is the brutal, straightforward application of that logic.”

And he had given her enough pieces to put it together.

“The seal is a block on the god’s name,” she said. “To keep prayer from reaching it, to starve out a deity whose concept is too difficult to poison until it fades away on its own. So the words I saw were...”

“The ‘name’ layered over the true name of the entity,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “By trying to reach beyond you effectively plunged your mind into a binding of intentionally poisoned aether until sickness ensued.”

Maryam let out a low whistle.

“That cannot be easy to accomplish,” she said. “Else the Watch would use it for all the rowdier deities, no?”

“As I told you, it has costs and limitations,” Mitra said. “The god in question need to be imprisoned for it to have any use, else it will simply give a new name to its worshippers and get around the seal, and to so thoroughly imprison a deity is never cheap or easy.”

“The brackstone shrine,” Maryam slowly said. “Shrines, most likely, and the empty layer with a sphere of salt at the heart of it.”

“The details fit, though coincidence is often a trickster twin to design,” he replied. “Another limitation is that an aether lock is a measurable, finite imprint on the aether achieved through use a particular machine developed by the Second Empire. If it that imprint is weaker than the entity it is meant to lock, that god will simply unmake it.”

“So it can’t be used on second-order entities,” Maryam said. “Because no existing machine is that powerful.”

“It is so,” Mitra nodded again.

That made aether locks a rather niche tool, she thought. It would only work on third-order entities and higher, but the number of such gods that would both warrant such an investment of time and resources and could feasibly be trapped into a prison in the first place had to be fairly small. It wasn’t enough to put the god in the hole and lock up its name, either, the jail had to be maintained until it had starved to death. That meant boots on the ground, kept there for decades or maybe even a century.

Most nations would think it simpler to simply kill the god and outlaw its worship as the kings of Old Cathay had, to limit the threat and live with it.

So then why did House Lissenos pour a fortune into an aether lock when they were fresh out of a civil war and young to the throne? With Watch help they would have had the know-how to make such a lock, but there must have been a reason for the fledgling dynasty to pour so many of its badly needed funds into such a grand undertaking. That the god whose cult had begun the Ataxia would be the one imprisoned seemed most likely, if hardly certain, but would even feeding a bloody civil war warrant such treatment?

Every land in the world had its gods of war, and they were to the last vicious carrion things. Yet they were not proscribed, for men that did not wage war were a rare thing indeed. Lieutenant Mitra stretched out, rising to his feet. Feeling their time coming to an end, Maryam bit her lip.

“If the locked god has begun to slip containment,” she said, “we could have a dangerous situation on our hands.”

“Or it could be a starved, diminished entity that has little left in common with that which first went into the prison,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “By all means you should report your theory, Maryam, but Vesper is no stranger to too-shallow graves. I would wait on word from Stheno’s Peak before deferring to fear.”

He was unusually serious as he talked so Maryam only nodded instead of arguing as she felt a flicker of urge to. Already she had a half-written report in her room that Wen was waiting on, she would make sure to finish it and impress on him the potential importance of the discovery before they headed back to the rector’s private archives.

That and the rest of the Thirteenth needed to be told. Song had been methodical about ensuring they shared their findings with each other every morning before parting ways, but when Maryam had begged off last night before the brigade banquet her captain had not insisted.

“We part ways here, I think,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “Captain Ren seems intent on speaking with you.”

Maryam glanced back, finding Song standing by the stairs to the roof. Not close enough to overhear their conversation, but enough to be noticeable. The small cloth bag in her hand made it plain what she had come here for, and that was overdue.

“Thank you for your help, Lieutenant Mitra,” Maryam said.

“I enjoy teaching,” the Someshwari smiled. “Until we next meet, Maryam Khaimov.”

She nodded back, watching as Song passed by him with a respectful salute on his way out. Soon enough her friend was lowering herself into the grass across from her. The Tianxi cleared her throat.

“As you will be headed back to the archives this afternoon while we meet with the Brazen Chariot, I thought to request your help now,” she said.

Maryam shrugged.

“Good a time as any,” she said. “And I’ve a few things to tell you anyhow.”

Song smiled gratefully, removing the wooden bowl from its bag. The curse had been firming up since she spent those days stuck inside the rector’s palace: a purge was not urgently needed, but it was headed in that direction. No wonder she looked tired, her sleep must have been a feast of nightmares. Maryam could sympathize. She’d had that horrid dream about being strangled and eaten alive every other night, since making shore on Asphodel.

If it got any worse, she would ask Wen to travel back to the Lordsport to sleep in the Akelarre chapterhouse there and find out if resting a proper Meadow changed anything. Rolling her shoulders, Maryam watched Song fill the bowl with water and focused.

Song had not, but she was more than willing to learn.

--

The Brazen Chariot reached out in the middle of the night, and the time they’d given was barely past noon on that same day.

They were being cautious, Song thought, so they would not be swept up in a Watch operation. That same caution was reassuring, in a way, for fear of the black meant they were unlikely to be walking into an ambush. She was still glad of Angharad’s company as they headed to the closed tavern in the northeastern ward they’d been given as a meeting place. Tristan was slowly turning into a better shot, but he was no fearsome battler.

Even limping, Angharad was more dangerous blade in hand than he was.

They arrived at the tavern ten minutes early and found their interlocutors had arrived even earlier. It took Song but a single step into the building to figure out why the criminals had picked it: theirs was a single long and narrow room with one door in front and one door at the back, dusty tables and chairs filling it up in clutter.

It would be trivially easy for the Brazen Chariot to flee to the street if it came to that, and once they reached the streets the Watch was sure to lose them. Song’s eyes moved from the surroundings to the waiting criminals, satisfied with the meeting place, and there came her first surprise of the afternoon.

Galenos the Brazen did not look like the head of a gang of criminals.

A small old man whose craggy face was strewn with laugh lines, with grey arched eyebrows and a matching professorial mustache, he looked like someone’s favorite grandfather or at least a toymaker of some sort. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the contract unfolding in golden letters above his head, in which the Crowned Charioteer granted him the power to siphon the heat out of anything he touched and impart it on any piece of bronze in his sight.

He had a lantern on the table, just to his left, and Song idly wondered how quickly the button on her Watch uniform would burn through cloth and flesh with all that heat crammed into it. Instant, she figured, or near enough. Yet that admittedly dangerous power was not worth the price it had cost the man, in her opinion: he could no longer feel anything by touch. Not heat or cold, not the wind on his face or even what he held in his hand.

“Come, rooks,” Galenos smiled at them. “Have water and bread from me.”

It was a single bowl and a plate with a small loaf of bread, which they shared – Song going first, as captain, then the others. Now that guest right was established, some of the tension in the shoulders of the two thugs flanking him loosened. The odds the Watch had come to fight were greatly lessened, for it would tar the reputation of the order in Asphodel to break such an old and respected rite. The three of them settled in the seats across the table from the criminals, Song in the center and Tristan to her left.

Galenos introduced his companions before they sat down on either side of him.

“Knuckles,” he said, nodding at the large man to his left, “and our lovely Red Maria.”

Lierganen in both name and looks, the latter, though that was not so rare in Tratheke. Though there was still a distinct Asphodelian strain with dark hair and blue or green eyes, the years and the press of people from Old Liergan and the rest of the Trebian islands had made the classic Lierganen looks just as common – except among the nobility, where such a thing would be considered vulgar.

“Captain Song Ren of the Thirteenth Brigade,” she replied, giving nothing more.

It still got a flinch from all three Asphodelians, and Red Maria made a sign warding off misfortune while muttering a prayer to the Circle. She ignored the steady look Tristan fixed her with. It was mere superstition, nothing to take heed of.

“A bold number to take,” Galenos said. “Not a fearful lot, you, though I would have guessed from your stepping around one of our warehouses and then sending word to ask for more of our attention.”

Song cleared her throat.

“It was not our intent to interfere with your business,” she said, “and the Watch has no particular interest in the affairs of the Brazen Chariot. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

Knuckles scoffed, the pile of muscle with his mangled eponymous knuckles seeming unconvinced.

“You forced us to burn a finely hidden warehouse.”

Song drummed her fingers against the table, inkling her head towards Tristan – who gave the other side a charming smile.

“You were already evacuating that warehouse, Master Knuckles,” he said. “Your guard admitted as much. And wise of you too, given what it stood in proximity of.”

Knuckles spat to side, the sound of wet on the floor almost resonant. Song hid her disgust; Angharad did not.

“I don’t like your tone, Sacromontan,” the large man said. “Who are you to tell me what’s wise?”

“Someone who knows things you do not,” Tristan cheerfully replied. “A familiar feeling, no doubt.”

Red Maria laughed, which had the man half-risen out of his chair with a snarl before Galenos put a hand on his arm.

“Peace, Knuckles,” he said. “I am sure Captain Ren intends to elaborate on this alleged wisdom.”

“Our business in Tratheke is the ferreting out of a cult,” Song told him. “In that pursuit, we followed an assassin through an ancient aether pathway – which led into the very teahouse connecting to your warehouse.”

Galenos turned pale brown eyes on her, calmly sipping at a cup of water.

“The city is full of talk about an assassin’s attempt on a particular man,” he carefully said.

“The very same,” Song said.

The implication that someone who had tried to kill the Lord Rector had then popped out next to their smuggling cache put the fear of the gods in them, as well it should: for a relatively small basileia like theirs to be involved in such matters might well mean being wiped out simply because the lictors felt like making a point.

“Fuck,” Red Maria bluntly said. “Since the red scarves haven’t been setting our houses on fire, I’m guessing you kept your mouth shut about that."

"While the Brazen Chariot was mentioned in our report to our superiors, so was our belief it was not involved in the plot save by unfortunate coincidence,” Song replied. “But my cabalist brought out a salient detail: you were already evacuating the warehouse when we found it.”

“Your guard mentioned this to be unusual,” Angharad added.

Her tone was a little flat, likely because the girl in question had frankly admitted that a lone individual finding a Brazen Chariot stash was usually likely to result in a sliced throat rather than a migration.

“And you want us to tell you why,” Galenos mused.

“I would prefer not to leave any question pending, so that our investigation might move on,” Song said, which was not quite a threat.

But it wasn’t not a threat, either.

“We’re not afraid of the Watch, Tianxi,” Knuckles sneered.

“You should be,” Angharad frankly told him.

The sheer sincerity in that retort threw off the big man, who scrambled for a reaction for a long moment before deciding on anger.

“Shut your mouth, cripple,” he sneered. “Else I will break that stick on your-”

Song cocked her head to the side, finding Galenos the Brazen’s eyes.

“Does Master Knuckles speak for all of you in this?”

Irritation flicked across the old man’s face, the grandfatherly air turning almost reptilian for that beat before it all came back into place.

“Knuckles will sit down and be silent for a span,” Galenos said.

He turned a look on the large man, who swallowed loudly and sat down in his chair. He looked away, like a pouting child. Song did not think it a coincidence that both he and Red Maria wore bronze necklaces.

“We’re always happy to lend a hand to the Watch, of course,” Galenos the Brazen said. “But talk is dangerous, Captain Ren. Especially with folks in fine black cloaks.”

Red Maria leaned forward.

“And the Chariot doesn’t take on risks for free.”

“One would think your lives a sufficient prize,” Angharad contemptuously said.

Galenos found her eyes.

“Does the Malani speak for all of you in this, Captain Ren?” he smiled.

Song sighed, shaking her head at Angharad.

“She does not,” she replied. “We are willing to hear terms.”

“Reasonable terms,” Tristan idly added.

“I am a most reasonable man, you will find,” Galenos the Brazen smiled.

The reasonable man wanted them to smuggle crates from the Lordsport into the city for him on official Watch carriages, which Tristan seemed to find acceptable enough but Song flatly refused. While she understood that contracts might force her to break local laws on occasion, that was never to be a first resort. She offered, instead, a lump sum of gold. Tristan looked a little aggrieved when she did and Red Maria chuckled.

“We start flashing around proper gold like that, Captain Ren, and questions will be asked as to how we got it,” she said. “If you want to bribe us, pay in goods.”

Song was not entirely opposed, so long as the worth was not greater than the coin she had offered, so the haggling moved over what goods were to be offered. What the basileia wanted was plain enough.

“Muskets,” Galenos baldly said. “Failing that, blackpowder.”

“Blackpowder can be obtained legally in Tratheke,” Song noted.

“And if you buy a whole barrel, the lictors follow you home afterwards,” Red Maria drawled. “No one bats an eye if the rooks buy up a fort’s worth, though. Powder’s worth a fortune on the black market right now, everyone is scrambling for it.”

Galenos shot her a sharp look at that last part, but it was too late. Ah, their friend was looking to turn a profit.

“Why’s everyone buying?” Tristan idly asked.

Too idly. Like her, he was matching that latest revelation to their visit to the empty warehouse. Only so much powder could be smuggled into Tratheke before someone noticed. Better to obtain part of your stocks through the same basileias helping you hide inside the capital.

“Dangerous times,” Knuckles grunted. “If Palliades croaks then the throne’s up for grabs and powder will be worth its weight in gold – shot or sold.”

Black House had large reserves of gunpowder, so in truth this would be one of the easiest trade goods for the Thirteenth to get their hands on. All that would be required was making a requisition through Captain Wen, and should he approve the need they wouldn’t even need to dip into brigade funds. Even better, the entire process would be legal.

Angharad leaned in close.

“I would hope,” she murmured, “you are not about to arm hardened criminals who will then use those arms to continue extorting the people of Tratheke.”

Song swallowed a grimace. There was, of course, a difference between legal and moral.

“That would be overpaying, if blackpowder is worth what you say,” she told Galenos. “I am told, however, that you smuggle liquor.”

“True enough,” the old man said. “And?”

“Get me a list of wines and liquor of equal value to my earlier offer,” she said, “and they will be delivered to you.”

He laughed.

“Oh, amada, I am but a spark to the bonfire of your beauty,” Lord Locke gushed. “Your eyes must be a labyrinth, for I so easily lose myself in them.”

The shade did not move. Not a blink, not a breath, not a nod. Like a mouse being held by a cat.

Maryam glanced to the tower in the middle of the chamber: the lights were still on, the sound of talk wafting their way. She had not heard either of these two creeping up on her, but there was only one way in and out of this archive. How had Wen not seen them coming? She kept her breathing even. If they could sneak past her patron, the man would not be able to move in time even if she screamed for help.

And Tristan had told them that these two were dangerous, that they must be kept smiling at all costs, so play along she would.

“It is no imposition at all, Lord Locke,” she said. “How might I be of help?”

The man temporarily stopped flirting with his wife long enough to answer.

“Ah, my young friend, we have come to borrow a book,” he said. “And we looked in the stacks, only to find it was already in your hands!”

“I happen to be finished with the work in question,” Maryam said. “By all means, take it – though I believe we are forbidden from taking volumes outside the archives.”

“Not to worry,” Lord Locke assured her, going rifling through his doublet pockets, “we have permission.”

He produced a folded piece of paper, which he helpfully passed her. Maryam opened it, finding not the Palliades seal but instead the word ‘PERMISSION’ written in large, wobbly letters taking up the whole paper. She cleared her throat.

“Checks out,” Maryam said.

She thought he looked almost disappointed, for a flicker of a moment, but then he was all chortles and good humor again.

“Did you find it interesting reading, Maryam?” Lady Keys idly asked.

The shade was still as a stone under her light hand.

“A tragic tale, in many ways,” the signifier replied.

“Indeed,” the tall lady approved. “It is always a sad scene when a god starves.”

She swallowed, and though it was unwise she must ask.

“You believe the god Odyssean to have starved to death?”

“Or close enough,” Lady Keys said. “Else Oduromai could hardly walk around wearing his clothes, could he? That is the trouble of empire, dear. Everyone loves the wealth and the temples and the festivals, but few care to look too closely at what keeps the gears oiled up.”

“Blood,” Maryam quietly said. “It always comes down to blood.”

Yours, everyone else’s. Always more blood, until the gears broke or you squeezed the whole world dry.

“Nations get squeamish about their bedrock of bones,” the tall lady mused, “so they paint them gray and name them stones. Poor Odyssean – how eagerly they worshipped his name, until he became an embarrassment. Then they put a crown on his prettier brother and pretended he’d been the one all along.”

He’s not dead, Maryam thought. Song found a contractor of his. That for all their eerie presence they did not seem to know this was a relief. They were not all-powerful, this strange pair.

“But do not let us interrupt your fascinating debate any further,” Lord Locke said. “Why, I’ve not seen a woman so admirably at odds with herself since that queen out in the Riven Coast. Remember darling, the one who inhabited two bodies?”

“A most amusing war, they were waging,” Lady Keys chuckled. “And after the victory the royal banquet was most delicious.”

Lord Locke smacked his lips in approval.

“Nothing like royal,” he said, then waited half a beat before adding, “hospitality.”

He winked at Maryam, then caught his wife’s eyes and the two of them shook with silent laughter. The jolly man picked up the book at her gestured invitation, sketching a bow of thanks, and gallantly offered his arm for his much taller wife to take. They strolled away, quietly chattering away, and disappeared into one of the chambers.

Maryam had no intention of sticking around to find out if they’d ever leave it.

The shade was still seated where it had been, visibly shaken, and their eyes met again.

“No deal,” Maryam told her.

“You will regret that,” it replied, and in the heartbeat that followed it was gone.

Maryam straightened, swallowing, and briskly fled to the tower. Hopefully Wen still had drink left, because she could use a cup of something strong after that.

--

“All right,” Tristan said. “Now do it again, but without waking up the last emperor of Liergan and scraping the wood.”

Angharad shot him a flat look, but the thief appeared entirely unmoved. Well, she silently conceded, perhaps her work could do with some improvement. Tristan rapped his knuckles against the door once, prompting Maryam to open it slightly then close it fully and putting the bar lock in place – little more than a metal bar connecting the door the wall, with a lever beneath to lift it out of its resting place. As simple as locks got.

Angharad brough up the thief’s tool Tristan had lent her: a long and thin stripe of steel, as if a bookmark had been forged in metal. She positioned herself as he had shown, elbow angled correctly so she could control the movement, and slid the stripe through the thin gap between the door and the doorway. She raised the tool, slowly and carefully, until she made contact with the metal bar on the other side.

Then she delicately levered the bar upwards, bringing it out of the catch – and this time, instead of dropping it and making the noise Tristan had so wildly exaggerated, she just as delicately lowered it back down, out of the catch. She then slid out the tool, straightening and turning an expectant look on the gray-eyed man. He cocked an eyebrow, opening the door and finding it perfectly unobstructed.

“Congratulations,” he said, and Angharad preened, “you can now break into a child’s room. Maybe.”

“You could have given me this, Tristan,” she reproached.

“I’m not even giving you that lifter,” he snorted. “It’s mine and it’s quality work. You get one of the lead ones from the Black House stocks – and wash it first, the paint on most of them is flaking.”

The door was cracked further open as Maryam peeked her head through.

“You are strangely stingy, for a thief,” she noted.

“Ah, but does anyone know the worth of things better than a thief?” Tristan philosophically asked.

Angharad cocked her head to the side.

“An appraiser,” she suggested.

“Tax collectors,” Maryam said.

“Even among criminals, presumably your fence,” Angharad pointed out.

She got incredulous looks from the other two at that.

“I read novels,” the noblewoman defensively said. “I know what a fence is, even if the term seems unnecessarily confusing.”

It already meant something else!

“What kind of books do you read that have fences in them?” Maryam asked, grinning.

The kind where Lord Cadwalader found his mother’s locket for sale in the city pawnshop, revealing that Lady Dube had not lost it as she claimed but in fact – Angharad coughed into her fist.

“Morality tales,” she very precisely replied.

A moral like, for example ‘if you cannot figure out that Lady Dube is only after your inheritance and Lady Awbrey is your true love, then perhaps you deserve to be bankrupted’. Maryam and Tristan shared a look. Before that wheel could begin to spin and subject her to a flow of crushing sarcasm, Angharad cleared her throat.

“While I am thankful for the lesson,” she said, “when Song suggested I learn some hidden means from you I thought there would be more actual picking of locks.”

“If I had a few weeks and your whole attention, it might,” Tristan replied. “Certainly not with only a few hours before bed, and I’d not trust you to pick anything but workshop locks without a least a few months of learning in you.”

“I had not thought it so difficult a skill to learn,” Angharad admitted.

If it was so difficult to be a criminal, why not simply learn a proper trade? He wiggled his hand, a symbol of equivocation.

“Part of it is that doing it well requires particular tools that do not come cheap,” he said. “But also that in practice most thieves won’t bother picking locks, Angharad. They’ll smash a window or walk through the open door to pull a pistol on the shopkeeper.”

Ah. That was more along the lines of what she had been taught to expect from thieves. The implication that Tristan himself had not resorted to such means was filed away. Perhaps he ought to be considered as, well, a sort of thieving nobility. The highborn of that occupation, so to speak. Yet on second thought Angharad resisted the urge to fit in him such a box, for it felt almost too convenient. It would, after all, allow her to ignore the fact that a man she rather liked had a long history of committing entirely reprehensible acts.

Regardless, it tasted somewhat like hypocrisy to cast aspersions on Tristan’s past while learning his tricks so they might be employed to spy on a young man who had invited her into his home. It was a bitter thing to swallow, the knowledge that neither her work on behalf of the Watch nor the one on behalf of House Tredegar were particularly honorable in nature.

Tristan lightly clapped her shoulder, bringing her out of her thoughts.

“Even nobles usually only put proper locks on a handful of rooms and safes,” he told her. “With a lifter and a skeleton key, you ought to be able to get into the vast majority of a country manor without trouble.”

She breathed out, nodding.

“As for the other rooms, I will have to prevail through charm to enter them,” Angharad said, as much for them as her own sake.

“Cleon Eirenos might not be part of the cult at all,” Maryam told her. “The Odyssean sounds like a remnant god made up of the parts of the worship of Oduromai that were prettied up, not anything like the Golden Ram.”

“There will be other guests,” Angharad said. “And contract with a spirit does not forbid worship of another, regardless.”

“For a cult like the Golden Ram, I think it might,” Maryam replied with a frown, “but admittedly that is guesswork on my part.”

Angharad acknowledged her words with a nod, receiving one in return, and wondered at the simple courtesy. A month ago that might have well turned into a vicious argument, she felt, or at least some barbed words. The hour they spent together every morning had not made them friends, and in some ways the Pereduri doubted they ever would be, but misstep by misstep she had learned what not to say.

They could have polite conversation, within those boundaries, and there were only so many polite conversations one could have with another before that politeness became the default.

While they’d spoken Tristan had fished out his watch, that brass timepiece he cleaned and polished zealously. He clicked his tongue then closed it.

“Dinner soon,” he said. “I’ll go put away the tools and meet you there.”

A later service requested by the Thirteenth, in deference to how late Maryam had stayed in the archives and her upsetting encounter there.

“I’ll come with you,” Maryam said. “I need to wash my hands off the last of the ink, else Song will glare at me like she’s considering ordering nine generations of my family scrubbed clean.”

“I shall see you to at dinner, then,” Angharad replied.

She watched, somewhat amused, as the pair began to bicker about Maryam intending to put ‘ink all over his washbasin’ while she contended he was always so filthy ink would be an improvement. It was good to see the pair reconciled, Angharad thought. They were both happier for it, much as they would deny such a thing. The noblewoman woman could only envy the depths of the friendship they had forged on the Dominion and the complicity it now carried.

The friend she had thought she made on the Dominion had instead made her an accomplice, which was an entirely different beast.

Chasing off the doldrums, Angharad limped her way down the hall. The opposite way the two of them had gone, towards the stairs that would lead to the lower levels. It was a pleasant coincidence that the route leading to the most gently sloping of the stairs passed through a gallery overlooking the approach to the Collegium, one of the nicer sights from Black House – and while it was not dark out yet, the great cube of glass was still a pleasure to eye.

She turned the corner to the sight of seven windows with open shutters, light pouring through them like pits of Glare while darkness huddled in narrow slices between. Almost like stripes. She liked the gallery best around this hour, before the servants lit the lamps.

The sight of Imani Langa standing by the middle window, however, rather spoiled her enjoyment.

The liar was looking out at the city, angled to be the picture of lady lost in contemplation. Ha! Imani did not turn to acknowledge her presence, so though Angharad knew this was unlikely to be a coincidence she leaned on her cane and advanced in stubborn silence. It was only when she came of a height with her that the liar turned, feigning surprise and delight.

“Angharad,” she smiled. “Come watch the city with me, will you?”

“I have already seen it,” she politely replied. “Perhaps another time.”

Never seemed about right.

“Oh,” Imani sighed, “but it has been so long since we last spoke.”

Those eyes narrowed.

“I insist.”

Angharad was her father’s daughter, so she did not spit on the floor in answer. She was also her mother’s, so she sneered in open contempt. She approached just enough to stand at the edge of the pit of light, half-lit and half-veiled. She did not look at the city, staring down the liar instead.

“Well?” she prompted.

“There is no need for such hostility,” Imani chided her.

“Or for the wasting of my time,” Angharad replied. “If you have something to say, say it.”

Doe eyes were turned on her, like a snake putting on a smile.

“What progress have you made?” Imani finally asked.

“I am not on Tolomontera, in case it escaped your notice,” she replied. “Take a guess.”

She had no intention of telling the ufudu about her designs on the infernal forge rumored to be on Asphodel until she had a clear path to getting her hands on it. If she could not obtain it for barter, there was no need to let the Lefthand House know of its existence at all.

“Then you will be pressed for time upon your return,” the liar said. “Your time on Asphodel might best be spent securing help for the endeavor.”

“Is that so?” Angharad mildly said.

“I did not expect you to wander into a layer alone,” Imani said. “It was foolish, and near enough got you killed. You should obtain a signifier’s help for your second venture, or at least a pair of hands to help you.”

Her fingers clenched around the head of her cane.

“Are you offering Qianfan’s help?” she asked.

Was her own signifier in on her plans, also a traitor to the Watch? If so, there might be need for a second corpse at the end of this.

“I could secure it,” Imani lightly said, “but such a thing would have a price.”

Angharad smiled thinly. Of course it would. As it noticing her skepticism, the liar kept speaking.

“Or I could lend a hand in leveraging help from your own brigade,” Imani continued. “Khaimov seems quite attached to Abrascal, there is an angle there.”

(The knife slipped just under the copper button of Imani Langa’s uniform, piercing through cloth and flesh as Angharad twisted the knife.)

Angharad breathed out. She’d barely meant to glimpse, but the flash of rage had-

“The real prize would be Song Ren, of course,” the liar said, eyes on the city. “That contract of hers is a treasure, and given her colorful family history her position within the Watch is delicate at the best of times.”

It was a lapse in control, for her off hand to grasp the handle of her knife, but Angharad’s jaw was clenched hard enough it felt as if her teeth would pop so she allowed it.

“No,” she said, flatly and plainly.

Imani turned, something in Angharad’s voice catching her attention, and her eyes flicked down to the knife at the Pereduri’s belt and the hand resting on it. The ufudu’s lips quirked.

“How exciting,” she said. “I am curious – how will you be contacting the House, after slitting my throat? Or have proof of our bargain, for that matter.”

She had no means and no proof, which Imani well knew. It was why the liar was yet smiling. Angharad forced herself to let out a breath through still-clenched teeth.

“We can revisit the matter of help later,” Imani dismissed. “Cleon Eirenos – why did you cultivate his acquaintance and why are you headed to his estate?”

“That is Thirteenth business,” she precisely replied. “Related to our test.”

“Unlucky you, for I do not care,” Imani said. “I have made concessions, Angharad. Given you time and space, refrained from imposing on you necessities or consequences.”

Her stare hardened.

“Give me something for my patience,” she said, “else I will find little point in maintaining it. I require no secrets from you, only information as other officers of the Watch have read in reports.”

And it sounded reasonable, Angharad thought. Buying time, buying patience, with information put to reports Imani might be able to get her hands on anyhow.

But she knew better.

Someone who holds a deed over you, Gwydion Tredegar had taught her, will always try to talk you into another misdeed they can use. It would be something small, at first, something that felt minor compared to what they already had on you. But the point was to tighten the grip, one coerced step at a time, until there was such an avalanche of dishonors on the books that to go against them would be simply unthinkable. Life-ending in a way that the first deed that started it all would never have been.

Angharad looked at Imani Langa, at the calm confidence on that face, and saw the intent that lay behind her eyes. One step at a time, slowly turning Angharad into a sickness that would spread through the Thirteenth and make them into her pawns. She would be patient, one small request at a time, because could afford patience. The wind was on her side, because what could Angharad do?

Without the help of the Lefthand House, she would never see her father again. With its enmity she was unlikely to survive a week on any of the Isles, rook or not. She was not a large woman, Imani Langa, but behind that slender frame lurked the great monster was the Lefthand House.

“Cleon Eirenos,” Imani prompted again.

They deserved better.

Sleeping God, the Thirteenth deserved better than this. Even had they not offered her kindness in an hour of need this would be a betrayal. And perhaps Angharad could find a way to walk the line of her oaths, to keep from dishonor by stepping carefully enough, it would just be quibbling. The words exact turned into an excuse for something she knew, deep in her bones, to be wrong.

She had sought to cut ties with Song for shooting an ally in the back, but now she was levelling a pistol at all of theirs.

“No,” she quietly said.

The liar stared her down.

“Your lack of cooperation,” she said, “will make it into my report.”

To her superiors at the Lefthand House, she meant. Back to faraway Malan, where... Back to Malan. To the High Queen’s court. Only it would not need to go so far as that, would it? There was closer.

She looked at Imani Langa again, and this time she did not see the Lefthand House standing behind her. Not like the Watch would. She saw fishermen dangling bait, waiting to pull up the line. And bait was not meant to come out of that whole.

It was easy, with Imani not expecting it.

As simple as raising her walking stick and slamming it on the ufudu’s toes, the rest of it flowing like a river – the liar drew back while Angharad abandoned her cane, grasping the side of Imani’s face while the ufudu reached for her knife. She smashed her head into pulled shutters, to a most satisfying bang.

Once, twice, and when Imani brought up her hands to protect her face Angharad drew her own knife and pressed it against the liar’s throat.

“You-”

“Be silent,” Angharad evenly said.

Whatever it was that Imani Langa saw in her eyes, it made her mouth close.

“This is my first and last warning,” she told the liar. “On my oath if I see you trying to involve any of the Thirteenth in this matter, however the manner, I will slit your misbegotten throat and feed your body to the crabs.”

She flicked her wrist, point of the knife digging into the hollow of Imani’s throat.

“This is not Tolomontera,” she told the liar. “The High Queen has an ambassador here, one who knows me by name, and only a fool would believe the Lefthand House does not have a seat in his staff. It would be but an afternoon’s work to arrange a meeting, Imani, and that means you are a convenience but not a necessity.”

Angharad coldly smiled.

“Unless you believe your death will be enough to spoil their appetite for the forge.”

Neither of them did. The spy’s face was an expressionless mask. Angharad withdrew her knife, fancying she saw relief there. Then she seized the liar by the hair and slammed her head into the shutters one last time before releasing her.

“That one,” she said, “was for your unbearable smugness. Mind your manners, and do not refer to me so familiarly in the future – friends call me Angharad, not the likes of you.”

She snatched up her cane, limping away, and for the first time in weeks Angharad Tredegar did not feel like she was drowning.

It was a start.