Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Her mornings on Asphodel had become routine, if not rote.

(What is on the seventh page of the leftmost book? Maryam asked. Angharad rose to her feet, walked the hall two doors down and entered the bedroom. There were four books on the bed. She flipped open the leftmost to the requested page. It was a small journal, and that page held nothing but a sequence of inked numbers: seven, nineteen, three hundred and two, one.)

Letting out a long breath, Angharad opened her eyes and found an expectant Maryam looking at her from across the table, steel tip pen at the ready.

“Leftmost book, seventh page,” she said. “Seven, nineteen, three hundred and two, one.”

It had been one of the more interesting discoveries that everything she saw in a vision was temporarily fixed in her mind, near impossible to forget for at least a day afterwards. Maryam hummed, jotting down what had been said, then went down the hallway to check. She came back smiling.

“It is correct,” the pale-skinned woman happily announced. “And it was not knowledge I personally possessed, as Song was the one to write these down.”

Angharad slowly nodded.

“So the knowledge within my vision is not dependent on that of the people in my presence,” she said.

Which was for the best. Mind-reading was not forbidden under the Iscariot Accords, but it was mandatory to report and register. Maryam snorted.

“That is one test pointing in that direction,” she said. “I’m not willing to confidently repeat what you just said until at least another seven point the same way.”

While Angharad appreciated the thoroughness and would hardly oppose it when it was being put to work in her service, she was not trying to establish the limits of her contract up to some obscure Akelarre standard. As far as she was concerned, a truth had been learned. Another touch of color on the painting taking shape, establishing that her contract lent her true foresight and did not simply borrow from the minds around it to guess.

Angharad had believed this already proven, but Maryam insisted that the visions could not be treated as simply larger glimpses. It had almost irked her, a first, but now she was coming around to the notion. There was something... different about the visions. The glimpses felt like exactly that, a quick look at what lay ahead. Angharad remained apart from them. The visions, however, felt raw in a way that blurred the boundary between dream and material.

Almost as if she lived them, though admittedly not as deeply as she had that first time on the Dominion.

The Izvorica finished jotting down her notes, then carefully blew at the ink ‘til it dried before closing the journal. Angharad waited patiently until she was done, then silently inquired as to whether they were done.

“I would not mind practicing your tell,” Maryam said, “but I believe we might run late if we do.”

“My affairs are already packed and aboard the coach,” Angharad told her, “but it might be for the best to end this now anyhow.”

The Black House coachman would be taking her to the northwestern ward – not on an official Watch coach, mind you, a rented one – and there the carriage that Lord Cleon had recommended her would be waiting for the longer trip out to the country. It would be two days of traveling by road to the Eirenos estate, and she was meant to stay at least two nights there before returning. Lord Cleon was to receive guests for a small soiree, but she would be arriving the day before that so he might show her the estate and they could go on a hunt together.

Given that the moment they left Tratheke the beautiful First Empire roads of the capital would be a thing of the past, to leave a little early could not hurt. The roads in Tratheke Valley were said to be bad enough that carriages habitually carried spare wheels and axles. Would that Angharad could ride a horse instead. She would tire after an hour or two, she expected, but she was barred from this regardless as her slow but steady recovery had to be hidden from the society she was joining.

It was her troubles that made her fine bait for the cult of the Golden Ram, though the more the Thirteenth discovered the more it seemed like that name might have become a façade for something darker.

“I need to prepare my own affairs for the trip back to the Rows anyhow,” Maryam said.

“Bringing flowers to the brackstone wall, I hear,” Angharad said.

And not entirely succeeding at hiding her skepticism, by the amused look on the other woman’s face.

“Not just any flowers, Asphodel crowns,” she replied. “They’ve a large place in the tale of the god Oduromai and echo strangely in the aether. If I can match that echo to whatever lies behind the shrine...”

“Then you could put a name to the imprisoned spirit,” Angharad finished, inclining her head in acknowledgement. “Even failing to match would be information, in a way.”

“Assuming I can feel anything through the brackstone,” Maryam said. “It is not a given.”

At least she would be safe even if her Signs turned on her again, Angharad thought. Captain Wen was heading out with her, as he had with the archives. She was beginning to wonder if the large Tianxi might not have decided on a favorite after all. They parted ways cordially, the noblewoman combing through her room one last time to ensure she had not forgotten anything.

She was about ready to believe so when there was a small knock against the doorway. She turned half-expecting Song to be there, but it was her uncle. Osian Tredegar came dressed in his fine blacks, smiling, and after she silently invited him in he closed the door. Not a simple goodbye, then.

“Word has come from the palace that our delegation will be taken to the shipyard tomorrow,” he plainly said. “Myself and three others, all covenanters.”

She slowly nodded.

“Is a tinker from the Deuteronomicon to accompany you?” Angharad asked.

Among the Umuthi Society, those were the men and women who studied aetheric machinery – and thus were most likely to recognize an infernal forge should they encounter one down there. Half-grimacing, Osian nodded.

“A Savant and a Laurel as well,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow at the last, until her uncle explained the woman in question was a cryptoglyph scholar. An Antediluvian shipyard was likely to be full of inscriptions in the First Empire’s scientific language, some of which might shed light on its original purpose.

“I wish you luck,” Angharad said, lowering her head.

She was not sure whether she ought to rejoice of or dread his visit to the shipyard and the news he would bring on his return.

“They can only keep us drugged for so long,” Uncle Osian quietly said. “It will give us a better idea of how close the entrance to the shipyard is to the capital.”

And the shipyard was to be where the infernal engine lay. Perhaps. It was not known for certain there was an infernal engine on Asphodel in the first place. Yet recent news had improved the odds in Angharad’s eyes. Twice now members of the Thirteenth had run into Lord Locke and Lady Keys in places they should not be, while Hage – a devil of some age – had passed down a stern warning to avoid angering them.

If the pair were ancient devils themselves, or at least Lady Keys as the one Tristan reported to be of unusual strength, then there must be a reason for their presence on Asphodel. She could think of few greater prizes for an annealed devil than an infernal forge, for their like endless font of lives but a helping pair of hands away. More worryingly, it might mean competing with an ancient devil for that prize.

Not a prospect Angharad was likely to survive at the moment.

“It will be all right, Angie,” her uncle said, squeezing her shoulder. “We approach answers with every step.”

The kindness in his eyes burned. She had kept the Thirteenth away from the machinations of the Lefthand House, for now, but she had already dragged Osian Tredegar deep into their net. Oh, he had involved himself of his own will but deep down Angharad knew she had wielded her own life like a knife to force him. The same reason he was helping her was why he deserved better.

Part of her resented that something was holding her back from taking the risks she needed to see her father out of Tintavel, but that anger smacked of shame. Her uncle had spent decades rising up the ranks of the Watch then put the work of a lifetime on the line for her. To help her save a man he did not even like. Angharad was not blind, the two were never close.

Uncle Osian did it all for love of her. How could there be honor in this, in making a good man ruin his life? There wasn’t. That was the hard truth of it, she admitted to herself. There was not a speck of honor in any of it, no matter how much she pulled and twisted the facts to try and make it otherwise.

“Imani Langa,” she blurted out.

Osian Tredegar blinked.

“She is the ufudu,” Angharad admitted.

“The captain of the Eleventh Brigade?” her uncle frowned.

She nodded.

“I do not think my visit to the country will see me in danger,” she said, “but the Sleeping God alone knows. Should I pass...”

“I will ensure she does not outlive you long,” Osian Tredegar calmly said.

There was not a hint of doubt in his eyes as he spoke the words. She believed him. Angharad passed a hand through her hair, biting her lip. That was not what she had meant.

“See to yourself first,” Angharad quietly replied. “Please. Use it however you can to remove yourself from this pit I dragged you into.”

“You did no such thing,” Osian denied.

Her lips thinned.

“In my heart, I am still the lady of Llanw Hall,” Angharad admitted. “I played at it with all the other nobleborn islanders, the lot of us crowding room and table pretending as if it were a salon and we were all rulers in the making. It felt...”

She grimaced.

“It felt like my right, to make the decisions I have,” she said. “Whatever I must to free my father. I thought I was being a lady, making the hard calls Mother so often spoke of. The costs to everyone around me were regrettable, but not regretted.”

Her uncle listened in silence, face inscrutable. She rubbed her forehead.

“But I am not lady of Llanw Hall,” Angharad said, though the words felt like molten iron. “And what I thought a lady’s refrain now sounds like the wailing of a child.”

An honorable woman would not have let it all turn out like this. Like some... endless twisting knot, a rope dragging ever more people into the pit. She had made bargains, cut corners, all because it felt hopeless to struggle otherwise. And for what? A liar’s promises. Bait she swallowed down to the last drop no matter how bitter the taste grew.

“It has not been a year since you watched it all burn, Angharad,” her uncle gently said. “You are... I do not expect you to embrace it so quickly, the black. It was not a life you sought. I did, as a young man, and still it took me time.”

She closed her eyes. He did not understand, not really. Could not. Osian Tredegar saw in her his sister’s ghost and loved the shade too much to glimpse through it at what his niece had become. The Fisher had chided Angharad, once, for clinging to the victories of a child while fighting a woman’s battles. And while the spirit was ancient and cruel, a tyrant of the Old Night, in its own mad way it saw things clearly.

It was time to grow up. Her debts were no one else’s to settle.

She kissed her uncle on the cheek, bade him goodbye and left him stand there troubled. Another regret, but the only words she had to soothe him were lies. The Thirteenth were waiting for her in the courtyard, chatting by the coach. Maryam and Tristan trading barbs, Song eyeing them amusedly. They were... They stood in the light of the Tratheke morning like a lit hearth, and Angharad a stranger. One of her own making.

“Tredegar, are you taking up lurking? Don’t put me out of a job, I need the salary.”

She answered Tristan’s teasing by approaching, the thief studying her face seriously as she did. Debts to settle, Angharad reminded herself. How stiff was her pride, that she must chew on it for months before she could swallow? Stiff enough she nodded at Tristan and shook a surprised Maryam’s hand before finally turning to Song. She breathed in.

“When I asked you about the death of Isabel Ruesta,” Angharad said, “I walked into that room having decided on the answer. For that, I apologize.”

Silver eyes met her own.

“Apology accepted,” Song Ren finally said.

The noblewoman stiffly inclined her head.

“When I return from the country,” Angharad continued, “I would ask you again.”

Her captain gave a slow, measured nod back.

“I await that conversation, then,” she simply said.

They left it at that. Debts to settle, Angharad thought again as she climbed onto the coach and the door was closed behind her. It had not felt good, swallowing her pride. She wished it had, that virtue would be sweet on the tongue, but it hadn’t.

But neither had treason, and she would sleep better after this.

--

Song had come to the rector’s palace to personally report matters best not put to paper, expecting the trip there and back to take up most of the time involved, but that had been foolish optimism on her part.

Lord Rector Evander, upon being informed that Song was to run down a lead concerning a potential second brackstone shrine, had made a snap decision. That was why, an hour and change after entering the palace, Song Ren was being glared at by Prefect Nestor – commander of the palace lictors, the Lord Rector’s personal guards among them. It was unfair of the man to be turning that ire her way when Song had spent the better part of half an hour trying to deny his king.

It was, unfortunately, difficult enough to refuse the Lord Rector anything even when he did not have something passingly resembling a valid point.

“Nestor, make your peace with it,” Evander Palliades advised. “My mind is made up.”

The commander of the lictors grit his teeth.

“At least let me send a whole squad with you,” he said.

Lord Rector Evander, dark eyes glittering with amusement, turned to Song with a cocked eyebrow. Would that she could strangle him. He knew exactly what she was doing, foisting off the answer on her.

“This is meant to be a discreet investigation, prefect,” she said. “Twenty heavily armed lictors surrounding us at all times would be too conspicuous.”

The glare deepened, still turned on her. He could not afford to be angry at his master so Song was paying the price on their behalf.

“Two guards are too few,” Prefect Nestor said. “Since your brigade has failed to find the assassin, Captain Ren, it -”

Enough.

“My brigade is not contracted to find your assassin,” Song icily replied. “If the lictors are incapable of doing so, hire a Watch team to make up for your incompetence – another team, as mine is already on contract.”

“Watch your tone, girl,” the prefect warned.

“Watch your words, prefect,” she flatly retorted. “I have tolerated, in the spirit of cooperation between Asphodel and the Conclave, the throne’s constant impositions on my brigade’s contracted duties. Yet there are limits.”

She smiled blandly.

“Further interference will force me to consider the throne of Asphodel in breach of contract, and thus any obligations on the Thirteenth Brigade’s part voided. We can withdraw to the Lordsport by day’s end, if you would like.”

The older man gritted his teeth, looking like he wanted nothing more than to start snarling, but he had to know that he had no real grounds to complain on – he had been out of line. Instead he looked askance to the Lord Rector, whose eyebrow remained cocked.

“I spoke in haste,” Prefect Nestor reluctantly said. “Yet it remains that His Excellency descending into an unsavory part of the city with only yourself and two guards as escort is an entirely unnecessary risk.”

“I agree,” Song said, to his surprise. “While I concede that the throne has a vested interest in what is being investigated, I would prefer an observer to accompany me instead. As I have repeatedly stated.”

She turned a cold gaze on Lord Rector Evander, who idly waved her irritation away.

“The matter in question is of importance to House Palliades and must remain secret,” the bespectacled young man said. “I will not bring in another soul when all that is required of me is to walk down a street and listen while Captain Song asks a few questions. It would beirresponsible of me.”

Prefect Nestor looked like he shared Song’s opinion, which was that the irresponsibility in play was Evander Palliades putting himself in a situation where the bullet put in his skull would become the opening shot of a civil war over his succession, but he could no more argue than her. He was a retainer, not someone who could question his master over the affairs of his own house.

And House Palliades had a right to keep the matter of the brackstone shrines and aether seal secret, Watch bylaws guaranteed it. Song had checked. Thrice, in different languages, to see if there might be any wiggle room using a different translation. Unfortunately, the Laurels were very thorough in their work.

“Most of the traveling will be done by coach,” Song offered. “And there is no reason that a larger force could not be waiting inside the ward to escort him back in greater numbers, so long as it remains covert.”

Much of the heat gone out of his eyes, though not all, Prefect Nestor curtly nodded.

“I will arrange that immediately,” he said. “Your Excellency, Captain Ren, please excuse me.”

She simply nodded, while Lord Rector Evander smiled and leaned over to share a few quiet words before letting the old prefect leave. The look he turned on her afterwards almost seemed approving, the warmth in those dark eyes making her a little uncomfortable.

“You handled yourself well,” Evander Palliades said. “Captain Duan would be pleased, I’m sure. Nestor’s a tough old hound, half the reason I picked him as prefect is that he is too stubborn to be bent.”

“He is also correct regarding this entire affair,” Song flatly replied. “It is an unnecessary risk, and while I acknowledge that you have a right to attend I do not believe the reasons you gave for it are your true ones.”

He leaned back into his seat, lips twitching for some strange reason. Had he somehow failed to grasp that she was implying him to be a selfish prick complicating her life for the sake of his petty whims? He had demonstrated not to be a dimwit in other regards, which made his reaction all the more baffling.

“The last few days have been smothering,” he acknowledged. “I cannot so much as walk down a hall without a full squad of lictors behind and ahead of me.”

“My sympathies,” Song blandly said. “Unfortunately, your inclination to use my brigade a means to escape your situation puts us in the position of being responsible for your life even as you carelessly risk it.”

“It is our lictor escorts that would be responsible,” he denied.

Song flatly stared him down until he coughed and looked away. If Evander Palliades was killed while tagging along on a Watch investigation, it would be puerile to pretend that the blackcloaks would not get the lion’s share of the blame whether lictors were present or not. It was not at all unlikely that the Watch would end up blamed for the ensuing civil war as well.

While strictly speaking getting the Lord Rector killed on her watch would not end their contract with the throne Asphodel, thus failing the yearly test, Song suspected such a thing might... detrimentally affect the Thirteenth’s performance assessment.

“I’m not unaware that you would be made liable for my decision, should some catastrophe strike,” the Lord Rector admitted, and straightened in his seat. “I will obey your orders in the field, Captain Song, and find a way to make it up to you.”

The informally spoken, almost teasing last part had her flushing in irritation.

“You will dress as a merchant,” she ordered. “You will not speak unless I allow it, and your escorts will obey my orders until your life is demonstrably in danger.”

He nodded, smiling, and the warm satisfaction it brought was purely that of a daughter of Tianxia subjecting a despot to the rightful yoke of law.

“Then, while I continue to protest, I reluctantly agree to your accompanying me to the site in question,” Song said.

“Capital,” Evander amiably replied. “Where is this site, anyhow? You did not clarify beyond the northeastern ward.”

He paused, coughing into his fist.

“Will we be passing through the ‘Reeking Rows’?”

He said those words, she observed with some amusement, much in the same tone her sisters used to talk about that shrine to the White-Tailed Consort in the woods a few hours away from their home. Scandalized fascination. She cleared her throat.

"We will not," she said.

She would not have thought his face one suited to pouting, between the stubble and the angular features, but some might have called the expression on his face endearing.

“Though we will come close,” she added, and he lit up. “I take it you have not visited that part of the city often?”

“Try never,” he replied. “It was the first Palliades rector who ordered that district’s consolidation, so it has long been a source of curiosity to me. I’ve not had opportunity to visit the ward before.”

“You’ve never set foot there?” she asked, honestly surprised.

Disreputable or not, it contained almost a quarter of his capital.

“First I was too young, then under regency,” he said. “And after I took the crown, the first few years were... difficult. Lady Floros prepared me to reign, but Palliades or not I did not command the respect she does. It was as if the machinery of state had rusted overnight, and every failure had my name written on it.”

“You seem to have grown beyond those beginnings,” Song honestly said.

While his rule was weak, it was not through any particular failing of his own and he was taking steps to remedy this – indeed, his success seemed to be why his enemies were growing bolder. Song felt a twinge of guilt at keeping from Evander that his suspicions were correct, that there was a coup brewing under his feet and the Council of Ministers was up to its neck in it, but she ruthlessly rubbed it out.

There could be no good kings and the Watch did not take sides.

“That is what I owe my name and my people,” he said, smiling wanly. “It does not leave room for much else, but my father liked to say that duty is not a verse but refrain – it will return so long as we keep singing, and what else is there but to sing?”

It was easier when you thought of kings as distant figures on towering thrones, Song thought. Before you saw what lay under the crown and the dragon robe, the flesh and bones. The kings of the Feichu Tian did not get tired or wistful, did not sound determined to filially live up to their legacy. They did not sound like they were drowning in their own reign.

It changed nothing, she reminded herself.

And yet half a smile fought its way through Song’s better judgment, as she cleared her throat and drew him out of the soft melancholy he’d fallen into.

“To answer your earlier question in full,” she said, “we are to visit a paying establishment.”

“A tavern?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

“They do serve wine, I hear,” she noted, “but I expect that is not the main draw.”

“An eatery?”

Her smile widened.

“Have you ever been in a brothel before, Your Excellency?”

By the way he choked, she would hazard he had not.

--

It was the first day of the investigation, so Tristan took the time to case the place. To ask around, spend a few coppers and get a feel for it.

The Kassa family’s workshop on Chancery Lane was not a single edifice but three of them, tightly clustered together and effectively occupying an overlarge city block. Two of those buildings, large one-story squares with a tall ceiling and a flat roofs covered with gas lamps, where their weavers turned the wool imported from the mountains into the cloth shipped out to the Lordsport. From there it was headed mostly towards southern Izcalli, Tristan learned.

Asphodel wool was considered of lesser quality and was thus sold at more affordable prices, often undyed. Cheap clothing was attractive to the Izcalli lords bordering Tianxia and the Someshwar, who always had fresh serfs to clothe and no great desire to dress them expensively. It was a common enough sort of trade for small Trebian islands, though often Tianxi and Someshwari traders stepped in as middlemen to fill their pockets.

Profits cared little for irony.

“The Council of Ministers will try to knock me off the throne the moment they think they have a chance and the Trade Assembly might well attempt the same to keep them off it,” Evander ruefully said.

The Ministers are already brewing a coup, Song thought, wishing she could tell him. Whatever his flaws, he seemed a better man than those trying to replace him. He emptied his cup, then set it down.

“You weren’t wrong, about the Rows,” he suddenly said. “Maybe not right, either, but...”

He laughed mirthlessly.

“Tacitly endorsing the poisoning of my subjects less than an hour’s walk away from my own palace,” Evander murmured. “Now there is a turn of phrase. One that I will not be forgetting anytime soon.”

Song said nothing, only watching him.

“I’m so close I can feel it,” he told her, biting his lip in frustration. “I only need to last through a year, maybe two, and my position will strong enough to reach terms with them. To finally do something more than just... fight to stay seated where I am.”

Only it was not so simple, was it?

“That won’t be the end of it. You will fight them your whole life, Evander, or others like them,” Song honestly said. “All that will change is who has the most guns and gold on their side.”

He turned a bright gaze on her. The drink could not have touched him so quick, she knew, but she almost believed it anyway looking at that expression on his face.

“Twelve days you have been on this island, Song Ren, and I have gotten more truth out of you than I have from anyone else in the last twelve years,” Evander Palliades chuckled. “It is madness.”

Song’s jaw clenched.

“I have been too familiar,” she said. “I will-”

“No,” Evander said. “Not that. This.”

He leaned in, glasses askew, and Song froze. And was tempted to remain frozen, to let it happen. It was not her mistake, if he was the one kissing her. And she was... curious.

But she was also a Ren.

Song drew back, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him. She shook her head. The Lord Rector immediately stopped, then turned red in mortification. He flinched away like he had been burned.

“Apologies, Captain Ren,” he croaked out. “I was, I thought-”

He coughed.

“The wine,” she evenly said.

“Yes, the wine,” he awkwardly said. “Please forget I ever...”

“It is forgotten,” Song lied.

Neither of them spoke another word for the next twenty minutes, or dared to look at each other.

--

With the day’s work done and some time to kill before the evening meal at Black House, Tristan decided to allow himself a small indulgence: namely, investigating how hard it would be to break into the Nineteenth Brigade’s secret safehouse.

He picked up his burglar’s kit and took a roundabout route back to the dead-end alley he’d watched them go into, first taking a look at the surroundings. Of the half dozen or so buildings around there only two currently seemed in use, one being the Nineteenth’s rental. The other was a suspiciously clean two-story house whose shutters and locks had recently been changed and were of visibly better quality than the rest of the house.

They were also the kind that didn’t let sound out, which reeked to Tristan of coterie torture chamber until he climbed up on a neighboring roof and got a sniff at the scent wafting off the house’s second story. Poppy, and not some extract for the pain – the kind you stuffed in pipes and smoked. This was someone’s private drug den, then, not an interrogation pit. Probably some magnate or magnate’s kid who didn’t want to be known as a poppy fiend and figured that renting a den in the worst part of the southwestern ward counted as discretion.

The rest of the dead end was, if not exactly in ruins, then close to it: the houses were full of holes, be it in the walls or roof, and there were no shutters in the windows. As seemed common practice in Tratheke they had been raided for stone, brass and tiles then left to take the wind. No beggars had made a home there, which told Tristan whoever owned these regularly had them cleared by either hired men or the lictors. There would have been takers otherwise, no matter the holes in the roof.

The alley was less than half an hour of walk away from some of the liveliest streets of one of the richest wards in the city, as fine begging grounds as one could ask for. It brought out a shallow sort of amusement, to see that even in Tratheke the rich were willing to pay to keep their property free of rats even when they had no use for it.

The drug den was not in use at the moment – unless the fiend was sleeping it off inside – so Tristan allowed himself to take his time studying the Nineteenth’s rental. Fortuna whined at being asked to keep guard at the corner and kept returning to his side, but he ignored her. Two shuttered windows facing the street, heavy planks with brass stripes keeping them in place. None of that Asphodelian green glass behind them, so raising the bars might well let him inside.

He refrained.

“Just go inside,” Fortuna whined. “Come on, I bet they left all sorts of stuff lying around.”

“Cressida was here,” he replied. “And if I were her, I’d snare the place to know if someone came in.”

“You think she put something on the windowsill?” the goddess asked, looking enthused at the thought.

He nodded and she brightened further. The Lady of Longs Odds loved complications, so long as they were inflicted upon anyone but her. Should it be otherwise they would, of course, be found out as fundamentally unfair and morally intolerable.

“And likely the door as well,” Tristan added.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she drawled, vanishing.

If he had asked her to look inside the house for him a minute ago she would have agreed immediately, but now it was all but certain should he request it Fortuna would pretend to be hard of hearing. The thief did not mind. Opportunities to ply his craft with such low stakes were passing rare, and he must keep his skills sharp. Growing to rely too much on the goddess’ eyes would leave him lost without her aid.

The lock on the front door was child’s play, a tumble lock he could have done one-eyed with a hand tied behind his back, but he refrained again. Instead he brought up his lantern, peering at the small gap between door and doorway. There was nothing so obvious as string, but he thought he might be seeing a thin filament that could be a blonde hair. Tristan hummed, stepping away.

There were no shutters on the second story, but there was a chimney coming out of the rooftop. He slipped into the pilfered house to the right of the Nineteenth’s rental, up the skeleton of stairs then through a hole in the roof to reach the spread of tiles there. Given how closely clustered the buildings were, it was barely a leap to cross over to the other roof. He silently tread over the angled tiles to the chimney, hiding from the street through the angle and putting his bag down.

Fortuna, predictably, took the first halfway decent excuse to abandon her post and join him on the roof. She sat on the other side of the jutting chimney, skirts spilling out on either side like a small red tide, and golden eyes eagerly peered downwards.

“You want to sneak in through there?” she asked.

“Maybe,” Tristan hedged, removing a small mirror from his bag.

His lantern was already shuttered down to the barest slice, so it was just a matter of carefully angling the light and mirror before he could have a look down the chimney. It’d been cleaned, he found, but not recently: little soot but much dust. More importantly, leaning back and sweeping with the reflected light he found there were no caltrops at the bottom and no iron grid preventing entry.

“Cressida, you amateur,” he crowed. “We always cover the chimney, you ought to know better.”

“While this is the most interesting you’ve been all day,” Fortuna said, peering down, “is there a point to anything you’re doing?”

He shrugged.

“Might be the Nineteenth left papers lying around. There could be information to pass to Song about their investigation.”

“She could just ask Captain Tozi,” Fortuna said. “They seem friendly. Are you sure this isn’t about showing Cressida you’re the better Mask?”

“That has nothing to do with it,” Tristan lied.

She squinted at him for a moment.

“I believe you,” she lied back.

And on that merry note, he packed the mirror away and instead took out the necessary supplies: gloves and rags. The rest of the bag would only be a hindrance, no need to bring it.

He did not jump in immediately, carefully testing the chimney walls instead. Without much soot the stone was not too slippery, though it’d still be no easy task to make his way down without breaking a leg falling. With gloves and boots he managed, scooting down slowly and carefully until he was close enough to the bottom to let himself drop. There were some loose stones about halfway up, whose location he committed to memory for the climb back up that lay in his future.

The hearth was spotlessly clean but his boots were not, so he stood on the edge of the hearthstone and wiped both the stone and his boots clean before putting away his dirtied gloves so he would leave no visible mark.

His first impression of the Nineteenth Brigade’s safehouse was that it was derelict.

Probably the single cheapest place they had been able to find in the southwestern ward, he figured. It was a single large room at the bottom, where he’d entered, and what little furniture there was all boasted missing legs or cut up surfaces. By the height of holes in the wall there’d once been cupboards hung on the side wall, perhaps a kitchen, but those were the only trace of it left. The only fresh addition here was a barrel of water, which the Nineteenth must have bought at the market.

Upstairs was, if anything, even more desolate. There were two rooms, one of which had effectively collapsed when part of the roof caved in – it could not be seen from the outside, though no doubt the elements would eventually finish digging their way in. He’d bet rain went right through already.

They’d put the chamber pot in there. Not recently used.

The second room, a cramped and bare thing, was decorated only by four bedrolls on the ground and a pack of Watch supplies in the corner. Dry rations, blackpowder and blades, bandages and liquor. He put it all back into place after having his look.

Tristan went back down, slightly miffed at how the Nineteenth had left nothing at all of use to him. Checking the front door confirmed his suspicion, at least – there was a hair across the doorway that would rip if it were open, kept in place by a nail. He patted himself on the back for having seen that one coming, and the same for the small pots of clay atop the two shutters. Cressida had been clever, he would concede, simply not clever enough.

It was getting late enough he saw no need to linger when there so little to do here, though he spent some time debating whether he should move every piece of furniture around slightly so the Nineteenth would feel a dim sense of discomfort when they returned. Mhm, perhaps next time. He didn’t want to spend the surprise too early, they might start using the place more over the coming weeks.

Besides, the idea of returning more than once without Cressida noticing was rather pleasing.

He was already preparing to leave when he saw lights in the alley, immediately killing his own. Those out in the street were talking quietly, but the voices were young and numerous enough they could only be the returning Nineteenth. Swallowing a smile, Tristan went back to the chimney. He climbed back up, stopped at that spot with a few stones askew and wedged in his feet.

He’d not be able to stay there for long, no more than ten minutes before his legs started shaking too much, but ten minutes was plenty. Sound carried well up the chimney so he would get to eavesdrop his fill so long as they did not head upstairs. It was a good start to overhear Cressida telling the others to stop, checking the hair on the door before opening it.

“No one’s come in since we have,” she told the others.

One for me, Barboza. The brigade piled in, locking the door behind them and lighting some lamps. To his pleasure, they did not waste time before continuing what he learned had been bickering out in the street.

“-omeone could notice he’s missing,” Kiran Agrawal said.

“He’s allowed to visit the city,” Captain Tozi replied, unworried. “There is nothing suspicious about that.”

“This ward has the most brothels in Tratheke, that will be the first assumption,” Cressida said, then her tone hardened. “It is his lateness I dislike.”

“We are late as well,” Izel Coyac pointed out.

“What does it matter for either of us?” Kiran snorted. “We have nothing to report. No progress made.”

Their patron, Captain Oratile, was a woman. It could not be her they were speaking of. So who is it they believe they must report to? It should not be a blackcloak, given that all the officers bunked at Black House and so did the Nineteenth, but who else would they answer to? Their test was the tracking of the contracted killer, Tristan mused, which might mean working with the lictors. Perhaps they had bribed one for information, or a member of some basileia.

Either way, this was turning out much more interesting than he’d expected.

“Letting the heat pass was necessary,” Captain Tozi flatly replied. “There were too many eyes on the business.”

“Kiran speaks true regardless,” Izel said. “We have not pursued the matter any further. That is not a loss but an opportunity - let us tell him that we are finished with...”

Groans from the others.

“Oh, get off that high horse,” Cressida said. “We tried your plan, didn’t we? Paid the guard to grab him. A clean grab with no one hurt, you said.”

And as they kept talking, Tristan’s blood ran cold. Paid the guard? That sounded like...

“And I was wrong,” Izel said. “The man died. I thought this could be done without harm and was proved mistaken. This entire business is sordid and we should be done with it. Besides, given the behavior of the Ivory Library’s men when they were caught at the docks their assurances of good treatment ring hollow.”

“It’s too late for scruples, Izel,” Captain Tozi evenly replied. “Our families made the bargain, it’s on us to deliver. Unless you want your fathers’ tolerance for your career choices to run out?”

“We could-” he began.

Only Coyac was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Tristan’s legs ached, but even if they had been bleeding he would have stayed where he was. He would not miss a whisper of this. Someone was ushered in, the man they must have been referring to, and there was the sound of gloves being tossed on a table.

“Let us be done quickly,” a faintly accented voice said, “I do not have long to spend here. How soon can you get us Abrascal?”

Confirmation, part of him icily thought. Someshwari, the rest decided. Not Ramayan, or wherever Kiran Agrawal was from.

“It is delicate work, lieutenant,” Captain Tozi said. “Especially since the fools you also hired got themselves caught and put the Thirteenth’s guard up.”

“I did not come to listen to excuses,” the man replied. “We were promised results in exchange for the favors given.”

Favors to family, it sounded like. Given that Izel Coyac’s father was a prominent Izcalli general this was not a petty matter.

“If he were so easy to grab, you would have done it already,” Cressida mildly replied.

“We do not need to grab him, we already paid your families for it,” the man scorned. “I’ve looked at the Thirteenth and I am less than impressed. The mirror-dancer is a cripple, the captain is stuck in the palace half the time and the savage almost killed herself with her own Signs. How hard can one rat be to catch?”

There was tense silence.

“I have been befriending Song Ren,” Captain Tozi said. “Developing trust. When it is established, we will pick our moment and strike.”

“The ship will only wait so long in the Lordsport,” the man warned. “You will not enjoy the consequences if you fail to deliver.”

Gloves were snatched off the table.

“Do not approach me at Black House,” the man said. “In one week, at the same time, I will return here. There had best be results by then.”

There was shuffling as if someone was getting out of the way, then a door was wrenched open. Though the Nineteenth was sure to continue speaking after this, Tristan did not remain. He hurried up the chimney, as quickly as he could without making noise.

Below were enemies, but there was one in the street as well.

His bag he left on the roof, he would return for it later. He took a lamp, rope, a rag. Careful, careful, he reminded himself as he tread across the tiles. The man was down in the street, already speeding away. Eager to be gone, already gone in his own mind – and that meant he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. Tristan slipped back down through the hole in the roof, down the stairs, and was down in the street by the time the stranger turned the corner.

He followed.

In his forties, Someshwari in looks. Short dark hair, narrow shoulders, not the muscles or stride of a fighter. Pistol and knife at his side. His clothes were neither cheap nor expensive, in muted shades that did not stand out. He was headed in the direction of the Collegium, towards the ward’s larger streets – where he would be able to take a coach and Tristan would lose him.

He’d not get there. This was not a nice part of town, and at this hour the streets were mostly empty. Workshops locked up, shutters closed. Taverns full, but there were few around here – and when the stranger turned past one, through an alley, the thief quickened his step. Softly, quick but quiet, watching him peer ahead as Tristan’s fingers closed around his blackjack and he darted through the last of the distance.

It made noise, enough the man turned. But he did not turn quickly enough to avoid the blow on the back of his head. Careful again, so careful – else he might kill the stranger, and the thief did not want that at all. There was no scream, only a groan as the Someshwari dropped. Out cold. Tristan put away the ‘jack and picked up the man. He dragged him away from the tavern, into another side street.

There were three shops there, but only one had a basement with a street entrance. He picked the padlock, checked inside – coal and metal scraps, that would do. He dragged the man down into it, careful not to be seen. Closed the doors, lit a lamp, tied the man up and gagged him before making him look at the wall.

Tristan sliced off his left ear, standing behind him, which woke the Someshwari up. The gag mostly took care of the scream. Blood sprayed, coursing down his neck in small rivers.

“I have questions for you,” the rat said, feigning a deeper voice. “Scream and you will die.”

Dropping the cut ear onto his lap reinforced the point. A tangible, permanent loss at the beginning will strike terror, Abuela had taught him. It will establish from the beginning the stakes of disobeying you. The Someshwari hastily nodded, proving her right again. She was always right.

Tristan lowered the gag.

“Name?”

“Lieutenant Apurva,” he babbled. “I’m a blackcloak, from a Circle. You’re making a mistake, I-”

“Which Circle?” Tristan asked.

The man paused, surprised.

“The Umuthi Society,” he said. “A tinker. I have coin, I could make you rich if you-”

Tristan put the knife against his throat. He took the hint.

“Why are you in Tratheke, Apurva?” he asked.

“I’m part of the delegation to the Lord Rector,” the Someshwari emphasized. “I’m expected, they will look for me. This is all a huge mistake, but if you let me go-”

Tristan sliced at his shoulder through the cloth, shallow, and the man yelped – more in fear than pain.

“Tell me about the Ivory Library,” Tristan ordered.

“The what?” Lieutenant Apurva tried, but when he felt steel against his throat he changed his tune. “Wait, wait! I’m not even a member, I just work with them. All I know is they study contracts and they’re influential, they have men in many free companies.”

His jaw clenched. What had he done to earn their attention? He should be nobody.

“Why,” he said, “are they trying to abduct the boy from the Thirteenth?”

The lieutenant twitched.

“How do you know that?”

Tristan lightly laid the blade against his remaining ear. The man licked his lips.

“His contract, there’s something strange about it,” he said. “I don’t know anything else, I only...”

The thief forced his breathing to remain even. Anger would not serve him. He must be cold as the steel in his hand.

“Who is your contact?” he asked.

There had to be one, someone who would handle the ship and the moving of an abductee. Lieutenant Apurva wriggled, tried to get out of the ropes.

“You have to let me go if I tell you,” he said. “I just-”

The blade dug into the right ear, blood trickling down, and the Someshwari whimpered.

“Sergeant Ledwaba, from the escorts,” he said. “And there’s another, someone high up, but I don’t know who. Ledwaba handles everything with me.”

High up. Brigadier Chilaca, a commander? His fingers clenched around the knife.

“The ship in the Lordsport,” Tristan rasped out. “Give me a name.”

“The Grinning Madcap,” Apurva wept. “That’s everything, I swear. There’s nothing else for me to tell.”

A breath in, a breath out.

Had he been born under a fool’s star, to keep making the same mistake again and again and again? No matter the color of the cloak, he would always be a rat. Meat for the cats.

“No,” Tristan Abrascal agreed. “You have nothing else to tell me.”

He’d not bothered to feign the voice, this time, and Lieutenant Apurva twisted around to look at his face. He got his look, though whatever he might have said was swallowed by a gurgle when Tristan cut his throat.

Blood sprayed on the cellar wall.

He watched his enemy die in silence, mind already racing ahead. The Watch would come looking for him, eventually. They would have contractors, Masks. I must clean up here, he thought, then get rid of the clothes and the body in running water. A canal would suit. Then he must double back for his kit and hurry to Black House, to ensure he was seen and would not stand out as a suspect.

Someone high up, the dead man had said. How high up did it go? No, it did not matter. No matter the rank it was enough he could no longer afford to stay in Black House. He would have to tell Song... Something, an excuse could be made. And Maryam, she- he swallowed. Calm. Fear and the rest, they could wait until he had dug his way out to the grave.

A hand on his shoulder. He did not need to turn to know who it was, for he felt not even a tremor of fear from it. It was as familiar as his own breath.

“What will you do?” Fortuna asked.

He closed his eyes. Tozi Poloko. Kiran Agrawal. Izel Coyac. Cressida Barboza. Hunt him, would they?

“What else?”

His fingers tried to close around a tile that wasn’t there.

“I’m going to kill them all,” the rat said.