Chapter 44 (Patreon)

The woods around Cantica had been cleared, leaving no true cover close to the palisade.

The five of them instead gathered around a half-abandoned firepit about thirty feet out, roughly to the west of the town. It had a rack propped up over it that Ferranda said was for smoking meat, and they all felt a little sick at the thought of what kind of meat that might mean. Devils were said to prefer eating men whilst they lived, but they were not above feasting on corpses. Regardless of that understated horror, the pause was most welcome. They were all tired and out of breath, in stark need of reprieve.

Not that it was only that, for now that the enemy was out of sight Angharad’s oaths were put to the question.

“This was badly done, Tredegar,” Shalini bit out. “You-”

“She didn’t promise a thing, Goel,” Lan cut in. “Our good lordling swore to return me unharmed, yeah?”

The Tianxi pointed at the cut on her neck.

“He let her out of the oath before he even agreed to it.”

Eyes turned to her and Angharad shrugged.

“I expected him to catch the detail and amend the wording,” she admitted. “I agreed because the oath was easy to negate regardless: we could simply warn the Watch that one of the trial-takers feigned their death, then point at every other deceased from the Bluebell manifest and specify it was not them.”

So long as Augusto was not outright named, the oath was not broken.

“Huh,” Shalini finally said. “He’s the one who asked for that wording, I’m surprised he didn’t think of that.”

“He was on edge,” Lan told them. “Even more than you’d think. He kept talking to himself and the cultists avoided being anywhere near him.”

“I do not think his contract did heal him,” Song said, and that earned instant attention.

Angharad knew more about the Tianxi’s pact than most, but by now most everyone had figured out that those silver eyes gave her insight into the workings of spirits.

“The Red Eye, it is a god of feeding,” she continued. “When Felis bargained with it his wound was not healed, he closed it with some sort of red crystal that fed on his body. Why would Augusto Cerdan get a better bargain, when he would have bargained from even worse a position?”

“He had a hole through his body, Song,” Ferranda flatly said. “He no longer does.”

“I don’t think that’s actually true,” the Tianxi replied. “I think that his wounds are still there but that he can fill them up - but that, like the Red Eye, he must keep feeding for them to stay filled.”

Lan let out a low whistle.

“So the old god’s a loan shark,” she said. “Our boy Augusto has to keep what, eating human flesh so what grew back doesn’t whither? No wonder he thinks the Watch will blow his brains out if they catch him.”

“Something like that,” Song agreed. “I imagine his pact lends him a way to feed at a touch, if the cultists feared coming close.”

“We should take care to avoid getting close to him, then,” Angharad said.

“You say that like you are not planning to kill him before night’s end,” Ferranda said. “Though I will admit I am not sure how you would get around the terms.

“That oath does seem pretty straightforward,” Shalini agreed, cocking an eyebrow. “Tredegar?”

The terms were simple enough, that was true. She was to commit no violence against Augusto Cerdan nor allow her companions to do the same, or attempt to imprison him nor allow her companions to do the same, until twenty four hours had passed. Only he had not though to anchor the oath in-

In the distance, the night lit up with thunder.

No, she realized. Not thunder. These were cannons. And the shattering cacophony inside Cantica revealed exactly what they were being turned on, sowing fire and screams. The five of them went still, like rabbits before a wolf, as bombardment began in earnest from north of the town. Where they had been headed.

“Those are guchui rounds,” Song finally spoke into the silence.

Shalini breathed in sharply.

“Thunder shells?” she said. “I thought the Republics kept a tight lid on those.”

“They sell them to the Watch,” Lan said, with strange certainty. “Sometimes the crates are kept in Sacromonte warehouses until they can be distributed to the right Garrison force.”

Angharad could feel the capital letter on Garrison, even in Antigua. It was not unwarranted, for though the free companies of the Watch made up the majority of its numbers the ruling council of the blackcloaks, the Conclave, commanded the single largest number of soldiers in black cloaks. They must, to protect their Trebian territories and uphold their duties under the Iscariot Accords.

The soldiers of the Garrison were considered second-rate compared to the more glamourous company men, Angharad knew, but that only meant so much. Getting bit by a hound instead of a wolf was hardly kinder on the hand.

It occurred to the noblewoman a moment later that Lan, given her unseemly origins, might well be so certain because she had participated in robbing the Watch. It was somewhat embarrassing it had taken her so long to catch that, but for all the woman’s Sacromontan quirks she had to admit that Lan did not act much like she had imagined a criminal would. She was clean and well-spoken, not constantly drunk and disorderly, and as far as Angharad could tell she was not constantly lying.

It would be a stretch to call her an honorable woman, but Angharad would hesitate to say she was even half as detestable as the likes of Augusto Cerdan, to whom she had once so thoughtlessly granted the presumption of honor.

“If the Watch is shelling Cantica, it’ll be to soften up the opposition before they storm it,” Shalini said. “That means they have troops on the way, probably come from Three Pines.”

“Which means we could take refuge with them if we head north,” Lady Ferranda said. “That seems the wisest course left open to us.”

“That path takes us by the postern gate,” Angharad said. “The others will be trying to evacuate through there, it seems to me we could attempt to join up on the way.”

She had expected to have to fight some of the others for this, particularly Shalini and Ferranda, but they found the two quite agreeable to the suggestion. Zenzele is still with the others, she realized after a moment. It was Lan that objected, though in words carefully coached to give no offense.

“I do not mean to linger overlong,” Angharad assured her. “Only to ascertain if we might bolster our numbers on the way north.”

“There will be a lot of rats trying to leave that sinking ship, Lady Tredegar,” Lan warned her. “We’re just as likely to run into enemies as friends.”

It was true, she knew, but yet worth trying. As everyone save Lan shared her opinion, there was no further debate and they headed out briskly. Cantica was not so large that it would take long to get past the town, and they were already on the right side to reach the postern gate anyhow. It was but the work of minutes to make their way there on yellow grass, weapons out and eyes wary. The postern gate was carefully hidden from the outside, made to look part of the palisade, but their crew had the advantage of having Song among it so Angharad hardly worried of finding it.

Even that hardly proved unnecessary, as there was no missing the gate when they got there: it was wide open.

Eyes sweeping their surroundings, Angharad found nothing but an expanse of empty yellow grass from the edge of the woods to their west and the palisade to their east. The open grounds continued to the north in a wide curve until they reached the continuation of the beaten earth road leading to the port of Three Pines. Inside the town, past the palisade, they could hear the roar of flames and the occasional shot as the Watch’s bombardment continued to methodically demolish Cantica.

“They might have left it open after Augusto let them in,” Lady Ferranda said.

“Smells like ambush,” Shalini grunted back, shaking her head.

“No sign of our companions,” Lan said. “We should move on.”

Angharad hesitated. She liked the look of this no more than Shalini, but an empty field was no reason to leave behind comrades. They could at least-

“Movement,” Song suddenly said, musket rising.

Only she was not looking at the open gate, Angharad realized, but the woods.

From which a cultist warband was charging out.

--

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there in the dark, with only a shuttered lantern with company, but it was a relief when someone craned their neck past the edge of the trap door.

“I hope you’re down there, because if you aren’t I’m going to have to drop him and I’m not sure he’ll live,” Maryam called out.

“Please do not,” Zenzele Duma croaked. “I will most definitely die.”

Huh, he thought as he got on his feet. The Malani had lived, fancy that.

“I’ll admit,” Tristan called back, “even opening with a sword in the back, I figured Tupoc would kill you.”

“Stop taunting him and help me get him down that ladder,” Maryam said. “The last shell hit just a few blocks away, I do not care to stay out here.”

He opened the lantern’s shutters and moved to lend a hand as had been requested. And a hand was most definitely needed, for Zenzele Duma looked as if he had been thrown down a hill made of blades. He no longer bore his coat and his shirt was ripped clean through, revealing a nasty gut wound as well as a deep cut that went from the side of his torso to right below the hollow of his neck. Tristan thought one of his arms might be broken as well, for he used only one to move down the ladder, but found it was truly because the Malani was cradling something in his hand.

It was only when Zenzele turned to be helped down the last rungs that the thief saw the worst wound of them all: his right eye had been ripped through, roughly enough it must be the work of nails and not a blade. Tristan swallowed.

“Not a pretty sight, is it?” Zenzele weakly laughed. “And I did not even kill the bastard while he might well have killed me, had cultists not come looking because of Cozme’s shot. That and Lady Sarai’s priceless help, of course.”

“Call me Maryam,” she said as she came down the ladder, closing the trapdoor behind her. “I suppose that game has finally run its course.”

She glanced at the Malani, not harshly but without much kindness either.

“And it was luck on your part, Duma. If I hadn’t run into them myself I wouldn’t have doubled back and found you lying there.”

Tristan helped the man to lower himself and sit against the wall, still clutching something in his hand.

“Try stabbing the head first, next time,” Tristan advised. “Works better than the back.”

Zenzele convulsed, letting out a ragged wheezing sound.

“Sleeping God, Tristan, don’t make me laugh,” he said. “I think it makes my inside bleed.”

The thief mercifully spared him further amusement, finding Maryam looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I did get something from him, yes,” Zenzele muttered, seeming to talk to no one in particular. “He will remember it.”

And the dark-skinned man finally loosened his grip, smiling as he revealed the eye on the palm of his hand. It was cut up and red, but Tristan had seen that eerie paleness often enough to recognize it. That was Tupoc Xical’s eye, he was sure of it. Zenzele murmured unintelligibly after that, staring at nothing as he sagged against the stone.

“He dips in and out of things,” Maryam said. “I don’t suppose you have anything left for pain?”

“Clean out,” Tristan said. “I can clean some of his wounds and bandage them, at least.”

“Please do,” she said.

Blue eyes moved to the corner, where the shadows half-cloaked Cozme’s body. Zenzele had been too out of it to notice.

“Did you get what you wanted?” Maryam quietly asked.

“From him? Enough.”

In the pale lantern light, the sharp cast and colors of her hardly seemed a woman’s – like sapphires cast in marble, too angular to have been born and not carved.

“But did you get what you want?” she asked again.

He breathed out.

“It is not finished,” he said. “There are four others left before the account is settled.”

She sighed.

“I suppose it was too much to hope you would be done with it,” Maryam said. “Will you try for Augusto?”

Tristan shrugged.

“The Watch will have him marked for death,” he said. “I see no pressing need to pull the trigger myself.”

“So you can be taught,” she drily said. “Promising.”

The thief licked his lips, unsure of what he had to say but certain of the need for it.

“Before,” he said. “When I left you behind, I-”

“I do not care for apologies,” Maryam told him. “I have... I understand the demands the past can make, let us leave it at that. If your actions bring you sorrow, Tristan, do not repeat them. The past is a dead thing.”

He passed a hand through his hair, feeling so very tired.

“I’ll not excuse or justify,” Tristan finally said. “But when I go for the second name, it will be in a manner that does not lead me to regrets.”

She studied him for a moment.

“My mother always said that no amount of regrets will built a cairn, but she was a hard woman,” Maryam said. “Too hard, in some ways. It was why her men gave her up to the Malani at the end.”

He hardly dared breathe, for never before had Maryam spoken a word of her past.

“It matters, that you regret it,” she said. “But only so much. Remember that, next time you stand at that same crossroads.”

The pale woman reached for her bag, claiming something inside, and offered it to him. Even in this trembling light, Tristan could not mistake it for anything else: Yong’s pistol, the grip held towards him. The same he’d left in the mud when he ran after Cozme.

The rat swallowed, licking his cracked lips.

“You picked it up,” he dumbly said.

Maryam pressed it into his palms, closed his fingers around it.

“Once,” she warned.

--

Before Angharad could so much as open her mouth, Lan fled.

Back the same way they had come: straight south, as fast as her legs could carry her. The noblewoman hesitated then moved to join her, looking at the others. Song caught her by the shoulder.

“We have to go back in the town,” she said. “Now.”

Angharad gaped. There was bravery and then there was foolishness. If everyone was fleeing Cantica, then there might be devils headed for that very postern gate right now. She was not the only to think this madness. The cultists were gaining on them, even if they were still far out. At least a dozen of them, all running.

“That’s going to get us killed,” Shalini said. “Every second we are not running south we-”

A shot rang out and they all flinched.

“Into the town,” Song hissed. “They have muskets, we can’t stay in the open.”

Heart in her throat, Angharad turned and saw exactly what she feared: Lan was on the ground. It was her the cultists had been aiming at. She was still moving, struggling to get up, but the shot had clearly hit here.

“Don’t you dare,” Song began, but she was already running.

She glimpsed ahead and banked hard to the left to avoid getting shot in the gut, Song putting a bullet in the shooter’s head a heartbeat later. Her legs burned but she ran, glimpsing again. She had to slide low, boots ripping into dead grass to avoid another shot. Song was reloading, could not silence the enemy twice in such quick succession.

Lan turned to her, her side bleeding, and got on her knees. Angharad scrambled back up, glimpsing again, and saw the shot before it happened.

“Du-”

The bullet took Lan in the cheek, as if some invisible maw bit through flesh and bone, and it was mercy the impact spun her around. What little of that death Angharad had just seen she would not soon forget.

“-ck,” she finished, nauseous.

“Come back, you damn fool,” Song snarled.

They were going for the door, all three of them, but only Shalini had her eyes on it. Song and Ferranda had their muskets out and were firing at the cultists, covering her still. Three of the warband had split off to go after her, Angharad saw, but she was faster. Her legs were longer. She left them behind, the one who came closest shot in the leg by Ferranda, and Song slew another hollow musketman without batting an eye.

She caught up to them just as they got to the open postern gate, hollows close on her heels. Shalini was ushering them one after another, eyes calm. Angharad passed her, feeling a hand pat her back, and the Someshwari moved so quickly after that she barely even caught it. A heartbeat, then smoked billowed and Shalini had two pistols in hand.

Two cultists dropped dead, the others tripping into them, and the Someshwari slammed the door behind them. She locked it after as Angharad stumbled forward, panting from the fear and run and the companion she had failed to protect. If she had been just a little faster, cut it closer with the shot she had slid to avoid… Ferranda squeezed her shoulder.

“You tried,” the infanzona said. “Eyes up, Angharad. We’re not out of trouble yet.”

She swallowed, shaking off the other woman, but a look around told her that Ferranda Villazur had the right of it.

They were not out of trouble yet, for before the mud of Cantica’s streets was filled with corpses.

The sight of that silent spread of death filled her with more dread than the sound of cultists trying to jostle the postern gate open behind them, slamming fists against the wood and unloading their muskets. It was not the bombardment that had done this, they could all see it plain. The heaps of hollows and devils had been killed the hard way, cracked and cut and pierced. Some devils looked like their torso had been pulped, the remains disgusting to behold.

“Manes,” Ferranda breathed out. “What did this?”

In the distance there was a shrill scream, the sound of it like walking on broken glass. They all flinched.

“Whatever it was, it is no longer here,” Song said. “Best to get gone before it returns.”

In the distance, another shell lit up the dark as it hit Cantica. The bombardment was tapering down, but it was not yet done.

“We need to leave this town,” Angharad said, then sighed. “Again.”

“The main gates, then,” Shalini said. “I don’t think our friends outside are going to be letting us pass through.”

As if to agree with her, a cultist unloaded into the door again. Not that muskets would help any there, Angharad thought. The door was thick, solid wood. Odd that they would waste powder on it when that was plain to see.

“I see no better plan to be had,” Song finally said. “Ferranda?”

“Sounds better than joining them,” the infanzona said, nodding at the corpses.

They set out as quickly and quietly as they could. The fastest path would be south of the main street, but that was too likely to find them a fight. They kept two streets off instead, even if would take them longer with all the detours. Much of the town was on fire, now, and they hardly needed a lantern to seen. It was why Angharad saw him at the same time he saw them.

Walking down the street alone, humming, Mayor Crespin had not a mark on him save for some ash on his clothes. Even his shell was pristine, knuckles barely scuffed though there was some blood around his mouth and under his fingernails. The four of them slowed at the sight of him, Ferranda quietly cursing. Angharad’s lips thinned. There was no fire on this part of the street, only dark and empty houses with tiled roofs on both sides.

“I don’t like the look of that fight,” Shalini admitted.

They would, Angharad suspected, have a choice of whether or not it was to be fought. Before she could call out, the approaching devil broke the silence.

“You returned,” Mayor Crespin said, sounding baffled. “Why – nay, it matters not. Let us put an end to our pointless palaver. Cantica has breathed its last, I must make arrangement.”

Angharad’s jaw tightened.

“I will get close,” she said. “Try to get shots in, pinning him is our best chance.”

“Your best,” Crespin replied, revealing rows and rows of teeth, “is not enough.”

There was a sharp whistling sound, a for a moment Angharad hoped a shell was falling. Instead the devil’s hand reared up, catching what she realized was a stone. Polished and the size of a small fist, but very much a stone. The devil let out an amused noise.

“A slinger?” he said, tossing the stone behind him. “How nostalgic.”

He was looking up at the roof to their side, and Angharad followed his gaze. There was a man up there, in a black cloak. She caught a glimpse of Aztlan features under the cloak, then the watchman raised a hand. He snapped his fingers and there was sudden buzzing sound.

Mayor Crespin’s arm down to the elbow, the same that’d caught the stone, was pulped.

The devil screamed, legs ripping free from his shell like it were paper, but liquid darkness formed a circle with something inside it just above his head. Angharad’s gaze shied away from the Sign, even as the devil turned limp for a heartbeat. A heartbeat was all it took, for another blackcloak emerged from the dark of an alley behind the mayor. They bore a long spear – no, a harpoon. The head was barbed.

The Sign above the devil dissolved a heartbeat before the harpoon went into his back.

Crespin screamed and struggled but the watchman danced away. The harpoon did not move, however, as if stuck in the air, and the devil was stuck on it.

“All yours, lieutenant,” the blackcloak said.

A woman, Angharad caught. There was a Tianxi lilt to her words. The slinger above chuckled, taking his time to place another stone on a leather strap at the end of a rope and swing it. The stone hit the devil in its head this time, despite Crespin’s desperate struggles. The lieutenant snapped his fingers and buzzing sound returned, even louder.

A heartbeat later, the devi’s torso was black mulch and Angharad swallowed, unsure whether she felt disgust or awe.

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

The noblewoman nearly leapt out of her skin, reaching for her saber until she found a knife lazily pressed against her throat. There was a fourth blackcloak next to her, and from the shouts of the others they had just noticed it as well. How? They had been in the middle of the alley.

“Don’t think too hard on it, Tredegar,” the blackcloak teased as they drew back the blade, face hidden under the hood. “You might sprain something.”

“You know who I am?” she got out.

“I read the docket for the recommended,” the watchman said. “Headed for the Skiritai, is it? You’ll have to work on your awareness, else they might decide you need to be taught.”

“I will,” Angharad slowly said, “keep that in mind… sir?”

“Sir will work,” the watchman said. “The four of you surviving should count as a Trial of Weeds complete, given the circumstances. Congratulations in advance.”

“The Watch is already inside the town?” Song asked. “You are still shelling it.”

The Aztlan with the sling, the one the other had called lieutenant, leapt down from the roof and landed in the mud with a wet squelch.

“Not the regulars, girl, just us,” he said. “We are cleaning house with the worst of the lot before the palisade is breached and the proper sweep begins.”

There was another of those ear-splitting screams in the distance.

“Enough chitchat,” the lieutenant grunted. “Chameli is taking too long with the Saint.”

“There’s a Saint here?” Ferranda asked, sounding worried.

“The priestess leading the warband pulled a little too deep,” the watchman that had put a knife to her throat said. “Useful in cleaning up the devils, but she’s a feeder. Those are always tricky to kill.”

Song cleared her throat.

“Lieutenant,” she said, “I understand that you have a charge, but if one of your squads could spare-”

The blackcloak with the harpoon, who had just ripped it out of the mayor’s remains, let out a snort.

“Crews?” she said. “There’s only us, girl. The commander knew it’d be excessive force already.”

“Five of you,” Angharad slowly said. “Five of you did what we saw at the entrance?”

“It was getting boring in Three Pines,” the lieutenant shrugged. “It’s good to stretch our legs now and then.”

That hadn’t been what - the chatty one she had called sir clapped her shoulder, overly friendly.

“I would recommend hiding out in the west of town until it’s over,” they said. “We already cleaned it up. Don’t go through the main gates.”

“Why?” Angharad asked.

“The regulars set up a killing field there,” the lieutenant said. “They’ll shoot on sight.”

He whistled sharply afterwards, striding away without another word. The harpooner followed, and the Navigator had never come out in the first place.

“Good luck,” the chatty one said waving back as he followed, walking backwards. “Try not to die, I have coin riding on you and Duma making it to the end!”

The four of them were left there standing in the street, as if a storm had just blown through. Sleeping God, Angharad thought, remembering the carper of corpses. Five of them. Shalini cleared her throat.

“West, then?” she tried.

It seemed a sounder notion than being shot by their own rescuers, at least.

“I know a place,” Angharad said.

--

By the time Tristan finished seeing to Zenzele’s wounds the Malani was alert again.

Pain was a fine enough anchor, and there was only so gentle the thief could be when cleaning wounds that serious. He was thanked, afterwards, and that courtesy extended to the young lord pretending he could not see Cozme's corpse in the corner of the room. Tristan had considered throwing in the gaol in the back, but Zenzele had already known what he intended and could out him for it should he wish.

It had also been pretty funny to watch the Malani have to pretend there wasn’t a dead man a couple of feet away from him, which might have weighed on his decision more than was strictly wise.

“The shelling has stopped,” Maryam noted. “I expect the Watch will assaulting the town soon.”

“Now would be the time to get out, if we do not want to be stuck between the hollows and the rooks,” Tristan agreed. “Lord Zenzele, would you feel up to the trip?”

The man hesitated.

“If you help me,” he finally said. “We risk cultists coming here to hide if we stay much longer anyhow, and I mean no insult but I do not be believe we would prevail in such an encounter.”

Tristan, who had over the last few days been savagely beaten not once but twice by greyhairs, saw no grounds to argue that point. He was honestly unsure if Lord Zenzele might not be the best fighter of them still even in his state.

“We could take on one hollow,” Maryam firmly said.

“Two, if they’re children,” Tristan added.

Zenzele convulsed again, breath wheezing.

“What did I say,” he gasped, “about making me laugh?”

It was more laborious than difficult getting him out of the gaol after that, Maryam heading up to drag him by the shoulders while Tristan stood below to push him up by the waist. The thief got out with the lantern in hand while Zenzele leaned against Maryam for support.

“Should I ask what happened to Cozme Aflor?” the Malani lord casually asked.

“Lost him in the chaos,” Tristan just as casually replied. “Who knows? He might have fallen down some stairs.”

“Very sharp stairs indeed,” Zenzele muttered, and asked no more.

Large swaths of the town were on fire, but the southern part – close to the main gates – seemed to have been the least ravaged by the bombardment. To Tristan that reeked of leaving a hole in the barrel so you knew where the water would go, even more so when he risked climbing atop a half-wrecked house and stood on the roof to have a look at the rest of Cantica. There was a hole in the palisade to the north of the town and the Watch seemed to be sweeping towards the south street by street.

He climbed down to tell them as much and Zenzele grimaced.

“They are driving the hollows out into the open grounds to the south,” the Malani said. “They must already have men in place there, they left a path out so they will not have to dig them up street by street.”

“That will become good news in a while,” Tristan said, “but until then it means that every surviving hollow and devil in Cantica is being driven our way.”

A heartbeat passed.

“We could go back in the hole,” Maryam reluctantly said.

Zenzele Duma looked as if he did not know whether to laugh or cry.

“That would be even riskier than we thought,” Tristan said. “It’s a good place to ride out the Watch sweep, and there’s former slaves with the cultists. At least some of them will know the place.”

“Heading towards the gate would be worse,” Maryam said. “Everyone else will be doing the same.”

“We could try to hide-”

“Stop,” Zenzele hoarsely whispered. “We need to hide right now.”

His eyes were wide but clear, and though he was looking at thin air that did not necessarily mean he was raving. Tristan caught Maryam’s gaze and nodded, the two of them helping the Malani limp towards the back of the piles of lumber.

“Quick, he’s close now,” the lord said.

“Who?” Maryam asked.

“Augusto Cerdan,” Zenzele replied. “Black chords for all three of us, he wants – needs, maybe? – us dead.”

That, Tristan thought, sounded like a very useful contract. He’d not even said anything and still he found Fortuna sitting on a roof and glaring down at him as he helped lead Zenzele into a small dead-end alley behind the wood piles. He sneered back at her. If she did not want him to have contract envy, then perhaps she should have offered better goods.

It was a very expressive sneer, as proved by his goddess’ outraged cry.

While the thief had no great love for dead-end alleys, it was the best they could do as a hiding place in a hurry and if it came to running it was likely Zenzele was dead anyway. The two of them lowered him behind a barrel of dirty rainwater, his back to it so his legs wouldn’t stick out, and the thief handed Maryam the lantern so she could shutter it. Just in time, as they all heard urgently speaking voices approach.

"It's close to here, I swear," a woman’s voice said in Antigua.

Tristan crept to the edge of the alley, crouching low, and risked a look. Five people had come from the west of Cantica, and though he could only make them out partly through the gap in wood piles the thief saw enough. Three armed and scarred men, cultists. A fair-haired woman in rags and badly bruised, likely a former slave.

And, as Zenzele had warned, Augusto Cerdan.

“It had better be,” Augusto said. “If you wasted our time, perhaps it will lead to our deaths – but I assure you, it will lead to yours first.”

Ah, infanzones. How lucky for the rest of Vesper that they now got to experience their particular charms.

“My brother helped dig it,” the woman insisted. “We’ll have to crawl, but it gets us past the palisade.”

Tristan stilled. Some kind of tunnel out? No, anything that large would have been noticed. More a crevice to squeeze through, likely widened as discreetly as the slaves could. While the thief would have preferred it should that crew be headed for the gaol – it would have been child’s play to lock them up inside – he would settle for them showing him a way out of this town. A glance back showed him that Zenzele was safely tucked away behind the barrel and Maryam doing her best to hide herself behind him.

There was hardly anywhere for him to hide even were he inclined to try, it was better to move.

Tristan crept away silently, moving behind one of the wood piles. The hollows had no lantern but one of them did hold a torch, which he kept high while the sole woman among them began patting away the bottom of the palisade past the lumberyard. Careful to position himself so someone wandering in from the north of the town, the thief settled in to wait them out. They hardly seemed to be paying attention to their surroundings, but that did not mean they were not dangerous.

One of the cultists said something to Augusto, too low for Tristan to overhear, and the infanzon gestured impatiently at him.

“So go and piss, then,” the Cerdan bit out. “And do it out of my sight, none of us need to see whatever tumor passes for your cock.”

The other two cultists laughed, speaking quickly in a cant. The tone, though, was universal. They were making fun of the third, and not nicely. The cultists stomped away angrily, scowling, and that was their luck turned. Because when Tristan realized the man was headed their way he was able to move around the wood pile and keep himself out of the sight, but the moment the cultists saw there was an alley he headed straight there.

And hollows saw better in the dark, so he was sure to see Maryam even if he missed Zenzele.

Fuck, Tristan thought, palming his blackjack. Even if he took out the man before he could shout, the others would notice in short order. They’d have to grab Zenzele and flee immediately, else they would be forced into a fight they were sure to lose. Augusto alone might have been enough to kill them, with that brutal contract of his, throwing in warriors too was smothering all hope. Biding his time, the thief circled entirely around the wood pile as the cultist walked past it and ended up at the man’s back.

Grunting as he approached the alley, the man propped his spear against the side of the shed at the corner and reached for his trousers. Tristan followed, steps silent and arm raised, as the cultist reached the alley and-

“Found it!”

And it all went to the dogs. The cultist turned to look back, catching Tristan with his hand raised, and the thief struck but it was already too late. The man got off half a shout before the blackjack his the side of his head, and he moved with the hit besides. Dazed but not unconscious. Cursing, the thief struck down at the crown of his head but the hollow got his hands up in time and tackled him. They rolled on the ground even as the cultists shouted out in cant.

“Move,” Maryam growled.

Obeying half on instinct, Tristan elbowed the cultist and threw himself off. A heartbeat later Maryam impaled the man with his own spear, right in the belly. The thief scrambled to his feet, looking back at the others as she coldly finished off the dying man, and saw trouble. The other two cultists were headed their way, Augusto elbowing them aside to take the lead.

“Is that you, rat?” he called out.

“We need to draw them away,” Tristan murmured to Maryam. “They might miss Zenzele.”

She nodded.

“Lord Augusto,” Tristan called out, smiling winningly. “What a coincidence to run into you here. Why, I was hoping-”

“Take him alive,” Augusto ordered the cultists. “Unless you’d prefer me topping off on one of you.”

Neither men look pleased at the threat, but they were more fearful than angry.

“It seems we got off on the wrong foot,” Tristan said, edging away from the alley. “I shall, uh, leave you to your business. Good luck you, my lord.”

Maryam raised the spear, which she seemed to have some training in using, and withdrew with him as the hollows approached. Both were armed, and no doubt better fighters. It’d be best to run now, it would also get them running after without first looking-

A strangled, coughing last came from the alley and Tristan almost cursed. There was no way the cultists had missed that, Zenzele was good as dead.

“You fool,” he hissed. “What was so funny it was worth slitting your own throat?”

“They’re all fucked,” Zenzele croaked back.

A heartbeat later a shot took the lead cultists in the throat, blood spattering wood, and the other one barely had the time to turn before death was on him. He thrust his spear but Angharad Tredegar pivoted around the blow like they were dancing, arm striking out like she knew where his neck was going to be an entire second before it got there. The cultists’ head fell on the floor, his body staying upright for a moment after, and the mirror-dancer did not even stop moving.

Just like that, easy as snuffing out a candle.

“You again,” Augusto snarled, stepping back in fear. “You got out, what are you doing-”

“That is none of your concern,” the Pereduri replied.

She was not alone. Shalini and Ferranda stood by her side, and by that perfect shot earlier Song must not be far either. Had Lan ditched them? Likely, if they’d gone back into the town. She was too clever a rat to let herself be talked into that. Feeling rather outnumbered, the infanzon cast a look around and found the same thing Tristan had just noticed: the woman left while they were all distracted. Whether she’d found her crevice or just legged it he had no idea, but good on her.

Wisest thing anyone had done all night.

“I am still protected by your oath,” Augusto called out. “You and all your companions, even those two. If you try to imprison me, you reveal yourself without-”

“Get on with it, Lord Augusto,” Tredegar said. “Your voice irritates, I must admit.”

Tristan’s hand went for his pistol, Yong’s pistol, but something about the pleasantness on Tredegar’s face stopped him. She did not usually feign a good mood, when denied something, and they all knew she badly wanted Augusto Cerdan dead. Instead he stepped forward, up to her side, and waited to let this play out.

It did not feel like a done thing, not yet.

--

Angharad watched as Augusto Cerdan slunk away, smirking, and wondered what he even thought he might achieve by going towards the palisade. Ultimately, she did not care enough to ask. Glancing at the Sacromontan who had just joined her, she inclined her head in a greeting he returned.

“Tristan,” she said. “I believe you own a pocket watch. Might I borrow it?”

The Sacromontan eyed her curiously, but he nodded and fished out the piece. It was simple but lovely work, Angharad found, polished bronze that popped open with ease. She marked the position of the needles, the lateness of the hour. It was four fifteen past midnight. The Pereduri delicately pushed the hour needle forward, all the way around the watch twice until it came to rest at four fifteen again. Nodding her thanks at Tristan, she handed him back his watch as he watched her bemusedly.

“Song,” she said. “If I could have the use of your musket?”

The Tianxi cocked an eyebrow but passed her firearm without asking why. Angharad aimed it, trying to recall what little she knew of using guns, and Song sighed.

“Like this,” the other woman said, leaning close to adjust her stance with gentle nudges.

Angharad raised the gun until it was of a height with her cheek, the butt near the crook of her elbow, and breathed out before placing her shot and pulling the trigger. Flint sparked, powder caught and smoke billowed out.

The bullet took Augusto in the back of the knee, though she had been aiming for the leg.

“Thank you,” Angharad politely said, passing the musket back.

Song looked baffled, opening her mouth then closing it, and the Pereduri left her behind as she strolled after Augusto. The Cerdan was screaming and rolling on the floor, his shot knee a bloody ruin. Though his cloak was in the way he ripped clear his sword when he heard Angharad coming. Wordlessly, she unsheathed her saber.

“You bitch,” Augusto snarled. “You took an oath, you-”

“Followed it to the word exact,” Angharad mildly said. “Is it no fault of mine that you bargained poorly.”

Twenty-four hours had passed on Tristan’s watch: she was, thus, free of her oath. She stood there patiently, waiting for him to drag himself up on his pulped knee. The only reason she had shot him was so that he would not be able to run into the woods and hide. With a hoarse scream Augusto Cerdan got up, leaning on his sword for help.

“We will begin at your leisure,” she informed him. “Prepare as you will – no others will intervene, it is yet a matter of honor.”

Something halfway between hate and disbelief bubbled up onto his face as he realized that this was not simple killing but exactly what she had promised: an honor duel.

“You demented fucking girl,” he breathed out. “You’re still on about Gascon even now?”

Most scholars agreed that if an opponent was capable of talking without difficulty, they should be considered fit to fight. Disinclined to walk too close to the line, Angharad flicked up her sword in a slow movement. A warning, which Augusto heeded. Screaming, he charged at her. The man was fit and from the way he held his blade had been schooled in swordplay, but he was wounded and raw.

It did not matter: even at his best there would have been no doubt about the outcome.

Angharad stepped around his blow, coat trailing behind her, as her footing drifted and she placed her blow to the man’s stumbling back. She slashed through his cape and clothes, carving into muscle and bone, and Augusto dropped with a scream. She moved around his flailing, careful to avoid his touch. Song had said it was all his contract required to be used.

“You can’t,” Augusto snarled. “You promised, Tredegar, promised. You have to let me go, Malani can’t just lie-”

The point of her saber went right through his throat, a clean thrust.

“Pereduri,” Angharad coldly corrected. “As you once told your brother, there is a difference. Had you believed your own words, you might have lived through this.”

She ripped out her blade, and with it the infanzon’s life.

Angharad did not offer a blade salute, for the corpse was underserving of the honor, but she went through her pockets and dropped her last handful of coins on his chest as custom dictated. That was the real choice, wasn’t it? The Fisher pretended that it was either black or white, that she could either follow her father into the grave or damn herself to his tune, but that was not the truth of it.

No empty salute, but copper for the grave.

That was a choice, just like when she used the words exact. To judge who deserved honor in spirit and who deserved it to the letter was not a not some cliff she was tumbling pas the edge of, some disease or addiction. It was just a choice. There was nothing mystical about it. And maybe there would come a day where the hate and fear cracked her faith, where the remembrance of the screams on the wind had her cast away her honor for a ruinous oath, but that was not an excuse. She knew better.

That was the first and last lesson of mirror-dancing: to fight yourself was to lose.

That was why no stripe was added after the tenth, no matter how many times one danced with the mirror afterwards. Theirs was not the boast of Malani swordmasters, each line a fresh victory, but a simpler declaration. To be a swordmaster was to prevail over others, to be a mirror-dance was to prevail over yourself. To surpass your limits, your weaknesses. The tenth time the mirror was danced was merely proof the dancer had chosen their path and would walk it until the end found them.

For the moment the dance began, defeat began walking your way from the other end of the road. There was no telling when it would find you, where and facing who, but what did that matter? The mirror always won, eventually. You could not win against yourself forever, no more than you could win against tide and storm. But it wasn’t the end that mattered, it was the fight.

And Angharad, as she sheathed her saber, decided that she yet had it in her to fight.