Chapter 5 (Patreon)

The watchwoman handling the ledger at the front of the Rainsparrow Hostel was named Valentina, and she helped them with the enthusiasm of someone whose hour would otherwise be ferociously boring. It turned out that one of the warehouses Angharad had noticed on Hostel Street was earmarked for student supplies, including a set of three fresh uniforms.

“You could pick up your field kit as well, but I’d wait until you spoke with your patron for that,” Valentina said. “They’ll advise you on what else to pick up at the same time.”

“Is there a way to learn who our patron is to be?” Angharad politely asked.

If there was a proper way to go about her affairs she would prefer to follow it, but in the absence of such guidance she was being left to guess. Angharad never much enjoyed guessing. Father had loved riddles, and often deplored her general dislike of them.

“Normally the officer who sorted you out should have sent you straight to them,” Valentina mused. “It probably means yours hasn’t arrived at Port Allazei yet. I hear the Master of Arms is running a few days late, they could be a passenger.”

Tristan leaned close to the Pereduri, though not quite enough to touch or even for his breath be felt. Sometimes she thought him half a ghost, to so rarely let himself be felt.

“Is your uncle not supposed to be coming soon?” he murmured.

Angharad bit down on her excitement, knowing it premature. Uncle Osian being their patron would be a grand thing indeed, but for him to have acquired the wealth he’d allegedly spent on her protection he must either be highly placed in the Watch or heavily indebted. Either way, could he truly afford to spend years on this island out in the middle of nowhere?

“It would be a pleasant surprise,” she finally replied.

She did not lower her voice, as speaking privately when engaged in conversation with a third party was impolite. The noblewoman then lowered her head in thanks to Valentina.

“Thank you for the advice,” she said.

The older woman dismissed her words with a vague gesture.

“No trouble,” she said. “And if you’ve the time, I recommend that you spend a few coppers getting your informs adjusted at the warehouse. There’s a tailor there and it’ll help with impressions if you’re to dine with free company princelings.”

Tristan leaned in, like a hound with a nose to the scent.

“Been hearing a lot of ‘princelings’ this and that being thrown around,” the man said, his Sacromonte accent suddenly gone thicker. “Don’t suppose you could help a friend out as to the meaning?”

Valentina eyed him amusedly.

“Most don’t take Murk mud as a slip to flash, boy,” she said, then raised an eyebrow. “What gave it away?”

Had Tristan noticed something, then? Angharad was somewhat at a loss as to what it might be.

“You put your ledger entries in the middle,” he replied. “Like all coterie bookkeepers.”

“It’s neater that way,” Valentina said, sounding peeved. “And if you align it to the left the Tianxi always get pissy.”

Cathayan, Angharad remembered, was read from right to left. She said nothing, content with staying out of Tristan’s way given that he did not seem to have given offense. The watchwoman sighed.

“Something to keep in mind, and well worth a warning,” Valentina said. “Since you’re both obviously fresh to the black, I’ll let you in on the way things go. After a few decades, free companies end up one of two ways: corpses or filthy rich.”

Angharad frowned, for that seemed a narrow case, but in truth she could not recall ever hearing of a small free company. Only half a dozen operated in the Isles, and of those a mere two were based near the Kingdom of Malan - those two, however, could field armies and fleets that would dwarf those of any single izinduna. An alliance of great lords would check them, surely, and the High Queen could destroy either with a single order. Yet it could not be denied they were both powerful forces.

Supposedly the continent knew smaller free companies, particularly in Izcalli and the Someshwar where there was always work for Rooks, but even these would be at least a few hundred men strong. More soldiers than Mother had ever commanded even when leading an exploration flotilla.

“Any company that had the pull to send students to Scholomance will have been around for ages, and it’ll have leading officers wealthy as lords,” the watchwoman continued. “It’s their kids they’ll be sending here, black-cloaked princelings used to having the run of private armies.”

Valentina leaned her chin against the palm of her hand.

“I’m pretty sure that Thando boy is from the Singing Jackals, and by reputation they’re a real piss-in-your-porridge kind of outfit.”

Angharad’s brow rose, for that name she had indeed heard of. The Singing Jackals were the largest free company to take contracts in Malan, said to be headquartered at an island off the south-east of the Middle Isle. They were also, more importantly, rumored to have connections with the High Queen’s court. Even if this Lord Thando did not turn out to be an enemy, he would know that House Tredegar had been struck from the rolls of nobility.

A discomforting thought.

They both thanked Valentina for her words and took their leave. The warehouse first, Angharad silently decided, but she could use a distraction from her worries. She turned a look on Tristan as they began to walk.

“You mentioned,” she said as they walked out of the hostel, “that the bookkeeper of these ‘coteries’ write ledger entries in the middle of the page. Why is that?”

He looked at her with that strange look of surprise he sometimes put on. It came and went at the oddest times, she had yet to figure out the reason for it.

“Coteries never run a single set of books,” Tristan explained. “The scriveners will fill the middle, then when they’re to send the numbers up the ladder they’ll copy them on the left side and cut that part of the page off.”

Angharad almost asked why they would not simply buy a second book to write the copy in until she recalled that these coteries were petty criminals and paper was not inexpensive.

“Then what is the last third for?” she asked.

It was not a long walk down the street, but it struck her as odd such an important location would be so deserted. Of the half-dozen people in black cloaks moving around Hostel Street only two were young enough to be students, the others likely from the local garrison.

“Depends who you ask,” Tristan snorted. “Bookkeepers, they’ll tell you it’s so there’s room to put their notes and corrections in.”

The expectation was clear.

“But,” Angharad gamely said.

“If you ask coterie boys, they’ll tell you it’s the ghost ledger,” the man said. “The real numbers, which the bookkeepers skim off of and hide in their notes.”

The noblewoman frowned. Even criminal bookkeepers should have greater integrity than that. And if not morals, then at least sense.

“Are coteries not brutal killers?” she asked. “It seems unwise to rob them.”

“A good bookkeeper’s precious enough coteries bosses usually let them get away with skimming if they keep it small and quiet,” Tristan said. “It’s hard to find folk learned in numbers willing to run Murk books.”

“I do not understand,” Angharad admitted. “Even the poorest would attend-”

Ah, she realized awkwardly. Other realms did not have the isikole, the four years of schooling all children of the Isles went through except if their parents secured an exemption – as Mother had for her. The poor of the Sacromonte likely could not read or write the way they would in Malan, much less do arithmetic. Tristan looked intrigued.

“Is it true all Malani children are made to attend school, then?” he asked. “Sailors said as much, but I always figured they meant children from good families. Or those who could pay, at least.”

“I was told that in the larger cities some children slip through the cracks,” Angharad admitted. “But the attempt is ever made. The isikole is one of the foundations of the kingdom.”

Not that all such schools were the same. Some nobles donated to the red roofs raised in their lands, or paid for more roofs to be raised so they would not be as crowded. The lessons stayed largely the same, however, though if one cared for rumors it was said that in Uthukile any school teaching children The Peace of Nine Oaths - the seventh of the nine Great Works - would keep accidentally catching fire until it ceased to do so.

Angharad had never read the work but Father said it covered the many wars between the kingdoms that had united the Low Isle and the Middle, often painting the former as the devils of the tale. Malani books will always teach Malani lessons, he had told her. The work was said to be more flattering to the ancient Kingdom of Peredur, perhaps because its many princes had warred with each other more than they ever did the rulers of the Middle Isle.

Angharad shook her head, chasing off the reverie. The Isles were far away, and she would not see them again for many years. They would keep while the current matters would not.

The warehouse was a stooped pile of masonry that seemed almost expectant, though the inside was covered with wood paneling. The front was a long counter behind which several doors stood closed, manned by a tall Someshwari woman who was half-heartedly playing a game of Patience, cards laid out in front of her. She looked up when they entered, no more pleased with them than she was with her game.

“What do you need?”

“We are freshly arrived,” Angharad said. “We come for our uniforms.”

“Stay here, I’ll see if Sergeant Andres has the time,” the watchwoman said, then narrowed her eyes at them. “Don’t touch my cards.”

Angharad cocked an eyebrow at her and nodded, saying nothing as the Someshwari yanked open one of the doors and disappeared into a dimly lit hall beyond it. Tristan, who had promised nothing, leaned over the counter to have a look at the cards.

“She’s stuck,” he reported.

“She is on shift,” Angharad said disapprovingly.

If the Someshwari was so bored, she should have found something useful to do instead of waste her time in such a manner. Card games were for evening parties, not the hours sworn to service. By the time the watchwoman returned Tristan had distanced himself from the counter, though they still both got a suspicious glare.

“He’ll see you,” she said. “Plaques.”

They duly handed them over, and after snorting at the number she handed them back. They were ushered into a cramped room at the back of the warehouse, full of closest and stacks where piles of black clothes of differing sizes waited in quantities that could be described as significant. Sergeant Andres turned out to be a white-haired old man with a limp, Lierganen in looks, accompanied by an assistant – a small girl that could not have been older than twelve.

“Sit, sit,” Sergeant Andres wheezed. “Let’s get you properly attired.”

The old man had a leather stripe marked for measures and began with Tristan, taking notes about shoulder length and the span of his legs while sending off the girl to fetch the sizes. As soon as the Sacromontan was sent off to dress in closet the sergeant was on her, Angharad standing patiently as he took her measures. It was a familiar feeling, though Emyr – Llanw Hall’s household tailor – had been half this Andres’s age and much sprier.

“I hear that the uniforms can be adjusted for a fee,” Angharad said, glancing down.

“Which?” Sergeant Andres asked. “There are three kinds, my girl, though I could certainly work on all three if you feel the need.”

It turned out that Angharad had already encountered two of the kinds of uniform without knowing it. The combination Song and Maryam had taken to wearing on the Fair Vistas – tunic, undershirt, trousers and cloak – was what Sergeant Andres called the ‘regular uniform’.

“Most students come already owning such a set, or even a few,” the old man said. “If that is not the case for you, they can be bought here at a discounted price.”

She nodded, grateful for the information, and got a frown in reply.

“Did your patron not inform you of this?”

“I am told they might not have arrived on Tolomontera yet,” Angharad said.

Sergeant Andres tssked disapprovingly.

“You’re not getting someone from the garrison, then,” he said. “Unlucky you, though given that number on your plague you asked for it.”

Angharad did not roll her eyes at the Lierganen superstition, but it was a near thing. The sergeant kept talking as Tristan returned and was measured again, explaining how the combat uniform – the fighting fit, he called it – had a similar foundation to the regular but wore over the tunic a knee-length overcoat of impressive thickness and collared cloak. Sergeant Mandisa had worn that same kind of coat back at the Old Fort, Angharad recalled.

Once she and Tristan had both been fitted for such a uniform, the old man measured them for the formal kind.

“It is rather decorative,” Sergeant Andres said. “Unsuited to exercise. They’ll only have you put it on for a few ceremonies a year, so if you take proper care of it you might not need a second for your time at Scholomance.”

The centerpiece of the formal uniform was a collared long-sleeved black jacket, buttoned in silver and reaching halfway down Angharad’s thighs. It sat tightly over a pale shirt, belted at the hip, pulling tight at her belly with a silver buckle. She’d had her pick of color for the stripes going down the side of her baggy trousers – choosing green – but the stiff, polished black boots they were tucked into were not negotiable. The old man offered her additions for it.

“A fitted capelet is most common,” he said. “Though the ornamental pauldron is popular, and cloth wraths for the leg have been in some demand – matching your stripe, of course.”

He casually added that these would have to be bought with personal coin or brigade funds, which was when Angharad frozen. She realized, all too late, that she did not actually have any coin on her – not that she had any left - and had not formally requested Song’s permission to draw on brigade funds. In truth she was not even sure that such a thing could even be done instead of withdrawing brigade coin from wherever it was held.

Shuffling away from the old man awkwardly, she cleared her throat as she saw Tristan pack away his formal uniform. Did he not intend to wear it? It was certainly her choice for the evening.

“I know that look,” the gray-eyed man said, leaning in. “Is it about a dead body or a loan?”

Angharad cleared her throat again. Why would she need help with a dead body? Presumably, she would have been the one to make it, making any need for aid well past.

“It occurs to me I have no funds on my person,” she reluctantly admitted. “I was wondering if perhaps...”

“Loan it is,” Tristan said. “I’ll cover you for the fitting, but I doubt I have enough at hand for that fancy pauldron you were eyeing.”

Disappointing, Angharad would admit to herself. It was most striking and would have added a certain flair to her jacket. Still, she would not complain of a favor being done to her.

“Thank you,” she said. “Shall we agree on the rate?”

The man coughed into his hand, as if choking.

“I am not going to charge you interest on a couple of coppers, Angharad,” Tristan said.

He seemed somewhat appalled.

“I’m not a–” he began, then smoothly changed tack halfway through the sentence, “- well, I’m not that kind of thief.”

The reminder of his past crimes was unfortunate, though his honesty was praiseworthy.

“You do me honor,” Angharad stiffly said.

“I do you for the price of a couple unripe tomatoes on Cato street,” he replied, tone dry. “Let us not get too excited here.”

He seemed unaware of that statement he was making by refraining from a rate: that he considered her honorable enough to put a debt above all other considerations and repay it as promptly as she could. An honor reserved for only long-standing friends among nobles. A heavy compliment, and one whose severity made her uneasy. She had not considered them so close, though by accepting she would state it was so. On the other hand by refusing she would insult them both, which was no better.

That Tristan must be entirely unaware of how neatly he had trapped her only made it worse. It was like being beaten at tabula by someone unaware they could capture your pieces.

“Thank you for the loan,” Angharad forced out.

He was of her cabal, she would have needed to learn to treat him as trusted comrade regardless. This was merely another reason to do so, not some skilled maneuver she had fallen to. With funds secured she had her formal uniform adjusted by the old watchman, who used her as a lesson for the girl that might be as much an apprentice as an assistant. Tristan declined to have one of his own tailored, to her surprise. He was skinnier than most clothes his size would account for.

Sergeant Andres did quality work and at an impressive pace. Angharad was much satisfied with the way her shoulders were let out and the trousers better fitted to her legs. As they were done with time to spare before the evening began, their next destination was all the more obvious: the bathhouse was on the right end of Hostel Street, which Sergeant Itoro had earlier mentioned.

There were separate public baths for men and women, but Angharad was also pleased to find there were bronze bathtubs in private alcoves. Tristan did not resist the suggestion of a wash, or when she strongly suggested he comb his hair.

“A doomed effort, but I shall make a valiant attempt,” Tristan assured her with a grin.

Angharad went back and forth carrying a bucket to fill her own bathtub with near-boiling water from a great tub, rejoicing at the thought of a proper bath after all this time at sea. The heat and humidity of the room were oppressive at first, but she grew used to it after settling in for soak with a jar of fragrant oils – lavender and jasmine – for her hair and a sweet-smelling soap . A pleasant surprise, that latter part, though she supposed it sensible that good Trebian soap would be cheaper when dwelling within the Trebian Sea.

Though she could not spare the time to truly luxuriate, Angharad left her bathtub feeling cleaner than she had in months. She carefully dried and braided her hair – in a simple way, though she would ask Song help for a more elaborated do on the morrow – and then tried on her new formal uniform.

Eyeing herself in the mirror of the bathhouse changing room, Angharad decided it would do. The fit was still a little tight around her shoulders, but that was on purpose. The cut made her seem curvier than she truly was but was not uncomfortable and left room for bindings. Satisfied she was presentable, she belted her saber and doubled back to the front hall.

Tristan was waiting there for her, leaning against the wall in his own fresh clothes. The fighting fit for him. She would have thought that unwise were she not looking at it, but in truth thickness of the overcoat made him look bulkier while allowing the wrinkles in the cloth to seem intended. In a formal uniform he would have looked like a skinny rat, Angharad mused, but under the overcoat and collared black cloak he looked like a true man of the Watch.

“Shall we?” the Sacromontan asked.

She nodded. It would not do to be late. They returned to the Rainsparrow Hostel to put away their dirty clothes and those unused, but Song had left a message for them with Valentina. Maryam was asleep, she wrote, and so she asked for them to leave their affairs in a storage instead. Song herself volunteered to bring their property up to the room when she returned from her exploration of Port Allazei. It was inconvenient, but Angharad decided not to be a lout and conceded the matter.

Besides, Song had left another line and a half at the bottom of the paper. Learn what you can about the other cabals, she instructed. Look for potential allies. If you cannot make friends, then make an impression. Angharad slowly nodded to herself. This she could do. It was not so different from Mother telling her to be friendly with the daughters and sons of houses she wanted to be on fair terms with. Tristan had already put away his affairs when she emerged from her thoughts, waiting for her outside.

“I asked around about where this Old Playhouse is when you were still in the baths,” Tristan told her out in the street. “It is only a few minutes of walk from here, I broadly know the way.”

“Then lead on, Tristan,” Angharad said, pulling at her collar.

It felt tight, but not as tight as the coil in her stomach.

--

The walk took longer than anticipated, largely because they took their time to look around.

And why not? It was yet early and this was their first look at Port Allazei. Angharad found the streets strangely broad, as if this were a city made only of avenues, but soon realized that the neighborhood around the docks was much different from the rest of the city. It was maintained and inhabited, seemingly full of barracks and warehouses and shops. Further out, revealed by stripes of light in red and gold, she saw how Port Allazei crumbled into ruin. Collapsed walls, trees piercing through broken roofs and vines so thick they covered the cobblestone streets like a carpet.

“A dead city,” she said.

“But still used,” Tristan replied. “There are paths through the ruins kept carefully open. The Watch runs patrols here.”

“What against?” Angharad wondered.

“That,” he mused, “is the question, isn’t it?”

The Old Playhouse was near the edge of that ring of inhabited city, enough that beyond it were a handful of collapsed shrines whose debris made the streets unusable. From a distance the structure looked like nothing more than a sloping stone hill split by sets of stairs, though lights and drifting sounds made it clear that it was the right place. The pair hurried up the side of the hill, and once they reached the crest – at the apex of the stairs – their steps stuttered.

“I expected something like a Liergan playhouse,” Tristan said.

“So had I,” Angharad admitted. “This is... different.”

Even as far as the Isles the Second Empire had built a few of their famous playhouses, those massive half-circles of stone benches leading down to a raised stripe of marble where the actors played out their roles. Angharad had not gone to the capital as part of the dueling circuit so she never saw Navaron’s Eye, but she had gone to Kalundi in the southwest and there the Lierganen had built an impressive edifice that still stood strong centuries after the last stone was laid.

The Old Playhouse was nothing like what she had seen in Kalundi.

It did not rise but instead descend, at least in a manner of speaking. Ancient artisans had taken what must have been a low but wide hill and carved the outside, the great length of stone covered with now-faded reliefs and strange symbols. Three sets of stairs rose up the slow, wide and pristine, and at the summit of the hill was where the road veered off: the inside had been hollowed out. Three concentric rings of lodges – the largest being the highest – filled the inside, almost like tiers.

At the very bottom one last ring, a circle on the floor, must be the stage for the playhouse.

Once upon a time the lodges were meant to be separate, for between them stood small walls topped by flat roofs of delicate ironwork made to look like vines, but nature had since decided otherwise. Grass emerged from cracked tiles, trees had overtaken walls and vines bearing fragrant flowers covered everything like a tapestry. The three rings looked like long gardens full of little nooks, and indeed were being treated as if they were.

On the bottom floor a handful of cloth pavilions had been raised and tables set beneath them, laden with glasses and small plates of colorful bites. The tables were attended by a few servants in plain clothes, but the true draw to the eye was the guests: every last one in Watch blacks, but each uniform tailored and subtly different. There must have been thirty of them, none looking older than Angharad by more than a year or two.

They chatted and laughed by the pavilions, though some seemed to be taking pleasant walks around the lowest ring of lodges. It looked, Angharad thought, like a garden party. The same kind she had attended for much of her life, though the guests were admittedly more varied.

“There’s Tianxi down there, so it cannot be a strictly noble gathering,” Tristan noted. “And going by looks, no one nation is leading the pack – odd, that. This should be someone’s game.”

Angharad’s gaze narrowed.

“It isn’t. Have you ever worn a tailored uniform, Tristan?”

“I’ve never worn a tailored anything,” he amusedly replied, “unless you count my stitching rips back together.”

Truly, not even a shirt? How expensive could it possibly be to have a shirt tailored, the Pereduri wondered?

“Getting it fitted to you does not take long, not even work more elaborate than what the tailor did earlier,” she told him. “Yet a simple fitted of uniform is not what they are wearing down there. I see at least half a dozen different styles – see the man with the silk half-cape, or that girl with the layered sleeves? That sort of thing takes time, a skilled artisan and coin.”

Gray eyes narrowed.

“Fashion,” he said. “You mean this is blackcloak fashion.”

In a way, that was a relief. It meant that when Angharad saved up enough coin to acquire finer clothes, there would be shops suited to her need. The notion of the children of mere military officers being a sort of Watch nobility seemed odd, but it was also logical in a way. The Rooks could not recruit their captains entirely from foreign nobility, it was natural they should rear up their own.

“Come,” she enthusiastically said. “Let us find out more.”

This was an event arranged on school grounds, not a proper reception, so Angharad did not feel slighted that no servant was waiting for them was they began the trek down. The pair winded through the garden paths of the first two rings, going round and round, until they came across a small pavilion at the beginning of the third where awaited a smiling Lierganen man in a neat but plain tunic. He was holding a small book and a sharpened length of charcoal.

“Good evening,” the servant said, his Antigua smooth to the ear. “Might I assume that one of you comes bearing an invitation?”

“I do,” Angharad said, producing the letter.

She passed it to Tristan, who passed it to the man without batting an eye. The servant inspected it for a moment, then inclined his head.

“Lady Angharad Tredegar and...”

“Tristan Abrascal,” he completed. “Thirteenth Brigade for both.”

The wince on the servant’s face at the mention of the number was gone so quickly she almost thought she had imagined it.

“Master Abrascal,” the man completed. “I welcome you on behalf of Lord Thando and Captain Nenetl, who arranged this small get-together.”

He paused, allowing time for them to nod their thanks.

“Please enjoy and mingle with the guests as you please,” the smiling man continued. “There will be a small speech at the close of the evening, but no other demands will be made on your time. This is an informal event.”

The servant moved out of the way, inviting them to proceed through the ring garden, and Angharad put a spring to her step. Tristan followed but she felt him glance back after a moment, letting out an interested noise. She cocked a questioning eyebrow.

“He’s writing in that little book of his,” the Sacromontan said. “Too much for it to simply be our names and brigade. I’d give it good odds he’s some kind of sniffer taking a look at everyone come through for our benevolent hosts.”

“He could simply be jotting down our arms and bearing,” Angharad said, a touch reproachfully.

The man flicked a glance her way.

“Could be,” he agreeably replied.

Tristan was hiding his doubt skillfully enough it would have been unfair to be miffed at him. Very unfair. It was purely accidental when the overgrown roots of a tree forced Angharad to cut ahead and her saber’s sheath slapped against his leg. He yelped, rolling his eyes at her most insolently, but then his face turned serious.

“We are getting close to strolling guests,” he said. “I expect that at an evening like this I’d be a stone around your neck, so I’ll make myself scarce.”

Angharad stiffened, back going ramrod straight.

“You are my guest, and neither unmannerly nor foolish,” she said. “None can honorably object to your presence at my side.”

“I think that might be the nicest compliment someone has paid me in years,” Tristan amusedly replied. “But there’s no need to feel as if you are abandoning me, Tredegar. I’m here to watch your back and look into things, both of which will be easier if you are not holding my hand.”

Angharad almost contested the matter, but she knew it would be guilt speaking if she did. Guilt at having felt a silver of gratification at the prospect of being able to enjoy herself with peers for an evening without the need to shepherd a lowborn man through high society. It was not desertion, she told herself, if to separate served their purposes better. It was following a plan.

“Then let us do so,” Angharad said. “Shall we leave together, at least?”

“Best not,” Tristan said. “I might duck out early to follow the trail.”

She cocked her head to the side.

“And what trail would that be?”

“The servants handling all this,” he said. “Where are they from?”

That, Angharad thought, was an interesting question. No student should be allowed to bring servants, she thought, and birth would make no difference in this. Strictly speaking Angharad had not been a titled lady since her house was struck from the rolls of nobility in Malan, but she had since given up the title anyhow by enrolling in the Watch.

It was a fine line for her to even be called Lady Angharad, though by not attaching the name of a holding – such as her lost Llanw Hall – it could be considered that to call her a lady was merely a courtesy title. Besides, she had been invited by an alleged ‘Lord Thando’ so she was clearly not the only one using such a styling.

“Then Sleeping God watch over you, Tristan,” Angharad told him.

“Draw first, Tredegar,” he easily returned.

Was that a traditional Sacromontan blessing? She would commit it to memory, it had a rustic charm to it. They parted ways after a bend in the gardens, each taking the different side of a lightning-struck tree, and within moments she had lost sight of the gray-eyed man. Even knowing Tristan had once been a thief, she thought that his knack for disappearing into the background was rather impressive.

Continuing down the garden path alone, Angharad greeted a few other guests wandering the opposite way as she came across them. Merely polite greetings, not even introductions, as that would be improper before she had found her hosts. She lightly went down the last flight of stairs and headed for the pavilions, few eyes turning to her – though some did - and before she could even begin her search she was intercepted.

The pair approached her together and she must admit that they were, at first glance, a humorous match.

The man was a short, skinny Malani with flabby ears dragged down by too many golden earrings. Though his face was more plain than ugly, he had a large wart at the corner of his left eyebrow that drew the eye. The woman, by contrast, was as tall as she was corpulent. Aztlan of look, though more tanned than either Tupoc or Yaretzi had been, she had startlingly delicate features. Like a doll’s face had been screwed atop a rounded waterskin.

A second look, though, corrected the impressions. The Aztlan – Captain Nenetl, she would guess – had the callouses of someone who had trained in the sword for years and she moved with a fluidity belying her size. As for the likely Lord Thando, there was an intricate green tattoo on the side of neck whose pattern she dimly recognized. Those sharp geometric shapes within curving patterns were a mark of honor, an award given out by izinduna to those who had done a great house an even greater service.

A man to be wary of, if he was her enemy.

“Lady Angharad, I presume?” the Aztlan woman asked with a smile.

Her teeth were crooked, one broken, but her voice was smooth as honey. She was one of those fortunate souls blessed with a natural speaking voice.

“Indeed,” Angharad replied, sketching out a short bow. “Would I be speaking to Captain Nenetl?”

“Nenetl Chapul,” she confirmed. “Captain of the Third Brigade. And by my side-”

“I can introduce myself, Nenetl,” the man snorted, then offered Angharad a bow. “Lord Thando Fenya, at your service. It is always a pleasure to encounter a fellow Malani on these distant shores.”

A long history of having been given such ‘compliments’ by Malani nobles allowed Angharad to keep her smile from going stiff. The man would not have meant any offense, even if any Pereduri worth their salt would have found it. Instead she tried to recall if she had ever heard of House Fenya but drew a blank. It was not a famous house, at least.

“The pleasure is mine,” Angharad replied. “I am as surprised as I am pleased by your invitation.”

The two shared a smirk.

“Your presence is not unexpected,” Lord Thando amiably said. “We make it a point to keep an eye for any promising recruits from the Isles.”

“She doesn’t know who you are, Thando,” Captain Nenetl said, sounding amused. “Your ‘we’ must seem rather mysterious.”

“I must confess I am somewhat at a loss,” Angharad said.

Only somewhat because she had been warned of the man’s possible connections earlier.

“Ah, my apologies,” Lord Thando said, yet smiled like a well-fed cat. “House Fenya is not well known but you might have heard of the Singing Jackals.”

The noblewoman’s brows rose. So Valentina’s supposition had been accurate.

“I have,” she said. “The largest free company to take contracts on the Isles.”

“The largest of all the free companies, some say,” Lord Thando proudly told her. “My uncle, Captain-General Wela, leads it. My line has long been a source of high officers for the Jackals and it is our company’s practice to recruit from Malan first and foremost. There was great interest when your name came up, Lady Angharad.”

The Pereduri’s face smoothed into a pleasant mask. Was she about to be shamed, outed as a fallen noble on her every first Tolomontera evening? The others had convinced her that this evening was not likely a trap laid by either of this pair, but she must remain wary. Wary enough to keep smiling even as she prepared for the knife.

“That is flattering, my lord,” she said.

“Do cease, Thando, you can try to poach her for your cabal on your own time,” Captain Nenetl drawled. “Most here in the Playhouse will know more than they should, Lady Angharad, as many are from families whose blood runs black. I myself am the granddaughter of a brigadier from Lucierna - the closest Watch fortress and the seat for this region’s Garrison administration.”

“Though with the son of Lucierna’s own marshal being a student, she cannot claim to be the best connected in that regard,” Lord Thando added.

“He is not here tonight,” Nenetl replied, a tad sharply.

They were not allies in truth, Angharad decided, merely a pair that had chosen to pool their resources to arrange the evening. That was reassuring. If this was not a common front, it was less likely to be a vessel of ambitions not common – and Angharad had done nothing to earn hatred from the officers of a fortress she had never heard of before tonight. Her two hosts made conversation with her a little longer, but they had an obligation to entertain and soon took their leave. Before doing so, however, Lord Thando took her aside.

“I am of the Eleventh Brigade,” he told her. “Do come to us if you encounter any trouble at all, Lady Angharad. It would please our captain greatly to welcome you as one of us.”

Song had been entirely correct, it seemed. The open attempt at poaching from another cabal felt unseemly, but she reminded herself that to do so was not against the rules of Scholomance. That it felt uncomplimentary might simply be her wariness of the man coloring her impression. Angharad wasted no time after that in heading towards the tables, for her throat was parched and in truth she could do with a nibble.

Besides, Song had asked her to learn what she could about other cabals and it was easier to approach strangers around such gathering places. Before she could so much as consider a drink, however, she was stopped by the sight of a familiar face. Lady Ferranda Villazur, her hair pulled in the usual bun that did no favors to her strong chin, stood there in a tailored formal uniform as she picked out a cup of wine.

“Ferranda,” Angharad called out, surprised.

The infanzona turned in surprise, a smile lighting up her face when they recognized each other.

“Angharad!” she exclaimed. “I had not heard your ship arrived. This is a most pleasant surprise.”

“We docked but a few hours ago,” Angharad replied.

“Just in time, then,” Ferranda said. “This evening has been on the cards for weeks, you would have lost out in missing it. All the leading brigades have people here, and I expect there will be much wheeling and dealing over drinks.”

She snatched up a cup, offering it with a questioning look. Angharad took it - by the smell it was red wine. The dark-skinned noblewoman cocked an eyebrow.

“Are you then here to intrigue as well, Captain Ferranda?” she teased.

A guess, but Ferranda Villazur was sponsored by the Academy and so likely the leader of her cabal. The infanzona laughed and did not deny the title. A confirmation.

“We are rather beneath their notice, at least for now,” she said. “Most brigades past thirty are latecomers, the chaff of this harvest. We are close, as the Thirty-First Brigade, but still in the range.”

A raised eyebrow was directed Angharad’s way.

“What plaque did you end up ordering, anyhow?”

“We did not order,” the Pereduri said. “We claimed Thirteenth Brigade.”

Ferranda winced.

“My condolences,” she said.

“Is the number truly so unlucky?” Angharad asked, reluctantly amused. “You are not the first to react this way.”

“Thirteen years, emperors and treacheries,” the infanzona quoted. “There is no luck worse than-”

She was interrupted and half bowled over by a tall man in a formal uniform, who Angharad found as familiar after a heartbeat.

“Ferra, you will not believe who I just ran into. Tristanis here. Abrascal, I mean, not the man from the Forty-Fourth.”

Lord Zenzele Duma was openly enthused as he recounted this, a look at odds with the grimness of his face. There was thick scar where he’d lost his eye, though the hollow was not empty: a rounded metal eye filled it, skillfully painted over. Only it was not in the warm brown of the Malani lord’s own gaze but an eerie pale that Angharad would not soon forget.

It was the color of Tupoc Xical’s eyes, after all.

“Oh, apologies,” Zenzele began when he realized he had interrupted. “I am – Lady Angharad?”

“That would make two of us,” Angharad drily replied.

He laughed, even as Ferranda rolled her eyes, and offered his arm to clasp. Angharad did, mood much improved by the warm reception. She had not known where they would stand, once the common threats of the Dominion no longer hung over their heads.

“A most welcome surprise,” Zenzele said, then leaned it. “I do not suppose you could tell me why the first words out of Tristan’s mouth were a question about the provenance of the grilled cutlets?”

The Pereduri paused. The silence stretched and she was forced to smile embarrassedly.

“I fear not,” Angharad said.

The pair traded a knowing look.

“Still underfoot, then,” Ferranda said. “As was to be expected.”

“Well, he is a Krypteia student,” Zenzele replied.

“We can’t all be good upstanding Laurels like you,” the infanzona teased.

“You are to be of the Arthashastra Society, then?” Angharad said. “I did not think to ask before you left Three Pines.”

“I am,” the nobleman replied, reaching for a drink. “Diplomat track, though our patron tells me the distinction grows muddled here on Tolomontera.”

“Ironic.”

All three of them turned towards the source of the word. A Malani, Angharad saw, and one who had high birth stamped on his bearing. The stranger was tall and lithely muscled, braids going down halfway to his back and his uniform barely cousin to what it must have once been. His black overcoat was made loose and without buttons until the waist, wide open and revealing a thin red silk shirt that bared a slender stripe of skin down to slightly above his navel. He wore a silken half-cape and a blade at his hip.

A lovely saber, and though somewhat ornate Angharad noted the leather grip was worn.

“I beg your pardon?” Ferranda asked.

“It is ironic,” the man smiled, “for the likes of this one to believe he could ever be a diplomat.”

Zenzele frowned.

“I do not know you,” he said. “What I have done to earn such words?”

“I am Lord Musa Shange,” the man sneered. “That name will mean nothing to you, but this should help: my mother is sister to the mother of Lady Arafa Sandile.”

Angharad had only heard that name once, but even had she not clearly recalled it the way Zenzele stilled would have told her who was being spoken of. The other half of the arranged marriage he had fled from, the one with a daughter of the proverbially wealthy House Sandile.

“Yes, that Arafa,” Lord Musa coldly said, the reaction not escaping his notice. “You broke the heart of my favorite cousin, Duma. Shamed her in the eyes of every lady in Malan by running off with some whore instead of wedding her as was your duty.”

Zenzele was a fair fighter with sword and pistol, Angharad knew, but she had never considered him a threat. It was not without reason the man had gone into a scholarly covenant. The look that came to his face when Ayanda was called a whore almost had her reconsider that opinion: searing hatred, like closing a fist around hot coals.

It was the look of a man who would make it slow.

“So you are a dog of House Sandile,” Zenzele disdainfully said. “That explains the manners.”

“I would return your insult, but even dog would be a compliment to the likes of you,” Lord Musa said scornfully. “I see at least your strumpet did not even make it to Scholomance – though what else could be expected of a bedwarmer? - but it offends me to see you walking about as if you belong here.”

The Malani noble leaned forward.

“This is an evening for honorable company, Zenzele Duma,” he sneered. “By what right do you attend?”

The altercation had already begun drawing eyes to them. Other guests turned to watch, some even drifting closer, but Lord Musa did not seem to mind.

“It is not for you to decide who attends the evenings of others, Malani,” Ferranda coldly said.

“It is not for a Sacromontan to speak when real nobles converse,” Lord Musa dismissed.

Lady Ferranda’s hand drifted to her rapier, which the man noticed with a smirk. As if daring her to draw, Angharad thought. Musa Shange’s words and actions were not dishonorable, for he was avenging the slight on a kinswoman’s honor, but they were... needlessly provocative. He did not speak like a man who was seeking resolution: he was picking a fight. Not that he would have the time to get into one, Angharad noted as she watched who was approaching from the corner of her eye.

“And what appears to be the trouble here?”

The hosts made their appearance. Captain Nenetl, who had been the one to speak, seemed irate. Lord Thando’s face was but a pleasant mask – in mood, if not in looks.

“You let in an honorless cur, Thando,” Lord Musa said, ignoring the Aztlan entirely. “An honest mistake, I am sure, but it need be remedied.”

“That is a grave accusation,” Lord Thando said. “What has you make it?”

“It does not matter,” Captain Nenetl sharply interrupted. “No trouble is to be allowed on Playhouse grounds.”

“Is honor trouble to you, Nenetl?” Lord Thando lightly asked.

The glare she turned on her fellow host was dark indeed, and in a heartbeat Angharad made out the whole shape of this. She had seen that game unfold a dozen times before, after all, just outside dueling grounds when noble children gathered for games almost as pointed.

Lord Thando had not arranged for this, but now that it was happening he was weighing the benefits and choosing accordingly. Which was worth more: the favor of his Lord Musa, or of Zenzele’s cabal? Captain Nenetl evidently saw nothing to gain in allowing this at all and was glaring at the man with heat, but she was only half the hosts. She could not put an end to this if she stood alone.

And as Lord Musa Shange raised his voice to tell the other guests of Zenzele’s misdeeds, her old companion defending himself as best he could – calling Musa a thuggish fool, the ‘old matter’ of indifference to Rooks - Angharad knew that a duel was in the making. Lord Musa had pushed hard for it and would not give up. Reckless, she thought, only half-listening to the public argument. He provoked Ferranda as well, as if the fight matters more than who he is to be fighting. But why is he so sure he will win?

It was when Lord Musa turned to address guests up in the garden, half-cape fluttering, that Angharad found her answer. Hidden away under the silken cloth, she had glimpsed a sheath. A parrying sword, she realized. Musa Shange was a duelist. That was why he thought victory certain, and Angharad was not sure he was wrong. The noblewoman hesitated.

A lesser noble’s place was not to meddle in the conflicts of great lords, she had always known that. Yet Zenzele was no great lord, Lord Musa neither, and this was not Malan. Yet Angharad did not speak only for herself, she was part of a cabal, and to intervene... If you cannot make friends, make an impression, Song had tasked her. Would it not be doing both, to lend these two a hand? The warmth of their greeting was no reason to act, she knew that, but surely this could be considered a strategic decision.

Surely, she repeated, setting down the cup of wine she had yet to touch and leaning towards Ferranda.

“Bait,” Angharad whispered. “The man is a duelist.”

The infanzona’s eyes narrowed.

“Certain?”

The Pereduri nodded and the other woman cursed.

“He wants to kill Zenzele’s reputation,” Ferranda guessed. “Right from the start. Make him a pariah with Malani for the rest of our time here.”

It occasionally served to remember that for all that House Villazur had been minor nobility, Ferranda had been raised to be its lady and been familiar with the likes of better-born men like the Cerdan brothers long before they came together to the Dominion. She was no fool, for all her lack of dutifulness, and hardly blind.

“He wants a fight,” Angharad agreed. “And will get one.”

The infanzona’s jaw tightened.

“I cannot ask you to-”

“You forget,” she cut in, “who that Sandile coin was spent on.”

Before Ferranda could answer she stepped away, idly coming to stand before the still-orating lord. Musa Shenge frowned at her interruption.

“Step asi-”

“You claim,” Angharad said, “to speak for House Sandile?”

“I do,” Lord Musa replied. “By virtue of shared blood.”

“Good,” she nodded. “Then we have matters of honor to settle.”

Zenzele, who had been watching her with surprise, caught on first.

“Lady Angharad,” he stiffly said. “I can settle this myself.”

“Then do so when I am finished with him,” Angharad mildly replied, matching Musa’s gaze. “An assassin in Sandile employ poisoned me and attempted to murder me in my bed, Musa Shenge. If you carry that house’s honor on Tolomontera, I call you now to answer on their behalf.”

Lord Musa laughed.

“Found another girl to trick, Duma?” he mocked, eyes flicking Zenzele’s way. “You must be halfway decent in bed if she’s willing to die for you.”

The noblewoman’s face tightened. It was, unfortunately, still too early in the process to slap him across the face.

“My name,” she said, “is Angharad Tredegar. Insult me again and I will not consider honor satisfied with first blood.”

Musa eyed her with an insolent smile.

“That accent – Pereduri, is it? I thought I smelled rotten fish and mediocrity, there’s the mystery solved. As for first blood...”

The Malani pulled back his overcoat’s loose right sleeve, revealing three black lines tattooed on his arm with the first beginning at the wrist. There were murmurs in the crowd, for Lord Musa had just revealed he was not simply a duelist but three duels deep into becoming a swordmaster.

“Perhaps it is you that should worry of that, Tredegar. Trot along now.”

Only he did not get the answer he had expected, for Zenzele let out a quiet laugh and answered Ferranda’s quiet question with a nod as Angharad herself began to unbutton her jacket. She would have dropped it on the ground, but a passing servant took it up instead and folded it neatly. Praiseworthy service. Without a word, she rolled up the left sleeve of her white undershirt. Ten silver lines were bared, the last at her elbow.

Lord Musa Shange went still.

“Let us have an exchange, Musa,” Angharad calmly said. “In deference to your inexperience I would offer to use my left hand, but I am as able with it as my right. So how am I to make this sporting, I wonder?”

Her gaze cast around the tables, past the bottles and glasses and the dishes. There was a cutting knife by the roast she considered, but right besides it was what would cut deepest. Angharad took a step towards the table and deftly took out a butter knife, wiping it clean against the edge of the butter dish before turning back to her opponent. There were a few laughs and much excited conversation. Lord Musa went red-faced.

“You dare,” he hissed.

“What are you complaining about, Shange?” she said. “I am to use the tool for its stated purpose: cutting through butter.”

It was too much of a provocation. The man drew his blade – a single-edge saber like hers – then revealed his offhand. The traditional parrying blade for dueling, which meant he was a classical Malani fencer. The kind of opponent she was most familiar with facing. Angharad untied her sheathed saber from her hip and tossed it at the man’s feet, adding the insult of throwing the blade as well as the sheath when requesting a duel.

It had the implication she believed herself capable of killing him with what she yet held, in this case a butter knife.

And more than that Lord Musa, having pulled ahead of the formalities in the throes of his anger, was forced to sheathe his saber back to be able to undo his parrying blade’s sheath and toss it at her feet. The fumbling earned him some unkind laughter from the crowd, further reddening his cheeks.

“First blood or surrender,” Angharad stated. “Let us hope you will last at least two passes, after all that strutting.”

“You will have no mercy of me,” Musa snarled.

Angharad loosened her stance, widening it and pointing down the butter knife. Even for a duel to first blood it would have been arrogance on her part to take up that particular armament, if not for one thing. The Malani raised his blade and Angharad glimpsed-

(Three steps, she feinted for the side and he stepped in to hit her forehead with his own.)

She breathed out. Talon School, then, only they were so eager to throw hands during bladework.

(Three steps, she feinted to the side. When he stepped in she moved quicker, kicked out his knee. He struck up, cutting into her flank with the parrying blade as her knife slid on the coat.)

Thick cloth, she thought, the butter knife would not bite at all unless the angle was just right. But she had seen enough to act. Angharad raised her weapon, and as Lord Musa sneered she stepped forward.

One step, two, three – feint to the right.

Fluidly, like a snake striking, Musa Shenge snapped forward. But her polished boot was already moving, kicking out his knee under him. Half a stumble forward, the angle spun off, and his left hand struck – only Angharad had stepped aside, caught the wrist of his saber hand and without batting an eye bent the arm behind his back. Lord Musa shouted in pain and surprise, forced down to his knee, and Angharad aimed the blow perfectly.

The thin point of the butter knife went right through the seams of the coat, into flesh.

“No,” the Malani rasped out. “How-”

Angharad’s fingers tightened around the butter knife and she ripped it out of his shoulder. The man screamed, blood spurting out and splashing his coat. She stepped away before she could be stained, flicking the blood off the dull blade as stumbled back up to his feet. She looked him up and down as he took a fearful step back, his hand on the spurting shoulder.

“Go clean yourself up, Musa,” Angharad said. “A nobleman should have standards.”

She had not aimed for an artery so he should live. If he was lucky, he might even keep most the range of motion with the arm. He pulled back, as if wanting to flee but too ashamed to give way publicly.

“And one last thing,” she called, stopping him in his tracks. “Should you ever again imply I am my friend’s bedwarmer, the ensuing first blood will be a blade halfway through your brains. Nod if you understand, Musa.”

The look he shot her had brimstone enough to rival Pandemonium, but he was too fearful of the wound bleeding him dry to draw this out. Musa Shange nodded, gritting his teeth.

“Good boy,” she thinly smiled. “You may leave, now.”

“This will not be the end of it, Tredegar,” he snarled. “The Ninth Brigade will have answer.”

“I shall endeavor to find a larger butter dish, then,” she shrugged.

He looked as if she had slapped him across the face. Arguably it would have been kinder on her part to do so. Angharad was no great wit, but victory made derision easy to even the clumsiest of tongues. And as Lord Musa Shange slunk away like a whipped dog to get his shoulder looked at, it was as if the entire crowd exhaled. Noise erupted, not the uncouth clamor of a mob but the contained excitement of good society at the aftermath of a spectacle.

When she turned to face her acquaintances Zenzele’s face was resigned, and Ferranda’s unreadable. Angharad hesitated, now considering she might have pushed the matter further than either desired. It had been in their name, not hers, but... She was interrupted by their approach.

“Thank you,” Zenzele quietly said. “But I’m afraid I might have dragged you into greater trouble than you know.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Is there something unusual about this Ninth Brigade?” she asked.

“Its captain is Sebastian Camaron,” Ferranda said. “He is the son of Lucierna’s marshal.”

“I have heard that Lucierna is near this island, and of some importance in the Watch,” Angharad acknowledged. “But he is only a student while at Scholomance, surely.”

Zenzele leaned closer.

“Around a quarter of the soldiers garrisoning the island was transferred from Lucierna,” he whispered. “And much of the supplies coming to Port Allazei first go through there.”

Angharad’s eyes narrowed. She understood that family came first, but what they suggested sounded rather beyond the acceptable lines.

“I doubt either of us could have beaten a fledgling swordmaster,” Ferranda said. “You have my deepest thanks for your intervention, and our hand in friendship twice over. Yet I would not be offended if you made peace with the Ninth, Angharad, I want to make this clear. Our troubles need not be yours.”

“Song is captain, so that is not my decision to make,” Angharad admitted, then flicked a glance at the stairs Lord Musa had fled up. “Yet I see no need to make apologies to a man who implied me a whore and insulted the duchy of my birth. If not for the rules of Scholomance, I might well have killed him.”

She had never killed in an honor duel back in Malan, but had she been given such strong insults she might well have done so.

“He did come on strong, didn’t he?” Zenzele mused. “Knew the rules about killing and so thought himself beyond consequence, I imagine. We will all need to learn the lay of this place.”

Neither would hear of parting ways after this, and so when she began the rounds it was with the help of the pair to make introductions. It was a whirlwind of names and faces, most of which were excited to speak about the duel and gossip but nothing more serious. Angharad was not overwhelmed. It was little different from being introduced to any other social circle, though instead of a cousin or an aunt it was Zenzele and Ferranda who made the introductions.

She did not learn much of use, in truth, save that the captain of the Forty-Ninth Brigade – a tall Tianxi – was insistently curious about who else was part of the Thirteenth Brigade. Suspecting enmity for Song, she avoided the matter and turned the questions around until he left in open irritation. She encountered her hosts again, naturally. Lord Thando found cool reception from all three of them, and gracefully excused himself. He knew the ways of this game and that his choice would have consequences before making it.

Captain Nenetl, on the other hand, found better welcome and she herself was noticeably friendlier than when she had first met with Angharad. It soon became evident why.

“I expect dear old Sebastian will be on your backs about this,” Nenetl idly said. “He always has been – if you’ll forgive my language – a right prick.”

All three facing the Aztlan captain were highborn, so the picture was not difficult for either to paint. Nenetl Chapul, whose grandfather was a powerful officer in Lucierna, saw the captain of the Ninth Brigade’s even more powerful connections there as an inconvenience. It would be best for her if he were sidelined, perhaps even recalled, and she came to hold the greatest influence over the Luciernan contingent.

Captain Nenetl seemed quite interested in making ties with those who might oppose her rival, and though all knew better than to commit to anything the conversation was promisingly friendly. Perhaps a dinner would soon be organized.

Once they parted ways, Angharad realized with a start that she was smiling. Not at how the night had gone, though it had gone well enough to her eye, but because she felt... at ease. Comfortable. The faces and the rules were not the same, but she knew this place. This kind of night. It was almost like coming home, in a way, and it would have been a lie to say she was not enjoying herself.

If not for the black everywhere, she might think she had never left Peredur.

It occurred to her then she had not seen Tristan in at least an hour, but a look around yielded no trace of her comrade. Had he already left? Most likely he had, ever underfoot as Ferranda said. There was no need to feel guilty. Still, she excused herself from the other two so she might claim a new drink and perhaps have another look around for the Sacromontan. Only within a moment of taking her first sip of some pale cup of wine, Angharad was approached.

“Ah, the heroine of the hour is all alone. I must take advantage.”

She turned at the words, and then paused to take in the sight.

The stranger was nearly as tall as Angharad herself, though narrower at the shoulders and not as strongly built. She was, however, blessed with a full figure that the cut of her uniform made evident – she wore the same kind of collared, knee-length tunic as Maryam but it was tailored to flatter and instead of buttons a very narrow open oval beneath the collar dipped almost down to her sternum. It did not reveal anything save a stripe of smooth, dark skin but hinted at much.

Fitted black trousers and slender boots matched the black of the stranger’s tunic, though there were red accents on the side of the trousers and her belt was a length of intricate colored beads. She wore not a cloak but a velvet capelet, and the golden bangles around her wrists clattered together with a pleasant tinkling sound as she offered her hand.

“Captain Imani Langa,” she smiled.

Angharad took the delicate fingers, bowed and pressed a soft kiss against the knuckle. When she straightened it was to find Captain Imani’s smile had broadened.

“Lady Angharad Tredegar,” she replied. “The pleasure is all mine.”

“A bold claim, after the entertainment you have just provided,” Imani laughed. “It is a rare thing to see even a fledgling swordmaster made such thorough sport of.”

The accent was faint, but grew distinct the more the other woman spoke. Uthukile, Angharad decided. Imani Langa was from the Low Isle and being raised speaking the Matabe dialect had left her with an accent in the Umoya they now spoke.

“I was blessed with a thorough education,” Angharad simply replied, then paused. “Would be I be wrong in believing you of the Low Isle?”

“Sharp of you. Only on my father’s side, as it happens, though I was raised in a hold near the border,” Captain Imani said. “I must compliment you on the lightness of your own accent, though those pretty silver lines on your arm rather reveal your own provenance.”

Only Pereduri could become mirror-dancers, though in truth Angharad did not know if this was ancient law or merely custom.

“Uthukile and Peredur felt like different ends of the world, once, but now the distance feels almost petty,” Angharad mused.

“No matter how far, we islanders will bring our bickering with us,” Captain Imani drily replied. “Why, only yesterday-”

She had a most mysterious smile, Angharad thought, but she was prevented from further pondering it when a servant apologized for interrupting them and presented her with a folded letter.

“From your Sacromontan friend,” the servant said. “Apologies again, ladies.”

“It is nothing,” Captain Imani dismissed.

Angharad unfolded the paper, finding an ungainly scrawl in Antigua waiting for her.

Imani had eye on you since you talked with hosts. Careful. Ferranda is liked, good ally. Avoid Forty-Ninth, enemies. Am following lead, don’t know when back.

Hiding her surprise, Angharad folded the paper anew and tucked it away as she replied in kind to Imani’s smile. Some details she filed away – Ferranda’s popularity and that the Forty-Ninth would have to be disposed of – for these could be addressed later. The first detail was the most concerning. There were many reasons she might have drawn Imani Langa’s eye earlier, and while some of them rather flattering others were rather more dangerous.

After a little more conversation the other woman suggested they go for a walk in the garden ring, Angharad’s stomach tightening in dismay as the balance settled in favor of sinister.

She could not even enjoy walking arm in arm in a field of flowers, bodies brushing together, for she had to be wary of contract and poison. With an inviting smile Imandi led her past a crumbling wall, out of sight, but Angharad knew this would not end in soft kisses and wandering hands. She kept her body from tensing, for it would give away that she knew the attempt was coming, but was wondering how to explain having fought twice in one evening when the other woman’s hand rose towards the neckline of her bare skin of her tunic, fingers reaching for something-

“Daughter of the Isles, you are called to service,” Captain Imandi said.

And from the generous cut of her uniform she produced not a knife but a small copper coin, pressing it into Angharad’s hand. No, not copper. It was wood, only polished and lacquered. On one side was carved a helmet-turtle’s shell, on the other a slender crown. Angharad knew of only one wood that kept so vivid a color without needing to be painted: this was Malani ironwood. Too precious a thing to be wasted on a token, unless you were in the service of Malan itself. Angharad swallowed drily.

“You are an ufudu,” she breathed out, and immediately felt like sinking into a hole.

It was one thing to call an agent of the Lefthand House a ‘turtle’ behind their back, the jokes about their emblem well worn in every corner of the Isles, but the High Queen’s private hunting hounds were not for the likes of her to disrespect. Even the highest of the izinduna feared their knives and knack for digging up the most deeply buried of secrets. Lady Imandi, thankfully, did not seem offended by the foolishness Angharad had blurted out.

“I am a finger of the left hand,” Imandi acknowledged. “The House has tasked me with passing to you a message, and with it an offer.”

Angharad’s jaw clenched. What was it that the same court that had struck House Tredegar from its rolls now had to say to her?

“Her Perpetual Majesty did not condone the killing of Lady Anwar Maraire, whom she yet remembers fondly,” Lady Imandi said. “Circumstance forced the disgrace of House Tredegar, but those whose hand was at work on that night are even now being hunted.”

Angharad stilled. She could not have said whether she was starkly, deeply relieved or the most furious she had ever been in her life.

“A prisoner was taken at Llanw Hall,” Lady Imandi said. “We know their name. The soldiers who slew your house are known to us as well. Hired men.”

“What,” Angharad slowly said, forcing her tone not to waver, “do you want?”

“There is an object on Tolomontera that is the rightful property of the High Queen,” the dark-eyed beauty said. “The Lefthand House asks that you retrieve it on our behalf and deliver it to my hands.”

The Pereduri’s eyes narrowed.

“You are on Tolomontera as well,” Angharad said. “Why would you need me?”

“Because,” Lady Imandi amiably smiled, “I am not a mirror-dancer whose Watch connections make above suspicion.”

Meaning it was hidden somewhere dangerous and the Watch would be on the lookout for movement around it. A fool’s bargain by any fair measure. And yet a survivor. A cousin, she wondered, a servant? Sleeping God, just knowing she was not the last... All that and a trail she would be able to follow when she returned to Malan. The Lefthand House was playing her, and only a fool would let them.

Was Angharad a fool?

“Think on it,” Lady Imandi said. “And when you decide, come find me.”

“Where?” she croaked out.

“The Emerald Vaults, room seventeen,” Imandi said.

The dark-eyed beauty stepped away, yet smiling.

“I will be expecting you.”

Am I a fool? Angharad wondered, watching the other woman walk away. And she dreaded the answer not because she did not know, but because deep down she already did.

She was, and it was no choice at all.