Chapter 8 (Patreon)

It was pleasant out.

The Grand Orrery lights were blue and bronze, brushing softly against the pavement stones, and a breeze too soft to push against the morning mist trailed down the street. If Song were a fortunate woman, she would be sitting in the delightful garden terrasse of the Emerald Vaults, sipping at a cup of Jigong green as she waited for Angharad to join her so she might give a full report over her evening at the Old Playhouse. They might share some of the honeybread Song had heard so much about from Uncle Zhuge, perhaps even have a word about the tension with Maryam while waiting on her to return from the Akelarre chapterhouse.

But the Ren were cursed, beloved only of misery, so instead Song she was headed to a detainment house to get Tristan fucking Abrascal out of it.

The Watch did not call it a jail, which was a balm on her heart as if a member of her brigade had gotten thrown into jail before classes even began Song might just have to throw herself into Allazei Bay to end this debacle early and spare herself further indignity. A god for opponent could be overcome, but not a pig teammate. Only the thought that this might not be of the thief's fault kept her from growing too furious with Abrascal, who might have been the victim in whatever affair saw him tossed into not-a-jail.

Abrascal deserved a fair hearing, regardless of her concerns about the man.

The same Watch clerk to tell her he had never come back last night had been kind enough to give her directions to the detainment house that’d sent word they had him, so at five forty-five sharp she showed up at its door dressed neatly, freshly bathed and combed with her coat buttons polished. From the outside the building looked more akin to an inn than some gaol, save for the two half-asleep watchmen lounging by the door. They straightened when she approached, though their gazes remained bored.

“Plaque,” the taller of the two asked.

Wordlessly she presented the silver seal, which the watchman examined before giving back.

“Thirteenth, huh,” he snickered. “Lucky you. You’re here for the kid that ended up on the wrong side of a red line?”

Tristan Abrascal, I am going to murder you, she swore. Gods and Circle, could you really not make it a single day?

“I am sure it is only a misunderstanding,” Song lied, smiling politely. “May I enter?”

The guard lazily waved her in. The Tianxi found that her earlier impression had some truth to it: the building had clearly been an inn at some point in the past. The common room seemed much the same as before, though stripped of some tables in favor of weapons racks, and what must have been the rooms for lodging in the back were now for holding students under arrest. Inside a handful of blackcloaks sat at the table by the hearth, two of them reading while others chatted over steaming mugs of tea.

One of them, a woman of Someshwari looks, glanced back and then rose at the sight of her.

“Thirteenth?” she asked.

Kuril accent, Song noticed. Unusual, as that mountain people rarely left the continent, but some were said to turn to mercenary work during lean years and the Watch recruited heavily from soldiers of fortune – both the Garrison and the free companies.

“I am Captain Song Ren of the Thirteenth Brigade,” she confirmed. “Here for Tristan Abrascal.”

“Leftmost room,” the Someshwari said. “He’s with Sergeant Hotl, you can go right in.”

Song nodded her thanks, then moved to put an end to this mess as quickly as possible. She was but a few feet away from the door when she heard Abrascal shout from inside, jaw tightening in quicksilver anger. It was one thing to hold a member of her cabal, another to beat them. That would not be tolerated. Hand on the chisel, Song reminded herself, but wrenched open the door harder than necessary.

Only to be faced with Abrascal sitting with Sergeant Hotl over a game of cards, moaning as he lost a hand to the Aztlan blackcloak. Loudly enough neither noticed her arrival. His calamity god was lounging against the wall,  able to look at Hotl’s cards though such a thing was no doubt beneath her. Abrascal had been shouting at his loss, not a beating, and so the world was righted: Song was allowed to be furious at him once more.

“Three valets?” Tristan groaned. “The torture rack would have been kinder.”

“Do not tempt me,” Song coldly said, entering and closing the door behind her.

At last they noticed her, Sergeant Hotl chuckling and Abrascal straightening like a child caught pilfering sweets. The gray-eyed man shot her what he must think was a winning smile, which had her tightening her jaw. She hated that most about him, the way he played it all off – as if it were a game, a jest. As if this situation was not deadly serious, a potential black mark on their cabal’s reputation they might be working off for months.

“Your plaque,” Sergeant Hotl asked, leaning back in his chair.

Song dutifully handed it, glancing lightly above Hotl’s head at the rows of golden letters hovering there and further unfolding beneath her gaze. Written in Centzon, not Omeyetl, so easy enough to read. She only had moments to peek at his terms before he returned the plaque, but it was enough to glean that the contract seemed to concern memory. Sergeant Hotl – Itzcuin Hotl, she learned through the terms – asked for her name and nodded after receiving it.

“Your man here is in detainment for being found past a red line by one of the western patrols, Captain Song,” the sergeant told her. “He told his tale of how he got there and it seems to check out with an accidental crossing. We had the details investigated.”

Song, standing ramrod straight before the two, bent her neck to nod.

“Am I to understand that an accidental crossing is a lesser offense than willful one?” she asked.

“It’s not an offense at all,” Sergeant Hotl said. “He’s been detained because while he passed a Judas test he could have been brainbent. He’s spent a night contained without going into a mania episode, however, so that doesn’t appear to be the case.”

The Judas test, Song had read, was one of the Watch’s means to determine if someone had been possessed. Sixty-six seconds exposed to brumal silver, a metal that induced allergic reactions on the flesh of individuals ridden by gods. That explained why their brigade plaque was silvery - though it must be an alloy, brumal silver was wildly expensive – but now why Tristan had needed to be tested for possession in the first place.

That interrogation could wait, Song decided.

“He is cleared of risks, then,” she said.

“He is,” Sergeant Hotl conceded.

She glanced at Tristan.

“Up,” she ordered. “You can attempt to convince me this was not your fault over breakfast.”

He was thoroughly underserving of the Emerald Vaults’ honeybread, but the world was an unfair place and she would not deny herself petty pleasures. Only the thief did not move and Hotl cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Your man is also the reason two students are in the hospital,” the watchman said. “He’s not going anywhere until your patron comes to collect him.”

Song turned a look on Abrascal, silently demanding an explanation.

“The second’s not even my fault, really,” he complained. “The house collapsed and the man got hit by loose masonry standing in the street like a fool.”

“The house collapsed because you threw a grenade at the roof,” Sergeant Hotl reminded him.

It was evidently not the first time they’d had this conversation. Abrascal’s calamity god, whose name burned Song’s eyes even to glance at when she glanced at the hovering contract, was laughing at something. Perhaps glee at violence done in her name?

“It was just fireworks, which I threw at a Skiritai student,” Abrascal peevishly said. “And he’s just fine, you told me, even though he was blinded, deaf and on the roof when it fell. I threwthe damn thing and still got bruises.”

The thief glanced at her.

“It’s unfair that other people also get to have a Tredegar,” the gray-eyed man seriously told her. “I much preferred it when we had a monopoly on that sort of thing.”

Song always disliked it when she agreed with something he said. It made her feel like she had joined a particularly embarrassing circus. The Tianxi cleared her throat.

“Our patron has yet to arrive on Tolomontera,” she told the sergeant. “We have no notion of when they might, meaning Tristan might remain in your custody long past the beginning of classes.”

A pause, an encouraging smile. Smiles tended to get you further than frown when you were a young woman. Unless you had a musket out, anyway.

“Would it be possible for me to undertake the necessary duty as his captain and have him released to my care?”

“You’re behind,” Sergeant Hotl replied. “Your patron arrived late last night and sent word that Tristan here is not to be released under any circumstances until he arrives.”

Song breathed in. She did not enjoy looking the fool, which she had just made herself pass as. Hand on the chisel, she reminded herself. If anything, that their patron had finally arrived was fine news. She had many questions to ask him.

“Would you happen to know when they are to arrive, then?” she politely inquired.

Before the sergeant could answer, the sound of small commotion in the common room drew their attention. Song barely had long enough to turn before the door was brusquely opened and a man was revealed to her eyes.

“Shit,” Tristan said.

It took her a moment for her to recognize the man who entered the room, but only that, and once more she joined the circus.

Lieutenant Wen had not lost so much as a thimble of weight since the Dominion, his belly still barely tucked into his black coat and gilet. Her fellow Tianxi was holding a brace of fresh churros through a small folded cloth, one recently bitten into – he was chewing loudly, and did not bother greeting anyone in the room after entering. Sergeant Hotl got to his feet and saluted.

“Sir,” he said, “I am-”

Wen raised a finger, silencing the Aztlan officer, then noisily swallowed. Song would have thought that the end of it, but he then wiped his hand on his coat and went looking inside a pocket for his pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. He carefully put them on, resting them on his nose, and Sergeant Hotl opened his mouth again. Only to be silenced by a finger again.

Lieutenant Wen took another bite of churro and made them all wait in silence as he chewed and swallowed before finally letting out a pleased sigh.

“Ah, that’s much better,” Wen happily said, then turned a steady look on the room. “All right, my morning has now become tolerable enough to suffer through this. Proceed, sergeant.”

“Sergeant Hotl, sir,” the Aztlan said. “I relieved Sergeant Gentry, who wrote and sent the report you received, but I have familiarized myself with the details.”

“It’s a pretty straightforward case,” Lieutenant Wen amiably said. “Tristan’s a shifty little prick, but it’s the Forty-Ninth that picked their fight and he didn’t break any of the Scholomance rules on purpose. I have been told of the situation so there’s no further need for Garrison involvement.”

“As you say, sir,” Sergeant Hotl replied. “I’ll just need you to sign him out and he’s all yours.”

The fat officer bit into a churro again and Song only barely hid her twitch. Wen’s absolute lack of manners, the deliberate flouting of politeness, never failed to infuriate her. Especially in a Tianxi who should know better.

“Let’s,” Lieutenant Wen said. “The others should be waiting for us on Hostel Street by now, and I’m not giving these brats my entire day.”

--

Mere minutes later they were on the street, walking back towards their lodgings.

Song had never quite settled on whether Lieutenant Wen was yixinor not – that is, Cathayan of race but raised in a foreign culture. The blue-lipped twins on the Dominion had been that and almost proud of it, but the large officer was more difficult to place. Tristan could not seem to look at Wen without visibly wanting to wince, so Song took it upon herself to break the silence.

"A pleasure to meet you again, Lieutenant Wen,” she said.

“Captain Wen now,” the man corrected with a hard grin. “Who would have thought those years of formal complaints about Vasanti would end up paying off? I was a lone voice of truth ignored by a negligent commander, Ren, a veritable unsung hero.”

He bit into his churros with relish, letting out indecent noises as he did. Song still could not quite put a finger his accent in Antigua, which sounded like Erlangi but not quite as throaty. Not from a southern republic, that much was certain, but he didn’t sound like he had been raised speaking Machin either – the dialect of the eastern republics was too particular to the ear to mistake.

If he were yixin it would explain the manners, she thought. That and him being an asshole, which he manifestly was.

“Happy news,” Song politely replied. “I must admit I did not expect to see you so soon after the Dominion, much less have you named as our Scholomance patron.”

“It was a surprise for me as well,” Wen replied. “Here I was at the Rookery, summoned before a tribunal to determine if I was to be demoted, and instead they cleared me in less than an hour before offering me a position I’d not even applied for. Out on the first boat I was, Mandisa with me.”

“You must have distinguished yourself during the crisis,” Song said.

The man bit into his churros again.

“Nah,” he said, mouth half full. “I’m thinking instead that someone on the Obscure Committee has it out for your cabal. Since I recommended Tristan here be shot in my report on the Trial of Ruins, they’re hoping I’ll get you all killed.”

Song swallowed. Had she been the one to cause this? She’d heard rumors that a sitting member of the committee ruling over Scholomance had kin in Jigong, though they were only rumors. Abrascal was finally moved from muteness, which at least distracted Wen from her temporary distress.

“Shot, really?” he complained. “That was hardly warranted.”

“You miss all the public executions you don’t ask for,” Captain Wen philosophically replied. “Thought I might get lucky and get you tossed into a Garrison camp as a compromise, but apparently you’re the pet of someone high up in the ranks.”

“The word you are looking for is pupil,” Abrascal sharply replied.

There was genuine heat in his eyes, a rare sight. Unlike the dark glee in Wen’s, who looked like a man who’d just found a new favorite toy.

“Did I hear correctly that Sergeant Mandisa accompanied you?” Song asked, steering away from the explosion. “Might she have been promoted as well?”

“No, Mandi’s still a sergeant,” Wen grumpily said. “I had to pull strings to get her out of the Dominion, too, they wanted to assign me a sergeant from the Tolomontera garrison.”

It was not a long walk back to Hostel Street and the first stretch of it was spent in silence, so when they turned the corner Song was not surprised to find they were in sight of the Rainsparrow Hostel. Out in the street before it stood the three waiting for them: Maryam, who at last looked properly rested, then the chatting pair of Angharad and Sergeant Mandisa. Both a display of tall, attractive dark-skinned women with a lethal streak to them.

Not Song’s cup of tea, but she could understand why they were drawing lingering stares even at so early an hour.

Wen had finished the entire brace of churros by the time they joined the others, which she would not have thought possible if not for the evidence before her eyes, and seemed in a marginally better mood. A silver lining.

“Wen,” Sergeant Mandisa greeted him. “Done bullying the rooklings?”

“It’s not bullying if they deserve it,” he replied.

He spent a moment on greeting Maryam, politely, then Angharad with some genuine fondness. Mandisa did the same with them, teasing Tristan with a grin before offering Song her hand to shake. She took it.

“Congratulations on being named captain,” Mandisa said. “I hear you can get the position formally conferred if you graduate with it."

That was Song’s aim, yes. Cabalists were outside the general chain of command of the Watch, unable to use their ranks to command regulars, but they were also answered directly to the high-ranking officers they were assigned to and could not be commanded by anyone else. It was the best, quickest way for her to be able to take on the kind of work that would restore her family’s name.

“I will endeavor to live up to the privilege,” she replied.

“Look at you, saying the Stripe sayings,” the sergeant grinned. “Cute as a button.”

Song did not scowl, but it was a near thing. She was nearly twenty, far past the age for such childish compliments.

“All right,” Captain Wen said. “I need to brief the brats and I hear the Chimerical opened here so I’ll be taking two birds with that stone. Mandisa?”

The tall sergeant wrinkled her nose.

“No thank you,” she said. “I’ll go see if our luggage is there yet, straighten out the rooms.”

“Much appreciated,” Wen said, then turned his eyes on them.

He grinned unpleasantly.

“Come on, it will be a learning experience.”

--

Despite the ominous words, it turned out the Chimerical was a little shop tucked away in a corner a mere few streets away from the tall facades of Hostel Street.

It looked dingy. The wooden front was stooped and dirty, the sole glass window caked with old dust and the shop sign faded. Once a chimera had been painted in gold, but time had worn away much of the body and all the heads save the serpent’s. The silhouette of the lemure would have been unrecognizable if not for the name of the place, which was writ on the straw welcome mat. It took two attempts for Captain Wen to wrench open the thick wooden door, and then the smell wafted out.

Strong, bitter and lingering.

“This is a coffeehouse,” Song said, genuinely surprised.

The Malani drink was wildly popular in Izcalli and swaths of the Trebian Sea, but it had never gained much of a following in the Republics. Tea was bound to too many of the rituals that maintained society.

“The only one on Tolomontera,” Captain Wen agreed. “Don’t spread the word.”

She was first in behind the captain, narrowing her eyes at the inside. The Chimerical was not any neater there, and still uncomfortably cramped. The entire shop was little more than three tables in walled booths and facing a counter behind which she glimpsed the tools to make coffee – roaster, mortar and sundry copper pots for the boiling. Yet the smallness of the shop would not have been so oppressive, Song thought, if the proprietor had not decided to fill it with a multitude of knickknacks.

A stuffed alligator hung from the ceiling, a row of green jars with froggy legs floating in preservative were by her head, a large globe whose painted borders matched no existing nation turned slowly, no fewer than seven Izcalli dueling spears were put up like trophies and was that potted nightshade in the corner? With every look she found further cluttering claptrap, none of it arranged sensibly or even in a way that was pleasing to the eye. It was genuinely awful.

“Oh,” Angharad said, coming in behind her with wide eyes. “How charming!”

Song was mistress of herself, and so she did not shoot the other woman and betrayed look. However deserved one might have been. Instead she followed Wen as he claimed the booth furthest in, whose table was currently occupied by a prodigiously fat black cat. It flopped belly up the moment the captain stroked it, purring loudly as Wen showed more affection towards the animal in an instant than she had ever seen him express towards a person not Mandisa over the length of their entire acquaintance.

“Good boy,” the captain praised. “You’re a good boy, yes you are.”

Maryam, who had caught up to her while Abrascal and Angharad stared at the globe and excitedly discussed something while pointing at a sea that Song was somewhat convinced did not exist, came by her side and shot the feline a skeptical look.

“More buoy than boy, that one,” the signifier muttered her way.

Song was startled into a snort, which she politely turned into a cough.

“The owner appears absent,” she said. “Perhaps we should-”

“Take a seat, by all means.”

It was a near thing, but Song refrained from reaching for her blade. The voice came from behind her, the counter where she could have sworn there had been no one. Now there stood a tall old man, his brown hair touched by strokes of gray. Dressed in a slashed rusty jerkin over a high-collared gray doublet and matching hose, a jauntily angled black beret spruced up with an ostrich feather atop his head, the proprietor met her gaze soberly.

His eyebrows, she could not help but notice, looked much like the ears of the stuffed grand duke owl to his left.

Wen abandoned the cat, which meowed plaintively at the withdrawal of belly rubs, and turned to the owner. He looked surprised at the sudden appearance, so perhaps it was common practice. A trapdoor behind the counter, perhaps? There did not seem to be a back room for the proprietor to live in, much less a second story.

“Hage,” Captain Wen greeted the man.

“Wen Duan,” Hage replied, his impressive eyebrows rising. “Back from exile, I see.”

“I simply cannot be contained,” Wen happily said, then patted the meowing cat’s head. “What is this beautiful boy called?”

“Mephistofeline,” the proprietor replied, smiling broadly. “Prince of Hell, felonious claimant to the throne of Pandemonium.”

And everyone save Wen went still, as beyond a row of neat white teeth was a maw of fangs. Devil, this Hage was a devil. Mephistofeline broke the silence by leaping down the table and landing with an undignified thump.

Song had half expected him to bounce.

“The Office of Opposition will try to assassinate you again if they hear that,” Wen amusedly replied.

Hage dismissed the words with an indifferent wave.

“It will give Asher something to hiss at,” the devil said. “Your usual?”

“Please,” Wen said.

The devil turned his gaze – placid brown eyes which he was not using, not really – on them.

“Your orders?” he prompted.

“I’ll invite you this once,” Wen told them. “Do as you please.”

“Do you have Uthukile beans?” Angharad hopefully asked.

“I’m not a savage, girl, of course I have Uthukile beans,” Hage said. “Southern Tsenda, heart of the riverlands.”

The Pereduri perked up, the words evidently having meaning for her. Song had never heard of Tsenda, though she did know the ‘riverlands’ referred to a region near the border between the islands of Uthukile and Malan. It was the wealthiest and most populated part of Uthukile, on account of being furthest from the coast of the Low Isle and its infamous storms.

“Then I would have a cup, if you please,” Angharad said. “Unadorned.”

The devil nodded approvingly then moved on to the rest of them.

“I will have the same as Captain Wen,” Maryam volunteered.

A cocked eyebrow and a nod. The devil turned his eyes on Song, who forced a smile.

“I do not suppose you have tea?” she asked.

Hage sneered, turning a look on Wen who held up his hands defensively.

“She’s from the old country,” he said. “You know how they are.”

Definitely yixin, Song thought. It might explain why he appeared to care little about her surname even though as the Thirteenth’s patron he was sure to know her bearing it was no coincidence.

“You can have a cup of Totochtin gold, two sugars and my contempt,” the devil said. “Boy?”

“Water, thank you,” Abrascal drily replied.

Hage stared at him, muttered something about sacking Liergan a sixth time and dismissed the Sacromontan’s existence as he puttered about taking care of the orders. Abrascal sighed and she flicked him a curious look. He scowled.

“Coffee is a drug,” he told her. “Take it for long enough and you will have headaches if you stop.”

“You will find no argument from me,” Song told him.

She could not, the Tianxi suddenly realized, ever seeing Tristan take so much a sip of liquor without it being pushed on him. The dedication to keeping a clear mind was admirable, and perhaps went some way in explaining how someone whose contract was a glorified coin flip was still alive. His calamity god appeared to be wandering around eyeing the knickknacks, though Song could not spare more than a sneaking look without risking being caught looking.

They all squeezed into the same booth, Wen taking up a side by himself while the rest sat to face him. The captain eyed them with clear displeasure.

“I knew that this would be a headache and half when I accepted the position,” he said, “but somehow you have surpassed my expectations.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I haven’t even been on this island for a day and I’ve already had to deal with two feuds on your behalf,” the captain bluntly said. “Would either of the people who started one of those care to explain themselves?”

Abrascal smiled but said nothing, so Angharad gallantly charged into the breach.

“It was an honor duel,” she said. “And I ended it at first blood.”

Wen eyed her balefully.

“That’s what you say happened,” he said. “What I had the patron of the Ninth Brigade yelling in my ear about was that you casually crippled and humiliated their Skiritai two days before the start of classes.”

Song had asked her to make an impression, and Angharad had. It was always a pleasure when an order was followed so exceptionally. Only Wen did not look equally pleased.

“I had to do a lot of dancing to make it so there wouldn’t be a price put on crippling each of your arms this morning,” he said. “You’re lucky that Lady Knit didn’t ask for a high price to get that boy’s arm working again.”

Song cleared her throat, the baleful look turned on her for it.

“Lady Knit?”

“The goddess running the hospital here,” Wen said.

She’d thought that might be the case. Some surprised looks from the others, a fresh reminder that outside the Republics gods were not usually considered citizens.

“They have mundane chirurgeons as well,” the captain told the others, “but if you want a miracle Lady Knit is your port of call. Not that I would recommend using her services too often.”

Wen then turned back to Angharad.

“I argued you were provoked, but still had to pay up so the situation wouldn’t get out of hand,” he said. “As punishment, the Thirteenth Brigade will not be attending the gathering in Misery Square this afternoon.”

Song stiffened. Given that every other Scholomance student was meant to be there, their absence was sure to be remarked upon. She had meant to capitalize on the repute Angharad had won them, too, firm up the alliance with Captain Ferranda’s brigade and deepen the acquaintance with the Third. All those designs were smoke if they were barred from attendance, and after the talk about the Thirteeenth would no longer be of their mirror-dancer’s spectacular victory but instead of the cabal's mysterious absence.

“Is it not possible,” Song delicately said, “to change that punishment to another, sir? A fine, perhaps.”

Better to lose brigade funds than brigade connections. The coin would come back but not the opportunities.

“You misunderstand me, Ren,” Wen told her. “Scholomance had and has only three rules: as your patron, I was assigned here to advise you and serve as an intermediary. I cannot, in fact, give you orders or punishments. No one can aside from the garrison and your teachers, and even the latter’s authority is limited.”

He sipped at his coffee again, then set it down.

“I negotiated a settlement with the Ninth’s patron, but you are in no way bound to follow it,” he continued, breaking off another piece of shortbread. “What I can tell you is that, if you don’t, those remarkably well-connected brats will come after you with all they’ve got. I gave the Ninth a win and mitigated your gains at their expense, so they agreed to keep your troubles schoolyards ones in exchange. No bounties, no leaning on outside connections. You can do with that deal what you will.”

Song hesitated.

“It sounds,” Maryam ventured, “like a decent enough bargain. I do not think we want to pick a war so early, no?”

“If the best they can muster is to threaten us with forces beyond them, then we need not bow our heads,” Angharad opined. “On the contrary, let us raise the banner and have others opposed to their brigade flock to it.”

“We’re not fighting just them or their friends if they put up a bounty,” Tristan objected. “We’re fighting everyone who needs coin, and I’m guessing that’s a much longer list.”

None of them were senseless in their opinion. It was a heavy fight to be picking so early and against an opponent whose strengths and means were yet unknown to them, but Angharad was not wrong in noting the Ninth seemed to be overplaying their hand – which smacked of posturing, of weakness. But there was more to the decision than that.

“We cannot be the first to openly fight the Ninth Brigade,” Song evenly said. “Using their captain’s connections they want to reign as the princes of Scholomance, which means the first to challenge their rule must be made an example of to cow the rest. They certainly will cross lines to accomplish this, a complication we do not need when we already have so many plaguing us.”

Angharad’s lips thinned.

“The Third Brigade-”

“Is looking for a catspaw to hamstring their rivals,” Song sharply cut in. “We are outsiders brought in so cousins do not come to blows directly, not allies. If they form a coalition against the Ninth it will be a different matter, but that is not the situation.”

The Tianxi stared down the other woman. Angharad looked away first and Song’s face betrayed none of her relief at the challenge ending there. Her command of the situation would slip if her most reliable supporter within the cabal began arguing her decisions too much. She turned to Captain Wen and nodded.

“Thank you for negotiating the settlement,” she said.

As if summoned by the lull in conversation, the devil owning the coffeehouse appeared with a silver serving plate. Porcelain cups for all, save for Abrascal who received his water in a tin goblet. Wen’s usual proved to be not only a small porcelain cup of coffee but with a small plate of shortbread cookies sprinkled with some kind of crystalline powder. Sugar? Either way, Maryam immediately helped herself to one and ignored the coffee entirely. Song eyed her own delicate white cup, the coffee within covered with a layer of golden foam. The Totochtin League was, if she recalled correctly, a coalition of city-states nestled against southwestern Izcalli that the kingdom allowed to exist mostly so it could wage flower wars against it, regularly raiding it for prisoners and loot.  Did they grow coffee? She’d had no idea.

Hazarding a sip, she found the taste rather mild – a little smoky and very sugary in aftertaste. Like a sort of sirup. It was warm and not unpleasant, but lacked the attractions of properly prepared tea. Angharad downed her own cup like a soldier putting away liquor, swallowing without a hint of discomfort and smacking her lips afterwards.

Song had not had a good look, but what she’d just guzzled down had looked not unlike liquid black tar. Malani.

“What of the situation with the Forty-Ninth?” she asked, setting down her cup.

Wen took a sip of his own and sighed in pleasure, then set down the delicate porcelain and broke off a small piece of shortbread to scarf it down. Only after that did he bother to reply.

“I know their patron, Dionora Cazal,” Wen said. “We were inducted into the Laurels at the same time. She tried to bully me into offering a fine for their wounded, but she had thin grounds for asking.”

“It is their brigade that ambushed me,” Abrascal evenly said. “Their captain schemed as much from the moment he came to the Old Playhouse.”

That Tristan had evaded an entire cabal at the cost of little more than bruising was, admittedly, impressive. The man was not incompetent.

“That’s what I heard, yes,” Wen mused. “They were after some sort of bounty and they were the ones to attack, so as reparations I offered them one copper and for Tristan to write an insincere apology letter.”

Song choked. She had not expected much, given that the Forty-Ninth was attempting to collect on the head of a member of her cabal and that made peace unlikely, but she had not expected Wen to actively provoke their opponent. She should have known better. Wen was not help, fool of a Ren, he was another disaster in need of handling.

“How insincere are we talking?” Tristan asked.

Captain Wen opened his mouth to answer but she cut in before he could.

“Never mind that,” Song said. “There is to be no truce with the Forty-Ninth, sir?”

He shook his head.

“And Dionora still ran off with the copper I flipped her when making my offer, so I expect you to retrieve it on my behalf,” he solemnly said. “We cannot allow ourselves to be robbed this way, the brigade’s honor is at stake.”

Assaulting a superior officer would be a black mark on her record, Song reminded herself. Maryam, perhaps taking pity on her, cleared her throat and changed the subject.

“We were told that our patron would explain how our year at Scholomance is to function, sir,” she said. “Given that classes begin tomorrow, I would appreciate that explanation.”

Wen reached inside his coat, taking out a sheath of papers. He picked one out of the lot, setting the rest aside and unfolding the one he had chosen for them all to see. On it appeared to be the layout of a schedule over seven days, each split in half.

“There are five general classes,” Wen said. “Those are obligatory for you to attend as part of the education common to all Scholomance students.”

His finger went to firstday, the morning half.

“Mandate,” Wen said, “is a study of the Watch itself. The nature of its rights, privileges, duties and functions. A lot of the students with blood in the black will know these things already – some of them, anyway - but it is necessary learning for the likes of you.”

The finger moved to the second day of the week, morning again.

“Saga, which as far as I’m concerned is the most important of your classes. It involves both recent history and the study of modern Vesper with its underpinnings. You are to be taught about the world we’re sending you into, how it works and how it got to become that way.”

Third day of the week, still morning.

“Teratology,” Wen said. “The study of monsters – lemures and lares. Biology, behavior, habitat. How to kill or use them, their weaknesses and wants.”

Fourth day.

“Theology, the study of gods. I hear it’s to be taught by a Navigator, so expect a grasp of basic metaphysics to be thrown in as well: Gloam, Glare, aether.”

Fifth day, morning like all the others.

“The last, inevitably, is Warfare,” Wen said. “Not only will you be taught to fight and kill in the ways of our order, you will also be made to study skirmishing tactics on a cabal scale.”

“That leaves the afternoons empty,” Song noted.

“Those belong to your covenant,” he said. “Sometime today a letter will be sent to your lodgings, outlining where you are to meet tomorrow afternoon and be introduced to your fellow covenanters. Your schedule for the rest of the year will be outlined by your instructors then.”

“And the last two days of the week?” Maryam asked.

“Those are yours,” Wen said. “You are allowed to take one of the electives if you like – all are taught on sixthday morning – but you will get no special privilege from studiousness save what you learn.”

He picked out another paper from his sheath, unfolding it and setting it by the first. It was a list, Song saw. The electives. Fundamentals, Medicine, Seafaring, Alchemy, Strategy, Languages.

“If you’re looking to learn a language in particular, tell me and I’ll arrange for it,” Captain Wen said. “More or less every language spoken in a successor state can be taught, but if you want something rarer it’ll depend on whether there is a teacher for it.”

Slow nods all around.

“Fundamentals?” Tristan asked.

“It’s to catch up your sort,” the captain answered. “Reading, writing, numbers. Bare bones on the nations, languages and the history of Vesper. Enough of the fundamentals you won’t embarrass the Watch when out in the world on our behalf.”

The Sacromontan hummed but said nothing more. If he had felt insulted by that he hid it well.

“Professors in the general classes will regularly give you assignments, which you can fail,” Wen informed them. “If so, you will be tasked with redoing the assignment. Failure to complete all your assignments to the teacher’s satisfaction before the end of the year will see you forced to retake the class the following year.”

A pause.

“Fail to complete a class twice and your time at Scholomance comes to an end.”

A method forgiving of failure, Song thought, though perhaps there was a reason for it besides a surfeit of tolerance for incompetence.

“I was informed that there is to be a yearly test whose failure could also see us expelled,” Angharad said.

Captain Wen waved that away.

“Settle in for a few weeks, then we’ll talk about the test,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about that for a while.”

He raised a finger.

“What you should be worrying about,” he said, “is that from tomorrow onwards staying in the hostels and dining will no longer be free. Unless one of you is secretly rich, I’d start either making gold or looking for somewhere else to sleep.”

Song had not acceded company funds last night, preferring instead to take the measure of Port Allazei, but somehow she suspected that the prices for the rooms would be just expensive enough that staying in them would make it difficult to buy anything else.

“There are other accommodations in Allazei?” Angharad asked, surprised.

“No,” Song said with certainty. “He means the ruins.”

“There’s a city’s worth of walls and roofs out there,” Wen shrugged. “Figure something out.”

He drank of his cup again and repeated the same ritual with the shortbread. Maryam’s own shortbread was long gone, Song noticed, but she had not so much as sipped at her own coffee.

“Finish your drinks and wait outside,” Wen ordered. “I need to speak with your captain in private.”

“Ah,” Abrascal smiled. “The secret Stripe perks I’ve been hearing about.”

“It wouldn’t be the Academy if they didn’t stack the deck,” Wen easily replied. “Go on, then, get going.”

The thief drained his water and Maryam discreetly hid her full cup behind the empty goblet, ignoring Wen’s unimpressed look. Angharad was the first out, speaking her goodbyes, and the rest followed in her wake. The devil named Hage nodded a goodbye from behind the counter, which he was wiping, but did not bother to say anything. After Wen finished another round of coffee and shortbread, he wiped his mouth.

“Start reading up on the Asphodel Rectorate,” he said. “I’m supposed to be all mysterious about it, but that’s most likely where the Thirteenth will be sent for its test.”

Song nodded, mind spinning. She had looked for a library last night, or at least archives, but there did not appear to be either in Port Allazei. Most likely it would be in Scholomance proper.

“Now, as an Academy candidate you get a carrot and stick handed to you,” Wen continued, picking a piece of paper from the pile and handing it to her.

Song unfolded it, finding on it a string of seven numbers.

“Am I meant to know the meaning of this?” she asked.

“It’s your key to the Academy account at the bank,” Captain Wen replied. “From now on, if you hand in the class assignment of one of your cabalists at least two days early the professor will make a note of it and pass it on. At the end of each month you will be allowed to withdraw ten coppers from the Academy account for every instance it happened.”

Carrot and stick, she silently echoed. Now Song had something to ask of her cabalists and something to reward them with. Something to withhold as well, if they refused. It seemed an easy request to make of them, for some additional funds, because it was.

The point, she thought, was to get them used to listening to her.

“Thank you for the information,” she said.

Captain Wen shrugged.

“If any of your lot want to take an elective, try to get the word to me this afternoon,” he said. “You can register for another week yet, but a fair number have limited places and the only rule is first come first served.”

“I will see to it immediately,” Song said.

The officer grunted, but did not dismiss her quite yet. He looked almost reluctant when he spoke.

“Be careful with the professors,” he finally said. “I hear some might have it out for you over that whole…”

He gestured vaguely.

“The Dimming,” Song flatly said. “My family’s responsibility for it.”

“That,” Captain Wen casually agreed.

Song licked her lips.

“You seem,” she said, “remarkably unconcerned by that.”

She did not hope. She knew better, by now.

“I’ve got a barbarian heart,” Wen told her in accentless Cathayan, “as you fine folk from the old country love to say. What do I care for the woes of the Republics?”

Song kept the wince off her face. That was, admittedly, the literal translation of yixin.

“Besides,” Wen said, “I hear they called your grandfather a hero, for that first hour. He refused to collapse the three-legged tower onto the city and spared thousands, didn’t he? If something hadn’t gone wrong up in firmament and put out a Luminary, he’d be the most beloved man in Jigong.”

He didn’t do it to spare strangers, Song thought, clutching the knowledge in the darkest recess of her heart. He did it because he knew my mother was down there. Her pregnant mother, belly swollen with the second of Song’s brothers.

It was why she could not hate her grandfather without loving him: if he had not ruined them all, Song would not be alive to despise it.

“I will be careful,” she said, throat tight.

Wen studied her for a moment.

“Finish your coffee before you go,” he ordered.

Time to compose herself before meeting the others, a kindness. Forcing her to drink something she disliked, an unkindness. Captain Wen Duan laid out in a sentence, she thought. By the time she took her leave she was calm again, hand on the chisel. The others were lounging outside the shop, their chat guttering out the moment she stepped out the door.

“I have some information,” Song announced. “And we need to make some decisions.”

“We’ll have the free time for it, while everyone else is at Misery Square,” Maryam idly said.

She did not look at Angharad as she did, but then she did not need to. The Pereduri stiffened.

“Well,” Abrascal said, pulling at his collar. “I had a thought about that. There is a place I found that I believe we should go to while everybody else is busy. Somewhere I found last night, which I believe  could be of use to us.”

“Useful what way?” Song frowned.

“Wen told us to look for a place to sleep,” he said. “How does a cottage with a garden sound like?”

Very fine indeed, which meant there was a hidden defect. She was not alone in that understanding.

“Now give us the catch,” Maryam amusedly said.

The thief cleared his throat.

“It may or may not have once belonged to an archbishop of the Sunless House and be hidden by means of Gloam sorcery,” Abrascal said.

Song studied him for a long moment, then sighed.

“How large a garden?” she asked, and Tristan grinned.