Chapter 23
Tutors III
The mess hall was empty and silent when Mags followed Malacoda inside, the air thick with the scent of aged wood and oil. The room seemed to expand with the lack of people, becoming an expanse of tables and benches. The chandeliers still glowed softly across the ceiling. She and Malacoda were two shadows, standing alone in the large, bronze scrying mirror that stood above the crackling fireplace. It was a far cry from the noisy, smoke-filled dining room the place had been the previous night. It was oddly peaceful, even cozy in its own way.
“Sit,” Malacoda said, motioning to one of the long benches that lined a heavy wooden table. Without another word, he slipped through a narrow doorway at the back of the room, vanishing into the kitchens. Almost immediately the sounds of crashing, clanging and slamming drifted from the door.
Mags lowered herself onto the bench, wincing slightly as the aches from training made themselves known. She was still sore from being tossed around like a rag doll during their hand-to-hand practice. The bruises were already blooming under her skin, and her limbs felt heavy, exhausted. Yet, there was a strange satisfaction in it, a reminder that she was alive. She couldn’t help but think the table and bench was much like the one Vitomir had set up in the kitchen of the orphanage in Solstice.
A few minutes later, Malacoda returned, balancing a tray laden with simple food. He set it down in front of her with a casual grace that belied his heavy musculature.
“Not much, but it’ll do,” he said, sitting across from her.
On the tray sat half a loaf of bread, a small bowl of olive oil flecked with bits of rosemary, a grayish, salty-smelling paste, and two small bowls of cold beans dusted with a mixture of herbs and spices. Mags’ stomach growled audibly as she eyed the food. She hadn’t eaten breakfast she realized, and the hard training had sharpened her hunger into a ravenous edge.
“Eat,” Malacoda said with a grin, tearing off a chunk of bread. He dipped it into the oil, then spread the salty paste on top before popping it into his mouth. “This is a fish paste from Jyvaska. Trust me, it’s better than it looks.”
Mags hesitated only a moment before following his lead. The bread was dense but fresh, and the olive oil carried the sharp tang of rosemary. The fish paste was briny, a bit overwhelming on its own, but when paired with the bread and oil, it balanced out. The cold beans were a refreshing contrast, the spices adding a faint heat that lingered pleasantly on her tongue.
“Your Company seems to be from all over the world,” Mags commented before shoveling another spoonful of the bean salad into her mouth.
“A collection of downright oddities from across the Thirteen Crowns,” Malacoda said around a mouthful of oil-soaked bread. “Just about each nation is represented. With the exception of Olendar.” He gestured at her with the crust in his hand, moving it up and down. “But you’re aboard now, so we’ve got that covered too.”
“Have you been all over the world, then?”
“Most definitely . . . At least all the most interesting places.”
Mags had never been outside of Olendar. The world seemed like an overwhelmingly big place, and to think that there were people who had seen all of it was a hard concept to wrap her mind around.
“Even across the Green Sea?” she asked. The Green Sea was the gigantic forest that bordered Olendar and the other eastern Crowns of Iardyss, so called because of its unknowable vastness. The portion bordering Olendar specifically was the largest contiguous stretch of the Crown Coalition Front. Maldrath were thought to come from somewhere within or beyond the Green Sea.
“No one’s ever been beyond the Green Sea.” Malacoda said it as though the very idea was foolish.
“Even with an airship that doesn’t depend on skyfins?”
Malacoda nodded. “Even with a Soulship!” He poured himself a cup of water using the pitcher sitting on the table. “Plenty of people have ventured into the Green Sea and even above it, but it’s the edge of the world. You fly across it far enough and you hit an aether storm like no other. The Explorers Guild calls it the Autumn Wall.”
The Autumn Wall. Mags had never heard of it. She’d heard of aether storms, though never saw one herself—they were a rare sight caused by a reaction in the ambient aether in the environment.
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She ate in silence for a few moments, savoring the meal. When she’d nearly finished, her curiosity got the better of her. “Malacoda,” she began, glancing up from her plate. “I’ve been thinking about Yggdrasil. What’s your User Level?”
He paused mid-chew, eyebrows raising slightly. After swallowing, he leaned back, clearly pleased with himself. “S-1,” he said, a touch of pride slipping into his voice.
Mags raised an eyebrow. “S-1? That’s really high, right?”
“Damn right it is,” he chuckled. “Takes years of training to get there. Most never do.”
Impressed, Mags nodded slowly. Then, her thoughts drifted to Frey Sarto, the woman who held Mags’ life in her hands. The Captain of the Ghost Hounds. She hesitated before asking, “What about Captain Sarto? What’s her Level?”
Malacoda’s smile faded slightly, and his expression grew distant. He didn’t answer right away, and when he finally did, his tone was quieter, more subdued. “Higher,” he said, voice laced with something unspoken. “Much higher.”
At the mention of Sarto’s name, a strange sensation crawled up Mags’ spine. It was as though the very mention of her had drawn the woman’s attention, even though she was nowhere to be seen. Mags’ mind flashed back to those golden, ringed eyes—the way they seemed to bore into her soul. She shivered, shaking the image away.
Just then, the mess hall door creaked open, and Calcabrina and Libicocco strode in. Calcabrina’s face brightened when she saw them, her golden hair catching the dim light as she greeted them warmly. “Well, if it isn’t our new recruit and her esteemed tutor,” she said, her tone teasing.
Libicocco, more reserved as always, nodded coolly in their direction. “Magdalena,” she greeted simply, her voice as sharp as her ever-present gaze. “I hope Malacoda has actually spent time teaching you and hasn’t just used this time to shirk his other duties.”
Calcabrina sat beside Malacoda, while Libicocco took a seat across from them, folding her arms. “Libicocco was just telling me about your first lesson,” Calcabrina said with a smile. She reached for a piece of bread on Malacoda’s plate. He moved to stop her, but Libicocco smacked his hand, which snapped back. Calcabrina dipped the piece of bread into the olive oil before plopping it into her mouth. “You didn’t strike me as a bookworm, Mags! Libicocco was practically gushing with how impressed she was with your knowledge.”
Libicocco shot Calcabrina a quick, disapproving glance. “I wouldn’t say impressed,” she corrected, her voice calm but firm. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Surprised, perhaps. You’re ahead of where I thought we’d be starting, but there’s still a great deal to learn.”
Mags blushed under the faint praise, but her curiosity piqued at the thought. She hadn’t exactly expected compliments, but even being “surprisingly ahead” felt like a small victory, particularly after Malacoda had thoroughly thrashed her during their first combat lesson. If anything, she’d have expected to be far along in swordplay, which hadn’t been the case.
As if she had read Mags’ mind, Calcabrina turned to Mags with a more playful smile. “And how did your first combat training go? I’m sure you showed Malacoda a thing or two.”
Mags winced, rubbing a tender spot on her arm. “I’ve got bruises to show for it, that’s for sure. I thought I’d at least be able to hold my own with the sword, but Malacoda’s leagues ahead of me.”
Calcabrina threw her head back and laughed, the sound light and infectious. “Of course he is! There’s no one better to learn from. Did you know he was the youngest person to ever be admitted to Brightwash Academy? Graduated by thirteen too.”
Mags glanced at Malacoda, eyebrows raised. “Thirteen? Really?”
Malacoda waved off the compliment with a grunt. “Don’t get any ideas. I was such a pain in the ass, they shipped me out to the Coalition Forces as soon as they could just to get rid of me.”
Despite his attempt at humility, Mags could see a flicker of pride in his eyes. She couldn’t help but be impressed.
“So, you were in the Coalition?” Mags asked, curiosity bubbling up again.
Malacoda’s expression darkened slightly, and he shifted in his seat. “Did my time,” he said shortly. “Got out when I could. Spent a few years adventuring after that, before Sarto found me.”
His tone made it clear he didn’t want to dwell on that part of his past, so Mags let the subject drop. But it left her wondering. What had he seen in those years? What had pushed him to leave the military life behind and join a private Company? She thought of what she had witnessed be carried out in Solstice and shuddered at the potential atrocities the Coalition Forces carried out in the name of the empire.
Changing the subject, she asked another question that had been nagging at her since she’d heard it: “Why are you called the Ghost Hounds?”
Libicocco was the one to answer, her voice measured and precise. “The moniker belongs to Captain Sarto. During the Warring States Period, she was known as Frey the Ghost Hound for her unique ability to track other Soulsingers. No one could escape her. After her service ended, she used that ability to assemble this crew, selecting each of us with care. Over time, the name became associated with the entire Company.”
Mags listened intently, feeling a mix of awe and trepidation. Frey the Ghost Hound. There was a weight to the name, a sense of relentless pursuit, of an inescapable predator. It fit Sarto in a way that made Mags’ skin crawl. Again, she thought of those eyes.
“And now we’re all Ghost Hounds,” Calcabrina added with a grin, spreading her arms wide. “Even you, Mags.” She threw her arm around Mags and brought her into a small side hug with a squeeze. Despite being smaller than Mags, she could feel Calcabrina’s strength even in her mundane, human form. The horns on the girl’s head were a reminder of the powers she wielded. She’s a Bonesinger, Mags reminded herself.
“Perhaps an honorary member, at best,” Mags mumbled.
Calcabrina laughed again. “Libi, we should print cards that say ‘Honorary Member,’ that would be great for our renown!”
Libicocco clearly didn’t find it nearly as funny. “Mmhmm…”
Mags looked to Libicocco’s side. Malacoda had fallen asleep, laying on the long wooden bench with his cloak tightly wrapped around him. He softly snored. “That man sure does like to sleep,” she chuckled.
Libicocco sighed, squeezing between her eyes with her fingers. Calcabrina simply laughed.