Íde 

In his letter, Mister Tumble told me to meet him in Jejune at noon, so I arrived half an hour early and circled the neighbourhood for fifteen minutes. I’ve already clambered up a ladder that demarcates the dividing line between the half of Ildathach that has already been raised above river-level and the half that has not, and am now firmly in an elevated, and therefore wealthy, part of the city. The meeting place is across the street from me and is tremendously and improbably daunting. I check, for the fifth time, that it is the right place. It is, of course; each of the dull gold capitals that spell out THE TARNISHED MINISTER are set in hand-sized typeface over its juggernaut doorframe.

I grew up in Ildathach, and have lived her my entire life, but I’ve never been in this exact part of the Jejune district. Some of Jejune, the docks, I know. But down these little alleys, past the clusters of buildings that pop up to accommodate the various mariners and longshoremen of the docks, I’m a little out of my element.

The café looms on a corner, built in that post-Calamity style of intensely baroque fractalism. I’m struck with the idea that I can’t get a full picture of the building’s façade in my head, as it is so entirely crammed with baroque crenellations and detailing. The building was probably white when it was new, and is now greying gently. On this soggy summer day the overall effect is an air of subdued dignity, one that could easily collapse to shabbiness with a change of the light. I march towards the great wooden doors, run my hands over the needlessly large bronze rivets embedded into their bulk, and push them open.

After entering the Tarnished Minister, now only about a quarter of an hour early, I sit on one of the oversized crimson sofas in the foyer and try to peek past the sneering, owl-like host into the lounge beyond. He scrutinises me for half a moment before deciding to ignore me. I can’t see Mister Tumble’s broad figure anywhere in the depths of the café. This is hardly surprising, as the low light and the shisha smoke make it difficult to make out any details of the clientele.

This is not my personal preference for meeting location. Judging from the clothing that the few patrons I can see are wearing, my fears of being overdressed are completely unfounded. I smooth my skirt and settle in to wait.

The couch I’m slowly submerging into is worn to the point of cracking, and exceedingly comfortable. I’m cosy, and the inside of the Tarnished Minister is redolent with the warm smells of tobacco and coffee. Years of use has dyed everything a pleasant sepia- the walls, the carpet, the small gilded portrait of Saint Barely. Traditional and totally indecipherable Saint-hieroglyphs have been carefully inscribed under her frowning face. A cuckoo clock is mounted on the wall across from me, flanked by immense hothouse plants. Its face is worn and clean, carved in churning lines that mimic early uncharmed knotwork. I watch the filigreed tin hands twitch with every second, caught in the hidden gearing of the machine. The hand is released, finally, and leaps a minute closer to twelve. Three minutes until my meeting.

A couple sweeps in through the entranceway, bringing with them a momentary burst of street ruckus before the heavy doors once again gently slide shut. Both are tall, confident, and older than me. The host stiffens at the interruption, then smiles thinly at them as they approach. The man, an Ildathach gentleman, glances at me for a moment, and I look away before he notices me watching. The woman, who wears a scowl on her walnut complexion, doesn’t look at me at all. I glimpse a flash of darker flesh at her neck and chin, a regular mottled pattern that looks like some sort of skin disorder.

The woman steps forward and speaks in a low murmur to the host. He nods emphatically, slick coiffed hair barely shifting on his suddenly enthusiastic head.

The trio disappear into the café. I continue waiting patiently for Mister Tumble.

Eleven minutes past the hour, he still hasn’t arrived. The enormous glass skylights of the Tarnished Minister trap the heat in the front of the café, and both the host and I have lines of sweat ringing our shirt collars. The huge, leafy plants on the lobby are certainly enjoying the heat, though we two are sadly not. He looks up contemptuously as I shift minutely on the couch, doing his best to convey a sneer with only his eyes. I sigh and go back to waiting. Another ten minutes pass, and I stare at the barely cracked beige paint on the walls with all the intensity I can muster, trying to will Mister Tumble into existence.

My focus is interrupted by a polite cough. It is the host, and he is staring at me, purposefully. I half rise.

“Are you perhaps waiting for someone?”

I stammer out a response and cringe at my own uncertainty.

“I’m here to meet Mister Tumble.”

“I beg your pardon? You must speak up.”

“I said I’m here to meet Mister Evin Tumble.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. His eyebrows begin migrating, from their base resting point as the lintel of his sneer to higher, more suspect grounds. They slowly rise up his face, before reaching their apex, a position of maximum possible contempt. I watch as he moves a finger theatrically down what must be a ledger on his small plinth. The pettiness is striking, the scorn that oozes from the tyrant of this tiny principality, lord of the entrance to a coffee lounge.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he almost yawns the words out. “But there appears to be no Evin Tumble on the list today. Is it possible you are mistaken?”

My palms start sweating. I jerkily stand, caught halfway between indignation and politeness. Is this a test of some sort?

“Can you- can you check again, please? Evin Tumble? As in Colt & Tumble?”

A delicately raised eyebrow.

“Ah, yes, Colt & Tumble. Why didn’t you say so? They’ve already arrived, you must have been waiting for quite some time.”

I swallow my fear back down. How can I be late? I was early!

“Follow me, please.”

The host leads me into the depths of the Tarnished Minister. Past the glorious, skylit box of the entryway, the café descends rapidly into a dim, smoke-filled chamber. I watch a man blow a great cloud of fragrant scarlet smoke into the air, his eyes matte and listless in the muted light. Another table, host to a raucous party, laughs over canapes and pots of beer. We weave in and out of thickets of wicker chairs, board games, and a score of sharply dressed men and women.

Near the back of the cavernous hall, far enough away from the windows that they’re actually illuminated by a small candle, I see the couple from earlier arguing animatedly. Neither of them notice us as we approach.

The man, wielding a wooden waterpipe hose in one hand and gesticulating wildly with the other, has hung his coat on a nearby rack and has rolled up his shirtsleeves. The waving hand is highlighted by muted flashes from a blackened brass ring, which catches in the dim light here in the back of the café. His beard is short, razor-groomed in a style similar to how the boys at the university sport their own. Compared to his partner, who is gaunt and almost completely still, he is both massive and vibrant. The cravat wrapped around his throat is splashed with a gorgeous emerald pattern, the only unusual touch clothing amidst his gentleman’s attire. He glances up at us as we advance and flashes me a smile.

His companion doesn’t acknowledge us. She’s dissecting a chicken leg with a firm precision, thin, tattooed fingers gripped hard around the filigreed pewter cutlery. If she’s bothered by her companion’s tobacco cloud then she’s not showing it. Her face is set in a neutral scowl, and she seems content to allow the gentleman to continue his gesticulations and his story. What I thought before was some sort of strange shadow or possibly skin disease reveals itself to be an immense tattoo, running in a gentle arc from the corners of her mouth to her ears. The ink covers half of her face and her entire throat, which is almost wholly black. Thin, blurry lines, simple letters and geometries that I recognise as Bani Yathrib script, curve down her neck and face and disappear beneath her clothes.

“-which is why you should just not bother with it- oh, hello.”

He’s been watching me as we approach. She has too, but her gaze is far colder than his, and my neck bristles with the sensation of being studied.

Our attendant leaves me without a word. He marches haughtily back towards his kingdom at the front of the cafe, leaving me alone with the couple. The woman replaces her knife and fork, and dabs patiently at her mouth with a checked kerchief. She regards me with a cool stare.

“You’re late.”

I laugh, forcing it just slightly. I stop when I see she’s not smiling. “I don’t see why that’s funny,” she continues.

She’s not really blinking, and her eyes reflect the candlelight in a flat predator’s stare. Her companion coughs.

“Iseult, she was sat in the entrance when we got here.”

I look at him, and he inhales an immense lungful from the waterpipe before standing smoothly and smiling. “Please! Let me find you a seat. I’m Sean Whelan. From ounceland Llancreg, on the Aergan border.” He shakes my hand with a respectful grip, though his hand feels like a block of wood. There’s a barely noticeable strain in his voice, from speaking with a lungful of tobacco. He gestures towards the woman, who hasn’t taken her eyes off of me. “And this,” he blows an immense cloud of topaz smoke into the air above us, “is Iseult Morrin. Bani Yathrib mathematician, from the Wraithwild.”

She nods at me, and my shock that it’s her, the gunner, ricochets entirely off of her disinterested frown. She seems content to let Mister Whelan talk, which suits me perfectly. He places the pipe down and casually passes me an unwieldy wicker chair from a nearby table.

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“I take it you’re the second sigilist. Iseult here brought me up to speed. Don’t know a lot about you, other than the fact that Evin seems to think highly of you.”

There’s a long pause, until I realise that that was an invitation to speak.

“I- oh. Yes. Hello. I’m Íde. Íde Ceallaigh. Just finishing my apprenticeship at Saint Listless’ College. I got a letter from Mister Tumble, he explained his idea,” his utterly insane idea, to hunt and kill a piece of the sky, “and asked for me to meet here. Is that how you two met?” Here I gesticulate vaguely with both of my hands.

“No.” Miss Morrin speaks, before Mister Whelan can open his mouth. “Evin came to me in a lounge. He recruited me. I recruited Sean.”

I need to make a good impression.

“Yes, well, that means we’re going to be working together! I’m very sorry, forgive me, but are you… the Iseult Morrin?”

They share a look. Iseult chooses to ignore my question completely.

“Why did Evin decide on you?”

Is this how this sort of business is normally done? “What do you mean?”

She doesn’t repeat herself, and chooses instead to raise her eyebrows and lean back to rest her chin on the palm of her loose fist. Her curled fingers almost obscure the huge tattoo that runs across her face, and I wish the lighting was better so I could see the letters and shapes carved into her skin.

“I think what Iseult means, Íde, is that she would like to hear more about you.”

Mister Whelan’s affability is an almost exact reversal of his partner’s demeanour. He gives me a friendly smile before taking a considerable, bubbling pull from the shisha. The act doesn’t diminish his smile at all.

“I, uh, I was contacted by Colt & Tumble two weeks ago. By letter, but delivered by an actual employee. She made it very clear I was to read the contents quite seriously. I actually finished my studies at Saint Listless’ College a few months ago, but am concluding my research, which has taken longer than normal. So I’m a sigilist, but not technically graduated, not yet. I wrote a small paper,”

“With which professor?” Iseult butts in, frowning.

“Professor Laird.”

She relaxes.

“Anyway, I wrote a small paper,”

“On what topic?” Again, an interruption. Saints.

“Calorific rays.” I spit out, irritated. If she wants to be boorish, I can be as well. “Do you know what that is?”

Miss Morrin nods, blank-faced. “Yes.”

Oh.

Mister Whelan shrugs, full-gestured, with his shoulders. He breathes out a stream of citrine fog. “Well I’ve got no idea what a ‘calorific ray’ is.”

“It’s, ah. Well. If you draw or etch a light sigil, yes, it makes warmth, right? And then depending on how you configure the sigil, which architectures you decide to employ, what materials, how good your focus is, you can make a lot of heat, right?”

He nods, smiling. Iseult tilts her head. I press on, and begin to gather sureness as I explain this very familiar topic.

“Anyway, you make a light sigil. Say using a Belenus architecture. Could probably get a very weak written on this table, if you gave me a few minutes. Would have to take the tablecloth off first, though. You make a basic one, let it activate, and then you take a prism, a, uh, a triangular piece of polished glass, and you place it next to the charm. And, well, you’ll notice that the light that comes out of the sigil splits itself into different colours. It makes a little portable rainbow. Red through violet.”

They’re both staring at me.

“So, yes, this rainbow. Um. If you measure the temperature of the light, all the way across the spectrum, you’ll find that it’s hottest at a certain point. At a point just beyond where the prism stops showing light that you can see.”

Mister Whelan’s genial head bobbing doesn’t stop. But Miss Morrin raises her eyebrows. She speaks.

“Light that you can’t see, yet is there. I knew I’d read the name Elspeth Laird somewhere. I read her paper two weeks ago. She discovered calorific rays.”

I did, but she published the research. “Yes! Well, we all did. Without Doctor Laird’s guidance, I never would have developed the experiment. Anyway. That’s the most interesting thing we’ve discovered in the past three months. Colt & Tumble must be interested in… something like that. The light beyond the light. I’m not sure.”

I breathe deeply. I think I did a good job. Mister Whelan glances over at his partner for just a moment, then turns back to me and changes the subject.

“To answer your question, Íde, yes. She’s the same Iseult Morrin as the one you’re thinking of.”

My first thought is that she looks nothing like her portrait. I decide not to say it, and she speaks instead.

“I know I don’t look like the woodcut.” Oh Saints, can she read minds? “But many people in Ildathach weren’t particularly interest in this face,” she gestures, simply, bracelets flashing in the gloom. “Or in a Bani Yathrib name. Preferred their celebrities to be more local. So, for now, Iseult Morrin. All the stories you’ve heard are probably wrong.”

Not a mind reader then, luckily. I nod along, afraid to say something that will shatter the fragile civility I’ve managed to maintain with her. Iseult Morrin. One of the four thousand. I wonder if Mister Whelan was with her in the Aergan, then. He certainly looks the part.

“Have you ever built an enormous gun and killed a low-flying moon before?” Mister Whelan sets his waterpipe down and leans in close, brow furrowed.

“I, uh. Not. Not as such, no.”

He grins, agreeably. “I should hope not. Still feels a bit strange saying it, though I know some people in Khazraj who would be very interested in the idea. Not as good with the actual shooting part though.”

Miss Morrin frowns. “Yes, but more pleasant to work with. And better sigilists. Generally. But your college, Íde, Saint Listless’. Part of the new knotwork movement. I’ve heard good things. More structure than those Wine Party lunatics.”

“The College is doing our best to reconcile the two types of knotwork. Sun-sigils and death charms both. I myself have been doing a lot of research,” I blurt out. “Not just the calorific rays. I mean, that’s the most famous part. But that’s not my research. It’s just something that Doctor Laird told me to do. It’s what she’s interested in.” I gather myself. “Honestly, though, I’m significantly more interested in different configurations.”

“More Belenus architectures?” She asks, amused.

“No. Not that. Three dimensionality.”

She delicately replaces her cutlery on the table, and dabs at her mouth with a chequered serviette. The white and red cloth juxtaposes the inky darkness of her tattoos. “That’s abnormal.”

“Yes. But certainly possible. The mathematics is challenging, yes. And the actual act of sculpture is… slippery. Technically much more difficult than normal knotwork. But we know that scrimshawing is possible- I mean, the Bani Yathrib are famous for it!”

She does not react at all to this statement. “And have you managed to actually create something slippery?”

“Well… no.” At this, Miss Morrin leans back into her chair. “But,” I continue, “I’m close. I think. I’m going to get it sooner rather than later.”

Mister Whelan smiles gently after taking a tremendous pull from his waterpipe. He gives me an encouraging nod, breathing out a gout of yellow smoke, and his colleague speaks. “Well, let us know when you make any progress. There’s an idea amongst my people that sigilists- or, human sigilists- aren’t capable of creating any sort of true knotwork like that. Brains don’t work like that. Only the Tecuani on the Far Coast can manage it, and they’re hardly interested. Etching designs on the surface of a bullet is one thing. Making an entire sculpture that acts as a single sigil is another.

“Still, interesting. Or, perhaps, at least more interesting than you were before. Discovering a type of light that you cannot see, that nonetheless transfers energy- I think most people would not find this as curious as you or I do. I wonder if that’s why Tumble invited you onto our little expedition.”

She hasn’t changed her countenance at all. The words are friendlier, but her face might as well be acid-etched. Miss Morrin continues, after pausing for a single sip of water.

“What do you know about the other partner? Colt?”

I swallow, and squeak out the truth. “I don’t know anything about him.”

“Her,” says Mister Whelan, gently. “Wynne Colt. And I wouldn’t worry about it too much. She’s by far the quieter of the two, and does most of the heavy lifting in terms of actually running Colt & Tumble. Evin is for flash. Her dad actually started the whole show, but he retired a few years back. She’s half Aergan. Not really one for socialising.”

There’s nothing else for me to say, so I nod politely and enthusiastically. When it is clear that no more information is forthcoming, Iseult abruptly changes the topic.

“The job, as it stands, is relatively straightforward. We’re going meet with one of the ships chartered with Colt & Tumble’s, the Gundog Walking, in five days. After boarding the vessel, we’re going to sail to Brixa Thalaam, to deliver some cargo to an office there and onboard various sundries. We,” and here she points to herself and Mister Whelan, “specifically are going to visit one of Evin Tumble’s associates in Brixa Thalaam, and will collect a specific cargo from him. Five tonnes of oleum. You do know what that is, correct?” She addressed that to me. I nod.

“Chemical harvested from specific trees in the Wraithwild. Mostly from,” I realise what I’m saying as I recite what I learned in school, staring at Miss Morrin’s tattoos, “Bani Yathrib tribes. Who then sell the residue, as a form of resin, to Brixa Thalaam. The residue is refined through a process that the Thalaamis have never shared with the outside world to create oleum, which has unique characteristics. Including exploding.”

Iseult looks at me for a long moment, then nods once. “We’re going to sail back here, deliver everything to Colt & Tumble, and then get paid.”

I nod, then ten seconds later, after Mister Whelan starts telling a story about someone whose name I missed, I frown.

Five tons?

*

The meal is superb. I did not order anything, and was afraid to offer my opinion when Mister Whelan asked what I’d like to eat. A plate in a place like this could cost far more than a day’s food for my mother and my brothers, and my scholarship barely covered my lodgings, let alone extravagant meal bills.

He refused to accept my payment, either, and instead covered the entire cost with a single note. The food did not stop, directed at Mister Whelan’s behest. After he had summoned an attendant, Mister Whelan had squinted at me for a moment, as if in deep consideration. "Perhaps- ah, no. I'll not pretend to know you well enough. I'll order the game, then. Bison? It's very agreeable!" He detailed this to the waiter, flanking it with a flurry of other requests before I could sputter forth a response of any kind. I wanted to decline politely, to protect my politeness and my wallet in equal measures, but was unable to do so.

Cod, a salty fillet of some sort of fish, chicken soup, three pork pies. Pigeons, some sort of bread, a roasted fruit from the Far Coast. Bison. Apricots. He mentioned most of them by their full names, and the sauces, and even told us a little story about the whisky he ordered. This may have been normal behaviour for Mister Whelan, because Miss Morrin seemed entirely unphased by these actions. I, however, listened and ate to a degree that I had rarely done before, and was far beyond the level of comfortably full when dessert, a cube of jelly and port, eclipsed the table.

I wonder what my family would think about this. I’ve never seen this variety of food in one place. I’m fairly certain my brothers would at the very least act like miniature versions of Mister Whelan. My mother might actually be too taken aback, or too polite, to touch the food at all.

Sometime afterwards, when Miss Morrin had excused herself, Mister Whelan offered me a cigarillo. I declined, and he nodded, lighting it using the candle in the centre of the table. I do not know when the polite time to excuse oneself during a situation like this is, so I remain seated. I’m also unsure if I am capable of rising, or if I have stuffed myself with enough ballast that any attempt at movement will be tricky. We have at this point made significant inroads into the whisky as well, but my practice with drinking far outpaces my practice with eating, so at this point I am merely tipsy.

“So,” he holds up a thick finger, and taps it in the air. “Colt & Tumble has employed Iseult Morrin for help with killing the moon. She fits in the plan- she speaks Thalaami, she knows the Wraithwild, she builds guns for a living. She employs me,” he taps a second finger, “Sean Whelan. Served with the Ildathach army, one of the four thousand, now a lazy socialite. I’m not sure what my exact role in this whole thing will be, but Iseult trusts me, which is enough.” Now he taps a third finger. “But Evin Tumble also approached you, Íde Ceallaigh. Sigilist-in-training at Saint Listless’, almost completed. I understand why Evin Tumble chose us. I’m not sure why he chose you, over his other options.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He doesn’t think I’m good enough. When I respond, my voice is just on the cusp of cracking. “Well, I’m very good at sigilwork, and I-“

He shakes his head, and holds up both hands. “No, no, that wasn’t an insult. You also can’t answer my question, really. I’m not worried about you being bad at knotwork. What I am worried about is how Colt & Tumble fit into all of this. Why you, specifically?”

It’s strange. Ever since Mister Tumble contacted me, I had been wracked with anxiety. But I hadn’t framed it as a measure of why he would choose me specifically, over the other options at Saint Listless’. Or, thinking about it, any of the other Colleges in Ildathach.

“Maybe it was random? Maybe he just chose my name out of a list?”

Mister Whelan tilts his head, staring off into the dim light of the Tarnished Minister. He breathes once, heavily. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t think I’ll be able to reason out an answer, either way. In my experience, though, if you understand why people do things, fewer surprises pop up in the future. Also,” his eyes flick back to mine, “it’s Evin Tumble.”

I swallow. “Yes.”

When he cocks his head, he does it slowly, like a dog trying to understand a trick. “And that doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“I. Um. No.”

A man a few tables away from us turns his head irritably at the sound of Mister Whelan’s gunshot laugh. “Alright. Yes. I apologise. I’m not laughing at you. I just know some people who would possibly literally kill for the chance to know Evin Tumble. He’s certainly well regarded by the people you’d want to be well-regarded by. Chaplain’s Office included. Also.”

I swallow. “Yes, Mister Whelan?”

“Well, first. Sean. Please not Mister Whelan. We’re going to be travelling together for several weeks. And secondly, just… don’t let other people talk for you. And don’t assume that you’re always wrong, when other people say it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“This is not me criticising you. You seem nice, intelligent. Polite. But just keep in mind. You’re leaving the world that you’re used to. You’re entering a new one, which is filled with people like me, and like Iseult. And the thing I will tell you right now, the only thing I need you to remember, is that you have spent your entire life being trained to be polite, and demure, and to say no and to apologise. I don’t have to be a haruspex to see it, and sometimes keeping your head down- it’s a good thing. But remember to stick up for yourself.”

My stomach plummets as the floor drops from under me. I don’t respond for a second or two, and he looks at me, concerned. “A haruspex is a-“

I cling fast to the word, at least one thing I can control, and interrupt him. “-an Aerganite who slaughters an animal and reads the future from its viscera. I know.”

He raises his eyebrows. I continue, into less familiar waters. “Sean. I’m terribly sorry. I’ll try to be better in the future.”

He looks at me for a few beats, and drags patiently on his cigarillo.