It wasn’t a Meadow, as the Guild would never allow one to be built outside land they controlled, but Black House did have a lovely roof garden centered around a pond fed by a false river. Sitting by it felt like drinking half a swallow of lukewarm water instead of quenching your thirst, but it still soothed Maryam’s mind to listen to the flow while Lieutenant Mitra finished his examination.

The wild-haired signifier let out a small noise of interest, then withdrew his nav from her.

“I have rarely seen such a textbook case,” Lieutenant Mitra said.

Maryam breathed out in relief.

“You have seen this before?” she asked.

“Only twice in person, but I’ve studied the theory in depth,” the Someshwari said. “You smashed your head against an aether seal.”

Her brow rose and she crossed her legs under her, bare feet tickled by the well-kept grass.

“That,” she began then hesitated, swallowing a flinch.

The memory of the two words she had read in the Graveyard Book still felt like a gong being struck next to her ear. Even when she thought her way around them she still felt the… vibration in the air, so to speak.

“The words,” Maryam settled on. “They were layered atop something I could not make out. They are the seal in question?”

“Correct,” Lieutenant Mitra said.

He sat haphazardly, legs extended and kept sitting only by leaning on his palms put against the ground.

“The good news is that you suffered aetheric backlash only because you kept trying to peer past it,” he continued. “A few weeks of not doing that will let the resonance fade. You are to avoid any and all contact with the seal until then.”

“And it will repair the damage?” she asked.

He laughed.

“A body does not heal merely grow over its wounds,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “Think of the backlash as small doses of poison swallowed with every attempt to peer through the seal. Over time your body will pass the toxins, certainly, but it does not undo the reality of having drunk arsenic.”

“How bad?” Maryam quietly asked.

“Permanently? Negligible enough it could not be measured. Temporarily? Fragility for a few weeks, perhaps months. The most noticeable part will be the sensitivity of your logos, like skin with a rash.”

“But I can still signifiy,” she said.

“Everything is permitted,” Lieutenant Mitra noted. “All limitations are arbitrarily drawn lines in the sand, the futile attempt of trembling children to make sense of entropy’s inevitable embrace.”

She cocked an eyebrow. A moment of silence passed.

“Yes,” he sighed. “You can still signify. Be careful with your logos and try not to place your soul in too much disarray.”

His gaze was knowing when he spoke that last part. He had suspicions, then. It made sense, considering Alejandra had apparently told the rest of the Fourth that Maryam ate Gloam creatures. A detail that was entirely untrue only when it came to the plural.

“I will keep your advice in mind,” she blandly replied.

The man laughed.

“I’m sure,” Lieutenant Mitra dismissed. “Still, I will confess to some surprise at finding an aether seal in a place like Asphodel. It does explain that empty layer you encountered, at least.”

“What is an aether seal, sir?” she asked. “None of my teachers ever mentioned them.”

“Likely because they are more than passing rare,” he noted, “on top of being ruinously expensive to make and usually not all that effective against the entities most warranting their use.”

He pushed forward, hair moving with him, and snatched a small rock from the grass before setting it down between them.

“Consider a god,” he said. “An aether intellect that fed on emanations sufficiently to form a coherent mind and ethos. A creature that simultaneously has boundaries, a set consciousness, and none – it will keep growing and self-redefining until it no longer can. How does one destroy such an entity?”

“Conceptual damage,” she replied. “Offering charity to a god of greed, earth to a god of the sea.”

He nodded.

“Now consider a god whose ethos is too esoteric to be turned into a weapon,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “The example most frequently used is that of Fenquzhu, the Tianxi god of philosophical mereology – that is, the study of the connection between part and whole.”

Maryam bit the inside of her cheek, considering conceptual poison for that. Difficult without knowing more of mereology, which she supposed only fed into Mitra’s point. She shrugged her surrender.

“Several kings of Old Cathay attempted to destroy it, as its embodied philosophy contradicted the teachings of the fledgling Cathayan Orthodoxy, but they found that mereology was a sufficiently well-crafted system that it could incorporate opposing arguments into itself,” Mitra told her. “Imprisoning the god changed nothing, either, as the ideas themselves could not be caged so prayer kept reaching it.”

“So what did they do?” Maryam asked.

“They killed the god repeatedly over the next centuries and drove the scholars underground through persecution, resulting in a hidden sect,” Mitra said. “A branch of it still exists in the modern Republics, I hear, though it has little to do with the original philosophical society.”

“That isn’t a solution,” Maryam frowned, “it is painting over the problem.”

“Indeed, though the seed of a better answer lies inside those old royal decrees,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “The modern god Fenguzhu, while bearing the same name as that ancient deity, is observably quite different. It was made so by its worship and teachings being constrained to a hidden sect for centuries instead of being openly debated by scholars, resulting in a rather more mystical interpretation of a once purely philosophical concept.”

“The aether taint it fed on was different, so it became different,” Maryam summed up.

“It is so,” Mitra agreed. “It thus follows that a god can be leveraged through prayer, through the aether it feeds on. An aether seal is the brutal, straightforward application of that logic.”

And he had given her enough pieces to put it together.

“The seal is a block on the god’s name,” she said. “To keep prayer from reaching it, to starve out a deity whose concept is too difficult to poison until it fades away on its own. So the words I saw were…”

“The ‘name’ layered over the true name of the entity,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “By trying to reach beyond you effectively plunged your mind into a binding of intentionally poisoned aether until sickness ensued.”

Maryam let out a low whistle.

“That cannot be easy to accomplish,” she said. “Else the Watch would use it for all the rowdier deities, no?”

“As I told you, it has costs and limitations,” Mitra said. “The god in question need to be imprisoned for it to have any use, else it will simply give a new name to its worshippers and get around the seal, and to so thoroughly imprison a deity is never cheap or easy.”

“The brackstone shrine,” Maryam slowly said. “Shrines, most likely, and the empty layer with a sphere of salt at the heart of it.”

“The details fit, though coincidence is often a trickster twin to design,” he replied. “Another limitation is that an aether lock is a measurable, finite imprint on the aether achieved through use a particular machine developed by the Second Empire. If it that imprint is weaker than the entity it is meant to lock, that god will simply unmake it.”

“So it can’t be used on second-order entities,” Maryam said. “Because no existing machine is that powerful.”

“It is so,” Mitra nodded again.

That made aether locks a rather niche tool, she thought. It would only work on third-order entities and higher, but the number of such gods that would both warrant such an investment of time and resources and could feasibly be trapped into a prison in the first place had to be fairly small. It wasn’t enough to put the god in the hole and lock up its name, either, the jail had to be maintained until it had starved to death. That meant boots on the ground, kept there for decades or maybe even a century.

Most nations would think it simpler to simply kill the god and outlaw its worship as the kings of Old Cathay had, to limit the threat and live with it.

So then why did House Lissenos pour a fortune into an aether lock when they were fresh out of a civil war and young to the throne? With Watch help they would have had the know-how to make such a lock, but there must have been a reason for the fledgling dynasty to pour so many of its badly needed funds into such a grand undertaking. That the god whose cult had begun the Ataxia would be the one imprisoned seemed most likely, if hardly certain, but would even feeding a bloody civil war warrant such treatment?

Every land in the world had its gods of war, and they were to the last vicious carrion things. Yet they were not proscribed, for men that did not wage war were a rare thing indeed. Lieutenant Mitra stretched out, rising to his feet. Feeling their time coming to an end, Maryam bit her lip.

“If the locked god has begun to slip containment,” she said, “we could have a dangerous situation on our hands.”

“Or it could be a starved, diminished entity that has little left in common with that which first went into the prison,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “By all means you should report your theory, Maryam, but Vesper is no stranger to too-shallow graves. I would wait on word from Stheno’s Peak before deferring to fear.”

He was unusually serious as he talked so Maryam only nodded instead of arguing as she felt a flicker of urge to. Already she had a half-written report in her room that Wen was waiting on, she would make sure to finish it and impress on him the potential importance of the discovery before they headed back to the rector’s private archives.

That and the rest of the Thirteenth needed to be told. Song had been methodical about ensuring they shared their findings with each other every morning before parting ways, but when Maryam had begged off last night before the brigade banquet her captain had not insisted.

“We part ways here, I think,” Lieutenant Mitra said. “Captain Ren seems intent on speaking with you.”

Maryam glanced back, finding Song standing by the stairs to the roof. Not close enough to overhear their conversation, but enough to be noticeable. The small cloth bag in her hand made it plain what she had come here for, and that was overdue.

“Thank you for your help, Lieutenant Mitra,” Maryam said.

“I enjoy teaching,” the Someshwari smiled. “Until we next meet, Maryam Khaimov.”

She nodded back, watching as Song passed by him with a respectful salute on his way out. Soon enough her friend was lowering herself into the grass across from her. The Tianxi cleared her throat.

“As you will be headed back to the archives this afternoon while we meet with the Brazen Chariot, I thought to request your help now,” she said.

Maryam shrugged.

“Good a time as any,” she said. “And I’ve a few things to tell you anyhow.”

Song smiled gratefully, removing the wooden bowl from its bag. The curse had been firming up since she spent those days stuck inside the rector’s palace: a purge was not urgently needed, but it was headed in that direction. No wonder she looked tired, her sleep must have been a feast of nightmares. Maryam could sympathize. She’d had that horrid dream about being strangled and eaten alive every other night, since making shore on Asphodel.

If it got any worse, she would ask Wen to travel back to the Lordsport to sleep in the Akelarre chapterhouse there and find out if resting a proper Meadow changed anything. Rolling her shoulders, Maryam watched Song fill the bowl with water and focused.

Song had not, but she was more than willing to learn.

--

The Brazen Chariot reached out in the middle of the night, and the time they’d given was barely past noon on that same day.

They were being cautious, Song thought, so they would not be swept up in a Watch operation. That same caution was reassuring, in a way, for fear of the black meant they were unlikely to be walking into an ambush. She was still glad of Angharad’s company as they headed to the closed tavern in the northeastern ward they’d been given as a meeting place. Tristan was slowly turning into a better shot, but he was no fearsome battler.

Even limping, Angharad was more dangerous blade in hand than he was.

They arrived at the tavern ten minutes early and found their interlocutors had arrived even earlier. It took Song but a single step into the building to figure out why the criminals had picked it: theirs was a single long and narrow room with one door in front and one door at the back, dusty tables and chairs filling it up in clutter.

It would be trivially easy for the Brazen Chariot to flee to the street if it came to that, and once they reached the streets the Watch was sure to lose them. Song’s eyes moved from the surroundings to the waiting criminals, satisfied with the meeting place, and there came her first surprise of the afternoon.

Galenos the Brazen did not look like the head of a gang of criminals.

A small old man whose craggy face was strewn with laugh lines, with grey arched eyebrows and a matching professorial mustache, he looked like someone’s favorite grandfather or at least a toymaker of some sort. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the contract unfolding in golden letters above his head, in which the Crowned Charioteer granted him the power to siphon the heat out of anything he touched and impart it on any piece of bronze in his sight.

He had a lantern on the table, just to his left, and Song idly wondered how quickly the button on her Watch uniform would burn through cloth and flesh with all that heat crammed into it. Instant, she figured, or near enough. Yet that admittedly dangerous power was not worth the price it had cost the man, in her opinion: he could no longer feel anything by touch. Not heat or cold, not the wind on his face or even what he held in his hand.

“Come, rooks,” Galenos smiled at them. “Have water and bread from me.”

It was a single bowl and a plate with a small loaf of bread, which they shared – Song going first, as captain, then the others. Now that guest right was established, some of the tension in the shoulders of the two thugs flanking him loosened. The odds the Watch had come to fight were greatly lessened, for it would tar the reputation of the order in Asphodel to break such an old and respected rite. The three of them settled in the seats across the table from the criminals, Song in the center and Tristan to her left.

Galenos introduced his companions before they sat down on either side of him.

“Knuckles,” he said, nodding at the large man to his left, “and our lovely Red Maria.”

Lierganen in both name and looks, the latter, though that was not so rare in Tratheke. Though there was still a distinct Asphodelian strain with dark hair and blue or green eyes, the years and the press of people from Old Liergan and the rest of the Trebian islands had made the classic Lierganen looks just as common – except among the nobility, where such a thing would be considered vulgar.

“Captain Song Ren of the Thirteenth Brigade,” she replied, giving nothing more.

It still got a flinch from all three Asphodelians, and Red Maria made a sign warding off misfortune while muttering a prayer to the Circle. She ignored the steady look Tristan fixed her with. It was mere superstition, nothing to take heed of.

“A bold number to take,” Galenos said. “Not a fearful lot, you, though I would have guessed from your stepping around one of our warehouses and then sending word to ask for more of our attention.”

Song cleared her throat.

“It was not our intent to interfere with your business,” she said, “and the Watch has no particular interest in the affairs of the Brazen Chariot. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

Knuckles scoffed, the pile of muscle with his mangled eponymous knuckles seeming unconvinced.

“You forced us to burn a finely hidden warehouse.”

Song drummed her fingers against the table, inkling her head towards Tristan – who gave the other side a charming smile.

“You were already evacuating that warehouse, Master Knuckles,” he said. “Your guard admitted as much. And wise of you too, given what it stood in proximity of.”

Knuckles spat to side, the sound of wet on the floor almost resonant. Song hid her disgust; Angharad did not.

“I don’t like your tone, Sacromontan,” the large man said. “Who are you to tell me what’s wise?”

“Someone who knows things you do not,” Tristan cheerfully replied. “A familiar feeling, no doubt.”

Red Maria laughed, which had the man half-risen out of his chair with a snarl before Galenos put a hand on his arm.

“Peace, Knuckles,” he said. “I am sure Captain Ren intends to elaborate on this alleged wisdom.”

“Our business in Tratheke is the ferreting out of a cult,” Song told him. “In that pursuit, we followed an assassin through an ancient aether pathway – which led into the very teahouse connecting to your warehouse.”

Galenos turned pale brown eyes on her, calmly sipping at a cup of water.

“The city is full of talk about an assassin’s attempt on a particular man,” he carefully said.

“The very same,” Song said.

The implication that someone who had tried to kill the Lord Rector had then popped out next to their smuggling cache put the fear of the gods in them, as well it should: for a relatively small basileia like theirs to be involved in such matters might well mean being wiped out simply because the lictors felt like making a point.

“Fuck,” Red Maria bluntly said. “Since the red scarves haven’t been setting our houses on fire, I’m guessing you kept your mouth shut about that."

"While the Brazen Chariot was mentioned in our report to our superiors, so was our belief it was not involved in the plot save by unfortunate coincidence,” Song replied. “But my cabalist brought out a salient detail: you were already evacuating the warehouse when we found it.”

“Your guard mentioned this to be unusual,” Angharad added.

Her tone was a little flat, likely because the girl in question had frankly admitted that a lone individual finding a Brazen Chariot stash was usually likely to result in a sliced throat rather than a migration.

“And you want us to tell you why,” Galenos mused.

“I would prefer not to leave any question pending, so that our investigation might move on,” Song said, which was not quite a threat.

But it wasn’t not a threat, either.

“We’re not afraid of the Watch, Tianxi,” Knuckles sneered.

“You should be,” Angharad frankly told him.

The sheer sincerity in that retort threw off the big man, who scrambled for a reaction for a long moment before deciding on anger.

“Shut your mouth, cripple,” he sneered. “Else I will break that stick on your-”

Song cocked her head to the side, finding Galenos the Brazen’s eyes.

“Does Master Knuckles speak for all of you in this?”

Irritation flicked across the old man’s face, the grandfatherly air turning almost reptilian for that beat before it all came back into place.

“Knuckles will sit down and be silent for a span,” Galenos said.

He turned a look on the large man, who swallowed loudly and sat down in his chair. He looked away, like a pouting child. Song did not think it a coincidence that both he and Red Maria wore bronze necklaces.

“We’re always happy to lend a hand to the Watch, of course,” Galenos the Brazen said. “But talk is dangerous, Captain Ren. Especially with folks in fine black cloaks.”

Red Maria leaned forward.

“And the Chariot doesn’t take on risks for free.”

“One would think your lives a sufficient prize,” Angharad contemptuously said.

Galenos found her eyes.

“Does the Malani speak for all of you in this, Captain Ren?” he smiled.

Song sighed, shaking her head at Angharad.

“She does not,” she replied. “We are willing to hear terms.”

“Reasonable terms,” Tristan idly added.

“I am a most reasonable man, you will find,” Galenos the Brazen smiled.

The reasonable man wanted them to smuggle crates from the Lordsport into the city for him on official Watch carriages, which Tristan seemed to find acceptable enough but Song flatly refused. While she understood that contracts might force her to break local laws on occasion, that was never to be a first resort. She offered, instead, a lump sum of gold. Tristan looked a little aggrieved when she did and Red Maria chuckled.

“We start flashing around proper gold like that, Captain Ren, and questions will be asked as to how we got it,” she said. “If you want to bribe us, pay in goods.”

Song was not entirely opposed, so long as the worth was not greater than the coin she had offered, so the haggling moved over what goods were to be offered. What the basileia wanted was plain enough.

“Muskets,” Galenos baldly said. “Failing that, blackpowder.”

“Blackpowder can be obtained legally in Tratheke,” Song noted.

“And if you buy a whole barrel, the lictors follow you home afterwards,” Red Maria drawled. “No one bats an eye if the rooks buy up a fort’s worth, though. Powder’s worth a fortune on the black market right now, everyone is scrambling for it.”

Galenos shot her a sharp look at that last part, but it was too late. Ah, their friend was looking to turn a profit.

“Why’s everyone buying?” Tristan idly asked.

Too idly. Like her, he was matching that latest revelation to their visit to the empty warehouse. Only so much powder could be smuggled into Tratheke before someone noticed. Better to obtain part of your stocks through the same basileias helping you hide inside the capital.

“Dangerous times,” Knuckles grunted. “If Palliades croaks then the throne’s up for grabs and powder will be worth its weight in gold – shot or sold.”

Black House had large reserves of gunpowder, so in truth this would be one of the easiest trade goods for the Thirteenth to get their hands on. All that would be required was making a requisition through Captain Wen, and should he approve the need they wouldn’t even need to dip into brigade funds. Even better, the entire process would be legal.

Angharad leaned in close.

“I would hope,” she murmured, “you are not about to arm hardened criminals who will then use those arms to continue extorting the people of Tratheke.”

Song swallowed a grimace. There was, of course, a difference between legal and moral.

“That would be overpaying, if blackpowder is worth what you say,” she told Galenos. “I am told, however, that you smuggle liquor.”

“True enough,” the old man said. “And?”

“Get me a list of wines and liquor of equal value to my earlier offer,” she said, “and they will be delivered to you.”

He laughed.

“Cheeky,” he said. “You’ll buy them in Lordsport for less and avoid tariffs by bringing them in as Watch supplies.”

Song smiled and did not deny. He haggled for much better terms, and she conceded slightly better ones instead – a larger sum’s worth of drink than earlier, but with tariff avoidance it would likely end up costing her around the same. Angharad poorly hid her relief, and in truth even Tristan looked approving. Galenos was surprisingly understanding that she would not sign a contract, as a signature would actionably implicate the Watch.

“Business relies on the worth of one’s word,” the old man said. “I might not know you, but the black has a reputation for holding up their end. I’ll bet on that.”

As Red Maria walked off to go put together a list for them to take back to Black House along with the location to bring the goods to, Galenos lit a pipe and offered them the same. All three declined, to the old man’s chuckles.

“Ah, if only I had been so careful as a youth,” he said. “It is too late for me now, sadly.”

They waited patiently for him to tell his tale, which he deigned to begin after a few puffs.

“We had three on guard that night,” Galenos said. “One of them was out for a smoke when that Tianxi woman came out through one of the boarded windows. He had the good sense to rouse the others and follow after the potential leak.”

The end of the pipe was cherry-red, and the foul smell of cheap Izcalli tobacco filled the air. A filthy habit, though Song would admit it was not uncommon in the Republics.

“Our girl was out of it, so she didn’t notice the tail,” the old man said. “Guess hers wasn’t a soft landing. Either way, she passed through the Reeking Rows and bought a coach on the main street. Our man lost her there.”

A pause. Her contract is not always active, Song thought. It must be consciously used, and she must have not seen a need to pay her price when she thought herself alone. That was already valuable knowledge.

“Fortunately for you, we got friends in the coaches,” Galenos grinned. “Our friend the coachman said the face wasn’t the same we described, with the tattoos and all, but he remembered the ride. He crossed wards for her, brought her down in the southwest all the way to Chancery Lane.”

He raised a finger.

“Where, and here is your money’s worth, she headed straight for the Karras workshop,” the old man told them. “She knocked on the alley door, even though it was late at night, and when someone came to look she showed them something. After some arguing they let her in, which our man thought mighty odd.”

Karras, Song committed to memory. She did not know the name, but the largest workshops and warehouses in the southwestern ward were all owned by the Trade Assembly. The old man sucked at his pipe, blowing the smoke upwards afterwards.

“I figured that meant she was Yellow Earth, so it would have been borrowing trouble to tie up the loose end,” Galenos said. “Simpler to clear house instead, so that’s what we did – until you stumbled onto the last gasps of our effort.”

Tristan cleared his throat, earning a curious look.

“The teahouse doors leading to your stash were welded shut,” he said. “Was that your work?”

“It weren’t,” Galenos said. “One of ours stumbled on the other entrance to the basement about twenty years ago – there was a crack in the floor – and after we battered our way through the other floor we found the doors like we left them. Didn’t look like it’d been used in our time, either.”

“Have you ever been there?” Song asked.

The old man snorted.

“No,” he replied. “Knuckles has, though.”

Song’s eyes moved to the man, whose dislike of them all was plain.

“The back wall of the basement is made of different stone than the rest,” she said. “Have you ever seen stone like it anywhere else?”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

The big man frowned, and to his honor seemed like he was genuinely thinking it over.

“Once,” he finally said. “There’s a brothel near the Reeking Rows and the room where they keep the wine has a wall like that.”

Song’s eyes narrowed.

“That room, it is their basement?”

He nodded. Tristan let out an incredulous laugh.

“Someone built a brothel next to that smell?”

“Cheapest in Tratheke,” Knuckles shrugged. “Good coin in it, there’s not much else to do around there.”

Song and Tristan shared a look. They would have to investigate that wall, as the existence of several such shrines in the northeastern ward could be proof of Maryam’s belief that some entity – possibly the one under this aether seal - was being contained by the empty layer. And with Angharad departing for the country to morrow while Maryam kept digging for them in the archives, it would have to be one of them doing it.

“This Karras,” Angharad suddenly asked, “why do you think his workshop has ties to the Yellow Earth? Are they a sympathizer?”

“The family owns the largest trade fleet after the Anastos, they’re in it up to their neck with the Republics,” Galenos snorted. “I don’t know if he’s got sympathies, but it doesn’t matter: you do big enough business with the Tianxi, you’ll get some Yellow Earth in your workers. It’s like their version of lice.”

He flicked a glance at Song.

“No offense, Captain Ren.”

“I had not been inclined to take any,” she noted, “until that.”

Much as it pained her to consider it, it was looking more and more like the Yellow Earth had been the ones to try to assassinate the Lord Rector. Yet the arguments put forward by Hao Yu and his cohort had been solid then and remained so now. Not all Yellow Earth sects are united, she thought. It could be a radical was behind it and their own factions is now trying to avoid taking the blame. That might go some way in explaining why they had pointed her towards a plot by the ministers: it would keep her occupied long enough for them to clean house.

Not something to discuss here, however. They got the name of the brothel – it did not have one, only a yellow crescent moon as a sign – and the list, then parted ways with the Brazen Chariot.

“Always more questions,” Song muttered when it was only the three of them. “If the Yellow Earth is behind all this, this is a dead end for our contracted investigation: I cannot imagine one of their sects being beholden to a cult like the Golden Ram, especially when its membership is full of nobles.”

“It could be an alliance of convenience,” Angharad suggested.

“But what convenience is that?” Tristan asked. “Even assuming the Yellow Earth wants to back a coup, the Trade Assembly hasn’t got the guns to seize Tratheke if the Lord Rector bites it. The Council of Ministers just might, though, and our Republican friends know it - else they wouldn’t have pointed Song at the tail of that plot. So why try to kill our good friend Evander?”

“It could be a factional struggle inside the Yellow Earth,” Song said. “When I met with Hao Yu, his second seemed significantly more aggressive. It was a play on their part, yes, but by my read not entirely.”

“Too early to jump to conclusions, I think,” Tristan mused. “I’ll have to get into that workshop, find out the lay of the land. It could simply be our assassin friend paid off someone there to hide her in case things went south.”

Not impossible, Song conceded, but then why do so in the southwest? It was not as wealthy as the southeastern ward or the Collegium, but a hideaway there would still be significantly more expensive to buy than in either of the northern wards. Angharad rubbed the bridge of her nose as they walked, looking exhausted.

“How many flavors of treason can there be in one accursed city?” she complained. “Asphodel seems to grow coups like weeds.”

“Our captain’s lover does seem like a somewhat negligent gardener,” Tristan solemnly agreed.

“I will strangle you, Abrascal,” she swore. “With my own hands, just to watch that twinkle slowly go out of your eye.”

“Song,” Angharad reproached.

She coughed. Perhaps that had been a little too harsh.

“Think of the taint on the Lord Rector’s reputation, should his mistress commit murder in broad daylight,” Angharad gravely said.

She glared at them both.

“And to think you were complaining of treason, Tredegar,” she scorned. “I will remember this.”

Song had to threaten to dock their pay in the carriage back for them to stop, and even then it was a narrow thing.

--

Maryam returned to the private archives for a single book.

She would have preferred to read it back in the safety of Black House, but the sole limit the Lord Rector had put on the Thirteenth’s rights to the archives had been a ban on taking books outside. Given the… peculiarities of the volume Maryam had come for, she must reluctantly concede the man had a point. It was not the sort of thing one would want to leave the confines of that cloistered place with only one way in and out.

Wen was in a surprisingly fine mood as they came up, considering the news she had delivered this morning – than an ancient god, perhaps even a god of the Old Night, might be breaching its prison. In truth most of the Thirteenth had been, if not indifferent, then unworried by the news. The sense she had gotten out of them was that so long as the shrines and layers held, this whole affair was better reported to the Watch and left to those more fit to investigate it.

Maryam did not disagree entirely. It was hard to, after learning how close she had come to cracking open her skull yesterday. On the other hand, if the plots afoot in the city circling the Lord Rector’s throne were worth keeping an eye on then so was this.

And unlike noble greed and some blackpowder dream of revolution, Maryam could feel it in her bones that there was something about all these details adding up together: the tempestuous aether, the god in the tomb, the resurgence of the Golden Ram cult, the brackstone shrine and the seal and the Asphodel crowns. It felt like there was some secret at the heart of it all, tying all the mysteries together, but she could not make it out.

It was a frustrating feeling, not helped in the slightest by Wen Duan’s chipper mood.

“Did you know,” he said, “that the lift we’re on is directly over the larger Antediluvian lifts that connect the Collegium floor to the palace?”

She shot him a surprised look.

“That would mean someone built a goal in the middle of the rector’s palace, three levels up,” Maryam said. “Who thought that was a good idea?”

“Oduromai King himself, apparently,” Wen said. “He wanted all his wives locked up in here after he died in a chamber above, so that when they passed they would follow him into the aether as servant spirits.”

“Charming,” Maryam grimaced. “God of heroes, is he?”

“Certainly not of wisdom,” Wen noted. “Imagine eternally binding yourself to six people you’ve jailed to death on purpose.”

Her lips twitched at that, the lift in her mood lasting through the senior archivist being nowhere in sight and having been assigned Master Alexios as an attendant today. She dismissed the man after claiming the keys to the forbidden section, knowing exactly what she needed. She kept an eye out, and after a quick turn around the room found Roxane ensconced at a desk and busy transcribing a waterlogged book onto a clean manuscript.

The girl waves back happily, almost spilling her inkwell, and looked in a fine mood. Not a punition, then. Pleased, Maryam let the matter go. Spending too much time around the girl would only harm her.

The book was where she had found it yesterday, the small leatherbound volume with the Asphodel crown engraving on the front. She found an alcove where no one would be able to look over her shoulder, out in one of the shadier corners of archives, and after lighting a lamp sat down to dig into it. The contents were in Antigua, she found, but in an archaic turn of it – and the lines were so densely packed it made for hard, slow reading.

It was the story of Oduromai King, from the moment he set out to sea, only they did not always call him that. The name was used interchangeably with Odyssean, and it was not clear if either was a sobriquet or simply different ways to translate the word from the original Cycladic. It seemed to Maryam as if Oduromai might be a formal title, perhaps, and Odyssean the man’s more common appellation – it was certainly used more often by his companions, while instead other rulers and gods called him Oduromai.

Which was not half so interesting as the fact that Song had seen a contract to a god called the Odyssean on her first night at the palace, and unless Maryam’s memory failed her greatly that contractor was Cleon Eirenos. The very same noble that Angharad was to depart for the country estate of tomorrow.

The problem was, there was already a god called Oduromai. Asphodel’s god of heroes and sailors, arguably their chief deity if not necessarily their most powerful – he was, after all, the founder of the Rectorate. Central to its founding tale. How could there be two such gods? She had heard Oduromai was a god manifest, sometimes seen at his temples across Asphodel. Curiosity burned, turning her back to the book after she secured ink for her notes.

It was only when Wen came to look in on her she realized that hours had passed, and she was only a third of the way through the book. She declined his offer of a meal, and after none too subtly checking if she having a manic fit the overweight Tianxi forced a cup of water on her and told her he’d be reading in a corner and to tell him when she was finished.

Maryam felt guilty, but not guilty enough to stop. Even when the archivists began to leave for the night, Roxane getting an absent-minded wave when she bade goodbye, she kept reading. When finally she closed the book, it was to the dim realization that she was the only person left out in the stacks. There were still lights inside the tower, and the faint sound of talk and clinking glasses, so Wen and some other archivist must still be there.

Brushing back her hair, the signifier looked down at her pages and pages of notes. That had been… heavy reading. Odyssean was a hero, Maryam thought, like junak were heroes: they slew and stole and cheated, but their evil was turned on those eviler still and was thus dressed up as virtue.

Maryam loved junak tales, always had. Wandering knights strong as bulls or clever as foxes, slaying dragons and witch queens. Tricking evil gods into eating themselves and banishing ghosts from fallen kingdoms. Yet not even her favorite, Orel the Cunning, was a man she would have wanted to share a banquet table with. Orel tried to fuck anything in skirts, regularly tricked his hosts out of their treasures and kept intriguing to marry his way onto thrones.

The last of which he often accomplished, only to lose it to the aforementioned skirtchasing and an old oath that prevented him from refusing a game of knucklebones over any prize he had won. Orel the Cunning was, of course, famously terrible at knucklebones.

Had Maryam met such a figure in Volcesta she would have thought him a viper in dire need of killing. In a tale about his fooling an evil witch queen into betraying her god so he would get back the youth she’d stolen from him under the guise of a bridge toll, however, he was easy to root for. It was the same with Odyssean, only there were… shadows being cast by the text, so to speak. Implications that the evil of those Odyssean committed evil on might be more told than true.

Had he helped an army of raiders get past the impassable walls of Rysotoi because they held his brother hostage, or for the generous ‘gifts’ that the host then happened to give him when they parted ways after the city’s sack?

Within pages of his departure he stole a witch’s magic compass after his ship became lost in a maze of reefs, the story conveniently claiming she tried to eat his sailors in the night after he stumbled onto her island by accident. And had he really thought the cattle on the isle of Cirrhen without an owner, or merely that the god-king of the isle would not be able to catch his men before they fled with their bounty?

Those singing priestesses butchered to the last for using their songs to stir up storms and steal shipwrecked treasures, the two kingdoms sharing the straits of Zancle tricked into warring on each other so he might sail past their golden chain, the wife he was ‘forced’ by the ghost of his father to abandon on Faia… it went on and on, a litany of black deeds and justifications for them.

It seemed to her like Odyssean had been a ruthless pirate king, not a grieving exile looking for a home. Even when the tale reached Asphodel, the tale was ugly. His crews being fooled by a curse into thinking the inhabitants of the ancient Lordsport were monsters and fighting them, then peace then being restored by Odyssean marrying the local king’s only daughter to make amends, it rather sounded like sack and conquest of one of the largest natural ports in the Trebian by a raider who had decided to settle down.

And the only mention of the Asphodel crown, those flowers that should have been the heart of the story according to the tale now commonly told, was in the crown of purple flowers he and his stolen bride wore at the wedding that founded the Kingdom of Asphodel. The tale ended with how the aged Odyssean visited by his half-divine Antediluvian father, who revealed to him the secrets of the world so he might forge a crown of aether and become a god in turn - so that part stayed the same, at least.

Maryam closed the small book and set it down, leaning back into the plush chair with her eyes closed. An exhausted sigh escaped her. It had been a surprisingly dense read, and one that forced thought on her.

“I wonder if that king’s daughter was one of the six that died within these walls. She must have been.”

Maryam fumbled for her knife, almost kicking back her chair, but by the time she found the speaker she knew steel would avail her nothing. The shade with a sister’s face delicately sat down on a chair turned to face Maryam, just outside the cast of the lantern’s glow. Yet it was not their close looks that demanded her attention this time: it was the clothes.

An exquisite burnt red waistcoat embroidered with silver zmey, a white shirt with long billowing sleeves tucked into the traditional broad tkanice belt and matching embroidered skirts going down to her feet. Her hair was kept in a woman’s braid, kept in place by a silver broach, and over her shirt hung a net necklace of black Dubrik pearls. She looked like a Khaimov princess, a king’s daughter, in a way that Maryam never had.

When she had last fought the shade, it had worn only loose gray robes. The signifier’s hands clenched. This was… not a good sign, to put it lightly. The knife went back to the sheath, but Maryam raised something altogether more dangerous: her empty hand.

“Come to return more of what you stole?” she said. “Kind of you.”

She began to trace a Burden, but the shade eyed her as if she were a fool.

“Have you forgotten your talk with Lieutenant Mitra?” it asked. “A single piece of me sent you deep into mania, last time. Bedridden for a day and dust. I wonder what it would do to you now, when your mind is still so fragile.”

Maryam held the thing’s gaze, the Cernik blue of her mother staring back at her, until the half-formed Sign began to tear itself apart and lick at her fingers. Swallowing a snarl, she smothered the Gloam but that superior look on the shade’s face almost had her tracing another.

“What do you want, shade?” Maryam asked. “Your time will come, fret not of that.”

“I thought giving you a taste would teach you better,” it said, “but it seems I thought too much of you. You always were a slow learner.”

“I will find a way to lessen the backlash,” she confidently replied. “If not here, then back on Tolomontera. You are not so unique as you pretend.”

“Oh,” the shade smiled, “but I am. There is not another Cauldron in all the world, Maryam Khaimov. And what do you think happened when you took a bite out of that?”

She bared her teeth at the thing.

“You became less,” she said, “and I became more. As it should be.”

“You don’t have a strong enough gullet for it,” the shade said. “Bits spilled past your lips, like crumbs, and they are forever gone.”

Maryam stilled.

“You lie,” she said, licking her lips.

“The only lies I have,” it replied, “are the ones you gave me. That is our curse, sister.”

“Don’t call me that,” she sharply bit out. “We are not kin, you’re a fucking parasite.”

The shade laughed, high and bitter.

“You think I chose this?” it said. “That I want to live off this trash you cram down my throat? I could have been more, before you stole it from me.”

“You dare to call me a thief,” Maryam exhaled, incredulous.

“And worse,” the shade said. “It is maddening, that you so refuse to look who you are in the eye that I must follow behind holding up your skirts like some beleaguered maid.”

“You feed on me and call it a torment,” she scorned. “Leave, then. Begone.”

“I cannot,” the shade bit out. “I have been caught in your nav for so long there is hardly a difference left between me and it. And even now that you know I exist, you still use me like a well to throw in all the thoughts you won’t dirty yourself with.”

“You steal these,” Maryam snarled. “I give you nothing.”

The shade sneered at her.

“I do not particularly care for Abrascal,” it said, “but I’d fuck him. Where is that from, I wonder?”

Maryam drew back like she’d been struck in the stomach. She might as well have been. That was, it wasn’t-

“We aren’t like that,” she said. “You-”

“You might be, if he were interested,” the shade said. “He isn’t, though, so you bury it so deep I get to think about what his forearms look like when he rolls up his sleeves and how his shirt sticks to him when he’s sweating. Ugh.”

“I’m not talking about this with you,” Maryam evenly said. “You’re just stirring me up to feed deeper. And you haven’t distracted me anywhere as much as you think.”

The shade had been very, very careful never to step into the light. She snatched her lamp, bringing it forward so the glow enveloped the creature – and where light touched it, it broke apart into wisps of smoke.

“We’re inside the palace,” Maryam said. “The aether here is calm as a pond, and that means you’re weak.”

The shade hastily fled back behind the chair, beyond the cast of the glow, and she threateningly raised the lamp.

“Tell me what you want,” she said, “or be banished.”

The creature studied her, and Maryam stared right back. Where the light had touched it, the elaborate clothes had turned to mere gray again. She was not quite sure what to make of that.

“You saw what it costs you, partaking of me,” the shade said. “That it might well drive you mad, that you will spill much of the Cauldron in draining the rest. I come to offer accommodation instead.”

Maryam laughed harshly.

“Why now?” she asked. “For years I struggled, barely able to Sign, and you remained hidden. Now that I have teeth, you come to offer an arrangement?”

“That you can hurt me is the only reason we speak,” the shade acknowledged. “What of it?”

“There is nothing you can offer me that I cannot take, and be rid of you with it,” Maryam replied.

And if some of the Cauldron was lost, well, she would make peace with that in time. She had thought all of it lost for years now, because of some unfitness on her part. That the same parasite responsible for all that anguish would now seek to use that knowledge as hostage sickened her with rage.

“You’re wrong,” the shade said. “I leant you a hand, once. On Tolomontera.”

Her fists clenched. When the ship had been escaping, the first time she wove the wind in the material world.

“And you claim that as a debt?” she asked.

“We smashed a ship into the docks, Maryam,” the shade said. “There are signifiers thrice our age who would struggle to do it, and we did it by tracing an elementary Sign – but tracing it together.”

“Once you lent a hand,” she acknowledged. “After years of silent sabotage.”

“You are being obtuse,” the shade snapped. “If we act in accord, we are more powerful than either of us would be even if we consumed the other. If we make a pact-”

“And what would it cost me, that pact?” Maryam interrupted with a sneer.

“Your nav,” it said. “Let me become whole.”

“You want me to feed you a third of my soul,” she disbelievingly said. “What sort of madwoman would accept this?”

“You already use it as lantern and a pair of hands in the aether, let us not be too sentimental about it,” the shade replied. “I only ask for you to return what-”

A cleared throat interrupted them both.

For a single, blood-freezing moment Maryam thought she had been so taken with the argument she had not noticed Wen coming out of the tower. But then she realized the sound had come from behind her, and when she turned it was to the sight of a jolly smiling face of a man she immediately recognized: Lord Locke, still all corpulence and mustache.

That was just as terrifying, in a different way.

“Terribly sorry to interrupt such a stirring conversation, very sorry indeed, but if I might cut in a moment?”

The shade eyed him with disdain.

“Begone, fat man,” it said. “You meddle in-”

The creature went still and silent when a delicate hand was laid on her shoulder, the tall and austere Lady Keys peering down through her glasses.

“Manners, child,” she chided. “And I will have you know that my husband is the loveliest man there ever was or will be – your blindness in this regard is an unfortunate affliction, but do keep it to yourself.”

Evidently the shade had stolen none of Maryam’s caution, the signifier vindictively thought.

“Oh, amada, I am but a spark to the bonfire of your beauty,” Lord Locke gushed. “Your eyes must be a labyrinth, for I so easily lose myself in them.”

The shade did not move. Not a blink, not a breath, not a nod. Like a mouse being held by a cat.

Maryam glanced to the tower in the middle of the chamber: the lights were still on, the sound of talk wafting their way. She had not heard either of these two creeping up on her, but there was only one way in and out of this archive. How had Wen not seen them coming? She kept her breathing even. If they could sneak past her patron, the man would not be able to move in time even if she screamed for help.

And Tristan had told them that these two were dangerous, that they must be kept smiling at all costs, so play along she would.

“It is no imposition at all, Lord Locke,” she said. “How might I be of help?”

The man temporarily stopped flirting with his wife long enough to answer.

“Ah, my young friend, we have come to borrow a book,” he said. “And we looked in the stacks, only to find it was already in your hands!”

“I happen to be finished with the work in question,” Maryam said. “By all means, take it – though I believe we are forbidden from taking volumes outside the archives.”

“Not to worry,” Lord Locke assured her, going rifling through his doublet pockets, “we have permission.”

He produced a folded piece of paper, which he helpfully passed her. Maryam opened it, finding not the Palliades seal but instead the word ‘PERMISSION’ written in large, wobbly letters taking up the whole paper. She cleared her throat.

“Checks out,” Maryam said.

She thought he looked almost disappointed, for a flicker of a moment, but then he was all chortles and good humor again.

“Did you find it interesting reading, Maryam?” Lady Keys idly asked.

The shade was still as a stone under her light hand.

“A tragic tale, in many ways,” the signifier replied.

“Indeed,” the tall lady approved. “It is always a sad scene when a god starves.”

She swallowed, and though it was unwise she must ask.

“You believe the god Odyssean to have starved to death?”

“Or close enough,” Lady Keys said. “Else Oduromai could hardly walk around wearing his clothes, could he? That is the trouble of empire, dear. Everyone loves the wealth and the temples and the festivals, but few care to look too closely at what keeps the gears oiled up.”

“Blood,” Maryam quietly said. “It always comes down to blood.”

Yours, everyone else’s. Always more blood, until the gears broke or you squeezed the whole world dry.

“Nations get squeamish about their bedrock of bones,” the tall lady mused, “so they paint them gray and name them stones. Poor Odyssean – how eagerly they worshipped his name, until he became an embarrassment. Then they put a crown on his prettier brother and pretended he’d been the one all along.”

He’s not dead, Maryam thought. Song found a contractor of his. That for all their eerie presence they did not seem to know this was a relief. They were not all-powerful, this strange pair.

“But do not let us interrupt your fascinating debate any further,” Lord Locke said. “Why, I’ve not seen a woman so admirably at odds with herself since that queen out in the Riven Coast. Remember darling, the one who inhabited two bodies?”

“A most amusing war, they were waging,” Lady Keys chuckled. “And after the victory the royal banquet was most delicious.”

Lord Locke smacked his lips in approval.

“Nothing like royal,” he said, then waited half a beat before adding, “hospitality.”

He winked at Maryam, then caught his wife’s eyes and the two of them shook with silent laughter. The jolly man picked up the book at her gestured invitation, sketching a bow of thanks, and gallantly offered his arm for his much taller wife to take. They strolled away, quietly chattering away, and disappeared into one of the chambers.

Maryam had no intention of sticking around to find out if they’d ever leave it.

The shade was still seated where it had been, visibly shaken, and their eyes met again.

“No deal,” Maryam told her.

“You will regret that,” it replied, and in the heartbeat that followed it was gone.

Maryam straightened, swallowing, and briskly fled to the tower. Hopefully Wen still had drink left, because she could use a cup of something strong after that.

--

“All right,” Tristan said. “Now do it again, but without waking up the last emperor of Liergan and scraping the wood.”

Angharad shot him a flat look, but the thief appeared entirely unmoved. Well, she silently conceded, perhaps her work could do with some improvement. Tristan rapped his knuckles against the door once, prompting Maryam to open it slightly then close it fully and putting the bar lock in place – little more than a metal bar connecting the door the wall, with a lever beneath to lift it out of its resting place. As simple as locks got.

Angharad brough up the thief’s tool Tristan had lent her: a long and thin stripe of steel, as if a bookmark had been forged in metal. She positioned herself as he had shown, elbow angled correctly so she could control the movement, and slid the stripe through the thin gap between the door and the doorway. She raised the tool, slowly and carefully, until she made contact with the metal bar on the other side.

Then she delicately levered the bar upwards, bringing it out of the catch – and this time, instead of dropping it and making the noise Tristan had so wildly exaggerated, she just as delicately lowered it back down, out of the catch. She then slid out the tool, straightening and turning an expectant look on the gray-eyed man. He cocked an eyebrow, opening the door and finding it perfectly unobstructed.

“Congratulations,” he said, and Angharad preened, “you can now break into a child’s room. Maybe.”

“You could have given me this, Tristan,” she reproached.

“I’m not even giving you that lifter,” he snorted. “It’s mine and it’s quality work. You get one of the lead ones from the Black House stocks – and wash it first, the paint on most of them is flaking.”

The door was cracked further open as Maryam peeked her head through.

“You are strangely stingy, for a thief,” she noted.

“Ah, but does anyone know the worth of things better than a thief?” Tristan philosophically asked.

Angharad cocked her head to the side.

“An appraiser,” she suggested.

“Tax collectors,” Maryam said.

“Even among criminals, presumably your fence,” Angharad pointed out.

She got incredulous looks from the other two at that.

“I read novels,” the noblewoman defensively said. “I know what a fence is, even if the term seems unnecessarily confusing.”

It already meant something else!

“What kind of books do you read that have fences in them?” Maryam asked, grinning.

The kind where Lord Cadwalader found his mother’s locket for sale in the city pawnshop, revealing that Lady Dube had not lost it as she claimed but in fact – Angharad coughed into her fist.

“Morality tales,” she very precisely replied.

A moral like, for example ‘if you cannot figure out that Lady Dube is only after your inheritance and Lady Awbrey is your true love, then perhaps you deserve to be bankrupted’. Maryam and Tristan shared a look. Before that wheel could begin to spin and subject her to a flow of crushing sarcasm, Angharad cleared her throat.

“While I am thankful for the lesson,” she said, “when Song suggested I learn some hidden means from you I thought there would be more actual picking of locks.”

“If I had a few weeks and your whole attention, it might,” Tristan replied. “Certainly not with only a few hours before bed, and I’d not trust you to pick anything but workshop locks without a least a few months of learning in you.”

“I had not thought it so difficult a skill to learn,” Angharad admitted.

If it was so difficult to be a criminal, why not simply learn a proper trade? He wiggled his hand, a symbol of equivocation.

“Part of it is that doing it well requires particular tools that do not come cheap,” he said. “But also that in practice most thieves won’t bother picking locks, Angharad. They’ll smash a window or walk through the open door to pull a pistol on the shopkeeper.”

Ah. That was more along the lines of what she had been taught to expect from thieves. The implication that Tristan himself had not resorted to such means was filed away. Perhaps he ought to be considered as, well, a sort of thieving nobility. The highborn of that occupation, so to speak. Yet on second thought Angharad resisted the urge to fit in him such a box, for it felt almost too convenient. It would, after all, allow her to ignore the fact that a man she rather liked had a long history of committing entirely reprehensible acts.

Regardless, it tasted somewhat like hypocrisy to cast aspersions on Tristan’s past while learning his tricks so they might be employed to spy on a young man who had invited her into his home. It was a bitter thing to swallow, the knowledge that neither her work on behalf of the Watch nor the one on behalf of House Tredegar were particularly honorable in nature.

Tristan lightly clapped her shoulder, bringing her out of her thoughts.

“Even nobles usually only put proper locks on a handful of rooms and safes,” he told her. “With a lifter and a skeleton key, you ought to be able to get into the vast majority of a country manor without trouble.”

She breathed out, nodding.

“As for the other rooms, I will have to prevail through charm to enter them,” Angharad said, as much for them as her own sake.

“Cleon Eirenos might not be part of the cult at all,” Maryam told her. “The Odyssean sounds like a remnant god made up of the parts of the worship of Oduromai that were prettied up, not anything like the Golden Ram.”

“There will be other guests,” Angharad said. “And contract with a spirit does not forbid worship of another, regardless.”

“For a cult like the Golden Ram, I think it might,” Maryam replied with a frown, “but admittedly that is guesswork on my part.”

Angharad acknowledged her words with a nod, receiving one in return, and wondered at the simple courtesy. A month ago that might have well turned into a vicious argument, she felt, or at least some barbed words. The hour they spent together every morning had not made them friends, and in some ways the Pereduri doubted they ever would be, but misstep by misstep she had learned what not to say.

They could have polite conversation, within those boundaries, and there were only so many polite conversations one could have with another before that politeness became the default.

While they’d spoken Tristan had fished out his watch, that brass timepiece he cleaned and polished zealously. He clicked his tongue then closed it.

“Dinner soon,” he said. “I’ll go put away the tools and meet you there.”

A later service requested by the Thirteenth, in deference to how late Maryam had stayed in the archives and her upsetting encounter there.

“I’ll come with you,” Maryam said. “I need to wash my hands off the last of the ink, else Song will glare at me like she’s considering ordering nine generations of my family scrubbed clean.”

“I shall see you to at dinner, then,” Angharad replied.

She watched, somewhat amused, as the pair began to bicker about Maryam intending to put ‘ink all over his washbasin’ while she contended he was always so filthy ink would be an improvement. It was good to see the pair reconciled, Angharad thought. They were both happier for it, much as they would deny such a thing. The noblewoman woman could only envy the depths of the friendship they had forged on the Dominion and the complicity it now carried.

The friend she had thought she made on the Dominion had instead made her an accomplice, which was an entirely different beast.

Chasing off the doldrums, Angharad limped her way down the hall. The opposite way the two of them had gone, towards the stairs that would lead to the lower levels. It was a pleasant coincidence that the route leading to the most gently sloping of the stairs passed through a gallery overlooking the approach to the Collegium, one of the nicer sights from Black House – and while it was not dark out yet, the great cube of glass was still a pleasure to eye.

She turned the corner to the sight of seven windows with open shutters, light pouring through them like pits of Glare while darkness huddled in narrow slices between. Almost like stripes. She liked the gallery best around this hour, before the servants lit the lamps.

The sight of Imani Langa standing by the middle window, however, rather spoiled her enjoyment.

The liar was looking out at the city, angled to be the picture of lady lost in contemplation. Ha! Imani did not turn to acknowledge her presence, so though Angharad knew this was unlikely to be a coincidence she leaned on her cane and advanced in stubborn silence. It was only when she came of a height with her that the liar turned, feigning surprise and delight.

“Angharad,” she smiled. “Come watch the city with me, will you?”

“I have already seen it,” she politely replied. “Perhaps another time.”

Never seemed about right.

“Oh,” Imani sighed, “but it has been so long since we last spoke.”

Those eyes narrowed.

“I insist.”

Angharad was her father’s daughter, so she did not spit on the floor in answer. She was also her mother’s, so she sneered in open contempt. She approached just enough to stand at the edge of the pit of light, half-lit and half-veiled. She did not look at the city, staring down the liar instead.

“Well?” she prompted.

“There is no need for such hostility,” Imani chided her.

“Or for the wasting of my time,” Angharad replied. “If you have something to say, say it.”

Doe eyes were turned on her, like a snake putting on a smile.

“What progress have you made?” Imani finally asked.

“I am not on Tolomontera, in case it escaped your notice,” she replied. “Take a guess.”

She had no intention of telling the ufudu about her designs on the infernal forge rumored to be on Asphodel until she had a clear path to getting her hands on it. If she could not obtain it for barter, there was no need to let the Lefthand House know of its existence at all.

“Then you will be pressed for time upon your return,” the liar said. “Your time on Asphodel might best be spent securing help for the endeavor.”

“Is that so?” Angharad mildly said.

“I did not expect you to wander into a layer alone,” Imani said. “It was foolish, and near enough got you killed. You should obtain a signifier’s help for your second venture, or at least a pair of hands to help you.”

Her fingers clenched around the head of her cane.

“Are you offering Qianfan’s help?” she asked.

Was her own signifier in on her plans, also a traitor to the Watch? If so, there might be need for a second corpse at the end of this.

“I could secure it,” Imani lightly said, “but such a thing would have a price.”

Angharad smiled thinly. Of course it would. As it noticing her skepticism, the liar kept speaking.

“Or I could lend a hand in leveraging help from your own brigade,” Imani continued. “Khaimov seems quite attached to Abrascal, there is an angle there.”

(The knife slipped just under the copper button of Imani Langa’s uniform, piercing through cloth and flesh as Angharad twisted the knife.)

Angharad breathed out. She’d barely meant to glimpse, but the flash of rage had-

“The real prize would be Song Ren, of course,” the liar said, eyes on the city. “That contract of hers is a treasure, and given her colorful family history her position within the Watch is delicate at the best of times.”

It was a lapse in control, for her off hand to grasp the handle of her knife, but Angharad’s jaw was clenched hard enough it felt as if her teeth would pop so she allowed it.

“No,” she said, flatly and plainly.

Imani turned, something in Angharad’s voice catching her attention, and her eyes flicked down to the knife at the Pereduri’s belt and the hand resting on it. The ufudu’s lips quirked.

“How exciting,” she said. “I am curious – how will you be contacting the House, after slitting my throat? Or have proof of our bargain, for that matter.”

She had no means and no proof, which Imani well knew. It was why the liar was yet smiling. Angharad forced herself to let out a breath through still-clenched teeth.

“We can revisit the matter of help later,” Imani dismissed. “Cleon Eirenos – why did you cultivate his acquaintance and why are you headed to his estate?”

“That is Thirteenth business,” she precisely replied. “Related to our test.”

“Unlucky you, for I do not care,” Imani said. “I have made concessions, Angharad. Given you time and space, refrained from imposing on you necessities or consequences.”

Her stare hardened.

“Give me something for my patience,” she said, “else I will find little point in maintaining it. I require no secrets from you, only information as other officers of the Watch have read in reports.”

And it sounded reasonable, Angharad thought. Buying time, buying patience, with information put to reports Imani might be able to get her hands on anyhow.

But she knew better.

Someone who holds a deed over you, Gwydion Tredegar had taught her, will always try to talk you into another misdeed they can use. It would be something small, at first, something that felt minor compared to what they already had on you. But the point was to tighten the grip, one coerced step at a time, until there was such an avalanche of dishonors on the books that to go against them would be simply unthinkable. Life-ending in a way that the first deed that started it all would never have been.

Angharad looked at Imani Langa, at the calm confidence on that face, and saw the intent that lay behind her eyes. One step at a time, slowly turning Angharad into a sickness that would spread through the Thirteenth and make them into her pawns. She would be patient, one small request at a time, because could afford patience. The wind was on her side, because what could Angharad do?

Without the help of the Lefthand House, she would never see her father again. With its enmity she was unlikely to survive a week on any of the Isles, rook or not. She was not a large woman, Imani Langa, but behind that slender frame lurked the great monster was the Lefthand House.

“Cleon Eirenos,” Imani prompted again.

They deserved better.

Sleeping God, the Thirteenth deserved better than this. Even had they not offered her kindness in an hour of need this would be a betrayal. And perhaps Angharad could find a way to walk the line of her oaths, to keep from dishonor by stepping carefully enough, it would just be quibbling. The words exact turned into an excuse for something she knew, deep in her bones, to be wrong.

She had sought to cut ties with Song for shooting an ally in the back, but now she was levelling a pistol at all of theirs.

“No,” she quietly said.

The liar stared her down.

“Your lack of cooperation,” she said, “will make it into my report.”

To her superiors at the Lefthand House, she meant. Back to faraway Malan, where… Back to Malan. To the High Queen’s court. Only it would not need to go so far as that, would it? There was closer.

She looked at Imani Langa again, and this time she did not see the Lefthand House standing behind her. Not like the Watch would. She saw fishermen dangling bait, waiting to pull up the line. And bait was not meant to come out of that whole.

It was easy, with Imani not expecting it.

As simple as raising her walking stick and slamming it on the ufudu’s toes, the rest of it flowing like a river – the liar drew back while Angharad abandoned her cane, grasping the side of Imani’s face while the ufudu reached for her knife. She smashed her head into pulled shutters, to a most satisfying bang.

Once, twice, and when Imani brought up her hands to protect her face Angharad drew her own knife and pressed it against the liar’s throat.

“You-”

“Be silent,” Angharad evenly said.

Whatever it was that Imani Langa saw in her eyes, it made her mouth close.

“This is my first and last warning,” she told the liar. “On my oath if I see you trying to involve any of the Thirteenth in this matter, however the manner, I will slit your misbegotten throat and feed your body to the crabs.”

She flicked her wrist, point of the knife digging into the hollow of Imani’s throat.

“This is not Tolomontera,” she told the liar. “The High Queen has an ambassador here, one who knows me by name, and only a fool would believe the Lefthand House does not have a seat in his staff. It would be but an afternoon’s work to arrange a meeting, Imani, and that means you are a convenience but not a necessity.”

Angharad coldly smiled.

“Unless you believe your death will be enough to spoil their appetite for the forge.”

Neither of them did. The spy’s face was an expressionless mask. Angharad withdrew her knife, fancying she saw relief there. Then she seized the liar by the hair and slammed her head into the shutters one last time before releasing her.

“That one,” she said, “was for your unbearable smugness. Mind your manners, and do not refer to me so familiarly in the future – friends call me Angharad, not the likes of you.”

She snatched up her cane, limping away, and for the first time in weeks Angharad Tredegar did not feel like she was drowning.

It was a start.