“To join the court of cats,” Tristan hummed, “is most easily done.”
There were exactly forty-two people down in the Old Playhouse, barring himself and Tredegar. Of these ten were servants, which he suspected would not count as people according to many of those folk in fine black cloaks chatting beneath pavilions. The guests he’d get back to later, because it was worth picking out the strong and the weak, but Tristan could already tell the servants were a thread worth pulling at.
None of them wore livery, so they weren’t in the service of nobles. Neither did they wear black, so they shouldn’t be Watch – unless they were currently not on shift and looking to make a few silvers on the side by playing servant to students. Most blackcloaks would balk, he figured, pride offended by taking orders from wealthy children, but in a garrison of the size needed to hold Port Allazei there ought to be at least twenty willing to take that in the teeth for the money.
Only it couldn’t be that, because playing servant was one thing but cooking was another. That food, those drinks, they had to come from somewhere. Soldiers with a side racket wouldn’t be able to deliver an evening like this even if they organized. And they wouldn’t have had long to organize anyway, because why would they even try to before students arrived and the opportunity came up? Scholomance had been closed for centuries.
The thief followed those neatly dressed men and women with his eyes, leaning in the shade of a tree cast in Orrery light. Down below Tredegar circled around the last ring and traded greetings with guests. Tristan picked a wild rose and pulled at the petals one by one, Fortuna amusing herself by alternating ‘hates you’ and ‘loves you not’. Tristan couldn’t see someone leading the servants yet, but he could already tell this was no ramshackle outfit.
A blonde woman behind the pavilion was counting bottles as they left the crates, keeping a tally and giving instructions about how full the cups going out should be. The two slender Aztlan men by the food – same nose and eyes, brothers? – were not only cutting and passing the pigeon pies and pastries but keeping an eye on whether or not the grilled cutlets were still warm. It was not their first time hosting a party like this.
So what in the Manes were trained servants without an obvious master doing on Tolomontera?
“Hate you,” Fortuna happily called out as he pulled the last petal.
She brushed off her spotless dress, only now beginning to pay attention to her surroundings.
“Your Pereduri’s been noticed by the hosts,” she noted. “And why are we hiding up here, anyway? You should be down there dazzling people with my wit.”
Tristan’s gaze left the small Someshwari servant taking away the cloak one of the guests – a dark-haired woman who had no sleeves on her overcoat, turning it into some sort of doublet, but wore a wine-red undershirt with cowl sleeves that was so long it emerged past the belted as a sort of skirt. Watch fashion was only marginally more respectable than the noble kind.
“So I can see who has been waiting for Tredegar to arrive,” he said.
He parsed through the crowd, looking for the right kind of attention. Not passing curiosity or flicked glances but, in a word, recognition. Someone down there was waiting for Angharad Tredegar, and no matter how good you were you still needed to look to know someone was there. So Tristan looked for them in turn, sifting through the guests as Angharad Tredegar began to speak with their hosts.
Bored, he counted. That smirking pair? Making fun of her clothes. One was promising, he – ah, no, it was Tredegar’s ass and legs the man kept looking at. Sex and thus. But that Someshwari man with the contrasting brass spectacles and bulging arms who was discreetly writing into a notebook, now there was a suspect. He was looking as much at the hosts as Tredegar, but it was worth investigating. A second sweep gave him no one else, sadly, although – huh, how long had that Malani been eating the same prawn?
The one with the belt of colored beads and the golden bangles around her arms. There were three large Cathayan prawns in the bronze vessel she had been handed and only one was eaten, the others forever being nibbled on at an angle that just so happened to let her study Tredegar discreetly. And after a heartbeat the Malani flicked a look his way – surprised, he only barely ducked behind the tree in time.
“Contract,” Fortuna said, confirming his first thought. “And with a prickly bastard, too. He’s looking for me.”
“Can he find you?” Tristan whispered back in alarm.
“As if,” she snorted. “There’s so many gods in here it would be like picking a nipple out from a pile of tits.”
Though he had once spent two months working at a brothel Tristan Abrascal had never seen a ‘pile of tits’ and counted himself lucky in that regard. Sounded ghastly. Yet knowing that to react would only encourage the goddess, he ignored the words beyond the useful information conveyed.
“Is she still looking?” he asked.
Fortuna hummed, picking at her sleeve.
“No, but I think she’s keeping an eye on the stairs,” she replied.
So the Malani was still trying to learn who had been looking at her. Spy, Tristan decided. Or at least someone with training in the craft. It might be he had found his first fellow Krypteia student.
“It is a good thing I never intended to use them, then,” Tristan said.
The lodges didn’t fill the entire ring on every tier, more along the lines of two thirds – as was only sensible, if this had truly been a playhouse once. No one wanted to watch a play from seats situated behind the actors. Tristan doubled back to the other end of the ring he was on, keeping away from torchlight and carefully avoiding ever looking in the contractor’s direction, until he had reached the edge just by the stairs leading above.
There he had to sneak behind the pavilion where the man with the guest book still waited, but the Lierganen looked abjectly bored and half asleep. A wall had prevented passage, once, but it had long ago crumbled and as Tristan peered over the edge he found that below was a nook of bushes and grass but also something more: three wooden outhouses. There were green lanterns by them, perhaps to mark their location.
The thief checked to see if anyone was around, and when not took the opportunity offered. He lowered himself atop the roof of the leftmost outhouse, then leaped down into a bush with only muffled sounds. It turned out to be thornier than anticipated, but the Watch cloak and coat were mercifully thick and the cloth was hard to tear. Good quality, that, Tristan mused as he rolled out and began brushing off twigs and leaves. Tugging his collar back into place, he casually walked out and took in the layout.
The party had a simple enough layout: stage, food tables, drink tables and a surfeit of chatting princelings. Nothing arduous to navigate, the trick would be positioning himself so he could keep an eye on Tredegar and the marks in play without being too obvious about it. Tristan began eyeing the food tables speculatively, wondering if there might be time for pigeon pie or one of those – huh, were those cutlets beef? They certainly smelled like it.
That couldn’t be right, though.
“Sleeping God, I cannot have had that much wine.”
The thief’s gaze was ripped away from the cutlets and onto the source of a familiar voice. Zenzele Duma looked much healthier than the last time Tristan had seen him, the eye he had lost in Cantica now replaced by a false one the same color as Tupoc Xical’s. Nice. Malani did have a knack for being theatrically vengeful. The lordling wore the formal uniform, fitted to him and with some golden locks of rope thrown in around the shoulders.
Sergeant Andres hadn’t offered those, so there must be other cloth shops in the port. Another mark for the servants here not being watchmen.
“Tristan,” Zenzele Duma said. “Is that you?”
“Zenzele,” the thief said, then gestured for him to get closer.
Looking worried, the Malani leaned in.
“I don’t suppose,” Tristan asked, “that you would happen to know where those grilled cutlets are from?”
“I,” Zenzele began, taken aback, then paused. “No?”
“Unfortunate,” the thief muttered, then cocked an eyebrow. “Not even if you, you know...”
He gestured vaguely, implying contract without mentioning anything of the sort.
“I am not sure there is anyone in all of Vesper that feels strongly enough about grilled cutlets for that to work,” the lordling replied.
He was, Tristan saw, fighting back a smile. Which was fair but also missing the point. Those cutlets were beef, not pork. Pigs and chickens you could raise in a ruin like Port Allazei – practically speaking the Murk was a ruin and both were common there – but cows needed grazing lands and those cutlets smelled fresh. The meat could be imported, of course, but how costly would that be on an island closed to trade ships?
No, most likely another part of Tolomontera was inhabited. Somewhere with decent land for cattle that must also be easily defensible, because there were bound to be some pretty nasty lemures on the island and the Watch wouldn’t bleed their own garrison for fresh milk and meat. They could have gotten both from goats without half this trouble. If it’s the Watch behind this at all. Was there a colony somewhere out there, another Cantica? Hopefully with fewer slaves and devils this time.
He would have to look into it. Until then, best distract Zenzele.
“I thought Malani were all about cattle,” Tristan said. “Isn’t the name of your coinage derived from-”
“The words sound similar, but they do not have the same root,” Zenzele flatly replied. “You are, evidently, attempting to distract me.”
Still inconveniently perceptive, then. That hadn’t stopped being a pain. A pause, then the Malani came closer and even lowered his voice.
“Were you even invited?” the nobleman asked in a whisper.
Not worried or irritated, that face, but scandalously eager. The thief did not mind throwing him a bone.
“The world is an invitation, Zenzele,” Tristan airily replied. “Though if you’ll excuse me, I need to take care of something.”
If he was going to be skulking the rest of the evening and leaving early, he best help himself to a meal first. Zenzele’s lips were twitching as he casually waved the man goodbye, getting a nod back. Keeping to the edge of the crowd, avoiding anything more elaborate than nods and smiles, Tristan sought out with his eyes both the Someshwari wearing spectacles and the Malani with the bead belt.
The former was by a small garden table, fumbling his attempts to fake eating a croquetas while trying to discreetly write in his little notebook. He was still watching Tredegar, but the sight of him accidentally dropping the same croqueta on a page for the second time had the Sacromontan somewhat reconsidering how much of a threat he might be.
That notebook better not be full of dreamy drawings of Angharad, or Tristan was going to have to break his legs - for wasting his time, if nothing else.
As for the Malani, it took longer to find her. She was, the thief found, positioned much as he was: on the edge and looking in. He forced himself to look right past her when he found her, lest her contract be drawn his way again, and then helped himself to the nearest plated food to justify standing where he was. It was a bronze vessel with three peeled Cathayan prawns – each long and thick as a finger - marinated in reddish sauce.
She’d chosen such a good spot to stand in earlier he had moved in the same without realizing. She was definitely suspicious. Tristan took a tentative bite of the prawn and found the taste strangely sugary. Until the spices hit, a heartbeat later, and then his mouth was aflame. Gods, it was even spicier than Old Town chorizo. It was like eating a torch only it didn’t have the decency to go out. He put the prawn back and discreetly coughed into his fist.
Fortuna, seeing the expression on his face, began cackling.
“You look like they’re making you swallow hot coals,” she said. “Start moving around a little and it could pass as a fresh form of dance. One, two, three, four, to the left and-”
“A cup of water, sir?”
He’d not even noticed the man approaching with a tray of cups, distracted by both an intangible hyena and the very fires of Hell he had foolishly allowed entry into his mouth. Lierganen, he immediately thought, early thirties. Curly brown hair and blue eyes, fit but not muscled and the callouses of work but not killing work. The thief put on a smile, coughing again.
“Please,” he got out.
He took the offered cup, slowly drinking. Merciful relief.
“You may well have saved my life,” he seriously said.
“All in a day’s work,” the other man replied.
Taking a second look now that he was no longer dying, Tristan saw what he missed on the first pass. Rings around the stranger’s eyes, only half-hidden by powdery cosmetics, and the edge of a tattoo under the man’s left sleeve. Tristan could not make out the whole of it but could hazard a guess from what he saw. Green ink, a rearing horse and a rider holding what should be a sword – Old Saraya’s arms, which was a common tattoo on their sailors.
The man did not look like a sailor, but it might just be common practice in that region and the thief had simply only ever met Sarayan that were sailors. Either way, the conversation was as good a hook to get into it with one of the servants as he was likely to get. Sympathy, he decided, would serve best as the opening line.
“You look like someone whose shift has been going on for six hours too long,” Tristan noted.
The man snorted.
“Try ten,” he said, then cocked an eyebrow. “Sacromonte?”
Tristan knew that accent, the way it softened z into s, and it confirmed the tattoo’s hint.
“Born and raised,” the thief said. “If I don’t miss my mark, you’re Sarayan.”
“From the Queen of Cities herself,” he proudly said.
Not that anyone but the inhabitants of Old Saraya still called their capital that. When the Grand Canal broke back in the Century of Crowns, the city built at one end of it had withered on the vine. Nowadays the Malani had seized the lands on the other end and sometimes made noise about clearing the waterway, but with Sacromonte willing to make war over the matter nothing ever came of it. The Six had spent centuries bullying their Sarayan rivals into irrelevance, they would not tolerate a resurgence.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“You’re a long way from home,” Tristan said, draining the rest of the cup.
The Sarayan asked for it silently and set it on the edge of his drinks tray.
“Not as far as you,” the man snorted. “Though I take your meaning; this is a little further out than the Islas Reales.”
Ah, Sarayans. Centuries since their island empire had turned to dust and still they called the island chains closest to their shore the Royal Isles. Old Saraya was no longer even a kingdom, but to hear them talk you’d think they were the Second Empire come again.
“It has been a strange few years,” the man admitted, then offered his hand to clasp. “Arnau.”
“Ferrando,” Tristan replied without batting an eye, shaking it.
It was simply the first name that had come to mind, but now that it was out... It’d be foolish, but the notion was simply too sweet to resist.
“Ferrando Villazar,” the thief winning smiled.
If Ferranda came at him with that rapier of hers he would just have to trade information for mercy.
“Well met,” Arnau replied, then rubbed the bridge of his nose with a groan.
“Should I leave you to rest?” Tristan asked.
Using the tired for information was always a coin toss and he was not yet so pressed for time he must forge on here.
“Please don’t,” the man said. “As long as I’m talking with a guest they’ll not get on my case for not making the rounds.”
“Rough boss?” he casually asked.
“She’s been working us to the bone,” Arnau grunted. “Thinks a success tonight means all those little Watch pricks are going to keep hiring us through the year.”
So definitely not a watchman himself, Tristan noted. As he’d thought, the servants were not blackcloaks. And they seemed to be running their own enterprise. Did the Watch allow others property rights on their island? Odd.
“No offense meant,” the Sarayan hurried to add. “You just don’t seem like...”
“I was brought along by exactly such a little Watch prick, don’t you worry,” Tristan grinned, then let the amusement bleed away and sighed. “You’re not the only one working. I’m supposed to find out a pair of names, but I honestly have no idea how.”
A lie, but servants always knew more than they showed. If Arnau could let him get answers without having his face known, Tristan would prefer that route.
“Try me,” Arnau said. “Which two?”
Ah, a bite. Tristan’s hand left the cover of his cloak, discreetly indicating the Someshwari with the wiry spectacles.
“No idea,” the Sarayan admitted. “The second?”
He now pointed the Malani with the colored beads belt and the golden bangles.
“Captain Imani Langa,” Arnau immediately said. “Eleventh Brigade.”
“That was quick,” Tristan said, not hiding his surprise.
“She’s captain to one of the money bags that hired us,” the man explained. “She’s come around once or twice and Jinjing told us to treat her like a queen.”
Jinjing being, Tristan guessed, their leader. The one putting the screws to her crew. Why such a thirst for coin, he wondered? It could be simple greed, but Tolomontera was surely not any thinking woman’s idea of a place to strike it rich. Perhaps there was some kind of bargain with the Watch, a rent or a cut.
“That makes one,” the thief happily said. “Many thanks, Arnau.”
“It is all in the Circle,” the man dismissed. “Besides, nostros y-”
“-el resto,” Tristan finished.
Us and the rest. Emperor Viterico’s famous answer to the Aztlan queen that had called him a madman for making war on her over the dead of a single handmaid. She was Lierganen, Viterico had replied. There is us, and there is the rest. The lowest of Liergan stood above even the kings across the water. It had been the boast of empire once, the Second Empire’s destiny of conquest manifest. But after the empire’s collapse, when entire provinces were swallowed by the dark and once-conquered kingdoms broke away and began gobbling up territories, the meaning shifted.
Us and the rest, men still said, but now it was in solidarity. The last children of Liergan, beggared inheritors of the great empire that had united Vesper, and though they were a mightily squabbling tribe they shared root and blood. Cousins over foreigners, that was what the words meant nowadays. Tristan saw the pull of that dream, of its shared inheritance, but he had been taught better.
Men will do all manners of foolish things for an empire, even a dead one, Abuela had laughed. Where was that brotherly love when Sacromonte sought to rule the waves, when Saraya tried to unite the Chelae or the Duquesas burned every port that did not fly their banner? The mighty nail that dream to their banners and wave it still because they know men will cut off their own hand for it and call it patriotism.
So no, Tristan had not bought into the lie. But he was not above using it, not in the slightest, or encouraging it. He slipped a pair of coppers against Arnau’s palm under the tray. He did not even pretend to refuse them before spiriting them away.
“You shouldn’t have,” the servant half-heartedly said, as if by rote.
“It’s all in the Circle,” Tristan echoed with a shrug.
Arnau hesitated.
“If you’re spending someone else’s coin,” he said. “There might be a way to get that other name.”
The thief leaned in, careful not to look too eager.
“Estevan out in front, the man with the guest book,” the Sarayan said. “He’s charged with remembering all the names and the faces. He’ll hold out for silver, though. Used to be a lord’s man, has ideas.”
Tristan did not, unfortunately, have silvers to spend. He was even running low on coppers - only five left, the cook had mostly paid for the sergeant’s boots getting ripped in mutton jerky – but it should be worth a look regardless. He thanked Arnau, discreetly disposed of the Lightbringer’s own prawns and considered how he might best go about approaching this Estevan.
“This is an evening for honorable company, Zenzele Duma,” a voice called out. “By what right do you attend?”
Some Malani noble was having a tantrum, which Tristan would have been entirely indifferent to if it did not involve an acquaintance. Which it did, unless there was another Zenzele in attendance. As the Malani lordling was not an ally Tristan would have been only marginally concerned by the situation, but of course it could not be that easy. Standing by Zenzele and Ferranda – so she’d made it after all, good on her – was Angharad Tredegar.
His fellow cabalist looked faintly disapproving, which on her was a look that could mean anything from someone speaking out of turn to an imminent duel to the death. Fuck, should he get involved?
No, that was looking at it wrong. Tredegar wasn’t out of her depth here, she was in her exact depths. What had she been trained for, if not honor games and ritualized stabbing? He didn’t even have to worry about her going too far if she got into a fight, the Pereduri would keep to the precise letter of her word. She was a shark in her native waters, right now, while he’d be a rat on a plank while trying to instruct her on how to swim.
This was not a problem, it was an opportunity.
Zenzele and the whiny noble got into it publicly, which drew everyone’s eye. The guests settled in for the show, a few of them moving to the first ring so they could look down at this as if it were a play put on for them, and that was a fine cover for heading up. Tristan went up with a pair excitedly chatting, slipped into the garden and doubled back towards the small pavilion where Estevan would be waiting with the guest book.
Only it turned out he was not the only one that notion had occurred to.
A tall Tianxi was speaking in irritated tones to the greeter, an interesting enough sight Tristan crept close and slipped into a bush to be able to listen in.
“Three arboles?” the Tianxi was saying. “That is absurd. I am asking for a name, not the key to your sister’s bedroom.”
“I was willing to be bargained down to two,” Estevan coldly replied, “but for that comment it will be full price. Pay or leave, I will debate no further.”
The Tianxi, who was tall and broad-shouldered but not all that muscled – not a fighter, perhaps? – looked furious and tried to argue but the servant was unmoved. Cursing all the while, the Tianxi paid and Tristan leaned in curiously to hear what had been worth that price.
“Her guest is called Tristan Abrascal,” Estevan said. “Gray eyes, dark brown hair, around five feet nine. Skinny but not sickly. Wearing the fighting fit, he has on him a knife on and something else strapped to his leg.”
The thief went still in the bushes, watching a glint of triumph come to the Tianxi’s eyes. It had been for him the other man was looking. Well, it seemed like he had found the first brigade out to abduct him. More worryingly, it also looked like they had just found him.
The thief stayed in the bushes until the Tianxi was gone, the servant sneering at his back and muttering something no doubt unkind, as he considered his options. Tristan’s neck was on the menu now, but that’d always been going to happen. It was simply unpleasant timing. In the distance, down below, there was shouting and something that sounded like Tredegar’s voice.
Ah, she was definitely going to cripple the sneering Malani then. Tristan was going to have to learn his name and brigade in case this came back to haunt them. Still, as Tredegar was being so enterprising about stepping into danger he should honor the spirit of their company and do the same. Rolling out of the bushes under the greeter’s bewildered gaze, Tristan rose to his feet and brushed leaves of his cloak as he offered the man a hard smile.
“Good evening, Estevan,” he said. “I have some questions for you.”
The neatly dressed man froze for a second when he realized he had just been caught selling information about someone by that very same individual. His face immediately closed down, and he straightened his back.
“Master Abrascal,” he said. “What can I help you with?”
“Oh, Estevan, all sorts of things,” Tristan happily said. “And you’ll do it, too, or I’ll be walking straight to the nearest Watch officer to tell them you’re a participant in the attempted abduction of a blackcloak.”
His face did not so much as twitch, but his eyes dilated.
“Doubtful,” he said, sounding confident. “The man I did business with-”
“Is Watch,” Tristan said. “He’ll get a reprimand, and that’s it. But he’s wearing black, my friend. I cannot help but notice you’re not. How do you think that will go for you?”
To his honor, the other man showed no hint of fear in the face of what was a very real threat. But he was afraid, Tristan decided, and his next words betrayed as much.
“What do you want, Abrascal?” he bit out.
“Two names,” he said, “and the matching brigades.”
Estevan said nothing, but irritatedly gestured as if to tell Tristan to get on with it.
“The Tianxi who asked you about me,” the thief said.
“Captain Tengfei Pan, Forty-Ninth Brigade,” Estevan flatly said.
The thief filed that away. Forty-Ninth, was it? He must be a latecomer.
“A Someshwari with brass wire spectacles and big arms,” Tristan said.
Estevan did not answer, only watching him expectantly.
“I’m waiting,” the thief reminded him.
“And you will keep waiting,” Estevan said, “until you pay me two arboles. A name for a name, Abrascal. Anything more costs you.”
Tristan hummed. He could have repeated the threat, but there was a chance the man would call him on it and in truth he did not have to want to leave here just to follow through. Fortunately, Estevan had given him a second lever without realizing it.
“I’m a generous man, my friend,” the thief smiled. “I will even pay you three.”
Rightfully wary, Estevan frowned.
“Pay upfront,” he demanded.
“I already have,” Tristan said. “I am giving you three arboles by not informing Jinjing that you are taking bribes on the side. Somehow I’m guessing you’re not cutting her in on those, are you?”
By the sour look on Estevan’s face, he was not. The man spat to the side, into the same bush Tristan had rolled out of. Fair. He was getting robbed out of a decent bribe.
“Adarsh Hebbar,” the greeter said. “He’s not in a brigade yet.”
“Come now,” Tristan said. “Such a thin report for three arboles? That would be most unfair of you, Estevan.”
Estevan looked like he wanted to punch him in the throat, but the thief only smiled. He had little care for the anger of a man who had sold him out and then tried to shake him down.
“He’s Varavedan,” the greeter bit out. “Unarmed. And he’s a guest, not invited. Came in with Lady Cressida of the Nineteenth.”
The Nineteenth Brigade, was it? Another potential foe to investigate. Tristan was almost beginning to sympathize with Song: they were accumulating enemies at an impressive rate. The fact that this Adarsh was Varavedan was worth noting, but ultimately of no use to him. Varaveda was one of the most powerful realms within the Imperial Someshwar, but it was also landlocked. Tristan had never met any and knew little of their ways.
The thief could have pushed Estevan further for details on this Cressida, but it would not be worth the time and trouble. Best end this now and return to more important matters, so Tristan found the other man’s eyes and smiled.
“Our accounts are settled,” he said. “Let us part ways here.”
The man glared angrily.
“You think I’ll forget this, Abrascal?”
“Try to,” Tristan honestly advised.
“You-”
“It would inconvenience me,” he said, “to have to spend an afternoon on killing you without leaving a trail. But you must understand, Estevan, that is all it would be to me.”
He stepped closer, into the dark-haired man’s face, and the servant stepped back.
“An inconvenience,” Tristan softly said.
He smiled again and the man flinched.
“Do we understand each other, my friend?”
Estevan swallowed, all the more loudly for the silence between them. There was laughter in the distance, something amusing the crowd, but the thief did not look away. The other man nodded, hands shaking.
“A good evening to you, then,” Tristan said, and left him.
He had a duel to watch, though he suspected it might not last all that long.
--
A butter knife.
Tristan was not sure he would have been able to cut cold butter with one of these, much less a Malani swordmaster. Even one with only three stripes to Angharad’s ten. Mind you, the thief would not have bet on himself against a fledgling Malani swordmaster with three limbs if it came to a swordfight. Given how excited the guests became after the humiliating victory and this Lord Musa Shange – Ninth Brigade, that one, which he gathered was going to be a problem since their captain was a well-connected prick with a reputation for being vindictive – it was not all that hard to get a few of them talking.
The difficulty was to do it without getting seen by the captain of the Forty-Ninth, who was roaming about and having curt conversations with others while his eyes wandered, all the while Tristan himself kept an eye on this Adarsh Hebbar. The trick was to let himself be seen above in the gardens or near one of the nooks, then go around and while the Tianxi furiously search take the time to help himself to a plate and some conversation
No great secrets were revealed, though as he tore through a few cutlets – delicious - he was surprised to see the number of people who were glad for Lady Ferranda. Or rather Captain Ferranda Villazur, she was now called, of the Thirty-First Brigade. Ferranda was friendly with many other cabals by dint of having suggested that every two weeks a sort of conclave should be held between captains willing to share information on the perils of Port Allazei.
It was only sparsely attended, Tristan read between the lines, and he doubted any secrets of worth were being traded. But it had allowed a few of those in attendance to avoid wandering into dangerous parts of the city by accident and for that she had won gratitude. Lemures and lares were apparently quite common if you ventured far enough from the inhabited part of the city, Tristan learned, save on a road to Scholomance that the Watch kept clear by regular patrols.
The thief kept using the name of Ferrando, knowing that Captain Tengfei would be looking for him under another, though he refrained from using the false surname. Too likely to get him caught, however amusing it might be for a while.
That effort and staying out of sight paid off, Captain Tengfei eventually losing patience and wandering up into the ring gardens without his first arranging a sighting. After some minutes passed the man did not come back, which was no sure thing but allowed Tristan time for further boldness. Time to move on Adarsh, then, before he too decided to leave. The Varavedan kept scribbling in his notebook by the garden table, eyes still on Angharad and her fresh escorts.
Ferranda and Zenzele had evidently decided they were in her debt for the earlier public execution of Musa Shange’s reputation. A butter knife, gods. He wouldn’t have believed it if not for his own eyes. If he ever had to kill her he’d need a better plan than poison, that hadn’t worked out too well for Brun and Yaretzi.
Tristan also needed Adarsh’s notebook, so a distraction was in order. He cast a look around to find something of use, and to his mixed feeling it appeared as if Lucifer’s fiery vengeance might be. He took aside one of the servants wandering about and told him that Adarsh – who was discreetly pointed at - had been asking if there were any Cathayan prawns left. There were not on the table, but the woman assured him that there were some in the back.
Given the professionalism of the servants, within a minute a bronze vessel with the prawns was offered to the Varavedan – who looked surprised and asked a question, but when the servant looked around for Tristan she found the thief was gone. Hiding, in fact, behind a conversing pair a few feet away from them while feigning to be drunk and getting his bearings. Readying himself for the opening, Tristan watched Adarsh bite into a prawn and... not be set aflame.
Someshwari, right, fuck, the thief thought. They sold half the spices going around the Trebian Sea, the other half proverbially being crammed into everything they ate.
Only the man’s eyes widened with delight instead, and he positively devoured the prawns before calling for the same servant to come back. Having been exposed to Fortunat from a young age, Tristan was highly skilled at pretending utter coincidence had been a grand plan and he promptly stepped into the opening. While Adarsh addressed the servant, facing that way, Tristan discreetly passed behind him with his face angled so the servant would not be able to see it.
He swiped the booklet from the table and promptly disappeared into the crowd. He ducked out into the garden above, cracking open the pages once he was out of sight, and frowned down at what he saw. Only three pages were in use, each titled with a name. Ferranda Villazur on the first and third, Angharad Tredegar on the second. Beneath them were a mix of names, numbers and words in Samratrava that he could not decipher.
The numbers, though, were imperial. And they were telling: none above fifty, several repeating. Brigade numbers. The man was keeping track of who talked with Angharad and Ferranda, though he did not seem to have everyone’s names or brigades. Perhaps to fill in the blanks he might be using physical descriptions in his native tongue, explaining the Samratrava. Either way, this was concerning.
Adarsh Hebbar had clearly been sent to keep an eye on those two, and despite the utter lack of subtlety he had gathered quite a bit of information.
From up in the ring garden Tristan had a clear view of the Varavedan realizing his notebook was missing, but instead of anger or throwing a tantrum he was surprised to see Adarsh pale. The man looked around for it feverishly, and when he found nothing turned to the garden ring at a fast pace. He was not searching for a culprit, Tristan realized, but preparing to leave. That complicated things.
Hiding so Adarsh went past him, Tristan ripped a page from the notebook and found Arnau again. He asked to borrow charcoal to write a note for Angharad, keeping it brief-
Imani had eye on you since you talked with hosts. Careful. Ferranda is liked, good ally. Avoid Forty-Ninth, enemies. Am following lead, don’t know when back.
-and forked out another pair of coppers to make sure Arnau delivered it to Angharad unseen. The man was more than willing. Thanking him, Tristan hurried after the retreating Varavedan spy as quickly as he could without drawing attention. He kept his distance as Adarsh went all the way up to the rings, where he pulled up the hood on his cloak and walked into the night.
Well now.
Time to have a pleasant conversation with his new friend.