Mila’s last few weeks had been fraught with frustration.

The announcement of Apomasaics in her own classes had been a gift from the spirits themselves. Everything she had been searching for, everything she had been trying to work out piecemeal and in secret for years, abruptly delivered right into her lap.

But then the abrupt deceleration, like a ship abruptly running aground, throwing Mila to the deck. The whiplash of gatekeeping, of abruptly coming to an un-jump-able hoop.

The clerk at Special Research looked her over with a curled upper lip, and the eyes of a dead fish, before pulling her file and copying from it for what felt like ages. A growing unease in her stomach. As he closed her file, she smiled sweetly and pointed to the crowded series of lab tables she could see through the plate glass behind him.

“Excuse me, is that alembic in the back supposed to be bubbling over or...?” She trailed off artfully.

He twisted and craned in alarm. When he’d turned back around after a few whole seconds of vain searching for nothing, she gave her best impression of a naive, ditzy bumpkin shrug. He was not been in the least amused, but she just played it off like she’d thought she’d seen bubbles. Girls loved bubbles, right?

She walked away, gritting her teeth and cursing silently and corrosively. She’d been able to read enough of his handwriting upside down, to know she was being screened out. Something about risk assessment, something else about Opali degeneracy and a racial predisposition to pirating, as well as the security of state secrets.

But she had also seen Sada’s name. Faint tingles of alarm ran up and down the back of her neck. Following Sada’s instructions, Mila had taken the utmost pains to hide any connection or association with him throughout her admissions process. Together they had crafted a watertight cover story, or legend, as he called it. Mila was sure that if there was anything solid linking her to him, she would have already received summons from the Ministry of Inquisition. So it had to be conjecture. Right?

What did they know? A defected alchemist with access to classified secrets, likely in hiding in one of the Common Cities. A promising alchemy student from one of those cities, where alchemists were rare, applies for admission to the University. It wouldn’t be too hard to make guesses, draw conclusions. Perhaps the legend had been too watertight. That would also be a clue.

“Mila!”

She had been so deep in thought that she’d pushed her way out of the building without noticing and she was now standing in a courtyard. It was windy and cold. Wet but not raining.

Roxa had been waiting for her outside. She’d stubbornly insisted on sticking to Mila like a protective shadow all week.

“Hi,” said Mila, a little absently.

“Hi yourself. How’d it go?”

Mila grimaced.

“That bad, huh?”

Mila chewed her lip and stared at the gleaming gray stonework. “I’m to be screened out.”

“Damn.” Roxa looked appropriately concerned on her behalf. Which was impressive, because Mila hadn’t told her why she needed to get into this class. Only that it was important. Roxa had accepted this at face value, as she accepted everything Mila had told her, without pushing to know more. Maybe she thought it was a fair price to pay for being allowed to act as her friend’s bodyguard.

After all, even the most charming company—and Roxa was easily that—ran the risk of grating when it was constant and forced by circumstance. Mila was endlessly grateful for their rapidly sweetening friendship and all the ways it was making the new arrangement tolerable, even comforting.

“All may not be lost. I do have one idea.” Mila turned her gaze up to meet Roxa’s and felt a thin smile slip onto her face. “But first, I need you to tell me everything you know about Aralia Cordivar.”

~ ~ ~

They took one of the longer, less crowded ways back to Stormcroft, and slipped in through a servant’s entrance. Roxa went first and Mila followed close, up the narrow back staircase to the third floor, and down the corridor to their room. Roxa muttered the keys to the wards on their door and opened it carefully, then shut it behind her roommate and reactivated them. Mila kicked off her shoes, flopped down into Roxa’s overstuffed couch and released a pent-up sigh. Roxa started a kettle boiling with a finger wave and followed suit. It began raining, lightly at first, then with an increasing rattle as heavy drops struck the tall windows next to them.

They both stared at a print pinned to the opposite wall—one of Roxa’s, of course. It was a woodcut of a landscape of steep, forested pinnacles and precipices, ferns dripping thickly down cliffs alongside the slender streaks of waterfalls. Thick flocks composed of many different kinds of birds swirled in and out of cloudbursts.

After a while, Mila asked, “Does it truly look like that, your home?”

Roxa flashed her a grin. “It looks so much more like that than you would even believe.”

Mila smiled back. “You brag.”

Roxa chuckled but did not defend herself. “What about Opali? Don’t they call it the city of bells?”

“It’s drier. And warmer. And friendlier,” said Mila blankly, staring off. She looked back at Roxa. “I miss it. I miss it so much that I worry about remembering it too often, because it aches.”

Roxa nodded quietly. The kettle sang, and she went to pour tea. After an efficient bustle, she handed Mila a steaming mug and sat back down with one herself. The glass of the windows was covered in a clear sheet of rivulets and sliding drops.

“I would like to tell you, though,” said Mila abruptly. Then, softly, “It feels like it might help.”

Roxa nodded again, that same nod of quiet acceptance.

Mila began to speak slowly, hesitantly. She began by describing the belltowers, their different musics, their peals separate and combined, the great need that led to their existence, their placement and relationships to the markets, to the shrines, the parades that went between them, the calendar of festivals that depended on them, the feeling of surging down the streets with her friends as part of the crowd, caught up in the energy and laughter and chanting.

She was speaking faster, her face and voice alive, excited. She told Roxa about her friends, about going together to gather seabird eggs from the cliff nests above the sea, about gathering herbs together—she hesitated and glossed over what she and her friends had been doing with the herbs—learning to sail and fish, the clouds of tiny glowing creatures that lived in the waves—

A wash of self-consciousness doused Mila and she closed her mouth mid-sentence and looked at her lap. She flushed dark red, suddenly aware that she’d been oversharing like a geyser, like a flood breaching a levee wall. Roxa must think she was desperately lonely to dump on her like this. She looked back up.

Roxa’s eyes were fastened on hers. She exhaled deeply, like she’d just woken from a dream or finished drinking deeply from a wide cup. There was a small silence between them.

“Thank you,” said Roxa softly.

Then—“I would dearly love to visit your city one day, Mila. If I were welcome to.”

Mila smiled.

~ ~ ~

It was after dinner and they were both back on the couch, studying and scribbling by amber magelight. Roxa put down her book with a grunt and stood to stretch, and pretended not to see Mila looking at her ass. She did smirk to herself, though.

After a minute Mila thumped her book closed too. Roxa turned to find her roommate looking at her frankly.

“Cordivar?”

“Cordivar.”

“Got a crush?”

“Ha. What if I do?”

“Why do you think I know more about her? Aren’t you the one that has a class with her?”

Mila actually was taking Aralia’s course in advanced alchemy this term, but—

“I want to hear what you’ll say,” said Mila. Her smile had a hint of challenge in it. She was beginning to suspect that Roxa’s training went further than just a noble’s understanding of courtly politics and power games.

“All right.” Roxa began to do some limbering stretches. Her voice changed subtly—she began to sound as if she was making a report.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Well, as you may know, Aralia Cordivar is probably the single favorite subject of gossip in the whole University. She is said to hail from Jyll, an Imperial colony to the south of Yavan proper. A narrow peninsula that connects this continent to the subcontinent. They are traders, and always have been. Literal middlemen. Anyway, she’s supposed to be a commoner—”

“I heard she’s from a rich family,” Mila interrupted.

Roxa shrugged. “Probably. Or at least prosperous. That she knows her way around power is clear as day. However, she seemed to have showed no connections to Yavanese technocracy before she appeared here ten years ago, with the highest merit scores anyone had ever seen. I’ve heard her called many different things but I’ve never heard anyone impugn her intelligence or her competence. Did you know, she’s still the youngest person ever admitted here? She got here at age fifteen, and caused quite the stir here at that time, trouncing all these old, stuck up pricks at their own game. This was right after Harmine started admitting girls and by all accounts it was even rougher than it is now. She arrived here with a better grasp on alchemy than some teachers—she breezed through classes and was doing cutting edge research faster than anyone could believe. She graduated with flying colors and was immediately retained as a researcher. Then they gave her a lab to run. Then they gave her the entire Special Research department. Smart money says she’ll be an Imperial technocrat in five years.” Roxa rolled her eyes. “And she’s our age—less than a year older.”

“No enemies?”

Roxa laughed shortly. “Oh, she has enemies. Or rather, she’s had enemies. She’s survived more rivals and grudges and powerful misogynists who took a dislike to her than I have fingers, and those are just the ones I’ve heard about.” Roxa shook her head admiringly. “She’s more than survived them, she’s come out on top every time. Honestly, it’s pretty inspiring.”

“She must have the backing of powerful people inside the Ministry of Social Hygiene,” Mila mused. “I wonder if she’s a part of any faction?”

“One of the things the rumor mills can’t agree on is her agenda,” Roxa admitted. “She’s obviously got the right loyalties or she wouldn’t have been allowed her current post. But she’s also fiercely protected her own independence and kept herself relatively unbound. She’s not beholden to anyone, as far as I can tell.”

“Everyone’s beholden to someone,” said Mila softly.

Roxa watched her dark eyes shine in the warm light. “So they are.”

~ ~ ~

Let nobody say that Aralia Cordivar enjoyed teaching, Mila mused, watching her finish the lecture with a quarter bell left before the end of class and gesture her assistant forward to begin taking questions on the material. Aralia slipped some notes into her briefcase, straightened her immaculately dark, sharply cut coat, and made a beeline for the door.

Mila, having slipped out some minutes earlier to position herself on the other side of that same door, took a step back from the window and drew a preparatory breath.

The door opened.

“Professor—” She began and was immediately cut off.

“Factor,” corrected Cordivar. She didn’t slow down, just plowed forward, looking straight ahead.

Mila fell in next to Aralia. Getting the most meaning out of the least words would serve her well, with this one.

“Factor Cordivar, I’m a merit student who would otherwise qualify for your Apomasaics course, but I’ve been screened out because of my ‘racial qualities’”—she let a little honest bitterness creep into those last words, because it might help her cause—“and you are the only one who can give me a fair shot.”

Aralia turned to look at her, without slowing her pace. Mila felt the impact as those golden-ringed eyes met hers. She had to remind herself that this person was barely older than her. The look on Aralia’s face was amused and thoughtful.

“You’re one of my students, aren’t you?” She gestured behind them, towards the classroom. Mila noticed that Aralia smelled good, like spicewood and leather.

“Yes, Factor.” Mila was surprised she’d noticed.

“Very well. My office,” she said, gesturing to a flight of stairs in front of them. Mila followed her down a broad, high-ceiling corridor to a oaken door, and into an large, comfortable office. One entire wall was made of glass, and looked out over a steep slate rooftop. Aralia sat behind a large desk and gestured for Mila to sit as well. Mila did. The whole room had her scent.

Aralia looked at her intently for a few moments, then brought out a fresh, creamy white sheet of paper and a pen.

“What’s your name?”

“Mila Finnocia.”

“And where are you from?” Aralia’s face was unreadable as she scribbled.

“Opali.”

“Ahhh.”

Mila wondered what that meant.

“Do you understand what you are asking for, Mila?”

“I am making an appeal for entry into your upcoming course on the basis of merit,” said Mila stiffly. “You said applicants would be screened on the basis of merit and merit alone. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Her stomach was jumping with anxiety. She knew her guardedness was obvious. If this worked, it would be a worthwhile gambit. If not, she would have stuck her neck out where her interest could be noticed and conclusions drawn from it, with nothing gained. She was beginning to suspect that Aralia could deduce quite a lot of information from everything she said and even more from everything she didn’t say. She was quite possibly revealing more than she wished Aralia to know every single second she spent in here.

Aralia made a gesture of open invitation. “And I will admit a certain sympathy for your cause. I think you’re one of the sharpest students in that class, actually. And I rather like it when I can sneak foreign merit students by the loyalists. But here in the Imperiat, as you must know by now, everything has a price. If I am to do this for you, are you willing to do something for me, someday?”

Mila was silent. A part of her leapt impatiently and immediately to say yes. This was so important after all—it was the whole reason she had come this far. Another part of her was spinning with questions and mistrust. Aralia made all her internal alarms scream careful! The idea of being beholden to someone like this scared her. She had stayed silent too long already. She was revealing too much. She needed to put terms on this.

“To return a favor to you comparable to what I am asking for now?”

Aralia’s golden eyes studied her keenly. “No, Mila. Let me be utterly clear. In return for this, you will do as I ask. As to what exactly constitutes a ‘comparable’ favor, the discretion is mine and mine alone. And you will tell no one of our arrangement.”

Mila’s mind raced. She threw caution to the winds and tried one last time. “Factor, I’ve heard small pieces of your own story. You know what it’s like here for me because you’ve been in the same position. But you can change that—you can make it go differently this time! Please, I’m asking you as one foreign girl to another, one merit student to another, help me as you wish someone would have helped you.”

Mila held her breath in the silence that followed, hanging on any shift in Aralia’s expression that might signal a change of heart. For a second she thought she saw something in Aralia’s gold-ringed eyes that could have been sadness, or perhaps pity.

“Let me give you a piece of advice, Mila. Consider it my first act of mentorship, if you like. You cannot wield their power except by playing their game, by their rules. If you cannot stomach the decisions they will force on you, it’s best to admit that and get out now, before you come to grief that will break you. There are other kinds of power, after all, other ways to achieve your ends. Some would say better ways.”

She leaned forward, her gaze burning into Mila’s. “But, if you will do anything to achieve your ends, and I mean anything, and if you decide to use their means, then you must keep going forward no matter what, no matter who you find in your way, no matter how lonely and hard it gets. Or everything and everyone you have ever sacrificed will have been wasted.”

She drew back. Mila swallowed hard with a dry mouth. This version of Aralia seemed suddenly much older and grimmer than her years, as if her mask had dropped, just a little.

“Now. Do you understand me?”

Mila drew a breath and tried to keep her voice steady and casual. “I...suppose I am amenable to your offer.”

“Excellent,” said Aralia briskly. She casually placed a squat, fist-sized device on the paper and her fingers flew over it and punched in a sequence of buttons. There was a hiss and a staccato series of red and white flashes of light, and when she lifted the device off, there was a gleaming alchemical seal embossed on the paper.

“This note will supersede any screening. Take it to the Vonhale administration building by next week. As for our arrangement, here.”

She clicked a small round object onto the desk and slid it and the note across. It was a coin, but not one Mila recognized. There was some sort of script or series of sigils engraved around the rim and it had a square hole in the center.

“When I need to talk to you, this coin will heat up noticeably. Wear it close to your skin.”

And then, with a gesture, Aralia dismissed her.

Mila slowly reached out and took both objects. Her heart felt very heavy and divided. It was beginning to sink in that she had been out-maneuvered. She opened her mouth to ask if Aralia had specifically directed that clerk to screen her out in order to bait this trap, then decided it didn’t matter. Nothing useful would be gained by asking. There were only lies and illusions here for her. She closed her mouth and left.

She wandered out of the building in something between a daze and a fury. Damn. Damn. Is that what Mila would become, if she let what was inside her consume and grow and take over? If she gave in completely to her Yavanese instinct for using people as instruments, as objects?

In some ways she had just come face to face with her own worst nightmare, seen in the mirror. And she had gotten what she’d needed, though at a steep cost. She was in the class, and she might even benefit from Aralia’s protection in it. The transaction stung, to be sure. She was in a spider’s web now. But worst of all, she could not deny her fascination with Aralia.

Mila groaned. She’d first noticed it in class. She’d been hoping it could be dismissed as mere attraction to the brooding savant, simply a matter of physical desire that would disintegrate with proximity. But now that she’d sat near her, felt the magnetic draw of her gaze and voice and smell, she knew that she was fucked. Mila Finnocia, like a wide-eyed first-termer, had the hots for Aralia Cordivar.

Shit.