Pale Lights

Chapter 170 43

It would have been more prudent not to enter Scholomance at all, even if they were only lingering by the antechamber, but Maryam had been curious.

She'd been back in Scholomance for classes since her obscuration, but that'd meant moving with purpose. In and out, no frills. Today she had time to spare while waiting, exploring how different the place had come to feel. With her sister in her eye, they could even make out the ripples that betrayed the presence of the god in the walls – and who they were taking to.

Tristan, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall, had a hundred small eddies in the aether around him. As if Scholomance liked the taste of him. An empty shrine, Maryam thought. A celebrant without a god. With Fortuna missing, Tristan had become honey for a certain sort of god. Scholomance's attention would not harm him, though, at least not directly.

So Maryam left him to his vigil, eyes on the door, and let her nav taste of the air. It was hard to define the changes that had taken place in it, even with her sister being that nav. Captain Yue had called it a refinement, and there was truth in that – she'd felt the difference when she dueled Diego on Lamb Hill, how their nav had been like iron to his wood. But there was more to it than that. It felt... not larger, but perhaps denser?

Yet no less sensitive for it, which was a relief. A not-insignificant portion of Control was sensing when you were pulling or clutching at Gloam too hard. Maryam could feel that her nav had grown somehow, but she struggled to grasp how.

A metallic snap drew her out of her thoughts, Tristan closing the lid of the watch she'd not noticed him pulling out. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"How long?" she asked.

"Fifty minutes," Tristan replied. "She'll be under by now."

Maryam allowed herself a faint wince. Ishanvi's madness in insisting resumption of the room trials now that she had passed the last of her examinations – another mad thing, to have finished all her final exams not even two months into the year – was making them all step on nails. Her holding brigade, the worst sort of useless layabouts, couldn't be bothered to accompany her even though she was headed into the Lugar Vacio.

That was obviously unacceptable, so Maryam and Tristan had drafted themselves to wait for her by the entrance and ensure she didn't fall apart afterwards. For now, that meant a lot of waiting.

Maryam was mostly pleased that Tristan wasn't deniably avoiding her anymore. It'd been hard to tell earlier, since joining the campaign for the Lord of Teeth had meant the expansion of common brigade time, but little things had shown her they were... well, perhaps not reconciled but at least somewhat mended. Still, the private conversation she'd thought he had promised her when she had signed away the shares of the skimmer had been no such thing.

When Maryam bridged the subject the night after he'd been almost curt, reminding her that he had already made it plain he had no intention of discussing anything between them while robbed of his patron. That has not changed, nor will it, he'd said.

Still, even that was not enough to dim her mood too much. When she woke up in the morning, these days, there was something lighter about it. As if some of the anger in her had finally been burned out, put to proper use. It was... freeing, to know that she was doing something. Even if at the moment that something was mostly waiting on Admiral Zokufa of the Western Fleet. Besides, it did not mean she had to wait in all things.

She'd taken to taking meals with the Orels when she could spare the time – once a week, a burden on her schedule easily borne – and now made it a point to linger afterwards, to share words that were not orders or arrangements. That, too, was lightening the weight her shoulders. Gods, she even slept better these days.

"Eyes up," Tristan suddenly said.

Maryam snapped back at attention, hand hiding in her sleeve even as Hooks slipped out of her unseen. It was not enemies that awaited them but a small company of blackcloaks, striding through the great hall. Two were easily recognizable from a distance – Professor Sasan, with his stubble and glasses, while by his side stood Professor Formosa. He must have been the one to handle the tether. On the other side stood a pair of garrison men, one of them holding a roseless compass while the other had a musket shouldered.

In the middle of them, stumbling forward like the living dead, was Ishanvi Kapadia. Maryam's stomach clenched at the sight of her: her hair disheveled under the net, the red stripes on her face that looked like nails marks and the way that under her spectacles her eyes kept moving. She flinched every time someone brushed up against her.

"Fuck," Tristan muttered, and she could only agree.

There was no good way to go through the Lugar Vacio, but Ishanvi didn't look like she'd gone through one of the lighter journeys. They met the other blackcloaks at the door of the great hall, Professor Formosa granting her a nod before leaving with the escorts. Professor Sasan stayed a few beats longer.

"Ah, good, someone is waiting for her," he smiled at Maryam. "I trust you'll see her safely back to town?"

She nodded mutely, watching as Tristan urged forward a startled-looking Ishanvi without ever actually touching her.

"How bad was it, sir?" she asked.

"She was nearly catatonic at first," he said, pushing up his spectacles. "This is already a stark improvement. Still, I expect that staying with friends who have a notion of what the experience was like will help a great deal."

Maryam almost grimaced. She couldn't truly claim that, in fact. She'd been pushing all her fear onto Hooks, so the experience had been muted for her. As if summoned by the thought her sister slipped out of her shadow, to barely a raised eyebrow from Sasan Tenoch. Of all the teachers he had adapted quickest to her new presence in class – save for Kang, arguably, who had immediately evicted her for not being on his student list.

Maryam's anger there had been muted by the fact that'd actually been a little funny.

"We'll get her home," Hooks said, flicking a glance of dislike at the ceiling.

Finding traces of Scholomance there, no doubt. The god was creeping everywhere, as looking to claw back the full meal it had been cheated out of.

"In your hands, then," Professor Sasan lightly said. "A good evening to you then, Khaimovs."

He added and Abrascal after a moment, getting an absent-minded nod from Tristan for it. They shepherded a twitchy Ishanvi outside, and when out on the plaza – stone beneath her feet, empty room around her – the bespectacled girl suddenly sped up. Maryam hastened after, Hooks slipping back under her skin, but she'd worried for nothing. Ishanvi all but crumbled after a dozen steps, and she knelt by her to help her back up.

"Sorry," Ishanvi rasped. "I wanted to get out, but my legs are... wobbly."

"I am a Navigator," Maryam reminded her. "The wobbles are one of the several inevitable curses of my profession, so you could say I'm not unfamiliar."

Ishanvi allowed herself to be helped up, but when Tristan approached Maryam felt her tense against her side. She swallowed a curse. Something had happened inside that'd had to do with a man.

"Sit by the fountain," Maryam suggested. "I just need a word with Tristan."

Ishanvi nodded, tottering away with a docility that was sickening, and she found his face was blank when she reached him.

"You don't need to tell me," he murmured. "I thought it was all touches, at first, but it's not that."

The four blackcloaks inside had all been men as well, Maryam recalled.

"I'm sure it's nothing-"

He gestured dismissively.

"It does not need justification," Tristan said, and she could have kissed him for it. "I'll be around but out of sight. Try to get her in town if you can, yes?"

Her fingers brushed his sleeve and he smiled at her as she nodded. She heard him mention to Ishanvi that an emergency demanded his departure, the both of them pretending not to see the poorly hidden relief on her face, and as Ishanvi got a goodbye out Maryam sat besides her on the edge of the empty fountain. They both watched Tristan head towards the bridge, past which he soon vanished from sight. Ishanvi swallowed.

"He noticed, didn't he?" she asked.

"He also remembers what it's like, going through that room," Maryam said, her tone firm.

Like that closed the avenue of conversation, because it did. Ishanvi breathed out shakily putting her face in her hands, and let out a wet sob. Maryam uncomfortably laid a hand on her back, let her weep it out. Her own crying felt nothing like what this looked like, always... angry, in a way. But there was more than one way to lance bad blood.

"Fetters," Ishanvi rasped. "I had no idea. It just... kept going."

Maryam gave her the silence she would have wished for in her place.

"I was a prisoner in my own body," Ishanvi whispered. "For years. I could see out of my eyes even as I became some sort of... guest inside myself. I married like that, Maryam, I had children."

"It fed deeper on you than most," Maryam quietly said.

"Should I be proud?" the girl half-sobbed. "Oh, gods. I can almost still feel the touch on my skin."

"You got out," she said. "And this time you know it's not real."

"Is it?" Ishanvi whispered. "Or was it right – do I already have a seed inside me, waiting to grow. To usurp me?"

She shivered, then again from something else entirely. That little creature of hers was burrowing its way up her collar, popping its lotus-flower head and letting out a little yip. A smile touched Ishanvi's lips, then as the creature made small murmurs her brow creased.

"You're sure?"

The little pale thing nodded, Maryam's eyes sharpening at the display of intelligence, Ishanvi softly rubbed its head to keening cries of pleasure.

"It can understand you," she said, fascinated. "I've never heard of a lares that size capable of it."

"She's not a lares," Ishanvi said, chewing her lip.

A look through her spectacles.

"It could get me in trouble, having her," she said.

Maryam nodded, almost amused. Like they hadn't all come to the Unluckies bearing some sort of terrible secret. At least hers made endearing squeaky noises.

"She's a drop of blood," Ishanvi whispered. "From the Moonclad."

It took a moment for Maryam to place which god that was, then she choked.

"The goddess of knowledge, music and language?" she got out. "Ishanvi, that's almost a second-order entity. She's one of the most important deities in the entire-"

She swallowed the rest of that tirade under Ishanvi's ruefully amused gaze, recognizing the absurdity in explaining the intricacies of the Someshwari pantheon to an actual Someshwari.

"And it's... aware?" Maryam asked, fascinated.

Ishanvi nodded.

"Somewhat," she said. "She grows. Any time she comes close to written knowledge, it becomes part of her."

Maryam choked again, to the other girl's visible enjoyment.

"As in she remembers it?"

"Every book she's ever been close to," Ishanvi murmured. "No matter the language."

"There are kings that would burn cities to possess her," Maryam flatly said.

And there Ishanvi sobered.

"Which is why I do not, officially," she said.

Maryam had a hundred questions on the tip of her tongue – how had she gotten the creature, did the Watch know, why did it listen to her – but much as she hated to push down her curiosity now was not the time. She suspected Ishanvi might have sat on that secret for a while longer, if not for a desperate need to think of anything but the Lugar Vacio. So instead she rose to her feet, remembering Tristan's request that they keep moving.

"Then our friend had best go into hiding again," she said.

The lotus-head turned to her, letting out a defiant squeak.

"None of that guff now, girl," Maryam warned her. "I get enough of it from Sakkas already-"

The mere mention of that name had the creature burrowing back under the collar, squeaking in alarm, and Ishanvi palmed her forehead.

"Do I want to know?" Maryam asked.

"Probably not," Ishanvi said, groaning as she rose to her feet. "I think I'd like to drink something if that's all right."

"Water or liquor?" Maryam asked.

"Yes," Ishanvi replied.

That could be arranged. Maryam would say that for Port Allazei: you never had to try too hard to find a drink.

--

It was inevitable for you to make mistakes, Song knew.

No amount of training could prepare for every circumstance, make one's judgment ever flawless in the heat of the moment. The best you could hope for was for those mistakes to be minor and quiet, but in this regard the year had dashed her hopes. And how quickly, too! It was only the sixteenth of the second month and already the Unluckies had made the round of rumor several times – as lunatics, as victors, as victims and as bullies. Soon there would be no fresh hats left for them to wear.

But the boat had not tipped over, it was still in the water and sailing forward.

Song must thus tend to her own mistakes among the lot, and ensure she never again fumbled the bag so badly that her brigade could walk into an ambush set in broad glarelight and not another soul would object. That abject failure of positioning was on her head, and she would not suffer that the Unluckies be lashed for her failings twice. No, this time she would position the Thirteenth most carefully.

That was how she came to sit inside the Han Ya teahouse, gracefully moving through the steps of the tea ceremony just as Mother had taught her. The room was all polished wood and bamboo pillars, with a window to the courtyard garden where mossy trees grew among stone. Song brewed the Shouxing redleaf then poured for her guest and for herself – right hand on the handle, left on the lid – before leaning back to appreciate the brew.

Captain Sebastian Camaron, who had quite obviously been trained in the ceremony, only then began to speak as was proper according to tradition. He breathed in the scent, commented on the fragrance for which the leaf was known and asked as to the provenance of the water.

"It is done properly," Song told him. "Collected rainwater, the highest grade of water."

Straight from the Heavens, as was said in the Republics. There could be none purer. No doubt Camaron knew this, but idle walk was just as much part of the ceremony as the intricate cups and the formal hanfu Song had paired with elements of her ceremonial uniform. Only after they savored the taste and discussed it – Camaron quoted an old rhyme from the Classics in impeccable Cathayan, to her reluctant admiration – did they settle down to drink their cups.

And get to why they were here in the first place.

"My brigade has found what we believe to be a viable route to the dantesvara," Song mildly said.

Sebastian Camaron looked not the least surprised as he sipped at his cup.

"I would never accused such a gracious hostess of... misdirection," he said, "but the way your brigade has also been buying up planks and gravel in town suggests that instead you have found what could become a viable route."

It was Song's turn to sip at her cup. True enough. When the Thirteenth and the broken pieces of the Thirty-First had set out in the rain last seventhday, the day's work had yielded a mostly flat path through the brushlands that Izel believed cannons might be carried through – if slowly. And finding it in the rain had been lucky, in a way, as it immediately revealed the weakness of the route. Several parts of it were bare stone which turned into murky ponds after a few hours of rain and remained so for days after.

Hole-filling with gravel and a few ramps were necessary for the path to be usable more than a day or two out of the week, and that meant work. Which in turn meant a need for more hands, a need to protect those hands while they labored and thus a very exposed supply line – to both lemures and competitors. The most dangerous of the latter was currently sitting across from her.

"It is a simple matter of time and effort," Song smiled, "insofar as these things are ever simple."

He smiled back, amused or faking it well. The first thing taught any Stripe was that no fieldwork was ever simple. If it were, there would be no need for the likes of them.

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"It is polite of you to inform me," Sebastian said, inclining his head. "Thank you for the courtesy."

But he did not move on by changing the subject, leaving the door open. He merely wanted it to make it plain who was the one coming to the other for aid. Song would let him have that, for just a moment.

"Not mere politeness," she demurred. "After your brigade also caught sight of the Lord of Teeth – for which I extent my congratulations-"

He inclined his head in thanks.

"-it became clear to me that the creature does not have multiple lairs but a single one: a series of connected caves dug into the flanks of the raised grounds between the middle and western canal."

The Ninth Brigade and their hired hands had encountered the dantesvara at the end of the middle canal, finding the mouth of a tunnel headed west. They had wisely declined to venture inside, though they lingered around long enough to find a nearby secondary entrance leading into Rhodon Bay - similar to the one Song's crew had. Sebastian let out a small hum as he sipped his tea.

"That has been our conclusion as well," he conceded. "Jayati believes they are natural collapses expanded upon by the local pataricos. The filthy things apparently prefer to whelp inside protected coves."

Jayati Banerjee, Song clarified inside her mind. A Navigator, but one from the Banerjee scholar clan with all the Savituri connections that implied. And while the Savituri orders had long been rumored to dabble in the very dark arts they were charged with checking, only fools denied there were among the finest teratologists of Vesper. Sometimes it felt like half the readings in Teratology had been penned by one of them.

"Neither of us has the numbers to cover both sides," Song said. "Much less attempt to carry out a more elaborate plan. And while the path you have uncovered is functional, reaching it involves sailing a barge – one unable to bear the weight of cannons, unless I'm mistaken. To fight at an advantage, my crew's find is the most promising."

"That is true," Captain Sebastian agreed. "Only my plant in your hunting crew has already delivered me the details of your route and I can raise allies much more easily than you. What do I need the Thirteenth for, Captain Song?"

The blunt admission of spying was a test, and Song did not let herself fail it by showing irritation or surprise. Tristan had already shared his suspicion, besides, so the only sliver of surprise she'd felt had been over Camaron's directness. Instead she made herself smile back, sipping at her cup.

"You are free to believe this, of course," she said.

A moment passed, and she caught a flicker of unease in his eyes. She was not reacting at all as he had planned. Perhaps he had credited her with wits enough not to be angry over the spying, but he had expected negotiations to continue. Not a polite withdrawal. To his skillfully hidden surprise – though it took more than skill to fool her eyes – she then changed the subject, as if closing the door on the matter.

They parted ways soon after, and Song allowed herself a private smile. Camaron's expectation of continued negotiations was entirely correct: she merely wasn't continuing them with him. She'd sent out the letter ahead of her trek to the Han Ya teahouse, and was pleased to learn from the attendants in front she'd received an answer while hosting the captain of the Ninth.

Unsurprisingly, after Song was publicly seen in the most expensive teahouse of Port Allazei with her sworn rival Captain Nenetl Chapul was all too eager to meet with her.

The silver-eyed Tianxi wasted no time, crossing the Triangle to meet Captain Nenetl at Dreg's Draughts where the other woman had written she'd reserved a room for the evening. Song made sure to take her time crossing the common room. To be recognized, and be seen speaking with the member of the Third waiting by the door – Jeronimo de Aznarez, that brigade's Skiritai. The man's eyes were cold as he waved her in, to find Nenetl Chapul waiting at a table in her fighting fit with a map and bottle of plum wine.

Rather less formal an arrangement than the last, but not displeasingly so.

"Captain Chapul," she greeted, inclining her head.

"I've told you to call me Nenetl," the round-faced woman chided, rising to greet her.

Nenetl Chapul was tall but equally plump, which made the delicacy of her face stand out all the more. She was almost doll-like in her features, though there was nothing delicate about the callouses in her hand – she was rumored to be one of the finest blades among the Stripes.

"If you insist, Nenetl," Song smiled, sliding into a seat.

Nenetl uncorked the bottle and poured them both a cup, deft hand not spilling a drop. Only then did she sit back down, the movement so smooth that with the table hiding it Song would not have guessed she'd lost much of her leg a mere six weeks past.

"Should I ask how your talks with Sebastian went?" Nenetl all too casually asked.

Song took the offered cup, inhaling the scent of the plum wine. Sweetness and sharpness, as if the plums were threaded with varnish.

"He was dismissive but interested," she replied. "I expect alliance is in the cards, should it be on his terms."

"He was never very good at using anyone else's," Nenetl said. "When we were children, he was unbeaten at hopscotch – until I did beat him, so he altered the rules we played by. Age has not much changed him, save for a little polish."

Song diplomatically decided not to touch that with a ten-foot pole. As if sensing her discomfort, Nenetl offered up a smile and knocked back half her cup of wine before setting it down.

"But you're not here for old tales," Nenetl said as Song mirrored her with a small sip. "You are here for better terms than what he'll squeeze out of you."

Which she felt rather sure that Nenetl would give. Not only was the captain of the Third dismayed at Sebastian Camaron pulling ahead of her in the hunt, her current position was... less than great. While the Third Brigade had done a fine job of securing a route through the ruins, one safe and quick and even usable by cannons, that route led to the wrong side of Old Canals. A lofty highway leading east was of little help when everyone was headed west.

"Our path to the dantesvara requires guns and construction," Song noted. "Your brigade has a reputation as fine shots and Izel thinks highly of your tinker."

More as a powderman than an artificer, but Izel had mentioned being impressed by the foldable bridge Awonke Bokang had crafted.

"I will not quibble with you, Song," Nenetl said. "I placed the wrong bet, and you represent an opportunity for my brigade to correct course. I'm willing to fold under you, so long as you take me as your second and I keep field command of my brigade."

She hid her surprise. While Song had expected to land on such terms or close enough, she'd rather expected it would be after a protracted session of haggling. Nenetl was giving it all up from the start, pressing hard for an agreement here and now at the table. She sipped at her wine again, considering why that might be.

"You are not concerned with Colonel Cao's displeasure?" she asked, mostly to keep the wheel spinning.

Nenetl snorted.

"Cao won't dare to touch the hunt," she said. "She's already dealing with open rebellion in the delve, if she meddles with the Marshal's backyard she'll get a few fingers broken for it. She can't afford that, not after you slapped her face in public and she had to choke it down."

An interesting take on that evening. Song was, however, only half listening to it. Nenetl would know that she was being entertained as leverage against the Ninth Brigade for better terms, Song had not been subtle in this regard, but also that even while leveraged Sebastian Camaron would offer significantly worse terms than what she'd just put on the table. Unless, of course, Nenetl knew something about the Ninth that Song did not. A reason that would bring Sebastian back to the negotiating table with flowers on his tongue.

And no one watched the Ninth more closely than Nenetl Chapul.

I might have a better hand than I'd thought. Song sipped again, hiding her suspicions. That changed the timetable, she should expect a move from him tonight instead of tomorrow.

"These are fine terms, and I do not object to them in principle," she finally said. "I will consult with Captain Ferranda and return to you."

Nenetl's eyes tightened ever so slightly. They both knew that Ferranda Villazur's brigade was currently no such thing and therefore she had no real influence over Song's arrangements – to her open anger. As far as the captain of the Thirty-First was concerned, she had done the heavy lifting and then Song had swept in at the last moment to snatch the laurels off her brow. It was the kind of self-serving story that someone who knew they were stretching the truth would tell themselves. Not that Ferranda could do much about her anger,when half of the Thirty-First was currently more interested in taking orders from Song than their own captain.

No, claiming a need to consult Ferranda was a put off and they both knew it.

"Do not take too long," Nenetl warned. "If I cannot make common cause with you, I must make other arrangements."

"You will have a reply tomorrow," Song told her.

That loosened a knot in the other captain's shoulders, for it was proof that Song did not simply intend to keep her on the hook for a few days while bargaining for better terms with Sebastian Camaron. She finished her cup of plum wine and half another before parting ways, which Nenetl seemed to take as a good sign. She should not have, as Song was remaining largely to give time for the rumor the reach the man she needed it to.

They parted ways in a friendly manner, and even as Song left the Dregs she allowed her gaze to sweep the half-lit street. Exactly as she'd thought.

Song ambled down the street to the left, allowing her steps to stutter as if slightly with drink even while she tucked her hand inside her cloak. There was no need for preparation beyond that, as she went nowhere without a loaded pistol these days. So when she passed by the unlit alley and a man swept out of the dark, she smoothly pointed her pistol and pressed it against the hollow his throat. Musa Shange swallowed, raising his empty hands in a sign of peace.

"Captain Ren," he croaked out. "A moment, if you please?"

Song smiled thinly at him. She'd seen from the start he had no weapon out. He was just there to startle her so she would still be unsettled when speaking with Camaron. Not that this inclined her to mercy: she cocked back the hammer with a metallic click.

"And if I do not please, after such rudeness?" she said.

"I meant no such thing," the Malani said, strategically avoiding defining what thing he was speaking of. "My captain sends me to inquire if you might join him to sightsee by the seawall – he feels the way your talks ended at the teahouse was unfortunate."

Song almost scoffed. Of course he did, Camaron hadn't gotten what he wanted. But she had always intended to meet with him again, so after making Shange sweat a little more she agreed. She was escorted westward, taking some petty pleasure in letting his attempts at small talk fall flat. She only offered icy politeness when Musa brought her to the perch his captain was on, an ancient counting house whose ceiling had collapsed inward and in doing so formed broad, choppy stairs to the section of tiled roof that still stood.

Song had heard of this place from Angharad, as it happened. The fine view of Allazei Bay made it a favorite spot for couples to lay down a blanket and sightsee the moons and stars of the Orrery over the water – when not more interested in what lay under each other's clothes. Amusing.

Camaron's silhouette cut into the silver moon on the horizon, as if branded on it, and Song spared Musa Shange a curt nod goodbye before climbing up to join the other captain. It was quite the view, she'd admit. Not as fine as Rhodon Bay, where the stillness of the water let the lights reflect on its surface, but there was solemn beauty in the distant silver moon of the Orrery burning above a horizon of dark waves.

Sebastian Camaron stood tall with his hands behind his back, facing the silver. Camaron was known for his good looks, and while he was not at all to Song's tastes she saw it – the healthy tan and lustrous hair, piercing blue eyes and the figure of a man who had been training at arms since he could walk. Casually arrogant in his bearing, too, which she found grating but some people went for.

"I don't believe I ever realized that Nenetl truly despised me before we came to Scholomance," Sebastian Camaron suddenly said, breaking the silence. "I always thought ours were children's squabbles, all bluster and hot air."

A small, artful pause.

"Evidently she thinks otherwise."

Song could admire a fine liar, and this man was one. That faint touch of rue, of bitterness, as if he were the one who was being unfairly singled out by a woman he had thought a friend. Like the simplest sort of fool could not tell that he had been a vicious, unrelenting bully to the girl. It was likely simpler than that, of course. Sebastian Camaron was pretty, and people like to think good looks meant virtue. It primed them to swallow all sorts of lies from their lips.

But while Song had never played hopscotch – it was a foreign game, Lierganen, and so Mother called it beneath her even while the servants' children played – she knew the rules. How you threw a pebble called the piggy, the cerdito, on the square you were to avoid jumping on. It was not a long stretch, she thought, from cerdito to cerdita.

She could hazard a few guesses as to why a young Nenetl, no doubt already a few pounds on her frame, had so ardently wanted to beat Sebastian at hopscotch. What it would have meant, for him to then simply move the finish line so she would keep on losing. Still, none of this was her business in the slightest. If the two of them wanted to turn their childhood hatred into a lifelong feud, that was on their own heads.

"Interesting," she said, then cleared her throat. "Anyway, your man claimed you sought my presence again."

She paused.

"I assume it was not for the usual purpose of this place," Song delicately said.

She'd thought that her being indifferent to his little attempt would irritate, but instead he looked amused. Camaron eyed her up and down in a way that almost had her regretting the hanfu.

"I could do worse," Sebastian said, "but alas, no. I gave some thought to your offer."

"I made none," Song corrected. "You simply realized I would not be easily squeezed into the supplicant's box and that I have options, so you are resuming negotiations."

"I enjoy a bit of spirit," Camaron lazily said, "but do take care not to overestimate your position, Captain Ren."

There was a glint in his eyes, then, that reminded her of the first time they had met. The way he had pulled up a chair, insulted nearly all of her brigade and informed them of his retaliation before leaving with a threat and a smile. There was a reason the rue he'd put on earlier had stood out to her like too much blush on his cheeks: Song had already met what lay under the polished charm, and it was not so pretty as his face.

"Am I?" Song asked.

She picked her tone carefully. Did not speak it as a challenge, or an insult, but as an honest and genuinely curious question. That surprised him enough he did not grow further angry as he had been primed to – he'd left her the options of backing down or provoking him, but she did not have to dance to his tune. He frowned.

"There would be advantages for my brigade to the arrangement you earlier broached," and there he raised his hands in appeasement, "however indirectly."

How best to get it out of him, Song pondered. Sebastian Camaron, she eventually decided, suffered much from the same sickness she had come to Scholomance carrying. The one Captain Wen had so scathingly, precisely diagnosed as her being a girl who has never talked to anyone she did not need to either obey or order.

Only Sebastian had handled himself more skillfully during his first year and never been bucked off for that presumption the way she had. So, in turn, he had never learned to put away those blinders. The man knew how to handle superiors and subordinates, but an equal that was not also a rival? He was unused to that: it unsettled him, put him on the back foot. So that was exactly what Song kept giving him.

"We are not competing for the same prizes," Song plainly laid out. "My brigade has personal stakes in the hunt, but beyond achieving enough to be spared a yearly examination we are not particularly concerned with acclaim – which I understand to be your main concern."

He eyed her for a moment, then stiffly nodded.

"A decisive victory in the hunt while the First Brigade still stalls in the delve would be a blow to their standing," Sebastian said. "Yet it is only worth something if my name is the one with the laurels."

"Folding under you closes doors for me," Song said. "An alliance ensures you won't sabotage my crew and your name will chase off most scavengers, which is why I reached out at all, but the plan I have in mind requires tinker work and greater numbers than you can provide."

"Independents are always willing to join the winning side," Sebastian dismissed.

It was telling he did not at all dispute the accusation of sabotage.

"Independents are how you got your hands on my crew's route," Song said. "I trust them not, and the only reliable ones have already been snapped up. I want another crew, and that means I cannot simply give you sole captaincy over our alliance."

"I would offer you the second rank, as my right hand," Sebastian 'generously' offered.

"There can only be one right hand, and I want another crew," Song reminded him. "That means another captain. And I must ask, before it becomes an issue – whatever drives you now to make a deal, how likely is it to be an issue for me?"

His lips thinned. Blue eyes looked her up and down again, but unlike the earlier unpleasant appreciation this time she was being assessed for something else entirely. She did not tense or flinch, simply meeting his stare when it came to rest.

"The Seventeenth is gathering independents to contest our canal bed, now that it is known as the right one," Sebastian said. "Open ties with the Thirteenth would kill that in the crib, considering your... reputation."

Menshen curse you, Tristan. So, because the Unluckies were known to gun down students who provoked them they could now be made to serve as fearful enforcers for other brigades. Camaron wanted to use their reputation to spook the Seventeenth off making a play for his canal bed. Somewhat insulting, but Song could use it. However cursed the sword, it could still cut.

"So you have a use for a deterrent," Song said, carefully avoiding the use of the word 'need'. "What I have in mind would provide it. If you want the leading role in the hunt, I will cede that as well – someone will need to command the squad that kills the beast, and it might as well be you. What I need from you to get what I want is flexibility over the captaincy of the overall alliance."

He raised an eyebrow at her, sniffing out why she had kept drawing that line.

"You believe that who you want for the third crew will refuse to work under me," Sebastian Camaron said.

"I know so," Song replied.

He snorted, a little dismissively.

"Who is it?"

Song told him, and he looked at her like she was a madwoman before he burst out laughing.

"We can make the arrangements tonight, if you are willing," she told him.

"Well," Sebastian said once he stopped laughing. "Now I just have to see that. By all means, Captain Ren, lead on."

That artful pause again.

"I am willing," he assured her. "So if this falls through, I invite you to attribute fault accordingly."

"If it falls through," Song agreeably smiled.

It wouldn't.

In a matter of minutes they were at Dreg's Draughts, cutting through a crowded common room to the private room Song had guessed – accurately – that Nenetl Chapul would still be occupying with her brigade since she'd already put coin on it. Nenetl was just as baffled at the sight of Sebastian as the man had been at Song naming her, though that look quickly hardened.

"Apologies for the interruption, Captain Chapul," Song said. "But I would have a word in private, if you'll allow."

"And him?" Nenetl mildly said, gesturing at Sebastian.

"Good evening, Nenetl," he smiled. "Lovely to see you, though I see you've a pitcher out. Are you sure you should be drinking considering your..."

He tapped on his own leg, a reminder of how Nenetl had lost hers at Misery Square, and though his tone was concerned and his smile sweet as honey half the Third looked ready to draw on him. Not without reason.

"He would be part of the private," Song said. "We have a common matter to discuss."

"I can make his lack of leg to stand on literal," Jeronimo de Aznarez told his captain. "That ought to shut him up."

Sebastian cocked his head to the side, unimpressed.

"Your Sordon dog is barking a little too loudly for his bite," he told Nenetl.

Song ignored them both, her eyes remaining on Nenetl. Who had spared her old enemy a black look, but after that matched Song's gaze head on. She cocked an eyebrow and Song shrugged – what do you have to lose? Nenetl's jaw clenched, and she cut through the rising insults.

"Give me the room," she asked of her brigade. "I see no harm in hearing out Captain Song."

She got a few disbelieving looks, but they trusted her enough to walk out without questioning her judgment in front of outsiders. Aznarez and Sebastian elbowed each other on their way out, which had Song rolling her eyes. She closed the door behind them, then quickly moved to the table before they could begin sniping at each other. She reached inside her cloak, removing a small roll of paper with the map drawn by Angharad and setting it down besides Nenetl's own map of southwestern Allazei.

Where she had put it down forced them both to walk over and lean over the table for a better look, letting her set the pace.

"This section is where we all believe the dantesvara's lair to run underground," she said, finger sliding over the end of the raised ground between the two westmost canals. "So far the entrances we've found are either out on the water or a tunnel where we can't bring cannons to bear, both of which have the makings of a slaughteryard."

"And you think you have the answer to that?" Nenetl said.

"I do," Song said. "What I do not have is either the steel" and there she inclined her head at Sebastian before turning her gaze on Nenetl "or the proficiency to pull it off alone."

"Consider me duly flattered," Sebastian said. "Your plan?"

She told them, and for the second time this night she was looked at like she was Tristan Abrascal. This was most uncalled for. The plan was not that unusual.

"That is insane," Nenetl slowly said.

"Well," Sebastian said, stroking his chin. "Yes, but – your powderman, Nenetl, can he do it?"

"Of course he can," she said. "But if it goes wrong-"

"Yes, yes, but then either way it'll be flushed out and then-"

"It is possible there will be complications," Song conceded, then sighed. "No, likely even. Which is why we will need contingencies. But the Thirteenth would not be putting so much skin in the game if we did not believe this to be a plan with a good chance of working."

She received assessing looks from the other two captains.

"Did your mad little Mask come up with that?" Sebastian asked.

"My tinker," Song admitted.

Izel was not a violent man by nature, but when he put his mind to the work and made himself think of problems as pure mechanics he spat out solutions that were, in their own way, fearfully destructive.

"It could work," Nenetl finally said, and it sounded almost like a curse. "And if the three of us join hands, no one will dare take a swing at our back. It could work."

She was already halfway to convinced, but then she was always going to be the easy sell. Song found the eyes of the third captain in the room.

"As I said, I am willing to cede command of the assault squad that will face the dantesvara," she told Sebastian. "I expect that Captain Chapul is no more eager for that charge than I."

A moment passed.

"My brigade is not equal to that task," Nenetl said, though it sounded like she was pulling out teeth.

"Then all that is required of you, Captain Camaron, is flexibility on the captaincy of this enterprise," Song said. "Three crews in alliance, none above another – and the laurels of slaying the Lord of Teeth yours to win by the blade."

The look on his face could have been called a pout, if not for the glint in his eye. He was displeased in a way that carried no softness. Not at the terms, Song intuited, but that he had not been the one to set them. But he'd take the deal, she thought. Nenetl was his rival, but she was not the one he really needed to beat or the one he was truly worried about – that was Vivek Lahiri, who had last year beaten him out for the top score.

A deal that raised the Third Brigade but raised him slightly more would be acceptable, if it also brought a win against the First Brigade.

"A single hand on the wheel would yield better results," Sebastian Camaron deplored, "but I suppose one must make allowances for... foibles."

He put on a pleasant smile.

"I will take those terms," he said, then turned to Nenetl. "And you, old friend?"

Nenetl pointedly looked away from him.

"I accept your terms, Captain Song," she said. "Though we will have to discuss tactics."

Song had been counting in it. Nenetl Chapul was significantly more skilled at those than she, if their respective Warfare scores were any indication.

"Then we are all in accord," Song said, rolling up her map. "It was a pleasure doing business with you."

She had the steel, the proficiency, and a positioning that only a madman would dare to take a swing at. A decent start.

Now they could get to work.