Chapter 55 (Patreon)

Cressida Barboza had left only one instruction regarding her death: that she should be burned, and any coin left to her name be spent on ensuring her ashes were sent to Lusitania. It made Izel’s heart ache that they could not even grant her that.

Scholomance had not given them back anything to burn.

Instead the Fourth Brigade set out to the east of the city early on firstday afternoon, and after laying her clothes to rest on the floor of an abandoned house they set it aflame. Emergency Rations was a prick but he knew his work: jugs of oil had the flames fast and hot, gutting the old house from the inside and collapsing it before the fire could spread. The entire Thirteenth had come, and what remained of the Eleventh as well.

It was the second funeral of the day, more or less. The Fenya would lay Thando to rest in their own way, but a clay pot bearing his name had been put up at the Redeemer chapel of the temple district, and any who so wished could light a candle there to honor his memory. Izel had accompanied Angharad there early this morning, before the rest of the Thirteenth went, and found her quiet. She did not seem sure how to think of the man now that was he was dead.

The gesture was returned now, Angharad standing by him watching the flames devour the house in which Cressida Barboza’s shade had been laid to rest. Tupoc Xical had been the one to light the fire, and now gave as much of a funerary oration as he cared to.

“We get only one coin to spend,” Tupoc simply said, “and Cressida Barboza spent hers fighting the dying of the light. She is put to flame a blackcloak.”

He said nothing more, but then coming from a man dedicated to the Grave-Given that had been high praise. The Lord of Graves said that one’s life before death did not weigh on his scales, only how one died. Life was for other gods to judge, the Grave-Given sat in judgement over death alone. A good death was worth more than a good life, to the faithful of the Lord of Graves. Some said it was the only thing worth anything at all.

Izel watched in silence as the funeral pyre of the only other soul to make it out Nineteenth Brigade burned bright against the afternoon sky.

“We weren’t friends,” he suddenly told Angharad.

“No?”

“No,” he softly said. “Sometimes we liked each other. Neither of us was Tozi’s favorite, or fond of her favorite methods, so there was... complicity in that.”

Shared glanced behind their backs that were eyerolls without eyes ever being rolled. Easy jokes about hammers and nails.

“I do not believe,” Angharad told him, “that a bond has to be amiable to be strong.”

“It can’t have been that strong,” Izel said, passing his hand through the stubble of his head. “We barely ever spoke after the Nineteenth was dissolved. Went out different ways.”

He had not forgiven her for... Well, not being who she could have been. If Cressida had added her voice to his when arguing against sticking by the Ivory Library, would the others still live? If she’d cared enough to do more than pick a side at the end, perhaps half the Nineteenth would not have been buried in the soil of Asphodel. But she had not been that woman, and as much as Izel would bear the weight of the mistakes he’d made that helped usher Tozi and Kiran into the grave she ought to bear her own stones. So he’d thought, anyway.

Now all he could think about was how little he’d truly known her. Not because her death had changed something about her, forced a new perspective. It hadn’t. She’d died because she was the worst with a sword out of those past the chalk line, that was all. No, Izel thought no better or worse of her than he had before she died. But now that he was gone, he was beginning to grasp the enormity of what he had not known about Cressida Barboza and how he would never be able to learn, because she was gone.

For good. No takebacks, no Acallar miracles or Lady Knit salvations. A monster, a sharp rock and a parry just a little too slow – and gone. The candle blown out. He could still hear the sound it had made when her temple was pulped. Maybe. Sometimes he wondered if he was thinking about the sound Tozi’s skull had made, whether they’d become one in some chamber of his mind.

“She never saw Lusitania, you know?” Izel said, shaking his head. “It fell to the hordes of the Loving Kiss before she was ever born.”

To the endless tide of shambling plague victims with their red sores. On occasion he’d thought about what it would do to a girl, to know the beautiful house her family had once lived in was now a ruin in a city of the dead. How it would eat at her as she was raised moving from city to city, half a guest and half a beggar. It wasn’t an excuse for who Cressida Barboza had been, but it maybe it was part of an explanation.

No one got that good at picking pockets for the sport of it.

“Company,” Angharad said, tugging at his arm.

He turned, and found Alejandra Torrero wore all the grief that Tupoc did not; dark rings around the eyes, the weary tread of someone tired from something sleep could not fix. She’d hated Cressida, the reverse just as plain to see, but Angharad had said it true: a bond didn’t have to be pleasant to be deep. The Navigator came to them wearing another dead friend’s hat, her right sleeve filled with the heavy iron prosthetic that’d been her own price to pay for surviving Asphodel.

“Coyac, Tredegar.”

Anghard tipped her own hat back. Izel, lacking one, simply nodded. Alejandra caught his eye with her own.

“Barboza’s poison box is yours,” Alejandra said brusquely. “She liked you best of us, as far as I can tell, and it’s too dangerous for the brigade to use considering she messed with the labels.”

“I don’t know her system either,” Izel admitted.

“Then sell it back to the Krypteia,” she shrugged. “Something of hers should go to a friend, to make this more than vultures picking at her leftovers.”

Izel swallowed.

“Friend?”

She blinked at him.

“Weren’t you?” Alejandra asked. “She might not have called you one, but Cressida was...”

“Cressida,” he completed.

He looked away. The words he’d spoken to Angharad mere minutes ago now tasted like ash in his mouth.

“I’ll take the box,” Izel said.

And with it the reminder that you never understood people half as well as you thought.

The brigades broke apart soon after, none of them eager to linger here or stand in the warmth of a dead woman’s wake. Tristan was first to leave, accompanied by Song. The thief had reason to leave, given that he was to do manual labor on a Watch ship as part of some scheme hatched with Colonel Azocar, but looking at that too-quick stride Izel thought he had the look of a fleeing man.

The two Masks had their own complicated history, and Tristan was never faster on his feet than when he had grief at his back.

After those first departures everyone went, dispersing every which way. He walked back to the Workshop with Angharad, Ishanvi and Bait – the latter two because they had business in the stacks of the Ossuary, the former because he had an acquaintance from the Cathedral track to introduce her to. Okuhle was one of the most skilled smiths in their year, and they’d been quite interested in reforging a Pereduri saber. Enough to charge only slightly more than the material costs, which had still had Angharad wincing. High-grade steel like her uncle had used was not cheap.

Izel felt better for having made the introduction. Doubt had dug at him, after he’d decided not to offer to repair the blade, so finding another way to help had been a relief.

He left after they got to chatting, having work of his own to handle. Song had requested that he sketch out a large-scale source of Glare light for the skimmer, pointing out that the odd darkness above the underground lake had pressed back against their lanterns and might the phenomenon get worse when they tried to cross the water. It was an interesting challenge.

Not in the design itself, considering that Glare lights were perhaps the single most common kind of aether machine, but rather in that Song had opened the brigade books to show him how much was available in funds. It was, uh, not much. Building a functional, reliable and sufficiently powerful source of Glare light for that price was going to be a stimulating puzzle. Maybe he’d thrown in that piece of Antediluvian alloy he’d found in the scrapyard, make good use of it.

The prospect of interesting work had him humming as he went for the storage, only for the song to die in his throatwhen he found a handful of garrison men at the door of the room.

There was a cluster of students there, fretting by the door while still at a healthy distance from the soldiers, among which stood one he immediately recognized. Jingyi, visibly wilting from being stuck near a crowd. Izel gently guided him away, leaving him to settle down a bit before asking what was going on.

“Someone broke into the room to force open chests,” Jingyi told him, pushing up his glasses. “Word is nothing was taken, but the soldiers are still checking.”

With a sinking feeling, Izel peeled away from his friend and elbowed his way through the crowd – he was recognized halfway through, and as whispers bloomed other students began making way. The dim fear he’d had was confirmed: among the chests whose lock had been broken open was his own, the shape of lenslight he’d left inside half-visible from the threshold of the door. He could see no part missing from this side of the door. It might not have been about his device at all, Izel told himself. It might have been unrelated.

But from the corner of his eye, he saw trails of blood going down the wall that told him otherwise.

--

Song had expected to feel more, looking down at the Trench.

The long maze of metal and stone had smoothed out, now nothing more than a road across the gargantuan road. Even the final four rooms leading up to the temple, Scholomance’s ritual maw, had been found empty in the wake of her delving crew’s passage. They were now nothing more than hollow cubes of iron with dusty stairs going all the way up, easy passage for anyone who cared to venture through. Delvers had, and the Garrison as well, finding the same deep water and oppressive darkness she had.

The Crossing, people had taken to calling it. Captain Yue had spent most of yesterday afternoon studying it and declared it Scholomance’s last moat, the last major obstacle on the way to the Repository they all sought.

Inevitably, back-to-back victories in the hunt and the delve had made the Thirteenth the talk of the city. Her crew might not have made it all the way to the Repository, but they had broken a deadlock that Colonel Cao had been stumped by and done so in a mere two days – after being cast out of the delve by the colonel, an additional egg on Chunhua Cao’s face.

There was now talk in the streets and hallways of opening the delve to all, or at least putting it entirely under Garrison authority, and Colonel Azocar was no doubt fanning those flames. Song had delivered him exactly the kind of cudgel he’d needed.

And yet, looking down at the Trench, Song found little joy at the sight. Barely any satisfaction, either, for victory’s sweetness had been soured by what cost Song’s allies. A corpse each, and now they were being overshadowed by the Unluckies in the talk of the town to boot. Tupoc cared more for reputation than praise and Imani Langa was actively shying away from the limelight as part of her Mask schemes, but Song knew both those things only went so far.

That made it twice now the Fourth had lost a cabalist working with them.

The man who’d called her here was announced by the sound of his limp, his blackthorn cane rasping against the stone as he approached her. Last time they had met inside the Akelarre chapterhouse, away from prying eyes, but Colonel Fermin Azocar must have decided that she’d delivered enough ammunition to shoot at Colonel Cao to warrant a marginally more public approach.

Behind them Garrison soldiers worked hard undoing the Trench camp, putting the crates and supplies in carts to carry away – save for Colonel Cao’s own tent and affairs, a fine barb of pettiness on their part.

Colonel Azocar joined her near the edge of the cliff, the old man leaning on his cane. The angle of the lights above cast shadow on half of the ZANJA tattoo inked across his forehead, which would have left only a few letters readable to someone without the benefit of her eyes. She’d looked into the other tattoos, after their first meeting. Both the criminal marks on his right hand and the sleeve of Redeemer imagery on his left arm.

The Machin character naming him an escapee was most interesting: it meant he’d escaped a Tianxi prison, at some point, only to be caught again and sent to serve as sentence as a galley rower for the Republic of Wendi. Men died like flies during such sentences, as much to rough treatment as to the diseases and constant fighting endemic to the shores of Rava Bay. It was said to take a particular combination of toughness and ruthlessness to survive your ten years in the belly of a galley.

“Had a good gander, girl?” the colonl asked.

She saluted, which he rolled his eyes at.

“I was only curious about your sentencing tattoos, sir,” Song said. “I had never before seen a man with these in both Cathayan and Machin. Were they from different republics?”

“You’re nowhere near interesting enough to get to ask those sorts of questions,” Colonel Azocar said. “And that shit you pulled with the conscription very nearly made you more trouble than you are worth.”

But only nearly, she thought. In the Watch, much could be forgiven of those who delivered results.

“I will endeavor to remain worthy, then,” she said.

He snorted.

“The report you filed about there being an opening that connects the water here to the New Canals was confirmed,” the colonel said. “There’s a footpath in the dark, along the canal, that can be used if you have a senior Navigator along.”

“May I ask where it leads?”

“Sheba Bastion,” Azocar said. “Some old water gate opened, though the current and debris turned the canal around it into a real shipkiller.”

Tristan had seen it true. That was concerning, but also useful. Colonel Azocar reached into his long coat and removed a sheath of papers, which he casually tossed at her. Song caught them by the tip of her fingers, which was narrowly enough.

“And these are?”

“My thanks,” Colonel Azocar said.

Said thanks came in the form of paperwork, filed by Commodore Lilavati Oddar. The commodore, currently on leave, was patron to the Forty-Ninth Brigade and had made a formal request for Garrison protection of Nkosinathi Morcant. She cited the public threats made by Warrant Officer Angharad Tredegar as reason for the necessity of an escort, noting that continued attacks on a student meant to drive them out of the school were against the spirit of the rules of Scholomance.

“It seems a weak argument, given the precent that would be set by deploying Garrison soldiers to intervene in student feuds,” Song said.

Which was the last thing the Obscure Committee wanted. The entire point of the three rules was to teach the students how to handle conflict when there was no one around to stop you pulling the trigger at your allies.

“It is,” Azocar said. “Oddar doesn’t expect me to agree, she just wants me on record refusing her.”

Song frowned.

“It only becomes something to use against you if Colonel Cao succeeds in putting your position in peril,” she said.

“That’s the second meaning,” Azocar agreed. “It’s a declaration that my allowing your little tantrum here made her throw in her hat with Chunhua.”

“That seems unwise,” Song slowly said.

“You didn’t give either of them a choice,” Colonel Azocar grinned. “Oddar was paid a fortune by House Morcant to look out for their special boy, if he’s run out of town there’ll be a reckoning for her. And the reason Chunhua took that extended hand when it’ll look bad is because you made your little idiot speech during your last toddler moment, when you threw the wine glass. You flashed the only card up your sleeve she actually has cause to worry about.”

It took a second for Song to put it together. Commodore, Lilavati Oddar’s rank, was a naval one.

“When I mentioned the Western Fleet’s involvement in the mess on Kofoni,” she slowly said.

“Would you look at that, you’re catching up,” Colonel Azocar said. “Western Fleet is a problem for her. Chunhua can’t piss in Old Stormy’s boot without him emptying it back on her head, so she needs backing to fend him off.”

“Which fleet did Commodore Oddar serve in, before taking her leave to serve as a Scholomance patron?” Song quietly asked.

“Which do you think? Northern Fleet. Our boys and girls that patrol the Straying Sea and the Towers Coast, the artery of the slave trade. Western is where they send all the abolitionists to molder, Ren , but Northern is where they keep all our ambivalent rooks. They’re not slavers themselves, but mark my words: if you set up your office in a sewer you always end up smelling like shit.”

Wisdom to live by, Song drily thought.

“What can they do?” she frowned.

“Nothing,” Azocar said. “I still run this misbegotten murderhole for the Obscure Committee, Northern can’t do anything about that. But they can ensure that the Western Fleet also does nothing, which is why Chunhua is currently kissing their ass. There’ll be no help from off this isle for either side.”

“A situation that suits me fine,” Song said.

“Don’t be a fool,” Azocar said. “It means you’re stuck in the ring with a bigger dog. Scrappy doesn’t cut it when there’s a ten-pound difference, girl. Either you beat Cao to the Repository or you’re done at Scholomance. After you challenged her in public twice, either she gets rid of you or none of the princelings will fear her authority ever again. The Lahiri boy already bent her over a barrel for everyone to see.”

“I am continuing the exploration,” Song assured him. “Have no fear of that. My brigade is preparing for an expedition around the isle.”

Izel, despite being delayed by an episode of theft in the Workshop that rumor was blaming on a Krypteia test, had come back to her last night with sketched plans and a cost estimate. It’d take him at least a week to source the necessary parts, but there was no need to wait that long for the first skimmer trip: Maryam wanted to thoroughly investigate the sea to the northeast of Allazei before allowing the ship anywhere near the coast anyway.

“So I was told,” Azocar said. “That is of interest to me.”

Song cocked her head to the side. He wanted something from her, then.

“I am listening,” she said.

 “Your brigade is the only one with its own ship, at the moment,” Azocar said. “If you manage to come back from your first trip into that water gate, I’ll be flooded with request from patrons that my patrol ships should ferry delvers down the same route. Asher won’t give me a choice about agreeing.”

“That seems likely,” Song agreed.

“Take two of my officers with you on that trip,” Azocar said. “Sailors both, to learn the route so I don’t lose a ship screwing around the canals. Do me that turn, and I’ll shake loose a little something for you.”

He paused.

“One of the cannons used at the Battle of the Barrels is half-scrapped,” he said. “I’ll throw it in for your tinker to repair and put on your ship.”

Song considered that, then almost laughed. Not dismissively, but in admiration at the neatness of what had just been offered her. With a single offer, Colonel Azocar was pulling at three strings: improving the Thirteenth’s chances of surviving the trip by arming them, keeping the Garrison part of any advance she made by putting two of their officers on board and getting rid of a damaged second-rate cannon he would now be able petition the Obscure Committee to replace with a fresh Rookery piece instead of being told to repair it.

And Song wasn’t even inclined to fight him on it, none of these things put her at a disadvantage.

“Fine terms,” she said. “I accept.”

A pause.

“I have much to learn from you, sir,”

“So do monkeys,” Azocar grunted. “Doesn’t make you special.”

And on that unpleasant note he walked away with everything he’d wanted, leaving her with the same.

--

Shalini let out a sultry moan, arching up and bucking against her hand one last time, but Angharad did not release her lover’s wrists from the hold above her head until she slumped back down on the mattress. She playfully nipped at Shalini’s neck, getting a groan for it, and lay against the pillows. Her arm was lifted, Shalini sliding under it and pulling up the covers up to their hips. Angharad hummed as her lover caught her breath, enjoying the warmth of her skin.

“Not that I’m complaining about more time with you,” Shalini finally said, mouth pressed against her shoulder, “but I thought you might be otherwise occupied today.”

She supposed the business was public knowledge by now. It rather spoiled the afterglow to even speak that name, but needs must.

“Morcant has gone missing,” she said. “He skipped his classes yesterday and was not seen returning to his rooms. As far as we can tell he’s gone to ground.”

Shalini rolled away, settling on her side in a way that had Angharad’s eyes dipping down at the enticing way the position framed her very perky curves. Her lover smirked.

“You think he’s plotting something?” Shalini asked.

“It seems likely,” she said. “But I see no need to comb through the island looking for him. Sooner or later, he will have to come out of hiding.”

General classes could be avoided without much consequence, so long as you kept your examination grades up, but covenant classes were a different matter. And if Colonel Cao were to prove entirely unfit for her position by allowing him to absent himself without punishment, complaint could be raised about that to the Obscure Committee. The Stripe teacher openly playing favorites could turn into a scandal, if they did nothing about it.

Shalini let out a pleased noise, the sound and accompanying wiggle of which rather distracted her from politics.

“So you’re in town to see me,” she said.

Angharad cleared her throat.

“That and I’m to meet someone later.”

“Should I be jealous?” Shalini teased.

Angharad snorted.

“Of Ferranda Villazur?” she said. “A most unwarranted fear.”

Brown eyes widened.

“I didn’t think you would actually make arrangements meet her,” Shalini admitted. “I know I asked you to give her a chance, but…”

But Angharad had been highly skeptical when told by her lover – and Zenzele – that Ferranda was attempting to make up for past mistakes. The Thirty-First was, however warily, giving her that chance. She’d been less inclined, but Ferranda shooting Cai Wei with salt munitions after the false dantesvara was slain might have saved her life. It could be argued the courtesy was owed.

That, and she was inclined to indulge Shalini if all it cost her was time. She had made no promises of reconciliation.

“It is only a conversation,” Angharad warned her.

“I wouldn’t ask for more,” Shalini said. “It’s not on you to mend those bridges.”

The smirk returned.

“I do, however, believe in rewards for good behavior.”

Shalini pushed off, leaning forward to press a kiss against Angharad’s belly before beginning to kiss her way further down.

“I might be late,” she half-heartedly protested.

Shalini bit at the soft skin of her thigh.

“So be late,” she said, and began making a very persuasive argument as why Angharad should be.

--

It required some running and hastily tucked in clothes, but she did manage the appointed time in the end.

Ferranda was waiting on a bench by the sea, cloak pulled tight to ward from the breeze. It was biting today, a turn against the warming weather. It was petty but Angharad did not sit down besides her, remaining standing instead. Nods were traded, but neither spoke immediately. Ferranda’s face was stiff. Eventually, Angharad sighed.

“I have yet to thank you for your assistance against Cai Wei,” she said, breaking the silence .

She cleared her throat.

“Thank you.”

Ferranda waved dismissively.

“I only wish the shot had killed her,” the infanzona replied. “It would saved us all of a great deal of grief.”

Reluctantly, Angharad acknowledged to herself that the refusal to use the deed to bargain improved her opinion of Ferranda significantly more than if the other woman had leveraged it. Clever maneuvering, or simply Ferranda’s nature? Angharad had so soured on a woman she had once liked she could no longer be sure when she was being fair to her.

“You still acted to protect me,” Angharad said. “That and Shalini’s word has me standing here, Ferranda. Say what you have to say.”

She would listen, and promise not a thing more than that. Ferranda remained silent for another long minute, after. Angharad had expected some sort of prepared speech and was unprepared for silence.

“I am trying to repair things I have broken,” Ferranda finally admitted. “And I have been asked to apologize to you.”

“Have you?” Angharad said, unmoved.

Zenzele’s work, she guessed. It was like him to insist on at least the form of remorse even if it was an empty shell.

“I pushed blame onto you,” Ferranda eventually said. “And I was not honest in the reasons I gave for my decisions. I handled the matter of distancing the Thirty-First from you poorly, as well. For all that I apologize.”

“But not for shooting an ally in the back while under truce,” Angharad said. “Even an apology is too much, Ferranda?”

Ferranda Villazur eyed her for a long moment.

“Fuck you,” she finally said, in an almost thoughtful tone.

Angharad blinked.

“Pardon?”

“You knew Isabel Ruesta for a couple of days, while she was spraying you with her contract and using you as a beatstick to keep her suitors at bay,” Ferranda said. “I knew her since we were twelve. Do you think that just because she tried to finger you, you somehow got special insight into who she was as a person? You were her patsy, not her confident.”

Her jaw clenched.

“Your supposed insight had you murder an ally in the middle of a fight on the back of a theory that was proved wrong within a day,” Angharad scorned. “I am glad to lack it.”

“I could tell you that I’ve watched Isabel play people since before either of us had our first blood,” Ferranda said. “That I saw her chomping at the bit a little harder every year to finally cut loose with her contract, to make a real mess – and that the Dominion was somewhere doing it wouldn’t come back to haunt her.”

Ferranda paused.

“But I don’t owe you justifications, really. I made the call I did for the reasons I told, and it had precious little to do with you,” she slowly said, as if realizing the truth of her words as she spoke thm. “You put yourself in the center of this play you’re imagining, but you were just... present, Angharad. You were there. I would have pulled that trigger whether you were or not, and the notion that you’re entitled to more from me over this matter than Zenzele or Shalini is idiot talk.”

“You murdered an ally,” Angharad slowly repeated. “In the middle of a fight against a common foe. Treacherously, from the back.”

And repeating it again she would, if she must. It bore repeating.

“I didn’t consider her an ally,” Ferranda said. “I considered her a danger and she acted like one, so I shot her. I was wrong about her being the murderer, and I’ll own that. But I don’t regret shooting her in the slightest. If you can’t see why I did it, or agree, that’s fair enough.”

Ferranda Villazur straightened in her seat.

“But I will not apologize for what I do not regret,” she said. “If that is a line too far for you, then so be it.”

The serenity of that was profoundly irritating. What did it matter, that Ferranda felt at peace over it? If she murder a hundred toddlers with a knife, would being at peace with it change the nature of the deed?

“Why should anyone trust you, after what you did?” Angharad sharply said. “Standing by your actions is passably admirable, but it does not change the nature of the deed.”

“That’s Malani talk,” Ferranda said. “I turned on a leech, and that means no ally should ever trust me again? This wasn’t some absolute stance, it was a bleak situation where I made the decision to kill her because I thought it gave me and my actual allies a better chance to live. If my allies don’t want me to shoot them, they can start by not being what Isabel Ruesta was: a distracting, suspicious freeloader constantly using her contract on us and creating tensions in our company while our lives were on the line.”

“Even if all this were true, which I would contest, would it give you right to murder her?” Angharad challenged.

“Not right, no,” Ferranda said. “But I saw a need, so I did it.”

They were, Angharad realized, never going to agree over this. Ferranda simply did not see a line crossed in the way she did. The thought occurred, distressingly, that several of the Thirteenth might be more inclined to agree with the infanzona than herself.

“It didn’t stop there,” Angharad pressed. “You then repeatedly tried to use and dump the Thirteenth this year.”

“And I was right to,” Ferranda said flatly. “Tupoc and Imani Langa didn’t dump you, they went all in with the Unluckies on the delve, and what did that get them?”

She scoffed.

“A share of the praise heaped on the Thirteenth and two empty caskets to fit their friends in,” Ferranda said. “Your brigade keeps squeaking through with injuries, but those around you are not so lucky.”

The infanzona then bit at the nail of her thumb.

“I was wrong to try and ally with you regardless,” she acknowledged. “I should have refused Zenzele’s urgings, told him why, and faced any doubts and argument that brought head on instead of letting the wound fester. That is my failure.”

Ferranda straightened, put away her hand.

“I have been half-hearted, and given insult by vacillating,” she said. “For that also, I apologize. I will not do so for trying to keep my friends from being another corpse in the wake of another Unluckies story on account of trying to uphold a fucking schoolyard alliance.”

“You speak of the schoolyard like this is an isikole,” Angharad said. “Like we are arguing over knucklebones in the garden. This is Scholomance, Ferranda. Our word means something here, the peril is real. And you keep turning on every ally you make.”

“My responsibility is not to you,” Ferranda said. “It is to those under my command. Reputation can heal, corpses cannot.”

“If life is truly is your chief concern, why are you even here?” Angharad bluntly asked. “Even at its safest, Port Allazei is dangerous. If you truly want your brigade to be safe above all else, convince them to resign.”

Silence held.

“You tried,” Angharad quietly said. “Didn’t you?”

“After my conversation with Song,” Ferranda stiffly said, “I had one with Zenzele and Shalini. They were not receptive to the idea. For them, Scholomance is worth the risk. It leads them to where they want to be.”

And it didn’t do the same for Ferranda Villazur, who had taken the offer to come here when in the grip of grief after losing her lover. Who had taken it in no small part to stick with the other two grieving souls she’d come to bond with, the same pair now going from peril to peril against her every attempt to ensure otherwise.

It had been some time, since Angharad last felt sympathy for the infanzona. She still remembered how little the thought of joining the Watch had appealed, before it all went wrong in Sacromonte and she had to flee onto the Bluebell.

“I hate this place,” Ferranda admitted. “It is... Sacromonte is not orderly, Angharad, but there is a balance. Boundaries. Allazei is a pen the Watch had tossed us into, throwing in the red meat of no rules to whip us into a frenzy at each other while the god in the walls takes the unwary.”

She shook her head.

“Have you ever considered that it is not against the rules to commit rape here?”

Angharad paused.

“I have not heard of any taking place,” she slowly said.

“Would we?” Ferranda said. “Anything goes, save for three things. Abrascal all but murdered that girl and all he got was a slap on the wrist. Our patrons all imply that there is a lesson here, that we are being taught how to act when the lights are out – how to settle matters with other armed bands, what lines to cross and observe – but it’s all bullshit.”

She scoffed.

“They say that, but you Skiritai fight to the death against monsters down in your pit while Stripes are taught to sabotage each other and the tests of the Masks are at all our expenses. Even the College puts up exam rankings to get competition going. We’re all meat on the block, and they’ll keep chopping and throwing away scraps until only the choice cuts are left.”

She clenched her fingers.

“What reason have the teachers given us to trust them, really?” Ferranda asked. “Song’s on a quest to end Cao, but are the others that much better? The Marshal made a game of hunting a beast that killed students, Captain Yue’s best known for cutting up children and the one Mask instructor known about is a devil.”

“The College instructors-”

“Have been backing Cao in her coup,” Ferranda reminded her. “Maybe they’re not the worst of the lot, but are they actually noble? Do they use their rank to protect those in their charge, to ensure their prosperity? The only time they’ve made a splash so far is for a coup scheme at the expense of the Garrison, the only watchmen in this city who actually seem to get angry when houses are set on fire.”

She shook her head.

“I thought the captain’s meetings might be a source of order, like a Great Council, but it never took.”

Angharad did not know much of how Sacromonte was run, but she had been taught about the two councils of the city – the gran consello and the chicot consello, the Great Council and the Small Council. The former was in theory the ruling council of Sacromonte and every noble lineage of Sacromonte could have someone seated on it. The Small Council only sat the Six, and was said to actually run the city.

“Your meetings failed because they were not genuinely trying to help anyone but yourself,” Angharad disagreed.  “When your captain’s meetings began they served a true purpose, a place to share information with other brigades about the dangers of Port Allazei.”

She shrugged.

“But then between patrons, the garrison’s warnings and the march of time this was made irrelevant,” she said. “The dangers were known. You kept on arranging the meetings because doing so gave you influence, and they died for precisely that reason. Why should anyone hand you influence over them if there is no need for it?”

“It trying to build an institution,” Ferranda insisted.

“You were trying to own an institution,” Angharad corrected. “And you built it on sand: your meetings no longer served a practical purpose. People only gather to a banner when it means something, otherwise is it a colored rag.”

She pulled her cloak a little tighter, a twist of the wind having slipped through the opening.

“Vivek Lahiri won esteem when he built the Arsay Avenue waystations because students actually do use them,” Angharad said. “Thando, may his ancestors smile on him, bore influence over other highborn because the evenings he arranged were helpful in fostering ties between those who attended them.”

“That’s your advice?” Ferranda disbelievingly said. “Help people?”

“Is it so hard to believe that it would work?” Angharad said. “You are right that life in Allazei is not easy, Ferranda. Most of us have obtained homes, but neither food nor safety are ever guaranteed. We return every week to an accursed school that attempts to devour us.”

She shook her head.

“Song forcefully disbanded the student association, but in truth I understand why it formed,” Angharad said. “Why wouldn’t the independents of the delve want the safety of numbers and coin?”

“The association was a tool,” Ferranda slowly said. “Of Morcant, and arguably Colonel Cao as well.”

“It did not have to be,” Angharad said. “Captain Lahiri cemented his position at the top the delvers by forcing terms out of Cao that benefited them, but that position is built on the same foundation as your captain’s meetings were.”

“Sand,” Ferranda muttered. “Because he’s only on top as long as other students need him to deliver those results for them.”

“If you cannot stand this city at it is, Ferranda, change it,” Angharad said. “I expect you will be surprised by how many people would gather to that banner.”

She met the other woman’s eyes, then and shook her head.

“I do not forgive murder, or treachery,” Angharad said. “But amnesty was given. I will pursue the matter no further.”

It wasn’t a sword put back to the sheath, they both knew, or even a promise of tacitly ignoring the chasm between them. Angharad’s opinion had not changed, and if anything this talk seemed to have cemented Ferranda’s. But it was an acknowledgement of where they stood, and how they did not need to draw blades over it. It would have to be enough, Angharad thought.

She had nothing else to give.