Pale Lights

Chapter 165 38

He'd not slept nearly enough, but still Izel found himself sitting at an empty table in the Rainsparrow Hostel's eatery as the morning lights swept into Port Allazei.

Alonzo, who ran the morning service on fourthdays, had let him in before the hall officially opened and even offered him a plate – near-stale bread and sausages that one needed very sharp knife to slice, but it had still been a kindness and Izel had thanked him profusely for it. The older man only patted his back and told him to help put down the chairs if he felt so thankful, which he had. He'd then settled in a corner with his papers and ink, trying to make sense of the results.

The tests he had put his lenslight through haf been comprehensive. He'd sat down first with Mei Qiao – who was a Savant on the metaphysics track – to get her advice on the theory, then with two other tinkers to figure out a set of practical tests. Helena for the pure mechanics, Jingyi for the metaphysics. He'd then run through the tests five times, to largely the same results. This was usually a good thing!

The problem was that those results were insane.

At least he'd identified there was a material component. Instead of the simple coal gas he'd used as fuel previously, Izel had tried three different gases to add heat to the lenslight: coke, brine and ghost gas. Coke gas saw the phenomenon continue identically, ghost gas saw it disappear entirely and brine gas had seen the phenomenon happen twice and not thrice. That was a recognizable pattern. Coke gas was made through an entirely mundane process, while ghost gas was collected from the bodies of Lierganen ghost wisps and thus always bore a charge in the aether.

Brine gas, the standout, had first been discovered by the ancient Tianxi when drilling the ground for brine. It was thus exposed to salt but at varying concentrations, which might explain why sometimes it affected the lenslight and sometimes not. That was the part that made sense: the phenomenon, Izel has come to theorize, only took place when the fuel used was entirely without charge in the aether. Purely mundane.

What didn't make sense was that the machine had technically functioned no matter what gas he used. In a sense, anyway.

Ghost gas, and sometimes brine, had actually delivered the results Izel had been after from the start: they'd increased the output of Glare fourfold. It was a thoroughly impractical solution from his perspective, as there simply wasn't enough ghost gas or enriched brine gas in existence for their use to be feasible a solution to the problem he wanted to solve. Still, it had been comforting to realize that he wasn't entirely on the wrong track.

The problem that when he'd used instruments to measure the temperature of the aether-forged lenses, the heat it accumulated, it was identical – within tolerances, anyway – whether the lenslight was heated by charged or mundane gas. In other words, they both created the same improvements in power but when mundane gas was used it simply didn't show.

So where the fuck was it going?

He'd not somehow disproved that Glare was absolute, thank the gods for that, the power was still magnified he just couldn't find where it was going. But that was what the testing was for, getting an answer. So instead of only testing the output of the lenslight with metal plaques dusted with lunar salt, he'd diversified what he aimed the light at. And there was when the results had entirely stopped making sense.

First, he'd aimed at the most Glare-sensitive materials he could get his hands on. The small piece of inert Rhadamantine quartz he'd aimed the lenslight at hadn't even warmed to the touch, like the light coming out of the lenses hadn't touched it all. He'd then exposed it to a fist-sized chunk of nyxian marble, wondering how the lenslight's beam would interact with stone that was essentially infused with veins of solid Gloam.

The resulting explosion would have killed him if he'd been inside the device vetting chamber.

Aether tinkering resulting in violent explosions was not nearly as rare as Izel would have liked, but he was still startled by the sheer power of it. Fascinatingly, when he'd gone to study the remains of the nyxian marble – after making sure the lenslight was largely unharmed and making a note to armor it further – he'd found that they weren't even warm. The lenslight hadn't affected the strangely propertied marble at all, just the veins of Gloam trapped within.

Which made it all the more baffling when Izel put a simple sheet of iron in front of the lenslight and it slowly became heated where the beam of light touched. It did the same with stone and ceramic, then outright set cloth and wood aflame. Which was absurd, because Glare carried heat – men tanned when standing too long in it, could become glareburnt – but even accounting for the magnification effect of the lenses it should not be carrying anywhere enough heat to begin turning iron red.

At least he'd figured out why the lenslight had never left a mark on the wall when it reacted to regular stone: the debacle vaults had walls of yellow bricks mixed with salt and magnolia ash. The phenomenon, whatever its true nature, seemed not to affect aether-charged material so it had not affected the testing room's wall either. It was the same reason while only the sixth plaque had been affected: the part that was scorched was not the lunar salts but everything else, and the sixth plaque had the least concentration of salt so it allowed for a visible effect.

Izel had ended the testing after that, retreated to town with his piles of notes and creeping dread under his skin. He'd found something, that was much was no longer in doubt, but he was beginning to wonder if that door might not have been better left closed. Not only had he failed to establish usable magnification, what he had discovered... Aimed at lemure, a creature touched by Gloam, would the lenslight violently evaporate the substance in them as it had the nyxian marble's black veins?

He thought it likely would, though he'd have to test to be sure. There was one thing that needed no testing, though: if it was turned on a man, the lenslight would burn them. It wouldn't set skin on fire but it would scorch it severely.

The beam would be less lethal than a pistol shot while significantly more expensive and difficult to wield, but it was painfully obvious that the most straightforward application of the lenslight was as a weapon - be it against men or creatures. And that was thinking small: a sufficiently large and gas-fed lenslight might be able to melt a city wall, if the phenomenon scaled. The proper thing to do would have been making a larger lenslight to test if that were the case, but the very thought had his stomach roiling.

Despite everything, despite fleeing across the sea and leaving it all behind, had he still made a damn weapon? Moonless Night, maybe it was just in his blood. Running through his veins, the calamity that was his father breeding true no matter how much he fought his nature. No, it couldn't be. He wouldn't let it. Izel just needed to go through the equations again, find a way to make them work. To make the lenslight more than just a way to fucking burn people alive.

When the hand came down on his shoulder, he almost leaped out of his seat.

"I see you're already up and at it," Tristan cheerfully said.

Gods, the tinker thought. He'd not even realized that the hall was filling, or that Tristan and Angharad had come up to him. He licked his lips.

"Good morning," he managed, wiping the ink off his fingers on his opposite wrist.

Gray eyes flicked to the plate Alonzo had set down by him, finding that he had only nibbled at it.

"Let's get a meal in us," Tristan easily said. "And put away your things. We'll be meeting Ishanvi at the teahouse after this, so your morning studies are finished."

Izel let the pair of them nudge him through a breakfast – Angharad kept heaping food on his plate, for some reason – and he felt less nauseous by the time they left the Rainsparrow. Neither Song nor Maryam would be coming along. The latter had to visit Fort Seneca to finish the papers that would finally see the arrangements regarding the merchantman and skimmer made official, as when such large sums were involved there were formalities to observe and the bureaucracy had been slow to move even by Watch standards. The captain had meant to leave at least a week ago and was getting impatient.

As for Song she had been invited to have breakfast with Colonel Chunhua Cao, which she had spent half of last evening preparing for.

Eastward they went until the end of Hostel Street, then they turned the corner upwards onto Templeward until they found the right place. The Do Sau Ghode teahouse wasn't as prestigious or luxurious as the Tianxi establishment further up the street, but it was at least twice as large and thrice as frequented. Izel preferred it, as the formality and ceremony of the other teahouse could feel suffocating to the uninitiated – among which he counted himself.

Besides, a rule he tended to prefer coffee though the prices the Chimerical served it at had seen him wean himself off the drink last year. Tozi had instead made a point of continuing to get at least one cup a week even though she could barely afford it, as a point of pride. A demonstration that she might have been cast out by House Poloko but she could still afford to live as a Sunflower Lord's daughter.

It would have been easier to shy away from that memory, still half-fond and made all the sharper for the guilt that brought, but Izel owed otherwise. He had remanded her to the Circle when he'd shattered her skull, ended this life and her chance to make something better of it, so it was his responsibility to bear the burden of her memory. To carry her with him as he chased his own end, his own return to the Circle Perpetual.

He was jolted out of the thought by a jab into his ribs.

"Is the tea here really that bad?" Tristan asked in a murmur. "Song holds up her nose at it, but it's Song."

Izel cast a fond look at the Sacromontan, seeing right through the attempt at distraction but not appreciating the gesture any less for it.

"It's quite serviceable," he replied. "All apologies to Song, of course."

"I prefer her own brewing to what I have tasted of theirs," Angharad loyally interjected.

Izel laughed, not disagreeing and for more reasons than she knew. He had looked into obtaining Kuril greenleaf, the tea Song occasionally made him and Maryam, only to learn that not single shop in Allazei sold it. The Han Ya teahouse served it but did not offer the leaves for sale, which likely meant that Song Ren had leaned on Stripe connections to get her hands on a bag.

"Don't you think I didn't notice that hedge in there, Tredegar," Tristan amusedly shot back, leading them into the teahouse.

Even as the two in front spoke to the attendant and were given directions to one of the siderooms, Izel eyed their back with fascination. Tristan had teased Angharad as long as he knew them, but there was now a... lightness to it that was new. The thief had liked the mirror-dancer before, he thought, but also considered her a potential threat. Now there was hardly a trace of that wariness left.

Izel had been with them nearly the whole way and still could not have pointed out any turning point. Perhaps that was what had seen it succeed: Angharad had relentlessly worn him down with genuine friendship over weeks until even the most dedicated of the thief's mistrusts flew a white flag.

Passing through a neatly paneled corridor, they found the door the others had been told to look up for. It was not marked with a number but the stencil of a monkey. A simple knock later they were bid to enter, the girl they'd come to meet already inside. Even as Tristan opened with teasing – getting fancy on us, Kapadia, paying for a sideroom instead of sitting the commons – Izel entered last to afford himself the time for a closer look at Ishanvi Kapadia.

Their first meeting had hardly counted, since she had been drifting in and out of poppy sleep and so badly bruised she might as well have been wearing a mask. That was still true. She was bruised even worse than Song – not from a worse beating, he'd guess, but simply more delicate skin – but her spectacles hid much of the black eyes so at a glance she looked better off. The way she was so careful when rising to greet Tristan and Angharad told him her ribs still hurt, and the scrape on her chin was scabbing eye-catchingly.

Her eyes behind the glass were bright and attentive, so she wasn't on the poppy. Or at least not strongly enough it's visible. She was dressed in a regular's fit, with a delicate hairnet that allowed her braid to lay on her shoulder and a collar that was slightly open. The brass buttons on her uniform were freshly polished, her cloak had been recently ironed. Ishanvi had taken care of her looks before coming here, yet refrained from touching up her face with cosmetics the way Song did. She wants us to see the bruises, he thought.

"-Ishanvi, Izel Coyac," Tristan said. "Izel, Ishanvi Kapadia."

"It is a pleasure to meet you formally, Izel," Ishanvi immediately said, holding out her hand.

"The pleasure is all mine," he replied, shaking it.

Firm grip, for a scholar, but then she used a blunderbuss. For all that she had a slender frame, if she didn't have some strength to her limbs such a gun would be more likely to shatter her collarbone than hit a target. This was largely a social call, so Izel allowed himself to be led to a seat at the pastel-painted table. When asked, he ordered a cup of Mankari green tea.

"Bold," Ishanvi noted at his order. "You never know what you'll get with Mankari greenleaf."

She wasn't wrong. The tea was named after the Someshwari equivalent to a titled count because of an old saying – every count has a garden – and the sheer number of places it grew meant it could be relied on to taste flowery but otherwise varied greatly.

"I enjoy the surprise," Izel shrugged.

As much as it was largely his first instance of speaking with Ishanvi it was also Angharad's, and the noblewoman displayed conversational graces that Izel could only admire. By the time the tea arrived Ishanvi had been drawn into a conversation about the Watch sources on the subject of their occupation of Port Allazei and how even without access to sealed reports simple supply papers made it possible to tell when the order's interest in the port had waxed or waned.

He traded an amused look with Tristan across the table. It sometimes showed that Angharad had been trained to be a charming host: she had a knack for finding a subject someone would be interested in and being visibly interested in what they expounded about. Izel had caught himself ten minutes into an explanation of how aether-forged glass was made not a month ago.

As Tristan seemed perfectly willing to allow this to go on forever, Izel found himself thrust into the role of minder. They'd not come for a purely social call.

"Though this is quite fascinating," he slid into a gap of the conversation, mostly meaning it, "our captain did ask us to collect your own's response. If you do not mind, best to see to that before we forget."

Ishanvi's face tightened, which immediately had her wincing.

"Acalan declines the offered meeting," she evenly said. "She says she sees no need to discuss a matter that is already finished."

Tristan let out a low whistle, the reaction the other two Unluckies at the table had been too polite to indulge in. That the captain of Ishanvi's brigade would pass on even speaking to Song was unexpected. She must have been very afraid of being dragged into hostilities between the Thirteenth and Forty-Ninth to refuse even a mere conversation.

"A most craven response," Angharad cooly observed. "You are owed better by one who claims command over you."

Izel hummed. But then the Two-Hundredth Brigade wasn't a true cabal, was it? It was a holding brigade, a temporary arrangement until its members transferred elsewhere.

"This is why our year thought little of holding brigades," Tristan noted. "They're not real backing, just paper strength."

That was true, but Izel suspected that perhaps Captain Acalan might have been more inclined to go out on a limb for Ishanvi were there any chance of her actually staying with the Two Hundredth. Ishanvi was actively working to get out of that brigade and into the Thirteenth, however, so why should her captain take such risks? Considering all the troubles the Unluckies were embroiled in this year, it was not imprudent to want to keep a healthy distance.

Neither was it laudable, though. Captain Acalan might come to regret the impression she had thus made, in the years to come.

Conversation resumed after and Izel let himself be carried along, knowing that the hourglass was running out on the time to spare before they must set out to class. His Mankari greenleaf was aggressively flowery with a hint of woodsmoke, an odd combination, and he did not force himself to finish the cup. Tristan was the first to withdraw, claiming he had an errand to run, and Izel's brow rose. The Mask had gone on quite a few 'errands', of late. Izel did not know who he was meeting with, but it did not seem to be about the hunt.

Angharad was the second to fold, having left her firearms at the Rainsparrow, and Izel urged her to go.

"I'll finish my cup and be along," Izel told her. "I'm sure Ishanvi can keep me company for a few sips without you playing hostess, Lady Tredegar."

Amusingly that had Angharad flushing in a rare display of open embarrassment, as if she had just realized what she'd been doing the whole time. That distracted her enough that she did not remember Izel's tea would be quite cool by now, or that he had not so much as touched the cup in five minutes. No so Ishanvi, who was watching him from across the table.

"We will wait for you on Hostel Street," Angharad assured him before hurrying away.

The door closed behind her and Izel gave the girl across the table a smile. She smiled back, tucking a loose strand of hair back into place. His gaze slid past her hand to the bottom of her teacup, where the leftover leaves had clumped together. The pattern he'd half-glimpsed came to life, a grass snake the color of jade coiling comfortably in the waning warmth. The Bone Thief's touch, under his aspect of the god of wisdom.

The serpent was not properly feathered in precious stones, but there was no mistaking that particular shade of green.

"Most people know how to use strength to their advantage," Izel said. "It takes cleverness, to leverage your own weakness instead."

Ishanvi licked her lips, avoiding the swollen parts carefully.

"Pardon?"

"I am not condemning you," Izel clarified. "It wasn't harmful, even if it was calculated. You took a beating with two of us, then you made it plain that there is no brigade behind you. They will be itching to bring you into the Thirteenth."

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"You make me sound like some cunning schemer," Ishanvi Kapadia said.

He considered that.

"I expect it was mostly impulse, deciding to stand with them when Morcant came for his revenge," Izel said. "You saw an opportunity, took it and it paid off: Maryam thinks of you as having one foot in the Thirteenth already and she was going to be the most difficult to sell on adding to the brigade."

Ishanvi snorted.

"Her and not the actual agent of the Krypteia?" she asked. "She's not that ornery, Izel. It's like dealing with an old pandit, only if their glares could literally set fools on fire."

Pandit was the Someshwari equivalent of 'professor', from what he recalled, though there were differences in the meaning. And while Izel could understand comparing her to a crotchety old professor, that was very much underselling how dedicated Maryam Khaimov could be to spite. She had spent the first several months of his tenure in the Thirteenth subtly mispronouncing his surname - which she referred to him by almost exclusively – in different ways purely to snub him.

By the second month he'd been too impressed by the sheer amount of effort that must involve to continue being nettled.

"You got under Tristan's skin," Izel noted. "He won't argue for you to join up, but he won't argue against either and that silence will ring loud with the others."

Song would put stock in that, and he suspected Angharad might as well. Izel politely ignored the grass snake hissing inside Ishanvi's cup, though it was swaying quite cutely. No matter how darling an omen, it should not be leaned into.

"He's the most distrusting of us, usually, so I am curious what you did to get him to lower his guard," he added.

Ishanvi's face closed and she looked down at her cup.

"I didn't do anything," she finally replied. "He's the one who helped me out of a bad spot."

Ah, Izel thought, recognizing that look on her face. As a fellow recipient of the hard bludgeon known as Tristan Abrascal's kindness, he could only sympathize.

"He's quite artless about it, isn't he?" Izel commiserated. "But it's so sincere it works anyway."

"So it isn't a trick, when he does that?" she quietly asked.

Spoken like someone who had been wondering about it at night ever since. And in truth, Izel thought it was a trick. Only not Tristan's but his teacher's. Someone who had seen the ember of grace in the boy he'd been and, instead of snuffing it out had buried it deep so that when it came out it would be so unpracticed as to slide right through even the wariest of guards. There was, however, no point in telling Ishanvi that.

"He doesn't do it on purpose," Izel said, confident of that much.

"It's true, then, that the last Nineteenth tried to off him in Asphodel and they still recruited you from the wreckage," Ishanvi slowly said. "I thought it was a rumor gotten out of hand."

"Abduct, not kill," he said. "Though it might have come to that anyway."

He shook his head.

"They are all better souls than they have any right to be, given the roads that brought them here," Izel said.

She cocked her head to the side.

"Is this the part where you warn me off hurting them?"

"If I thought you meant to do so, we wouldn't be having this conversation," he replied. "And I don't know what doom it is that you believe the Thirteenth will help you face, but I hardly expect it could be worse than what others have brought in. No, this is the part where I ask you a simple question."

Her brow rose.

"By all means."

"Would you be happy in the Thirteenth, Ishanvi?"

She visibly stalled.

"They are all talented people, but they can also be difficult to live with," Izel gently said. "Myself included."

"I'm not sure what that has to do with anything," Ishanvi warily replied.

"The Unluckies are not a holding brigade," he said. "You'd live under our roof and come to be treated like family. And that means living with us every day, not just rubbing elbows for a few hours when we're doing a contract or attending class. And they'll notice it if you can't stand them, Ishanvi. They're all rather perceptive in their own ways."

Izel smiled at her again, rising to his feet.

"Think about it," he said. "If you could see yourself standing them day after day. Because that is what you would be signing up for, like it or not."

--

Song had not been back to the Galleries since the ambush. Ten days. That was the kind of absence that did not go unnoticed.

She had, therefore, carefully decided on the details of her appearance. She took up Colonel Cao's breakfast invitation in full fighting fit, the blade and pistol at her hip a statement she was not cowed while the high collar hid the worst of her neck bruises. Cosmetics hid some of the standout marks on her face, and she'd prevailed on Tristan to offer a dose of poppy from his pharmacy so she would be able to handle the stairs without a cane.

He'd disapproved, but the Sacromontan understood that there were places where one could not show weakness.

There were few other students so early, as only princelings could afford to eat here with any regularity, but she caught a few faces. Modest Propriety from the Sixth, Guadalupe de Tovar from the Second and the somewhat rare sight that was Sebastian Camaron. His rival the captain of the First frequently ate here, if seemingly not this morning, so the captain of the Ninth usually preferred the Emerald Vaults to break his own fast.

The others glanced at her, Guadalupe even throwing in a superior smirk, but Camaron moved to intercept her. The pretty boy marched her way with a smile that did not reach his eyes and offered her a hand along with his greetings, the other still holding his steaming cup of xocolatl. Refusing it would be an unnecessary snub, so Song shook it.

"It is pleasure to see you've recovered, Captain Ren," he said. "The Galleries are better for your presence."

"A kind compliment, Captain Camaron," she replied.

He sipped ever so slightly at his xocolatl, the scent of the spices wafting up to her nose.

"Do carry my hopes to Maryam Khaimov that she should make a full recovery as well," he smiled, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry. "I hear the treacherous attack by Amaru Wayar left her in need of bedrest."

Song forced a smile back. It was not a grand ploy, pointing out that Maryam had tangled with the First's own signifier. Camaron was under no impression that it would push the Thirteenth into his camp. What it would do, though, was start rumors and throw a little mud on the First's reputation – it was why he'd focused on the supposed 'treachery'. It was a small thing, but for the two brigades clawing at the crown of Scholomance such little attacks were common.

"In truth, Maryam only needed bedrest from the exhaustion caused by crushing three signifiers in a row at logos fencing," Song 'corrected', voiced pitched to match his exactly. "But I will carry your well wishes to her all the same."

For the first time since he'd walked up, there was genuine amusement in Sebastian Camaron's eyes. He did not seem to mind that she had appropriated his mudslinging to boast about Maryam and distance herself slightly from the accusation, since she'd left him some room by not correcting the accusation of treachery.

"Of course," he agreed.

Camaron inclined his head, like a fencer praising a skillful bout, and walked away whistling with his xocolatl in hand. Song moved on before anyone else could think to approach: sometimes the Galleries could turn into a sandpit when your brigade had recently been involved in something making the rounds. After the Battle of the Barrels she'd been swarmed whenever she came here for several days. Her utter lack of involvement had burned like acid with every question.

Colonel Cao had not named a particular private dining room, but when Song came down the stairs an attendant quickly found her and guided her to her destination.

Like every part of the Galleries, the private dining room was a display of wealth and taste. No gaudy gilding and polished marble here, only painted walls over a floor of subtle geometric parquetry covered with lush Someshwari carpets. A few paintings hung, Lierganen oil portraits of men and women in Watch uniforms. None were named and Song only recognized one: Lord Iscariot, whose light hair and dark eyes were one of the sole surviving descriptions of the man.

To put him in black at least a century before the order began to adopt it as uniform was something of a stretch, but not uncommon in Watch paintings.

She was invited to sit at the table and told that Colonel Cao would be along momentarily. Song had barely waited a minute before Chunhua Cao walked in, impeccably dressed in her uniform even at this early hour. She spared Song a nod, then settled across the table.

"Breakfast is on its way," she said.

Quite literally, as the first servant opened the door two heartbeats after she finished the sentence. He came carrying tea, but behind him followed a river's worth of plates. Within minutes the table was full and Colonel Cao draped a cloth over her shoulder before digging in, a signal for her to do the same.

It was an impressive spread, Song would admit. Not the most expensive of dishes – that would have demonstrated nothing but the ability to spend coin – but they were all plates from home that couldn't usually be found in Port Allazei. Marbled tea eggs and stuffed sticky rice rolls, mung bean juice with fried ring doughs, Mazu-style jian bing crepes, even pork buns with the sesame sauce that no one here seemed able to get quite right.

Song ate with moderation, unwilling to gorge despite the beauty of the offered meal. Only when she realized they were being served Jigong blackleaf did she indulge, having several cups. The price of those leaves rose every year, she knew, it was only a matter of time until she could no longer afford any. In a decade there would be hardly any left in Vesper and a bag would be worth its weight in gems, rare as a three-legged crow.

As a guest it was expected she should keep up the conversation instead of simply filling her stomach, so among idle talk Song shared an item of gossip from her recent visit in Mazu.

"I am told that merchant houses in the Sanxing are aggressively buying up the existing stocks of Jigong blackleaf," she said. "They intend to wait out the general supply then create a monopoly."

The great merchant houses of the southernmost republics had an unfortunate tendency to band together in large 'trade associations' so they could strike informal agreements to hike prices of particular goods. They were in constant conflict with the Eight Ministries over it.

"They wouldn't be the only republics to have profited off the Dimming," Colonel Cao observed. "Wendi took in half the captains of the Jigong river fleet and has been using them to raid the coasts of the Someshwar. With the Ramayans busy out east and that rebellion in Jaldevi, they've had the run of Rava Bay this year."

Song sipped at her tea, enjoying the burn.

"I had not heard of a rebellion," she admitted.

The Imperial Someshwar admittedly had those like a dog had fleas, but this sounded larger than five cousins sacking each other's towns over the rights to a toll bridge.

"A karnaka who ruled over much of northern Jaldevi in a past life seized his old palace and raised an army before declaring himself prince," Colonel Cao said. "Hard to say whether it will stick, but the chaos on the coast is keeping the capital distracted and the temples confirmed his reincarnation so he has the means to be a real thorn in their side."

Song wrinkled her nose in distaste, to the other woman's amusement. Karnaka were a Someshwari peculiarity, souls awakened to the memories of a past life by one of their strange gods. Some of the greatest heroes and rulers of the Imperial Someshwar had been karnaka, granting all of them a certain prestige, but what truly allowed some of their kind to make a splash was gaining access to 'their' old accounts in the temple-vaults after their spiritual lineage was verified. These accounts usually contained massive fortunes, accumulated over multiple lifetimes. It was all very yiwu.

Song finished her plate, having tasted a little of everything and even allowed herself a second helping of marbled tea eggs. Now that she had been fed fine plates and news she settled back in her seat with her cup in hand to hear what it was that Chunhua Cao actually wanted from her.

It came in form of a paper slid across the table.

Song unfolded it, finding that it was not a contract or a report but an invitation to the Colored Arches. An evening meal this fifthday evening, tomorrow, and the invitation was for her alone: only brigade captains were to attend. This was no surprise to Song. Within a day of two brigades distinguishing themselves with great progress in the delve and being awarded a crown of points for it, one of those brigades had withdrawn from the enterprise and the second been publicly attacked.

Whatever the justifications used Morcant and the student association, to the many students uninvolved it would look like brigades pulling ahead in the exploration had gotten immediately attacked for it. It was another blow to the reputation of an enterprise that was already losing luster compared to the hunt, and she'd heard that barely half the crews had showed up on the delving days her health had forced her to refrain from. Cao had to act and nip this in the bud, else it might get out of hand.

"A conference of captains," Song said. "Interesting."

Uncle Zhuge once told her that speaking unnecessarily during negotiations was like reloading a pistol you hadn't shot. Silence, the sight of the finger on the trigger, these were worth a thousand golden words.

"A truce between all participants of the delve will be established," Colonel Cao said, her tone certain. "It will then be requested that it should be enforced by the garrison soldiers under me, which I will accept."

Song sipped at her cup again. That the colonel was so sure of how that conference would end meant she had already put her finger on the scales and arranged the outcome. Most likely she'd approached the leading captains in private first, which also explained the long delay in both this conference taking place and in Song being invited to this lovely breakfast. She had expected a visit at the hospital, in truth, and been more disappointed than she cared to admit not to receive one.

It must have been galling for Chunhua Cao to be forced to speak sweetly to mere students, but the colonel wouldn't have had a choice: no mention of a truce had been made when signing up for the exploration and it was dubious whether she had the authority to impose one. Scholomance only had three rules, after all. Cao had the means for coercion, of course, but that risked brigades walking out. She offered the other captains something for them to sign on.

"I expect many will be relieved," Song calmly said.

She paused.

"Unfortunately, I am receiving this invitation quite late and I may have prior commitments."

If Song were afraid of Nathi Morcant and his hired thugs, then perhaps a truce would have come as a relief to her. A favor done.

She was not.

As far as she was concerned, all that such an arrangement would accomplish was shield the slaver from the consequences of his actions. As for the student association, Tristan had already assured her that he was taking steps, muttering something about 'two birds with one stone'. Song was taking measures herself, of course, but she considered their days numbered.

She still remembered that look on his face when he'd first seen her bruises, the way that knifelike part of him he tried to keep in a sheath had slipped out – the glint of a naked blade. The guilty thrill at knowing that such a dangerous person liked her enough to wield that danger for her.

Whatever the student association had headed their way, it would not be pleasant.

Besides, Cao was clearly trying to strongarm her and Song resented the move. Giving her the invitation so late and intimating that the other captains were already in agreement? It wasn't exactly subtle. 'Play along or be left out alone in the cold', that was the implication here. Colonel Cao's face did not so much as flicker at her answer, the older woman leaning back into her own seat.

There was a reason Song had not outright refused, after all: this was much too early in the conversation for such a line to be drawn. Song smiled pleasantly, wondering whether it would be the carrot or the stick that first made an appearance.

"That is a shame," Colonel Caol said. "There has been talk that the sheer number of exploration crews is causing confusion and impeding advance. The proposed solution is to cut down on that number by granting the leading crews a more formal position and folding every other explorer under them."

She shrugged.

"I would have considered the Thirteenth a natural fit for such a position, but it would be difficult to argue for that in your absence."

It was to be the bribe first, then. This was, Song considered, a decent enough offer. Colonel Cao would take the crews with the highest scores and make them the only allowed delving crews, granting their leaders the authority to admit and dismiss members as they wanted. That would result in the instant disbandment of the student association, and as a guaranteed crew captain Song would be served a flush of potential new recruits that could make up for the Thirty-First's departure.

As the Forty-Ninth was unlikely to become one of those formal crews given their middling score, they would be reined in by being folded under a captain that Song would have no enmity with and who'd be unlikely to pursue such a grudge on behalf of Nathi Morcant. It also told Song exactly what Cao must have offered to get the captains to sign onto the truce: similar guarantees. It was a neat maneuver and a self-enforcing one. Cao could not force the truce between students, but she had the authority to decree who could and could not delve.

So she was limiting delving rights to those that had signed onto the truce. Clever.

Instead of answering, Song sipped at her tea and enjoyed the subtle hint of honey that was the mark of Jigong blackleaf. There was a weakness at the heart of Cao's entire arrangement, she mused, a dire one. If several leading crews refused to sign onto her truce, could Cao genuinely afford to bar them from the delve? Song represented a crew of three at the moment, more a symbolic loss than a manpower one. But should Tupoc and his crew refuse to sign on, or the First?

For all that Cao's power over the delve seemed absolute, it was in truth fragile. She could set terms, but the delvers could walk away from the enterprise at any point. Only the promise of a passed yearly test and Cao's personal promise of a favor motivated students to continue in the face of the difficulties they'd encountered. Too many changes in the face of pushback and the whole thing risked collapsing, which would be a massive black eye for Colonel Cao.

And perhaps even worse than that, considering the conversation Song and Maryam had overheard in the chapterhouse. Nothing was so harshly punished as a botched coup.

No, Song decided. If others refuse after I do, then she can't run the risk. She'll have to call it all off. Which begged two questions, imbricated into one another. Would others refuse, if the Thirteenth did? And if others desisted, was what would be gained worth gaining the enmity of Chunhua Cao?

Song drank again, until there was nothing left but porcelain in her hand.

Uncle Zhuge had taught her that, in the Watch, there could be three kinds of hatreds: personal, professional and political. A personal hatred was a private matter, to be pursued only through personal means and never to make a stir in one's service to the Watch. A professional hatred, borne of rivalry or opposing ambitions, should always be set aside until a decisive opportunity arose to settle it. Stainless sleeves best hide a bloody knife.

A political hatred, however, was the hatred of another's methods and principles. Something that could not be bargained with or ignored. It should, Uncle Zhuge had serenely said, always be pursued to the hilt and without compromise until the enemy was buried in dishonor.

Which would she be making here, if she walked away?

If not for Cao's ambitions, Song would have called it a personal hatred, and thus worth making. She admired who Chunhua Cao was, but that did not mean she admired the woman herself. Certainly not more than she believed she must settle accounts with Nathi Morcant and his hirelings. Unfortunately, if Song walked away from the delve and that caused others to walk, it was not impossible that the entire enterprise might collapse atop Cao's ambitions and leave her to suffer harsh consequences.

That would be a professional hatred, and one Song was simply not fit to meet. She must, therefore, seek compromise.

"What would be the exact nature of that truce?" she finally asked.

"Full suspension of hostilities," Colonel Cao replied. "Within Scholomance and outside it. An end to both physical and social warfare."

Song's brow rose.

"That is a broad definition," she said. "If a brigade circulates a spurious rumor about another, is that not social warfare? Will watchmen then come arrest delvers for pinching one another?"

Cao dismissed that.

"The threshold is the demonstration of harm," she said. "Tripping someone is one thing, tripping them into a knife another."

Song hummed.

"And the length of the truce's duration?"

"Until the exploration is finished," Cao impatiently said. "Obviously."

If she asked Tristan to hold back on the retaliation against the student association, would he? Yes, she decided. And Maryam, much as she despised Nathi Morcant, hadn't been about to toss Signs at him in broad glarelight. None of the Thirteenth would like such a truce, but they might be able to live with it. Only a thought occurred.

"Demonstration of harm," Song slowly said. "Including, I expect, to one's reputation."

Chunhua Cao cocked an eyebrow as if to tell her to get on with it.

"You made no mention of truth or lies when stating those terms," Song noted. "Someone signing onto the truce would be bound to suppress information they knew to be damaging to another delver's reputation even if that piece of information was entirely true."

"So they would," Colonel Cao flatly said. "That is the price of safety – everyone gets it, even those you dislike. To only ban fistfights would merely ensure the fighting is done without fists."

"My brigade is involved in matters that make it impossible for me to accept those terms, given who they would protect," Song just as flatly replied.

Maryam had found a way to tie the Morcant to the attack on the Orels and while it was to the signifier's advantage to keep the details mostly quiet until the deal with Admiral Zokufa was inked and signed, when it was they had every intention of implicating Nathi Morcant in the matter. Not only were the odds good the man actually was involved, it was their best weapon to shatter his reputation before he dug in too deep to dislodge.

"Your squabble with the Morcant boy can wait a few months," Colonel Cao said.

"Our squabble with the Morcant boy involves the attempted abduction and enslavement of Watch auxiliaries, and someone sent out word of when the skimmer was fit to leave port," Song sharply replied. "You expect my brigade to suffer such attacks and then cover for the reputation of their author?"

"I do not expect you to lie on his behalf," Cao said. "Only to stay silent for a few months."

"By which time he will have burrowed in like a tick by providing healing to delvers, enough that his reputation will survive the association," Song said. "You ask of me, Colonel Cao, that I should disarm my brigade to protect the reputation of a man who ordered me savagely beaten barely ten days ago."

"That's what being part of the Academy means, Song," Chunhua Cao bluntly replied. "Making hard choices in the face of necessity."

"Not a single part of this is necessary, colonel," she coldly said.

"But it is a necessity," the older woman replied. "I gave my signature to that auxiliary contract under the promise that you and Khaimov would be part of the delve. If you no longer are, I will have to reconsider my support."

Song's jaw clenched. The contract was signed and could not easily be broken – not without Colonel Azocar's consent and the man was unlikely to give it to someone trying to oust him – but that wasn't the point. The auxiliary contract being contested would have implications elsewhere.

"Yes," Cao mildly said, as if reading her mind. "Your little scheme with Admiral Zokufa's not got quite the same leg to stand on if there's doubt on the status of the auxiliaries that started everything, does it? It could look messy enough that the man washes his hands clean of the whole thing instead."

The colonel sipped at her tea.

"It might have been different if the papers had already made their way to him, but Watch bureaucracy can be so unfortunately slow at times."

Song's fingers clenched into a fist under the table. So Cao had leaned on the local garrison to slow-roll Maryam's paperwork over the merchantman in order to ensure she'd keep her leverage on the Thirteenth, the stick to match the carrot. It felt like an escalation, this threat, but it wasn't really. Because even if it seemed a personal matter from the outside, the delve had been a professional stake for Chunhua Cao from the moment she put her career on the line for it.

Hand on the chisel, Song reminded herself. So instead of snarling or shouting or flipping the table, she merely pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. She took the invitation and tucked it away.

"I'll look forward to seeing you fifthday evening," Colonel Cao said.

She did not sound smug, but neither did she seem in any way regretful. Song did not reply, simply pushing open the doors and striding out. Coat trailing behind her, she breathed in deep and felt a knot forming in her stomach. The hatred felt warm, poisonously so, and it seethed.

But most of all, it felt distinctly political.