Song had not thought it possible to eat an orange tauntingly before this morning, but Captain Wen Duan was expanding her horizons.

He jammed his thumb in the middle through the peel, half-ripping it open, and by the way Commander Salimata Bouare was looking at him she’d order him hung and quartered if she ever had the right. Song was not entirely sure she disagreed, considering this was the second orange Wen was subjecting to this treatment and he had gotten pulp on her covers.

Her patron sat to the left of the bed, precariously balanced on a stool requisitioned from the hospital since all the chairs had been dragged to Song’s right. He had a small bag on his folded legs, containing one last orange yet spared his torments, and a folded red handkerchief he was refraining from using in what Song could only call an act of social violence.

To her right, three sat and one stood. The Someshwari contractor by her bedside, the two scribes a little further back and the Commander Salimata leaning back against the wall with her arms folded and a steel-denting scowl. She had been in a hard mood from the moment she arrived, not that Wen’s antics were helping.

Song was surprised to realize, when hearing her speak, that the dark-skinned woman was not Malani. Given that lilting accent and the elaborate earrings marked with prayers to a patron god, she must be Jahamai – from that far eastern realm bordering Pandemonium. They were not a traveling people, making them a rare sight, but Song supposed some must join the Watch.

It was the blackcloaks that still garrisoned the fortresses around Hell’s capital, after all, their order had ties to that ancient and wealthy country.

The commander had remained largely silent during the interview, trading dark looks with a smiling Wen while the elder of the two scribes – also dark-skinned but this one definitely Malani - asked the questions and the younger wrote down the account. Now that Song had been wrung out of every detail she could remember, however, the commander had finally spoken. Song rather wished she had not, and was not alone in this.

It was almost, but not quite, deserving of the ensuing citric war crimes.

“She has been very clear,” Captain Wen said, “that she will be responding only to questions provided in advance. I don’t give a shit what they want, she’s perfectly within her rights.”

She had expected Wen to be irritated at being dragged to the hospital at the crack of morning – it was barely five – but, defying her expectations, he had been almost jaunty. Mind you, Wen’s good moods always came at the expense of someone else’s so it was no surprise he was being a stone in the senior blackcloak’s boot.

“The request was made by the patrons of those slain,” Commander Salimata acknowledged, “but it is not unreasonable.”

That lilting turn to the syllables would have made her sound pleasant even if she were ordering someone whipped to death, Song thought. Wen’s jaw clenched.

“Song Ren an enlisted officer,” he bit out. “Are you refusing to uphold her rights under the Watch charter?”

Song was almost fascinated by the sight. The tall, grim-faced commander was not the highest officer of the Tolomontera garrison. Her rank would put her at the head of a battalion, at least six hundred men, while Song figured an island of this size should be held by a regiment of at least a thousand and a half. Whoever commanded the garrison would be a colonel. A commander, though, would still be one of the three highest-ranked officers on Tolomontera.

And Wen Duan was coming after her with the verbal equivalent of a scream and a table leg.

“I have not done this,” Salimata coldly said. “I have passed along a request to your student, Duan. And it is not for you to decide in her name.”

Cool brown eyes turned to Song.

“Captain Ren?”

Song knew better than to believe an attempt to get around her patron was in any way a compliment being paid.

“I may be willing to answer the question if I am allowed to read it first,” she replied.

“That is not what was asked,” Commander Salimata sternly said.

No, it was not. They wanted it asked blind in front of a truthteller because someone thought her an utter fool.

“It is what I have to give,” Song replied.

The older woman stared her down.

“Four students are dead,” she said. “This is not a trifling matter, girl.”

“Yes,” Song agreed. “My attempted murder should be thoroughly investigated.”

Commander Salimata scoffed, then looked away. Her gaze came to rest on the younger of the two scribes.

“Give her the slip with the question on it,” the commander said. “Song Ren refused the request made by the patrons of the Thirty-Fourth and Forty-Eighth but acquiesced to the question being put forward for her consideration.”

The young Tianxi scribe nodded, cleared her throat and fumbled with her pen as she hesitated whether to first put down notes or hand over the slip. She almost tipped over her inkwell, the other scribe leaning over to catch it at the last moment, and Song felt a twinge of pity at how arctic Commander Salimata’s stare turned at the sight.

Eventually she was handed the folded paper, which bore a question about as loaded as Song had been expecting: were you the first to use lethal force? Wen cleared his throat, so she bent back and showed him the contents. The resulting laugh was unkind.

“You have a reputation as fair woman, commander,” he said. “This is disappointing.”

Commander Salimata was unmoved.

“It is information that would relevant when passing judgment,” she replied. “That the question was asked in an attempt to sully Captain Ren’s reputation is irrelevant.”

Song’s haw clenched. It was not irrelevant to her.

“If it’s asked by a truthteller during an official investigation, it’s on her record for the rest of her career,” Wen flatly said. “Most officers won’t care even if she was cleared of all faults.”

Her eyes whipped back to the large man and Song’s throat caught. She had not, in fact, known that. Meaning Wen had just saved her from a permanent stain on her record. It was a disconcerting thing to feel genuine gratitude towards the man.

“I was not appointed to manage reputations,” Commander Salimata replied. “I was appointed to find out the truth. Captain Ren, the question?”

“I decline answering it,” Song replied with forced calm.

“Mark that down, girl,” the commander said, glancing at the younger scribe. “We proceed with the agreed-on questions, then. Lieutenant Kumar, if you would?”

Lieutenant Kumar Dalal – she’d learned the surname by looking at his contract - was a short and acne-ridden Someshwari. Nodding at the implied order, he began to explain the broadest lines of this truth-telling contract. Song had already read through it while they set up, but it would have been impolitic to say so.

The concepts were not too difficult to grasp. Lieutenant Kumar, after touching someone, could make ‘wagers’ about them for the following nine minutes. If he won the wager with his god, he received an infusion of ‘life’ – vitality, Song thought, though the exact meaning of that was unclear. If he lost the wager, his god broke one of his fingers.

It was one of those fond of slapstick humor.

Lieutenant Kumar touched her wrist after asking permission, then explained that he would be making the same wager every time: that Song would not knowingly lie when answering the next question she was asked. Given that he then raised his left hand upright, the results would be obvious and immediate if she did. To Song’s eyes a ghostly red hand formed around the lieutenant’s, two translucent fingers delicately seizing Kumar’s forefinger.

The lieutenant read off the four names of her attackers.

“Were you ambushed by the students I just named?” he asked.

“Yes,” Song replied.

Eyes went to his raised hand, which did not display a snapped finger. The older scribe’s pen scratched against paper.

“Did you have reasonable cause to believe them intent on killing you?”

“Renshu expressed his intention to kill me and none of the others contradicted him,” Song replied.

No finger snapped. Furious writing.

“How many of the four did you kill?”

“Only one,” she replied. “Liu.”

“How did the others die?”

There was the question she’d had changed. The original phrasing had been ‘what killed the others’, but without knowing the nature of the contract she was going to be subjected to there had been no way to tell if she would be forced to out Maryam’s connection to the entity. She had argued that her lack of knowledge about the involved entity might force her to lie by accident, which had Commander Salimata agreeing to a change.

“They were attacked by an entity that slew them through the use of Gloam,” Song carefully replied.

And now the last question.

“Have you had contact with this entity before?”

“Not knowingly.”

And that was the end of that. Lieutenant Kumar exhaled, his acne now much sparser, and the ghostly red hand that had been holding one of his fingers faded. He was no longer using his contract. He was dismissed by the commander and left after a polite nod. Commander Salimata checked over the work of the scribes, then nodded in satisfaction.

“As I have no reason to believe Song Ren is a danger to other students, I formally revoke the house arrest she has been under,” the dark-skinned woman said.

Good, she would be able to attend class. And handle the more important conversation awaiting her afterwards. As soon as the revocation was written down, the scribes were dismissed to join Lieutenant Kumar.

“My thanks,” Song said.

“None are necessary,” Commander Salimata replied. “You are hiding something, but it is clear you truly were attacked by the missing students and survived by chance.”

She paused.

“We cannot retrieve the bodies, so it is unlikely there is more firsthand evidence to be gathered,” she said. “I will conduct interviews with the implicated patrons and cabals this afternoon, but I expect that the case will be ready for the tribunal by the end of the day. Fifthday morning at the latest.”

Probably tomorrow, then. In her experience the Watch bureaucracy rarely moved any faster than it was made to move.

“Should I be determined to be without fault,” Song said, “what can I expect?”

“The brigades involved will be dissolved, the patrons reassigned away from Tolomontera and the cabal captains referred to their covenant for any further discipline,” the commander replied. “A mark will be added to their dossier regarding the matter and taken into consideration should there be any further altercation with you.”

Well, that should settle any thought of taking revenge on her for the inconvenience. Maryam had read this right, which was some comfort. Yet the absence of one name mentioned had her stomach clenching.

“And Professor Kang?” she asked.

“As an enlisted officer, Yun Kang used his right to decline being asked questions under truthteller,” Commander Salimata replied. “He denies any involvement. As there is no direct evidence of his involvement save a secondhand report, there will be a note made on his dossier but no further discipline.”

It was an effort to keep her face calm.

“None at all?” she forced out.

Commander Salimata frowned at her, then glanced at Wen. He mutilated the last orange in response, and when the gaze returned to Song it had inexplicably thawed.

“Yun Kang was assaulted at his residence this afternoon,” the commander informed her. “He was savagely beaten and right his leg broken in nine different places.”

The gaze cooled again as it was turned on Wen.

“He even has to be treated in the barracks, given the risks, since the primary suspect for this assault cannot legally be barred from having access to this room,” she said.

Song paused, then slowly turned towards her patron. The bespectacled man popped a slice of orange into his mouth, loudly chewing before he swallowed even more loudly. Had he truly assaulted another blackcloaks on her behalf? Gods, she was… it was not a fine thing to attack someone else wearing the black, obviously, and quite illegal. Yet.

“It is insulting I would be considering a suspect at all,” Captain Wen replied without batting an eye. “I was having coffee while it happened, as you know. There are three witnesses.”

“Yes, I am well aware,” Commander Salimata bit out. “The girl from Tariac, your old friend from history track and a devil. Do you take me for a fool, Duan? A beating might have been overlooked as a settling of accounts between officers, but you took a smithing hammer to his leg.”

“Spurious accusations,” Wen affably replied. “But I imagine whoever did it figured there was poetry to Yun Kang having an aching reminder of the need to watch his step for every step of the remainder of his misbegotten fucking life.”

Song let a noise of surprise, almost squirming when the commander’s furious gaze was turned on her.

“I do not understand. Can Professor Kang not seek Lady Knit’s services?” she hesitantly asked.

“It’s been over a day,” the dark-skinned officer sighed. “She will count every break as a different fix. The price for so many boons would be…”

“Ruinous,” Captain Wen grinned, biting into a slice of orange with relish.

Commander Salimata visibly reined herself in.

“You walked a fine line, Duan,” she bit out. “You often do. Best hope you never trip, or the next hole you will be buried in will make the Dominion look like a paradise.”

He shrugged.

“It’s been a pleasure, Salimata, but I believe we’re done here.”

“For now,” she said, then turned her gaze to Song. “A good day to you, Captain Ren. It is unlikely we will meet again, so I wish you fruitful years in the Watch.”

“And you,” Song replied.

The silence she left behind her was heavy. Song cleared her throat.

“If I were to ask you what happened in Tariac,” she leadingly said.

“I’d be forced to tell you to mind your own business, only not as nicely,” Wen replied.

Well, she could take a hand. Especially if it was handed to her rather insistently.

“Have you decided what you’ll do?” he conversationally asked.

“Attend class,” she said.

He actually looked amused at that.

“And then?”

She bit her lip. Song had not slept well, after Maryam’s departure, instead spending much of the night staring at the walls. But an idea had taken root, however dangerous.

“I need your help,” she said.

“Eh,” Wen said, promising nothing. “Ask, at least.”

“Do you have access to the harbor logs?” Song asked.

The large man pushed up his glasses, looking quite interested.

“Not officially,” he said. “But it can be done. Why?”

“I need you to find out something for me,” she said. “And to serve as a witness while I sign some documents.”

Wen Duan sighed.

“And this came so close to being interesting,” he mourned.

--

The garlic rice wasn’t as good as it had been last night, but after some time over the fire it was hot and fragrant.

Maryam fetched a few stripes of salted fish from the pot to prop up the breakfast, grimacing all the while. They tasted like chewy seawater leather, though given how ridiculously cheap saltfish was she knew she would have to get used it. It was hard to argue with meat that could be had for coppers and would last until the Time of Fraying so long as you kept it cool and dry.

“If you keep glaring at it, it’ll flee back into the sea,” Tristan drily said.

The glare moved up from the fish to the rat.

“I’ll not suffer backtalk from a man who asked if we have vinegar to dip that in,” Maryam said, jabbing an accusing finger.

His grin only got wider.

“What did you even eat for meat, if you couldn’t stomach fish?”

“Goat, mostly,” she said. “Pork or beef when it was slaughter season.”

She took a bite of the rice, swallowed.

“It’s the fruits I miss the most,” she admitted. “Volcesta is at the top of a valley full of orchards, the streets were thick with hawkers’ carts every morning. You could get a whole bushel for city-coins.”

He cocked his heat to the side.

“City-coins?” he asked.

She ate another mouthful of rice.

“Most kings made their own currency,” Maryam told him, “but many were trash so the coinage was only used within their own city.”

The hills around Volcesta bore iron and copper but nothing else, so the Khaimov had been some of the worst offenders among the Izvoric. Traders often refused to take Volcesta coin at all unless it was knife-money, copper shaped into a dull knife. Mother had often made sport of Father for never using his own currency if he could avoid it.

“Thus, city-coins,” he said. “As opposed to…”

“Trader-coins,” she replied. “Those had weight, size and make set by law. It was a drowning crime to pass false ones, or reason for war if done by a king’s hand.”

“It seems madness for no one to own that,” he mused. “Sacromonte fought a dozen wars to ensure the only coinage stamped in the Trebian Sea is its own. Even the mints abroad are run by the House of Fabres.”

Maryam had heard about that. Captain Totec had more than once groused about ‘Sacromontan robbery’ and how it was a self-inflicted wound by the Watch.This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“The Treaty of Blancaflor, yes?”

The great bargain that had ended the myriad small wars Sacromonte had fought against the Watch when it first began to expand through the Trebian Sea. He nodded.

“It’s half the reason any island out there still listens to the Six,” he said. “Everyone knows the City’s only got the largest fleet of the Trebian Sea on paper.”

From what little Maryam knew of the treaty, it had been considered a coup by both sides – though Sacromonte’s influence had waned over the centuries, and the granted rights that had once been a jewel on its crown were now as a drowning man’s driftwood instead. The blue-eyed woman polished off the last of the rice, leaving only two stripes of salted fish on the side of plate.

She’d get around to them eventually.

“Is there truly nothing you miss from Sacromonte?” Maryam asked. “You rarely speak of it fondly.”

“Because it’s a shithole,” he bluntly replied. “I regret some of the food, but I’ll learn to make it myself. I don’t intend to ever return there save to settle private affairs.”

“I find that difficult to understand,” she admitted.

“The evil you’ve known, it was imported,” Tristan shrugged. “Mine was born and bred just across town.”

He was finished with his plate, fish and all, and rose to put it away. She sipped at her water, delaying the inevitable.

“Are we to meet Song anywhere in particular?” he asked from the kitchen.

“Directly in Theology,” she replied. “She did not know how long the interrogation would take, so she said we should meet her there instead.”

“Hopefully she’ll not kill another four students on the way,” Tristan drawled. “I expect they’ll be less forgiving the second time.”

It was a tasteless jest but not one meant to prick – and yet Maryam found herself grimacing. Because it hadn’t been Song who killed most of her ambushers, was it? It had been some thing calling herself the Keeper of Hooks, like there was anyone alive still deserving of the title. Like Maryam’s own soul had not been a funeral pyre for centuries of Craft-lore.

Only Song had said she saw a soul inside, so what if the thing was not a thing at all? Her heart clenched.

“It was not such a barb as to warrant that face, surely,” Tristan said.

His face was still smiling, but those gray eyes had cooled.

“It isn’t about Song,” Maryam said, hand reaching for her wooden fingers. “There’s been…”

She sighed.

“We can talk about it properly some other time,” Maryam said. “I would get answers from Captain Yue first.”

He watched her silently for a moment, then nodded.

“As you say.”

He sounded not resigned, she thought, but… unsurprised? As if it were only to be expected, and that was what did it most of all. That fraying rope becoming ever more frayed, until one day she’d pull at it and find there was nothing at all. Maryam set down her cup.

“We didn’t talk last night,” she said.

An eyebrow raised.

“We did little else,” Tristan replied.

“We talked about Song, and plans,” Maryam corrected. “We didn’t talk.”

That gave him pause, she saw. He flicked a glance to his right, irritation flickering across his face.

“Your goddess?” she asked.

“I thought I heard a fly buzzing,” he airily replied.

Maryam would not have believed him even if he’d not then immediately tensed like he was refraining from shielding his head being slapped at.

“Fine,” he said, clearing his throat. “Please, continue.”

“I’m not sure I am the one who should be talking,” she honestly said. “You are the one angry with me.”

He looked surprised, as if he’d not been walking around with that chip on his shoulder since yesterday. She almost sighed.

“You came yesterday with your fists up, ready for a brawl,” she told him.

“Because I knew we would-”

“This has nothing to do with Song,” she flatly said, “and you’ll not be getting out of this conversation by bringing her into it.”

A beat passed. He smiled, prepared to put on the charm, and Maryam felt like punching him in the face. She would not, but thankfully there was an alternative.

“O great goddess,” she called out to the air. “Maryam Khaimov promises you a fitting boon should you knock that false smile right off his face.”

His eyes widened before he suddenly blanked his expression.

“Like that would-” he began then flinched, turned to his left with a glare, “-ouch, pinching, really? Are you a child?”

“Thank you, o great one,” Maryam solemnly said.

“She’s just flattering you, you vain idiota,” he complained, swatting at the air. “Just leave, would you? We’re having a conversation.”

After a heartbeat he let out a sigh, putting his elbows on the table, then gray eyes turned on her.

“That was uncalled for,” he said.

“So was preparing to give me the Ferrando Villazar grin,” she flatly replied. “Is it really too much to ask that you do not flee this conversation?”

His jaw clenched.

“That is rich, coming from you,” Tristan bit back.

She could see the moment where he realized what he had said, the way he forced his gaze not to dip down towards her hand, and knew in a heartbeat what it was about. The fingers, of course. For all that he made fun of Tredegar’s precious honor, he was no less particular about debt than the Pereduri.

“I will be more insulted,” Maryam said, “if you say nothing.”

His entire face clenched, like he was preparing to take a punch on the jaw.

“It is not fair, or true,” he said. “And so not worth mentioning.”

“Do it anyway,” Maryam said, and it was not a request.

Gray eyes met her blue. Silence stretched out like a rope pulling taut until Maryam began to open her mouth – only to be cut off at the last moment.

“You dragged me into this brigade,” Tristan bit out, “and then left me in it the moment things went south.”

“Because I left that night,” she quietly said.

He grit his teeth.

“Because you left that night,” he agreed, almost conceded. “But that is just the shark’s fin. I don’t need you to hold my hand, Maryam, but I expected us to at least be in the same fucking boat. Only whenever there’s knives out in the Thirteenth, you walk.”

“I only left-”

“You walk out in your head,” he cut through. “Bite the anger and stop listening, stop talking. You get angry with Song, you chew it. You get angry with Tredegar, you chew it – maybe spit out a few fishbones her way. There’s only so many times I’m willing to ease the blades for a cabal I only joined for you in the first place. If you don’t care, why in the Manes should I?”

Maryam opened her mouth to argue the point, to make him see, but she made herself close it. She was not like Tristan or Song, who could walk into a room full of strangers and within an hour find the levers to pull on half of them. She did not have the eyes for that, the talent. But she thought that, sometimes, that same knack turned around on them. They so often thought of conversation as a test, something you won or lost.

It was not, so instead of arguing Maryam listened. Made herself see it. The two of them had been a pair, on the Dominion. The same side, and though they had kept their own secrets they had moved in the same direction. Not so on Tolomontera, Maryam must admit. She had been lost, and whenever she had not been furious with Song helping her had been her compass’ north.

He was not wrong, to feel left behind.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

It had some part of her aching, the genuine surprise on his face.

“I’ve been,” she began, then hesitated. “My Signs failing, it has weighed on me. It could see me thrown out of Scholomance, and it seemed like there was no fix. But helping Song, it felt like blackcloak work. Steadying the cabal, being a good watchwoman.”

She sighed.

“I think I’ve found a way, for my Signs,” Maryam said. “I don’t need…”

To be what holds Song up, to be the useful one, she did not say. I don’t need it as much.

“I have my own way,” she finally said. “It won’t happen again.”

He slowly nodded, face inscrutable. Did he believe her, did he understand? She could not tell and it felt tiring, all of sudden, to always wonder. And maybe she had been sitting on some unfair words as well.

“I admire it, you know,” Maryam said. “How when everything falls apart, you keep a cool head. See only what you need to and go for the throat.”

An eyebrow cocked.

“But,” Tristan said.

Her fist clenched, wooden joints creaking.

“You need to be able to put it down, Tristan,” Maryam quietly said. “When you come home, at least. You can’t always be on war footing, like a single toe across the line means the knives are out. It’s exhausting.”

He stayed silent. Licked his lips.

“I don’t mean to,” he finally said.

“I know,” she replied. “But you don’t fight it, either. And I know why you do it, that it served you, but-”

“It is exhausting,” he murmured.

“When you manage me, you don’t,” Maryam said. “I can tell, Tristan. It just means I have to go digging to get what you truly think, and it can be amusing but more often it is a chore.”

A half-hidden wince, like he’d gone to smooth it away before realizing what he was doing and stopping.

“I’d rather have the ugly parts, if it means you being honest,” she said.

A slow nod.

“That is,” he began, then bit the inside of his cheek. “Not what I was taught. Or how I am.”

His eyes dipped low.

“I can try,” he said. “But I do not think you truly understand what is expected of a Mask.”

“Then tell me,” she gently said.

He looked away.

“I’ll think on it,” he said. “I – some of my teachers speak differently than others.”

Maryam breathed out.

“It’s all I ask,” she said.

Her hands, she realized, were trembling. Sometimes you only realized how much you would miss something when it began to slip through your fingers.

She was glad to have caught it early enough.

“So much talking, these days,” Maryam weakly jested.

He smiled back just as weakly.

“Still beats the Terror Hole,” Tristan said.

They looked at each other for a moment, then a chuckle ripped free of her. It bubbled up into laughter, the gray-eyed thief matching. It hadn’t been all that funny, but the release felt good. Like purging a fever. Maryam asked for the time, after the last of the laughter died, and found they were nearly late.

How unfortunate, she did not have time to finish her plate. The fish would have to wait.

“Fortuna is calling in her boon.”

Her eyes swiveled the thief’s way, finding him leaning against the kitchen counter with a smirk.

“Already?” she asked. “I am all ears.”

He cocked his head to the side, as if listening, then nodded.

“All the fish on your plate,” he said. “Cram it into your mouth and swallow.”

Maryam cleared her throat.

“O great one,” she tried, “surely-”

“Quibble and I’m to get one more stripe from the pot.”

The Izvorica grimaced, looking down at her plate.

“It figures you’d contract with an evil god,” she muttered, and reached down.

Let it not be said that Maryam Khaimov did not do her duty. Her hateful, hateful duty.

--

Given that he was to sit with Song Ren again, it felt appropriate for the Theology class to be largely about contracts.

It was a gripping enough subject that even the touchy Professor Artigas found nothing to scowl at as she began her lecture, some students even leaning in. She first outlined the elementary terms, first what qualified as a god and then as a contract – for the latter, ‘any power leant by a god with a fixed price and duration’. Tristan found himself wondering how she would classify contracts at large – the nature of the effects perhaps, or of the gods? – and would admit surprise at the answer.

“Price,” the blonde wrote on the slate. “Given the near endless diversity of gods and boons, the only functional way to classify contracts is by price.”

Intrigued murmurs, followed by that impeccably styled hair bobbing as the Navigator traced a Sign and glued the loudest offender’s hands over his mouth. That put an end to it right quick.

“The simplest manner of contract is the ‘boon contract’,” she said, writing out the two words. “The god will lend the contractor an ability in exchange for an oath to enact a specific deed for them – the eponymous boon - usually on a fixed timescale. Once that deed is enacted the ability will often, if not always, be rescinded.”

She hummed.

“Boon contracts are most common with the weakest and most powerful of gods, that is to say aetheric intellects that are too thin to maintain several more complicated contracts or ingrained enough they can shrug off the risks of a bad investment.”

The professor underlined ‘boon contracts’, then lowered the chalk.

“’Exchange contracts’, sometimes called ‘scales contracts’, are the most common contracts on Vesper,” Professor Artigas said. “By our count, somewhere in the vicinity of seven in ten are of this kind. The underlying principle is straightforward: the contractor is granted by the god access to an ability, but every time it is used a price must be paid.”

She snorted.

“Gods prefer such arrangements largely for the same reason the wealthy enjoy becoming landlords,” the professor drawled. “A proportionally small investment may yield great dividends over time. As few gods will prevent their contractor from pulling overmuch, most cases of sainthood spawn from exchange contracts.”

Tristan cocked his head to the side. So he was bound to Fortuna by an ‘exchange contract’, in the eyes of the Watch. Another slash of chalk followed by words.

“Legacy contracts,” Professor Artigas announced. “By far the rarest. The only people able to reliably secure them are Izcalli royals, Circle priests from select reincarnation sects and Sacromonte’s own House of Arquer. Legacy contracts are unique in that the god contracts not with an individual but a bloodline.”

She shrugged.

“All contract lore is kept secret, understandably, but what surrounds legacy contracts in particular,” she said. “I can tell you that the price is fixed in advance and identical for every signatory onto such a contract, and that direct descent from the original contractor is almost always a requirement. As a rule, such contracts are often among the most ‘powerful’ in a direct sense but they often carry debilitating costs.”

One more slash.

“Caprice contracts,” she said. “Only less rare than the legacies because they cover a wide range of what we can only call oddities. Some gods were formed or subsist from concepts that do not easily lend themselves to prices – either by boon or exchange. We call these ‘caprice contracts’ because the god may demand a seemingly insignificant price, which simply happens to lead their contractor in situations that serve as prayer to them.”

She paused.

“A god that feeds on brawling, for example, might require habitual insolence of their contractor,” Professor Artigas said. “We will delve into more elaborate, and arguably insidious, examples of this later.”

There was no need of further Signs to keep the class spellbound, and the three hours were gone in the blink of an eye. Tristan had never taken so many notes in his life, but the subject warranted it. Few men were more dangerous than contractors, out in the world.

The thief watched Tredegar, who had sat with the Thirty-First and nodded a goodbye only to him out of the remains of the Thirteenth – returned in kind – bustle off with Ferranda’s lot. She really had changed ship, hadn’t she? Good on her. She seemed happier for it, and he was happier not wondering if he was ever going to cross some line of honor that’d require her stabbing him. Everybody won.

Except Song, and that was no tragedy.

Arrangements for the conversation he was not looking forward to were made quite easily.

“I need to pick up something in the Triangle,” Song told him. “If you know of an agreeable place to eat, we can meet there and I will invite you.”

Tristan quirked an eyebrow.

“Not Maryam?”

The Tianxi shook her head.

“It would defeat the point of the conversation to have it with a mediator,” she said.

The conversation had no point, he thought, but it was not worth the argument to say as much. He agreed and revealed the location of the paella place, getting a happy smile from Maryam. It would not last, so he did not let himself enjoy it.

An hour and a half later, he was sitting in the nook with his back to the wall while Song polished off the last of her paella. She’d seemed to enjoy it, to his mild surprise, though she admitted to preferring the spices of Tianxia to the palette of Liergan. The thief had half-heartedly tried to open the conversation when the plates were served only to get a dry look for it.

“You should get to enjoy the meal, at least,” Song had said.

Now that it was over, however, it was time to pay his dues. To his surprise, she suggested they stroll closer to the docks first. Eventually they found a bench in the shadows, overlooking the stone piers and the six ships docked. Most of them were empty, though the largest carrack had some blackcloaks on the deck and the caravel at the left end had someone in the crown’s nest. He settled as comfortably as he could, leaving a solid foot of space between them on the bench.

“I apologize,” Song Ren suddenly said.

He side-eyed her.

“For?”

“Blaming you, that night,” she said. “For a great many things, but none more than what we did to the traitor. I was as much part of that decision as you.”

Tristan grunted in acknowledgement. An apology was not nothing, only nothing much.

“Maryam tells me you want to leave the Thirteenth,” she said.

He shrugged.

“Better for all of us, I think,” Tristan replied. “Though I’ll at least stay on until next month, like she asked.”

“I’ll not make trouble for you if you want to transfer,” Song said. “I have been considering, however, how to convince you to stay on.”

A dose of bluntness, he thought, might save them a frustrating hour of going around in circles.

“There isn’t a way,” he said. “I am sitting here mostly as a courtesy to Maryam.”

“It would not be convincing if you wanted to be convinced,” Song ruefully replied. “But I expect I may need some more time, for that, so to buy my way to that conversation I have been giving thought to your situation.”

He frowned at her.

“Only even if I killed the entire Forty-Ninth overnight,” Song Ren calmly said, “it would not be the end of your troubles, really. A temporary solution at best.”

Tristan stilled, watching her face, and found no trace of a lie there. She had seriously considered it. It began to dawn on him he had walked into a very different conversation from the one he was expecting.

“The bounty’s the real problem,” the thief cautiously agreed. “But I know of no way to have it pulled.”

“There isn’t,” she agreed. “Whoever it was that put it up, they have enough influence within the Watch they cannot easily be forced away. Yet there is, fundamentally, a constraint on the collection of the bounty.”

She leaned back, pulled her coat closer.

“To get you off Tolomontera, they need a ship,” Song said.

He hummed. It was an obvious enough thing, but with the two of them sitting in the afternoon breeze looking at the docks the Tianxi’s implications were made just as plain. The Ivory Library had no way to know when the brigades they had contacted on the island might grab him – which meant either they had a place to stash him as a prisoner or the ship he was meant to be stolen away on must remain in the harbor.

"You think you found out which one,” Tristan guessed.

“That small caravel at the east end of the docks,” Song said. “It’s called the Palmyran and it is not a Watch ship, strictly speaking. It is contracted and owned by the Peiling Society but does not fly the black.”

He frowned.

“And they let it dock at Port Allazei anyway?”

“Someone pulled strings,” she said. “On record, they are bringing restricted supplies for Scholomance. They were also meant to be gone a week ago but the garrison is choosing not to pursue the matter.”

“Someone got bribed,” Tristan flatly said.

“I expect not,” Song replied. “Being caught endangering the isolation of Scholomance would be a career-ender. Given that ships on contract for the Watch have some right to use Watch ports when necessary, I might simply be enough of a headache to evict the Palmyran that the garrison prefers waiting it out.”

A pause.

“They must not seem much of a threat, as the crew numbers only twelve and none save the captain – a retired watchwoman – are allowed to leave the docks,” she said.

He let out a low whistle.

“That’s a small crew, even for a caravel,” Tristan said. “All it takes is one bad storm away from port and they’ll be in real trouble.”

“A larger ship would have seen the College accused of trying to get private troops inside Port Allazei,” Song informed him. “The influence of your enemies has limits, clearly.”

“Always good news,” Tristan drily replied.

She was doing him a good turn, sharing that, and it should not go unacknowledged.

“Thank you for the information,” he added. “I’ll keep an ear out for anything that might be of use to you.”

“I have been giving thought to your situation,” Song repeated.

The conversation did not feel like it was ended, at least on her end, so he remained seated even as silence wafted on the breeze.

“I would clear them out entirely,” she abruptly said. “The Palmyran, the Forty-Ninth. End them in one stroke.”

“The catch being?”

“The means I have in mind would require a great deal of trust from you,” Song said. “And at the moment I expect you trust me about as much as you do Tupoc.”

Tristan cleared his throat.

“You still beat out Tupoc,” he assured her.

But then so had Boria, the maneating god inside that pillar back on the Dominion, so the true worth of that achievement was debatable. In Tristan’s defense, the ancient abomination had been quite personable if you tuned out the leg-chewing noises.

“As sound an endorsement of my performance as captain as I have warranted,” Song ruefully replied.

His brow rose. Tristan did not move to defend her, wondering if that had been the ploy, but her look was not expectant.

“So, as the intermediary step, I considered what might make you extend me some measure of trust,” she continued, looking out at the water.

He glanced at her, gauged her mood and decided on another sliver of honesty.

“I’m not sure why you would bother,” he frankly said. “We dislike each other and Maryam will stick with you when I leave.”

A bitter pill to swallow, but swallow it he had. To his surprise, the Tianxi chuckled.

“I have wondered that as well,” Song admitted. “If it was not childish of me to cling to the Thirteenth as it first came to these shores instead of letting events take their course and building one without so many…”

“Cracks in the foundation,” he suggested.

“So to speak,” she agreed.

“And?”

“And it smacked of vanity, wanting to convince you to stay,” Song admitted. “So I went over whom I might replace you with.”

“There’ll be plenty of takers in the coming weeks,” Tristan predicted. “Once a few brigades bit it, there will be floaters to pick from by the dozen.”

“I am not unaware,” she said, then breathed in. “But if I wanted to pick from the bottom rung, I would never have gone with Maryam to the Dominion. I am a Stripe recommended, Tristan – that I can fill out a cabal is not in doubt, only the quality of those I can fill it out with. We set out to look for diamonds in the rough.”

“Not a lot of spare Tredegars lying around,” he said.

“Not only her,” Song Ren said.

He cocked an eyebrow. It was a little late for flattery.

“Wen called you one of the most talented on the year’s roster,” she said, “but I did not truly agree until I had to think who to replace you with.”

She snorted.

“Since coming to Port Allazei I have met students with underhand skills, students with an eye for tactics and capable of diplomacy,” Song said. “Some even have two.”

A steady look.

“Only one with three,” she said. “I will not pretend there are not those whose skills I hold in higher esteem, but in the end it is telling I would need two replacements to fill the hole you leave.”

Tristan matched her gaze, gray against silver.

“Is this where I blubber out thanks for a half-baked compliment and swear eternal servitude?” he mildly said. “I appreciate the flowers, Song, but they change nothing.”

“I don’t expect them to,” she said. “I am acknowledging a fault, Tristan. I believed I knew what the brigade I wanted to lead should be like, and treated any deviation from that as a flaw. I should have learned to lead the Thirteenth that existed instead of the one I desired.”

He hummed.

“May that insight serve you well in the days to come,” he said.

She seemed amused.

“It is almost refreshing to be disliked so openly,” she said. “Both Tianxi and Stripes prefer such things buried.”

“You’re not the worst person I know,” he admitted. “But you are not someone I want to take orders from.”

“I expect not,” she acknowledged. “But what you do want is to get rid of the troubles dogging your step, so I prepared this for you.”

She straightened and reached inside her coat, taking up a sheath of folded papers. Quirking a brow, he took them when offered. Three copies of the same thing, he saw, then read through.

‘To see the truth of things’, followed by a list of what that meant. Gods, illusions, through Gloam and Glare and even natural darkness. Seeing at a distance and the ability to read contracts as golden letters in the appropriate language. ‘Luren’, a minor god whose origins were unknown. Then- gray eyes rose.

“Was is this? Tristan asked.

“The exact terms of my contract, as far as I know them,” Song said. “Signed and attested by my patron, Captain Wen Duan. It is a formal document, usable before a tribunal.”

Tristan blinked and looked down, certain he must have missed something. There was only one sentence for the price.

“You don’t know,” he slowly said. “You don’t know what your own damn price is?”

She had the decency to look embarrassed.

“I did not set one when I took Luren’s contract,” Song said.

“You must have set a boundary, at least,” he insisted.

“Take anything you want,” she softly quoted.

He choked.

“How are you not a Saint?”

Even as a desperate, bleeding child minutes away from dying he’d bargained terms with Fortuna’s voice. The luck he needed to survive the day, and she had demanded misfortune in equal part for it. And now he was being told that Song fucking Ren had just handed some shady Tianxi god a blank slate to write his price on?

“I have only speculation,” Song stiffly replied. “Either the price is already paid but unnoticeable, or it is to be a single act yet to be requested.”

And part of him was fascinated by that, by the implications, but the mindful part kept walking down the street. Such a document, if distributed, could finish sinking her reputation. Song already had a target on her back because of her surname, if she was also known to be able to read everyone’s contracts any contractor with something to hide would want her dead. And any brigade tempted to take her in anyhow because of how very useful her contract was would hesitate if her price was revealed as, well, ‘take anything’. Her god could ruin her in an instant, should he feel like it.

Tristan lined up the bits of information, considered them. Placed them on the balance to weigh against the risks.

“It could kill your career,” he finally acknowledged, “but it would not kill you. It is leverage, not a knife at your throat.”

“I thought you might say that,” Song acknowledged.

She reached inside her coat again, handing him a second folded paper. Antigua again, this one a… confession, more or less. An introduction, then the meat of it.

‘I have entreated Tristan Abrascal to take part in an operation against his would-be abductors on the Palmyran and their helpers in the Forty-Ninth Brigade, to take place on the coming thirdday. This will put him at their mercy on my behalf. If he is not then rescued from their custody, the reason is my betrayal. I will have gone against my word, committed trafficking of Watch personnel and broken my charge of care and protection as captain of the Thirteenth Brigade. This I confess, and let it be considered admission before any tribunal of the Watch.’

Signed, again witnessed by Captain Wen Duan. Like with the last paper, she handed him two copies.

“If this is not enough to arrange for my death in response to betrayal, I would be surprised and disappointed,” Song said.

Idly Tristan considered that the greatest spread of damage would be leaving one letter with Zenzele, with instructions to hand it to Angharad Tredegar should he disappear, then arrange for the second to be sent to the offices near the docks. Whether she got honor-stabbed or hanged was the only bet left after that. There was one detail that could unravel it, though.

“How do I know this is truly Wen’s signature?” he asked,

“Ask him,” she shrugged. “You have time to make certain.”

Tristan hummed. Did Wen dislike him enough to leave him out to dry if he was abducted? Maybe. But the man was also a Watch loyalist to the bone and would not countenance a Scholomance student being grabbed off the street no matter who it was. Assuming Song was aiming to betray him he must also assume Maryam would be silenced somehow, so she could not be counted on, but overall the balance of events was still…

In his favor. And getting rid of his hunters would make it much easier to find another brigade.

“All right, Song,” Tristan said, eyes moving to the sleek silhouette of the Palmyran. “What’s your plan?”