Pale Lights
Chapter 40

“Gods be my witness,” Mayor Crespin harshly said, “but if I either of you draws a sword I will have you shot.”

Angharad’s lips thinned, back straightening as she glared down at the man. She had already given her oath, what manner of honorless cur did he take her for? Cantica’s mayor, a middle-aged man with a bushy black beard whose wildness contrasted with the tidiness of his dated woolen green tunic, looked unimpressed by her anger.

“Glare all you want, girl, but I’ve permission from the commander in Three Pines to dispose of any of you who get rowdy,” the man said. “You think you’re the first kids with chips on your shoulders who’ve blown through here?”

“I have no intention of breaking my word,” Angharad curtly said.

Crespin held her gaze a moment longer – how flat they looked, she thought, almost lifeless – before grunting in what could have been either approval or dismissal. The mayor’s dark eyes then moved to Augusto Cerdan, who was yet grinning.

“I only reached for my blade because I felt in danger, good sir,” Augusto said. “I would not dare to break your laws.”

Mayor Crispin eyed the infanzon a moment longer.

“You’re lucky we don’t give out beatings for smugness,” the mayor finally said. “Go stand with the rest.”

That wiped the grin off Augusto’s face well enough. The mayor, stroking his beard, glanced at them one last time then peeled away. The two town guards that had been looming over their discussion leaned their muskets back against their shoulders. Men with much nerve, the Pereduri thought. There were only a handful of them, to pen in five times as many trial-takers, but at no point had they shown fear at the possibility of a fight breaking out.

Angharad supposed that living on this nightmare of a place must do wonders for building one’s bravery.

“You, the new arrivals,” Mayor Crispin called out. “Send me one in front. The remainder goes with the crowd.”

The dark-skinned noblewoman turned in surprise: she’d not noticed anyone coming. Angharad let out a startled noise at what she found: Tristan, Yong and the pale-skinned Sarai. The latter looked like she had done best of the three, at least until Angharad noticed the missing fingers. The others looked like they had been savagely beaten and Yong had clearly been shot but the three were well enough to move. They were warmly welcomed by the rest of their company, Yong more so than the rest – his acquaintance with Lady Ferranda and Lord Zenzele was of long date.

It was Tristan who limped to the front as they had been instructed, the sole part of him that did not look like it had been tossed down a mountainside the worn leather tricorn on his head. The Sacromontan had decent taste in that regard, at least.

“Tredegar,” the grey-eyed man tiredly greeted her, offering a nod.

“Tristan,” she happily replied. “I am pleased you made it through.”

How he had done so was a question for later, she decided. There must have been another path through the maze, one that could be pried open without ten victors.

“You can have your reunion later,” Mayor Crespin said, brusque but not unkind. “Tristan, is it?”

“That is my name,” the Sacromontan agreed.

“Should we be expecting further survivors?” the man asked. “The girl here says all the people she ran the second trial with are accounted for.”

“Our fourth is dead,” Tristan replied, face subtly tightening. “As far as I know, there are no others left.”

Angharad could not, in that moment, recall the old man’s name. Franco, Frecho? She had been told it at some point, she knew, and a slight well of shame came at the realization she had not cared enough to remember.

“Good,” Mayor Crespin said, then paused.

Tristan was looking at him. The grey stare was even, almost mild, but Angharad shifted uncomfortably at the sight. It was an unsettling sort of calm – the kind that came right before someone smashed a glass against your head or bared a knife.

“Not good,” Crespin corrected, “but simpler for us. If everyone is there we can get the Trial of Weeds going.”

Tristan cocked his head to the side.

“Do you need anything else of me?” he asked.

“No,” the mayor grunted, then flicked a glance her way. “Same with you, Malani. You can join the others.”

Angharad smoothed away her irritation at the inaccuracy and inclined her head in acknowledgement, keeping the other trial-taker company on the short walk. No words were shared, the only sound their boots squelching in the shallow mud. Song was waiting for Angharad when she returned, gesturing for her to come closer while Tristan disappeared into the crowd.

“Shalini gave them Ishaan’s body,” the Tianxi whispered in her ear. “They’ll burn it tomorrow, after firewood has been gathered.”

“She agreed to part with it?” Angharad whispered back, honestly surprised.

“They didn’t give her a choice,” Song replied. “They wouldn’t allow a corpse to be dragged around for fear of disease.”

Which was, the Pereduri admitted, a fair concern. Having her hand forced in such a manner explained why the Someshwari looked in a foul mood, however, ignoring Zenzele’s attempts to engage her in conversation. Ferranda stood with them, the trifecta having kept together on the march, and Angharad felt a pang of envy. Everyone she had passed the first trial with was now dead or estranged, save for Song – even Brun, who she thought herself on good terms with, now preferred to stand with Yaretzi and quietly converse rather than renew their acquaintance. Mayor Crispin cleared his throat, putting an end to the small talk, and all eyes went to him.

“First off,” the bearded man said, “since I heard the sanctuary got buried I’ll first ask you this: is there anyone here who would withdraw from the trials?”

He waited for a moment, to utter silence.

“Last chance,” he said. “If you get to hear the rules of the Trial of Weeds, the only ways you’re leaving this island are in a coffin or a black cloak.”

Still silence. The man shrugged.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” the mayor said. “Follow me, I’ll give you the rules once we get to the town square.” Sᴇaʀch* Thᴇ ɴ0velFɪre.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of nøvels early and in the highest quality.

It was not a particularly long walk, though the lackluster streets made it rather unpleasant. They stuck to the sides as much as possible, closer to the occasional wooden planks than the mud in the middle of streets. After four minutes of passing shops, houses and a large inn the mayor slowed as they reached their destination.

The square looked almost out of place given how cramped the rest of Cantica was, all pressed against the palisade walls with narrow streets and rough wooden houses. In contrast the town square was a wide and open space paved with thick square stones. Spread out across it, facing the center, were three large iron cages. Each was taller than a man and long enough you would be able to walk inside.

Padlocks hung on their open doors.

There was a ripple of unease through their company, which Angharad would freely admit to sharing in. If there had been beasts in the cages they were now gone, and if they were meant for people then…

“Here we are,” Mayor Crespin said. “Come close now, and no chatting. I won’t be repeating myself if you miss anything.”

Dutifully, their company assembled at the edge of the paved square while the bearded mayor came to stand between the cages. Crespin spat to the side, into the mud.

“Now, the Watch is supposed to give you some spiel about the nature of the third trial before sending you off our way,” he said. “But I’m no watchman, and I’ve only heard bits and pieces of the speech over the years.”

He shrugged.

“So I’ll be giving you my own understanding of it instead.”

The bearded man swept through them with his gaze.

“The Trial of Lines is a test of skill,” he announced. “If you don’t have a plan or lick up to people who do, if you don’t have the training to make it to the sanctuary quietly or the strength to fight your way through, then you end up dead.”

Angharad winced at the bluntness of his words, but there was the ring of truth to them.

“Now the Trial of Ruins, it’s a pot,” Mayor Crespin said. “They throw you into the water and turn up the heat to see what you’ll do when it starts to boil: do you fuck over your allies, do you break or run or rise up to the occasion?”

Glances were sent this way and that at the man’s words. Tupoc only grinned at the unspoken accusations, entirely unruffled, and a flattering amount of looks went her way at the last part. Angharad straightened her back, allowing herself a sliver of pride.

It did not last.

“There’s not many of you this year,” the mayor bluntly said, “so you must not have been great swimmers.”

There was the ring of truth to that as well, Angharad thought. Near thrice their current number had walked out of the Bluebell.

“Now, the Trial of Weeds isn’t like the first two,” Mayor Crespin said. “If you got here, you’re good or you’re lucky: either way, the Rooks can use you.”

He smiled, just a shallow stretch of the lips that had precious little mirth to it.

“No, this place is about ripping out the weeds before they get into the Watch, so to speak, and the winnowing is left to your own hands.”

Another ripple of unease.

“We’re not going to put any you in these cages,” Crespin said. “You are.”

Few of them liked the sound of that.

“Tonight, in the time before you retire to your rooms, each of you will be taken aside asked to give three names,” the man said. “One for each person you think should be put in one of the cages. The three of you named the most times will then be escorted into their cage by the town guard come morning.”

Angharad frowned, then cleared her throat. It earned her an unfriendly look from Crespin.

“What happens should two of us be named an equal number of times?” she asked.

It would not matter unless the third position was the one shared, she thought, but should that happen it was possible a draw would need settling.

“You get to share the cage,” the mayor replied without batting an eye.

That was, Angharad silently conceded, callously fair.

“Come morning, you’ll gather up here again,” Mayor Crespin continued, “and after the chosen enter the cages then you get to vote on which of the three will die.”

“You can’t be serious,” Shalini replied. “You want us to kill each other?”

The man shrugged.

“You’ve already been killing each other, I imagine,” he said. “Now is when you call each other to account for it.”

He chuckled.

“I’ve seen the smile drop off the faces of all sorts of clever sorts, when it sunk it that they might have to pay for their bloody tricks after all,” Mayor Crespin said. “The way I see it, this test is for them. If you throw your allies to the wolves, well, you best be clever enough to talk them out of hanging you after.”

The mayor shrugged.

“What use would the Watch have for you otherwise?”

Half a dozen of them spoke up at the same time even as Angharad’s fingers tightened around the grip of her saber. This was madness, she thought, how could they be expected to – Mayor Crespin’s hand rose, and silence fell again. No one wanted to risk missing a piece of the rules.

“It doesn’t end there,” the bearded man said. “After that’s done, each of you will get asked a question in private: should another round be played?”

You could have heard a pin drop.

“All it takes is one yes,” Crespin said, “for there to be another.”

“That is absurd,” Augusto bit out. “How many of us will die for petty grudges?”

It was uncomfortable, Angharad thought, to be forced in a position where she agreed with the man.

“As many as you lot care to kill,” the mayor said, indifferent. “The Trial of Weeds ends when refusal of another round is unanimous. After that we’ll hand you fresh supplies and you get to toddle on north to Three Pines to join the Watch.”

Though Angharad could feel indignation about to erupt, their company held on to silence a little longer. Crespin liked toying with them. They proved right to, as the mayor chuckled a few heartbeats later.

“One last thing,” he said. “There’s one last rule, which is a secret you will have to find on your own. A way for someone in the cages not to die even if they get picked. Sniff around for it however you will, so long as you remember the rules: no violence against my folk, or each other.”

Mayor Crespin offered them a nod.

“That’s the whole of it,” he said. “My people will find you to ask the names, don’t try to go to sleep before you’re given leave.”

He walked right through their crowd, forcing them to part as if to make a point, and for a few heartbeats silence followed in his wake.

Then chaos came screaming out.

--

The first thing that happened was that Tupoc Xical walked away.

Without a word, ignoring the jeers from Ferranda and Zenzele. Angharad searched his face for fear as he walked past her, for regret, but found neither. He looked, to her dismay, thoughtful. He knows he is certain to be sent into a cage, she thought, so he is going on the hunt for the hidden rule that might save his life. He must have committed to that decision before the mayor was even done speaking. It was a tortured thing to admire Tupoc’s composure – he would not have needed to be composed, after all, were he not a feckless traitor.

Everything admirable about him was intertwined with the worst of traits. In a way his qualities made it easier to despise him, Angharad thought, for Tupoc was capable of acting with honor she he want to. He had the skill, the discernment.

It was a choice for him to be heinous.

“We should all agree now on who we send into the cages,” Yaretzi was saying. “The trial thrives on mistrust, should we simply be open with-”

“How would we know if someone’s lying?” Lan casually asked. “We’ll give our names in private, the mayor was clear about that.”

Yaretzi turned a gimlet eye on the older woman, Angharad only then noticing that one of her turquoise earrings was missing. It must have fallen during their flight to Cantica.

“Trust,” Yaretzi began, but derisive laughter cut the sentence short.

“There is still a murderer among us,” Zenzele, who’d been the one to laugh, cut in. “There should be no talk of trust, Yaretzi.”

“Chaos is to no one’s advantage,” Song opined. “Some semblance of an agreement can only help.”

“You sit on more secrets than anyone here, Tianxi, and some are fresher than others,” Zenzele Duma flatly said. “I will not invade your privacy by pressing, but do refrain from taking us for fools. I will not be a tool for your schemes.”

Song met his eyes with her unblinking silver gaze, face hardening.

Angharad’s brow rose at the tension. That was a strong claim, but a lord of Malan had spoken it so he must not believe it a lie. And he has a contract that would let him sniff out secrets, she thought. Zenzele had seen her own vengeful oath, though he had not known what it was. And now he says that what Song keeps to herself dwarfs even that. A sobering thought. Yet secrecy was not deserving a scorn: had Angharad told them all she was pursued by assassins? No, not even when she had foolishly feared that Zenzele Duma and his lover might be killers sent by her nameless foe.

“There is ruin in all our wakes, Lord Zenzele,” Angharad said. “To chase each other’s shadows is a game without a victor.”

The dark-skinned noble – taller than her even with his hat in hand, though not by much – fixed her with a steady look. Ferranda elbowed him, after which he gave Angharad a curt nod and wrenched his gaze away. Song looked about ready to speak again, but it was another who stepped in first. Master Cozme Aflor’s flair had never quite recovered from the loss of his hat, but the older man still cut a respectable figure with his finely groomed mustache and beard. The cuts he’d suffered on the Toll Road only added to it, the bandages around his arm lending him a wounded veteran’s look.

It was with his hand on the pommel of sword – loosely, resting and not threatening – that he went to stand before everyone.

“I have made mistakes,” Cozme Aflor bluntly said. “I own that.”

A burst of shrill, mocking laughter.

“Oh, sweet Manes,” Augusto Cerdan said. “To think I’d see the day where you bent that stiff neck enough to beg for your life, Cozme. The voyage was worth it just for that.”

The older man glanced at him with distaste, then ignored him.

“I tried to keep my oaths to House Cerdan beyond what was wise,” Cozme said, “but never did I bare a blade on any of you, or take revenge for a contract being used on me without provocation.”

A meaningful look was thrown at Shalini there, who sneered back.

“If you feel it has grown cold outside, then you should have thought twice before walking out,” the Someshwari replied.

Brun cleared his throat.

“One does not lightly leave the service of the infanzones,” the fair-haired man said. “Defiance is not without costs for Sacromontans, Shalini Goel.”

The short Someshwari eyed him with surprise, and some abashment at the reminder that she had come here as the close and trusted companion of a noble while Cozme was merely a retainer. Angharad, though she kept an eye on the talks, was instead taking measure inside her own mind. Tupoc was headed for a cage, that much was certain. He had made too many enemies. The only question worth asking was who else would be headed there.

“Let us not pretend being a soldier for a house right beneath the Six is the same as being a rat,” Tristan flatly said. “Pity is a fine thing, Brun, but Cozme Aflor never gave a shit about anyone but his charges until that bridge was thoroughly burned.”

“And he should be killed for that?” Brun challenged.

A harsh laugh.

“You will have to forgive Tristan,” Yong said. “He’s grown used to deciding who lives and dies.”

That earned the pair measuring looks – it was an obvious break in a previously cordial relationship – but Angharad was yet running down the list. No one, she thought, had made more foes than Augusto Cerdan and Cozme Aflor. It was near a sure thing that the two of them would be sent to the cages along with Tupoc. Only Yaretzi, who had fought Tupoc and been accused by Shalini, could even begin to come close.

“Everyone with a gun has that same power, Yong,” Lan blandly said, “and I see you carry two.”

“I don’t think this is going well for you, Cozme,” Augusto loudly whispered. “Perhaps you should… go with the current, old friend. It will be faster.”

Angharad almost winced – there was no almost about it for the older man - as she remembered when she had last heard that sentence.

“To consign someone to the cages does not mean death,” Angharad pointed out. “A mark of shame, perhaps, but not an oath to send them into the grave.”

“Well said,” Yong grunted. “I have been told I might be bleeding out, so I’m to look for a physician. I will, however, leave you with this: Tupoc, Augusto, Tristan. Make of it what you will.”

He began limping away after. Sarai, whose face was flushed pink with exhaustion, traded a look and a nod with Tristan before slipping away from the crowd to help Yong limp forward. The veteran looked as if he wanted to refuse, but after a moment conceded and slung an arm around her shoulder as they disappeared into the town.

“That was most unwarranted,” Augusto complained. “I’ve hardly even spoken with the man.”

“Hardly must have been enough,” Angharad evenly replied.

He cheerfully flipped her the finger, seeming unworried even though he was sure to be bound for a cage. Is this bluster, or is he genuinely without fear? Cozme, whose speech had been diverted by sundry distractions, cleared his throat and claimed attention once more.

“I have said my piece,” the older man said. “I can now only trust in the fairness of those assembled here.”

“I truly misspoke when I called you a cock,” Augusto mused. “How could you be such, when you have such a talent for fellatio?”

The infanzon chuckled.

“I trust in the fairness of those assembled here,” he repeated in a nasal voice. “At least get on your knees first, if you’re going to be working at it so hard.”

Cozme’s cheeks reddened in anger as he reached for his sword, not quite unsheathing it, and even Angharad felt her jaw tighten at the uncouthness of. Augusto had somehow become even more odious since the Toll Road, and no longer cared to keep his venom in check. By the looks on the face of those around here, that was doing him no favors. But then he would have been headed for a cage even if he turned sweet as honey, Angharad thought.

As Mayor Crespin had said, the Trial of Weeds was a reckoning for the other two.

“Talking here is pointless,” Shalini said. “Half of us can’t trust the other and there can be no serious talks with snakes coiled in our laps.”

“She’s right,” Lady Ferranda said. “And so was Yong, in his own way.

She paused.

“Tupoc, Augusto, Cozme.”

“I’ll be taking that up with the Villazur, when I return to the city,” Augusto mildly said.

The fair-haired infanzona cocked an eyebrow.

“That’d be quite a trick, without a head,” she said, and walked away.

Shalini went with her, and Zenzele flicked them a glance before clearing his throat.

“Consider Tupoc a given,” the Malani. “The rest bears thought.”

He then tipped his head at them politely and hurried to catch up after the others. There were still many of them left, Angharad saw. Of the fourteen they numbered there were still eight standing here in the square. But the moment Shalini and the other had left the prospect of keeping this out in the open had died. Even though there were numbers enough here to decide the matter if they wanted to, the illusion of unity had shattered.

Everyone would be cutting their own deals, as if this were the High Queen’s court.

Angharad met Song’s eyes and traded a small nod. They were done here, both agreed, and within a minute had taken their leave.

--

However cramped the planks on the side of the street, they were preferable to walking in the mud. Even if it made speaking as they moved somewhat awkward.

“I have a degree of acquaintance with Sarai,” Song told her. “I will seek her and find out what happened when our company and hers parted way.”

Angharad could read between the lines. The two women were acquainted, but the Triglau was less than fond of Malani. Understandable, if somewhat unwarranted – Angharad had never owned a slave nor traded in them. Their first conversation after the reveal of her origins had been… less than skillful, admittedly, so the Pereduri said nothing on the subject.

“I am rather curious what tunnel they found to escape,” Angharad admitted. “It must have been unknown even to the Watch.”

“They are a canny lot,” Song said. “I expect it will be an interesting tale.”

Angharad nodded, then cleared her throat awkwardly.

“I expect I should speak with Lord Zenzele first,” she said.

She delicately did not mention that her fellow islander had taken a clear dislike to Song. Said Tianxi eyed her from the side.

“He is not wrong,” the silver-eyed woman said. “I keep a great many secrets.”

“Your eyes bind you to such a fate,” Angharad shrugged.

It was, if anything, reassuring that Song was not prone to voicing the many hidden things that her eyes were certain to reveal by simple virtue of being in their presence. Angharad would much rather that pact be held by a woman inclined to secrecy than a blabbermouth. Song looked away, stepping through the shadow cast by the lamplights above.

“More than merely that kind,” she said. “I joined the trials on the Dominion for a particular purpose, Angharad, and thought I am yet bound not to speak of it the time approaches where I will be able to tell you.”

“That is not necessary,” Angharad assured her. “I do not begrudge silence, save if it causes harm.”

“It is necessary,” Song replied, sounding almost amused. “I intend to make you an offer when we reach Three Pines, and when I make it I would not have you think our entire acquaintance was a ploy.”

The Pereduri appreciated that, truly. All this scheming and lying, how exhausting it had become. Sifting through every sentence for ten meanings, every offered hand a trap. Even the closest to a pleasant diversion Angharad had found had been… Her jaw clenched at the memory of how Isabel and looked, her face a red ruin. Song’s open admission that she was keeping secrets and would offer a bargain was refreshing, a clearly drawn line in the sand.

She could do with more of those in her life.

“You have saved my life on more than one occasion,” Angharad said. “Whatever else may come to happen between us, Song, you may be assured that I will always hear out any offer you have to make.”

The other woman studied her for a stretching moment, steps stuttering on the planks, and it occurred to Angharad that Song was actually quite striking. Silver eyes set in a face of pale gold, the cut of her slender and elegant. Bearing a plaited braid and folded leather hat, she seemed almost like a huntress of story. A passing thought, almost absurd. No huntress out of a story would have been so intent on cutting her rations precisely that she ended up with leftover string-thin slices of bread that she never actually ate.

That and she snored, though the noise was amusingly dainty.

“Words worth remembering,” Song finally said.

They left it at that.

--

The inn they had walked past earlier was called the ‘Last Rest’.

The words were carved above the door in scrabbly Antigua, the townsfolk apparently being unacquainted with the notion of hanging a sign. If not for the large and open shutters she would not have known the place for what it was from the outside. The ground floor was a common room full of long tables, with a fireplace at the back and a bar counter. Behind that counter a door led into what looked like a kitchen, while a little to the side rickety stairs led to a second story.

Song had gone across the street, where the town physician and gravedigger – an efficient combination, Angharad had mused – was allegedly having a look at Yong’s wounds. Sarai would be waiting on him, as good a time as any to talk.

The three souls she had been on the hunt for, however, were in the Last Rest’s common room. Having claimed the end of the table near the fireplace, they were sitting with warm meals and what appeared to be tankards of ale. Moving their way, Angharad noted that while Shalini appeared to have claimed one of Zenzele’s sausages she had in exchange surrendered her beer. Ferranda had traded nothing, but was poking at her peas with a distinct like of enthusiasm. Angharad could not blame her, they were horribly common fare.

It was Ferranda Villazur who first saw her coming, and when Angharad gestured towards the open space by Zenzele’s side with a raised eyebrow the infanzona gave a shrugging nod. Permission enough, the noblewoman decided. Loosening her sword belt, she pulled it off and set it down to the side before sliding onto the bench by Lord Zenzele. The man in question swallowed his drink, then smiled her way.

“Lady Angharad,” he said. “Come to get a meal out of them as well?”

“I would not mind,” she admitted. “Is it expensive?”

She did not have much coin left, and to be honest the thought of coin had her a little dazed. How long had it been since she last paid for something? Not even two weeks, and yet it felt like an entire world away.

“No cost.”

Angharad tensed at the voice coming from behind: she had not heard someone approach. Turning, she found a startlingly young man that could not have been older than seventeen looking at her with mild boredom. He wore a leather apron over a roughspun brown cote – a long-sleeved tunic in an antiquated style – and his messy black hair went down to his shoulders. He must have been Lierganen, by the tan, but she could not place the accent.

“As part of our charter with the Watch,” the man said, “we provide room and board for all trial-takers as well as run the Trial of Weeds. You want a meal?”

Angharad slowly nodded.

“What is available?”

“The meal,” the man drily replied. “With or without beer.”

“It is barley beer, Tredegar,” Zenzele told her. “Criminal stuff.”

It did not seem to hinder him any from getting started on the second drink.

“Maize beer is a Malani obsession, Duma,” she amusedly replied. “My people make barley wine like civilized folk.”

“I’m sure you think you’re interesting,” the innkeeper said, sounding like they were anything but, “but I’m still waiting on an answer.”

Angharad asked for a meal, without ale, then cleared her throat.

“What is to be the arrangement for rooms?” she asked.

“Usually we split you lot between here and the Warm Coffin across town, but there’s barely any of you this year so you’re all going upstairs,” the man said, jutting his thumb towards the stairway near the counter. “Take whatever room you want, then come back and ask me for the key. There’s numbers on the doors.”

“Thank you,” Angharad nodded.

The man snorted, then walked away.

“I do not suppose the Warm Coffin’s owner would be any more polite?” she drily asked.

“It’s closed,” Shalini got out after swallowing a large mouthful. “Ferranda asked when we heard about the meal.”

“He seems young to run an inn,” Angharad said. “Even for a border town.”

“That we did not ask,” Ferranda replied. “Still, I would wager it had something to do with the cultists impaled before the gates. The entire town seems on edge, they might have been attacked recently.”

That made a great deal of sense, she thought. With the landslide burying the Watch garrison near the mountain, the cult of the Red Eye might have thought it opportune to try a raid on Cantica. It would also explain how few people they had seen out on the streets. The innkeeper was back with her meal: sausage, peas and sliced almonds. She thanked the man, asking for his name, and got a raised eyebrow as only response.

“Tried that too,” Zenzele drily said. “Not the friendliest of fellows, this one.”

Shalini, who had polished off her entire plate and had begun eyeing that of her neighbors, let out a grunt.

“He might not see the point in getting friendly when the trial could kill any of us,” the Someshwari said.

Ferranda discreetly used her wooden fork to empty most of her peas onto Shalini’s plate, smiling winningly at the other woman when Shalini turned to cock an eyebrow, but the grim mood brought on by the reminder of the Trial of Weeds was not so easily lifted.

“It is a bloody affair,” Angharad agreed.

“And it now brings you to our shores so you might know where who we will name,” Lord Zenzele said.

“That is of some import,” she said, “but my greater concern is to ascertain where we will stop.”

Looks of surprise.

“Barring a surprise or a miracle, Tupoc Xical will die come morning,” Angharad said. “My question to you is this: will the trial end there?”

The three traded looks, and again she felt a pang of envy at how closely they now kept. A few days ago they had been strangers.

“I had thought,” Zenzele slowly said, “that you would want a second round if only so that Lord Augusto might follow in Xical’s wake.”

Angharad shook her head.

“I can do my own killing,” she flatly replied. “I do not need a trial to do it for me.”

The oath she had given to Mayor Crespin was straightforward: she was to do no violence to trial-takers or the townsfolk while a guest in Cantica, unless attacked first. The moment they stepped out of the town the infanzon was no longer protected.

“That is,” Lady Ferranda hesitantly said, “to your honor.”

“You’re not the only one with grudges to settle, Tredegar,” Shalini said. “Putting Tupoc’s head on spike hardly needs selling and Augusto could do with getting his breathing rights revoked, but there’s a murderer still on the loose and I will see her face justice.”

Angharad stilled.

“Her?” she asked.

“Yaretzi tried to murder Ishaan on the way to the temple-fortress,” Shalini said. “You might not believe me, but I saw what I saw. I would have her put in a cage for it, then in a grave.”

“Do you have proof she murdered Jun and Aines?” Angharad asked.

“No,” Shalini admitted, “but how many vipers can there possibly be among us?”

Ferranda sighed.

“I do not agree, and did not vote accordingly,” the fair-haired woman said. “I am yet convinced that another was behind the deaths, acting through catspaws. I have heard… rumors about Yaretzi, however, that are suspicious.”

Isabel had said that ‘Yaretzi’ was a foot shorter than she was supposed to be. Ferranda did not seem to be putting strong stock in the other infanzona’s words, but neither was she dismissing them. Angharad cocked an eyebrow at Zenzele, leaving the question implied.

“Looking back, I find some of her behavior during the Trial of Lines unusual,” Zenzele admitted. “She was very used to roughing it, for a diplomat, and though she struck a friendship with Ayanda she showed little grief when the cultists took her.”

Shalini looked away at that. She and Ishaan had refused to pursue the warband to take back Zenzele’s lover, Angharad knew. It might have been the sounder call, but it seemed that a growing acquaintance with Zenzele Duma was shading the nuances of that decision in retrospect.

“You are both committed to pursuing Yaretzi’s execution through a second round, then?” she asked.

Shalini nodded briskly. Zenzele followed suit a heartbeat later.

“There will be a death every round, and three of us in cages on every instance,” she quietly reminded them. “You may not find the support you seek before a great many bodies have piled up.”

Ferranda hummed.

“A question best revisited tomorrow,” she said. “Once Tupoc is dead, we can decide how far this is to be pushed.”

Shalini looked mutinous but she kept silent. By unspoken accord they turned to lighter talk as Angharad went through her meal, wolfing down the bland fare. Hunger was the finest spice. Others drifted in as she did, alone or in pairs. Cozme, freshly bandaged, came over to the table to share with them the news that Yong was being cut open – he had a bullet in the back that must be removed – and might not be upright tomorrow. By the time Angharad finished her meal, the absences were more noticeable than those present. Besides Yong, only three were missing.

Tupoc, Lan and Augusto.

Parting ways with the three, Angharad grabbed her saber and went upstairs to pick a room. The stairs led up to a tiny hallway forming a broad L, she found, whose longer length faced the street. Between the two sides there were around twenty doors with a number painted and all were open save for the three nearest to the stairs. The Pereduri suspected these would be locked as well, but did not check. Instead she looked around for which room seemed most comfortable, hoping for a mattress that might not be stuffed straw. She was not the only one with such a notion.

“Comparing the rooms, are we?” Brun asked, lips twitching into a smile.

The blond Sacromontan looked tired, holding his pack loosely, but was still steady on his feet. That tended to be the way with him.

“Straw everywhere, so far,” Angharad admitted. “Have you found anything?”

“Same for the mattresses, I expect we should give up hope for that,” he said. “No windows anywhere, but the three rooms in the corner have a dresser as well as a bedside table. That appears the pinnacle of luxury around here.”

Angharad sighed. It was better than nothing, she supposed. The two of them trudged back past the stairs, turning the corner of the L into the smaller length of hall. While she hesitated Brun stole a march on her, claiming the middle of the three rooms and tossing his pack on the bed. Slightly irked, she walked past him and took the room at the very end of the hall. A twenty-one was painted in white on the door, the key she would need to claim.

Brun was waiting for her in the hall when she came out.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Shame,” Brun said. “Was it any good?”

“Do you enjoy peas?” she drily asked.

“More than I enjoy starving,” the fair-haired man amusedly replied.

“Then I expect you will most adequately fed,” Angharad told him.

She could not bring herself to give a better compliment, as it would have been dangerously close to a lie. They made their way back down together, encountering Yaretzi going up as they did. Since the stairs were too narrow for two the Izcalli gallantly went back down to give way, while Brun instead climbed back up to cede her passage in turn. Angharad thanked the other woman with a nod, but no more than that. Given the chances that ‘Yaretzi’ was some kind of impostor, it was best to keep her distance.

When she claimed her key from the innkeeper, a dark-haired woman in her thirties – her clothes as old-fashioned as the young man’s – was waiting for her.

“Alix,” she introduced herself. “I handle Mayor Crespin’s affairs. You are Angharad Tredegar, correct?”

Angharad nodded confirmation.

“I need three names from you, then,” Alix said, picking up a chalk and slate.

After a heartbeat of hesitation, she gave them. Tupoc Xical, Augusto Cerdan and Cozme Aflor. After the first round and Tupoc’s death Angharad saw no need to continue this vicious trial, but that was not in her power to decide. Perhaps talks could be had tomorrow, after the execution. After going back up to lock her door, when returning to the common room she found that Song was seated with Sarai and a reluctant-seeming Ferranda - something Angharad decided she wanted no part of. She took to the streets instead, feet itching to move for all her exhaustion.

They would not be allowed to retire to their rooms until all had given three names anyhow.

Cantica was smaller than she had thought. Two large inns, the Last Rest and the Warm Coffin, swallowed up quite a bit of the room inside the area walled in by the palisade and ring of lamplights. The rest was rough wooden houses – all their shutters were closed, and Angharad saw precious few of the townsfolk out on the streets - and a handful of shops. The people of Cantica were polite but distant, most of them not even bothering to reply to a greeting beside a curt nod.

The shops were not much to look at either. A half-empty general store and a smithy were nestled one against another, while further down the street a carpenter and a baker made up the rest of the town’s ‘main street’. Angharad found Lan sitting in the alley by the bakery, perched on a crate as she tore into a loaf of black bread. On a whim, she sought out the other woman.

“There are warm meals at the Last Rest, you know,” Angharad said.

The blue-lipped Tianxi smiled.

“You can’t move while eating those, though,” she said. “And there’s a lot to see in a place like this.”

Angharad cocked an eyebrow, somewhat skeptical.

“Is there?”

Lan hummed.

“How many people do you think live in a town this size?” she asked.

Angharad blinked.

“Around two or three hundred,” she guessed.

“Probably closer to four or five,” Lan said. “But you’re in the right area. How many of those people have you seen out in the streets?”

Angharad thought back, slipping into a frown.

“Fewer than fifty,” she said. “And no children.”

“Common sense to keep your kids indoors when you’ve got a dozen heavily armed lunatics on the prowl,” Lan said, “but why so few people are out and about is what has me curious. I figure it’s about the lights.”

The Pereduri blinked, putting the pieces together.

“You think hollows live here?” she asked, appalled.

“No,” Lan said, biting into the bread and swallowing a chunk. “I think people live here, and they keep hollow slaves. Do you know a lot of farmers who’d go out there and till a field when there’s cultists on the loose? They’re using expendables, is my guess. And the Watch allows it, because if Cantica’s turning a profit they can get some tax money out of this place.”

Angharad swallowed.

“And now that the lamplights are lit,” she said, “the hollows stay inside so the touch of the Glare will not hurt them.”

The other woman nodded.

“It’s just a guess,” Lan admitted. “But I find it mighty interesting there’s hardly a house in this town where the shutters are open but that all the shops – the rich parts, the people with coin – are open and their owners around. It paints a picture.”

It did, Angharad thought with a grimace. The Watch did not practice slavery, but Cantica was not the Rookery. It was a colony with a charter, and if the legalities were anything like those in Malan then this town would be something like a vassal state paying tribute. Not, strictly speaking, part of the Watch or its territories.

“Would that at least one part of this misbegotten island was not filled to the brim with sinister secrets,” Angharad bit out.

Lan eyed her, seemingly amused.

“Then you won’t be interested in what I overheard keeping an eye on our friend Augusto,” she teased..

Angharad blinked.

“Why were you following Augusto?” she slowly asked.

“Because Tupoc said he’d kill me and make it look like an accident,” Lan cheerfully replied. “I lost him two streets over, near the butcher’s shop.”

Angharad considered the other woman as she kept tearing into her loaf of bread, rather conflicted. On one hand, Lan was a sneak who looked into everyone’s private affairs and riffled through their bags when given half an excuse. On the other hand, she was so open about this and her generally mercenary nature that Angharad could not quite bring herself to actually consider her a sneak. If a viper told you it was a viper and that it was going to bite you, then proceeded to bite you in the exact way it had informed you it would, could it really be considered treachery?

Angharad cleared her throat.

“Please,” she said, “may I hear what Augusto was doing?”

If the other woman had brought it up, it would be worth hearing.

“Free of charge, since you’re a good sort,” Lan easily said. “Our boy was talking with the town guards earlier, asking about the gates of Cantica. More precisely whether there are other ways in or out of this place.”

Angharad’s eyes narrowed.

“Are there?”

“I didn’t hear the guard’s answer,” Lan said. “But I think his lordship has seen the writing on the wall for the Trial of Weeds, and now he wants to pull a runner before he ends up losing his head.”

That was, Angharad darkly thought, despicably plausible of the man.

“Perhaps I should have a look at where he is, then,” she flatly said.

“Good luck with that,” Lan said, biting into the bread. “And I mean it. You can smell the crazy on that boy, and it’s not even the entertaining kind.”

Not quite sure how to answer that, the noblewoman kept her face blank and offered her most polite goodbyes. Lan only seemed all the more amused, though her eyes were already far away.

The Tianxi was not done sniffing around Cantica for secrets, Angharad could tell.

--

She did not find Augusto in time.

The infanzon had made himself scarce, and Tupoc was no longer by the butcher shop when she passed close. In truth she did not have long to look around, as a town guard accosted her in the street and told her to return to the Last Rest.

“May I ask why?” Angharad politely said.

“The votes are all in,” the woman replied. “The names and numbers are on the slate by the door. Once everyone has seen them you’ll all be allowed to turn in for the night.”

Though Angharad believed she already knew the results, she supposed there was no harm in taking a look before going on the hunt for Augusto again. Besides, it might be interesting to see the numbers. She thanked the guard and briskly made her way back, finding most of their company out in the street and looking at a slate six feet high. The writing was the same as that of the mayor’s helper – Alix, was it?

Angharad stepped around Zenzele to come closer to the slate, noticing from the corner of her eye that Song was there and looking worried. Why? Her look at the slate revealed that eleven out of the fourteen of them had named Tupoc, putting him at the top of the list. It was, in truth, fewer than she had expected. Augusto was second and had been named ten times, which seemed reasonable to her. Cozme’s name was the third, she saw, but there she blinked.

Five times. He had only been named five times.

And the name under his was a scrawled ANGHARAD with a four besides it.

She had come within one vote of ending up in a cage, the Pereduri dimly realized. All this time speaking with others and never even noticed she was resting on the knife’s edge. Under her Tristan had been named four times as well, another injustice, and then of all people Brun had been thrice named. Yaretzi being named thrice was slightly less startling, but it came as a blindside that the last name on the list would be Song – named twice.

Perhaps Angharad should have tried to match votes to faces, to piece it all together, but her eyes kept returning to her name right under Cozme’s and how close she had come to being sent into the cage in his stead. Feeling stares lingering on her back, the Pereduri flushed in embarrassment.

Four votes, Sleeping God.

Augusto and Tupoc she could understand, but who else had she offended to deserve such a slight? Was Cozme two-faced enough to ask for her mercy and in the same breath try to have her encaged? The Pereduri’s jaw clenched. He likely was. And that still left one more among the fourteen who had wanted her put on display like a wild animal, having never said a word to her face.

Her mood significantly fouled, she ignored Song calling out for her and strode away. Absence of company would do her well. A minute or two of walking around with enough of a scowl that the townsfolk gave her a wide berth calmed her down, enough that when she caught sight of a familiar silhouette she did not avoid him. Tristan, after all, also had four votes to his name. She did not believe him any more deserving of such slander than she.

The scruffy man was leaning against the side of a house, Angharad saw as she approached, and looking up at one of the pale lamplights that ringed the entire town of Cantica to keep away lemures and strike fear in the hearts of darklings. The man flicked a glance her away as she came near, offering a polite nod that she returned.

“Missing home?” she asked. “It must have been quite the change, leaving Sacromonte for the first time.”

“There’s fewer lights in my parts of the city than you’d think,” Tristan replied. “But there is something nostalgic about this, I’ll admit.”

His lips thinned.

“These are the exact same kind of lamplights they use in the Murk.”

Angharad had not been long in Sacromonte, but long enough to hear of this Murk. The city’s slums, though there were wild and colorful rumors about what went on there. She cocked an eyebrow at the man, for this did not seem a detail worth staring at.

“I imagine they must import them from Sacromonte,” Angharad said. “It is the closest city to the island and the Watch has ancient ties to it.”

“I figured that as well,” Tristan agreed. “Only, Tredegar, those lamplights are in pristine state. Their glow is perfect.”

“And what does that mean?” Angharad asked.

“Either nothing at all,” Tristan quietly said, “or that we are in very serious trouble.”

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