Pale Lights

They skipped Black House’s communal breakfast, instead bothering the servants for simpler fare served directly in Song’s room. There were only two chairs in there, so Maryam brought her own before locking the door behind her. By common accord – and to Angharad’s relief - the three of them finished breaking their fast before getting into the report about her activities in the country.

Angharad laid it all out for them. The ambush laid by the Varochas and how it had made her stumble into a carriage full of armaments, the cyphered journal she had found and was now handing over to Song. How some eeriness in the hills was driving lemures closer and closer to the capital and then what she had learned about the ties of House Eirenos to both Lord Menander Drakos and Lord Gule – as well as the ancient correspondence she had copied.

It was after that the hesitation caught up, but Angharad had spent the entire ride back to the capital debating what honor demanded of her. There was no denying what was owed to the Thirteenth and the Watch.

“The Lefthand House then charged me with attending Lord Menander’s evening to ascertain if he has in his possession an artifact that should, by the description, be an infernal forge.”

Maryam looked like she had half a dozen things to say, the word a cluttering chaos in her mouth, but Song gestured for her to stay silent before asking Angharad to finish. Dutifully, she added how afterwards the Malani ambassador had offered to initiate her into the cult of the Golden Ram, promising healing and a position at his side after the success of the coup by the Council of Ministers to put Minister Floros on the throne.

“But he did not say, at any point, that Apollonia Floros is a member of the Golden Ram?” Song pressed.

Angharad shook her head.

“The cult intends to rule through her,” she clarified. “I believe it implied she is not one of them.”

There was a long moment of silence after that.

“So in summary,” Maryam finally said, “the fuse on the powder keg under our buttocks is a lot shorter than we first figured, and already lit to boot.”

“I greatly mislike the shape things are taking,” Song murmured, then shook her head.

Silver eyes turned on Angharad, who sat as ramrod straight as she could without hurting her back.

“But first this much must be said,” Song said. “You did exceedingly well on your investigation, Angharad. You should be commended for that.”

The noblewoman coughed into her hand, faintly embarrassed. She had not expected the praise.

“My thanks for the compliment.”

To the Pereduri’s surprise, Maryam nodded.

“You took a hit to your reputation for the good of the contract,” she said. “I honestly didn’t believe you had it in you.”

A short pause, then Maryam inclined her head almost apologetically.

“I am pleased to have been wrong.”

Angharad generously decided to take that as the compliment it was probably meant to be. Song’s gaze went distant as she stared at the wall, trying to piece things together. The Pereduri almost fancied she could hear the furious scribbling of a steel tip on paper as the Tianxi put it all in order and drew lines. Best to leave her to it, she thought.

“There is one last matter,” Angharad coughed. “Largely personal, though it might end up relevant so I must mention it.”

Maryam leaned in, eyes narrowed.

“Oh, gods,” she grinned. “You fucked his mother, didn’t you?”

Angharad looked away from those gleeful blue eyes.

“Lady Penelope and I happened to share an intimate moment,” she stressed, “at the end of which I found a way to access the safe by using my contract. I would not have thought to do so without your help in learning how my visions function, Maryam, so you have my thanks.”

“Oh, you’re not going to get out of this by tossing a compliment my way,” Maryam said, cackling like a hyena. “Angharad Tredegar, conqueror of widows. You are never going to live that down.”

“It has since occurred to me,” Angharad defensively replied, “that the liaison in question might have been intended by her.”

Now that she was no longer so preoccupied with the delicious body filling that evening wear, Angharad could spare a thought as to how Lady Penelope could have chosen to cover that very flattering nightrobe with a dressing gown and pointedly had not. The seduction of that evening had, alas, not been of Angharad’s own design. Not that she was complaining.

The sound of a sigh wrenched her away from still-grinning Maryam, Song eyeing her with something like polite disappointment.

“Given everything else you accomplished, I will forget I heard that,” the captain said. “I expect you were discreet?”

“Very,” Angharad assured her.

Lady Penelope no more wanted the matter to get out than she did, there was no reason to believe it would spread.

“You don’t have to take that from Song, Angharad,” Maryam noted. “She brought Evander Palliades to a brothel and booked a room just for the two of them.”

Angharad’s eyes widened in surprise while a flustered Song turned a hard look on their colleague.

“Don’t phrase it like that,” Song hissed. “It was an investigation, Angharad. There was another brackstone shrine in the basement.”

Angharad squinted at the Tianxi.

“There is no shame in taking a lover of higher rank,” she assured Song. “You need not fear I would believe you grasp-”

“We can do this another day, or preferably never,” Song flatly replied. “We should instead see to matters of actual import, like the fact that the cult of the Golden Ram is no such thing: gods do not distribute their ichor like party favors.”

Ah, that. Tempting as the promise of even temporary healing was, Angharad had surrendered the wrapped ichor to Song. She intended to have it investigated by a specialist.

“You saw at least one boon at court that was right up the Golden Ram’s alley, though,” Maryam pointed out. “That speaks to the existence of some accord with the god.”

“There is no telling how old that boon was,” Angharad said. “It could have begun as a genuine cult, then turned into something crueler.”

“I have a hard time believing a pack of nobles from Asphodel would have the skill to keep a god locked up in some basement and bled without the help of another god,” Song said.

“You believe another cult took over the Golden Ram’s,” Angharad mused, following the implication. “There is precedent for that, I’ll grant.”

Some cult of the Hated One had pretended they were followers of the Golden Ram, back in the days of that great Asphodelian civil war.

“It could be a cult to any god,” Song grimly said. “In the palace it was Oduromai I saw grant the most contracts, but he does not seem to fit the scheme. We need to look into the local gods again.”

“Back to the archives for me, then,” Maryam drily said.

Song inclined her head.

“I will accompany you,” she said. “But yes, that would be most helpful. There is no guarantee we will find anything, however, which means Angharad’s approach is the most important.”

“You want me to go along with Lord Gule’s recruitment,” Angharad said.

“It is our best chance at putting a name to the leadership element of the cult,” Song said. “That means, unfortunately, investigating that infernal forge for the ambassador.”

Angharad’s pulse quickened. She licked her lips. That was… In the chaos of the cult being purged from the capital, it should not be impossible for an infernal forge to disappear from Menander Drakos’ grasp. From there she could bargain with Imani or Jabulani. I could kill Imani, rid the Watch of her, andstrike a more favorable bargain with Jabulani. There were possibilities, a line to walk. One that would lead to her father’s freedom without betraying the Watch.

She must speak with Uncle Osian soon.

“Then I will do so,” Angharad said.

Firm nods from the other two before Song sighed and tugged her flawlessly placed collar ‘back’ into place.

“How Lord Menander obtained that infernal forge is the most interesting part,” the silver-eyed woman said. “Given the other pieces of information you brought us, it seems to me that Menander Drakos has spent the last decade trying to find a path into the Antediluvian shipyard and quite clearly succeeded.”

Angharad blinked.

“The infernal forge could have been a gift by the Lord Rector,” she slowly said. “Presumably made without knowledge of what the object truly is, but…”

“No, I see what she’s getting at,” Maryam muttered. “When I dug into those Tratheke land records, a while back, I found out from the confiscations done by Hector Lissenos that House Drakos used to own almost a quarter of the capital. Mostly in the northwestern ward.”

“I do not see the link,” Angharad admitted.

“Hector Lissenos dug beneath the capital to hide his backstone shrines, if we’re right,” Maryam said. “What if the Drakos did too, out in that ward they controlled?”

“You suspect they found passage to the shipyard,” Angharad said, frowning as she followed along their beaten paths. “One that begins in Tratheke and that neither the Lissenos nor the Palliades after them ever learned about.”

“Hector Lissenos ran House Drakos out of the city,” Song said. “They were barely even a noble house for a few generations afterwards, it took the better part of two hundred years to claw back some influence.”

“Then why Lord Menander’s interest in the Lissenos maps and papers he obtained from House Eirenos?” Angharad asked. “They were digging in the wrong ward.”

“Two hundred years is a long time to keep a secret that might be too dangerous to risk putting to paper,” Maryam said. “It may be the Drakos remembered there is a path, but not where it was.”

Or that the papers had been lost, Angharad thought. All it took was a spill or a fire, should there be a single copy.

“So he sought Lissenos maps and papers to find that passage again,” Angharad murmured. “If he’d had access to the private archives he could have used the same records Maryam did, but even if could get permission it would have been too noticeable.”

Maryam had complained that the archivists tried to track every book she borrowed. The Lord Rector’s interest would have been caught by Menander Drakos consulting papers about the old properties of his house.

“I think Menander Drakos has been able to access that shipyard for longer the Palliades have, if by a narrower route,” Song said, “and that he looted the place for everything he can feasibly get away with. Including that infernal forge.”

A heady prize, that. Angharad wondered if he considered it too dangerous to sell or he had no notion of what it was, for surely there would be no lack of buyers for an infernal forge.

“The forge isn’t our problem beyond Angharad reporting its presence to establish her name with the cult,” Maryam opined. “Once we’ve confirmed its existence it’s a concern for officers much higher up the ladder. Let the Watch grab it, or everybody else get in trouble trying to.”

Song, perhaps driven to take petty revenge for earlier, turned a look of pedantic superiority on the Izvorica.

“Hell is also allowed to own forges, under the Iscariot Accords, so long as they are kept within the walls of Pandemonium.”

“That’s a loophole and you know it,” Maryam sneered.

“Of course it is, Maryam,” Song condescendingly smiled back.

Angharad cleared her throat.

“While I do not disagree that beyond reporting a forge’s potential presence there is no need for the Thirteenth to be involved,” she said, speaking precisely, “the plot to overthrow Lord Rector Evander has now become our concern.”

If the conspiracy to overthrow House Palliades involved the cult, then that conspiracy became part of their contract with the throne.

“You have testimony from a cultist that the cult is behind the intended coup,” Song agreed. “By the writ of our contract we now have to inform the Lord Rector of the conspiracy whatever Brigadier Chilaca might want.”

Angharad detected the slightest undertone of satisfaction there. Then she grimaced.

“It would be standard protocol to consult with him on how that revelation should be approached, however.”

“I don’t expect he’ll be too much trouble to convince. It’ll look bad for the Watch if the Lord Rector learns we sat on a plot to his life for a while,” Maryam said.

“I do not understand why Brigadier Chilaca has done so,” Angharad admitted. “Would it not help in the negotiations for Evander Palliades to owe the Watch a favor?”

Song passed a hand through her hair.

“I do not agree with the decision, but it is not senseless,” she said. “The crux of the conflict is that the Watch will want to restrict sales of skimmers to maintain the balance of power in the Trebian Sea, while House Palliades urgently needs to fill its coffers if it is to survive the decade.”

“Because Tianxia would act aggressively if it had a skimmer war fleet,” Angharad said, tone carefully neutral.

“Because the Watch had spent the last two centuries ensuring that no single power can control Trebian Sea trade, which is our order’s lifeblood,” Song corrected. “A resurgent Sacromonte with imperial ambitions would be just as dangerous, or even Izcalli being strong enough at sea to forcefully continue pushing eastwards into Old Liergan.”

Maryam pointedly cleared her throat.

“Tianxia has the wealth, sailing expertise and physical proximity that would give it reason and opportunity to make the attempt,” Song conceded. “They are certainly courting Asphodel the most aggressively of the great powers.”

She shrugged.

“That is why the Lord Rector has repeatedly put off the Watch’s attempts to inspect the shipyard, seizing upon every excuse to do so,” Song continued. “Once our orders has an understanding of what those shipyards can do, they can set terms and begin pressuring the Lord Rector to adhere to restrictions. Lord Rector Evander does not currently have the strength to refuse the Watch, should it exercise its full diplomatic might against him.”

It seemed to Angharad that the Watch would be wise to do so, but it was not the most salient detail here.

“So the Lord Rector is attempting to obtain foreign backing first,” Angharad said. “To strike a deal with Tianxia so that they will support him against the Watch afterwards.”

He had been very lucky, then, that some mugging gone wrong for a member of the delegation allowed him to push back that visit. Else by the time Angharad returned from the country word of the shipyard’s capacity would likely have reached the Rookery as well as whatever committee the Conclave had granted authority over this affair.

“It is a ploy that Brigadier Chilaca is entirely aware of, which is why he’s said nothing of the brewing coup,” Song continued. “From the perspective of the Watch, if an emboldened Lord Rector refuses to make terms it is better to allow the coup to take place and negotiate with a weaker replacement who will naturally be at odds with the powers that previously backed the Palliades.”

Angharad cocked her head to the side. That was a ruthless approach, but it was not dishonorable or senseless. It was also not within her means to influence, nor was it her duty to do so. Brigadier Chilaca’s maneuverings were none of her business.

“But withholding the information is no longer possible, given the circumstances,” she observed.

Song nodded.

“To identify the leadership ring of the cult is our contracted duty, so Chilaca will have no room to complain. We are only beginning, besides. There are more names to obtain before we can be said to have completed our task.”

“Normally we could squeeze the unmasked cultist for more names, but Lord Gule can’t be arrested on the word of single blackcloak,” Maryam sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “We don’t have proof that’d hold up to the storm that imprisoning an ambassador of Malan would cause.”

She sounded, the Pereduri thought, perhaps a little too disappointed by that.

“Then I continue my investigation of their society,” Angharad said. “Until we have a name we can act on.”

Their captain nodded in agreement.

“Meanwhile I will be digging into the ciphered journal you obtained,” Song said. “And the letters too. That is, possibly, another way to fulfill our contract: if we find the physical preparations for the coup, we can grab cultists there.”

“Is there still a physical trail to follow?” Angharad asked. “The warehouse led to no further findings and the leads at court are a dead end – and now that we know the cultists there have refrained from taking suspicious boons on purpose, it seems to me that they have hidden deeply enough catching their tail will be difficult.”

“If Gule’s so sure the assassin wasn’t from the cult, there’s no need for Tristan to look into the Kassa warehouse where she took refuge,” Maryam noted. “We could recall him, plan together for the next step.”

“We only know that Lord Gule does not believe the assassin to have struck on behalf of the Golden Ram,” Song pointed out, to which Angharad approvingly nodded. “I would rather Tristan follow that trail to its end. Besides, Black House is not safe for him.”

Angharad blinked in surprise at that, getting a shake of the head from Maryam who mouthed that she’d explain later. Song drummed her fingers against the side of the chair.

“Maryam, when you visit the shipyard I need you to find out if there’s a feasible way for Lord Menander to be getting into it, or at least evidence suggesting he has,” Song said. “If you find either, then we can safely say he was not looking for the brackstone shrines by buying up the Eirenos papers. I would prefer to rule that out before we start making moves we can’t take back.”

The pale woman nodded.

“If I am to remain in Lord Menander’s good graces, I will need to make appearances in society,” Angharad told them. “Something to make up for my ruined reputation in the country.”

“Then we’ll arrange those,” Song said. “I have something else I need of you, but we can discuss that later.”

“And you?” Maryam asked her.

“If I thought the Brazen Chariot could be trusted to make inquiries on our behalf I would,” Song grimaced, “but they cannot. If we are to catch the cult through the coup it supports, then I will need to reach out to someone else that can help us down in the streets.”

Song Ren sighed.

“It is time, I’m afraid, to have a second chat with the Yellow Earth.”

--

It was easier than Song had feared to get a private meeting with Brigadier Chilaca.

It was not yet eight in the morning yet when she was ushered in by armed blackcloaks into one of the private solars Black House kept for the use of visiting officers, the door firmly closed behind her. It was not her first time meeting the brigadier, but she was still startled by the oddity of his looks. He had typical Aztlan features, a broad face with a flat nose and large ears, but he was almost skeletally thin beneath the neck. It made him look somewhat like a lantern hung on a stick. Chilaca was not ugly, not exactly, but he looked quite peculiar.

“Sit,” the officer ordered, gesturing as the seat across his desk. “With Angharad Tredegar’s return, I expect you have news for me.”

Song suppressed her irritation. The man was in no way entitled to receiving reports from the Thirteenth Brigade, which was a Scholomance cabal out on contract, but the increasing intertwining of his mandate as the leading Watch diplomat on Asphodel and the Thirteenth’s investigation meant she had to report to him with unpleasant regularity anyway. Still, she sat. There was nothing else for it.

He offered no refreshments and she asked for none.

Laying out their latest findings, that a cult was behind the brewing coup and that the Malani ambassador was a member of it, did not take overlong. Chilaca did not interrupt, waiting until she had finished to ask a few clarifying questions. He had passing interest in the nature of the cult, Song only grasping why after a moment.

“It could be argued that you fulfilled your contract by proving there is no such thing as the cult of the Golden Ram,” Brigadier Chilaca said. “It is not an insensible interpretation, I think.”

In other words, he was willing to back the Thirteenth’s contract having been ‘fulfilled’ if it meant sending her brigade back to Tolomontera where he would no longer trip all over their investigation while negotiating with the throne. It was an opening position and Song was certain she could have reached for the likes of a commendation or flattering reports, but she had no intention of going down that road. Chilaca did not run Scholomance, the Obscure Committee did.

Song doubted they would be impressed by the Thirteenth ducking out of its test at the first offered bribe.

“The name given to the cult is not the crux of the contract,” Song simply replied.

He clicked his tongue, disappointed but unsurprised.

“This is a complication,” the brigadier said. “Our own investigation into the coup did not hint at any Malani involvement.”

Song stilled.

“Your own investigation?”

The dark-eyed man frowned at her.

“You gave us credible evidence of a conspiracy that might potentially harm Watch interests,” he said. “I put the Krypteia on it the same day, Captain Song. Did you think I would simply ignore it?”

Song, to her mild shame, had thought exactly that.

“I was unaware of the investigation, sir,” she replied instead.

“There was no reason to keep you informed,” the Izcalli flatly said. “We had, at that time, no evidence that the conspiracy had ties to the cult.”

He leaned back into his seat, face gone severe.

“The Krypteia found three more warehouses that he men or materials and we believe there might be as many as seven hundred soldiers currently hiding in the capital.”

He drummed his fingers against the desk.

“Assuming at least half the capital nobles side with the coup and support it with their retinues, we could be looking at a force of between fifteen to eighteen hundred striking by surprise.”

Song swallowed. That was more than she had anticipated.

“If they can seize the lift into the palace, they will be able to sweep the lictor garrison there,” she said.

She knew their numbers were no more than three hundred, having personally cleared them with her contract, though given Prefect Nestor’s rumblings of needing more hands more might have been brought in from the city.

“That is our assessment as well,” Brigadier Chilaca said. “We thought them unlikely to succeed, but Lord Gule’s involvement changes things. The man has access to the palace and can call on resources like the Lefthand House. It is entirely feasible they will succeed, though their success will still depend heavily on the element of surprise.”

“Meaning that informing the Lord Rector strongly tips the balance his way,” Song observed.

The older man nodded.

“Which is why Evander Palliades will not be told anything until the shipyard visit takes place and the Watch’s negotiating position has been determined,” he said.

In other words, Brigadier Chilaca did not want Evander Palliades to be tipped off if it was in the best interests of the Watch to have him removed by the coup. Song gritted her teeth.

“Given the nature of our contract with the throne, it could be taken as dereliction of duty not to inform him,” Song replied.

“There is no mention of regular reports in your contract,” Brigadier Chilaca noted. “I should know, I had a copy pulled.”

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It would have been hypocrisy to be irritated by that after having illegally accessed the delegation service records. Song was, thus, a bit of a hypocrite.

“The client has requested them,” she shot back.

The Izcalli considered her for a moment.

“I could make it an order,” he said.

“I am not your subordinate,” Song coldly replied. “And you have already interfered with the Thirteenth Brigade’s contracted duties repeatedly.”

She let it hang, unsaid, that further encroachment would result in formal complaints to the Obscure Committee. A man with his connections would be able to bury that, they both knew. But it would also have it put on paper that he had effectively arranged for the assassination of the Lord Rector of Asphodel, which was a dangerous thing to have known about you.

Brigadier Chilaca stared her down, then suddenly snorted.

“What do you want?” he asked. “I know a bargaining position when I see one.”

Song swallowed her grimace. He had read her right: it would be difficult for her to truly dig in her heels if the sum whole of the request made of her was to delay her reports by a few days. Even Wen was likely to order her to obey that. She only had so much leverage, and much as part of her wanted Evander to survive this she had higher responsibilities.

“I need amnesty paper for a member of my cabal,” Song said. “Pre-signed, the name left empty.”

The last part she had added purely to throw him off, and from the way his eyes tightened it had worked.

“What are you going to order your cabalist to do, Captain Ren?” the brigadier softly asked.

“Something that breaks the laws of the Watch,” she replied. “But is necessary nonetheless.”

“You know amnesty papers can be contested,” Brigadier Chilaca told her. “Abuse of them will be brought to the Conclave.”

The last thing they’ll want is to bring this to the Conclave, Song thought.

“I am aware,” Song replied.

Brigadier Chilaca looked at her again, then nodded.

“Then I will draft one immediately.”

Song did not smile, for this was a betrayal. Yet it was also the very opposite, because that amnesty was not for something yet to be done. It was to wipe the slate clean on the killing of Lieutenant Apurva when the Thirteenth came forward with the evidence about the Ivory Library.

Tristan ought to pleased, wherever he was: he had just gotten away with murder.

--

With Angharad whisked away by her uncle and Maryam requisitioned by the shipyard delegation so she might be schooled in the proper behavior by the diplomats, Song took a moment to ensure the message she had sent to the Tianxi embassy had gotten there before turning to her next task.

A duty she was rather looking forward to: vivisecting a cipher to peer at the secrets hidden behind it.

She settled in her room with a pot of tea and a polite request for the Black House servant to keep bringing fresh ones, cracking open the journal that Angharad had found for her. As the noblewoman had mentioned it was a mix of nonsense, numbers and Cycladic-seeming words.

Song could not read Cycladic, but she did not need to: Black House had a well-furnished library containing books on the language. It soon became clear that whoever had designed the cipher was no more fluent in the tongue than she was, anyhow. The few bits of sentence used were spelled without any regard to singulars and plurals, or even the tense of verbs. That made things simpler.

She was not looking at a Cycladic cipher, she suspected, but a cipher made using a Cycladic dictionary.

It took her a little under two hours to establish that it was not anything too complex, only a camouflaged substitution cipher. The first letter of every word in Cycladic was to be replaced by the next one in the traditional twenty-eight letter sequence of the Cycladic alphabet, all of them corresponding to the first letter of the twelve Asphodelian months. The other words were, she rather more easily grasped, all the first letter of the Cycladic terms for ‘powder’, ‘sphere’ or ‘stick’.

Gunpowder, cannon balls or muskets.

The first numbers next to the words were the date of arrival or departure for the goods being smuggled into Tratheke, though that took some work to figure out – the actual dates had to be figured out by subtracting the written numbers from one hundred, Song put together after another hour of tearing through books on ciphers. The second sets of numbers appeared to be weighted quantities of the goods being brought in.

The part she could not solve was the nonsense symbols sprinkled all over the records. Sometimes alone, sometimes two in a row and once even three in a line. Her best guess was that they represented people, either those shipping the goods or paying for them. Or perhaps a destination inside Tratheke? There was only so much she could deduce with what she had.

The picture painted was, well, troubling. Song sat in the candlelight with the best maps of Tratheke Valley and the surrounding mountains she had been able to obtain, estimating distances using the roads, and the conclusion was plain: the guns and powder were coming from inside the valley.

Given the periods of time marked down, the smuggled armaments could not be coming from the mountains. The roads were not good enough for the numbers to make sense if that was the case, and while Song could change the sum being subtracted from the ensuing results were then all much too long or much too short. Which meant somewhere out in Tratheke Valley there was a hidden workshop producing gunpowder and cheap muskets for what appeared to be the sole purpose of smuggling arms into the capital.

And there was something off about that. The plotters as described by Angharad were not united enough to keep this large a common endeavor quiet, and how could Evander have missed a band of noble houses setting up an arms workshop in his own backyard? Song did not know much about blackpowder production in Asphodel, however, so she sought out someone who did.

“Nobles didn’t build that,” Captain Wen Duan bluntly said, closing his book.

He looked interested enough to be giving her his full attention.

“How are you so certain?” Song asked.

“Because there’s only two sources of sufficiently pure sulfur on Asphodel,” he said. “One’s out west, near the tip of the island, under the shared ownership of four noble houses who run a powder workshop. The other is on the eastern rim of Tratheke Valley and owned by the crown. The vast majority of that latter sulfur is used to make the blackpowder for the royal fleet.”

And as sulfur was one of the main ingredients of black powder, a workshop dedicated to its production could not be founded without having secured a steady supply.

“So the sulfur used for this phantom workshop must be imported,” Song frowned.

“And it’s not the nobles who run trade fleets, or who have the Lordsport connections to smuggle in something as tightly watched as sulfur,” Captain Wen said. “This is the work of the Trade Assembly, or at least a few members of it.”

“But that’s absurd,” Song protested. “Why would the Trade Assembly be smuggling powder into the capital so their sworn enemies can employ in a coup?”

The criminals of the Brazen Chariot had mentioned that blackpowder was going for a fortune on the black market, but the amount of powder being brought into Tratheke could not possibly be used for anything but violence. The merchants bringing it into the capital, if skilled enough to build an entire arms workshop in the valley unseen, could not be fools enough not to realize this.

Wen shrugged.

“Nobles get started somewhere, Song,” he pointed out.

Her eyes narrowed.

“You think they were promised elevation to nobility,” she said.

“Some houses are going to be wiped out during the coup, if it goes through,” Captain Wen noted, cracking his book open again. “Raising a few magnates to the nobility to replace them will do a great deal to stabilize the aftermath of the violence.”

A disgusting notion, that some of Asphodel’s leading figures would betray their own to side with yiwu. Disgusting but not unbelievable. She had been raised to tales about how the elites of newly-liberated Jiushen – the Lost Eleventh – had betrayed the Republics and their own people by opening the city gates to an imperial army in exchange for special privileges.

Traitors could always be found, even when there were no war banners on the horizon.

Not so much disbelieving as discomforted, Song returned to her rooms and set aside that part of the journal. She turned instead to the correspondence Angharad had dutifully transcribed, grateful that the dark-skinned woman had a fine hand. It would have made it a great chore to read her words otherwise.

By all appearances this was nothing more than an exchange of letters between Lord Rector Hector Lissenos and his mistress, only known as ‘C. E.’, and the contents were a mixture of the literary and the lurid. Hector Lissenos had enjoyed being sat on by his mistress, evidently, but must not have seen her often for they often traded books and referred to passages therein as a form of flirtation.

Or had they?

Peering ahead in the sequence of twenty-four letters, Song found that every single letter had a literary reference containing the title book and a specific passage. She made a list of the titles and transcribed the passages on another paper, trying to find a cipher, but nothing jumped out. A visit to the Black House library yielded the knowledge that none of the mentioned books were on the shelves, which she had to admit was fair enough.

The letters dated back to the early Century of Dominion, a little under two hundred years ago.

No, if the key to the cipher was the mentioned volumes then Song would have to look elsewhere. It might be that the fortress at Stheno’s Peak might have a few, but there was one location nearly guaranteed to have them all: the rector’s palace. If not in the standard archives, then in the private ones. Which would mean asking the Lord Rector of Asphodel for permission, and likely visiting the palace on several occasions. No books were allowed out of the private archives, after all.

In a way it was a relief when she was told that a message had come back from the Tianxi embassy, as it forced her thoughts away from that particular prospect. The only thing the Yellow Earth sent back was a time and a place, out in the city well into the night.

Best get a nap in, Song decided, for it seemed she would not be getting much sleep tonight.

--

Tristan could not spare long for the work, not with the grueling day awaiting him on the morrow, but he made the time. He must, for his enemies would.

How to get around Tozi Poloko’s contract was an interesting puzzle to solve but also a frustrating one. Song’s translation of the full contract was clear: Tozi did not have to use her contract to know what was the mostly likely source for her death the next three hours, she always knew. That meant Tristan could not rely on her inattention to assassinate her, he had to find a way to trick the contract itself.

First, though, he must establish the opportunity to act. Finding out when the Nineteenth visited their safehouse in the southwestern district was not something he could do himself, given how his days were occupied, but it was easy enough to get one of the Black House servants to track their comings and goings for a bit of coin. From that he learned that every night half the brigade stayed over at that derelict house, and with a bit of legwork come night he was even able to learn why.

They were checking in on a particular mansion in the district at least twice a day, and had an arrangement with the lictors so an eye would kept on it at all times. Song had passed a message that they were looking to bait the contractor killer they were chasing, so odds were that the half of the Nineteenth staying out in town was there so it could come quicker should the bait be taken during the night.

That meant Tristan only had to wait for it to be Tozi’s turn in the rotation, which was easy enough given that the pairs always remained the same: Tozi and Izel, Cressida and Kiran. A lucky arrangement for him, that the two he feared the most would be paired together.

One he had a time and place, the difficult part was obtaining a creature that fit his needs but would not draw too much suspicion.

They’d been told that Tratheke was relatively light on vermin, by virtue of being a glorified giant metal box, and that was true despite entire swaths of the city being uninhabited. There were some animals who dwelled within the walls, though, and some of them were lethal to men. The mud viper was one of them, though its bite only killed half the time according to the locals and it was not a particularly aggressive snake.

Unless you force-fed it bullish grass, anyhow, which made the females of the species extremely sensitive and prone to biting anything warm close to them.

Cressida still put traps on the doors and window whenever she slept over, he’d checked, but the other two did not. The lock was simple enough to pick, and he’d just in case practiced several times to ensure he could do it noiselessly in the dark.

The door itself was creaky, so he opened it as little as he could and did not yet close it. The inside of the house was dark so Tristan waited, crouched, and let himself grow used to the lack of light. Once he could make out his surroundings again he picked up the small box he had brought and made for the stairs. Step after step, creeping silently and pricking his ear. Silence.

The hallway was empty, but to his surprise the ‘bedroom’ door where he had seen the bedrolls was open. He supposed there was no point in closing it if both Tozi and Izel were sleeping inside. Quieting his breath, he crawled to the edge of the door and paused there – he could hear two people breathing, slow and steady. Still sleeping. Rising into a crouch, Tristan brought out the small wooden box and took the lid in hand: the moment he opened it the maddened mud viper tried to smash its way out and he almost dropped the whole thing.

Gritting his teeth he opened the lid all the way, aiming it so the snake slithered into the bedroom, and then put the box between it and his hand so it could not turn to bite him. He backed away hastily, keeping an eye on the brown-scaled viper as it hesitated a moment before it slid deeper into the room. More warmth there, as he’d planned.

Tristan hightailed it out of there as quickly as he could, box in hand, but he’d only reached the door when the shout came. A woman’s voice. He calmly closed the door behind him, sliding the lock back in place, and hid in the empty house next to the Nineteenth’s rental. Now he only had to wait.

Shouting continued, and lights were lit, but no one ran out of the house to go fetch a physician. Tristan sighed. Another sigh resounded from his side.

“Didn’t work,” Fortuna said. “You think her contract woke her?”

She was standing beneath the hole in the ceiling, the glow of some distant light bathing her golden hair in pale.

“I think when the source of her death abruptly changed, it interrupted her sleep,” Tristan said. “It won’t be as simple as catching her while her eyes are closed.”

“They’ll have their guard up now,” the goddess warned.

“Will they?” he asked. “At first, maybe. But the house is full of holes, the snake is not an uncommon sight in Tratheke and the species attacks it feels threatened. So long as I lay off for a time, their guard will lower again.”

Fortuna hummed, looking interested.

“You have another idea?”

“Something like that,” Tristan said. “If I can’t sneak around the contract, then can I overwhelm it?”

The easiest answer was to drug their water with something that would not kill but paralyze them, but there was always the chance that the contract would identify that as a source of death anyhow. A two-part poison would be seen right through, and odds were that a poison becoming lethal on accumulated doses over time would be warned of just before it became lethal. No, before committing to a final plan he needed to discern the limits of the enemy god’s insight. The Three Hundred Ninety-Ninth Brother would warn Tozi about a poison, he knew this.

But how would it warn her of multiple, identical and simultaneous poisons?

--

That Hao Yu would be waiting for her near the gutted ruin in the northwestern ward was only to be expected, but Song had hoped that Ai would be absent. Alas, it was not to be. The contractor, whose true name was ‘Dongmei’, lurked in the shadows along with the head of the local Yellow Earth sect.

“You’re late,” Ai called out.

“I am early,” Song evenly corrected. “Master Yu, good evening.”

“And to you,” the small man replied. “Come, I have something to show you.”

Though Song had coached her language carefully in the letter she sent, requesting help in ‘finding lost property’ instead of what she truly sought, she had expected something more elaborate than the small, worn pawn shop that Hao Yu led them to. Perhaps it was only a meeting place. The owner, a large bald man by the name of Min, ushered them in though his shop was closed.

“Min is a friend of the cause,” Hao Yu told her. “The back of his shop holds something of interest, you will see.”

What it held, Song found, was a cluttered room of useless trinkets with a large flat stone in the middle that was used to hold up a table. Ai set aside said table, then with Min’s help pushed off the stone – revealing a dark, stinking hole.

“This leads into the sewers, I take it,” Song said.

“What Tratheke uses as sewers, anyhow,” Min jovially replied. “They are quite overlarge for such a purpose.”

They changed, plain clothes having been set aside for all of them so they would not stink of sewage later. They took turns behind a paper screen, and once they were done Hao Yu produced a small bronze watch from his clothes, watching the needle turn for a moment. He nodded to himself.

“We must move now,” he said. “The water gate will only be closed for so long.”

There was an iron ladder welded into the wall, so going down into the sewers was quite easy. Song could see what Min had meant: this was quite spacious for sewers, and though the hall was rounded it was still a rather high ceiling. It also stank much less than she would have thought, more like a filthy alley than the literal river of filth she had been expecting. The water channel running through the hall was shallow, and though the water was dirty it was recognizably water still.

Ai took the lead down there, a hooded lantern in hand, while Song followed behind with Master Yu.

“The city uses the canals to flush out the filth,” he told her. “There is an entire network of water gates that balance the levels. We’ve learned the hours some of them are used, and the paths this reveals.”

They must have a dozen more discreet shops like this spread over the city, Song thought, that would allow them to use those hidden roads beneath the ground. Only it was not to the surface that they headed to, but towards the northwestern corner of the great box that was Tratheke. They must have hurried for the better part of a half hour before Ai called a halt, hooding the lantern further until only a small slice of light was emitted.

They crept down the hall, turning a corner, and then Song found a thick iron grid warding entrance into a room. Ai killed the lantern outright and Hao Yu gestured for her to go to the grid. Through the iron barrier Song saw that the channel in the ground continued into a large room, whose ceiling seemed to be fed by brass-like pipes. The rain must have come through there from the surface.

But it was the rest of the room that she paid attention to, because it was a mass of small cells gated by thick iron bars with locks on them. And those cells were packed to the brim.

There must be more than a hundred people down there, Song thought, crammed tight in cells meant to hold half that many. Half-starved in this pit reeking of piss and shit and vomit. She could hear children coughing, the moans of the feverish and the quiet weeping of the desperate. This place was not a prison, it was a monument to cruelty.

“Who are they?” Song whispered.

“Hostages,” Ai quietly replied. “Family to city guards or officials. Even some criminals. They took some nobles too, but those are kept in a different place. Nicer.”

“They even took their own families hostage?” Song asked, genuinely disgusted.

“Did you not wonder how the noble conspirators – traitors even among yiwu - were able to funnel men and weapons into the capital for the better part of a year without one turning on the others?” Hao Yu asked.

His voice was calm, and as he leaned against the wall he seemed almost indifferent. The shaved head, the plucked eyebrows, they should have made his face more expressive but instead they had whittled away expressions. It was his eyes that gave it all away: the violent hatred there for what he beheld, the kind of blaze that could only come from genuine indignation.

There was much that Song disliked about the Yellow Earth, but she would never deny that they believed. They had seen the ugliness in Vesper, the promise of the Feichu Tian – all are free under Heaven – gone unfulfilled and instead of making excuses they’d picked up a spear. She could hate their excesses, and did, but never as much as she would hate the evil they’d set out to quell.

“It is monstrous,” Song said, fingers clenching.

Hao Yu fished out a small bronze watch, ticking on silently, and frowned.

“We must go,” he said. “The water gate will open again soon.”

Song’s eyes stayed on the pity of misery, jaw clenching. She saw more than they could, with those silver eyes of hers that cared for neither dark nor light. Looking at the pus leaking down the wrist of a boy that could not be more than four, her jaw clenched. She could make out the tremors of his arm, smell the foulness in the air.

A single death would be too light a punishment for those who had done this.

Ai roughly grabbed her shoulder, though for once her face was not set in a scowl as she did. Giving in despite the sick feeling in her belly, Song let herself be tugged away. They fled back the way they had come, through the shallow sewage water and the too-wide tunnels, and not a moment too soon: the water had begun to rise out of the channel by the time they reached the ladder, lapping at their feet.

Min pushed the stone aside for them, pulling them into his shop, and provided soap and water to wash off the worst of the stink before they changed back into their street clothes. There was a pot of tea on, some cheap Someshwari leaf, and after setting it out for them along with a small bowl of sticky candies he left and closed the door. The candies were quite dry and hard, probably old, but Song was just glad for anything to eat.

Between that and downing the first cup of tea, it almost washed off the taste that lingered in her mouth.

Hao Yu methodically poured tea for everyone, even Ai who instead of sitting leaned back against the wall with her arms crossed, and kindly waited for Song to begin sipping at her second cup of tea before he spoke.

“I first served among our brethren in Izcalli,” Hao Yu said. “Not one of the sects concerning itself with the candles – that is better left to more martial men than I – but one of those seeking to lay the foundation of a Sunflower Lord’s unseating.”

He paused.

“When I came to Asphodel, fresh from those experiences, part of me thought of it as… not a rest, but a recess of sorts,” the small man said. “How could the aristocrats of this small, fading power compare to the horrors committed by the very Princes of War?”

Hao Yu sipped at his cup, then set it down.

“I learned better, over the years,” he said. “It does not matter whether the crown is great or small. Everywhere that birth can decide that some are men and others not, evil seeps through the cracks. Everywhere.”

“How many in the Council of Ministers are involved?” Song hoarsely asked.

“Enough,” Ai snorted. “And your bosom friend the Lord Rector is no better, Ren.”

Her eyes flicked to Hao Yu, who inclined his head.

“The lictors have silenced at least six souls that we know of who might have had insights on where the entrance to his shipyard lies. Regardless of whether or not the acquisition of that knowledge was accidental.”

Ai laughed unkindly.

“One was a boy of fifteen, a shoe-shiner who we think overheard his betters talk,” she said. “We found his body in a canal.”

Song tried to tell herself it might have been Prefect Nestor, but she could barely finish the sentence even in her own mind. The old prefect was arrogant and blustering but not the sort of man to order the death of a boy without his master’s approval. Song thought back not to the same man she walked through the streets arguing with but to the Lord Rector, the canny-eyed man behind the desk that had granted the Thirteenth audience that first day.

That man, Song thought, he would give the order and not think about it twice.

“I have no illusions as to the kind of man Evander Palliades is,” she evenly replied. “There can be no good king.”

Hao Yu nodded in approval at the quoting of the Feichu Tian, but Ai looked dismissive and snorted again. Much as her attitude rubbed Song raw, the other woman had a point. Song had spent a great deal of time in Evander’s company, and the amount of it where she had wondered what it would be like to kiss him now burned her in her belly like embers of shame.

“He has more respect for what lies under Heaven than his former regent, if largely out of weakness,” Hao Yu said. “The years under Apollonia Floros were darker.”

Song cocked her head to the side.

“I have heard much of her honor and skill as a ruler,” she said, undertone conveying her skepticism about that.

When nobles talked about how honorable one of their own was, it meant that aristocrat was respecting their societal code. Not that they were behaving in a way that any halfway reasonable person would call honorable.

“She treated merchants like a second purse and worked prisoners to death rebuilding the capital,” Ai sneered.

Rebuild? Ah, the attempted coup by Lord Rector Evander’s uncle that Minister Floros had famously put down before assuming the regency. There must have been damage from the fighting.

“Her policies sought to run out of business any trader competing with a noble house for business,” Hao Yu mildly said. “Regardless of whether this improved the lot of the people of Asphodel. She also banned the trade of luxury goods without a license so she could rent these at extortionate prices.”

And his motive for bringing this up was clear as spring water.

“You fear it will be worse should the conspirators seat her on the throne,” Song said.

“Even assuming a largely bloodless coup, she will then spend the following few years effectively sacking the country,” the small man said. “Ambassador Guo has expressed concern at the possibility that merchant fleets will be confiscated outright.”

Which would be a concern for Tianxia, considering the main trading partner of those fleets were the Republics. None of this, however, would be of concern to the Watch. The Conclave’s sole answer to learning of civil strife in Asphodel would be sending more blackcloaks to Stheno’s Peak in anticipation of a glut of contracts on the island. Hao Yu would know this, and still this conversation had taken place.

“You want something from me,” Song stated.

“I do,” Hao Yu politely agreed, reaching inside his plain robe. “The first of my requests is that you read this letter.”

Song’s brow rose but she took the folded paper he handed her. The handwriting was unfamiliar but the characters were neat and crisp, a sign learning. It was Yellow Earth correspondence. Someone going by the moniker of ‘Incense’ was corresponding with someone called ‘Bamboo’, presumably Hao Yu himself. Incense wrote of agitation in Jiushen, some karmaka reincarnate having seized power in the region, but it was the second half of the letter that claimed Song’s attention.

It was about a band of royalist traitors seen crossing the northern border of Jigong into the Someshwar, three of which were identified by name. And nestled between the first and last names was one that had Song’s blood running cold: Haoran Ren.

Her second eldest brother.

Suddenly the room felt cramped, closing from all sides. Gods, gege, the royalists? A pack of traitors backed by foreigners who want to bloodily return the rule of kings. What could Haroan have been thinking, to sign up with Tianxia’s most despised traitors? In some ways he had it the worst of them, having been in Mother’s belly that day when their grandfather caused the Dimming. There had always been an anger in her brother, a sense that he was being punished for his birth, but this was not an answer.

It was adding ink to the spill.

Song’s hands clenched around her teacup. She set down the letter, carefully folding it, and pushed it across the table.

“Interesting,” she said.

Her calm was paper-thin, and like a sheet of paper they saw right through it.

“This is not a threat,” Hao Yu assured her. “I have no influence over whether an attempt to kill him will be made.”

“Consider me reassured,” Song thinly replied.

“What I can say,” the small man continued, “is that your brother’s presence with the royalists is at risk of being made known in order to tar their reputation when they choose to carry out their next plot.”

How despicable her bloodline must be, Song thought, that they would be the ones to tar the royalists instead of the other way around. Even among pools of mud, some sorts were filthier than others.

“Haoran may yet come to his senses,” she began, then forced herself to continue. “If he does not, then the consequences will be on his head.”

Ai laughed.

“The royalists did the Dimming,” she said, playing it up like she was addressing a crowd. “The Ren were royalists the whole time, the Old Devil did it on the Maharaja’s order.”

Song went still, breath caught in her throat. She was going to throw up. Gods, if that rumor was put out… She could save all of Vesper nine times and still everyone with a speck of Ren blood in their veins would be cursed to howling death.

“I have no influence over your brother’s fate,” Hao Yu repeated. “What influence I do have is wielded through the courtesies of the Yellow Earth.”

“I do not understand,” Song croaked out.

“Sects make an attempt not to interfere with each other’s plans,” the small man said. “Should I, for example, promote Song Ren to the people as a heroine of Tianxia…”

“The other sects would refrain from dragging my brother into the public’s eye,” she completed. “Not to endanger your work.”

She closed her fist. They had her. He had her. All it would take for him to undo everything she could ever accomplish was to stay silent.

“What do you want?” Song bit out.

“Information,” Hao Yu replied. “We will not allow Apollonia Floros to rule Asphodel. I would have from you reports on the measures taken by the Lord Rector and the Watch to keep him on the throne.”

That was, Song thought, a small price to pay. Too small a price.

“And what would prevent you,” she said, “from asking more of me?”

Ai pushed off the wall.

“Nothing,” she smiled. “But then only one of us is from a family of traitors twice over, is she? We’re not the side that needs to prove it’s trustworthy.”

Hand on the chisel, Song told herself. Only with every breath, every thought, every look at that sneering zealot and that calm-faced liar, she could feel her fingers slip. The last of her composure filtering through them like sand. She had to leave, to find a cold and empty place where she could close her eyes and think.

Rudely, she pushed away from the table and rose.

“You have given me much to think on,” Song said.

Hao Yu inclined his head.

“There is no hurry,” he said. “Consider your options.”

“Tic, toc,” Ai sang out, the heinous bitch. “Don’t think for too long, Ren.”

The man sent her a quelling look, which she only laughed it.

“You know how to contact us,” Hao Yu said. “A pleasant night to you, Song Ren.”

It was rudeness after rudeness, but Song left without a word. Strode out of there onto the street, ignoring whatever it was Min said to her as she rushed out of his shop, and kept moving as fast as she could without running. She wasn’t sure how long she kept at it, but by the time she stopped her legs were aching and there was sweat running down her back.

Feeling the occasional curious look from the few people out on the street, Song ducked out into an alley.

She turned a corner deeper away from the avenue, finding herself in a dirty dead end of brass walls and boarded-up windows. Song leant her forehead against the wall, closing her eyes, and breathed in. In and out, slowing her heartbeat. She felt like throwing up. Gods, but she could not even hate the Yellow Earth for this. They could not have done a fucking thing, if her own fucking brother had not decided to betray all of Tianxia.

And for what, some pat on the back by some Someshwari raja that’d put a musket in his hand and send him back south to slaughter his countrymen? Was this all so he could have an excuse to shoot at Tianxi, at the people who hated him for being born? Well, they hated Song too and she’d not whined about it. She’d taken action to fix things instead of drinking herself to death or, apparently, turning traitor!

Song slammed a fist against the wall and screamed, screamed until her lungs ached and enough of the storm had bled out she could remember to be afraid of someone coming to look.

“Do I not bear enough stones on my back, brother, that you would go looking for more?” she finally breathed out, panting.

“Ha! Hilarious.”

Blood still high, Song turned. Ai, grinning like some malevolent cat. Dongmei, her true name was, and she almost felt like throwing that in the other woman’s face to see if that wiped off the grin.

“Leave,” she bit out instead. “I have nothing more to say t-”

It took half a heartbeat.

Song’s only warning was when Ai’s eyes turn a cloudy green, as if suddenly covered by cataracts, then the shell erupted from a line crossing down her body. It looked, Song, thought, like green-glazed pottery. Not quite jade or stone, and she got a glimpse of the mask settling over the face – a hungry ghost, with its knotted brow and fat lips curving downwards with a jutting pointed tooth on either side – before the contractor’s hand was on her throat.

Song was slammed against the wall hard enough she saw stars, held up by Ai like she was some insolent kitten. Snarling and choking she reached for her sword but her enemy only laughed.

“Good, then you can shut up and listen.”

The voice came out distorted through the mask, as if rasped out. The shell that looked like glazed pottery, it only covered Ai’s front – stopped two thirds of the way up her head, but on the sides only a few inches past the hipbones.

Song slashed at her blindly around the hip, aiming for flesh, but the steel bounced off the shell with a sound like she had hit stone. It didn’t even leave a mark.

“Now, Hao he thinks you could be good for us,” Ai said. “That cultivating a friend in the Watch, a covenanter at that, it’ll pay off down the line. That it’ll be worth burning a few favors putting in a good word for you.”

Song was choking, and spat on the mask. The other woman casually slapped the sword out of her grip even as her vision began swimming. So strong, and quick enough she crossed the alley’s length in a heartbeat. Gods, what sort of a contract was this?

Ai dropped her and Song fell on her knees, desperately gasping for hair.

“Me?” the contractor continued. “I see a filthy little opportunist that fled the coop. One who’s making cows eyes at a king, who picked up a crippled Malani noble for the bragging rights and drinks with a Sunflower Lord’s daughter.”

“You’re mad,” Song spat out.

“Come now,” Ai laughed, the voice oddly smoky. “Did Tozi Poloko think using her mother’s name was enough to fool us? You’re drinking with the granddaughter of the man who set Caishen’s countryside aflame and you thought we wouldn’t notice? She’s a lot higher up on our lists than the Ren.”

Tozi. Tozi? And it came together, all at once. Captain Tozi, whom the son of a prominent general like Doghead Coyal still deferred to. Who allowed the authority of superior officers with a sort of bemused tolerance and treated her own patron like someone she could chide. Izel had good as told her, she realized, when he mentioned the Ivory Library had connections to great nobles of Izcalli. There were none greater than the Sunflower Lords, save for the king of Izcalli himself.

“Oh, you didn’t know,” Ai mused, looking down on her. “So an incompetent opportunist on top of the rest.”

She tried to get up, but she was kicked back down into the dirt. Ai had made no distance, not attempt to make room. The contractor feared nothing she could do.

“Stay down, yiwu,” Ai said. “You don’t need to be on your feet: this isn’t a conversation.”

She leaned in, pottery mask looming over Song.

“You’re going to give Hao everything he asks for,” Ai ordered. “Because if you don’t, I’ll be going over his head and sending Incense a letter about how Song Ren is sabotaging us in Asphodel. And to the sect in Mazu too, while I’m at it. That is where your little nest of traitors is these days, isn’t it?”

Rage flared.

“If you lay one finger on my family-”

It took her a moment to realize what had happened – she’d been slapped across the face, only it felt like someone had slammed a door into it. Any harder and a tooth would have come loose. She was on the ground, sprawled.

“Do as you are told or die,” Ai plainly said, “and the rest of your filthy bloodline with you.”

Song swallowed a shout of pain, the entire side of her face stinging now that the surprise had passed.

“Yes, you’ll talk,” the contractor said. “And when the time comes, you’ll do me one more favor.”

She stepped back.

“Do that, Song Ren, and I’ll even let Hao drag your name an inch out of the mud without a protest.”

And then she was gone, leaving Song sprawled in the dirt with a swelling face and more rage than she knew what to do with.

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