Pale Lights

Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Black-cloaked watchmen carried away Felis’ body.

What remained of it, anyway: musket balls had turned the man into red rags.

Tristan felt no grief at the sight. If there was a tragedy in Felis it was in who he had been, not who he’d become. Dust, fear and poverty had worn away the good and left the bad in sharp relief. What remained had not endeared him to the thief, though neither had it been deserving of scorn. It did not matter whether a stone was marble or gravel: if you left it at the bottom of the canal long enough it would all be ground into nothing. The Law of Rats was not like the halo of Glare bestowed upon the great estates of the infanzones, some unblinking and unceasing stare. It lived in the spaces between, let in by the lamplights of the Murk growing worn and flickering. Letting in the dark a little further every year.

It was easy to be virtuous when the lights never went out.

The same souls that’d left the Old Fort as three crews returned now as a single crowd, though seemingly twice as wary of each other as before. Tristan had counted them coming in and found only one missing: Aines. There his heart had clenched, if only for a moment. Just another dead rat, he told himself. The same eulogy he would get when his end found him, an unmarked grave made into words.

“Something happened,” Maryam quietly said from his left. “They wouldn’t be like this if Aines had died in a test.”

She was right, Tristan thought. Felis getting dropped had shattered the last remnant of solidarity in the returning crowd, the lot of them scattering in small trusted pockets as if they’d never gone through the trouble of gathering larger crews in the first place. Pressure to come apart, Tristan thought, but there had always been that. That it was now working implied there was no longer stronger pressure for them to stay together. Given the timing and context, one answer stood above the rest.

“They found a path to end of the maze,” Tristan guessed.

“That doesn’t explain why they’re looking at each other like someone’s about to pull a knife,” Maryam replied.

He hummed.

“You think there was a fight?” he asked.

“I think Jun’s been sent company down in Nav,” Maryam said.

The thief cocked an eyebrow at her. The implication he caught – she believed the killer had struck again – but the last word was unfamiliar.

“The place where the dead go,” she said.

“Graves, if they’re lucky,” he said. “Dogs if they’re not.”

“Grim,” she praised.

“I try,” he humbly replied, lips twitching.

Even as they shared smiles, though, his mind raced. Why Aines? The middle-aged woman had been physically weak, but there were others just as vulnerable and she’d rarely been alone. Unless, of course, Felis’ proximity had been the point. To frame the man as an attempt had been made to frame Tristan. That would require, however, some very specific knowledge. Who else knew about the red games, knew there was something to frame Felis for? Lan did and he’d himself told Yong. Probably Tupoc, Tristan figured, and that likely meant Ocotlan. Maryam, of course. None of these fit the shadow on the wall.

“What are you thinking?” Maryam asked.

“That the Watch just shot our best lead,” Tristan replied. “We’re going to have ask about how they reacted after the kill – they didn’t hang anyone for it, but did they investigate?”

If they had, there was a chance that at least one person had been clever enough to ask Felis who else knew about the red games. It’s not necessarily him, the thief then corrected. Tristan himself had come into suspicions that Felis was out to kill his wife through hearing about Aines’ half of the puzzle. Someone else could have done the same. And Lan could have sold the information, he tacked on. Felis had still been the best lead, however. He needed to find out if someone had thought to try that avenue. His eyes flicked to Maryam.

“Can you find out if Lan told anyone about the red game around those two?” he asked.

He could not do so himself, having publicly feigned falling out with the twin. Maryam nodded.

“You really think you can find out who the killer us?” she asked.

“Not enough to prove it,” he said. “But then I’m not angling for a hanging.”

Forcing a truce, keeping the killer away from anyone he was conspiring with, would be more than enough. He wouldn’t mind killing them if he could, given their actions against him, but he already had more than enough revenge on his plate.

“If I can out them, I will,” Maryam warned him.

He grimaced but eventually conceded with a nod. It was not his right to dictate otherwise to her, much as he would prefer otherwise. So long as she was aware he was disinclined to play the savior at her side. Tristan pushed off the wall, wasting no time in seeking out Yong. The Tianxi veteran had carelessly dropped his affairs on the courtyards floor, put his sword on the table and was now pouring himself a drink in a kitchen cup from his own flask. Even from across the table, where Tristan slid into a seat, the smell of the rotgut was biting to the nostrils.

“Thought you’d show up,” Yong said, tone not yet slurred.

Though not for long, Tristan thought as the Tianxi knocked back his cup before filling it anew. The other man’s fingers were shaking, however subtly, and he looked haggard.

“What happened out there?” the thief asked, voice coming out softer than he’d thought it would.

“Someone cut Aines’ throat,” Yong bluntly said. “It went to shit after that. Lots of arguing, everything came apart and then we chose three people to look into it.”

Tredegar was a given, but with Tupoc’s group having lost two – Augusto and Aines – the situation would have been fluid.

“Tredegar and Tupoc and me,” Yong specified, brushing back a loosened bang.

Despite Vanesa’s best efforts, the former soldier’s hair refused to be tame now that the topknot was lost.

“What did you find?” Tristan asked.

Yong leaned over the table, grabbing a second cup from the loose pile of plates and cutlery the Watch left there for trial-takers to use, and set it down in front of the thief. He tipped his flask over it.

“I don’t drink,” Tristan said.

Yong only stopped when the cup was two-third full. The smell of that Watch rotgut was genuinely foul, the grey-eyed man thought.

“Drink anyways,” Yong flatly replied.

Tristan gauged the other man’s expression and found it all too serious. His lips thinned, but he nodded and took the cup in hand. He didn’t actually drink, of course – liquor was a poison worse than nightshade or arsenic, which only ever hurt those who drank it – but he wetted his lips and pretended. Yong downed his cup again, and the thief hoped he would either slow his consumption or quicken his report. He’d soon end up waiting on an unconscious man otherwise.

“Fuck all,” the Tianxi said. “Fuck all is what I found. Lan says Nair and Goel are sleeping together and that Lady Ferranda was up to something shady, but it wasn’t any of them. I got no closer to figuring out who did it.”

Tristan grimaced.

“Felis, did you interrogate him?” he asked.

“Everyone did,” Yong shrugged. “Even Tupoc, though I think that was more about sitting tight on him. He stayed too long for anything else.”

Tupoc Xical. Of course it had to be the inconvenient bastard who figured out the right trail to follow. This did not surprise Tristan, for he had long known fortune to be a disagreeable creature by virtue of having been saddled with the divine equivalent of the concept’s drunken aunt.

“And after?” he pressed.

“We followed the path to some great temple-fortress,” Yong said. “Once we pass that, it’s a straight line to the end of the maze.”

“With tests on it?” the thief frowned.

“Presumably,” Yong shrugged.

The Tianxi poured himself another cup. This would serve as a bare bones report, but learning a fuller picture would have to wait until Maryam got it out of Lan or he found an opportunity to speak with Isabel Ruesta. Tristan studied the other man, wondering what it was about the recent deaths that’d shaken him so. He’d not been like this when Sanale died, or the other deaths since. And he must have presented sober enough to be picked by the others after Aines died, so it shouldn’t be that either.

“Was Felis on dust for the way back?” he tried.

The older man laughed at him, the sound slightly slurred.

“You think I see myself in him?” Yong said. “You’re still young, Tristan. The need, it’s not a coterie or a regiment - you don’t feel for the others who have it. It’s just as selfish as any other hunger.”

The thief’s face tightened.

“Then what is it about his death that pulled out your seams?” he asked.

Yong breathed out slowly, shallowly.

“What’s the most muskets you’ve ever heard fired at once, Tristan?” he asked.

“Just now,” he replied without hesitation.

Blackpowder was hardly unheard of in the Murk, but no coterie cared to wield muskets carelessly. A shot in the back once in a while drew little attention, but thirty men unloading down a street? That was the sort of thing the Guardia would make a point of stamping out, Murk or not. Yong filled his cup to the brim.

“Past a certain number of muskets it doesn’t really matter how many were fired,” the older man said. “It all sounds the same to our ears - we’re only so good at picking out sounds, you see.”

Tristan’s belly clenched.

“It sounded like a volley.”

“It’d been a long time since I heard that,” Yong softly said. “Gods, but I wish it had been longer.”

The thief had meant to ask more of him, to make his offer, but it could wait. At this rate the Tianxi would collapse into bed soon anyway. If he could even get back to it. Tristan feigned drinking again, lips burning from the strength of the rotgut. He was planning how to take his leave when Yong cut through.

“My turn to ask questions,” he said. “There’s a rope ladder out there, one leading into the pillar. What happened?”

The thief laid it all out from the beginning, all the way to the god waiting behind the broken lock and the existence of the lift he had confirmed.

“And you think it’ll lead to a way past the maze?” Yong asked.

“It has to,” Tristan said. “The devils got all these shrines in here somehow, and it was not the way the Watch is using. Besides, the Antediluvians would have wanted a way to access their ceiling device without needing to go the long way around every time.”

“Don’t assume that,” Yong warned. “There’s no way to reach the Luminaries back in Tianxia.”

“Those are set in firmament,” Tristan argued. “This is much smaller in scale.”

Yong hummed, then after a long time nodded.

“All right,” he said. “Who are you thinking of taking in? We’ll need muskets, unless you want to rely on the Watch to get rid of the god for you.”

“I don’t believe we need to kill the god,” Tristan said. “Only drive it off. We don’t need a regiment, we need a good shot and salt munitions. Between that and Sarai’s Signs, we should be able to get to the lift safely even if it’s lying in wait.”

“And I’m your good shot,” Yong said.

When sober, yes, Tristan thought.

“How are you going to get salt munitions?”

“I am going to ask politely,” he replied with a pleasant smile.

The Tianxi snorted.

“Fine, keep it close to your chest,” he said. “And you’re certain the Watch will let us try for the lift?”

“Yes.”

His suspicion was that Lieutenant Vasanti wouldn’t let him go in with a crew, only alone, because she was greedy for the knowledge inside. How fortunate for him that Lieutenant Vasanti was not the only officer in the Old Fort. That bargain would cost him, but he had arranged to make it later tonight anyway.

“This might be riskier than heading into the maze again,” Yong finally said.

Tristan mustered arguments in his mind, but held back. He would let the Tianxi think it through first at least.

“But then the tests are getting nastier and I’m not a victor yet,” the older man said, stroking his beard. “Not to mention there’s a chance I’ll get a visit in the night.”

His face tightened.

“One musket is little,” Yong finally said. “Let me try to rope Lady Ferranda into this.”

Ferrand Villazur, despite her deplorable birth, had proved reliable. He could live with the mild discomfort of relying on an infanzona, should she accept.

“So long as she swears secrecy first,” Tristan replied.

The other man nodded.

“And if Ferranda declines?” the thief pressed.

“You are still the better horse,” Yong said, passing a hand through his hair.

The former soldier tried to rise, but his limbs were numb. Tristan half-rose himself, helping him back down onto the bench.

“You can talk to Lady Ferranda later, at dinner,” he said. “Maybe take a nap first.”

“Maybe,” Yong said.

But his eyes were back on the flask and his cup empty once more. The thief had no intention of staying to see what would come that.

“We will talk later,” he said.

Yong dismissed him with a wave of the hand, which was no longer trembling. Tristan grimaced. It was not his place to pass judgement. He left in haste, though, and was relieved when Maryam caught his eye from where she sat at Lan’s side. The pale-skinned woman shook her head. So Lan had not sold information about Aines and Felis. That cut down on the possibilities. Who else had been in Tupoc’s crew aside from the now-dead pair? Ocotlan, Lan, Augusto. It could not be Augusto, who had not been present for the second killing, and Ocotlan would not have been so discreet. As for Lan, she would not have murdered her own sister.

Her grief after had been too raw to be false.

It must have been someone from another crew, then. Chasing every face, every possibility, would be a waste of time. Besides, there were too many secrets still being kept for him to be able to figure out a culprit from what he knew. He had to follow the secret he did know about, which meant it all went back to Felis and Aines. If Felis had been the source of the leak, Tupoc should know. That meant the Izcalli’s whereabouts were worth a second look. And, interestingly enough, when Tristan had said look the Aztlan was missing. As was Yaretzi.

Asking around would have drawn attention, been too telling, so instead the thief chased them on his own. There were only so many places for them to go, here in the Old Fort, which led him to the answer soon enough: they were not in the Old Fort.

They had gone back out of the walls to have a look at the rope ladder and the new opening in the pillar, the two of them standing out in the open. Tristan did not try to hide from the blackcloaks as he passed through the breach, but after that kept to the shadows of the rampart as he snuck closer to the pair. They were talking, and the conversation did not look to be pleasant. Yaretzi, for all that her expression was calm, held herself tensely. Her hand was not far from her long knife. Tupoc, on the other hand circled around her like a vulture while grinning. The man’s good moods were rarely an indication of pleasantness for anyone else.

“-of you working for free?” Tupoc was saying. “Bad for business, Turquoise.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the other Izcalli evenly replied. “If you want to accuse me of being the killer, Tupoc, do it in front of everyone.”

She gave him a hard look.

“Only you won’t, because you’re fishing,” she said. “You’re just another warrior society prick trying to get a flinch out of people because that’s the only thing that still gets you off.”

Fuck, Tristan thought. Tupoc doesn’t know who it was. He wouldn’t be pressing someone without proof like this if he did. Which meant Felis had not been the one to talk, it’d been Aines. That would be a much harder trail to follow, if it was possible at all. He’d not kept all that close an eye on Aines, and could not think of anyone who might have. The thief had what he’d come for, but lingered in the shadows nonetheless. This talk had the sound of a secret to it, and you could never have too many of those.

“Oh, I don’t have enough to strangle you with,” Tupoc cheerfully admitted. “But I know one thing: that wasn’t the omacaliztli stance in the labyrinth. When your life is on the line, you don’t fight like a diplomat.”

“You’re-”

Tupoc, thought listening to the other Aztlan, suddenly took a wary look around. It gave Yaretzi pause. Time to go, Tristan thought. He had no intention of being caught eavesdropping.

The moment Tupoc looked away, he retreated.

--

There was no need to find a way to talk to Isabel Ruesta because she found it for him.

A whisper transitioned into playacting, the infanzona sitting on the bench closest to his bedroll as he went to fetch his medicine cabinet. Some parts of it, anyway. He’d obtained pure alcohol and some bandages from the Watch physician a few days back – the man had been adamantly against opening his stocks for anything more – so the thief found himself kneeling before the dark-haired noblewoman and cleaning her ‘wound’ with a liquor-drenched cloth. It was but a small cut on the back of the hand, not nearly enough to warrant the garrison doctor’s attentions and so a decent excuse to go to him instead. Had she done it herself?

He did not care enough to speculate.

“I told Remund that his hovering would make me uncomfortable,” Isabel murmured, “but we only have so long.”

Tristan smiled, nodded.

“I expect the day after tomorrow we might reach the end of the maze,” she said. “Now is the time to act.”

“Can you get me into your crew?” he asked.

“I will tell Angharad you asked if her invitation still stood,” Isabel said. “It will be more than enough.”

There was no doubt at all in her voice. She sat there, comfortably looking down on him as he swiped across the wound one last time and reached for bandages. He was surprised the infanzona had not flinched at the sensation of alcohol on an open cut, however slight. Tristan had thought her mettle strictly of the scheming kind.

“How will you do it?” she asked.

“Is there a room where it will be easy to split up the group?”

She nodded as he wrapped the bandages around her hand.

“Before the mirror hall there is a room with a wheel and three gates, it is certain we will get separated there,” Isabel said.

“Then I will go with him,” the grey-eyed man said, “and return to the Old Fort after.”

The infanzona slowly nodded.

“To withdraw,” she guessed.

“I came here for revenge,” Tristan said. “Why risk my neck beyond obtaining it?”

Isabel lowered her head in acknowledgement.

“May your sister rest easy afterwards,” she murmured. “Good luck, Tristan. If we do not speak again, it has been a pleasure.”

Tristan only smiled back, tying off the last of the bandage and rising to his feet. They had already lingered too long, he could feel eyes at his back. Lady Isabel must have felt the same, for she departed without as quickly as she could without being rude. Tredegar would soon appear to fuss over the bandages, no doubt. Fortuna strolled out from behind him, artfully arraying herself on the bench just vacated by the infanzona and brushing back her curls as if posing for a painter.

“Why did you lie about the Trial of Weeds?” she asked.

Tristan feigned a yawn, covering his mouth.

“Because she is a snake,” he replied. “If she thinks she will be rid of me after it is done, she is less likely to scheme to have me killed.”

He would, after all, be a loose end for the infanzona. Someone who knew she had bargained for the death of a member of House Cerdan, a secret she could easily be extorted over. Tristan somewhat expected she would still try to have him disappeared, but at least until the deed was done he was safe: she had no other executioner to call on. As for after, well, he did not intend to follow her back to Sacromonte where a word out of her mouth would be able to summon a dozen armed guards.

“She’s interesting, that girl,” Fortuna mused. “Just the right combination of foolish and clever.”

Now he almost felt bad for the infanzona. Had there even been praise more damning than the Lady of Long Odds approving of your character?

Lips twitching, he picked up his affairs and returned to his bedroll where the cabinet waited. It was still mangled from the Trial of Lines, and sadly he did not have skill enough at carpentry to fix it beyond the very basics. In truth, it was probably no longer worth it: there was little left inside, nothing he could not move into a bag with some care and forethought. The limping gait that approached from behind as he stood there needed no introduction. There was only one person in the Old Fort using crutches.

“Vanesa,” he said, turning to face the old woman.

Her face was pale, he saw with a flicker of worry.

“Tristan,” she grimaced. “I hate to ask, but do you have anything in your cabinet for pain?”

He shook his head.

“All the substances I have left are poisonous to some degree or another,” he told her. “Save for the turpentine, which would do nothing for pain.”

Not entirely so, as the extract of the bearded cat mushroom only induced violent madness, but he had been broadly exact. Neither white arsenic, mandrake or antimony would be of any help to Vanesa. Even as a way to end the pain, he would recommend against them. None were gentle poisons.

“Are you quite certain?” she pressed, sole eye steady on the cabinet.

“Nothing pleasant would come of anyone drinking from those bottles,” he firmly said. “Shall we go ask the physician for another dose of poppy?”

“My dosage is already too high, he says,” Vanesa told him. “Any more and I would be in danger.”

“Poppy is a strong drug,” Tristan said. “It might be best for you to sit and rest, perhaps. At least for a little while.”

“I might sleep through dinner,” the old woman conceded. “My appetite wanes.”

Which was not, he thought, at all a good sign. But the outcome had never been in doubt from the moment Vanesa refused the amputation. If they could reach the sanctuary before the third trial, however, if a safe end were in sight? Then, he thought, perhaps she could be talked into reconsidering.

“Besides,” Vanesa tiredly said, “there is more than one kind of pain. Poor Brun, it is as if the boy is cursed.”

He cocked an eyebrow.

“How so?”

“First he was sweet on that girl Briceida who was taken by the hollows,” she said. “And now poor Aines, killed in the night.”

Tristan stilled.

“They were close?” he asked with forced lightness.

“They diced after supper sometimes,” Vanesa said. “I am not surprised you never noticed – Felis was a jealous sort so they kept it out of sight.”

Brun. Brun had been talking with Aines since they reached the Old Fort, perhaps learning about the red game. Tristan’s mind raced, looking over the angles. The Sacromontan had a contract, one that could be used to sense people but whose workings remained unclear. Brun had been there every time there was a death. Motive? No, best not to guess too hard at that. Digging blindly at a stranger’s motives was a waste of time. Who else could it be?

Ishaan, perhaps helped by Shalini, but none of the deaths had ever been to the advantage of the Ramayans. Yaretzi, but whatever it was about her that Tupoc thought he’d found it muddled the waters. There were only so many terrible secrets someone could bring at a time. Not Song, she is here for the same reason as Maryam. Neither should it be the infanzones, whose venom was turned inwards, and that left only three: Acanthe Phos, Yong and Ferranda.

And Tredegar, if you needed a laugh.

The Asphodelian’s contract did not fit, however, and Tristan’s personal doubts aside Yong often went to sleep drunk. Unfit to commit murder. That left Ferranda Villazur and he misliked her for the deeds. For one, she and Sanale had been alone with Lan for some time before Tristan’s crew stumbled into them. It might have been that Sanale was unaware of his lover being a killer so she had refrained, but that was a tortured plot. That left Brun, the polite young man in the corner who everyone liked, who had been making all the right decisions. It might be that the fair-haired Sacromontan had a knack, Tristan thought.

Or it might be that his contract was not what it seemed.

“Tristan?”

The thief shook his head, smiling at Vanesa.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was lost in thought. Poor Brun indeed.”

The old woman patted his shoulder.

“You should rest as well,” she said. “You look tired.”

“Soon,” he said.

There were still two talks left ahead of him.

--

Brun of Sacromonte had the kind of features that most people found handsome in men: good skin, symmetrical face and a strong jawline. Good looks, good manners and a calm demeanor likely left few to guess he came from the Murk, but Tristan had been able to tell from the start. It was in the little habits, the way the man always put a wall behind him when he could but avoided being in corners.

It was the way someone small around larger folk with little kindness learned to act.

The other man – only a few years older than Tristan, going by his appearance – was cleaning his pistol when the thief sought him out. He only used half the bench with the work, which left enough room for Tristan to sit. Brun’s eyes flicked up, took him in and then he put down the cloth and pistol.

“Tristan, isn’t it?” Brun said. “We haven’t talked much.”

“No, we haven’t,” Tristan smiled. “Yet somehow I feel as if I know you.”

Brun cocked his head to the side, then discreetly curled his fingers into the Mark of the Rat.

“You know better than to have to ask that,” the thief replied.

The fair-haired man shrugged.

“It felt polite to pretend,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Tristan?”

“I have a problem, Brun,” he lightly said.

“I am keeping my nose clean,” the other rat replied, tone apologetic. “Joining the Watch is to be a fresh start for me.”

“That’s exactly what I want,” Tristan agreed. “A fresh start. It’s a different sort of world out here, isn’t it? All these rules, all these walls.”

The man calmly met his eyes.

“I don’t follow your meaning,” Brun said.

“Bad habits take a while to shake,” the thief said. “But I’m not a redcloak, Brun, and the black’s a few weeks away yet. I’m not one to judge.”

The man looked lost. Tristan might even have believed him, if those eyes had wavered at all.

“I don’t know what-”

“Sarai,” he said. “Yong. Francho. Vanesa. Lan. If something happened to them, I would be most terribly cross.”

“Tristan,” Brun patiently said. “Evidently you came to believe I am involved in something, but-”

The thief leaned in close.

“I’m not asking you to confess, Brun,” he quietly said. “Not even to nod. We both know you won’t. I am simply telling you that if you come for me or one of mine, you will find out you are not the only one who can cut throats in the night. And there will be no silencing me, either: I have told others, so your little secret has already spread too widely to be buried.”

Maryam had agreed they did not have enough to get the man hanged, though she had reserved the right to tell others. Francho had not even needed to be asked to keep quiet, the old man fascinated by the entire affair but disinclined to intervene.

“This is ridiculous,” Brun sighed. “If you believe I am the killer, by all means put it to everyone. I will prove my innocence.”

“You very well might,” Tristan shrugged. “Which is why I see no reason to bother.”

“That is disturbing in many ways,” the man noted. “I believe this has gone on long enough: please leave.”

“I think we understand each other,” the thief agreed, rising and stretching his limbs.

He paused, and on a whim said one thing more.

“Would you say the world is loud, Brun?” he asked.

The man looked like he’d just found a knife slid into his belly, but it was only for half a heartbeat. The calm politeness was back in place after that. But there was wariness in those green eyes now, something that’d not been there before.

“No, Tristan,” Brun finally replied. “I find it, in truth, to be frightfully quiet.”

And the thief was not sure why, but there was something about than answer that sent a shiver down his spine.

--

Meeting was never going to be difficult.

Meeting discreetly however, had been another story. Passing a message through Sergeant Mandisa had yielded results, an hour and a place. The rest he had arranged himself. After supper Tristan had a quick conversation with Angharad Tredegar, who confirmed he was welcome to venture out with her on the morrow. Riding that arrangement as an excuse, he returned to the Watch’s armory to acquire equipment that would help him scale the broken remains of the crystal mirror maze as was planned by Tredegar and her companions.

Lieutenant Wen was waiting for him inside, biting into an apple.

The man was wearing his spectacles and he leaned against an empty sword rack, loudly crunching the fruit’s flesh. When he swallowed, loudly, Tristan nodded a greeting.

“Lieutenant,” he said.

“Pissant,” Wen easily replied. “You told Mandisa you have something important to tell me. I should not need to tell you there would be consequences to wasting my time.”

Pretend you’re not interested all you want, Tristan thought, you still arranged a meeting where Vasanti wouldn’t see us.

“I need salt munitions,” he said. “For muskets and pistols.”

Lieutenant Wen bit into his apple, loudly chewing and swallowing. He only spoke after.

“One,” he said.

“One?” Tristan repeated.

“I’m counting the number of times you’re going to tell me something I could have you shot for,” Wen said. “But please, do go on. You were able to tell me why I should entrust a bottom-feeder expensive munitions that are the property of the Watch.”

“I want to lead a team into the pillar,” he said. “I’ve found a path to the summit I haven’t told Vasanti about.”

“Two,” Wen counted, then took another bite.

He ate more quickly this time, not drawing it out for effect.

“I fail to see why that means I should give you munitions,” the lieutenant said. “I’m feeling like confiscating some of yours, in truth, so that I can hear you die horribly through the door and then argue for it to be welded shut forever.”

“Because if I don’t get there first, Lieutenant Vasanti will,” Tristan said.

Wen looked unimpressed. I’m losing him, the thief thought.

“So she’ll get what she wants, leave and I won’t have to deal with her next year,” he said. “Are you done wasting my time?”

What did Wen want? Besides being thoroughly unpleasant to everyone and a second helping at every meal, what did Lieutenant Wen actually want? Tristan’s eyes narrowed.

“Next year,” he repeated. “You will still be here next year. There’s no debate, your posting is already decided and you know it.”

Wen’s face tightened in anger, and Tristan knew he had found his angle.

“Do you like it here, lieutenant?” the thief asked.

“It’s being strangled to death every day, only I have to wake up the following morning and go to work,” Lieutenant Wen mildly said.

“What if there were no longer a reason for a garrison to be posted at the Old Fort?” he asked. “If, say, the laws that created this maze were suddenly changed to make it untenable.”

The fat lieutenant watched him for a long moment.

“Three,” he finally said, and bit into his apple.

Tristan kept his face calm as he was studied through the spectacles.

“Standing orders are that should anyone outside the garrison ever figure out what the Red Eye is, they cannot leave the island alive,” Wen idly said. “But you didn’t figure out anything, did you Tristan?”

The dark-haired thief went very, very still. He’d not thought he had given away anything, but he had been sloppy. Wen, beneath the bluster and colorful language, was dangerously canny.

“You mean the cult’s god?” he asked, lips dry.

“You’re a fucking fool,” Wen said. “Do you think you’re the first clever rat that disappeared during the second trial? The higher-ups always knew on occasion someone would figure it out.”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed.

“And yet you haven’t called for other watchmen,” he said.

Silence stretched between them.

“Do you know what it really means to be part of the Watch, boy?” Lieutenant Wen finally said. “Once you strip away all the lies and the propaganda and the prettied-up history?”

He slowly shook his head.

“We kill the things that feed on mankind,” Wen said, and for once there was not a trace of a sneer in his voice. “When horror comes crawling out of the box, we slam the lid on its fingers.”

The large Tianxi straightened his back.

“For the first century,” he said, “we looked for ways to kill the Red Eye. Tried everything from Signs to aether machines, spent a fortune on this nowhere shithole island. But nothing took, and there were so many other monsters that couldn’t be locked up for so cheap a price. And it cost coin, Tristan, to kill those other monsters. Men and steel and ships.”

“So they stopped trying,” Tristan quietly said.

“When I tried two years ago, the request to allocate funds for new attempts didn’t even make it to the Conclave,” Wen said. “Commander Artal took one look at the paper and laughed. The committee responsible for our region wouldn’t even read it, he said. I might as well wipe my ass with it, at least it’d accomplish something.”

Lieutenant Wen’s expression darkened.

“Whatever you find up there, boy, you’re not just going to play around with it,” he said. “Vasanti might be able to fix that. It’ll change nothing.”

The watchman leaned forward, the light of lamp reflecting against his glasses to hid his eyes.

“It’s a wonder of the Ancients up there, Tristan Abrascal, and you are going to break it.”