Though if Mia actually
had
a fortune, Ash would’ve likely stolen it by now, friends or no …
Mouser’s lessons were becoming as eclectic and eccentric as the Shahiid himself. He devoted several hours a week to teaching what he called Tongueless,
1
and insisted all conversations in his hall be conducted in the language thereafter. In another lesson, Mouser wheeled a wooden tank into the Hall of Pockets. It was filled with dirty water, a handful of lockpicks scattered on the bottom. He proceeded to bind the acolytes’ hands and feet with leaden manacles and push them in one by one.
To his credit, the Shahiid seemed rather pleased nobody drowned.
Lessons in the Hall of Masks were more subtle, and in truth, far more enjoyable. The acolytes were still sent out regularly into Godsgrave, and Mia spent a dozen nevernights lurking in various taverna, working on her wordcraft and plying folk with drink and pretty smiles. She had two young and rather handsome members of the Administratii on a string, and overheard some juicy gossip in a portside brothel about a violent coup among the local braavi. Aalea accepted Mia’s new secrets with a smile and a kiss to each cheek. And if she noticed a change in Mia after the eve she spent in Tric’s bed, the Shahiid politely refused to comment.
In the turns after that night, Mia had resisted the impulse to smile at the boy over mornmeal or stare overlong during lessons. In the interests of keeping her distance, she’d told him she needed no more lessons in bladework. Mia knew letting anything more grow between them would be stupid, and for his part, Tric at least pretended to understand. Still, sometimes she’d catch him staring from the corner of her eye. At night, alone in her room, she’d slip her hand between her legs and try not to picture his face. She succeeded, some of the time.
As time wore on and initiation loomed, testing intensified. Mia had her vendetta against Scaeva and his dogs to keep her focused on her lessons, but every acolyte knew what was at stake. Another of their number had been killed since the Great Tithe masquerade; a boy named Leonis, who had his throat crushed by a stray swing in the Hall of Songs and suffocated before Marielle could be summoned.
Of the twenty-nine acolytes who’d started training, only fifteen remained. And then came the incident ever after referred to as “the Blue Morning.”
It began as crises usually did; with Mister Kindly’s now familiar whisper.
“…
beware
…”
Opening her eyes, Mia drew her stiletto, instantly awake. She could hear a faint hissing noise. Looking up, she noticed one of the stones in the ceiling above her bed had slid away, and a thin vapor was seeping into her chamber. It danced in the air like cigarillo smoke, slow and vaguely blue.
Crouching low, Mia scrambled to her door and twisted the key, only to find the lock held fast. Ever wary of needletraps since Mouser and Spiderkiller’s earlier lessons, she slipped on a heavy leather glove, rattled the handle. It refused to budge.
“Well, shit.”
“…
mia
…”
She glanced over her shoulder, saw more of the bluish vapor trickling in. The flow was thickening, the air growing hazy. Mia could taste something acrid on the back of her tongue. Her eyes starting to burn. The symptoms, at least, she knew by rote.
“Aspira…,” she breathed.
“…
another test
…”
“And I was planning on sleeping in.”
She grabbed a shirt off the floor, doused it in water from her nightstand and wrapped it about her face. Aspira induced paralysis and death by slow suffocation. It was heavier than air, and nonflammable in gaseous form. Mia knew the antidote well, though she had none of the materials to make it. But a damp rag over her mouth would hold the vapor at bay for a few minutes at least; long enough to ponder an escape.
Her eyes scanned the room, mind racing.
The key wouldn’t budge, and slamming her shoulder against her door only resulted in a bruise. The hinges were affixed with iron nails; she could pry them out, but that would take
time
, and more than a few minutes’ exposure to aspira would end with a quiet service in the Hall of Eulogies and an unmarked tomb.
Pressing her cheek to the floor, she peered under her door. She could hear coughing. The sounds of heavy objects being slammed against wood. Faint cries. Cool, fresh air seeped in through the crack, along with the sounds of growing panic. If the acolytes failed to escape their rooms, every single one of them was going to die.
“Maw’s teeth, they’re not playing about anymore,” she hissed.
“…
the pressure will only increase between now and initiation
…”
Mia caught her breath.
Looking at the crack beneath her door. The hole in the ceiling.
“Pressure,” she whispered.
She grabbed a bottle of whiskey off her nightstand, poured it onto the plush gray fur covering her bed. Snatching up her cigarillos and striking her flintbox, she touched it to the bed and stepped back. With a dull
whump
, the goldwine burst into flame. Mia crouched near the door, watching the fire catch, her bed soon burning merrily.
“…
there may be a metaphor in here somewhere
…”
The temperature rose, hot air and smoke and aspira vapor all warming in the blaze, sucked back up through the hole in the ceiling. Mia snatched up one of the dozen knives littering the room, and dug it into the first nail securing the hinges to her door.
The bed was a bright, crackling ball of flame now. Smoke was being drawn up into the ceiling along with the aspira, but Mia’s eyes were still watering, her throat burning. One by one, she pried the nails free, dropping them to the floor with dull metallic
plunks
. Finally, enough were loose that the door was barely secured, and a few running kicks saw it burst its remaining anchors and sail into the corridor.
Mia stumbled free, coughing, blinking tears from her eyes. Spiderkiller and Mouser were standing at the end of the hall. The Shahiid of Pockets was marking off names in a leather-bound ledger. The dour Shahiid of Truths favored Mia with a smile.
“Mornmeal will be served in the Sky Altar in fifteen minutes, Acolyte,” she said.
Mia caught her breath, stepping aside as two Hands entered her room to douse her bed. She saw Carlotta’s room was open, the lock shattered like glass. Osrik’s door was a charred ruin. A long tube of rolled-up parchment protruded from under Hush’s door, the sound of steady breathing spilling from its mouth. As she watched, the apparently jammed lock on Ashlinn’s door still somehow clicked open, and the girl sauntered out into the corridor, pocketing her picks with a wink.
“Morning, Corvere,” she grinned.
Mia’s eyes found Tric’s door, relieved that it was already ajar. Leaving the stink of aspira and smoke behind, she and Ash trudged up to the Sky Altar, found Tric and Osrik already sitting at table with Carlotta. Tric was watching the stairs, visibly brightening when he saw Mia. Lotti was bent over a leather-bound book, scribbling notes and asking Osrik quiet questions. The boy was leaning close, radiating easy charm, his lips curled in a handsome smile.
Fetching breakfast, Ash and Mia sat down beside the trio. A glance told Mia that Carlotta was working on some kind of poison, though oddly, it didn’t seem related to Spiderkiller’s formula. Her notes were written in code—looked to be some variant of the Elberti sequence mixed with homebrew.
Clever work for a former slavegirl.
“Well, I’m not surprised to find Lotti up here first. If it’s venom, she knows it.” Ash glanced at Tric. “But how the ’byss did you get out so quick, Tricky?”
“O, ye of little faith.”
“Let me guess. Bashed the door down with your head?”
“Didn’t have to,” Tric waggled his eyebrows. “I smelled the aspira before they had a chance to jam the locks. Poked my head into the corridor to see what was happening, Mouser called me a rude word in Tongueless and sent me up here.”
Ashlinn grinned. “Quite a nose you’ve got there, Tricky.”
Tric shrugged, glanced to Mia. “How’d you manage it?”
Mia was watching the stairwell. More acolytes were filing into the Sky Altar now. Jessamine, Hush, Diamo, Marcellus … but there were still half a dozen acolytes missing. Ash was already joking about it, but downstairs, some of their number were likely dying. People they knew. People who …
She realized the others were looking at her expectantly, waiting for the particulars of her escape.
“Pressure differential,” she explained. “Hot vapor rises through the hole in the ceiling. Draft under the door brings in fresh air. Simple convection, outlined by Micades back in fourteen…”
Mia’s voice died beneath three blank stares.
“She set fire to her bed,” Carlotta finally offered, not glancing up from her notes.
Ash looked between Mia and Tric. Opened her mouth to speak as Mia cut her off.
“Not. A. Fucking. Word.”
With a knowing grin, Ash turned back to her meal.
Three turns later, Mia was sitting on her brand-new bed, the charred smell of the old one still hanging vaguely in the air. Another of their number had perished during the Blue Morning—a quiet lad named Tanith who’d honestly never been much of a master of Truths. Another unmarked tomb in the Hall of Eulogies.
Another acolyte who would never again see the suns.
Mia was surrounded by notes, working again on Spiderkiller’s formula. Cigarillo propped on her lips, she pored over
Arkemical Truths
and the dozen tomes the Shahiid had given her novices. Mia had to admire the beauty of Spiderkiller’s quandary—trying to solve it was like trying to find a single piece of hay in a stack of poisoned needles. But still, she delighted in the riddle. Like that little girl and her puzzle box. Her mother’s voice ringing in her head.
“Beauty you’re born with, but brains you earn.”
Don’t look.
“…
you will miss dinner, mia
…”
“Yes, Father.”
“…
your stomach seems to be growling some forgotten dialect of ashkahi
…”
She looked up from her notes, the formulae still dancing in the air. Put a hand to her rumbling belly. The answer was there, she knew it. But still tantalizingly out of reach.
“All right. This will keep.”
The Sky Altar was filled with acolytes, mouthwatering smells wafting from the bustling kitchens. The Shahiid weren’t present—no doubt at some faculty gathering to discuss progress among the novices—but black-robed Hands bustled about, serving wine and clearing away crockery.
Mia heaped a plate with roast lamb and honeyed greens, plopped down beside Ash and Carlotta and started shoveling her meal down without pause. Lotti was busy scribbling in her notebook. Ash was talking about a bar brawl she’d seen when the girls were in Godsgrave looking for secrets; a few malcontents had spoken against Consul Scaeva and his “emergency powers” and had been set upon by half a dozen braavi thugs who apparently found the consul’s rule more than satisfactory.
2
“City seems angry,” Ash declared around a mouthful of lamb.
Mia nodded. “More Luminatii on the streets than I’ve ever seen.”
“Prettier than the soldier boys I’m used to seeing in Carrion Hall, too.”
“One-track mind, Järnheim.”
The girl grinned, waggled her eyebrows as her brother studiously ignored her. Mia looked to Carlotta, still busy scribbling notes.
“How goes it?” Mia asked.
“Slowly,” the girl murmured, scanning the page. “Just when I think I have the tiger by the tail, it turns and bites me. But I’m close. Very close, I think.”
Mia’s belly did a flip. If Lotti beat her to the punch in Spiderkiller’s contest …
“You think it’s wise to bring those notes to dinner?” Osrik asked.
“I should leave them in my room so Dona Busyfingers here can lift them?”
Carlotta raised an eyebrow at Ash. The girl had scored dozens of points in Mouser’s game by filching items and jewelry from other acolytes. Mia knew it was nothing personal, but she made damn sure to stay out of Ash’s reach when she could. Even Osrik sat away from striking range at dinner.
Ash tried to muster protest around her mouthful, almost choked herself, and finally settled for raising the knuckles.
“As I say”—Carlotta turned back to Mia—“safer to keep them clo—”
“
Look out
!”
With a curse and a crash, a passing Hand stumbled and fell onto Carlotta and Mia, dropping his laden tray with a bang. A half-filled jug and dirty dishes smashed over the table, splashing the acolytes with leftovers and wine. Carlotta snatched up her notes as the liquor soaked them through, the ink running and blurring. She untangled herself from the horrified servant, sodden pages crumpled in her fist. And as the Hand asked forgiveness, she stood, glaring at the tall Itreyan boy who’d knocked the servant over.
Diamo.
“Terribly sorry,” he said, helping the Hand to his feet. “My fault entirely.”
Carlotta gave the boy her dead-eye stare, not even blinking.
“You did that on purpose,” she said softly.
“An accident, Mi Dona, I assure you.”
Mia heard soft laughter. Turning, she saw Jessamine watching the proceedings with a poison smile. Carlotta heard the sound too, staring as Jess raised her glass in a toast. Soaked papers in hand, Lotti walked calmly over to stand before the redhead.
“My notes are ruined,” she reported.
“I hope they weren’t important?” Jessamine smirked. “You’re not fool enough to bring your venomcraft to the table, are you, little slavegirl?”
Carlotta’s hand rose to the cheek where her arkemical brand used to be.
“No man owns me,” she said softly.
“
I’ll
own you if you don’t step away, little bookworm. Spiderkiller’s not here to save you now.” Jess turned back to her meal with a sneer. “Now take your precious notes and go weep in a corner before I gift you a new hole.”
Diamo’s face split in a smug grin. Mia and Ashlinn shared a pained glance. It was no secret Jessamine was one of Solis’s favorites, and one of the most skilled acolytes in the Hall of Songs. Carlotta was booksmart, but no match for Jess in a knock-down scrap. The redhead was just rubbing Lotti’s nose in it now, knowing the other girl was too smart and even-tempered to start a fight she couldn’t win.