Mi’s st few weeks had been fraught with frustration.

  The announcement of Apomasaics in her own csses had been a gift from the spirits themselves. Everything she had been searching for, everything she had been trying to work out piecemeal and in secret for years, abruptly delivered right into her p.

  But then the abrupt deceleration, like a ship abruptly running aground, throwing Mi to the deck. The whipsh of gatekeeping, of abruptly coming to an un-jump-able hoop.

  The clerk at Special Research looked her over with a curled upper lip, and the eyes of a dead fish, before pulling her file and copying from it for what felt like ages. A growing unease in her stomach. As he closed her file, she smiled sweetly and pointed to the crowded series of b tables she could see through the pte gss behind him.

  “Excuse me, is that alembic in the back supposed to be bubbling over or...?” She trailed off artfully.

  He twisted and craned in arm. When he’d turned back around after a few whole seconds of vain searching for nothing, she gave her best impression of a naive, ditzy bumpkin shrug. He was not been in the least amused, but she just pyed it off like she’d thought she’d seen bubbles. Girls loved bubbles, right?

  She walked away, gritting her teeth and cursing silently and corrosively. She’d been able to read enough of his handwriting upside down to know she was being screened out. Something about risk assessment, Opali degeneracy and a racial predisposition to pirating, as well as the security of state secrets.

  But she had also seen Sada’s name. Faint tingles of arm ran up and down the back of her neck. Following Sada’s instructions, Mi had taken the utmost pains to hide any connection or association with him throughout her admissions process. Together they had crafted a watertight cover story, or legend, as he called it. Mi was sure that if there was anything solid linking her to him, she would have already received summons from the Ministry of Inquisition. So it had to be conjecture. Right?

  What did they know? A defected alchemist with access to cssified secrets, likely in hiding in one of the Common Cities. A promising alchemy student from one of those cities, where alchemists were rare, applies for admission to the University. It wouldn’t be too hard to make guesses, draw conclusions. Perhaps the legend had been too watertight.

  “Mi!”

  She had been so deep in thought that she’d pushed her way out of the building without noticing and she was now standing in a courtyard. It was windy and cold. Wet but not raining.

  Roxa had been waiting for her outside. She’d stubbornly insisted on sticking to Mi like a protective shadow all week.

  “Hi,” said Mi, a little absently.

  “Hi yourself. How’d it go?”

  Mi grimaced.

  “That bad, huh?”

  Mi chewed her lip and stared at the gleaming gray stonework. “I’m to be screened out.”

  “Damn.” Roxa looked appropriately concerned on her behalf. Which was impressive, because Mi hadn’t told her why she needed to get into this css. Only that it was important. Roxa had accepted this at face value, as she accepted everything Mi had told her, without pushing to know more. Maybe she thought it was a fair price to pay for being allowed to act as her friend’s bodyguard.

  After all, even the most charming company—and Roxa was easily that—ran the risk of grating when it was constant and forced by circumstance. Mi was endlessly grateful for their rapidly sweetening friendship and all the ways it was making the new arrangement tolerable, even comforting.

  “All may not be lost. I do have one idea.” Mi turned her gaze up to meet Roxa’s and felt a thin smile slip onto her face. “But first, I need you to tell me everything you know about Aralia Cordivar.”

  ~ ~ ~

  They took one of the longer, less crowded ways back to Stormcroft, and slipped in through a servant’s entrance. Roxa went first and Mi followed close, up the narrow back staircase to the third floor, and down the corridor to their room. Roxa muttered the keys to the wards on their door and opened it carefully, then shut it behind her roommate and reactivated them. Mi kicked off her shoes, flopped down into Roxa’s overstuffed couch and released a pent-up sigh. Roxa started a kettle boiling with a finger wave and followed suit. It began raining, lightly at first, then with an increasing rattle as heavy drops struck the tall windows next to them.

  They both stared at a print pinned to the opposite wall—one of Roxa’s, of course. It was a woodcut of a ndscape of steep, forested pinnacles and precipices, ferns dripping thickly down cliffs alongside the slender streaks of waterfalls. Thick flocks composed of many different kinds of birds swirled in and out of cloudbursts.

  After a while, Mi asked, “Does it truly look like that, your home?”

  Roxa fshed her a grin. “It looks so much more like that than you would even believe.”

  Mi smiled back. “You brag.”

  Roxa chuckled but did not defend herself. “What about Opali? Don’t they call it the city of bells?”

  “It’s drier. And warmer. And friendlier,” said Mi bnkly, staring off. She looked back at Roxa. “I miss it. I miss it so much that I worry about remembering it too often, because it aches.”

  Roxa nodded quietly. The kettle sang, and she went to pour tea. After an efficient bustle, she handed Mi a steaming mugand sat back down with one herself. The gss of the windows was covered in a clear sheet of rivulets and sliding drops.

  “I would like to tell you, though,” said Mi abruptly. Then, softly, “It feels like it might help.”

  Roxa nodded again, that same nod of quiet acceptance.

  Mi began to speak slowly, hesitantly. She began by describing the belltowers, the musics they made, their peals separate and combined—carefully leaving out the great need that led to their existence, and the bridges they made into the Tides—the calendar of their festivals, the feeling of surging down the streets with her friends, caught up in the energy and ughter and chanting. She did not say anything about the chasm between her and the rest of the crowd in those memories, a dull ache gaping in her ribcage.

  Mi’s voice quickened, her face alive, excited. She told Roxa about her friends, about gathering seabird eggs from the cliff nests, about walking the river valley, digging perennial roots together—glossing over what she and her friends had been doing with the roots—diving, sailing, fishing, the clouds of tiny glowing creatures that lived in the waves—

  A wash of self-consciousness doused Mi and she closed her mouth mid-sentence and looked at her p, flushing dark red, suddenly aware that she’d been oversharing like a geyser, like a flood breaching a levee wall. Roxa must think she was desperately lonely to dump on her like this. She looked back up.

  Roxa’s eyes werefastened on hers. She exhaled deeply, like she’d just woken from a dream or finished drinking deeply from a wide cup. There was a small silence between them.

  “Thank you,” said Roxa softly.

  Then—“I would dearly love to visit your city one day, Mi. If I were welcome to.”

  Mi smiled.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was after dinner and they were both back on the couch, studying and scribbling by amber magelight. Roxa put down her book with a grunt and stood to stretch, and pretended not to see Mi looking at her ass. She did smirk to herself, though.

  After a minute Mi thumped her book closed too. Roxa turned to find her roommate looking at her frankly.

  “Cordivar?”

  “Cordivar.”

  “Got a crush?”

  “Ha. What if I do?”

  “Why do you think I know more about her? Aren’t you the one that has a css with her?”

  Mi actually was taking Aralia’s course in advanced alchemy this term, but—

  “I want to hear what you’ll say,” said Mi. Her smile had a hint of challenge in it. She was beginning to suspect that Roxa’s training went further than just a noble’s understanding of courtly politics and power games.

  “All right.” Roxa began to do some limbering stretches. Her voice changed subtly—she began to sound as if she was making a report.

  “Well, as you may know, Aralia Cordivar is probably the single favorite subject of gossip in the whole University. She is said to hail from Jyll, an Imperiat colony to the south of Drago. A narrow peninsu that connects this continent to the subcontinent. They are traders, and always have been. Literal middlemen. Anyway, she’s supposed to be a commoner—”

  “I heard she’s from a rich family,” Mi interrupted.

  Roxa shrugged. “Probably. Or at least prosperous. That she knows her way around power is clear as day. She appeared here ten years ago, with the highest merit scores anyone had ever seen. I’ve heard her called many different things but I’ve never heard anyone impugn her intelligence or her competence. Did you know, she’s still the youngest person ever admitted here? They say she got here when she was maybe fifteen, and caused quite the stir here at that time, trouncing all these old, stuck up pricks at their own game. This was right after Harmine started admitting girls and by all accounts it was even rougher than it is now. She arrived here with a better grasp on alchemy than some teachers—she breezed through csses and was doing cutting edge research faster than anyone could believe. She graduated with flying colors and was immediately retained as a researcher. Then they gave her a b to run. Then they gave her the entire Special Research department. Smart money says she’ll be an Ministry technocrat in five years.” Roxa rolled her eyes. “And she’s around our age—perhaps a year or so older.”

  “No enemies?”

  Roxa ughed shortly. “Oh, she has enemies. Or rather, she’s had enemies. She’s survived more rivals and grudges and powerful misogynists who took a dislike to her than I have fingers, and those are just the ones I’ve heard about.” Roxa shook her head admiringly. “She’s more than survived them, she’s come out on top every time. Honestly, it’s pretty inspiring.”

  “She must have the backing of powerful people,” Mi mused. “I wonder if she’s a part of any faction?”

  “That’s one of the things the rumor mills can’t agree on,” Roxa admitted. “She’s obviously got the right loyalties or she wouldn’t have been allowed her current post. But she’s also fiercely protected her own independence and kept herself retively unbound. She’s not beholden to anyone, as far as I can tell.”

  “Everyone’s beholden to someone,” said Mi softly.

  Roxa watched her dark eyes shine in the warm light. “So they are.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Let nobody say that Aralia Cordivar enjoyed teaching, Mi mused, watching her finish the lecture with a quarter bell left before the end of css and gesture her assistant forward to begin taking questions on the material. Aralia slipped some notes into her briefcase, straightened her immacutely dark, sharply cut coat, and made a beeline for the door.

  Mi, having slipped out some minutes earlier to position herself on the other side of that same door, took a step back from the window and drew a preparatory breath.

  The door opened.

  “Professor—” She began, and was immediately cut off.

  “Factor,” correctedCordivar. She didn’t slow down, just plowed forward, looking straight ahead.

  Mi fell in next to Aralia. Getting the most meaning out of the least words would serve her well, with this one.

  “Factor Cordivar, I’m a merit student who would otherwise qualify for your Apomasaics course, but I’ve been screened out because of my ‘racial qualities’”—she let a little honest bitterness creep into those st words, because it might help her cause—“and you are the only one who can give me a fair shot.”

  Aralia turned to look at her, without slowing her pace. Mi felt the impact as those golden-ringed eyes met hers. She had to remind herself that this person was barely older than her. The look on Aralia’s face was amused and thoughtful.

  “You’re one of my students, aren’t you?” She gestured behind them, towards the cssroom. Mi noticed that Aralia smelled good, like spicewood and leather.

  “Yes, Factor.” Mi was surprised she’d noticed.

  “Very well. My office,” she said, gesturing to a flight of stairs in front of them. Mi followed her down a broad, high-ceiling corridor to a oaken door, and into an rge, comfortable office. One entire wall was made of gss, and looked out over a steep ste rooftop. Aralia sat behind a rge desk and gestured for Mi to sit as well. Mi did. The whole room had her scent.

  Aralia looked at her intently for a few moments, then brought out a fresh, creamy white sheet of paper and a pen.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mi Finnochio.”

  “And where are you from?” Aralia’s face was unreadable as she scribbled.

  “Opali.”

  “Ahhh.”

  Mi wondered what that meant.

  “Do you understand what you are asking for, Mi?”

  “I am making an appeal for entry into your upcoming course on the basis of merit,” said Mi stiffly. “You said applicants would be screened on the basis of merit and merit alone. That’s all I’m asking for.”

  Her stomach was jumping with anxiety. She knew her guardedness was obvious. If this worked, it would be a worthwhile gambit. If not, she would have stuck her neck out where her interest could be noticed and conclusions drawn from it, with nothing gained. She was beginning to suspect that Aralia could deduce quite a lot of information from everything she said and even more from everything she didn’t say. She was quite possibly revealing more than she wished Aralia to know every single second she spent in here.

  Aralia made a gesture of open invitation. “And I will admit a certain sympathy for your cause. I think you’re one of the sharpest students in that css, actually. And I rather like it when I can sneak students like you by those rancid purists. But here in the Imperiat, as you must know by now, everything has a price. If I am to do this for you, are you willing to do something for me, someday?”

  Mi was silent. A part of her leapt impatiently and immediately to say yes. This was so important after all—it was the whole reason she had come this far. Another part of her was spinning with questions and mistrust. Aralia made all her internal arms scream careful! The idea of being beholden to someone like this scared her. She had stayed silent too long already. She was revealing too much. She needed to put terms on this.

  “To return a favor to you comparable to what I am asking for now?”

  Aralia’s golden eyes studied her keenly. “No, Mi. Let me be utterly clear. In return for this, you will do as I ask. As to what exactly constitutes a ‘comparable’ favor, the discretion is mine and mine alone. And you will tell no one of our arrangement.”

  Mi’s mind raced. She threw caution to the winds and tried one st time. “Factor, I’ve heard small pieces of your own story. You know what it’s like here for me because you’ve been in the same position. But you can change that—you can make it go differently this time! Please, I’m asking you as one foreign girl to another, one merit student to another, help me as you wish someone would have helped you.”

  Mi held her breath in the silence that followed, hanging on any shift in Aralia’s expression that might signal a change of heart. For a moment she thought she saw a fsh of warning in Aralia’s gold-ringed eyes.

  “Let me give you a piece of advice, Mi. Consider it my first act of mentorship, if you like. You cannot wield their power except by pying their game, by their rules. If you cannot stomach the decisions they will force on you, it’s best to admit that and get out now, before you come to grief that will break you. There are other kinds of power, after all, other ways to achieve your ends. Some would say better ways.”

  She leaned forward, her gaze burning into Mi’s. “But, if you will do anything to achieve your ends, and I mean anything, and if you decide to use their means, then you must keep going forward no matter what, no matter who you find in your way, no matter how lonely and hard it gets. Or everything and everyone you have ever sacrificed will have been wasted.”

  She drew back. Mi swallowed hard with a dry mouth. This version of Aralia seemed suddenly much older and grimmer than her years, as if her mask had dropped, just a little.

  “Now. Do you understand me?”

  Mi did. Trust no one. She drew a breath and tried to keep her voice steady and casual. “I...suppose I am amenable to your offer.”

  “Excellent,” said Aralia briskly. She casually pced a squat, fist-sized device on the paper and her fingers flew over it and punched in a sequence of buttons. There was a hiss and a staccato series of red and white fshes of light, and when she lifted the device off, there was a gleaming alchemical seal embossedon the paper.

  “This note will supersede any screening. Take it to the Vonhale administrative building by next week. As for our arrangement, here.”

  She clicked a small round object onto the desk and slid it and the note across. It was a coin, but not one Mi recognized. There was some sort of script or series of sigils engraved around the rim and it had a square hole in the center.

  “When I need to talk to you, this coin will heat up noticeably. Wear it close to your skin.”

  And then, with a gesture, Aralia dismissed her.

  Mi slowly reached out and took both objects. Her heart felt very heavy and divided. It was beginning to sink in that she had been out-maneuvered. She opened her mouth to ask if Aralia had specifically directed that clerk to screen her out in order to bait this trap, then decided it didn’t matter. Nothing useful would be gained by asking. There were only lies and illusions here for her. She closed her mouth and left.

  She wandered out of the building in something between a daze and a fury. Damn. Damn. Is that what Mi would become, if she let what was inside her consume and grow and take over? If she gave in completely to her father’s people’s poisonous penchant for using people as instruments, as objects?

  In some ways she had just come face to face with her own worst nightmare, seen in the mirror. And she had gotten what she’d needed, though at a steep cost. She was in the css, and she might even benefit from Aralia’s protection in it. The transaction stung, to be sure. She was in a spider’s web now. But worst of all, she could not deny her fascination with Aralia.

  Mi groaned. She’d first noticed it in css. She’d been hoping it could be dismissed as mere attraction to the brooding savant, simply a matter of physical desire that would disintegrate with proximity. But now that she’d sat near her, felt the magnetic draw of her gaze and voice and smell, she knew that she was fucked. Mi Finnochio, like a stereotypical wide-eyed first-termer, had some kind of hots for Aralia Cordivar.

  Shit.