Nineteen years before the events of In the Shadow of Lightning…

1

The coach service left Montego al’Bou on a busy street corner he did not recognize, in a city he did not know, surrounded by the most people he’d ever seen in his short life. Every sense assaulted him at once: overwhelming smells, unending sounds, new sights. Afternoon traffic practically buzzed around him as carriages and carts rattled along the cobbled streets, the horrendous noise filled around the edges by constant conversation. A teamster jogged by with a flour sack she carried easily on her shoulder; a tiny forgeglass stud sat in her ear to augment her strength. She swore at Montego when he didn’t move out of the way fast enough.

This was Ossa, the capital of the Ossan Empire, the largest and most powerful nation in the world—a city so wealthy that even the lowest of the commoners had godglass. Montego had been here for five minutes, and he found it stinky and loud. He tried not to think about how badly he stuck out with his simple provincial tunic or the rucksack made of old semaphore flags hanging from the end of his grandmother’s cudgel.

Excuse me, he tried to say to a passing pedestrian. He was ignored. Can you tell me . . . he tried again, to the same result. He felt his big round cheeks grow red, which made them grow redder still, knowing how easily they conveyed his embarrassment to others. Pardon me . . .

He searched for anything familiar, hoping for something that might ground him in such an alien place. Someone bumped into him. By instinct he snatched at the hand reaching into his pocket. A small child, probably not that much younger than him, looked up at him in surprise and tried to babble an excuse.

No, Montego said firmly, shoving the child away. In the provinces such a bold pickpocket would get the back of his hand, but he did not yet know how they dealt with such things here.

Montego needn’t have bothered anyways. There was nothing in there to pickpocket. His last few ozzo, the tiny inheritance Grandma left him, had been spent coming here to the capital. He shifted on his feet and searched the streets once more, trying to decide where to start, wondering if he’d been conned. Grandma always said Ossa was filled with nothing but cons, from the guild-families all the way down.

His despair was beginning to rise when a carriage rattled up to the street corner. The carriage had silver trim and beautiful curtains of royal purple, marked with an inverted triangle splayed with cracked lightning. It was a symbol he recognized, and he dug into his rucksack to find a worn purple handkerchief that matched it. Yes, this was the right one: the sigil of the Grappo guild-family.

The driver hopped down and peered at him. Are you Montego? he asked.

Yes, sir. Montego held out the handkerchief helpfully, but the driver didn’t take it. He simply opened the door and gestured for Montego to climb inside. When he did, he quickly found that he was not alone. The spacious interior, much bigger than the coach service he took to get here from the provinces, had two other occu­pants. The first was a stately woman, perhaps in her midthirties, with curly black hair and a soft face but severe eyes. She had the dark olive skin of the Ossan elite and wore a richly brocaded tunic that made him feel less than poor.

The second occupant was a boy. Montego always struggled with the ages of other children. They all looked so tiny next to his massive bulk. The boy was at least a couple years younger than him. Nine? Ten? It was impossible to tell, not helped by the fact that the boy was pressed up against the opposite door, staring out the window, gracing Montego with little more than a glance. He was a runt, but a well-dressed one.

They sat in silence for several moments as the carriage began to roll uncomfortably along the cobbles, and Montego realized he had no idea how to speak properly to an Ossan guild-family member. Did he bow? Grovel? Manners were very important here, Grandma had told him. At least until they weren’t.

Not very helpful, Grandma.

Montego al’Bou, Montego introduced himself, ducking his head and holding out the old purple handkerchief.

The woman took it from him thoughtfully, rubbing the threadbare silk between her fingers. She had a large tattoo on the back of her right hand, a sigil matching the one on the carriage curtains and the handkerchief. Montego knew enough about sigils to understand it marked her as the matriarch of an important guild-family. Adriana Grappo, the woman introduced herself. The rude boy beside me is my son, Demir. Tell me, are you really just twelve years old?

Montego glanced at Demir, but the other boy didn’t rise to his mother’s provocation. Almost thirteen, ma’am.

Your grandmother’s letter said you were a big boy. I didn’t realize she meant it literally.

Just shy of six feet, ma’am, Montego said, hunching his shoulders. Everyone always talked about his height, or his apple-rosy cheeks, or his heavyset frame. He wished they’d talk about something else, but what was there? He didn’t know these people, and they didn’t know him. He felt his poor clothes in the rich carriage most acutely in this moment, and wished suddenly that he’d stayed in the provinces. Grandma’s cudgel lay across his knees, and he gripped it as he might an oak in a storm.

Adriana’s eyes dipped to the weapon. Your grandmother was a popular provincial cudgelist, wasn’t she?

In her youth, ma’am.

I see. Do you know the story of this handkerchief? Adriana asked, giving it a little wave.

Montego shook his head. Only that it was sent to my village after my mother died in the wars. He lifted his head, making sure he spoke clearly. Never show any weakness to anyone in the capital, Grandma had always told him. Not a hint of emotion. Not that he had any to show, for the word mother had never meant anything to him. She died when he was a year old. He didn’t even remember her face.

"Your mother took a bullet for my mother, Adriana explained, handing the handkerchief back to him. My mother has been dead for six years, but I will honor her debt. You will live with us in the Hyacinth Hotel, where you will be—"

You live in a hotel? Montego blurted before he could stop himself. He felt himself flush with embarrassment the moment the words left his mouth.

If anything, Adriana seemed amused by the outburst. Indeed we do. The Grappo are a small guild-family, and the hotel is one of our sources of income and ideally situated near the Assembly, where I am a politician. As I was saying, you will live with us at the Hyacinth and be taught how to live, survive, and thrive in the capital. You seem well-spoken. You have an education?

I helped my grandmother in the semaphore tower, signaling news to and from passing ships, Montego explained, so I had to learn to read and write. She taught me some history and literature too.

Excellent. Adriana glanced out the window. The new school year starts in a few weeks. I’ll pull some strings to get you admitted alongside Demir. The larger guild-families are always a pain in the ass about who attends the academy, so don’t let me down, hmm?

I . . . I want to be a cudgelist, ma’am, Montego ventured. The sullen boy glanced at him sharply but said nothing. Like Grandma. She wouldn’t have any talk of it when she was alive, but it’s in my blood. That’s what I want to do.

Adriana pursed her lips in a way that was either amused or annoyed. Montego couldn’t tell. Your grandmother asked that you be given an education and a good, safe, secure job. You and I will both honor her wishes.

Montego didn’t really know how to respond, so he ducked his head in agreement. Yes, ma’am. He turned to Demir and ducked his head once more. I look forward to attending school with you.

Demir glanced over his shoulder at Montego. Their eyes met briefly, and Montego was immediately struck by the cool, almost challenging confidence in them. There was something oddly adult about those eyes. He looked away, searching for something to do with his own gaze, which fell to Demir’s left hand. On the back of Demir’s hand were two triangles, drawn carefully in ink as he was not yet old enough for a tattoo. The triangles overlapped, one inverted, like a stylized hourglass. A glassdancer sigil. Demir was one of those sorcerers who could control glass