The Cadet of Tildor

  Renee had crossed her arms. “Tildor has battle mages, they wield weapons.”

  “They do not. They are weapons. Dangerous weapons that someone else wields.” Headmaster Verin’s voice softened. “Very few mages have both the strength and the training to make a meaningful difference in battle. Even if you were one, at most, you might use mage energy to strike a target someone else selected while a team of fighters tries to protect you from the enemy’s arrows. Is that where your heart lies?”

  Renee did not want to be a mage after that.

  Now she traced the painted sword’s edge with her finger. This was her choice. “What do you think Commander Savoy’s like?” she asked, feeling a presence behind her and turning to glance at Alec.

  “Ruthless.” Alec leaned his back against the wood-planked wall, arms crossed over his wide chest and gaze fixed on the door. The other students, fewer than twenty left in the senior class now, milled about, speaking in hushed voices and rechecking gear. They were early. A smart thing to be on the instructor’s first day.

  Renee shook her muscles loose. The tension in the room was growing, feeding on itself, and she sought comfort in the familiar sights. The large, rectangular hall smelled of sweaty leather and old sand. Spare gear, dusty and ill-fitting, spilled from the bins in the corner. Outside the window . . . She blinked as a pair of curious green eyes on the other side of the glass met hers. The eyes widened and disappeared, replaced by a dog’s white muzzle.

  She chuckled, earning annoyed glances from the boys.

  Alec sighed. “Try and keep your head down, for once. You don’t need Savoy riding hard on you any more than he will anyway.”

  “Where’s your strategic mind?” Renee raised her brows. “The more attention he gives me, the less he gives you.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m certain the commanding officer of the Seventh is able to make only one person miserable at a time.”

  “Scared?”

  “Sane.”

  The door swung open before she could retort, and everyone raced into formation.

  Korish Savoy was not, as Renee imagined, big as a blacksmith. He was average height, and his lean muscles underscored agility, not bulk.

  Renee’s heart beat in her ears.

  “Pads. Practice swords. Now,” said Savoy.

  So much for an introduction. They scrambled.

  Savoy swung a bag off his shoulder and began strapping on worn leather pads. He moved like a cat, the gear pliant in his hands and conforming to the familiar shape of his muscles. Renee admired the economy of his motions until she realized he was ready and waiting. Cheeks hot, she sprinted through the rest of her buckles and laces.

  Alec held her weapon out to her. “What’s holding you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re warmed up?” Savoy drew a practice sword from his bag and moved toward the center of the salle.

  The cadets exchanged glances. No one spoke.

  Savoy ran a hand over his hair. He pointed his blade, singling out Alec. “Answer.”

  Alec shuffled his feet.

  Renee hid a wince. The last time Alec looked that miserable in front of an instructor was at age twelve, when he was summoned to explain the contents of his pockets to Headmaster Verin. Granted, he hadn’t sat too well after that, and he never again earned so much as extra work duty.

  “No, sir. The class . . . ” Alec drew a breath. “The class just began now, sir.”

  Savoy massaged his temple. He was but half a hand taller than Alec, and not as broad—but seemed bigger. “Was that a surprise? Did the gods miraculously summon you all here, at the same time, with bags full of gear, and without any idea of what we might be doing?”

  He caught the eyes of each student in turn. Renee tensed when his gaze met hers. How could anyone know what he expected before he told them? He raises standards, she told herself. Certainly the Seventh warms up on its own.

  Withholding further comment, Savoy separated the students into pairs. He joined the cadets’ lines instead of ordering them about from the sidelines like their past instructors had. Alec, who now faced Savoy, had the grim look of someone preparing for the gallows.

  They started with a single attack-parry drill. Instructors always started with boring moves. Renee made herself focus, determined to make a good impression. She adjusted her stance. Parry left. Reset. Keep back straight. Push off the back foot hard when lunging. Attack left. Parry right. Relaxing, her body fell into the drill’s rhythmic motions, punctuated by the even clacks of the wooden blades.

  “Rotate!” The order brought Renee to a new partner. In her peripheral vision, she watched Savoy face off with Tanil, a thin blond boy who darted to and fro, trying to stay ahead of the instructor’s blade. In contrast, Savoy’s movements looked leisurely to the point of boredom.

  Rotate. The drill changed to single combination attack.

  Rotate. Alec.

  “You’re the only one not breathing hard,” he said, adjusting his grip on the sword.

  She shot a glance at Savoy. “Not the only one.”

  Alec shook his head in warning.

  Rotate.

  Renee looked into Savoy’s eyes and smiled.

  He did not smile back. He attacked, sword sailing at her head. When she blocked, the vibrations from the impact ran through her body. The blow hadn’t looked that forceful. They reset, and she lunged to attack left. His blade materialized in her way. Renee blocked the next blow and attacked again, their swords beating a comfortable cadence.

  Savoy looked bored to tears. She shared the sentiment. Gathering her courage, Renee reset a little quicker, attacked a little harder and faster. No rebuke came. He met her blow for blow, always hitting the perfect center of her blade, always parrying with the center of his. Hot blood urged her on. High block. Left parry. The clacking wood sounded like a drum roll.

  She caught his eyes and, seeing a twinge of interest, pushed the speed further. The reset pause disappeared, the drill’s rules a memory. Clack-clack-clack. Her body danced. Low block. Attack. Right parry. Attack. Parry again. In a flash of inspiration, Renee added a feint before her next advance. Savoy blocked, unfazed by the ruse. He countered and she hurried to block his high attack.

  Except, he did not do a high attack. She watched him change the strike in mid-motion, while her blade continued up to block an assault that no longer headed that way. Savoy’s face said he saw it too.

  He did not pull the blow. The blade struck Renee’s right forearm so hard that the thud of wood hitting padded leather made all heads turn toward them. Air caught in her lungs and pain seared through her arm, spreading into her side. Burning, then numbness, shot down to the small fingers of her hand. Her grip failed. The wooden blade slipped, thumping against the sand-covered floor.

  Swallowing, she forced herself to straighten in silence. Her eyes met Savoy’s just in time to see the calm on his face while his blade rose again. It landed on the same spot.

  She cried out. The world swayed. Cradling her arm, she knelt to the floor. Looking up, Renee saw Savoy swing his blade for a third time and grimly braced herself. The blow stopped an inch short of her neck.

  “You are dead,” he told her before pitching his voice over the salle. “That will be the last time anyone here lets go of a weapon.” He looked down at Renee. “Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered, drowning in disgrace.

  He extended his hand and pulled her to her feet.

  The rest of the period passed in silence. Alec abandoned his partner for Renee, all the while fixing Savoy with a look of promised vengeance. The glare failed to make an impact, so far as she could tell, but Savoy didn’t separate the pair. For the first time in her life, Renee couldn’t wait to leave the salle.

  * * *

  Savoy
stripped off his pads while his fearless followers silently escaped the salle. After the last cadet vanished, a fat middle-aged man squeezed through the doorway. An annoying, if not unexpected, visit.

  “Lord Palan,” Savoy said without glancing up. “My training is not a show.”

  The man puffed, either from indignation or else from the exertion of hauling his own bodyweight, and opened the top clasp of his shirt collar.

  “You have stood by the side window for the past quarter hour.” Savoy straightened and looked into the man’s little eyes. Nothing had changed in seven years. Palan’s dark, intelligent gaze still tirelessly weighted everything it touched, making Savoy feel as if he held fire beside straw. “Let me save you the trouble,” Savoy offered. “My sword is still not for sale. I serve the Crown.” Unlike you.

  Lord Palan cleared his throat and gestured toward the Servant’s crest on Savoy’s tunic. The jeweled rings clamped around Palan’s sausage fingers caught the light and shimmered. “Yes, Commander, I’m quite aware that tempting Verin’s foster son lies outside my omnipotence.” He chuckled, a smooth, bitter sound. The graying hair around his temples curled in droplets of sweat. “You were but a lad then, and a troubled one at that. I offered you employment and fair pay. Was such a proposal unjust?”

  Savoy twirled his practice blade before placing it in his bag.

  “I hear the gods blessed your parents with a second child?” Palan continued, undeterred.

  “Eight years past.”

  “Expensive to raise children nowadays. If ever—”

  “You employ little boys now, Lord Palan?”

  “How dare . . . ” Lord Palan’s nostrils flared. He took a step toward Savoy, but stopped himself, his face transforming into a mask of nonchalance. “My apologies, Commander. You misunderstand. I had only stopped by to check up on my nephew’s progress.”

  Savoy raised an eyebrow, admiring the flawless transition from failed negotiation to plausible fiction.

  “Tanil. The thin blond youth?” Palan adjusted an expensive ring. “Don’t distress. People’s ignorance of my family members is common. Tanil assured me that he kept up practice all through the summer.”

  “I assure you he hasn’t.” Savoy slung his bag over a shoulder. “Now that we have pacified your concern, I expect you will find no further need to grace my class with your presence?”

  Lord Palan’s mouth tightened at the dismissal, but he offered a slight bow and did not press the issue.

  * * *

  Renee followed the narrow trail that snaked from the barracks, down the hill, and into the adjacent woods. It ran for about half a league, stopping at the edge of Rock Lake, so named for the boulders lining its circumference. The water’s vast, calm surface belied the danger of the lake’s uneven bottom, but reflected the surrounding world with looking-glass accuracy. A bird perched on one of the boulders cried to its mate, and the call echoed from the stony outcroppings. There were no people.

  At the lake’s sole beach, a small sandy clearing to the left of the trail’s mouth, Renee settled into a fighting stance. Practice sword in hand, she watched her reflection while coaxing the weapon through five basic parries. Her movements were hideous. Just holding the sword made her arm throb. A lighter, junior blade lay inside her bag. In the solitude of Rock Lake, she considered reaching for it to soothe the strain on her arm. No. The boys put away such childish things two years ago, and the enemy seldom waited until injuries healed before attacking. She swallowed and forced her shaking hand to keep trying.

  “Looks awful,” said a voice behind her.

  She startled but managed to conceal the surprise behind a bow. “The arm or the parry, Master Seaborn?”

  “Both.” Connor Seaborn, a magistrate instructor who taught Renee’s law and history course, cleared the trail’s mouth and leaned his tall frame against a boulder. He set down his bag and cocked his head to the side, awaiting an explanation.

  “It was deserved, sir.” Renee sighed, lowering her sword tip to the ground. “I didn’t parry Commander Savoy’s attack very well.”

  He nodded. “Most people don’t parry his attacks very well. That’s why the Crown sends him and the Seventh where it does.” He frowned and leaned forward. “Renee, had you expected to win against him?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No, of course not. But . . . ” A chuckle tickled her chest, easing shame’s weight. “It would have been nice, no?” She cleared her throat. “Are those practice swords in your bag, sir?”

  “They are. An old classmate of mine is here. Speaking of missing parries . . . ” He grinned toward the rustling leaves that signaled an impending arrival.

  A moment later, Savoy stepped out onto the beach. He glanced her way but offered no greeting. It was a request to dismiss herself, but it wasn’t an order.

  She moved away to give the men as much space as the small beach allowed, the resultant twinge of guilt unable to compete with the chance to watch a hostile species in their natural habitat. Plus, perhaps Savoy’d be pleased to see her practicing.

  He sat on the sand and folded himself over an outstretched leg. The back of his shirt outlined shifting muscles. “Why is my lord Palan still puffing around the Academy?” Savoy’s hair fell to cover his face and he shook it off with a practiced motion. Renee blinked. If not for the unregulation length of the blond mane, he could have been a cadet savoring a free afternoon.

  Seaborn reached back to plait his own red curls into a short, thick braid. “Largely on account of being the uncle of one of your students. And, he is petitioning the Crown to take the offensive against the Vipers, suggesting an assault on their stronghold in Catar City.” Seaborn winced at a bird’s shrill call, then jerked his thumb in the direction of the noise. “Remember him?”

  Savoy snorted. “I remember you missing a shot by three paces. At least.”

  Seaborn cleared his throat. “Because the bow you made broke, and I landed on the back of my skull.”

  “Yes, well, there was that.” A smile touched Savoy’s face. He uncoiled and came to his feet with a smoothness that his friend could not match. “Most anyone with a decent mind and ties to Atham knows Palan runs the Family. Since when does the Crown entertain criminals’ petitions?”

  Seaborn chuckled. “I challenge you to find one shred of evidence implicating Palan in a crime. Any crime. Until that happens—and it won’t; he’s careful—he’s just another conniving noble and can petition all he wishes. Officially speaking.”

  Savoy sighed. “I suppose I could kill him. Wring some good from this posting.”

  Seaborn tensed and picked up his practice blade. “Renee, could you give us the beach?” A forced smile tried to soften the demand.

  There was nothing to do but bow and trot to the trail. She had been lucky to keep her ground as long as she had. Several paces into the woods, she paused, drew a breath, and ducked behind the foliage. The pounding of her heart threatened to give her away. Seaborn spoke again once she was hidden from view.

  “Some good from this posting? You’re teaching cadets!”

  “A waste of my time and theirs.”

  “Give them a chance. Speaking of which, the girl’s forearm is blue, and double its size. What was her crime?”

  “Attempted suicide.” There was a pause and a rustle of equipment before Savoy spoke again. He sounded annoyed. “Stop scowling, Connor. It works.”

  “Yes, I remember Verin doing it to you. Made you a golden child.”

  “Made me a living child,” said Savoy, then raised his voice. “De Winter! Either don’t eavesdrop or hide better.”

  Swallowing, she sprinted away.

  CHAPTER 5

  Academic Quarter. Palace Court. Mage District. Southwest.

  Of the four sections in Tildor’s capital city, only one was unworthy of a real name.

/>   Alec blended into southwest Atham, where narrow streets of torn-up cobblestone rarely saw parades of uniformed guard. Here, pickpockets, workmen, children, all went about their business not with the forbidding glamour of the Mage District, or the philosophical wonderings of the Academic Quarter, but with the sharp eyes and skeptical ears of the slums.

  He rounded a corner and walked down Orchard Street, a dirt field on the left and a mesh of shops and drab dwellings on the right. It was evening, but still light, and a gang of barefoot boys chased a ball around the field, sending up clouds of earth and cheer. There were fewer children than usual, but enthusiasm balanced the numbers. One boy leaped into the air flipping head over heels. When he landed on his feet and proclaimed himself the master of a jumping-tumble-of-doom, Alec clapped along with the others.

  Southwest lacked money, not life—just like the small cottage his grandmother raised him in. He doubted his mother ever saw that. When he became a Servant, he’d find her and ask.

  A few yards ahead, a boy stepped out of a shop whose sign proclaimed it a meat market. “Greg says to tell you he’s got fresh pies,” he informed Alec. “You want pies?”

  Alec sighed. Greg must have changed his boys again. “I want corn.”

  The boy shoved his hands into his pockets. “Pies be better. You want pies.”

  Shaking his head, Alec ignored the boy’s dirty look and went inside. Here, several trays of ground meat slop lay on a shelf beyond the customers’ reach. A potbellied butcher in a smeared white apron stood behind the counter. He scrutinized Alec as if they’d never met. Carelessness killed people around here. “Yes?”

  Alec pulled a gold crown from his pocket, twisted it in his fingers, and let the coin disappear. “Need to talk, Greg.”

  Nodding, he let Alec behind the counter and guided him through a side door, whose oiled hinges slid in silence. They entered a crossbreed of a bedroom, storeroom, and office, so common for this part of town. A narrow bed tucked into the corner, and shelves, burdened with clothing, foodstuffs, and other items, crowded the space. The reek of garlic made Alec’s eyes water, but he did his best to ignore it and took one of the two wooden chairs guarding a bare table. Greg settled into the other.