Particularly since it was now common knowledge that after seven weeks, Caraway took those of the recruits he’d selected for further training up to the tower to meet her …
In the past, youngsters had turned up at the fifth ring whenever they saw fit. The weaponmasters and their assistants would assess them, agreeing to train them if they showed the basic aptitude necessary to become warriors. Only after a year could they formally express their desire to join the Helm – at which point the Captain of the Helm would step in, carry out his own tests and select those he deemed worthy of his attention for further training.
Caraway had changed all that. He wanted a Helm full of lads who could think for themselves, as well as being skilled warriors able to follow orders. And the only way to learn what aspiring Helmsmen were really like was to be involved right from the start – before they’d all been buffed into uniformity by a year of rigorous discipline and drummed-in obedience. But of course, the Captain of the Helm didn’t have time to run down to the fifth ring every time a new recruit showed up. So he’d approached Bryan with a fresh proposal: a twice-yearly intake of youngsters, including an initial seven-week period during which the weaponmasters and the Captain of the Helm would work together to assess those who were interested in joining the Helm. That way, the successful students’ training could be steered in the right direction from the very start – and they’d be much more likely to be accepted into the Helm once their training period was over.
To Caraway’s relief, Bryan had welcomed the idea. He hadn’t been sure how Bryan would react; after all, Caraway had been Bryan’s student and then his most notorious failure, yet here he was, approaching the weaponmaster as an equal. So you’re calling yourself Captain of the Helm, now, boyo? he’d imagined Bryan saying. Wasn’t so long ago you’d do just about anything for a cup of ale. But of course, it hadn’t been that way at all. Bryan was both an honourable man and a practical one – and it had never been easy for the weaponmasters to train so many different youths, all arriving at different times of the year with different backgrounds and skill sets. So in the event, his response to Caraway’s rather tentative approach had been a brisk nod.
Seems sensible to me, lad. There’ll be a bit of awkwardness to start with, ’fore it comes widely known that we only test twice a year. But after all, the young ’uns can still show up whenever they like – even do some preliminary training. They just won’t be assessed until the time comes.
And you don’t mind me being involved in the testing? Caraway had asked shyly. Bryan shot him one of his penetrating looks – the kind that made new recruits quiver – but all he did was shrug.
No skin off my nose, boyo. It’s your Helm.
Which was really all Caraway had needed to hear, because it meant that Bryan accepted him as more than just an ex-alcoholic who’d fallen on his feet. Since then, they’d worked together on several new intakes of recruits, and they’d become … perhaps friends was too strong a word, but on the other hand, perhaps it wasn’t. Bryan never hesitated to tell him when he was being stupid, but since he treated everyone the same way, that was hardly an indication of anything. He’d certainly helped Caraway get to grips with a lot of things. How to handle the sudden transition from disgrace to triumph. How to make his mark on the Helm. How to be the person who, after what he’d done to protect Ayla three years ago, everyone seemed to think he was.
On a few dark nights, when it had all become too much for him and the consolation of an ale-cup had showed an increasingly tempting face, Bryan was the one who’d talked him back to sanity.
So he wouldn’t hesitate to call Bryan his friend, though he didn’t know what Bryan himself would think of it. But since Bryan was the only one who hadn’t actively sought to hinder him, three years ago, it had been easy to form that bond with him – far easier than the bonds he was still forming with most of the Helmsmen under his command. In some ways, the Helm had accepted him more readily than he had accepted them. He’d often needed to remind himself, early on, that their previous captain had moulded them into something that would take a considerable amount of work to undo. And though they were getting there, it wasn’t over yet.
They still called him Breakblade, sometimes, but now it was a mark of respect. Strange, that. He hadn’t thought he’d ever hear it without flinching, but it turned out a name was only as hurtful as the intent behind it.
Descending the final flight of steps, Caraway made a conscious effort to push his introspection aside. His convoluted thoughts had brought him as far as the guardroom, but now he needed to focus. The assassination attempt that Sorrow had referred to was unlikely to happen on the same day he’d received her letter – it could be weeks, even months, before he needed to be fully ready – but he had a lot to get done. He’d talk to the Helm first, set them to improving security in Darkhaven. And in a few days, once the rush of new recruits had died down, he’d talk to Bryan about the possibility of an assassin in the fifth ring.
FIVE
Penn had been in the fifth ring for less than a bell, yet already he despised everyone he had met there.
Of course – and he was perfectly happy to admit it – he had been predisposed to feel that way. Nevertheless, his fellow trainees were pretty vapid, even according to his low expectations. In a way it made his task easier, but it wouldn’t be conducive to a very enjoyable few weeks.
More than a few weeks, he reminded himself. Seven at the very least, and far more likely a year. This is a long-term job.
The thought was depressing. He didn’t want to be around these people for a year. Admittedly they wouldn’t all be there for that long, but since he didn’t like any of them, it hardly mattered which of them were accepted for Helm training alongside him.
You’re assuming an awful lot, he told himself with mordant humour. But really, he had no choice. Although he’d been unable to make a detailed plan before he arrived in Arkannen, owing to lack of information, he was fairly certain that being accepted for Helm training would be a key component of it. As such, he had to be accepted. His father wouldn’t countenance failure.
He’d deliberately timed his arrival in the fifth ring to fall near the end of the sign-up period; better to go straight into the training than to hang around for a week second-guessing himself. Yet as a result, most of the other recruits who’d signed up for Helm assessment had been there a few days longer than he had, which meant they already knew each other a little. Enough to make him feel like the outsider, at any rate. But then, perhaps it was inevitable he’d feel like that, given his opinion of them and what he planned to do.
He sat in a corner of the mess hall and watched the faces around him. Quite a variety of faces, in every colour of skin and hair and eyes he could think of. Penn wasn’t used to that. The village he came from was in northern Mirrorvale: pretty much as far from the borders with other inhabited countries as you could get, and too small to be worth a visit from outsiders. As a result, everyone there looked sort of like him, blue-eyed and fair-haired and light-skinned. He’d never even noticed that homogeneity until he came to Arkannen. And everyone was so loud, talking over each other and over the continuous background roar of the city. In the fifth ring that roar might be muted to a murmur, but it was still audible.
They’d told him their names, when he first arrived. All in a jumble, too fast to take in, let alone remember. First names only, as if he and they were already friends. And then they’d asked him his.
Penn Avens, he’d said stiffly – trying to get used to the name, trying to get used to them. He hadn’t said anything else, and they’d left him alone after that. One thing to be thankful for, at least. He didn’t think he could have coped with a whole afternoon of forced small talk; far better to sit here in silence – watching the people, listening to the noise – and try desperately to come up with a way of living with all this for a whole year.
Currently the boys nearest him were discussing a venture down into the lower rings of the city, though the dest
ination was unclear. For a group of people who were meant to be future Helmsmen, they lacked both decision and efficiency. The one called Farleigh kept pontificating about how his family had been in Arkannen for twelve generations, which apparently made him some kind of city royalty second only to the Nightshade overlords. He enumerated every single attraction to be found between the fifth ring and the Gate of Birth, whilst Penn stared at the floor and let the words wash over him. If only he could perform his task now and let that be the end of it.
Though, of course, he wasn’t capable of performing his task. Not yet. That was the point.
‘… You coming, Avens?’ The voice held an edge of impatience, but then, it had taken him longer than it should have to identify the surname as his own. His mother’s name, from before she was married. It was as good a name to go by as any.
‘Coming where?’ he muttered, glancing up.
‘To sample all the delights Arkannen has to offer, of course.’ It was that Zander boy, the one who acted like he owned the world. Penn didn’t even know his second name, which was irritating, because it meant he couldn’t call Zander by it in the same lofty tone that Zander had used on him.
‘I suppose so.’ He had no desire to spend more time than he had to in Zander’s company – in any of their company. But to achieve his purpose here in Arkannen, he was going to need information. And he wouldn’t find that lying around in the lonely emptiness of his barracks.
Besides, part of him wanted to know what it was about the city his cousin had loved so much. Loved enough to die for.
‘And you, Ree?’ Zander asked, addressing the sole female of the group. Penn hadn’t expected a girl, not in the Helm assessment programme, but there she was. ‘Last chance before training starts. Fancy a night of wine and whoring?’
Ree folded her arms, stern-faced. She had an interesting face. Not pretty, exactly – or at least, it was hard to tell under the boys’ clothes and the short mousy hair – but her amber skin and almost feline yellow-green eyes made her striking enough. It was a shame the effect was marred by her tendency to frown. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I meant it metaphorically,’ Zander said with a grin. ‘The second part, at any rate.’
Ree’s lips twitched, but she shook her head. ‘I’d rather get a good night’s sleep. That way I’ll run rings round you lot on the practice ground tomorrow.’
‘So what you’re saying is, you need us all hungover to stand a chance of beating us.’
‘What I’m saying is, commitment to the training is more important to me than wasting a night on alcohol. And that’s how I know I’ll beat you.’
Ugh. Penn wasn’t sure which of them he found more annoying. All that half-meant banter only made him more certain they’d end up sleeping together, like every other love–hate pairing in history. He waited in the background as Zander and Farleigh and a couple of the others said goodnight to Ree. Then he trailed after them as they headed towards the Gate of Steel and out of the fifth ring, listening with less than half an ear to Farleigh’s endless boastful facts about everything they passed.
They wound up in an inn, of course. Barely a glance at any of the interesting things that could be found between the fifth ring and the first: the airships and the factories and the beautiful striped streets of the fourth ring. Penn had taken the chance to explore earlier that day, before he signed up for the assessment programme, and so he didn’t feel he was missing out; all the same, his estimation of Zander and his cronies went down another notch.
The inn was called the Unicorn, and it was crowded and unpleasant. After he’d finally extracted a pitcher of ale from the overworked bartender, Penn turned and – with some reluctance – looked for the others. Zander was easiest to pick out from the crowd: he’d found a girl to talk to. Someone like Zander always found a girl to talk to. Forgotten Ree already? Penn wanted to ask. But he had to admit, this one was pretty spectacular: a tall, slender girl with skin like smooth honey and hair the dark scarlet of Parovian wine. Despite himself, he drifted closer.
‘… initial assessment period lasts seven weeks,’ Zander was saying. ‘Then they decide which of us they think have the potential to become Helmsmen.’
‘It all sounds very exciting.’ The girl’s voice was high and breathless. She even managed an eyelash flutter. Penn wondered briefly if he was doomed to be surrounded by stereotypes.
‘What about you, Saydi?’ Zander asked her. ‘What brings a rare beauty like yourself to a dump like this?’
Rare beauty. Does anyone really talk like that? But Saydi was smiling and blushing and toying with her hair as if she’d never heard such a profound compliment.
‘Oh … I’m looking for a job.’
‘As a barmaid?’ Penn put in drily. Both Zander and Saydi turned to look at him, and for a moment their expressions were alike in annoyance. Though not alike; Zander just looked petulant, whereas narrow eyes and tight lips gave Saydi’s face a spark of intelligence. Then it was gone, and her voice prattled on with the same hint of a giggle as before.
‘I was up at the tower earlier. Darkhaven. I thought I might get a job as a servant there. But they were turning people away at the gate. Some kind of security threat, they said.’
What? But – Penn reined himself back before he could even finish the thought, because it wasn’t possible that a Darkhaven on full alert could have anything to do with him. Still, it wasn’t good news. Not that his plans were all that specific, as yet. He just didn’t want anything to limit his options.
Saydi was looking at him again, a slight frown between her perfect brows. He wondered what kind of expression had crossed his face, that it had actually shifted her attention away from herself. Or, no, attention was probably the issue: he wasn’t responding to her with flattery and obvious intent. Her interest in him was no more than a distorted reflection of his lack of interest in her. All the same, he sought for a distraction.
‘You should try getting a job in the Helm. I hear the pay is good.’
She stared dumbly at him. ‘Women can do that?’
‘Apparently,’ Penn said. ‘At least, we already have one signed up for the assessment programme.’ Then, with a certain amount of malice, ‘Isn’t that right, Zander? You seemed very friendly with her earlier.’
The look Zander gave him said more clearly than words, Back off – you’re not going to win this one. Still, he nodded and smiled at Saydi.
‘If Ree can do it, I’m sure you can. Have you had much weapons training?’
The hint of giggle in Saydi’s voice became an outright reality. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’
Ice and shattered steel. Foreseeing the approaching descent into increasingly cringeworthy innuendo, Penn retreated to the bar for another drink. It wasn’t as if he even wanted to win that particular contest. He had enough complications in his life without adding an empty-headed female to the mix.
You make sure you get this right, boy, his father had said to him just before Penn left for Arkannen. You’re doing this for family, remember.
For family, Penn had echoed. I won’t fail you, Papa. I promise.
Yet already, it was clear that keeping his word wasn’t going to be as simple as he’d expected.
When his fellow trainees decided to move on – not to anywhere interesting, of course, only to a different inn – he excused himself on the grounds of tiredness. He stood outside the Unicorn, watching them whoop and stagger down the street, Saydi’s red hair distinctive among the dark and brown and yellow heads of the boys. Sudden homesickness clutched at him, then: a desire for familiarity and comfort. A desire to be back in a place where he didn’t have a difficult task to perform or a load of strangers to navigate, just the minor dull chores of everyday.
But of course that was stupid. He’d known since he was fifteen what he’d have to do, when he was old enough. It was three years since being at home had been the peaceful idyll he was imagining now; for three long years he’d had his father’s bitterness in hi
s ear. At least once he’d done his job he’d be free of that.
The quickest route back to the fifth ring was to his left. He turned away from it, and went in search of a shrine.
It was one of the few useful pieces of information that Farleigh had provided on the way down here, amongst the boasting and the bluster. The trainees of the fifth ring weren’t meant to visit the great temples of the sixth ring uninvited, but if they wanted to give thanks or make a supplication, there were plenty of small shrines in the lower rings. Usually near something related, Farleigh had said. Like the shrines to Flame and Steel by the smithy. Makes it convenient for the workers.
Though Penn’s family always made sure to follow the seasonal observances, they had no particular devotion to one element; yet Penn himself had always been drawn to Air. You’d be better off choosing Steel, his father had told him. It’s what you’ll need in the end. No man ever defeated his enemies with a breeze. But though Penn had nodded and agreed, he’d kept up his own small, private relationship with the lightest of the elements. It brought him luck – or if it didn’t, it brought him the idea of luck, and that was just as good. Maybe if he found a shrine and took a moment to centre himself, it would be easier to get through the days ahead.
Yet to start with, he wasn’t sure where he should be looking. Perhaps he’d have to retrace his steps after all, go up to the third ring – because there were bound to be shrines to air and wind at the airship stations, to let travellers request swift journeys. But then he reached the top of some steps and saw sails on a nearby roof. They belonged to the screw pumps that drew water from the river to flush through the sewers, driven by a combination of wind power and manual labour. No doubt the workers often made dedications to Air, hoping for a good wind that would make their task easier.
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