Alun made a fist. “Those rat bastards!”
“The office is closed today,” Ceri said. “I don’t think you can ask about it until after the Saint Arroch Feastday.”
“Shit,” Luc murmured. “I wanted to get this over with.”
“They must’ve forgotten it,” Alun insisted. “Old Rowland’s boy passed, and Luc’s at least twice as smart as he is.”
“I wouldn’t say twice,” Ceri murmured. “But I see your point, Alun.”
Feastday was three days away. Luc swallowed, unsure of how he was supposed to wait until then. He glanced at Alun and grimaced. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” he said.
“It can wait,” Alun replied. “I told you. Everyone’s waiting for you back home. Uncle Ian and Aunt Aislinn and our cousins…”
“You both go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”
They stared at him for a heartbeat. And then, with a small sigh, Alun drew back.
“Luc…” Ceri began.
“Please go with him,” Luc said. “Michell’s friends might be out and about.”
She looked like she wanted to say something else, but after a moment, she nodded.
Once they were gone, he made his way to the main office. The doors were closed, predictably enough. Luc made his way around the back, skirting past a narrow pathway marked with windows that overlooked the streets below. It gave way to a closed courtyard, where crates and barrels were piled high against the walls and a small garden shed was set up against the back door. A man with a broom looked up as he arrived.
“Academy’s closing soon,” the man said gruffly, snorting through his thick, white moustache. “Best you go home, lad.”
“Professor Mila—would you happen to know where she lives?”
The man didn’t answer and returned to sweeping.
“Please,” Luc said. “It’s important.”
“When is it never?” the man grumbled. “I’ve got things to do, and you damn kids are always running amok, hurting my ears, hurting my back…” He turned around, pushing a mound of dust off to a corner before shuffling to the other end of the courtyard.
Luc picked up the second broom hanging from the shed and began to sweep with him. The man snorted, but didn’t interrupt what was clearly a stroke of good fortune. They worked side-by-side in silence. Once Luc had cleared out the leaves from the yard and gathered them into a pile, the man finally lifted his head and gave another snort. “Come on, then, since you’re so insistent.” He pulled out an iron key from his pocket and waddled over to the door.
“She’ll be in her office,” the man said with a sniff. “Up the stairs, third door to the right. Not my problem if she chews your head off for bothering her. Good day, son.”
The silence in these halls felt eerie. Luc could hear every step he made as he clambered up the stairs, every creak echoing along the floorboards. He passed by another alcove, just like the one where he and Michell had traded blows, and paused. The statue of Agartes stared back at him with hollow eyes. One hand was holding a sword so large it looked unnatural, while the other had a beast’s head, one with horns and distinct, horse-like features.
He heard footsteps and turned around to see an old woman, stooped and round, with eyes that blinked at him from behind thick, round spectacles. He recognized the test administrator. “It’s you,” she said.
“I’m—”
“I just heard what happened down there. Come to wreak more havoc, have you? That one’s been there for a hundred years—it’s bound to break sooner or later. Do you want me to fetch you a hammer? Or would you rather try to smash it with your head like the one downstairs?”
“Professor Mila,” Luc said. “I’ve come to apologize for that.”
“Have you?” She crossed her arms. “Lying isn’t the best way to start this conversation.”
He flushed. “Well…”
“There. I see. I do know you, as it happens. It’s hard to ignore something so obvious, after all.” She glanced up at him, and he had the distinct feeling that she was looking at his skin. It made him feel uneasy enough to want to rub at it.
“I wanted to talk to you about my test results,” Luc said. “Or lack thereof. It wasn’t on the wall.”
“I know,” the professor replied.
“I…what?”
“Come with me,” she said, gesturing at him.
He swallowed and followed her down the hall and into her office. She pulled a lantern from the wall as she entered. “Sit,” she told him, pointing at a chair close to her desk.
He buckled down and watched as she rifled through the files in the shelf on the wall. It seemed to take forever. Eventually, she made a sound in the back of her throat and pulled out a piece of paper. She handed it to him without a word.
Luc glanced down. It was his handwriting.
“Your thoughts on the Hafed gentry is interesting,” Professor Mila said with an expression that appeared to be halfway between a grimace and a smile. “Your views on how they’ve used years of pomp and display to try to elevate themselves from the common man, despite having the same ancestry, are almost worthy of discussion. Maybe not the wisest stance for someone applying to be a soldier in His Majesty’s military, but I might’ve let it pass, regardless. Your knowledge on basic geography is lacking, but that wasn’t an issue, either. The biggest concern was that the very nature of all your answers combined were…troublesome.”
“Troublesome?”
“You were applying for the army, son. You overthought this whole thing.”
“You failed me for that?” Luc felt the anxiety disappear, replaced by a bubbling anger. He watched as she walked up to the window, pushing it open to let a stream of sunlight in.
“I’m tasked with making sure the Hafed military gets their fair share of usable recruits. Smart men and women, but also easy to hone, who would know how to follow orders and not go about it in unexpected ways. We weren’t sure what to make of you. If anything happened—if you got into trouble up there, which, given your track record, seems almost inevitable…” She stared at his brow and scowled. “They’ll see this and wonder why we sent you their way. One problematic student will be enough for an inquiry, which is the last thing this academy needs.”
“If that’s all it is, I could do a re-test, can’t I?” Luc asked. “But my name wasn’t even on that list. You’re not even going to give me a chance to change my answers?”
“Your answers won’t change the way you look at things,” the professor continued. “And how you look at things makes you ill-suited for that line of work. Anyway, you’ve got more problems than that. When you took this test, we weren’t aware you were a Dageian refugee.”
“A…a what?”
She nodded towards him. “That’s the kinder way of saying that Dageis probably still thinks of you as theirs. You’re a Gorenten foundling, clear as day. We had to dig into your past as soon as it was brought to my attention. Picked up from a shipwreck—a slave ship. Likely they have some sort of record on you—you’ll be a walking beacon for the Dageians.”
He hated the way her lips pursed as she said that. “The recruiter didn’t seem bothered.”
“Maybe not. Maybe it would never come up. But there is just no way we can recommend you to Tilarthan. It’s a matter of risk, boy. Try to understand.”
~~~
The note of finality in the woman’s voice sent Luc reeling. There was no bargaining or begging his way out of this one. He walked out of the office with his test results in hand, thrusting them into the candles of the alcove. He watched the edges of the parchment curl up in flames before the whole thing turned into ash.
The failure, he realized, was easy enough to swallow. There were worse things to hear than that he’d overthought some of the answers. But the knowledge that it was who he was after all that made this impossible from the beginning was more than he knew how to deal with. How do you fix the unfixable? It would break his father’s heart. There is nothing for
me after all, father. Your precious Lucky…
He felt like a walking dead man as he made his way outside. By now, the sun was a deep, dark red slowly sinking on the horizon. He didn’t know how long he had been there talking to Professor Mila, but it must’ve been long enough. The street outside the academy steps was empty save for a trinket vendor, pushing a cart full of her wares…a far cry from the chaos from that afternoon. Everyone had gone home. Even Michell, probably—he didn’t think they’d keep him detained for very long. Crossfingers’ guardsmen were notoriously lax.
He lingered on the road leading out of town.
It wasn’t fear that seized him—at least, not the sort of fear that would’ve stopped others. Luc knew his father, knew the old man would reach for him without a word, wrap him in his arms like he was a child again, like the time his old dog had drowned in the creek and he didn’t have the words to express how he felt about the loss. Jak would understand—Jak always understood. “Never you mind, yeah?” he’d probably say. “I’m thinking there’s other things for you, just wait and see. Sometimes these things…they’re not meant for us. If they’re not for us, there’s no sense chasing after them. You’d be spinning in circles like Alun’s bitch dog, and we don’t want that, hey? We’re not wanting that at all…”
No, not fear. If anything, a part of him wanted to go home and get it over with. Why did he have to get all those lofty ideas into his fool head, anyway? General Luc, indeed. He had been a lot happier when he didn’t allow himself to dream. It wasn’t like he was Alun, who had always been expected would try to get into Skellcilan as soon as he came of age. A cripple wouldn’t have much prospects as an apprentice to any trade, but he was good with his studies, and he’d wanted to be a builder since he was a child. The family had never had anyone so accomplished before. When Grandma and her husband moved all the way out here from Jin-Sayeng decades ago, they’d settled in Port Bluetree, where most of the family had worked at the tannery ever since. Jak was the first one who tried to get out, only to return years later for Grandpa’s funeral, and because he had to raise Luc.
Nobody had ever told Luc that he had to be anything. There was once or twice in the past couple of years that he’d entertained the thought of travelling to seek his fortunes, but he nipped it in the bud even before the idea could take root. Why would he leave? Jak had been growing weaker the last few years—ever since he injured his back trying to fix the roof four years ago—and Luc was the strongest body around the farm.
And yet…Alun had said that there was a feast back home, one that had been meant to be kept as a secret from him. Because they planned it for him?
He felt a chill run through his body and realized that it had grown dark.
He turned on the road leading to the town square, hoping that some of the vendors would still be around so he could buy a lantern or a torch. The first bright lights he saw led to the tavern. After a moment of deliberation, he decided to stroll in.
The tavern felt alive, a balm to his senses. Music, raucous conversation, and the mouth-watering smell of roasted meat seemed to do the trick to seal the grating anxiety, at least for the time being. He pushed his way to the bar and called for a mug of ale. Perhaps it would be enough to hold his nerves at bay and help him find the words to tell his father. Because he would have to, wouldn’t he? And he didn’t know if he was going to have to find an upward tone to it, to say that he would try again or find something else, or admit that it was probably best to stay at home and skirt around the reality that Jak had found himself saddled with a useless dog after all.
Useless. Ah, there it was, a word more painful than he cared to admit it, one that even the thick, dark ale wasn’t potent enough to drown out from his thoughts. It was what it all boiled down to in the end. He had tried and he had failed. His father would still welcome him home. But then what? Could he so easily return to the farm now and spend the whole spring tilling soil and feeding ducks while Alun went off to do great things with his life?
“You should get something to eat,” the barkeep told him with a grunt. “That ale’s too strong on an empty stomach.”
“Not enough coin,” Luc replied.
The barkeep snorted. “You came in from Skellcilan?”
Luc made a sound that could’ve meant anything.
The barkeep nodded towards the other tables. “You and nearly every one in here. But they’re celebrating. You’re not.”
“Those exams have two results,” Luc found himself saying. “Most of the time.”
“Oh?”
“I got the third.” He gave a painful grin. “Not good enough for anything, it seems like.”
“Well,” the barkeep said. “Moping won’t help.”
He almost had a witty reply for that, but the ale was starting to cloud his senses. Not that it mattered. As soon as he drowned out the last, grubby mouthful, he heard a scream from the alley behind the tavern. The barkeep wiped his hands on his apron, ducked under the bar, and slid the lock into the back door.
There was another cry, followed by the unmistakable sound of fighting. Luc thought he recognized one of the voices. He turned to the barkeep, who had returned to wiping mugs with a towel in a clear attempt to ignore what was happening outside. Even the rest of the tavern’s patrons seemed oblivious—after the initial shock of that first scream, they had returned to their ale and conversation.
Luc awkwardly clambered off the stool and staggered outside. He had barely walked around the alley when a man came flying past him, smashing into an empty barrel. Luc blinked, recognizing Michell.
Before he could react, a woman came hurtling out of nowhere to throw herself at him. She was nearly Michell’s size. Luc watched as her fist smashed into his cheek, hard enough that he thought he heard his skull crack as it hit the ground. Michell’s eyes settled on Luc for one, painful moment, like he was begging him to do something, before they rolled backward. His body fell still.
Luc felt like his heart would stop.
“Is he dead?” someone cried out.
Luc glanced up in panic.
“I don’t fucking care,” the woman snarled, spitting to the side. “He killed Oswyn!”
“We’ve got to run!” A man appeared limping out from the shadows, one hand on his belly.
“This one was watching!” the woman said, pointing at Luc.
“I’m—” Luc began.
They heard voices.
The man brandished a sword. “Come with us or die,” he snarled.
“But—”
“Kill him, Treda,” the woman gasped.
The man’s face contorted. Luc saw the blood seeping from the wound he was desperately trying to stanch. He was swaying on his feet and struggling to stand, too.
Perhaps it was his ale-addled brain, or the fact that he needed something—anything—to take him away from the stench of his failures. Perhaps it was the sight of Michell dying, or dead, at his feet, and the thought of what they would do to him if he refused. Whatever it was, Luc found himself reaching up to take the man by the hand.
The man waved his sword a second time.
“I’ll help you,” Luc said.
The man stared at him for a moment. In the distance, they saw shadows in the alley. Guardsmen.
“Fuck this,” the woman thundered. “We have to go now!”
The man allowed his sword to hang uselessly to the side. Luc grabbed the man’s arm, helping him up to his shoulders. He glanced at the woman, who roared before thundering down into the dark, narrow alleyway.
~~~
The shadows seemed to lunge at him as they ran.
Luc could feel the man’s blood on his shirt, could smell the iron tinge of it with every breath he took. He could also feel his own heart pounding like a drum against his chest, beating an otherworldly rhythm. Combined with the drink-induced haze and the memory of Michell crumpling in front of his very eyes, he felt like he was slipping in and out of a nightmare. He couldn’t even really see where he was goin
g. He could see the swirl of the stars above, mixed with the occasional grey cloud, but the alleys were so tight that he was relying on the sound of the footsteps ahead of him.
After what felt like forever, the woman stopped. Luc’s breath turned to fog around his mouth. The man, Treda, was starting to slip, and Luc tried to readjust his grip.
The woman glanced back at Luc for the first time. Against the moonlight, Luc suddenly had a clear view of her face. She was older, probably past her fortieth year, streaks of white on her hair, and scars everywhere he looked. Her mouth was twisted into a grimace. She hesitated for a moment before whistling. It was a distinct, sing-song tune, broken into two—low and then high. A few moments later, they heard the same whistle repeated back from the shadows.
“Tasha,” a soft voice called out.
“Hana,” the woman said. “Get your ass out here and help.”
A younger woman vaulted over the wall with a torch and clambered down to them. Luc swallowed as she turned to him and the injured man. “By Agartes’ balls,” she whispered. She had a low, raspy voice, one that seemed incapable of rising without squeaking. “What happened?”
“Tavern brawl,” Tasha replied. Luc thought it seemed like an unreasonably simple explanation for what happened, but the woman looked like she was still in shock.
“I warned Oswyn. He never could handle his drink.”
“He’s dead.”
“Gods, no,” Hana gasped. “What happened?”
“He’d gone out the back to piss and this man picked a fight with him. I went out to look for him, and Treda was there too…we saw Oswyn on the ground and went for the bastard. The man’s dead, too, I think. I hope. That son of a bitch. The guards were looking for us, but I think we lost them. Help us get Treda inside.”
Hearing his name, Treda uttered a low groan. Tasha reached out to grab his other arm, alleviating some of the weight. She didn’t say anything to Luc, didn’t even glance at him. They walked down another length of alley until they reached a gate. Hana pushed it open for them, and they managed to drag Treda another few paces before he collapsed.
Blackwood Marauders Page 3
