Any warmth now brought by the sun fled early, and when the night sky was clear, shallow pools that lay in the open reflected icy stars for only a brief spell before they froze into opaque tiles. But strollers who happened to tread too freely on one of these tiles would be given the chance to see stars of their own. Though light blankets of snow settled occasionally, the frail coating seldom lasted the day, unlike the deep northern drifts.
Aedan stepped carefully through the darkness along streets that were now familiar to him. He had not intended to be up so early, but Corey, an old friend of Osric’s and owner of a bakery known to the whole city, had a way of charming sleep from the clutches of the sleeper. Aedan’s morning began an hour earlier when the wind drifted down from the south-east, from where Corey filled the air with maddening vapours. Dreams of roasting barley bread, golden oat cakes, and his special blended-grain breakfast loaves that crunched as if singing to the belly, were enough to wrench anyone from slumber.
It wasn’t long before Aedan was at the service door marked in the darkness by a frame of golden light. The main entrance had not been unbolted for sales, but as the general’s apprentice, many back doors were now open to him. He slipped inside and, before long, re-emerged, satchel bulging with breakfast loaves, and one, of course, in his hand.
On the way back, something caught his eye and he slipped into an archway against a door.
Shapes were moving further down the road, darkly clad men whose movements were furtive and stealthy. They were busy with a window, expertly removing the shutters. Two of them climbed inside while the rest kept watch.
Suddenly the door of Aedan’s alcove was shoved open, knocking him into the road. The light of a lantern fell directly on him as a man in his nightgown emptied a basket of refuse at his feet and told him to push off. The door slammed. The gang was looking at him. They knew.
“Tripe!” he said, and ran.
He glanced over his shoulder – three of them were in pursuit. On an inspiration, he ducked into a broad lane that ended with a sharp bend. It was the worst place he had found for running at night; he still had the bruises. Nearing the end of the road, he slowed gradually, carefully, until he was walking. The men appeared at the top of the road at a run. Aedan put his hands in his pockets, smiled at them and sauntered around the corner. He heard the pounding of angry tread, the gritty crunch of boots on stone, then of boots on something far less gritty, and then the horrified screams as three pairs of boots took to the air and three bodies skidded along the ice and slammed into the wall. One lay groaning, but two scrambled to their feet and hobbled after the little shadow that darted around another corner.
Aedan took several more turns in quick succession and tunnelled into the darker alleys. He was sure he had lost them, but decided it would be best not to show himself in any of the broader roads. It meant a detour through the squalid part of town where he had met the Anvil and his gang. The Heaps was the official name of the area, but everyone knew it as the Seeps.
Most of the illegal trade and shady dealings in the city happened here. No signs marked businesses – at least, not accurately. The barber could produce a few combs and a rusty razor on inspection, but no client ever emerged from his rooms with shortened hair. There was a cloth merchant who couldn’t tell the difference between wool and silk but who was able to supply, to those who earned his trust, second hand jewellery at impossible prices. The innocent purveyor of pipe tobacco had patrons who seemed to have been leached of health. They would often enter his store in a frantic itch of paranoia, then, a little while later, float out with distant eyes and bleary smiles. The taverns here were dirty and loud, and the attached inns served a number of other purposes. Soldiers regularly swept the areas and made some arrests, but a business that needs no signboard simply dissolves away at the slightest hint of trouble.
Aedan was making his way through a section where only the most desperate pursuer would follow. No one but a drunk or a fool walks through the darkness at the back of a sleazy tavern, and he was just that fool. At least he would be left alone. Rancid air spoke forcefully of the night’s party – the inland celebration known as Harvesters’ Toast. There would be many sore heads today. He feared that his would be one of them. His throat tightened; he felt dangerously close to retching. The vapours were particularly ripe this morning. One of his shoes sank into something soft; in the darkness, there was no telling what it was. He blocked his imagination, forcing himself to walk without thinking.
The next street was hardly any better. This part of town needed a rainstorm with a temper. A few shadowy forms darted ahead of him through the narrow walkways, no doubt on shadowy pursuits. The streets opened up a little and he quickened his pace. Just ahead were the academy and military courtyard. He raced over the open ground and reached the door to Osric’s apartment as a clerk ducked out.
“Good luck,” the man said, wiping his brow. “You’re late. The general is waiting for you and it looks like he ate a thunderstorm for breakfast.”
“But I’m still early.”
“Not early enough for him. It’s the opening assembly this morning, remember.”
Aedan hadn’t forgotten, but the detour through the back alleys had taken longer than expected. The sky was growing light. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.
“Aedan!” Osric spoke in a shattering tone of raw command. Even after seeing the gentler side of the man, Aedan still found it easy to preserve a healthy respect. Sometimes the general could be truly frightening. It had become clear that the first impression had been more or less correct – Osric was in fact built from a combination of metal, flint and fire, a solid monolith of a man that towered around seven feet off the ground.
The steely frown he now directed at the boy would have withered a number of veteran soldiers in their shoes, but Aedan recognised this as the general’s frustrated look, one that held no personal threat. Most of the officers, in fact most who knew the general, were cautious. Aedan was one of few who had learned to interpret “Where in the name of blackest torment have you been?” as “I’ve been worried about you.”
“It is the morning of the assembly!” Osric barked. “Do you want to be late?”
“I got spotted by a gang working Baker’s Lane. Had to run.”
The frown relaxed slightly, then deepened into a familiar look of pained exasperation. Aedan wondered what he had done wrong, but suddenly guessed it and sighed as Osric began,
“Could you not have given just half a thought to your appearance before leaving the house? It looks like you mopped the floor with your head, you are wearing your sleeping shirt, and there are bread crumbs all over your face! You would agree that I don’t put much stock in appearances, but responsibility demands complete respectability.”
Aedan did not agree with the first statement at all, and wasn’t too sure about the second, but he held his tongue. There were very few days when Osric didn’t make some complaint about his appearance, especially his shoes. Even now he saw the general’s eyes fixing themselves with growing ire on that area.
“What, in all the rotting wastes, did you walk through?”
“I was keeping off the main roads. I had to take a detour.”
“So you managed to find a route through a swamp?”
Aedan considered explaining, and then realised that Osric’s swamp was several degrees better than the reality. If only it had been a beautiful swamp…
In the end he abandoned his defence and said, “I brought you breakfast. Got the oven fire going before I left so you can melt cheese on some of Corey’s breakfast loaves.”
Osric eyed him, clearly not ready to be mollified. Finally he turned and finished with, “Clean habits are the first guard against disease. A single desperate campaign will teach you that. One day you will accept it. Now where is this breakfast?”
The courtyard hummed with excitement. Three hundred boys had gathered from the city and the surrounding villages. Positions within the Castath marshals, or grey
marshals as they were often known, were coveted for reasons noble and otherwise. The marshals carried great authority and were trained in ways that were a matter of enduring mystery to those outside their ranks. Curiosity, therefore, was a strong lure. Others felt the temptations of power. It was understandable for a family to want one of their sons to be a grey marshal. But the ambitions of most were headed for disappointment as the majority of applicants would be filtered out and referred to the regular army. Many fathers who stood around, loud with such eager praise for the institution, would soon be its most bitter critics.
Aedan had not wanted his mother walking through the city for the sake of a ceremony, so he and Osric had visited her the day before. Aedan had laughed when she hung wordless at the sight of the towering general.
“Told you they didn’t exaggerate,” Aedan said.
She had been full of encouragement over the trials. Remembering her words gave him an added layer against the cold.
Boys from the same villages chattered nervously, shoving and stamping in the chilly dawn, waiting for the mayor’s opening speech.
Aedan felt a sharp sting behind his good ear – the other side of his head was still dressed with some light bandages. He spun around in time to see a small boy with bright red hair turning away and almost managing to conceal a peashooter against his wrist. Aedan watched. Slowly the head pivoted and the young eyes met his. They stared with such a grotesque parody of innocence, defying accusation – a look that was almost hostile. Aedan felt his skin grow hot. He was tempted to walk over and even the score, but at that point there was a general stirring and hushing as people began turning to the front.
Three men approached the steps of a wooden podium. Aedan recognised those on the outside as two of the masters of studies whom he had met briefly at Osric’s house. They were both short and grey, and their lined faces appeared to be etched with the letters and runes that had been so many years before them, but apart from this, they could not have been more dissimilar. Giddard, who crabbed his way up the stairs on the left, was withered like a man who had missed too many meals, and Rodwell, stumping heavily and filling the space on the right, appeared to have eaten them. The man in the middle, who by his splendid robes and chains would have to be Balfore, mayor of the city south, was tall and strong, and strode with confidence. He was a striking leader displaying golden hair, golden rings, and a golden voice with which he now greeted the assembly.
“Blessings of the dawn to you,” he said, his words ringing across the courtyard.
Aedan wrinkled his nose at the man’s lofty expression. It would have been pompous even for a gathering of kings.
“It is a fine day to embark on a noble course such as you have chosen. And well have you chosen. The Castath marshals are our pillars of strength, our shields of honour, and our ambassadors who carry themselves not with pride, but with the humility of service to our people.”
There was a warm buzz of agreement and loud cheers. Aedan wondered if the rest of the speech would continue along these lines – fine words chosen to hide facts behind a pretty glow. He wondered if “spies” was hiding behind the word “ambassadors”. Recently, he had learned that the marshals were not only trained in the ways of war, but were taught to speak several languages and that much of their time was spent in places where foreign relations were complicated. But this was of minor interest. What mattered to him was that of all positions associated with the military, the mention of marshals was the one to draw instant attention, even fear. Whatever their training was, he wanted it, needed it.
“As you all know there are only a few places made available each year.”
Silence fell over the courtyard.
“For the next two months, tests will be held until the selection of twenty is made known and training begins in earnest. I would speak to those of you who do not find a place in the final number. Be bigger than the petty lure of jealousy. Remember that the selection process is not about choosing the best boys, but choosing those who are most suited to this particular form of service to our great city.”
A few grunts and calls of agreement sounded from various points in the crowd.
“It is important that we do not have marshals in whose ears other callings sing more sweetly. The next two months will enable us to know who belongs here. Today I ask of you two things: Commit to giving more than you have ever done; and have the bigness of heart to embrace either continuation or redirection with equal ardour.” Balfore pressed his gaze masterfully over them. “We are glad to have you all here this morning. May you advance with honour.” He bowed his head and stepped back as the crowd applauded.
Something zipped through the crowd and Aedan felt another stinging bite behind his ear. The impressive accuracy only made him angrier.
Clerks made their voices heard. They divided the assembly of boys into fifteen groups of twenty and directed them to bunks in the army barracks. Only those who made it through the selections would see the inside of the academy and the marshals’ training grounds.
Aedan gritted his teeth as he spied the red-headed pea-shooting tormentor at the back of his group. Peashot – that would be an appropriate name. Debtors had to have names and there was a debt to settle. It was appropriate that this heckler had the same red hair as Emroy.
An army sergeant was assigned to their group and led the way through the heavy iron gates of the barracks, across a large courtyard, down an airy corridor and past many doors with numbered brass plates above them – sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. They stopped outside number nineteen. Inside was a long room lined with beds, upper and lower. The boys waited while two clerks conferred. Aedan drifted to the back of the line where Peashot idled and looked about with cocky self-assurance. His arrogant slouch and mean little eyes were enough to light Aedan’s fires. The rage stored away from fantasies he had cradled of revenge on his father, on Emroy, on the Anvil, surged up in him until he almost choked.
It was time to change things. He had been weak under his father, but today was the beginning of a new part of his life. He would no longer sit passively and be a soft target for every malicious boot. If scores were not settled, who would ever learn to respect him? They needed to know that he was not afraid to take revenge, and it would begin now.
With no introduction, he grabbed the smaller boy’s ear and twisted it until he saw the look of pain.
“If you want to keep your ear, midget, then aim elsewhere. Understand?”
The little boy tried to grab for Aedan’s face and kick at his shins, but the pain Aedan was causing took the strength from those efforts. The little foxy eyes, though, were defiant, even mocking.
Aedan’s anger leapt in him and he made no attempt to tame it. He hit the boy in the stomach and shoved him against the wall, thumping his head hard against the bricks. The defiance fell away like a shattered screen and revealed someone very young and small. Aedan saw his advantage and twisted the ear further. “Understand?” he repeated.
“Yes,” the boy said, coughing and gasping.
Aedan was filled with a strange elation. Power, control. At last he was taking charge of matters. Instead of cowering in corners, he was dealing with those who needed to be put in their place.
He grinned to himself as he walked away. He felt good. At least he expected to feel good.
Instead he became aware of a strange creeping discomfort. He tried the smirk again, but it reminded him of the way the Anvil had leered. He straightened his face out and began explaining to some inner judge why it had been necessary, how the debt was now settled.
But he knew he had done more than settle a debt. It had not been about justice at all. He had let his anger out to satisfy itself. And the aftertaste was not sweet. He tried to pass it off as a small thing, but small as it was, it carried the odour of his father’s “lessons” as if poured out from the same jar.
And then he imagined what he would see in Kalry’s face if she had been watching – and perhaps she had. He felt a deep revulsion wit
h himself that drowned out the next set of instructions.
Boys were rushing into the room, leaping onto the hard boards. Aedan was left with the bed at the entrance. He noticed that Peashot had no choice but the one above his. The boy tried to hide his face. Aedan guessed the reason when he saw a sleeve dabbing downturned eyes, and he could not smirk now.
The soldier was speaking, “Your first assignment is to collect bedding hay from the army farm on the south road. You are all injured. Five of you have a useless leg, five a useless arm, and the rest are blind.” He handed out white bandages and allocated afflictions to the disappointed boys. “If we see anyone using an injured limb or a blindfolded boy using his sight, he will be going home before supper.”
On that first day there was a lot of laughter and names were learned quickly. Nobody from Aedan’s group went home, but it was rumoured that three from another group had cheated and been sent away in disgrace.
Though he joined in as was required, the day was poisoned for Aedan. He could not help but notice that Peashot neither laughed nor smiled all day. He resolved to make amends as soon as possible, so that evening he took his dinner plate and sat opposite the small boy who had found an empty table.
“Listen, Peashot, I’m sorry for being an ass earlier. I was just angry. If I can help you …”
The boy stood up and left the table without a word.
Aedan felt as foolish as he looked, sitting alone.
The next day they ran around the city twice, seven miles that had them gasping for breath. Aedan managed the first lap easily, but during the second his leg began to weaken. Since recovering the ability to walk he had not attempted such sustained exercise. He was one of the last ones back. On his return he was directed to the stables where he found the rest of the boys. The first job was to take out the old straw, which had them trying not to breathe, and the next was to empty the barrack latrines, during which, ten of the better-dressed boys staggered out and simply went home.
Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) Page 19
