The growing friendships were warming him again, restoring his confidence. It was clear that the same was true for Peashot, though he was taking a lot longer to thaw. Daily, the loyalty and comradeship were growing.
Then over the next few weeks, there were some other things that started to emerge.
Lorrimer was messy in a way that defied comprehension. And dirty. Socks, heavy with foot grease, would stick and slither over furniture wherever they happened to be flung, and large, stained boots regularly tripped anyone who had to walk past his area on nightly errands to the privy.
Vayle was lazy, preferring to recline in aloof majesty, offering philosophic advice rather than assistance. His tendency to improve others’ stories, beginning with “No, that’s not what happened …” was brought to an end when Peashot exploded and told him that if he couldn’t listen to a story without correcting it he should move across to the college of legal administrators where he would fit right in.
Peashot had a habit of “collecting” things that had not previously belonged to him, and that nobody had seen him buy. When Hadley once pressed the issue, identifying a gold-tipped letter opener that had formerly belonged to Rodwell, Peashot insisted that it was borrowed. Things grew lively when Hadley’s knife disappeared the following day. He marched right over and shoved out an accusing finger. Peashot said something stinging. The extended finger became a hand that grasped for the smaller boy’s neck, but the movement was too slow. Peashot slipped underneath and landed a mean little kick. Hadley, hopping on his remaining good knee, managed to wrestle the “thieving weasel” into a corner. It took everyone else in the dorm to separate the combatants.
The dorm was tense for a few days. Then, one evening, Kian arrived to return the knife and thank Hadley for the loan. There was a deep, thoughtful silence. Hadley ended it with a laugh. He walked over to Peashot, apologised, and held out his arm. Peashot clasped the extended forearm reluctantly and mumbled something that Aedan was not convinced was entirely polite.
In this and any number of his interactions, Hadley never showed hesitation. He was nothing if not recklessly headlong. This impulsive tilt was born of supreme confidence, and often revealed itself – true to his father’s description – as pushiness. Hadley had no need for space and no awareness of anyone else’s need for it. He would invite himself into, and then dominate, all manner of private conversations and solitary reveries.
With Aedan, the first objection was always directed to an appetite for adventure so extreme that Vayle considered it pathological. By the time the three month confinement to the academy was over, Aedan’s fitness and confidence had begun to return. He wasted no time before charging back into the ways he had known in the north. Not even Hadley tried to get in front of him now when he bolted off to climb the highest trees during storms, dared the rapids on rafts that were smashed apart more often than not, rigged and tested swings that launched from branches sixty feet above the ground, and prowled at night through wild regions considered hazardous even by the rangers. If there were snakes to be caught, bush pigs to be tracked, or unpredictable horses to be handled, he would be there.
The most problematic aspect was that he found something irresistible behind every sign that ordered caution or forbade entry. Often, the whole worried group had to work together to talk him out of some dubious exploration. Mostly, their efforts failed, and the group was torn between standing watch for officials, and fleeing the scene.
But, with Aedan, there was another problem, and it was of an entirely different sort. It was his breath. He considered the complaints utter nonsense. He couldn’t smell anything. And in this, the halitosis was like every character flaw in the dorm, for none of the boys recognised their supposed faults, or if they did, considered them harmless.
But Aedan’s was not a problem destined to be ignored. One day, Liru handed him a bag containing a large vial of powdered charcoal, mint, and several other ingredients, a reel of silken thread and some kind of brush that looked like a coarse, hairy root.
“What’s this for?”
“I do not cry easily, but your breath, it makes my eyes water.”
“Are you trying to say –”
“You stink, Aedan. Sort this thing out or I will wear a mask when you speak to me.”
Liru, then, could perhaps have been charged with a lack of subtlety, but she would have taken it as a compliment. In any case, the point was made. Aedan slunk away and began sorting himself out.
In the dormitory, Hadley was the natural leader, not because of any real ambition to be so, but because he was usually already on the move before anyone else had finished considering the options. The only time this changed was when Aedan had one of his adventurous or tactical ideas, something that happened often enough for the two of them to trade roles almost constantly.
For two months, the routine remained roughly the same, and after the initial shock, they found ways of adapting. The near-reverence with which they regarded the masters soon melted under the influence of familiarity. They discovered that there were certain classes in which the back row was good for short naps, and that some of the junior instructors failed to notice if a desk was empty, allowing one or two to skip a class. Aedan would have skipped every class on foreign relations, but his absence would never have gone unnoticed. Kollis continued to teach as though arguing against Aedan’s unspoken opposition.
Peashot was almost removed from training when Dun, who happened to be standing at the door, caught him in the act of tenderising Rodwell. He was allowed to return after a one-week detention, a sincere apology, and a promise to never use a peashooter in the academy again. He insisted to his friends that it had all been worth it for the sweet memory of Rodwell squealing and trying to work his short, pink arms around his girth to dislodge the imagined wasp.
For a while, Peashot made do without his weapon. He compensated for his loss by planting trouble wherever he saw fertile ground. Once, he asked Aedan if it would be possible to move the marble pillars marking the stair traps. Aedan’s look had ended the discussion.
But Peashot soon found something else to distract him in the form of a large dead yellow-banded viper. After ensuring that he was late enough to be the last one entering class, he pinned it up on the outside of Mistress Gilda’s closed door and then slipped inside. The hinges here all turned inward, so when she opened the door at the end of the lesson, the large scaly form swung into the room and wrapped gently round her.
It was not one scream, but several. The stocky little woman emptied and refilled her lungs with impressive speed. Even Peashot seemed to be in awe of the sonic onslaught. A number of the girls took up the alarm and one or two of the city-bred boys backed away from the swinging viper, falling over chairs and adding to the general air of panic. It was a performance that would be forever etched into the memoirs of the noble institution.
On the way out, Peashot told Aedan how he felt he had benefitted from having his peashooter confiscated. “I’ve grasped the importance of diversifying. Like Dun said, we mustn’t get fixed on one weapon, but must be ready to snatch weapons and opportunities as they appear. He would be happy, don’t you think, to see how I’ve learned my lesson?”
Aedan wondered for an instant if Peashot had actually gone mad, but then he saw the sliding eye and the malicious little grin.
“Weren’t you even slightly sorry about shooting Rodwell in the back?” he asked.
“Well if you put it that way – yes, a little.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“I was aiming for his neck. Still bothers me that I had to go out on a shot like that.”
Aedan awoke to a patch of grey light at the window. Dun had never allowed them to sleep this late. He listened for the familiar sounds of kitchen operations drifting down the passage, but all was silent. Careful not to disturb the others, he climbed from bed and dressed. It was early spring, still cold, but he elected to forego the shoes, firstly because he hated shoes and secondly because he wante
d to move in silence. The dorm remained blanketed in deep slumber as he crept out and began padding his way down the corridor.
As he entered the kitchen, the light scuff of his feet echoed in a silence usually filled with the clatter of pots and the gossip of cooks. A deep worry began to grow in his empty belly as he retreated through the dining hall. He turned down another passage and began running. Every office was empty, every corridor silent. Even the central display room was vacant and dark, torches having long since expired.
He considered running back to the dorms, but the light from the windows beckoned. He needed to get out of this disturbingly lifeless building. He found his way to one of the exits, unbolted the door and slipped out. The morning was colder than he had expected and he shivered at the touch of mist. A graveyard silence hung in the air.
Something was wrong, very wrong. Never had he seen this place without some hint of life.
He turned back to the open door, but the darkness within the building was even less inviting now. Underfoot, gravel crunched as he traversed the walkway to the lawn, stepping from cold stones onto colder dew.
A movement in the fog caught his eye. He glanced up just in time to see a cloaked figure pass behind a statue and into the central hall. It was all the clue he needed. He sped away across the lawns, slipped behind a line of regal plane trees, and approached the low boundary wall with its perimeter display of oversized bronze statues – the founders of the academy. The ground and building beyond this point were strictly off limits to any student without special permission.
Aedan crept up behind the fifteen foot effigy of Krale-o-Mandus and peered around his side.
There were two guards on each corner. Here in the middle of the wall, Aedan decided, the mist was almost thick enough to conceal him. It was worth a chance. He hopped over into the forbidden precinct and marched across the lawn with his head down, a posture that he hoped would look confident and slightly bored. It failed, perhaps because he was about half the size of any of those who had a right to be within the perimeter.
Shouting voices called him to stop and he heard the tramp of heavy boots. He kept his head down and pretended not to notice, heading for a hedge-lined corridor that approached one of the side doors. The shouts were getting louder now. He dared not look around. The high, opposing walls of the hedges concealed him momentarily as he entered the walkway. He broke into a sprint and dived through the first gap he spotted in the leaves. There was actually a surprising amount of space within the leafy wall which was easily eight feet across.
He crawled out the other side as the guards began searching for him, and darted under the branches of a stout conifer that stood just outside a window of the central hall. Climbing such a tree was a test of will against sticky gum, prickly leaves and sharp seeds, so Aedan was far from comfortable when he settled opposite the window in the darkness of his fragrant tent. He listened to the soldiers prod and scratch a while longer before giving up the search and retreating to their posts. Finally he could turn his attention to the hall. By the rumble of talk, he judged that somewhere in the region of two hundred people were assembled within. Presently a voice called for silence. After a little more shuffling and coughing, things settled down and the voice spoke again.
“Thank you for attending on such short notice. I am sure you will appreciate that the gravity of what you are about to hear justifies the disruption to the morning’s schedules.”
The voice sounded like Culver’s – it cut with the precision of clear thought and the weight of undisputed authority. There was a brief pause during which Aedan realised that he was about to overhear something that could possibly get him into more trouble than trespassing on the sacred lawn. But there was nothing he could do about that now.
“The marshals and rangers that were commissioned last autumn under the Fennlor threat-assessment directive have returned, and I am afraid the news is disturbing. The iron mines that were sighted have grown significantly. Most of the ore is being taken to the smithies in Greel where the marshals found a marked increase in weapons production. There is little work taking place at the shipyards, but there seem to be more stables than houses. If the Fenn are preparing for a land war then they have only three possible targets – Orunea, Vinterus, and Thirna. Fortifications in Orunea and Vinterus have been recently strengthened. As Southern Thirna is now the least fortified neighbour by some margin, we must consider ourselves the most likely focus of their interest.”
There was a murmur of discussion that subsided as a question was raised from another point in the hall,
“What does Thirna have that could justify the cost of such a war? Our silver mines are almost depleted.”
“It is a point well made. However, it would be unwise to assume that they could have no motive, and so be lulled into complacency. The mere possession of land can be sufficient motive for some.”
A general murmur of agreement followed.
“The situation is complicated by news that has been reaching us from the other side of the realm. Reports of escalating Lekran forays are proving upon investigation to be accurate. It seems that as Thirna has relaxed the coastal patrols, slave traders have grown bolder, making regular pickings along our sea border, sometimes sending parties far inland. With our small hold on the oceans, we can offer no retaliation. It has been suggested that the Lekran parties have been testing us, sampling us. If so, they would have found our bellies soft and our spears blunt. While it is not likely that they would attempt to match Thirna’s full strength, a Fenn invasion that turns our attention to the east would present Lekrau with an irresistible opportunity. The slavers may be scavengers by tradition, but let us not imagine that they would turn down the opportunity for a full invasion if we were crippled. Even vultures will kill given the right circumstances.”
A tense silence was followed by a surge of voices that subsided after a moment, obviously in response to some gesture.
“Let’s begin with questions.”
A thin voice – Aedan assumed it was made thinner by worry – asked, “How long do we have before the Fenn can reach us?”
“Marshals estimate that their army is still in its early stages of preparation. They will not be able to mount a large-scale assault within the next three years, though powerful skirmishing parties could breach our borders this summer. If they are planning a full conquest of Southern Thirna, it could be as much as six or seven years from now.”
The next voice was nasal and vaguely superior, almost cynical in tone. It sounded like Kollis. “Is there anything more definitive than a growing army and an interest in horses? Perhaps their concerns are self-defence and equestrian sports.”
“Yes, there is more. In fact, it is all but certainty that the Fenn will cross our borders soon.”
“This goes back to their motive, doesn’t it? The Fenn have discovered something in our land and you intend to keep it from us?”
“In this, I have no choice. It is by Prince Burkhart’s explicit orders.”
There was a burst of stamping and shouted protests. What had been found that was enough to start a war? Aedan thought that even the bronze Krale-o-Mandus would leap forth from centuries of silence and raise a harsh yell of dismay at being kept out of such a secret. But Culver could be made to say nothing further on the topic. Finally order was restored and he continued.
“The next matter is of a vastly different nature. By sheer coincidence the returning rangers happened to witness one of the much-rumoured storms over the DinEilan range. Three of them journeyed some distance through DinEilan to investigate. They did not return. All that was found of them was a single boot and some disturbed ground – and yes, a tree that looked to have been pushed over. I tell you this, not to fuel the outlandish talk of DinEilan, but to give you the facts as we have them before wyrm scales, griffin feathers and cyclops prints are added to the report. I must implore you to turn your minds to sensible explanations and not retreat into the kinds of ideas that settle and nest in empty he
ads.”
Culver’s last words caught Aedan imagining some frightening creatures in DinEilan – a DinEilan that was obviously growing wilder. He did not want to be guilty of the empty-headedness just condemned, so he pushed the thoughts back and tried to listen.
“While I care nothing for the doomsday notions that natural anomalies always provoke, there was something about this storm that we would be foolish to overlook. The surviving rangers gave a clear and, I must confess, startling description of what they witnessed, and aspects of their description struck a chord with something in the all-but-forgotten Gellerac archives. This history does not propose an explanation, but records a sequence of events that is worrying. It suggests that, should the storms move towards us, we may be faced with a greater threat than war-mongering neighbours. For those of you, which I believe to be most of you, who do not speak Gellerac, I shall translate the first –”
Aedan’s concentration had been absolute and his focus so narrow that he had failed to see the parting of leaves or hear the soft crunch of boots. A vice-like hand snapped shut over his foot and dragged him through the gummy branches and out the tree. The guard gripped him behind the neck, smiled, and nodded to someone waiting at the statues. Aedan could not turn his head to see, but as the guard marched him off, he caught a glimpse of a boy taller than him with dark hair and fair skin – though the phrase that now felt appropriate was “skin pale as sickness and eyes weak as rainwater”.
“Seems your friends don’t like you much,” said the guard. “After a day and a night in the rat cells I don’t think you’ll like yourself much either. Trespassing in the founders’ quadrangle carries a standard penalty. After that they will decide what to do with you.”
The cells were tiny stone cubicles in the wall of a dark and airless room. Aedan crawled into the cavity ahead of the guard’s eager boot. The iron grill that swung shut pushed his feet in until his knees were not far beneath his chin. There was no way to stretch out, neither was there sufficient space to sit. By the time the guard had left the room, Aedan was already uncomfortable. He lay curled on his side. When his hip and shoulder could take no more, he tried to turn over, bashing head and knees through the wiggling, jerking process. By the time he had managed to wrestle over onto his other side, he was in greater distress than he had been before, due in no small part to the rising claustrophobia. By midday his limbs were in such agony he was not even conscious of his hunger or thirst. The little snatches of sleep that toyed with him through the night were chased off by the cold and the bite of relentless cramps.
Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) Page 28
