by Ash, Sarah
Chinua’s lacquer caddy caught her eye; Khulan had said it contained Malusha’s favorite blend. Kiukiu removed the lid and sniffed, hoping that the aromatic fragrance would bring back happier memories. Then she noticed a little piece of paper tucked inside. Unfolding it, she read:
“I will come if you ever have need of me. Leave a message at the tea merchant’s shop in Azhgorod.”
“Thank you, Chinua,” she whispered.
The bedchamber door opened. She stuffed the note back into the caddy and turned round to see Gavril on the threshold.
“I thought Lord Stoyan would never stop talking.” He threw himself onto the bed, stretching his arms above his head. “He wants me to preside over the boyars’ council in the spring. Azhkendi politics. I agreed, just to make him turn in for the night.” He patted the mattress beside him. “Come here, Kiukiu.”
She snuffed out the candles and went to lie beside him in the darkness.
“And yet a year ago, it seemed as if there might be no future for us at all,” he said, putting his arms around her.
“Is it exactly a year ago?” She nestled closer to him.
“To the day. I found you by the shores of Lake Taigal and Khezef took us to the ruined temple on the island, remember?”
“How could I forget?” she said. She had cherished the memory of their passionate love-making, made all the more poignant by the fear that they might never see each other again. But now Anagini’s warning had tarnished even that precious memory. Her heart heavy with guilt, she turned away from Gavril, feigning sleep.
Chapter 9
Tourmalise
“You still don’t get it, do you, Azhkendi peasant?” The Honorable Elyot Branville looked up from the green baize of the billiards table as he aligned his next shot and fixed his dark eyes on Toran Arkhel. “You’re not welcome here. This games room is for the use of the elite cadets only. So you can leave now—quietly—or I can throw you out. Your choice.”
“What did you call me?” Toran said quietly.
“Come on, Toran,” Lorris murmured, “don’t waste your breath on this boor.”
“Azhkendi peasant.” Branville walked around the side of the billiards table to stare closely at Toran. “That’s what you are, right? Lord knows how much money your peasant father had to pay to persuade Colonel Mouzillon to accept you as a cadet here, but that doesn’t mean you’re entitled to the same privileges as the rest of us.”
“Is that so?” Toran stared back, determined not to be faced down by Branville, even though he was already aware of his reputation around the Military Academy. “I was born in Tourmalise. I reckon that gives me as much right to be here as any other cadet.”
“‘As much right?’” echoed Branville with a sneer. “From what I heard, your darling mama was obliged to marry your papa in rather a hurry.”
Toran felt Lorris grip his arm, trying to hold him back. He shook off the restraining hand and advanced toward the smiling Second Year. He knew Branville was spoiling for a fight, deliberately needling him. If he landed the first punch—well-deserved though it might be—he would be the one to get into trouble. But at that moment, he really didn’t care. Anger burned through him, white-hot, searing everything from his mind but one intense desire: hit the arrogant bastard hard right in the middle of that infuriating grin . Walk away now, while you can.
Branville suddenly brandished his cue like a rapier, aiming a jab at Toran’s breastbone. Toran’s right hand blocked the blow automatically, gripping hold of the cue.
“Fights like a peasant, too.”
“Steady on, Branville,” Toran heard Lorris say. “This has gone far enough.”
“Stay out of this, Lorris.” The glint in Branville’s eyes hardened. “This is between the Azhkendi by-blow and me.”
That was it. Toran suddenly yanked the cue from Branville’s hand and threw it onto the ground. The rattle it made as it rolled across the flagstone floor caused the other cadets to look round from their games.
“You insolent little prick.” Branville’s eyes gleamed with the reflected flames of the firelight. Toran saw him gathering himself, fist clenched, to punch him. Branville was a good head taller than he and muscularly built. The shadow of the older cadet loomed over him. But before Branville’s punch hit home, Toran was in and under his guard with a solid jab to the side of his chin. He felt the graze of stubble then the crunch of knuckle against jawbone. His whole hand throbbed as if he had hit a wall. Branville let out a grunt and then, to Toran’s surprise, the loud-mouthed cadet sagged, collapsing to his knees, and then the floor.
Toran, his blood still blazing, stood over him as he lay stunned on the flagstones. A thin line of crimson trickled from the corner of Branville’s mouth.
“Don’t ever insult my mother again.”
Then he turned to Lorris and said, “I’m leaving.” Nursing his bruised knuckles, he set out toward the door, aware that his fellow cadets were staring at him, open-mouthed, suddenly silent, speechless.
Over the crackle of the flames in the grate he heard Branville say thickly, “I won’t forget this, Toran Arkhel. I’m going to make your life hell.” But he walked on, not even bothering to acknowledge Branville’s threat. He half expected to be knocked to the ground with a flying tackle from Branville, but he reached the Games Room door and pushed it open, stepping out onto the central parade ground, without further interference.
The damp of the misty evening cooled his burning face, but not the rage; he kept on walking, not looking back.
Why did my father force me to enroll here? I’m never going to fit in.
“Wait up, Toran!” Lorris came hurrying out after him.
He slowed a little. “Are you sure you want to be seen with the Azhkendi peasant?”
“Branville’s a bully. And a coward. He had it coming.”
Toran stared up at the night sky; the eerie ghost of the crescent moon could just be glimpsed behind fast-moving clouds. “The air smells of autumn already,” he said. “We always have a big bonfire back at Serrigonde this time of year. And fireworks.” He kicked at a pile of fallen leaves that had drifted down from the horse chestnut trees lining the parade ground.
“Homesick?”
“It was my father’s idea I should come here. I had other plans.” He didn’t want to talk about it, not even with the good-natured Lorris.
“I wanted to go abroad to university,” Lorris said. “To Tielborg. They have the best laboratories in the Western Hemisphere. But all the men in my family join the army, so my father refused to listen.”
Toran stopped, gazing in surprise at his friend. “I never took you for a scientist, Lorris. You hide it well.”
“What about you, Toran?” They had crossed the wide parade ground and reached the entrance to the First Years’ hall of residence.
“What about me?” Toran had a dream too, but it had nothing to do with joining the Sulien army for a military career.
He felt Lorris’s hand on his shoulder. “Is it true? That your father is from Azhkendir?”
Toran sighed.
“Sorry, sorry!” The hand lifted in a placatory gesture. “Didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s true,” Toran muttered. “But I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“Then don’t,” Lorris said amicably. “Anyone who can take Bully Branville down with one punch is all right by me.”
***
“Brawling in the Games Room? You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
Toran stood stiffly to attention as Colonel Mouzillon glowered from behind his desk; beside him, Elyot Branville, also at attention, was almost quivering, his tall frame emanating an aura of barely-repressed fury.
The colonel rose and walked around the cadets, his hands clasped behind his back. Toran stared straight ahead, concentrating on the cloudy sky that he could see through the window panes. What’s the worst punishment the colonel could inflict? A beating? Or expulsion? He tried not to wish too hard for the latter, knowing
that it would make his mother cry if he were sent home in disgrace.
“Cadet Branville; you claim you were attacked by Cadet Arkhel. Did you do anything to provoke him?”
There was a pause. Then Branville said smoothly, “We may have exchanged a few words, Colonel.”
A few words? Toran bit his underlip, forcing himself to keep silent.
“I see.” Colonel Mouzillon moved on to stare directly into Toran’s eyes. The cold steel of his gaze transfixed him, driving all his carefully prepared words out of his head. “Cadet Arkhel; what have you got to say for yourself?”
“I broke an Academy rule, Colonel,” Toran said, trying not to be distracted by Mouzillon’s magnificent waxed moustaches. “I can only offer my apologies. I should not have struck Cadet Branville.”
“Brawling is strictly forbidden within the Military Academy and will be severely punished.”
Toran dropped his gaze, staring at the glossy sheen of the polished floorboards. “I understand.” He wondered what kind of punishment the colonel would impose. A beating would be painful—but swiftly over. Unless the colonel decided to make an example of him and inflict the punishment on the parade ground, in front of the whole academy. The thought of being subjected to such a humiliation sent a cold shudder through him.
“Unless, of course, there are extenuating circumstances.” Mouzillon moved a couple of steps to the right to gaze at Branville again. “Such as deliberate provocation.”
Has someone told him that Branville insulted my mother?
Branville still said nothing but Toran sensed the suppressed quiver become even more intense.
“You’re both confined to quarters while I decide what to do with you. Dismissed.”
Both cadets saluted the colonel and turned to leave. Toran dropped back to let Branville go first and had just reached the door when the colonel said, “Arkhel. There’s one more matter.”
Toran turned, catching a glimpse of Branville’s expression, already darkening with a look of suspicion, before the door swung shut. “Colonel?”
Mouzillon beckoned him over to the desk.
“There’s nothing else you wish to add to your account?”
“No, sir.”
“You have a good and loyal friend, you know. Someone who has testified in your defense. “
“I have?” This was not what Toran had expected to hear. It must have been Lorris. He was surprised—and moved—that the quiet and studious Lorris had gone out of his way to defend him. As long as his gallant act didn’t lead to Branville singling him out too . I’ll have to find a way to thank him.
“And because of that testimony, I’ve decided not to pursue this matter further. Although I’m withdrawing your privileges; consider your free time canceled until further notice. And the Games Room is obviously out of bounds for the time being.”
Toran bowed his head. “Thank you, Colonel.” He could live with that; it seemed remarkably lenient in the circumstances.
“And, with all that extra free time on your hands, I don’t want you idling around doing nothing. So I’ve an errand or two for you to run for me.”
Toran looked up, surprised. He’d imagined that he’d be confined to barracks, kicking his heels, or given menial tasks to do such as blacking the officers’ boots or polishing their sabers.
“I want you to deliver this to Master Cardin at the Iron Works down by the canal. He’s been doing some work for us.” The colonel held out a folder; after a moment’s hesitation, Toran took it, weighing it in his hands. “He’ll probably want to send a reply; you’ll have to wait and then bring it back straight away. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Toran tucked the folder under one arm and saluted.
“Dismissed.”
As he turned to leave, he heard the colonel say quietly, “Next time you see your mother, please remember me to her. I’ve known Tanaisie since childhood and anyone who dares to tarnish her reputation will have to answer to me.”
Toran had no idea that Mouzillon had known his mother for so long. Perhaps he had been an admirer when she had been voted the most eligible heiress in the Sulien season, perhaps even a disappointed suitor . . .
***
The walk down the hill into Paladur helped to clear Toran’s mind; the fresh wind, spattered with a few drops of rain, chased away the louring feelings of resentment that he had been harboring since the Branville incident. But the sight of the distant hills rising beyond the roofs of the garrison town, the trees tinged with shades of copper and gold, reminded him of the parkland at Serrigonde.
But there’s no point feeling homesick. If I’m ever to achieve my ambition, I have to leave Serrigonde behind. I don’t want to end up like my father, frittering away my days as an impoverished country squire.
Even though he could see dark plumes of smoke rising from the tall Iron Works chimneys, it took longer than Toran expected to make his way there; the canal tow-path had seemed the most direct route but he soon discovered he was mistaken. Fortunately, a bargee was leading his horse and coal-laden barge toward him, so he stopped to ask him for directions. Having retraced his steps, he heard the clank and clatter of the great machinery and found himself at last in front of tall iron gates that proclaimed in intricately wrought gilded letters: Cardin’s Iron Works.
Venturing inside, he looked around for someone to ask. Spotting an open door in the closest building, he went inside—and instantly his ears were assaulted by the pounding of a vast and gleaming machine. Toran stared in amazement, overwhelmed by its size and power, feeling his whole body vibrate and the ground shake beneath his feet.
A workman passed by and spotted Toran, beckoning him outside, away from the thunderous racket of the great engine.
“A letter for Master Cardin?” The workman pushed back his leather cap and scratched his head; Toran could not help noticing that he left a smear of oil on his forehead. “You won’t find him here today, lad; he’s gone up to the mines. How about I take you to the site office and works superintendant, Ingenieur Bernay? Maybe he’ll be able to help you.”
The colonel had said there would be a reply; Toran hoped that Ingenieur Bernay had enough authority to deal with the matter, “Thank you,” he said, following the workman away from the deafening rhythmic pounding of the pumping engine driving the machinery. His ears were buzzing, assaulted by the noise, but his heart was singing with excitement. I’ve never seen modern machinery this close before. I wish I could stay longer and watch.
Everything intrigued him: the searing heat from the furnaces; the smell of smoke and molten metal . Has the colonel found out my secret passion? Is that why he sent me? Toran had concealed his well-thumbed treatises on the mechanical arts in the trunk beneath his bed. Only Lorris, his room-mate, knew of Toran’s dream to study to become an ingenieur.
He followed the workman across the cobbled yard, passing a couple of workers unloading coal. A separate small building stood at the far end, close to the high wall that separated the works from the street beyond.
“See that blue door? Go through there and you’ll find the superintendant’s office on the right.”
Toran, ears still ringing, knocked.
“It’s open.”
Toran went in. One wall was lined with shelves stuffed full of ledgers and document boxes. A desk stood next to the stove on which a kettle was softly singing, a wisp of steam issuing from its spout. The desktop was covered in more ledgers and stacks of papers. Tall windows cast a clear light onto a long table at which a man sat, his back to Toran, leaning over his work, pen and rule in hand.
“Yes?” he said, not looking up.
Toran cleared his throat. He felt embarrassed to be disturbing the superintendant. “Are you Ingenieur Bernay? I—I’ve brought this from Colonel Mouzillon. He said there would be a reply.”
Toran heard a slight sigh; the man laid down his pen and rule and turned around on his stool.
He’s young. Somehow I’d imagined a superintendant to be a much olde
r man . . . about my father’s age.
Toran became aware that he must be staring at the ingenieur and, lowering his head to hide his confusion, handed the folder to him. But as Bernay opened it and scanned its contents, Toran could not help stealing another glance: clean-shaven, with his brown hair tied back, the ingenieur sported an impressive scar across his forehead, above his left eyebrow. Did he get that working here? It looks more like a dueling scar. I wonder ...
“It’ll take a half hour or so to assemble the necessary information for the colonel.” Ingenieur Bernay said, looking up.
“What information?” Toran heard himself asking.
Clear gray eyes pierced him through, keen as a steel blade, and he shivered.
There’s something different about this man. For a moment I felt I was standing on a hillside on a stormy day, buffeted by the raw power of the wind.
“Did the colonel not explain? This is a foundry; and, among other products, we forge cannon and artillery guns for the military.”
Toran blinked, forcing himself to concentrate on what he was being told.
“The Master of the Works has an arrangement with your colonel; the cadets test the new cannon for us up on Berse Heath as part of their training.”
“Ah.” Toran nodded. “I’m only in the first year; I haven’t been trained how to fire a cannon yet.”
“Then it looks like your chance is coming; the colonel is proposing that we hold the trials next week.” Ingenieur Bernay stood up, stretching, as though he had been seated at his desk for too long. “Do you want to wait in here? Or to take a tour of the works?”
“A tour of the works? Really?” Toran could not disguise his excitement at the prospect. He dearly wanted to see what was going on in the foundry halls and get a closer look at the pumping engine. This must be my lucky day!
“I’ll get one of the men.” Bernay disappeared, reappearing with a workman whose face was red and shiny with perspiration. “This is our foreman, Mahieu. He’ll show you around.”
“So what d’you make of our young inventor?” The foreman winked at Toran as they went back out into the yard.
