The Arkhel Conundrum (The Tears of Artamon Book 4)

by Ash, Sarah

  ***

  Toran wasn’t entirely sure why he felt it necessary to thank his rescuer in person; his father would probably have advised in his usual casual way, “Just send a note with the cab-fare. Nothing too grateful in tone; always remember that you’re the heir to Serrigonde.”

  Toran winced as Lord Ranulph’s lazy drawl echoed in his memory; he knew that it wasn’t his father’s true voice, just one that he affected so often around the Sulien gentry that it had almost erased his original accent.

  That might be your way, Father, but I’m not like you; I pay my debts.

  Besides, there was something else that was drawing him back to Cardin’s Iron Works. Curiosity? A sense of awe at seeing the vast machinery in action? No, it was an insatiable desire to understand the mystery that made the pistons pump and the wheels and cogs turn. The heat, the noise, the raw smell of molten metal . . . he was utterly seduced.

  The persistent rain of the past few days had cleared, leaving a clear autumnal sky, smirched only by the plumes of smoke rising from the tall chimneys at the Iron Works. And as Toran approached, the rhythmic pounding of the engines and the mechanical forge hammers made the ground judder beneath his feet. The sound and vibration sent a thrill of anticipation through him but, as he turned the corner, the machinery shuddered to a stop.

  “I’m looking for Ingenieur Bernay,” he told the watchman at the gate.

  “He’s over in the boiler house. He’s helping them fix a broken valve.” The watchman pointed the way and Toran set out across the yard. But before he reached the boiler house, the door opened and Bernay came out, wiping the oil from his hands on a rag.

  “My lord.” He looked up in surprise as he recognized Toran. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here again.”

  Toran glowered at him. He hated to be made to feel different. “Please don’t call me that. I told you: my name’s Toran. And I came because I wanted to.” He held out the cab fee in an envelope. “Thank you. I didn’t want you to be out of pocket. I-I pay my debts.” Why was he stammering like a schoolboy? The words that he had rehearsed so carefully sounded stilted and awkward. He felt sure that his face was flaming—and not just with the heat from the furnaces.

  Bernay took the envelope. “Thank you,” he said. “That was thoughtful of you, Toran, and I appreciate it.”

  He’s accepted it and without any fuss. Toran felt as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders.

  “I see the bruising’s come out.” Bernay lifted his hand as if to tilt Toran’s head toward the daylight but Toran instinctively flinched away. “That’s quite an impressive shiner you’ve got there. Did anyone make any comment at the academy?”

  “I told them I’d slipped on mud and fallen.” Toran was embarrassed by Bernay’s concern. “Lorris covered for me. He made some joke about the inevitable consequences of drinking too much of the local cider.”

  Bernay’s look of concern darkened to a frown which made the deep scar over his left brow stand out more starkly. “Is that really what you wanted? For Cadet Branville and his cronies to get away—without even an official reprimand—with what they did to you?”

  I thought you understood. Toran said nothing, turning his face away so that Bernay could not see his disappointment. And then he felt Bernay’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Then I’ll make a report.”

  “No!”

  “Branville headbutted me. I’m a civilian, a citizen of Tielen. Does the academy want its reputation sullied by the loutish behavior of three of its cadets?”

  “Or does the academy value the generous donations made by Branville’s wealthy father more than its reputation?” Toran said sourly.

  Bernay opened his mouth to reply—and then closed it again. In the moment’s silence Toran heard the clack and hum of the great pistons as the machinery of the Iron Works started up again. Another thrill went through him. The mighty engine. He longed to go back into the Rolling Mill and watch the mechanical marvel in action again.

  “Very well.” Bernay said, raising his voice above the clatter. “If that’s what you want, I’ll respect your wishes.” Then, to Toran’s annoyance, he bowed and said formally, “And now, if you’ll excuse me, my lord, I must get back to my work.”

  Why is he so cold today? Toran stood watching Bernay walk away. Did I offend him? Or am I just being a nuisance?

  Chapter 11

  “Today you will be testing the new cannon,” announced Colonel Mouzillon, waxed moustache-tips trembling in the autumn breeze as he paced up and down the lines of cadets assembled for roll call. “First Years; this is your chance to impress me and show me your mettle. And don’t forget: you will be assisting Master Cardin by ensuring that these splendid new cannon are ready for use in protecting our country.”

  “Didn’t you say that most of ’em are being exported to Tielen?” murmured Lorris to Toran, as they stood, straight-backed, the prickly silver piping on their stiff stand collars irritating their necks.

  Toran nodded, reflecting that Lorris was too astute for his own good. Nothing gets past Lorris.

  “The testing ground is half a mile from here; we’ll be using Berse Heath as usual. One detachment will go on ahead to make sure the area is clear of livestock and civilians. The second detachment will accompany the carts transporting the cannon and the third will guard the black powder carts.” The colonel stopped in front of Branville and added brusquely , “Second Years: you will instruct the new cadets and demonstrate the correct procedures. This exercise will be conducted exactly as if you were on the field of battle. Any cadet who is incapable of taking it seriously will find himself in danger of immediate expulsion. Dismiss!”

  As the cadets scattered to their appointed muster points, Toran found himself silently praying that he had not been assigned to the same detachment as Elyot Branville. But as he approached the group assembling to accompany the gunpowder carts, he saw with a sinking heart that Branville was loudly asserting his authority as a Second Year and already ordering the First Years around.

  Is the colonel testing us to see whether we can work alongside each other without coming to blows again?

  “You and Branville? An explosive combination,” Lorris said and sped off to join the second detachment.

  “Ha ha, very funny,” Toran called after him. “Change places?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Cadet Arkhel!” A deep, irritated voice called out. “Get over here. Don’t make us all wait.”

  Toran hurried to join the other cadets in Branville’s group. I have to go through with this. He noticed that Colonel Mouzillon was watching them, slowly tapping his baton of office against his palm. He hoped that Branville was also aware that he was being closely observed.

  “We’re in charge of the munitions carts.” Branville pointed to the two carts behind him. “Barrels of black powder go in the first cart. Cannon balls, ramrods, fuses, and wadding go in the second. Start loading—and be careful with the powder kegs or we’ll all be blown sly-high.”

  As Toran and another cadet carefully rolled a barrel of black powder up a sturdy plank and onto the back of the cart, he sensed that Branville’s gaze was fixed on him . He’s waiting for me to make a mistake. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Elyot Branville, but I don’t intend for that to happen today. He straightened up and, shielding his eyes against the low autumn sun, gazed across the parade ground, suddenly catching sight of a familiar lean figure in a long brown greatcoat overseeing the cannon carts as they set off.

  Ingenieur Bernay.

  A pang of strong emotion vibrated through him . If only I could have been placed in the second detachment instead of Lorris.

  “You’re in the way, Arkhel!” came a harsh shout. Branville was glaring at him. “Get down and carry on loading.”

  ***

  As Gerard Bernay clambered up beside the cart driver of the second cart, weighed down with its load of cannon balls, he caught sight of Toran Arkhel laboring to push a powder barrel
up onto the third cart, while a tall, arrogant-looking older cadet looked on, arms folded, shouting orders at him.

  I recognize you. You’re the bastard who sprung that attack on Toran. What idiot put Toran under your command?

  “Ready to leave, sir?” asked the carter.

  “Ready when you are.” Gerard sat down beside him, grabbing hold of the side of the seat as the cart lurched away. He could not help looking back over his shoulder to see how Toran was faring as the sturdy cart horses lumbered across the parade ground toward the road.

  Toran’s proud, too proud to accept any help; he won’t thank me if I intervene. Best to let the boy fight his own battles.

  ***

  Berse Heath, a bleak, windswept stretch of common ground, lay at the top of the hill above the Academy, affording views to the west over the damp, misty valley in which Paladur nestled. Thistles, nettles, and willow herb grew there in abundance, making it a favorite grazing ground for goats and donkeys, hence the need for the first detachment to clear the area before the trials began.

  Gerard watched, coat collar turned up against a cold wind that had begun to spatter a few drops of rain across the heath. Not the best weather for testing cannon, he thought wryly, and yet the wild wind made him feel strangely exhilarated, as if each fresh gust was charging him with renewed energy.

  The cadets he was supervising had managed to unload the new cannon and set them up. All that remained now was for the third detachment, under Branville, to pack them with shot and then the trials would begin in earnest. But, as Gerard knew all too well, the loading and firing of cannon was a delicate and tricky procedure, in which the slightest error could result in an expensive and bloody disaster. These young men were the flower of Tourmalise’s most influential families; any injury, no matter how it was incurred, would cost the supervising officers their posts and reputations.

  “Careful with that powder keg, Arkhel!” shouted Branville. “One slip and you could blow us all to bits.”

  Gerard clenched his fists, which he had thrust into the pockets of his greatcoat, resisting the urge to go to Toran’s aid as he and a fellow First Year struggled to roll the heavy barrel down the ramp to the ground. A faint breath of relief escaped his lips as the task was successfully accomplished.

  “Teams of six.” Branville was giving out his instructions. “Second Years: you’re Number One, the gun captains. You’re responsible for priming, aiming and firing. Line up your teams and give each cadet a number.”

  Branville might be a braggart and a bully, but he knows how to command the cadets’ attention.

  “Arkhel; you’re Number Six? That means you’re the powder monkey. What’re you waiting for? Fetch the powder!”

  Gerard forced himself to turn away from Toran’s team to observe the other cadets as they went through the drill.

  “All cannon primed and ready to fire, Colonel.” Branville saluted Mouzillon. Watching him, Gerard had to grudgingly admit that the tall cadet cut an impressive figure; he exuded an air of aggressive self-confidence which had earned the respect of his fellow cadets to the extent that they had followed his orders with exemplary efficiency. He was also astonished that Toran had managed to stun him with a single punch. There’s no point worrying about that boy; he can look after himself.

  Checking his pocket watch, Gerard also noted that the teams had performed the preparatory tasks in record time.

  “Very good, Cadet Branville. If the firing ground is clear, then you may proceed.”

  Branville called out across the waste ground to a fellow Second Year who had been overseeing the sweep of the heath. “Morsan! All clear?”

  “All clear!” came back the faint reply as the cadets under Morsan’s command waved green flags from their stations in the undergrowth.

  “Detachment One; take cover.” Branville turned to teams behind him, waiting for their orders. “Detachment Three; prepare to fire the cannon. On my mark; Cannon One.”

  “Cover your ears,” Gerard called out, preparing to take his own advice. He had learned the hard way that omitting to do so resulted in days of aural fog and ringing. “And stand well back to avoid the rebound.”

  ***

  The first cannon was fired successfully. Toran had followed Bernay’s instructions, but he still felt the full force of the explosion, a powerful vibration that rippled through his whole body. The cannon ball fell with a thud in a patch of brambles well beyond the target line and one of Morsan’s cadets hurried out to place a flag beside it.

  “On my mark: Cannon Two,” rang out Branville’s voice.

  It was only then that Toran thought he caught a brief suggestion of movement in the scrubby bushes . Is someone hiding over there? Why hasn’t Detachment One noticed?

  “Wait!” he called, but it was too late; Branville’s white-gloved hand had come down, giving the order to fire and the second team captain was about to apply the match to the quill fuse. He launched himself forward at a run .

  If they see me, they’ll abort the next shot . . . I hope.

  ***

  It all happened so swiftly. One moment, the second team captain was lighting the fuse, the next, Gerard saw Toran dashing into the field of fire.

  What on earth is he—? Has he lost his mind?

  “Toran!” he yelled. The acrid smell of the fast-burning fuse, the cannon-mouth pointing on the intended line of fire directly toward Toran. The other cadets were shouting out to Toran to get out of the way but Toran kept on running.

  Extinguish the fuse. But there was no water to fling over the lighted powder quill. Panic and desperation clashed in Gerard’s mind, sending a rush of fear from his brain to his fast-beating heart.

  He’ll be blown sky-high.

  In that single instant, Gerard felt as if a gust of wind had invaded his mind, sweeping aside all other thoughts but one : Divert that cannon ball.

  ***

  “Get down, you bloody idiot!” Toran vaguely heard Branville’s cry carried on a sudden violent gust that swept across the heath, almost toppling him over. At the same moment a little white goat burst, terrified, from the brambles and, bleating, ran across in front of the cannon mouths, pursued by a ragged child.

  Toran threw himself at the child, bringing her to ground on the rough tussocks of grass even as the cannon went off and the ball veered over their heads and smashed, off-target, into the bracken nearby where Morsan’s detachment were standing watching. As the cadets scattered in alarm, the goat continued its wayward skedaddle across the heath, still bleating.

  ***

  Gerard blinked. He was standing, one arm outstretched, forefinger pointing across the heath toward the place where the cannon ball had fallen.

  What happened there?

  His mind felt as if it had been scored clean by the tremendous blast of wind that had torn across the heath.

  How come I’m still standing? Why didn’t it topple me over?

  Colonel Mouzillon’s cockaded hat had been blown off and several of the cadets were running to recover it.

  “Toran? Where’s Toran?”

  As the cloudy film that had veiled his vision cleared, he saw Toran lying where he had flung himself headlong to avoid the cannonball.

  He’s not moving.

  For a moment Gerard’s heart stopped beating. And then he saw Toran roll over, revealing a tatter-coated child that he had been sheltering beneath him.

  He saved the little goatherd. Gerard let out a grunt of relief. “Halt the trial!” he shouted. And then he found himself running across the heath toward the student as fast as his legs would carry him, silently offering up a desperate prayer to whichever god might be listening . Let them both be unharmed.

  ***

  “Get off, mister!” said a shrill, aggrieved voice and the little goatherd delivered a sharp kick to Toran’s shin. He rolled aside, cursing, but managed to shoot out one hand to catch hold of her by the bony wrist.

  “Didn’t you see the warning flags? Didn’t you hear the c
annon? You could’ve been killed.”

  Big brown eyes, welling tears, stared up at him from a grimy face. “Pa would’ve killed me if I hadn’t gone after Blondine. And now she’s run off.”

  “Arkhel!” The voices of the other cadets began to penetrate Toran’s blast-damaged hearing. He knew he was in trouble.

  He dug in his breeches pocket and pulled out a coin, pressing it into her hand. “Get out of here. Scram.”

  “Are you all right, Toran?” Gerard Bernay was hurrying toward him over the rough ground. Others were following but Bernay reached him first, offering his hand to pull him to his feet.

  Toran, looking dazedly up at Bernay, caught a brief glitter of crystalline light, clear as drops of rain, illumining the gray eyes that were staring concernedly into his. It sent a shiver through his whole body, as if a storm was about to break overhead.

  What’s happened to him? He’s . . . different.

  And then a shadow loomed over them both and he saw Branville’s face glowering down at him. “You fuckwit,” he said, voice hoarse from running and Toran heard the hint of a tremor—though whether it was fury or concern, he had no idea. “Do you have a death wish? Because, if so, right now I’d be only too happy to make it come true for you.”

  “Shouldn’t you be saving that speech for the First Detachment, Cadet Branville?” Bernay said coldly. “They failed to clear the testing ground of civilians and livestock.”

  Even as Bernay was speaking, Morsan came stumbling over the tussocks of coarse grass toward them, followed by some of the younger cadets.

  “I’m sorry, Branville,” he said, with an embarrassed grin. “Deuced lucky for you, Arkhel, that the cannon misfired, eh?”

  Branville swung around to face him, dark eyes ablaze with anger. “The cadets in your detachment were careless, Morsan—and that reflects badly on their leader. You’d better conduct another sweep before we proceed any further.” Morsan began to stammer an apology but Branville had turned away, ignoring him, to focus the full force of his anger on Toran.