by Dave Rudden
Vivian lunged.
Denizen was no natural warrior, but a year made a lot of difference, especially under the tutelage of Vivian Hardwick. It took him barely a second to quell the sudden but not unexpected inferno, dropping into a fighting stance –
– just in time to see Malleus Vivian Hardwick give his best friend the most awkward hug Denizen had ever seen. She let go just as quickly, leaving Simon rocking slightly on his heels.
There was the faintest drop of red in Vivian’s cheeks.
‘You’re a good boy,’ she said in a strained voice. ‘Look out for each other.’
‘Huh,’ Simon managed. ‘Um. OK –’
‘Goodnight, Simon,’ Vivian said. He vanished.
‘I’ll walk you,’ she said when they were alone, and a strange flutter moved through Denizen’s stomach as he realized that, bar about three weeks last year, this would be the first time in twelve years he and his best friend would be sleeping in separate rooms.
Vivian pushed open the door, and Denizen forced a smile.
‘Are you allowed in the boys’ cells?’
She shot him a look. ‘I’m your mother.’
Fair enough. The long corridor on the other side was lined with doors, each one trisected by columns of carvings. Denizen peered closer. Names, marching back through time. Generations of boys who had trained for war right here.
There he was. End of the hall.
DENIZEN HARDWICK
Well, I suppose it’s official then.
The door opened at his touch, revealing a simple bed, a wardrobe and a small desk, above which was pinned a sheet of paper. The rules, Denizen supposed. Some of them were in bold. And underlined.
‘So,’ Vivian said.
‘Yep,’ Denizen replied.
The silence stretched, and Denizen wondered how obvious it was from his face that he didn’t know what to say and whether Vivian knew how obvious it was on hers. Eventually, she just cleared her throat.
‘Greaves won’t move against you openly, not after the summer.’ Her voice was low. ‘He might think he can still bring you round, convert you. But you’re wise to his charm now. Avoid him. Keep your head down.’
Six months ago, her changing the subject from emotion to enemies might have annoyed Denizen, but now he understood – that was just who she was. Besides, the Palatine wanting to exploit your unparalleled fluency with the Cants was one thing when you were in Dublin, and another when you were right on his doorstep.
And that wasn’t the only thing about last year that Greaves wanted to exploit.
‘Denizen? Are you all right?’
Denizen nodded. ‘I am. I really am. The fortress exercises are working really well. I’m in control. I am.’
Her lip twisted. ‘And … the other thing?’
‘Redacted,’ Denizen said with a firm nod.
‘Good,’ Vivian said. ‘Keep it that way.’ She sighed, and ironed some of the roughness from her voice. ‘Sorry. I know I don’t need to explain how important it is that we distance ourselves from … past events. For your own safety.’
‘I understand,’ Denizen said.
She looked around approvingly at the thick, stone walls. ‘And you’ll be safe here. There’s no way she can contact you.’
‘I know,’ Denizen said. And he did. Though it’s not like she tried. Ever since the summer. Not a message. Not a word.
Fire curled its fists in his stomach, and Denizen dragged his thoughts away.
Redacted. A most useful word.
‘Good,’ Vivian said. ‘If you need anything, contact me and I’ll be here.’
Denizen gave her a wan smile. ‘Greaves will love you just showing up.’
She smiled back. ‘He can try to stop me.’
The Hardwicks had lived for nothing but duty for a thousand years. Vivian had shed blood – she’d shed him – she’d given her life a hundred times only to find no Tenebrous able to take it. For a long time, she’d shed her emotions as well. Duty was everything.
To hear her so easily put him before all that made something in Denizen’s heart give way.
‘I’ll stay out of trouble,’ he said. ‘Greaves’ll forget I even exist.’
‘I hope so,’ she said, and gathered him up in a hug. It wasn’t something with which she’d had a lot of practice, and she’d evidently mixed up hugs up in her head with choke-hold techniques because it was ten whole seconds before he got his breath back.
Releasing him, Vivian lingered for a moment at the door, picking at a splinter on the door frame. They’d talked over every single eventuality that might arise after this moment, but the one thing they hadn’t prepared for was the moment itself.
‘Be safe,’ she said, and was gone.
So that was it then, Denizen thought, lying down on the bed fully clothed. He was here. A Neophyte of the Second Rank – whatever that meant – surrounded by strangers in the heart of the Order’s power, the safest place on the planet.
But wasn’t that the point of lighthouses? If you were near one, you were going in the wrong direction.
It took Denizen a long time to fall asleep.
4
The Terrible Secret of Abigail Falx
Abigail Falx had only spent three weeks in formal education. It had been her mother’s idea – she thought it would be educational for Abigail to interact with other children. Up until that point, Abigail hadn’t really interacted with other children. Mostly, she interacted with punching bags. Or painted targets. Or knives.
It had been educational. She could say that much. She had definitely discovered things she hadn’t known before.
She’d learned, for example, that some teachers didn’t appreciate children being forward and hard-working and right as often as they possibly could, which to ten-year-old Abigail made no sense whatsoever. She’d also learned that other ten-year-olds were terrible at threat assessment, ignoring crucial details to focus instead on her shaky grasp of their language and her skin being half a hemisphere darker than theirs.
That had proven to be a severe tactical error.
That had been the end of the experiment. Now she stood in a place where her drive would be appreciated – a place that would take her as seriously as she took herself. Then, as now, sneaking down early to be the first one at training, Abigail resolved to be worthy of it.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Hello …’
Eyes flicked to her, and then flicked back. The walls of the chamber were mirrored so students could examine their form, which gave Abigail a selection of angles to see the three students who’d beaten her there and herself standing awkwardly in the doorway.
Obviously, it’s good that they had all had the same idea, she thought, avoiding her own gaze as she took her place in the line. It shows commitment. Cohesion. And, a part of her couldn’t help thinking, the teacher isn’t even here yet, so it’s not like they can tell which of us arrived first.
Time passed. She wasn’t going to gawk. They hadn’t gawked. Besides, it was a useful mental exercise to analyse each of the Neophytes instead.
First on the left: a pale and sinuous girl with an idle, vicious cast to her features that had instantly reminded Abigail of a weasel or a mink. A Croit? She’d heard some of them were being integrated.
Second: a Neophyte even shorter than Denizen, who had somehow managed to perfect the pinched, fretful look of a bank manager. A bank manager whose bank was failing.
Third: a dark-skinned young man – ‘boy’ didn’t seem appropriate, partly due to his beard, his towering bulk, and partly because he had as many scars as a Malleus. He hadn’t reacted to her entry at all.
More Neophytes filed in. Tall, short, thin, broad – there was Katerina, a girl she’d played with on a kitchen floor in Munich as Abigail’s mother had been stitched back together upstairs. There was a girl with the traditional sunburst tattoo of the Eguzki family (bit over-the-top, Abigail privately thought), a pair of twins with dreadlocks – boys and girls from every corner of the
globe.
She missed Simon or Denizen entering and, though part of her wanted to greet them, she knew they’d understand. This first meeting with the Master of Neophytes was crucial. She had to make a good impression.
Gedeon.
Nathaniel Gayle.
What if it’s Vivian?!
Stop it.
She let out a deep breath. It didn’t matter who it was. What mattered was that she was here now. She was ready to learn, to be challenged, to be –
‘I sincerely hope none of you did the showing-up-early thing,’ Grey said, striding into the chamber, ‘because it impresses absolutely nobody.’
The Knight stalked into the centre of the room, gaze drifting from Neophyte to Neophyte as if only mildly interested in what he saw. Abigail felt his eyes rest on her for a second, before flicking away.
‘Right,’ he said, clapping his hands. ‘I will be this year’s Master of Neophytes, forgoing active duty to specialize in the art of training you. I’ve read every report each of your Mallei has filed. I know your experience, your temperaments, your Cants and your Cost.’
He started to pace back and forth, and Abigail felt something in her curdle as she remembered all those mornings in the back garden of Seraphim Row, duelling back and forth, Grey frustrating her with his mercurial grace.
Real swords?
Real swords. You need to get used to the weight. And you’re not going to hit me.
Grey flashed them a hard, lupine grin. ‘The question is …’
The fire of her heritage trickled up Abigail’s spine before she shut it down. She had a lot of practice at that. Not controlling the fire – though she did, of course she did – but containing her anger.
It had been necessary, in those first weeks after the Clockwork Three’s attack. Abigail wasn’t used to loneliness. Where her family went, they went together. And moving to Seraphim Row had taken away one family but provided another – weird and mismatched with an absolutely inspiring leader – and she’d made do.
And then –
Grey’s smile vanished. ‘Why me?’
Like mercury.
The Knight darted sideways, from standing still to sprinting, and he planted a foot in the fretful boy’s chest to lift him from the ground. The line didn’t break. It hadn’t time. Abigail’s second heartbeat had barely tripped over the first before twenty-four became twenty-one in a chorus of yelps. Grey spun like a dancer, skittered like a nightmare, and when the third beat came –
That was the other thing all the Neophytes had in common: children might have broken; children might have run. But none of them had been children for a very long time.
Mink Girl lashed out with a roundhouse kick, but Grey was no longer there to receive it, and two blunt thwocks of flesh put her down. He rolled over the back of a lunging boy to hammer his feet into another, and somehow it was only the kids who hit the floor. Bodies moved past her, or fell, or were struck, and Abigail just stood there, remembering flowerpots, and questions called out amid flashing blades –
‘And breathe.’
Eight of the twenty-four Neophytes were down. Some had frozen where they stood. Others were halfway to the weapons racks on the walls, and standing in a circle of groaning, prone bodies was Grey, skin slick with sweat.
His gaze fell on Abigail. ‘I said breathe.’
No – not Abigail. There was a rising glow in the mirrors, the colour of sunrises and ripe peaches, summer-warm and dazzling bright. They all turned.
The boy was nearly as tall as Grey, shoulders straining against his training top, hair a shock of gold two shades darker than the amber billowing underneath his skin. His hands were outstretched, and there the light was brightest, sizzling like a fuse.
‘Release,’ Grey said, his voice just a little out of breath. ‘Release it, Matt. Think cold. Think calm. Whatever you need to do.’
It took an age for the light to die out, or maybe that was just how long it felt. They all knew that struggle, and Abigail averted her gaze respectfully. She wouldn’t have wanted anyone staring at her either.
Grey waited patiently as the line re-formed.
‘It happens,’ he said. ‘No warrior escapes being taken by surprise. That’s when the fire will try and get out. When you’re distracted. Angry. Off guard. Our lives are a balancing act, and there will always be moments where you teeter on the edge. What matters is pulling yourself back.’
Abigail pressed a fingernail into the cold, comforting hardness of the Cost in her palm. They all had their methods of calming the fire – Abigail’s parents had their faith, and she had them. They believed in her, and she worked to be worthy of it.
This was Grey’s preferred method of teaching – throw as much as possible at you, just as this war would. It was why she hadn’t moved. He was doing it to make a point. She had wanted to make a point as well.
‘So why me? Of all possible choices, why was I chosen to teach you?’ He spun on a heel and twenty-four Neophytes tensed, but no attack came. ‘Anything, people? Did you come here to learn or be right?’
‘Because you’re a Knight?’ the Eguzki girl called from behind Abigail. It was a good answer. Fighting alone, turning impossible odds possible – that was what the Order did. It might even have been Abigail’s answer … had she not been determined to keep her mouth shut. She’d had a lot of practice since Grey had been taken away.
‘I might not be,’ Grey said. ‘Didn’t use my power, did I? I might have been Secret Service, Spetsnaz, SAS …’
‘We’re not going to be fighting SAS,’ the Eguzki girl responded confusedly. Grey’s face hardened.
‘We don’t know who we’re going to be fighting.’ He slammed a fist into his palm. ‘Two gendarmes find you breaking into an apartment a minute ahead of a Breach, and you’re going to what – stop and explain yourself? A Tenebrous replaces the head of a Montenegrin crime cartel and you have to put down six innocent men without –’
He snapped gloved fingers, and a band of light rippled through him from head to toe like the snap of a flag, before disappearing as if it had never been.
Abigail heard intakes of breath. Such control.
‘Innocent men?’ came a voice. ‘You said they were criminals.’
‘But not Tenebrous,’ said Grey. ‘And innocence comes in varying degrees.’ Another finger snap. ‘Groups of two.’
OK. OK. A welcome distraction. The room crowded with the controlled chaos of teenagers seeking partners they knew, or wanted to know, or wanted to fight. Abigail just ran through stretches, concentrating on her form. She was sure that Denizen and Simon would be bolting for each other like sailors for shore.
‘Hello.’
The Eguzki girl. Taller than her – longer reach – with a loose, short stance – agile but unstable. Abigail had sparred against Denizen, Simon and Darcie enough to know them, on a level that she sometimes thought transcended even their friendship.
But this person was new. Fun, she thought, with a nervous, appraising thrill.
Abigail had always excelled at observation, ever since her sixth birthday when she had solemnly sat her parents down and told them she’d figured out they weren’t bear wrestlers. Every day of training since then had underlined for her that seeing threats before they became threats was the difference between getting hurt and not getting hurt, the difference between her parents debriefing her on their missions and … not coming home at all.
She knew that people sometimes thought she was uncomplicated, just because she said what she thought and didn’t waste time overanalysing the things that didn’t need to be overanalysed. They were wrong.
Abigail wasn’t uncomplicated. She was busy.
‘Begin.’
And Daybreak and Grey went away in the stinging song of impact.
Left hook.
Right hook.
Block.
Everything else fell away, the universe reduced to limb and locomotion, the constantly changing space between them both.
; Jab.
She’s right-handed.
Circle.
Jab.
Arms and hands and elbows, coming at her hard – sun-baked and fractal with muscle.
Trap.
Lock.
The girl’s eyes widened, but by then Abigail was already moving, taking her arm with her. My arm, she thought triumphantly, and flung her out of their universe and on to the ground.
Or would have, had the Eguzki girl not suddenly gone limp, dead weight buckling Abigail at the knee. They both went down, but Abigail was on the bottom, a knee in her ribs. She gasped –
‘And breathe.’
The weight went away, and, though a part of Abigail wanted to ignore the hand her opponent held out, she made herself take it.
‘Sorry,’ the girl said. ‘Dirty trick.’
It had been. It had also been the first time a Neophyte had put Abigail on her back in a year.
‘It was a good one,’ she said, and she surprised herself by grinning back. ‘I’ll remember it.’
‘Change partners,’ Grey called, and the shuffle began again. ‘And I’m still waiting on an answer. You’re here to learn. Why am I here?’
‘To teach?’
A shake of the head, and then Abigail’s opponent punched her so hard in the face she could feel the bruise she left on his hand.
‘To learn?’
She scissor-kicked a blonde girl to the floor. An iron wrist pinned her throat. She didn’t see Denizen. She didn’t see Simon. Her gaze became muddy with exhaustion, and her skin swam with sweat.
And all of it entirely failing to distract her from those familiar eyes watching her; that voice so bright with laughter and cracked with strain. She’d never spoken about what it felt like losing Grey, because it had hit the others so hard – and wasn’t it her duty to look after them first?
Or maybe she’d kept quiet because then she’d have had to tell them that she didn’t feel loss. She felt like she’d been failed.
‘I know why you’re here.’ The boy who’d nearly lost control of his power. Matt. Standing or in tangles of limbs, the others slowly stopped their sparring.