The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  The amazing battle lasted for several minutes, although only a few score of seconds passed for anyone watching. Garran’s mind began to reel and he stumbled. He looked up as the sky spun around like a rolling wagon wheel. Victor’s smiling face hovered over him and blocked most of his view.

  “Lights out for you, kid.”

  Garran’s eyes rolled back into his head, and the world vanished in a storm of supernovae against an all-encompassing field of blackness.

  ***

  Light returned like the sun shining through a rose-tinted stained glass window. Garran’s eyes fluttered open then snapped shut against the overwhelming brilliance. He possessed just enough awareness to roll onto his side before violently heaving. His empty stomach thwarted his attempts at vomiting and soon gave up the effort.

  Garran managed to hold his eyes open and spotted Victor sitting against a tree. “What happened?”

  “You burned yourself up and passed out. You need to learn how to control your transcendence and step out of it before you lose consciousness.”

  “No shit. You really are an exceptional agent.”

  “Don’t get pissy with me just because you suck at everything.”

  “Sucking at everything has suited your mother well all these years.”

  “I’m going to assume that remark is a result of your current condition and choose not to crush your skull with a rock.”

  Garran forced his body into a sitting position. “I was wrong. You suck at being an agent if you think that.”

  Victor shook his head and grinned. “And they think I have a bad attitude. Are you gonna make it, or do I need to drag you to the infirmary?”

  “I’ll make it. I just need to find something to eat and take a nap. What really happened? How do I fix this?”

  “You need to learn how to transcend and step out on your terms and not by accident. Right now, you are letting pure emotion, mostly fear of imminent death, put you in a transcended state, and you don’t come out of it until your body fails you. It’s like an ocean.”

  “Yeah, Cyril said something like that.”

  “Shut up and listen. It’s like an ocean. You’re letting a big wave come and wash you off the shore and sweep you out to sea, and you don’t come out until the current washes your body onto the beach. You need to learn how to dive in on your own and then swim back to shore before you drown.”

  “It sounds obvious in theory, but how do I do it?”

  “That’s what I’m here to teach you. That and how not to get your ass handed to you by every kid with a stick or old woman swinging a broom. You fight like shit.”

  “I’m sure with such an encouraging teacher I’ll get better soon.”

  “You will…if you live long enough.”

  “Encouragement is one thing, now you’re just fawning. Have some dignity, man.”

  Victor chuckled. “I don’t know whether to like you or kill you in your sleep.”

  Garran grinned. “My mother wrote that exact thing on my birthday cake.”

  “That’s not right.”

  “I know! Who uses strawberry icing on a chocolate cake? The woman is renowned for her bad decisions.”

  Victor laughed long and hard. “Go get some rest, kid. Try to reflect on everything that happened today. If you spent half as much time mentally rehearsing your fighting skills as you do thinking about women or destroying your brain, you might show some improvement.”

  “If I dedicate that much time in thought, I’ll whoop your ass by the end of the month.”

  “Let’s see if you can.”

  Garran plodded back toward his dorm. His legs felt as though he had just run twenty miles and protested his every step. He came to a fork in the trail, decided that Toby’s shack was much closer than his dorm was, and made a detour. Garran staggered into the barn, grabbed a bottle from his stash, and loaded his opium pipe. With lunch taken care of, he let all his pain and fatigue float away on a cloud of chemically induced euphoria.

  ***

  Garran took a seat next to Aniston in the auditorium. Espionage was the last class of the day three days a week with martial training being last on the alternating two days. The first-year students from all four houses settled in. Today was the day Professor Lyndon was supposed to launch a surprise exam, and dozens of eyes flicked expectantly in Garran’s direction.

  Professor Lyndon stood next to his lectern and addressed the class, the amphitheater shape of the room carrying his voice all the way to the back seats without effort. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a surprise for you. Given the political strife of late, the university has decided to accelerate the intelligence-gathering portion of your training. To facilitate this, I have devised several hands-on exercises, the first of which begins now.”

  Murmuring filled the auditorium, and nervous eyes flitted around the room. Their first test should not be for at least three more weeks. Garran suddenly found himself the focus of nearly everyone’s attention.

  “Early this morning, agents, under my direction, stole each of your houses’ pennants. Your duty is to gather information, create contacts, and discover the location of your pennant as well as the identity of the perpetrator. In order for you to meet the criteria for passing, any accusation must be supported by facts obtained by using the skills briefly discussed in the previous week. Identifying the wrong culprit or failing to substantiate your allegations will result in failure. Failure for any of these practical exercises will be massively detrimental to your grade and possibly graduation. Time is of the essence. Not only will your maximum score drop for every day that passes, those who complete the exam successfully will have the remainder of this class time to do with as they please for the rest of the week. Are there any questions?”

  Garran looked from side to side before standing.

  “Yes, what is it?” Professor Lyndon asked.

  Garran cleared his throat. “Sir, Garran Holt, Hayworth House.”

  “Ah, Hayworth, I can guess your concern. Normally, your prefect would be of instrumental importance in leading you through this exercise. I understand Hayworth House has suffered a blow and currently has no prefect. I am sorry, but I cannot provide any sort of leniency for your prefect’s expulsion. You will have to do the best you can without him. If you are successful, I might feel inclined to adjust your score a few points if I think your performance suffered unduly due to your loss.”

  “No, sir, that was not what I was going to address.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I would like to submit my accusation on behalf of Hayworth House.”

  Anxious muttering filled the room once more, most vocally from those of Garran’s house.

  “What the hell are you doing, Holt?” someone cried out from near the back.

  Garran craned his head around. “What I said I would! Shut up and let me do this.”

  Professor Lyndon cleared his throat. “Young man, you do understand what I meant by factually supported accusations?”

  “I do.”

  “Let me clarify once more just so we are both clear. If you are wrong, your house will fail this exam. Even if you are right, you must support your accusation with facts and evidence obtained by using recognized intelligence and espionage techniques. Otherwise, your house will fail this exam. Failing this or any of the future exams will make it very difficult to pass this course. Are you certain you wish to make your accusation and submit your evidence?”

  Garran ducked his head once. “I am.”

  The professor looked out over the assembled class. “Does the majority of Hayworth agree to allow Mr. Holt to speak for your house?”

  There were several heated but brief arguments amongst the members of his house, but they agreed to allow Garran to speak for them.

  “As you wish. Proceed, Mr. Holt.”

  “I accuse Kevin Ares, prefect of Bagrat House.”

  Professor Lyndon sifted through the papers stacked on his lectern before meeting Garran’s watchful gaze. “You
are correct.” The students of Hayworth House leapt to their feet and cheered. “Be still! Mr. Holt, you must describe to me, to my satisfaction, how you came about making this accusation.”

  Garran smiled and winked at his housemates. “While performing my extra duties, I had accidentally added some oil to the batch of floor wax I used in front of my house’s trophy case. This caused the polish to dry very slowly, and when Prefect Ares stole our pennant, his shoe left an imprint.”

  Garran held up a piece of paper with the dirty silhouette of a shoe sole pressed upon it. “I was able to transfer that imprint onto this piece of paper since the floor was still sticky. Note the distinctive notch in the sole. You will find the same notch in Prefect Ares’ shoe.”

  “How can you be certain the shoe with that mark belongs to Mr. Ares?” Professor Lyndon asked.

  “Because I put it there.” Garran pulled out another slip of paper. “In fact, I made similar marks on all the prefects’ and professors’ shoes and created this chart to help me keep track of what mark corresponds to whom.”

  Professor Lyndon lifted his foot and found two nicks carved into the outside sole of his right shoe. “How and why did you go about marking everyone’s shoes?”

  “I assumed that any players chosen to participate in the practical exams would be prefects or faculty, so I spent many of my nights sneaking into their rooms and homes and marked their shoes.

  “You and I will have to have a discussion regarding boundaries, Mr. Holt. While that shows that Prefect Ares stood at your house’s display case, it does not prove he took the pennant. Unless you have some further evidence, I will have to fail you.”

  Garran reached inside his coat once more and waved his house’s pennant over his head. “I found this in Kevin’s room, and just in case you want to deny that as well, I also have a very interesting love letter I found addressed to him. I will be happy to read who it is from unless the prefect wants to confess.”

  Kevin leapt from his seat and plowed his way toward Garran. “No, I confess! I took the pennant!” he cried, snatching the note from Garran’s upraised hand and shoving it into his pocket.

  “Mr. Holt, while you are correct, you defeated the purpose of this exam. You have made a mockery of my class and used tricks instead of the established tactics I have taught.”

  “I disagree, sir. I identified likely players and devised a method for tracking their movements. Once I ascertained the identity of my primary target, I gathered information to force him to betray his superiors and cooperate with me to fulfill my mission. A good agent will always set the board before committing himself to the game. My methods might not have been what you would use, but they are precisely what a good agent should employ.”

  Professor Lyndon looked as though he were chewing glass. The boy had made a mockery of his class and insinuated that his methods were superior to the professor’s decades of experience. He wanted nothing more than to fail the upstart and his entire house, but he knew he would lose the inevitable appeal.

  He locked his back and stood rigid. “Congratulations to Mr. Holt and Hayworth House on their perfect score for this year’s first exam. Enjoy your time off.”

  Aniston leapt to his feet. “I nominate Garran Holt for Hayworth House prefect!” Several of his housemates seconded his nomination.

  “Gentlemen, thank you,” Garran said as he basked in their adulation. He held up the paper identifying the other prefects by their distinctive shoe prints. “If any of the other houses would like to enlist my consulting services, you can hire me for the low price of a single vote…and ten dinarins each.”

  “Mr. Holt!” Professor Lyndon shouted above the din. “An agent does not sell information to other parties!”

  An enormous grin spread across his face. “He does if he’s a free agent.” He spotted Gertrude across several aisles smiling at him. Garran separated himself from the barrage of hands patting him on the back. “Excuse me, boys, but I see someone who really needs to meet me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Garran’s elevation to prefect was a shoo-in. He won the position in a barely contested election. His celebration party almost resulted in his and his housemates being late for the next day’s classes. They were a sad-looking lot when they trudged into class the next morning. They were exhausted from lack of sleep, hungover from drinking too much, and, the few who tried the potent drug, were still trying to shake off the opium-induced fog.

  On the bright side, Garran identified the first in what was going to be an expanding customer base at the university. He was not as concerned about the danger of double-crossing Edmund as he was about keeping in good relations with someone who could supply his bad habits and provide useful contacts in the future.

  Being somewhat inured to self-abuse, Garran suffered through his courses largely unaffected. Grammar, culture, and language classes posed little trouble, but mathematics continued to be a bane no matter his state of mind. He would need to do something soon to correct the situation—something other than actually studying.

  His last class of the day was martial training, and it was the one he was looking forward to. Despite his previous thrashing at the hands of Aniston’s superior swordsmanship, Garran felt he needed to prove himself on the field of battle as well as in the classroom.

  “You’re almost late, Holt,” Commander Fitz barked as Garran jogged into the training pit.

  “Sorry, sir, I had to make a quick detour.”

  “Fine, just pair off with someone. Given your last performance, I suggest one of the practice dummies.”

  “Actually, I would like to spar with Aniston again.”

  “You got one of those weird fetishes where you like to get beat up?”

  “No, sir, I just think I can do better this time. I’ve been practicing.”

  “Fine, it’s your body and dignity; abuse them if you want to.”

  Garran and Aniston shrugged on their sparring armor. Aniston selected a sword similar to the one he picked before and found an open spot for their battle. Garran ignored the racked weapons, dug into his rucksack next to the bleachers, and retrieved a pair of reaping blades he had liberated from Toby’s toolshed.

  Aniston chuckled when Garran approached. “We’re supposed to be fighting, not chopping wood.”

  “You don’t use reaping blades to chop wood.” Garran lunged forward and hooked the crescent blade under Aniston’s armpit. “You strip limbs.”

  “Holt!” Commander Fitz shouted and stalked over. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Getting ready to spar with my chosen weapons, sir.”

  “Give me those!” Fitz snatched the tools from Garran’s grasp, checked the edges with his thumb, and took them to the grinding wheel set up near the weapons rack.

  “You afraid I’ll hurt your star pupil?” Garran asked when the instructor handed back his blades.

  “I’m afraid you’ll cut your own damn leg off, and I don’t want to do the paperwork involved. I don’t care if you want to fight with a rock in a sock, but you’ll still need to learn proper bladework.”

  “Yes, sir. You ready, Aniston?”

  Aniston took up a fencer’s pose. “I’m ready to make you eat dirt again.”

  Garran flashed a mischievous grin. “Try to keep that positive attitude after I humiliate you.”

  His foe answered with a few swift thrusts, which Garran either parried or avoided by leaping back. Garran’s defense seemed much improved with his new weapons, so Aniston ramped up his attack routine. Garran watched the thrust aimed for his heart, leaned aside, and jabbed his reaping blade forward. The tool was useless as a thrusting weapon since it lacked the straight point of a sword or dagger, but such was not his intent. Garran hooked the cross guard of Aniston’s sword, jerked back, and stripped the weapon from his hand.

  The sword tumbled through the air and struck another student, Justin, on top of the head with its heavy hilt. Justin cried out and slapped a hand to the leather helmet he wore as he strugg
led to lock his wobbling legs.

  “I think you dropped something. Look around in the dirt over there. I think I see it lying next to a chunk of your pride.”

  Aniston glared and retrieved his sword. “All right, Garran, I was taking it easy on you because I thought maybe we were becoming friends, but now I’m going to bring the pain again.”

  “I thought we were friends, what with the way you always smile when I drag my dong across your cheek while you are sleeping.”

  “What? You didn’t!”

  Garran shrugged. “Just be glad you aren’t a belly sleeper. It could have been a whole lot worse.”

  Aniston roared and charged, fiercely swinging and stabbing while still maintaining control and using all the skill he possessed. Despite it all, Garran was able to deflect or dodge every thrust and slash with almost contemptuous ease. Commander Fitzgerald and the other students, who were now intently watching the duel, were not the only ones surprised by Garran’s remarkable improvement. Garran himself was unclear how it was he was able to so easily best Aniston, who he had to admit was a much better swordsman than he was.

  He could only guess it was the naturalness that he felt wielding the reaping blades. They felt as if they were an extension of his body in a way that the sword did not. He guessed it also had something to do with his transcended ability, despite not actively engaging it. It would not do to reveal such information nor pass out in class.

  Aniston thrust hard, hoping to score a hit, but Garran leaned left and crouched beneath the extended arm. He stabbed behind Aniston, hooked his ankle with the dulled blade, and jerked back with all his might. Aniston went parallel with the dirt floor almost four feet in the air before crashing down a split-second later. Air exploded from his lungs, and he let out an awful mewling as he desperately tried to inflate them.