The Cadet of Tildor

by Alex Lidell

  Seaborn shook his head. “Not each other.” He jerked his chin at Fisker, who was trying to thread the stump of his missing finger through the tankard handle. “Him.” Seaborn grasped the guardsman’s cup and pulled it away, rousing the guard to sputtering fury. “Speak.”

  The man scowled. “Nothing to say.”

  “Very well.” Seaborn rose. “I’ll inform our friend you had a change of heart.”

  “Curse your eyes.” Fisker grunted and demanded the return of his ale, which the other man slid across the table. He drank deeply, belched, and drank again. “Tell me,” Fisker said finally, finding Renee’s gaze. “Tell me, do you think a Family man or a Viper can be trusted?”

  “No.” Renee’s brows narrowed.

  “And is it a guardsman’s job to keep such filth clear of the Crown?”

  She glanced at Seaborn, then back at Fisker. “Of course.”

  He nodded and spoke to his cup. “Nine years ago . . . Nine years ago, a man offered me a heavy purse to ensure that Cadet Korish Savoy never graduated.”

  Renee’s shoulders tensed. “Did you take it?”

  “No.” Fisker slammed the tankard on the table. “I did not take a bribe. Cadet Savoy was both a menace and a liability, but I left him be and guarded the Academy he made a farce of. As was my duty.” He bared his teeth. “The man returned with a larger sum. I threw him out once more.”

  A silence followed, lasting too long, but Renee gave Fisker his time. The man was loyal to the Crown. He valued law and duty both. Yet something had pushed him into tormenting a fourteen-year-old boy and seeded the vendetta that stretched to present day. She stared at Fisker’s mangled hand.

  He caught her gaze and snorted, holding up the stump. “No. This was a folly of pride.” Fisker sighed. “The man returned a third time. With documents.” He scowled. “There once were three brothers heading the Family.” He held up three fingers to illustrate so great a number. “One rotted in prison like he deserved.” A finger bent. “Another—Lord Palan—took charge.” A second finger went down. “The third? The third, oldest, brother, who had a liking for killing, he heard that a warrant for his arrest was to be drawn, and fled like a frightened dog. He changed his name, married a mercenary, and, as I was told, was too cowardly to speak of the poison his blood carries.” He leaned forward. “Now, would you wager a guess as to who that was? Whose identity those papers held?”

  Renee’s mind churned, arranging and rearranging the pieces as her heart quickened. A mercenary soldier teaching his son courtly dances. Palan’s longstanding interest in Savoy. His efforts to recall the man to the Academy the year Diam started it. The way Palan asked Diam to call him Uncle. That he told her about this meeting at all. Fisker’s Justice Hall rant about evils of criminal seeds. The last nail slid into place. Blood drained from Renee’s face. “Savoy’s father,” she said quietly, ignoring the sudden hot sear of Seaborn’s gaze. “He was the third brother, wasn’t he?” She nodded to herself, following the thought to its end. “Which makes Savoy a Family man—an offspring of criminal blood—in a Servant’s uniform. That is why you hate him so.”

  “He is disease.” The guard’s eyes flashed. “I came to Verin with the news, but he refused to expel the pestilence and forbade me to take any action.” Fisker took a chug of ale. “So I held my tongue and I waited. Waited for the young bastard to put his own neck into the noose.”

  Renee leaned toward him. “Did you bait Savoy into taking the Crown’s horses?”

  Fisker grinned, showing his teeth. “It was a matter of time—with evil in his flesh, he courted trouble every moment. And when he slipped next, I made certain the festering pig got what was coming to him, didn’t I? Bloody Family scum. Should have died in that rotting jail cell.”

  Leaving Fisker to his cups and curses, Renee and Seaborn went outside. The fresh air was welcome, despite the icy drizzle, and helped clear Renee’s head. Lord Palan had gone through some trouble to ensure the insight was both delivered and believed. Why? What was his angle? Was Renee to believe that, given their blood ties, Palan’s desire to help Savoy was genuine? She pulled her coat tighter. Perhaps it was, but the head of the Family surely had more than one motive. Renee spared a moment to consider what kind of leverage the lord had exerted on Fisker to force his tongue and, to her shame, discovered that she did not much care. “Did you know any of this?” she asked Seaborn.

  He leaned against the side of the building, tilting his head up against the stone. “Not before this meeting. I am likewise confident of Korish’s ignorance.”

  Renee nodded. How much did blood matter? To Fisker, who condemned Savoy for his lineage, it mattered beyond all reason. It mattered to Palan, who patronized his estranged nephews and looked after Tanil, as useless as he was. To Verin, who let Savoy earn a Servant’s uniform despite his father’s crimes, bloodlines appeared irrelevant. And to Renee herself? How much blame did she bear for her father’s Family dealings?

  Her shoulders sagged and she pressed her hand against the wall for support. Could she blame Fisker for what he did to Savoy when the guardsman’s motives, like Verin’s, stemmed from a sense of duty? Yes. Yes she could. A wrong done in the name of right may be understandable—but it wasn’t acceptable. “I despise the Family, sir, as Fisker does,” she said finally. “Them, and the Vipers, and the rest of the criminals haunting Tildor. But Savoy isn’t a Family man, no matter who his father and uncle are. He is my friend and that will not change for all the bastards combined.”

  Seaborn nodded and relaxed against the wall next to her. “It isn’t supposed to.”

  They stood silent while the rain picked up, the droplets bouncing in the forming puddles. After several moments, Renee pressed her lips together and tilted her face up toward Seaborn. “I received no word from you.”

  “I was beginning to fear that when nothing returned from you.” He sighed. “Several of the couriers carrying palace messages have faced trouble. No matter now. Verin—”

  “Refused aid, I know.” She sketched the details of their conversation. “Not bowing to Palan counted for more than Savoy’s life. What of the Seventh?”

  “Stationed a few days’ ride away. I’ve found a way of getting a message to them, but without a code word to authenticate it, they won’t believe it.” He shook his head. “They’re too well trained to abandon their mission for what could be a poison pen message. At best, they’d contact Verin.”

  Renee jerked away from the wall and faced him. “Verin can’t be the only one with the code. Savoy must have it too.” She hurried to update him on developments in Catar, leaving out only Savoy’s reaction to the boy mage.

  Seaborn leaned forward, nodding at her words. He listened to her like he did to Savoy, Renee realized. She was not his cadet anymore. Renee cleared her throat. “I will talk Jasper into arranging another meeting with Savoy. If I succeed, how do I ensure my message reaches the Seventh?”

  Seaborn recited a set of instructions, which Renee repeated several times until they both were confident of her memory. Then good humor faded from Seaborn’s face. “You know of the royal kidnapping?” He waited for her nod and dropped his voice. “King Lysian will come to Catar in ten days’ time.”

  “To attack?”

  “To rule.” Seaborn spread his hands. “The presence of the Crown with his guards and magistrates does not eliminate illegitimate activities, but it does increase costs and headaches.”

  “You think the Madam will back down if only to make him go away?”

  Seaborn put his hands into his pockets. “No. But the next step spills blood.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Savoy pushed open the salle door to attend what the others thought to be another penalty workout and found Den leaning against the wall, a book in his hands.

  “Forgive my unpreparedness,” said Den, looking up. “The reading absorbed me.” He twisted the book to reveal its cover. Battlefields of the Seventh.

  Savoy moved his feet to gain better purchase on the san
d. His heart quickened

  “Please,” Den said quietly. “I suggest nothing.” He locked the door and remained with his back turned to Savoy. “Nine years ago, the Madam ordered me to antagonize a guardsman at the Academy of Tildor against a cadet who attended school there. The boy was a runt with blond hair and green eyes, but he wielded a sword like he was born to it. Even my untrained eye saw that much.”

  Savoy’s brow rose with an ease he didn’t feel. “The Madam?”

  “Yes.” Den paused, his next words coming with care. “She . . . The Madam takes interest in certain youngsters. She has her reasons.”

  Savoy stood motionless. The Madam and Lord Palan both. “Was your mission successful?”

  “No.” Den turned, shaking his head. “I found the guard, a nine-fingered man who disliked the boy to begin with, and I fueled his dislike until it turned to hate. Nonetheless, the lad still graduated to become a Servant of the Crown and thwart many Viper projects.” He held up the book. “It is unfortunate the book has no pictures. I wonder what the man looks like grown. Is it not curious that many people may know of a man’s deeds without ever learning his appearance?”

  A breath escaped Savoy’s lips. If Den had meant to capitalize on his discovery, he would have done so before now. Even so, Savoy’s life lay in the other’s hands.

  “No one leaves the Vipers.” Den tossed the book to the sand.

  “So you said.”

  Pursing his lips, Den drew the amulet from his pocket.

  Savoy spread his wrists to show that no resistance would be offered.

  Den hesitated. “You know why the men pretend the Freedom Fight is real?”

  “Hope.”

  Den nodded. “I read the book. If anyone can get out . . .” Licking his lips, he threw the amulet into Savoy’s hands and spoke quickly, motioning to the wristbands. “It can’t disable your binds, nor unlock most of the doors. But it will open those on the path to the arena. And from the arena to the street. I’ll discover it stolen in ten minutes’ time. Go through the bathing room, down the corridor to the Pit.” He paused. “If you can climb the bars . . . ”

  Savoy looked Den in the eye, and knew the courage the man’s decision had taken. “Should you leave Catar, you’ll find welcome at the Academy of Tildor in Atham. If I’m not there, a man named Connor Seaborn will care for you.”

  “Thank you.” Den held out his hand. “Don’t get caught.”

  Savoy paused before undoing the lock on the door. “What did you tell Guardsman Fisker about me?”

  “It would be better you not know. Gods’ speed, Commander.”

  “Gods’ luck, Den.”

  Savoy slid into the corridor, his bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. He hesitated at the barracks, listening to Pretty’s boasting voice escape through the closed door, and continued to the bathing room. Ten minutes. His heartbeat kept the time.

  True to promise, the door obeyed the amulet, unlocking at the touch of the blue stream of light. Savoy paused to listen, heard nothing, and entered. Rows of bathtubs and towels greeted him. The air hung heavy with moisture and soap, and the never-quite-dry floor was slippery, even to bare feet. He looked at the two doors on the opposite wall and, recalling his previous trip to the arena, approached the rightmost.

  “Is the laundry finished?” asked a voice outside.

  Savoy grabbed a small towel and twisted it into a cord. Another step brought him flat against the wall on the hinge side of the door. He quieted his breathing.

  “Marcy?” the same voice called. “I said, are you done with laundry?” The door opened and a plump woman stuck her head inside.

  Savoy’s hands tightened on the cord. In or out, mistress, make a decision.

  The woman sighed and retreated, closing the door. Savoy released a slow breath. Dying was in the guards’ job description, not the servants’. He pushed away from the wall and reached for the door handle.

  It swung open before he touched it.

  The plump woman returned. Muttering on about dirty towels, she stepped into the room and headed for a basket of linens in the opposite corner.

  Seven Hells. Savoy slid in behind her and looped the twisted towel over her head. Reconsidering at the last moment, he pulled the cloth taut over her mouth instead of her neck. She squealed through her nose, like a piglet at the market, forcing him to tighten the gag. “Keep quiet,” he whispered into her ear.

  The squealing ceased, replaced by flailing. She twisted about, scratching the air and huffing. Behind her, Savoy sighed, and pulled back on her shoulders until the woman’s balance wavered, and he could settle her onto the floor. When he came around to face her, her eyes grew as wide as her cheeks pale.

  “No, gods, no, no,” she pleaded softly, hugging her arms across her chest.

  Savoy crouched. “Do nothing to harm me, and I will reciprocate. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Who else works here tonight?”

  She tried, and had Savoy’s mission been to procure contraband soap or breach the security of the laundry room, he would have extracted some value from her words. “All right, that’s enough.” He reached for a spare towel and started binding the woman’s hands behind her back.

  “Please, sir, don’t do that,” she begged, her voice shaking and eyes full to the brim. “Leave me, sir. I won’t say nothing to nobody.”

  Of course, and I’m a princess disguised. He held the thought to himself. If he was letting her live, better depart on a sympathetic note. Securing the wrist binding, he wrapped the gag back into place. “If I leave you untied,” he whispered into her ear, “you’ll be punished for not raising alarm.”

  The bathing room fiasco concluded, Savoy continued into the corridor. The openness of the passage made him uneasy. Time ticked on. Den had granted him ten minutes. By now he had used them all. Praying that the guards took time to muster, Savoy hurried forward. He stayed close to the wall, ears alert for footsteps and creaking hinges.

  A faint blue glow shimmered about the edges of the arena door. He jogged to it, the amulet at the ready. Once more the door’s glow died under the amulet’s command, and Savoy pulled at the handle.

  It refused to budge.

  He pulled again. No result. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The open corridor was ill suited for delay. Resisting the urge to continue yanking the handle, he made himself retreat from the door and look at it anew. Haste wouldn’t quicken progress. He took a breath.

  The tap of footsteps approaching from a side passage spun Savoy around. The closest concealment, another small passage that fed into the main corridor, lay twenty spans back. Could he make it? He sprinted, bare feet pushing off the hard stone, and spun himself inside. A moment later, a man with an oil jug stepped into the main hall, refilled one hanging lantern, and moved to the next.

  Flat against the wall, Savoy tightened his jaw. The workman would be at his task for a quarter hour at best. By then, the search for Savoy would on in full strength. Savoy had to engage, right in the middle of the open corridor, right now.

  Lifting a small pebble off the ground, Savoy skipped it against the floor.

  Five paces away, the workman startled and turned toward the noise, his back exposed. Savoy pushed away from the wall and lunged at the man’s legs. He grabbed him at the knees, collapsed them together, and shoved. The man fell. Savoy followed him down.

  The oil jug shattered. The man twisted; blood running from his nose soaked his shirt. His eyes widened, meeting Savoy’s. And he screamed.

  Elp! Elp! Elp! the stones echoed.

  Seven Hells. Savoy’s stomach clenched.

  The man struggled, splattering blood. His mouth opened.

  Savoy couldn’t permit another scream. His fist struck the man’s temple. There was no more noise.

  Lowering the unconscious body to the ground, Savoy found himself with his original problem. The amulet had disarmed the mage glow of the arena door. It hadn’t opened it. He jogged forward and stopped a pace
away, examining the wood.

  The Vipers kept the facilities in excellent shape. If a door would not budge, it was locked, not stuck. Find the second lock. His eyes tracked the crack where the door met the wall, and worked methodically around the frame. There. A simple sliding latch glittered at the top right corner. He slipped it free and the door opened.

  The arena was empty. Rows of wooden benches rose like stairs from where he stood. At the top, two blue, glowing doors led to the street. He was so close now, he could taste the free air. A fence of barbed-wire-topped rods, rising up only four times his height, was all that separated him and it.

  Experience checked his excitement in favor of caution. Savoy surveyed his route. The fence blocked the pens and fight area from the spectator section. He was in a cage—a cage without a ceiling, but still a cage. Den had been right, the only way out was to climb.

  Savoy approached the metal bars, spaced hand-widths apart. No footholds. He’d have to rely on his hands alone. The barbed wire at the top would cut him, but if he ripped some cloth from his pants to lay over the burrs, he might avoid fatal gashes. The amulet would unlock the door.

  He repeated the plan and tucked the amulet into his waistband. Satisfied, he grasped the bars and hauled himself up.

  Unlike the climbing-ropes hanging in the salle, the smooth metal slipped in his grasp. For each span of gained ground, he slid down by half. The problem increased as his hands grew damp with sweat. He wiped his palms off on his pants each time he switched holds, all the while wishing for chalk. Why not wish for rope while he was at it? Gritting his teeth, Savoy climbed on. The door to freedom lay in sight.

  He paused for breath upon reaching the barbed wire and snaked his hands between the razor coils to hang with both hands from the bar topping the cage. Gashes appeared on his forearms, leaking blood. Savoy’s arms shook now, slipping in sweat and screaming with strain. He tried ripping his trousers for a bit of cloth to throw over the bars, but couldn’t manage it one-handed. No, he’d have to swing his body over the top and pray the burrs didn’t shred him to pieces in the process. He hung loose, took a breath, and started swinging his body side to side like a pendulum. One. Two . . .