The Arkhel Conundrum (The Tears of Artamon Book 4)

by Ash, Sarah

“Cadet Arkhel; get back to your team immediately. You’ll be punished for going against orders—even if you did it to save a civilian.” And with that he strode back toward the line of cannon.

  Toran realized only then that Bernay’s hand was still resting on his shoulder in what felt at that moment very much like a protective gesture. Bernay seemed to realize at the same moment, for he withdrew it, briefly giving Toran a reassuring clap on the back, before setting out after Branville.

  “I’m sorry, Ingenieur,” Toran called, following, realizing that what he had done had not only interrupted the trials but must have inconvenienced Bernay’s busy schedule.

  “You acted rashly,” Bernay said, “but bravely. Morsan’s cadets were at fault.”

  “What will you do about the cannon that misfired?” Toran, hurrying to keep up with Bernay’s swift pace, realized that his legs felt as if they were filled with jelly. Delayed shock?

  “Test it again,” Bernay called back over his shoulder. “One misfire doesn’t warrant the expense of melting it down and re-forging it.”

  “Too expensive?” Toran’s legs gave way and he almost tripped headlong over a molehill. Strong hands shot out and grabbed him, holding him upright. He found himself staring into Bernay’s gray eyes again—but this time all he saw in them was concern; the earlier shivery glitter was gone . I must have imagined it; it could have just been a gleam of sunlight through the clouds.

  “Steady there, Toran,” Bernay said quietly. “You just cheated death; don’t push yourself too hard.”

  “Ingenieur Bernay.” Colonel Mouzillon had retrieved his hat. “I really must apologize for the impulsive behavior of our boys.”

  “No problem, sir, I assure you.” The warm, steadying grip was relaxed as Bernay let Toran go and went over to confer with the colonel. “I’m just relieved that no one was injured.”

  Toran continued slowly back toward his team, aware that his fellow cadets were watching him in awed silence. Lorris broke ranks and hurried across to greet him.

  “Are you all right? You saved that girl’s life! Imagine the fuss if she’d been hit by a cannonball.”

  Other First Years surrounded him, slapping him on the back and mussing his hair. Toran allowed himself to bask in the warmth of their congratulations. Am I really all right? he wondered shakily. I just reacted to what I saw; I didn’t even stop to think.

  “Cadets! Who gave you permission to leave your posts?” Branville roared, eyes dark as a thundery sky. “Get back to your detachments!” The boys scattered and Toran saw Bernay signaling to the team leaders.

  “The trials will continue,” announced the colonel, “exactly as planned.”

  ***

  A troubled sunset bruised the western sky, dirty gray cloud, blotched with stains of red, like dried blood. The tired cadets pushed and heaved the cannon back up onto the carts and the slow, cumbersome procession back down the hill began. The wind had dropped and rain was threatening again; they would be lucky to reach the academy without a soaking.

  Gerard caught the occasional glimpse of Toran’s bronze-gold hair (difficult to miss among the darker heads of his fellow Tourmaline cadets) as the boy dutifully followed Branville’s orders. Since the incident, he had been too busy noting the results of the trials for Maistre Cardin and measuring how far the cannonballs had been propelled to take stock of what had just happened. He was aware from time to time of a faint, chill tingling in his head but he forced himself to ignore it; there was work to be done first. But as he went back to the carts, he couldn’t resist a last glance to check that Toran was all right. Branville was overseeing the covering of the powder barrels with thick tarpaulin to protect them from the coming storm . Let’s hope that Branville doesn’t have a go at him on the way down. For a moment he wondered whether to abandon the cannon and hitch a ride on the munitions cart to ensure that the two cadets didn’t come to blows again.

  As the carts carrying the cadets left the darkening heath, Gerard took his place on the first of heavier wagons that were transporting the cannon back to the Iron Works. The carter spoke softly to his dray horses, coaxing them over the stony ground toward the winding road that led down into Paladur. Gerard suddenly felt a sense of numbing weariness settle over him. He was so tired that every bone, every sinew in his body ached. What’s up with me? Am I coming down with a fever? It was cold up on the heath, but I’m well used to such weather.

  “Are you all right, Ingenieur?” he heard the carter asking as if from a great way off. “You don’t look too good.”

  “Just a little weary,” Gerard said, forcing a laugh. “It’s been a long—and eventful—day.”

  “Shall I drop you near your lodgings?”

  “And then who would ensure that the cannon are safely locked up? Master Cardin wouldn’t be best pleased if thieves stole the Emperor’s new cannon in the night.” Gerard tried to make a joke of it but his temples had begun to throb; he leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes as the cart lurched and juddered back down the hill.

  ***

  Toran was ravenously hungry by the time they turned into the academy grounds—but above the rattle of wheels over cobblestones, he could hear Branville telling his cadets that no one would be allowed to enter the mess hall until the powder casks were securely stowed away in the magazine.

  “And before you all start griping that it’s unfair, let me remind you that I’m the one obliged to lock up, so I’ll be the last to get my dinner.”

  Night had fallen and covered lanterns had to be lit well away from the munitions so that the cadets could see their way safely into the pitch-dark vaults. But at last the final cask was rolled inside, Branville cast a last critical glance over the cadets’ efforts, and the lanterns were removed.

  Toran climbed the steps from the cool vault of the magazine and came out into the night to see Elyot Branville leaning against a column in the lantern-lit colonnade.

  “You’ve got some explaining to do, Arkhel,” he said, straightening up. “What on earth possessed you to take such a risk today?”

  Toran glared at him. “Why are you wasting your time with me? Shouldn’t you be reprimanding Morsan?”

  “That’s Cadet Morsan to you, Arkhel.” Branville came closer. Uncomfortably close. “For a First Year, you don’t show much respect for your elders and betters.”

  Toran took a step back. Where exactly is this leading? The feeling of unease increased in intensity as he became aware that the others had gone on ahead to the mess hall and he was alone with Branville.

  “That ingenieur; Bernay. He spoke to you very familiarly. Called you ‘Toran’. Friend of yours?”

  “What if he is?”

  “I’m just surprised that Lord Toran Arkhel allows a commoner to call him by his first name.”

  Toran took another step back, realizing—rather belatedly—that he had allowed himself to be maneuvered into a corner. His only means of escape would be to make a run for it between the columns, which meant darting straight past Branville. And though his first thought was that Branville was intent on giving him another thrashing, he sensed another far more disturbing aura emanating from the older cadet.

  “Bernay’s tutoring me.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.

  Branville suddenly lunged, his palm hitting the wall just above Toran’s head as he leaned further in toward him. Toran felt a slick of sweat break out on his forehead.

  “Tutoring you? In what, precisely?” Branville was regarding him with an unreadable look in his dark eyes.

  “It’s none of your damned busin—”

  “Toran!” Lorris’s voice rang out across the courtyard as he and a couple of the other First Years came running up. “We’ve been waiting for you. The mess hall’s going to finish serving in five minutes.”

  Toran heard Branville sigh. The imprisoning arm dropped back to his side as he moved aside to let Toran go. “You’d better not keep your friends waiting,” he said dryly. “Scram.”

  “What was that abou
t?” Lorris said to Toran as they made their way toward the noisy mess hall.

  “I have no idea,” said Toran, sniffing the savory aroma of beef and peppercorn stew wafting out into the misty night. His empty stomach rumbled. He cuffed Lorris amicably. “Thanks for coming to rescue me. I’m starving! Let’s go and eat.”

  ***

  Afterward, Gerard could not even remember how he made his way back to his lodgings, or climbed the creaking stair.

  Sleep. I need to sleep. In the darkness, he stumbled across the room, stubbing his toe on the table leg, wanting only to feel his way to his bed and collapse onto it. But before he reached the bed, he caught a glimpse of two faint points of light glittering in the shadows in front of him . Cat’s eyes? he thought stupidly . Is one of the landlady’s cats sitting on the mantelpiece, staring at me?

  Exhausted as he was, he forced himself to take a second look—and found himself staring at his own reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.

  My eyes. What’s wrong with my eyes? He rubbed his aching lids, blinking, and peered again.

  Twin silvered stars glimmered back at him . . . no, not so much silver as the translucence of falling rain when a brief shaft of sun pierces the windblown clouds.

  What am I babbling about? Rain, clouds, wind . . .

  He shakily raised one hand to cover the growing ache behind his eyes . It must just be a migraine, brought on by the stress of the day. Gerard had occasionally been brought to bed with crippling headaches in the past and each one had been preceded by the appearance of whirling pinwheels of flickering light; perhaps this was another manifestation of the same warning symptom. If I sleep it off, all should be back to normal by the morning. As long as I don’t get the nausea too.

  He staggered back toward his bed and collapsed onto it, clutching his throbbing temples, inwardly praying for sleep and oblivion.

  Something happened to me up on Berse Heath.

  Chapter 12

  “‘By order of his Imperial Majesty, Eugene of New Rossiya, a competition to design a flying craft capable of sustained aerial travel is announced.’” Colonel Mouzillon adjusted his monocle as he read the Emperor’s proclamation to the assembled cadets. “‘The winner must be able to demonstrate that his design is airworthy and safe for the pilot. The prize: a gold medal, and a lectureship awarded by the University of Tielborg, as well as the establishment of a new department dedicated to the development of mechanical flying craft.’”

  A flying craft. Toran felt his heart beat faster. He exchanged glances with Lorris whose attention had evidently been caught by the words: University of Tielborg.

  “Even though Tourmalise is not part of the Rossiyan Empire, the Emperor has sent details of this competition to all academies and universities in the Western Quadrant,” continued the colonel. “And we have decided that Paladur Military Academy will enter. Major Bauldry will lead the project; anyone wishing to volunteer should stay behind after the daily inspection to sign up.”

  A flying craft. Toran’s mind was racing with possibilities . A chance at last to develop Grandpa Denys’s designs.

  “Are you going to sign up?” Lorris whispered.

  “You bet!” Toran whispered back. He was squinting into the over-bright morning sun to try to get a better look at Major Bauldry’s face; the major taught classes in battle strategy and weaponry to the older cadets but didn’t deign to instruct the First Years. Even though the major walked with a limp (a bullet through the knee, sustained in the last Allegondan campaign) his chestnut hair had only silvered on temples and neatly-trimmed sideburns and he exuded an air of fiercely keen intelligence . He won’t suffer fools gladly; I’ll really have to prove myself to be accepted .

  About a dozen cadets from all three years stayed behind to volunteer, forming a line to sign up with the major. Toran found himself at the back of the queue, uneasily shifting from foot to foot as he tried to make out who else was interested enough to risk Major Bauldry’s scrutiny.

  “You there, first volunteer; you can be my adjutant and write down each candidate’s details. I want to see neat handwriting—or you’re off the project.”

  As Toran drew closer to the front of the queue, he heard the brusque questions the major was firing at each applicant and began to work out his own answers in advance. So it was only as the volunteer ahead of him saluted and withdrew that he saw Major Bauldry’s “secretary” was none other than Elyot Branville.

  “Name and year,” barked Major Bauldry.

  “Toran Arkhel, First Year, sir,” Toran said, gazing straight ahead, yet only too aware of Branville’s stare that seemed to bore straight through him.

  “You’re the only First Year to apply, Cadet Arkhel. What makes you think you already know enough to compete with your elders and betters?”

  Toran swallowed hard, sensing Branville’s stare hardening. Branville wanted him to make a fool of himself in front of the others. Well, I’m not going to give you that pleasure, Elyot Branville. “I wouldn’t dare to presume, sir,” he said boldly, “but I was trained in elementary mechanics by my grandfather. If such skills would be useful on the project, I’d be happy to offer them.”

  Major Bauldry gave a noncommittal grunt. “Exactly how elementary?”

  “I helped him maintain the pumping works on his estate.”

  “Didn’t he have servants to perform such tasks?”

  “Indeed he did—but as he designed the machinery, he preferred to look after it himself.”

  “Hmmph. You might be useful to us. But you’re on probation, Arkhel; if you’re not up to the job, you’re off the project. Now get back to your class; you’re late.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Toran saluted and hurried away, heart singing that he had been selected.

  ***

  Gerard awoke from a turbulence of troubled dreams. His head still churned with rushing wind and storm-driven clouds. But at least the crippling headache had gone. A wan daylight penetrated the cracks in the ill-fitting shutters.

  How long have I been asleep?

  And then he heard the distant chiming of the clock above Paladur’s Guild Hall.

  Eight strokes? Damn it all, I overslept. He threw back the blanket, forgetting until that moment that he had collapsed into bed fully clothed the night before.

  I need a good hot bath and clean clothes. He drew one hand over his stubbled cheeks . And a shave. Not to mention I’m empty as a drum; no supper last night and only a hunk of bread and cheese at midday yesterday.

  The notebook in which he’d carefully jotted down the results of the trials lay on the table; he picked it up, flicking through the pages in the dim light. The figures were more than acceptable, they were exceptionally good. But Maistre Cardin would be waiting for the information so that he could release the cannon for transportation to the port and thence on to Tielen. He grinned wryly as he remembered the colonel’s inspirational speech to his cadets in which he had informed them that the cannon were to be used to defend Tourmalise; the Emperor’s coffers had paid for this shipment. Cardin’s cannon must be the best in the western quadrant for Emperor Eugene to come to us above any other manufacturer.

  “If I deliver the results first, then I can ask Maistre Cardin to release me to get some breakfast. What I’d give now for a strong cup of coffee.” He went to open the shutters but had to shade his eyes as the pale morning light poured in. Perhaps I’m not yet rid of the damned migraine. Dazzled as he was by the daylight, the disturbing ripples distorting his vision from the previous evening had gone; nevertheless he went over to the mirror above the mantel to check.

  Above the shadow of stubble darkening his unshaven face, alien eyes stared back at him, still gray, but touched with an unmistakable glimmer of silvery translucence.

  What’s happened to me? He passed a hand across his eyes and checked again, leaning in to the mirror until his breath fogged the glass. Did some of the powder sear my sight? No, I would have been rolling around in agony if that had happened. Gerard h
ad once seen a gunner caught by a misfiring fuse quill and he had never forgotten the wretched man’s screams—or the terrible damage done to his face and eyes.

  He sat down, trying to order his wildly careering thoughts. All was going well until Toran ran out to save the goatherd girl. After that . . . There was a hole in his memory. The next thing he remembered was bending over Toran to help him to his feet.

  Am I sick? Is this some kind of disease that affects the eyes? Should I consult a physician? Will Master Cardin grant me an hour or two’s leave to find an oculist? I’m late already . . .

  ***

  It was not until the end of a long day filled with classes and weapons drills that Toran had the opportunity to return to the room he shared with Lorris and dig under his bed for the trunk he had brought from Serrigonde. Delving beneath his neatly folded civilian clothes, his fingers closed on the worn leather binding of Grandpa Denys’s notebook. He went to his desk and, by the weak flame of the single oil lamp, began to read. The sight of his grandfather’s strong handwriting gradually becoming spindly and increasingly illegible as illness and age caused his mind to deteriorate filled him with sadness.

  Yet these were the designs Lord Denys had been convinced would restore the family fortunes and save the manor from the bailiffs. As Toran turned the pages, memories flooded his mind: hours spent in the stable his grandfather had converted into a workshop, sawing, measuring, gluing, to make working models. He could still smell the fishy odor of the glue, mingled with fresh sawdust, and still hear his grandfather’s deep voice, reminiscing about his last campaign, chuckling to himself. “Of course, if we’d had flyers like this one, we could have swooped in over the Allegondans’ heads and taken the pass. I’d love to have seen the looks on their faces!”

  The door quietly opened; Toran looked up and saw that Lorris was back from a debate of the academy Humanities Society. His face was flushed; Toran caught a whiff of claret on his breath.

  “Still working?” Lorris said, stretching out on his bed. “It’s past midnight.”