“I wouldn’t. I’d leave him—unless he was moaning or crying. Then I’d cut his throat and see about dragging him to—”
“Yes, yes, but if you had to get him up. How would you do it?”
Royce scowled a moment longer; then Hadrian watched as his expression changed. With as much ease as blowing out a candle’s flame, the frustration vanished and his eyes focused. He turned to the exterior wall of the office and let his fingers run over the stone. “I’d bring rope and some sort of harness. Then I’d nail thin spikes into the seams of the stone—something I could hook the rope to that he might pull himself up with.”
“Why don’t you try that, then?”
The frustration returned and he whirled. “It takes too long. I can get up in about an hour, two at the most, but if I have to build a rope hoist, we’re talking four, five, maybe six hours.”
“Lucky you,” Arcadius said with a smile. “Winter is coming—the nights are getting longer. You’ll have plenty of time.”
“Hanging on the side of a wall takes energy. I’ll be exhausted.”
“Bring your own harness—that way you can rest while he climbs.”
“This is ridiculous.” Royce’s voice was rising. “If you really want that stupid book, just let me go get it. I’ll be up and down.”
“That’s not the deal.”
“Why isn’t it the deal?” Royce snapped. “Why do I have to bring him? And if I do, why can’t he just stay with the horses? He’d serve an actual purpose then. Is this why you got me out of Manzant, to toy with me? Am I one of your many caged animals? Is it fun to tie my feet together and see if I can run? Are you keeping notes?”
Royce’s voice was more than a snarl this time, and Hadrian didn’t like how his muscles flexed. The dog was more than growling; his teeth were bared and his fur up.
Arcadius set the bag down and faced Royce without fear. “You’ll take him up the tower and get the book. That’s the deal.”
Royce took an aggressive step forward.
The professor didn’t flinch. Hadrian wasn’t certain the old man was even breathing.
Stand perfectly still, his father had told Hadrian once when they had come upon a bear and her cubs. Just let them pass. She’s as scared of you as you are of her. Fear makes anyone do stupid things. Take a step forward and she’ll figure she’s got nothing to lose. Take a step away, and she’ll think she has the upper hand and will press the advantage. The only way to win is to stand still and make her move first.
Arcadius was playing the same game and doing it well. Royce broke eye contact and walked out.
“We’re done until I make you a harness,” he said. “Something capable of lifting your dead weight.”
Royce flew by and slammed the door as he left, managing to blow out a nearby candle. The room was silent for a second and both continued to look at the door.
“He’s right.” Hadrian limped in and sat on the edge of the professor’s desk. “I’m only going to be a burden. You should let him do it alone.”
Arcadius took a deep breath and sighed. The old man looked weary. His head hung low, and his shoulders drooped. He reached out and supported himself on the edge of his little desk as he walked around it and sat slowly on the simple stool. He sighed again and stroked his beard. “Tell me, Hadrian, how did you learn to swing a sword?”
“How’s that?”
“When your father first started teaching you, did he give you that big spadone and the two of you go at it?”
“He started teaching me when I was four years old. I couldn’t lift any sword, much less that one.”
“So how did you manage it? How did you gain the strength to wield that giant metal blade?”
Hadrian remembered the wooden trainers he had used, but those were light as air. “The hammer,” he said, thinking out loud. “He had me pounding on the anvil as soon as I was tall enough to reach it. You swing a hammer long enough, your arms and shoulders build muscle.”
“Exactly. You don’t get stronger from lying around, or even from simply lifting your arms above your head. You need weight. You need resistance. You need challenge. And how did Danbury shape metal?”
“Metal?”
“Yes, how did he start?”
“Heated the metal, then beat it into a shape.”
“And what if he was making a sword—a good sword? One that had to be both sharp and strong? How did he do that?”
“You have to start with good metal, just the right mix of carbon and iron. Then you fold it.”
“Fold it? Why?”
“It evenly disperses the carbon and iron in layers, making them work together by providing both strength and flexibility as well as the hardness needed to keep a sharp edge.”
“How hot does the forge need to be to do that?”
“Very. And you have to leave the metal buried in the coal for a long time, until it is just the perfect color of gold.”
“You’ve made swords, haven’t you?”
“I made the ones I carry.”
“Do you think making a fine sword is a pleasant process?”
“Pleasant?” Hadrian thought about it. “Not really. It’s a lot of work and can be a torment. It takes a lot of time, and you’re never sure if it will work until you drop it in the water and see the tempering. Only then can you know how well the iron and carbon bonded.”
“Ever consider how the sword feels about it?”
Hadrian look puzzled. “The sword? No.”
Arcadius returned to feeding his animals. “That’s why it’s easier to be a blacksmith.”
Even after two days, Royce was still working on the harnesses, which was fine with Hadrian, who was in no rush. Whatever he was working on could define the line between life and death, so Hadrian liked to think that Royce was taking some time with it. However, this left Hadrian nothing to do. His ankle needed time to heal, but with the days so beautiful, he loathed to remain indoors.
He was on the common, staring up at the statue. In his time at the school he had learned the stone giant was actually a sculpture of Glenmorgan the First. Apparently he had come close to reuniting the four nations of man after the old empire fell into civil war. A big deal, he was told. Glenmorgan set his capital up north in Ervanon and built a massive palace there. He also built the university. It intrigued Hadrian that a world conqueror would also create a place of learning. Hadrian was trying to get a good look at his face because he thought he might have liked this man.
“Can you read?” Pickles asked.
“Yes,” Hadrian replied, his sight still focused on the statue. “My father taught me. Why do you…” Hadrian turned his attention to Pickles and saw the boy’s face was puffed and bruised. One eye had swollen closed and his upper lip inflated up to his nose.
Hadrian sat up. “Angdon?”
“You were right about his friends.” Pickles settled himself on the grass, moving slowly, cringing as he did. Once he settled himself against the base of the statue, he took a few calming breaths.
“Did the others hold you?”
Pickles shook his head. “They most certainly would have, but they had no need. He is a better fighter than I am.”
“I can see that.”
“All of them are.”
“Nobles being trained for combat start at a young age.” Hadrian stretched his ankle, testing it. No pain—nothing sharp, just a dull ache and a little stiffness. “So why did you want to know if I could read?”
“I thought perhaps you could teach me. I have never seen so many books.”
“Right now I think you’d have a hard time seeing anything. Are you all right?”
“I am fine.”
“Of course you are. Instead of teaching you to read, maybe I ought to teach you to fight better.”
“That is why I want you to teach me to read.” Pickles struggled to bring up his famous smile, but winced. “I have already determined how it is that I shall be beating that son of a baron—Angdon.”
“Really?”
Pickles leaned over slightly as if he were imparting a secret. “By being a most successful merchant, I will make piles of gold, travel in a fine carriage, wear the finest of silks, and live in a most luxurious palace. By obtaining the life he wants and achieving it by my own labor and my own very smart thinking, I will win. He will still have the title of noble, but I will have the life of a noble. If I could read, I could learn to be like those most powerful men in the citadel back in Vernes.”
“You’ve been speaking to Professor Arcadius, haven’t you?”
“A little.”
“No one talks to Arcadius a little.”
“Will you? I will trade whatever payment you had planned to give me.”
“I see. Well, I’ve got good news and bad news. The bad news is that if you really want to become successful, to do all you just said, you’re going to need to know a whole lot more than just how to read. The good news is, you’re in the middle of a renowned university.”
“But they will not teach one such as me. This school is for nobles’ and merchants’ sons, and I’m … well … I’m not anything.”
“Professor Arcadius is an important man here, and he wants me to do something for him. In fact, I’m going to be leaving soon and you’ll be staying here.”
“But I—”
“No buts. You’ll stay here and the professor will see that you get a first-rate education, or I won’t do his job.”
“Such a thing is of great value, yes? Why would you do that for me—me who is not even your real servant?”
“Because I don’t want to do the job, but I can see I’m going to anyway. So I might as well get something for it—or at least one of us should. And maybe one day when you have your piles of gold, you’ll hire me to guard it for you, yes?”
“Absolutely!” Despite the pain, Pickles’s face beamed again. “What is it the professor wishes you to do?”
Hadrian looked back at Glen Hall and the blue sky above it. “Honestly, Pickles … I’m not sure.”
Later that same day Hadrian went in search of Royce.
His foot was feeling better. He noticed only a minor twinge when he put his full weight on it, which left him limping slightly. He’d survived dozens of battles without a scratch, but one afternoon with Royce had left him a cripple.
He searched the school and the grounds with no results and was heading for Arcadius’s office when he was stopped by a student.
“You’re Hadrian, right?”
Hadrian hadn’t seen the kid before, or at least he didn’t think so. The school had a lot of students and most looked the same to him. “Yes.”
“Ah … your friend, the young one who speaks funny, he—”
“Pickles?”
“Yeah … I guess.”
“What about him?”
Hadrian had taken his battered friend to see the professor, who in turn had taken him to the school physician. Hadrian expected Pickles would remain there for the day but perhaps not. He had only suffered a beating. Nothing was broken.
“He sent me to get you. He’s out in the stable.”
“In the stable?”
“Said it was important. He wants you to come quick.”
Hadrian was moving down the stairs before the boy finished speaking. He forgot the pain in his foot and pushed out of the school doors into the courtyard. Even though it was still early evening, the valley, surrounded by high hills, was cast in shadow. Built on the west side of the common, which received the least light, the stable was already cast in deep shadow, the interior dark.
“Pickles?” Hadrian called out as he poked his head inside. “Are you okay?”
There was no answer, and Hadrian walked the length of the aisle to where Dancer stood. He greeted the horse, clapping her rump. She responded with a stomp of one hoof and a tail swish.
Dancer turned her head, and he imagined she smiled. Hadrian always felt that it was a mistake of the gods not to grant animals the ability to smile and laugh. Every living thing should have that pleasure, and yet when he thought about it, the idea of his horse laughing at him might not be such a great idea.
The light entering the stable from the courtyard flickered. Turning, Hadrian noted silhouettes in the doorway. “Pickles?”
It wasn’t Pickles. He counted five before they began pulling the doors closed. A lantern flared and Hadrian saw Angdon. He wasn’t wearing his robe. Instead, he was dressed in wool britches and a light shirt—what nobles might call work clothes. It was obvious why Pickles had lost the fight. Angdon was smaller than Hadrian, but not by a lot, and he had a heft to his shoulders and arms, the sort Hadrian usually only saw on field hands or his father.
“Sorry, Pickles won’t be coming. Let’s see now, your name is Hadrian, you said.” Angdon slapped an axe handle against his palm. The other boys had sticks as well—not a gown among them. “You appear to be missing your swords, Hadrian.”
“They aren’t missing. I left them in my room.” Hadrian thought the boy might be smart enough to understand the threat he implied, but Angdon missed it.
“You’ll regret that decision.”
“Why’s that?”
The boys moved forward, clapping their sticks. They fanned out, staring him down, banging the barrels and stalls with threatening grins. This was the fun part for them—intimidation. Bullies lived for this, and it wasn’t much different on the field of combat; the methods were just more dramatic and multiplied by thousands.
Hadrian recalled how each battle began with two sides facing off. Lines of men stretching as far as he could see, five or ten deep with a grassy gap of less than a hundred yards between them. They would stare at one another, then beat on their shields with swords and axes. Finally, they’d howl like wolves. No one ordered this; no commander instructed they act like animals—that came naturally to men pumping themselves up to kill. Both sides did their best to frighten the other. That’s where the real battle took place. On any field that Hadrian had fought on, a balanced scale was set—until the two groups saw each other. The more numerous group added weight to their side of the scale. No one likes to be outnumbered. Cavalry was scary, and seeing horses might tip the scale back. The shouting was an effort to tilt the scales because the winner wasn’t the side that fought best. No battle ever came down to the last man standing. The winner was always the group that drilled their side of the scale and sent the others running first. Hadrian had seen winning sides flee because they thought they were losing.
Establishing superiority early on, nailing fear and hopelessness into the other side, made any conflict easier. Hadrian understood this even more than Angdon, but like howling, such things came naturally to men looking to cause harm. This was the crucial moment of any fight, and Hadrian’s role, as one against many, was to cower and quake, and if possible cry and beg.
“You’re friends with Pickles.” Angdon said it as an accusation. “The two of you like embarrassing me. Think it’s funny to belittle your betters. Only I don’t. None of us do.”
“I saw what you did to Pickles. Seemed a bit harsh for throwing a pie.”
“We taught Pickles a lesson. This is a school after all. Most of what they teach here is useless—just words. Words don’t mean anything outside this valley. But I teach something important, a real-world education. Lessons that can help a person their whole life, and I’m going to teach you one right now, Hadrian. I’m going to demonstrate why you should respect your betters.”
“Appreciate the thought, but I’m not a student.”
“It’s a free lesson.” Angdon circled Hadrian and with both hands took a solid grip on the axe handle.
Hadrian spread his feet slightly. He bent his knees and balanced his weight. He watched Angdon’s body and the direction of his eyes. He would swing right to left, aiming for Hadrian’s side rather than his head. The boy intended a beating, not a killing. Behind him, the rustle of straw indicated the others were closing in.
Angdon twisted a
nd raised the axe handle. Muscles stood out on his neck as he started his swing, only the handle failed to move. A shadow appeared to envelop the young man from behind.
“Mufftt…” Angdon uttered softly as his back arched and his eyes widened.
He collapsed, dropping to his knees, where he hovered for a moment and then crumbled to his side. Blood stained Angdon’s work shirt, spreading out and soaking through the linen.
The shadow behind him remained standing. A faceless black cloak and hood. The grim reaper took a single step forward and the others bolted, clawing at the doors. Bursting outside, they ran, dropping the lantern in the grass where it went out, spewing a slender thread of smoke.
“What did you do that for?” Hadrian shouted, and moved to the boy’s side.
Royce stepped back into the dark recesses, gathered up an armful of leather straps, and walked out.
“We’ve talked about this before, Royce,” Arcadius yelled at him. “You aren’t to hurt the students.”
“You said don’t kill,” Royce replied. “If you don’t want misunderstandings, then be specific. The little baron boy will live. Trust me, I know where to stick a knife.”
They were back in the professor’s office. Hadrian had carried Angdon to the school infirmary, then marched up to see Arcadius, who had summoned Royce. The thief’s hood was down, and he carried his armload of straps and buckles, which he set on one of the crates. He continued to sew with a thick hooked needle as if he were a lady at a quilting bee.
“There will be an investigation,” the professor said. “The headmaster will demand it.”
“Not a problem as long as he doesn’t bother me,” Royce said.
“I’m afraid he just may insist on arresting you.”
“Bad luck for him.”
“I won’t have you turning this university into another Colnora.”
“Shouldn’t have brought me here, then.”
Arcadius slumped in frustration. He walked around his desk and sat down looking weary. The professor was easily the oldest person Hadrian had ever known, and at that moment he looked as if he had gained a decade.
The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles Page 18