I ALWAYS THOUGHT MY EDUCATION on suus was Intensive. Two weeks into my stay at Ulciscor’s villa, and I’m more than beginning to reassess my younger self’s impression.
Here I rise in darkness each day—or more accurately, am risen by a dangerously-close-to-happy Lanistia bearing my first dose of Kadmos’s foul-smelling tea. It’s the only time she seems cheerful, as if the pain of my waking is some sort of salve.
We start with an hour of physical training in the dim pre-dawn, on the immaculately kempt lawn a little away from the main house, so as to not disturb anyone. There’s always dew on the grass, and the chill never quite leaves the air. The focus is on my speed. I’ve always considered my reactions to be fast, but Lanistia continues to prove me wrong, and isn’t shy about reinforcing the lesson. She never hits my injured side or shoulder, yet I still usually have bruises on top of bruises by the time the sun peers over the horizon.
If I’m being honest, back at Suus, I would have had her replaced as a tutor within the first week. Her attitude’s never softened, never warmed: she doesn’t like me, and I don’t like her.
But as painful as it is—both literally and emotionally—she’s smart. Effective. Probably what I need, right now.
I’m allowed a half hour to use the villa’s heated baths to recover, and then breakfast, full and delicious though it always is, is taken as I begin my studies. Lanistia disappears at this point, and Kadmos takes her place. Each day there’s a different topic, different texts to read between bites of fresh-baked bread dipped in honey. The information I’m presented with is always supplemented by Kadmos himself, and despite my initial scepticism, it’s soon apparent that the Dispensator is a more than adequate tutor. He imparts wisdom on everything from geopolitical treatises to mechanical dispersion rates to the Echelon Philosophies with confident, brusque authority.
Kadmos’s lessons, while instructive, are no more enjoyable than the ones prior. His is a different kind of cold. Where Lanistia is disdainful, he’s suspicious. Where she’s harsh, he’s aloof. He corrects without bile when I need correction, acknowledges when I succeed. Is unfailingly polite. But there’s always the sense that he’s there more to watch me than to see me learn. He still considers me an intruder.
It’s not until the fourth day that Lanistia mentions that he was the youngest-ever head of the Azriat—the most respected learning institution in Sytrece—before he was proscribed, his possessions and property confiscated, and then taken to Caten as an Octavus several decades ago. I try to bring it up with him, but he dismisses the conversation as quickly as I can raise it. While I cannot imagine having your name on one of the Hierarchy’s proscription lists could be something you ever truly surmount, I don’t think it’s a sore point for him anymore. He simply doesn’t want to discuss personal matters with me.
Once breakfast’s over, we move into the shade and privacy of the inner courtyard, where Lanistia joins us again as an observer while Kadmos shifts to questions about a previous day’s topic. He’s not interested in my memory, for the most part. Never asks me to recite facts and figures. Instead, he pushes for explanations. Wants me to infer, to reason out conclusions. To prove that I’ve been absorbing the information rather than learning by rote.
I’m mostly successful, here. Lanistia never compliments, but there’s also rarely criticism as she watches. I’ve come to recognise that as an equivalent, from her.
After that—with me already exhausted from the day’s efforts—Kadmos resumes his duties elsewhere and Lanistia and I have lunch, a light meal taken with a heavy side of lecturing on the political landscape of Caten. There’s a lot to digest; the Senate is comprised of four hundred and fifty-nine senators, and at least half of those are considered important in one way or another. So we go over their responsibilities. Areas of governance. Ancestry. Alliances. Grudges, old and new. Some I need to know because their children will be attending the Academy, and—as Lanistia keeps insisting—I’ll need to choose my friends there wisely. Others, she says, are simply too significant for me to remain ignorant of them and not look a complete boor.
Though I hate to admit it, and am tempted to blame weariness, I’m less adept at these lessons. There are dozens upon dozens of faceless names, and the details of too many slip away before the next time Lanistia mentions them. It’s partly instinctive disinterest, I think: I’ve always hated the gossipy, ugly web of relationships that invariably form around power. But I believe Lanistia when she says it’s important, too. So I try, and she persists.
After my second dose of tea, the routine continues in the afternoon, which we spend almost exclusively down in the relative cool of the Labyrinth. I’m getting better at manipulating the maze, sliding and twisting the control stones with quick, precise movements. It’s satisfying, even fun to respond at speed to Lanistia’s instructions, snapping the panels below into position with steadily increasing confidence. Only one out of every four or five attempts results in a piece of onyx detaching from the bracer. Even if I am, as Lanistia takes great pains to remind me, doing it all from a vantage point while standing perfectly still.
Those hours in the Labyrinth are draining, far more so than the academic learning and physical training of the rest of the day. I have to focus so intently and so consistently that I’m ready to sleep by the time we emerge. Not that I get the chance. Dinner and the hours after involve more lessons with Lanistia, more study, more probing quizzes.
And then finally, blessedly—if all too briefly—I’m released to my rooms.
As I lie my head on the feather-stuffed pillow each day, I can’t help but fuzzily catalogue my worries. My progress, which feels significant but is hard to gauge against Lanistia’s and Kadmos’s lacklustre feedback. My impending presentation to the Senate, which Ulciscor has scheduled for straight after the Festival of Jovan.
And before that, of course, there’s the looming puzzle of how to get to the naumachia.
Ulciscor’s continued absence has made negotiating my way there a task I’m not sure is even possible. The Magnus Quintus might have been swayed enough to let me go, I think, over time. Lanistia’s a different story. She sees the Festival of Jovan as frivolous at best; the one time I’ve mentioned it, she was so scathingly dismissive that I haven’t risked raising it again, fearing I’ll only call attention to my interest.
Which leaves sneaking away my only option. Getting there in the first place isn’t an easy prospect: all my clothing has been supplied by Kadmos, and if I’m being tracked, there’s no way I’ll be able to make it all the way to Caten without being caught. And even if I do, the journey’s too long for my absence to not be noticed. The very best outcome would be that I return with a good enough excuse to continue to the Academy, but destroy any slim trust I’ve managed to build here in the process.
Still. I’ve reached the heavy acceptance that I can’t risk not going; the threat the Anguis are holding over me is simply too great to ignore. There has to be a way to get there without ruining everything. There has to be a solution I’m missing. I just need time to think.
But no matter my determination, just as he said it would, Kadmos’s concoction takes a toll as soon as it starts to wear off. My eyes never stay open long enough to figure it out.
IT’S SIXTEEN DAYS AFTER MY arrival at villa telimus when my body wakes in anticipation of Lanistia’s firm, insistent prodding, rather than as a result of it.
I lie there in the dark, wondering whether I’ve somehow, horrifyingly, woken early. There’s no sound from outside or deeper in the house that could have disturbed me, as far as I can tell. And outside the window, the first tinges of pre-dawn light are turning the inky black a deep purple in the east. Lanistia’s usually in here by now.
I rise. Splash my face in a basin of lukewarm water. Watch the closed door, expecting it to open. Still nothing.
I glance back toward the bed. If she’s not coming, or even just delayed…
But I need to train. Lanistia’s not forceful in her lessons from some kind of pent-up spite: there’s a genuine urgency to what she’s doing, a resolve that comes from more than her temperament alone. When she says I’m not ready for the Academy, it’s not just because she’s trying to motivate me.
With a sigh, I tear my longing gaze away, trudge to the door, and open it.
“Master Vis.”
I flinch, sleep-dulled senses not having registered the figure in the hallway. There’s a low-burning lamp at the end of the corridor, but it’s barely enough to see by.
“Kadmos?” I squint. Drowsy, but mildly unsettled by the idea of the steward lurking in the dark outside my room.
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The man steps forward, allowing the lantern to better illuminate his face. His jowly features are emphasised by dark bags beneath his eyes. He looks about as pleased to be up at this hour as I am. “Sextus Scipio requested that I direct you to the baths, once you were awake.”
“Lanistia wants me at the baths?” I repeat obtusely.
“The baths.” He twitches his shoulders into a weary shrug, indicating he’s as mystified as I. Then he hesitates. “No headaches this morning?”
I consider whether my fuzziness is anything out of the ordinary for the hour. He’s been weaning me off the tea for the past few days, ever since my side stopped needing bandages. Yesterday was the first day I had none at all. “No.”
“And your injuries?”
I roll my left shoulder. “This is fully healed, I think. Side’s not much more than itchy.”
“Good.”
I don’t have the energy for polite acknowledgment yet. I rub my eyes, then shuffle away down the hall without a word.
We didn’t have baths back in Suus: they were always a distinctly Catenan thing, part of their culture and not ours. I remember my father’s advisors suggesting that we build one, once—a way to make visiting dignitaries feel more “at ease,” as they put it. Everyone knew why we really needed one, though. Baths have been a symbol of civilisation to the Catenans for over a century. They’re where the true business of the realm is conducted, where power flows and deals are made in the Hierarchy. Our lack of even a single one was a source of poorly concealed derision from abroad.
My father was a stubborn man, though, and I honestly think he liked the idea of making our Catenan visitors uncomfortable. Or hated the idea of adopting anything that was so distinctly Hierarchy. Or both. Either way, his response to his advisors was… strongly dismissive. Enough so that the matter, to the best of my knowledge, was never raised again.
His disdain for the practice has stuck with me; I’ve reluctantly used the heated pool as a means of recovery after training, but haven’t been near that section of the villa otherwise. It feels especially strange to be going there at this hour, but I’m too asleep to reason out what’s going on. The only sound is my feet slapping against cobbled stone as I cross the dim courtyard, the bite of the night air doing its best to clear my head. A few stars still glimmer above. The entrance to the baths, between two ornate columns guarding the expansive northern wing of the villa, is lit by a single flickering torch.
Lanistia is waiting beneath it, slouching against the wall. Her hand taps a steady rhythm against stone. Across from her and a little distance away stand two men.
“What’s going on?” I eye the strangers.
“You have a visitor.”
“What?” My brow furrows as sleepy bemusement wrestles with the statement. “Who?”
“Magnus Quartus Advenius Claudius. He’s inside, waiting.” She says it through gritted teeth.
“I see.” Making it clear that I don’t. Claudius is an important man; I recognise the name from my daily lessons, though the specifics of who he is are hazy. He’s from Governance. The senator in charge of… something economic. To do with the knights, I think?
“He has estates nearby, which he is visiting, and thought he might stop by and welcome the newest member of the Telimus family.” The official reason, not the one she believes. “I imagine he would also like to meet a prospective Academy student, given that his daughter Aequa is there currently.”
“But why come so early? Why…?” I gesture behind her at the baths. Still confused.
“Why do you think?”
I suck in a lungful of the chilly air and close my eyes. Lanistia’s question is pointed. Definitely not rhetorical.
The hour suggests that Advenius doesn’t want anyone to know he’s here—if he had arrived later, when all the Octavii are working, word would have spread. And the baths indicate he wants privacy: he must know Ulciscor’s in Caten, and it would beyond stretch propriety for Lanistia to try and bathe with us.
Of course, the man could just as easily have demanded a private audience with me—he’s a Quartus, after all—but that’s not the Catenan way. They’d see such a direct approach as clumsy. Oafish. A wasteful use of power.
Lanistia sees my realisations, but is evidently mindful of not saying too much in front of Advenius’s men. “And I am sure he is curious to find out why you’re worthy of the Telimus name.”
Of course. If I show weakness here, Advenius will undoubtedly present that information to the Senate. Undermine the ratification of my adoption before I ever get a chance to defend myself. “I look forward to showing him.” I say it so that the two men across the way can hear.
“Good. Particularly given the disagreements he and your father have had over the years.” Her back is to the men as she issues me a meaningful look. So there’s some personal squabble between Ulciscor and Advenius, then. Even better.
I scrub my forehead with the palm of my hand, and head between the sandstone pillars.
The baths are a modest affair compared to some of the others I’ve seen over the years, but that’s not to say they’re unimpressive. There’s a differently heated room and pool for each stage of the bathing ritual, and even a courtyard to the side for exercise. Striking mosaics decorate the walls.
I find Magnus Claudius submerged in the most pleasantly warm of the four pools, reclining with half-lidded eyes. He’s a large, olive-skinned man with an almost entirely bald pate, though a few damp hairs still cling desperately to its sides. He stirs as he registers my presence, and fat jiggles around his chest and stomach. There’s heavy muscle lurking beneath that outer layer, though, something about the way he stretches indicating a strength that belies his initial appearance. Not a soft man, by any means.
He watches me. Warmth radiates from the floor as I pad over. The only sounds are the gentle gushing of water flowing from a slit in the wall down into the bath, and the echoing slap of my bare feet.
“Vis Telimus.” Advenius’s voice almost elicits a snigger; it’s squeaky, far too high-pitched for his heavyset form. “A pleasure to meet you, young man.”
The Quartus’s tone is lazy, dismissive, despite the friendly words. I try not to bristle. “And you, Magnus Quartus. It’s an honour.” I try to hit somewhere between polite-but-false sincerity and sarcasm. I’ll be civil, but I’m not going to pretend to fawn over the man. “What can I do for you?”
“You can sit. Sit,” he insists with that incongruous voice, gesturing to the sunken concrete seat opposite. “I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, ever since I heard Ulciscor had adopted.”
“Losing sleep over it, I take it.” I yawn to emphasise the point as I step into the warm water.
Advenius chuckles. More of a titter, really. “I do apologise for the hour. I thought I had another three weeks out here in the country to drop by, but the Senate informed me otherwise just last night. My carriage to Caten leaves not long after dawn.” He spreads his hands. “A slave to the vagaries of their schedule, I’m afraid. This remained my only chance to introduce myself before the Academy’s next trimester.”
He talks indolently, as if not really paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth. In another man, I might have believed he was bored or distracted, or even that what he was saying might be true. I slide onto the step opposite Advenius, submersing myself up to my chest, careful not to show him my back as I do so. Too many questions if he sees the scars.
“I didn’t think anyone knew I was here.”
“Yet here I am.” The most explanation I’m going to get.
“And I’m flattered.” Still carefully neither sarcastic nor sincere. Polite, but by no means impressed. “Not sure I’m worth the notice, though.”
“No?” Advenius arches an eyebrow as I settle into the pool. “Plucked from obscurity by one of the most private men in the Senate. Being sent to the Academy, despite it meaning you’ll start a full trimester behind everyone else. Then not just surviving an Anguis attack, but single-handedly saving a Magnus Quintus from it.” He watches me with languid curiosity. “You may not be hearing it here in Ulciscor’s walled garden, my boy, but expectations are high. People are talking.”
“Sounds like they’re getting ahead of themselves.” I can’t help but try and brush it aside, play down the Quartus’s statement. I know this is probably what Ulciscor wants; it will be hard to advance in the Academy if I don’t stand out. It doesn’t make me any less queasy. I can handle whatever extra pressure the attention may bring—I grew up with far worse, after all. But the scrutiny itself, after working so hard and so long to be invisible, is a difficult thing to embrace.
“Modest as well?” The large man shifts, slow ripples gliding away from his torso. Despite his relaxed posture, there’s something sharp in his brown eyes. “How refreshing. A hard quality to find among your contemporaries. Though I imagine their upbringing must have differed from yours.”
“You’d like to hear the specifics, I take it.” A bit too blunt and tired to be considered well-mannered, this time. It’s early, and I’m not going to feign interest in being subtle.
There’s a flash of irritation from Advenius. Catenans—cultured Catenans—always make an effort to participate in these careful conversational dances. Still, he recovers with barely a pause. “I suppose I am curious.”
So I tell him, calmly and succinctly. The more recent parts which he might be able to verify, I’m entirely honest about. Everything else is a practiced lie. Words so comfortable and familiar that it would feel far stranger to be talking about things that actually happened, the life I’ve actually led. I smile absently as I relate my privileged childhood in Aquiria. Gather myself as I speak of the fluke riverboat accident that took both my loving parents from me. Grit my teeth in quiet rage, almost choke up as I explain how our local lord gave me the terrible news on the same day he came to evict me.
Finally I grow sober, contemplative, as I talk about what followed. The aftermath of Aquiria’s signing of their treaty with Caten, and how it affected a boy drifting alone and penniless through the country. Then my time at the orphanage in Letens and, in the story Ulciscor and I agreed upon, the Quintus’s entirely fortuitous discovery of me there. I brighten as I explain how I managed to impress him in my interview. Hint at pleasure as I relay the moment he informed Matron Atrox that he would be adopting me.
That last is mostly unfeigned, actually. I do enjoy recalling that part.
When I’m done, Advenius exhales as if it’s the first breath he’s released since I started. He’s been watching me with an unblinking gaze. Drinking in every word, from all appearances. I’m sure it’s at least partly an act. People tend to be more pliable, more forthcoming, when they feel like you’re fascinated by them.
“Remarkable.” The pudgy man shakes his head, that high-pitched squeak of his still discordant. “And now here you are. Training in the home of one of the most powerful men in the Republic.” A languid examination of me. “That’s going well?”
“Well enough.” As noncommittal as I can make it.
“It must be hard with so little prior education, preparing for something like the Academy.”
“My parents saw to it that I had some of the best tutors in Cartiz.” I try to relay facts rather than be defensive. It’s by far the weakest point in my story; adoption’s not uncommon among senators, but it usually happens years in advance of a child attending the Academy. The idea that someone my age, without a deep formal education, would be expected to compete there is… far-fetched. Even to me.
“What were their names?”
“My parents?”
“Your tutors.” Still talking as if he’s about to fall asleep, but there’s no dodging the question. “I try to keep abreast of all the best educators in the Hierarchy. Perhaps I’ve heard of them.”
I nod as if I believe him. “Falcona De Guez and Servanda Arales.”
“Both women?” Surprised.
“Yes.” They’re Aquirian names—the same as I gave to Ulciscor, the same as I’ve given to everyone who’s heard this story—but not real people. It won’t matter. Aquiria’s infamous record-keeping, combined with their complicated and disorganised union with the Hierarchy, means that there will never be a way for anyone to determine that those two women didn’t exist. Which is all that matters. “No Birthright in Aquiria, back then.” There’s no law against women holding positions of power and education in the Hierarchy, but Birthright’s complex system of taxation and legal obligation around marriage and children makes them more rare.
Advenius accedes the point with a musing sigh. He finally looks down, away from me, gazing into the gentle swells of the glassy pool.
“Tell me, Vis,” he says eventually. “Have you studied Magelicus?” Nothing in his tone has changed but there’s nonetheless a subtle shift, the sense of an uptick in importance to the conversation. We’re finally getting to the point.
“Of course. Will strengthens Will. No man can truly learn, grow, or become wise within himself.” Magelicus’s philosophies are more than a hundred years old, from a time when Will users were little more than a small, suspiciously viewed sect in Catenan society. I don’t think much of the man’s teachings, but he’s revered in the Hierarchy, seen as a founder of the nation. I’m not about to scorn him to the senator.
“I’ve always thought it to be true for peers, particularly. None of us can reach our potential without them.” Advenius’s eyes flick up from his introspection, meeting mine again. “My daughter, Aequa, is also attending the Academy this cycle. She’s in Class Five, and she has an exceptional mind, if I may be so boastful. But she’ll be out this way without much to do once the end of the first trimester comes, now I’m heading to Caten.”
He leaves it there. Waiting.
“A shame. If Lanistia wasn’t focusing on helping me in such specific areas, I would have liked a training partner.”
“I’m sure Aequa could help. If you’re covering ground she’s already familiar with, she’d undoubtedly be an asset. And either way, she would still benefit more from listening to Lanistia than if she simply sequesters herself away for weeks on end.” He issues an affable smile. “She would be able to give you some valuable insight into the Academy, too. It’s been years since Lanistia and Ulciscor attended, after all.” Despite the casual delivery, it’s no idle request, not something he’s simply decided to ask on a whim while he’s here. I’m not sure why, yet, but Advenius wants this.
“Still. I’m not sure how either of them would feel about it.”
Advenius gives another odd, soft, tittering laugh to that. His way of suggesting that we both know exactly how they would feel about it. “I am asking you; if you agree, the rest is simply detail. And while I have nothing but the utmost respect for Ulciscor and Lanistia, I worry that their opposition may stem less from concern for your success, and more from their past with the Academy.”
Advenius’s gaze never wavers as he finishes. The silence hangs.
He’s right about the first part, at least: as a Telimus, if I give my word, it won’t be a small thing to go back on. Lanistia will be unable to gainsay the decision, and by the time he hears of it, I doubt Ulciscor would invite an argument with a Quartus over it.
It’s the latter statement that’s caught my attention, though. It’s subtle, but the way he says it, the way he’s looking at me, suggests that he knows I’m in the dark about whatever he’s referring to. Or at least, he strongly suspects so.
“You’re talking about Ulciscor’s brother?” He might be referring to Lanistia’s past, too—her history with the Academy is evidently a bleak one—but this is my best guess.
“Young Caeror. His tragic suicide. Yes, yes, that’s part of it, but…” He looks appropriately, demurely uncomfortable as he registers my surprise, hard though I try to hide it. “Oh. Perhaps I’ve already said too much. I thought you would have been told. I apologise for bringing it up.”
I recover, shaking my head. So the official story is that he committed suicide. That doesn’t necessarily clash with what Ulciscor told me, but it’s strange that Advenius has made a point of it. I haven’t pressed Lanistia or Kadmos on the subject of Caeror’s death: I assumed there was no more to glean, and if nothing else, there simply hasn’t been time. It sounds like I need to rectify that. “Not at all. In fact, if I understood more, it might make my decision about Aequa easier.”
“Even so. It’s not my place.” An apologetic finality to it. “And I’m sure it goes without saying, but if you do agree to spend time with Aequa, please don’t pester her about it. She’s a wonderful girl, but can be less than circumspect about these sorts of things.”
So it’s something he thinks I should find important. Or, equally likely, he’s attempting to sow discord.
Advenius leans forward suddenly, wrinkles in the water slithering away from his corpulent chest. “Tell me, Vis. When the Anguis attacked your Transvect. How did the Magnus Quintus react?”
I frown at the abrupt change of topic. “What do you mean?”
“Was he panicked, or calm?”
“Calm. At least compared to me.”
“Would you say he was surprised?”
“Of course. But he recovered quickly.”
“Hm.” Advenius looks thoughtful. “What about when he confronted the attackers, after the crash? Do you remember him showing any signs of… recognition?”
“No.” The implication’s clear, now, and I let hard anger insinuate my voice. As would be expected from me.
“Ah.” Advenius makes a placating gesture. “I only ask, as there have been… rumours, which I have been asked to look into. And this was such a strange attack, after all. So coincidental. It would be a terrible thing if you were caught in the middle of something you had no part in. Truly terrible. Good to have an unbiased observer to confirm you weren’t involved, if it comes to that.”
So he’s here to investigate the Transvect attack, and he thinks Ulciscor might be in league with the Anguis somehow? The idea’s ludicrous—but, I suppose, only because I know the truth.
I don’t for a second believe that Advenius wants his daughter here as an “unbiased observer,” of course. This is a manoeuvre for position, an attempt to further his own agenda somehow. Probably something to do with whatever bad blood there is between him and Ulciscor.
But, I realise with a jolt, I can use that.
There’s just the gentle lap of water against the square-cut stone edges of the pool as I think.
“If Aequa and I were to train together,” I say, making it sound reluctant, “I would prefer to get to know her first, away from all this. The schedule here has been hard. It’s not the best setting for introductions.”
“I’m sure something could be arranged. A dinner, perhaps, or—”
“I was thinking I would like to visit Caten for the Festival of Jovan. See the sights. Take in some of the games.” I look hopefully at him. Letting him see an orphan now, an unsophisticated member of the mob who’s been dragged up to his level of society. “I’ve never been.”
“Of course. Of course! If you’ve never been, you simply must go. A tragedy that you have been deprived for so long. I will insist to your father that he allow you the day to accompany Aequa.” The only clue to Advenius’s satisfaction is the smooth alacrity with which he responds. His high-pitched proclamation bounces around the room.
“Then I would be delighted to have a training partner.” I try not to sound like I’m forcing the words through my rictus smile. Lanistia’s going to be… displeased, with the inconvenience of having to hide the Labyrinth from Aequa. Ulciscor, too, when he hears about it. They’re going to wonder about this conversation, wonder what exactly Advenius offered me, no matter how truthfully I relate it to them afterward.
“Wonderful. Yes. Wonderful.” The Quartus beams and stands, water pouring off him. I keep my gaze fixed determinedly on his face. “I would very much like to talk further with you, my boy, but unfortunately time has gotten away from us. Not even a chance to sweat a little in the next bath, I’m afraid. I’ll make the necessary arrangements with Aequa, and send word. I trust I can leave you to sort out the details with young Lanistia?” Inferring, of course, that I’ll make sure any opposition she has comes to nothing. He doesn’t really wait for an acknowledgment, climbing out of the water and shrugging on the robe draped across a nearby bench.
“I can do that.”
“Good. Good. A pleasure to meet you, my boy.” Advenius dabs the black strands of hair clinging to the side of his scalp with his sleeve. His squeaky voice echoes off the stone walls. “I have no doubt that we will be seeing much more of each other in the coming years.”
“I’m sure we will.”
If Advenius is annoyed that I didn’t reciprocate the pleasantries, he doesn’t show it. “Stronger together, Vis.” His movements as he heads to the exit are as languorous as his speech, but there’s a visible power to them. A coiled energy in each motion, impossible not to notice as he departs.
It’s a sense of physicality that’s hard to marry to the overweight, middle-aged man, but I know it has to be because he’s a Quartus. A pyramid of more than fifteen hundred people ceding to him. It’s a frightening thought. Ulciscor gives off a faintly similar sense of undefinable strength, to be fair, but a Quintus only has a few hundred beneath him by comparison. This is something very different.
If Advenius is aware of my observation, he doesn’t show it. He disappears without a backward glance.
I sit in the warmth of the pool for a while longer, contemplating its placid undulating. Then I sigh. Hoist myself from the water.
Time to face Lanistia.
