I’M MOVING, SPRINTING HARD THROUGH mud and bursting from the brush in an explosion of leaves and snapping twigs, waiting for an arrow to bury itself in my back. I only have to cover about fifty feet but all three men are alert, their attention on me immediately, the short sword in Helmfrid’s hand snapping in my direction. He doesn’t hold it with confidence, though, nor adopt any particular stance as he takes in my charge. He doesn’t know how to use the weapon.
I still have to deal with him first.
It probably takes less than five seconds to cover the distance to Helmfrid. It feels an eternity. It should be an eternity, as far as the black-braided man preparing himself is concerned. And yet he’s strangely passive, sluggish; I expect to have to dodge, but he’s still on his backswing when I’m barrelling into him, fist aimed at his jaw.
I miss.
It’s the mud, more than anything else, heavily agitated from the Transvect’s rough landing and too slick for proper footing. Instead of connecting cleanly, my good shoulder catches Helmfrid in the chest and we go down in a tangle of limbs, both of us thrashing wildly. There’s pain in my right side, sharp and hot and terrifying, but I jerk away from it, snarling and twisting. I have a second to see Helmfrid’s panic up close before my forehead finds his nose with an audible crunch. His eyes flutter into the back of his head.
I put one hand to the blazing, sticky wet of my side but don’t stop to check the injury, staggering to my feet and rushing grimly at the stocky man next, who’s flailing backward and slipping in the churned-up muck as he realises his armed comrade is down. This time my punch lands; teeth buckle, and he gives a gargling scream before I follow up with a second strike to the jaw. He drops.
The red-bearded man hasn’t moved yet. Shocked. Then his expression turns resolute and he charges, I think from desperation more than confidence. His fist sails well wide of anything he could possibly be aiming for; I’m almost bemused as I watch it pass. Then I close, clumsily thanks to my throbbing side, but still far too fast for him. I deliver a glancing blow to his shoulder, then use my momentum to grapple him around and slam him down against a thick, fallen log. The branches still attached rustle and quiver.
“Who are you?” I snarl, my face inches from his as I pin him, forearm against throat.
The man’s face is mostly in shadow. Stringy red hair falls over his eyes. “Anguis.” He chokes it out, struggling to breathe. “We just want food.”
I must ease up at the claim, or perhaps he senses hesitation. He twists, trying to deliver a hard punch to my wound.
I don’t give him the chance, elbowing him in the temple.
“What a surprise,” I mutter as I let his limp form slide against the sodden tree, though it’s more from frustration than any real disgust. Anguis. The only ones, as far as I’m aware, who are still fighting the Republic. Years ago, in those terrible months after Suus, I would have given a limb to have made contact with these people.
That was before I saw the results of their resistance firsthand, of course. I once heard my father describe the Anguis as children throwing a tantrum, but I never believed it until I witnessed the aftermath of one of their attacks on a small northern Tensian village. Octavii crippled and unable to work, a dead Septimus with a weeping family. Homes burned, valuables looted, and stores for the winter stolen.
No one there had any love of their conquerors, and yet the lips of every villager I passed cursed the Anguis, not the Hierarchy. And rightly so.
I shudder as the thrill of the fight leaves me, pulling into focus the pain just above my hip. Still on my knees, I carefully bring my left hand across to the wound. It comes away red. My tunic and cloak are both slashed, and blood is seeping from the gap. I press my hand back firmly. Not a scratch, but not fatal either. I think.
“Well. At least we know you can beat up untrained Octavii if you need to.”
I whirl at the woman’s voice. My eyes take a second to adjust as I turn from the flaming wreckage; the first thing I see is the nocked arrow pointing right at my heart, not twenty feet away. As I raise my free hand, the face behind the drawn bow resolves. Blank confusion overpowers everything else as I try to place her. Brown eyes, dark skin. Curly brown hair plastered to her cheeks. Maybe a few years older than me.
“You.” I find the match, finally. She’s from the Theatre. The one who kept asking Gaufrid for an introduction.
“Me.” The bow doesn’t move an inch. “Nice to finally meet you, Diago.”
There’s a mental dissonance when the name I haven’t heard for three years registers. A full eternity-like second where I move inexorably from convinced I’ve misheard, to terrified numbness. The danger from the crash, the shock of Ulciscor’s actions, my injury—they’re all distant compared to how naked I feel. How utterly exposed.
I’m too unbalanced to hide my reaction, at least fully, and I silently curse when I see a glint of satisfaction in her eyes at the confirmation.
My gaze flicks toward the naked steel that’s lying next to Helmfrid, only a few feet away.
“Uh-uh.” She ushers me in the other direction with her bow. A relaxed motion, but one I can tell she means. I obey, standing and moving a few stiff steps to the right. “Better.”
“Who are you?” I monitor Ulciscor’s prone form from the corner of my eye, arrow shaft jutting from his leg. He’s breathing, at least, but there’s no sign he’s going to wake up and help.
“My name is… Sedotia.” The deliberate way she says it is to let me know it’s not her real one. “And I just want to talk.”
“I can see that.” I try not to let pain seep into my voice as I indicate the arrow still pointed at me. I’m starting to feel light-headed.
“You dealt with these three rather quickly. I thought it might be best to prevent any misunderstandings, on your behalf.” Sedotia watches my face, then unhurriedly lowers her bow. The arrow remains nocked, though. “And we don’t have much time before more of them arrive.”
“Them?”
“Us,” she corrects herself, somewhat tetchily. “Anguis. There are about twenty men on their way, expecting to be liberating sacks upon sacks of grain soon. We need to be gone before they arrive.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” I try to make sense of what’s happening, glancing at the three unconscious men, then at Sacro. He’s lying on his face. There’s a pulpy red hole the size of my fist in the back of his head. “If you’re all Anguis, why aren’t you working together?”
“Rotting fools weren’t supposed to be here yet. I suspect they were trying to take a little extra for themselves.” She follows my gaze. “Choices and consequences, Diago. As for why I’m not with the others who are coming, there are currently only three people in the Anguis who know who you really are. I’d like to keep it that way, and I imagine you would too.”
I grit my teeth. “So this raid just happened to take place today?”
“This raid was meant to happen in another month, on a Transvect carrying a far more valuable cargo. I spent most of last night bringing the plan forward.” The last statement is prickly with impatience.
“How did you know I’d be on board?”
“As soon as I realised he was at the Theatre last night”—she jerks her head at Ulciscor—“I knew you’d be on board for Solivagus today.”
“Which is when you decided to make us crash?”
“Not my first choice.” Sedotia gives me a reproving look. “There would have been a lot less fire and violence and death and so on if you’d just spoken to me on any of the…” She ticks off fingers. “Four? Four different times I tried to contact you, at the Theatre. And I thought I still had weeks, but someone”—she casts a glance at Ulciscor that seems mostly peeved—“got to Letens Prison much faster than I expected.”
She pauses, looking at me expectantly, and my breath catches as I understand.
“You planned for the Quintus to meet me.”
“We planned for him to hear about a particular prisoner’s transfer in about a month, and then for you to get his attention when he arrived. Deliberately, following instructions we gave you.” She shakes her head. “He’s been wanting someone in the Academy for years, but still. We were lucky he noticed you.”
She leaves the last part as something of a question. I ignore it. I’m having trouble concentrating. I can’t let this go on much longer. “The Anguis want me in the Academy, then. Fine. Surely that means I should be saving Ulciscor and getting this thing back in the air, not leaving with you.”
“You’re not ready.” The unflinching certainty in her voice is chilling. “You’re not ready for the Academy and you’re not ready to deal with the Magnus Quintus. He is… formidable. He will already have realised that something’s off about your background, your education. He’ll have agents looking into every aspect of your past within hours of your arriving in Deditia. Every conversation you have with him, with his friends, with his servants—they will all be tests, traps. Every. Single. One.” She softens, a touch of desperation as she glances at the still-silent forest. “Look, you’re clearly wounded. You need help. Give us three weeks to prepare you—a month at most. He won’t be sending you to the Academy before second trimester begins anyway.”
The rain’s easing, I note absently. Behind me, the popping and snapping of burning wood is dying down. There’s an eery hush.
“And how would I get back to Ulciscor?” I feel like my words are starting to slur, but Sedotia doesn’t appear to notice.
“Easy. We ransom you. Or we try to ransom you, but you heroically free yourself before the Quintus makes payment. The Senate does love a good story.” She looks around again. Nervous.
“Assuming your other men don’t kill him today, of course.”
“They’re not that stupid. He’ll be fine.”
I pretend to consider as I give myself a few seconds to steady. “The answer is no.”
“No?” Sedotia’s tone is dangerous. Her bow twitches upward a touch.
“I don’t know what the Anguis want of me, but I can guess.” Do well at the Academy. Graduate to a powerful position of their choosing somewhere in the Hierarchy, where they can make best use of me. Somewhere I’d have to cede. “I’m not interested. And Ulciscor is already intending to train me before I leave for Solivagus.”
“Ulciscor wants you to fit in enough to find out what he wants to know. We want you to be Domitor. Believe me, there’s a difference.” There’s frustration in Sedotia’s every line. “Gods’ graves. They killed your family. Stole your home. Don’t you want to do something about it?”
Even through my physical pain the reminder’s a dagger, made keener by accusation.
“Of course I do,” I say softly. Witheringly. “But it’s not possible. I made my choice three years ago. I ran.” I say it with neither pride nor shame. It’s not entirely an act, but nor do I add that I have my own plans, or that I consider the Anguis to be little more than ineffectual thugs. “This is my best chance at finding something approaching a normal life.”
I can hear Sedotia’s teeth grinding. “If you knew the risks I’ve…” She trails off and her bow comes back up, drawn and pointing squarely at me again. “It doesn’t matter. You only have this chance because of me, and you seem to be under the mistaken impression that this is some kind of offer. So let’s go, before I have to carry you.”
My heart thuds. I can still feel blood leaking between my fingers. “You don’t gain anything from shooting me.”
Sedotia sights down the arrow. “I’ll feel better.”
I keep my hand raised and breathe out, then take a sidling step toward Ulciscor. “I’m going to pick him up. Then we’re getting back on board and leaving.”
There’s a distant shout, barely audible through the trees, back toward the rear of the Transvect. Sedotia hears it too and curses. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe.” I take another step.
Sedotia closes her eyes, shoulders slumping as she lowers her bow. “Brat. Fool. Ungrateful little…” she mutters, loud enough that I’m plainly meant to hear it. Then, louder, as I hurry over to Ulciscor, “I’ll give you a month to reconsider. There’s a naumachia being held in Caten during the Festival of Jovan. Be there.”
I sling Ulciscor’s arm around my neck, straining to lift him. Fire blazes across my side, and my injured shoulder screams at me to stop. “Or what?”
“Or everyone finds out who you are. The Senate executes you. Maybe you’re a martyr. Maybe having an enemy infiltrate so deep causes political chaos, new suspicions that we can take advantage of.” Sedotia’s voice is laced with promise. “We’ve made an investment in getting you here. We’ll take our due, one way or another.”
The shouts are louder. I’m already stumbling toward the front of the Transvect, half dragging Ulciscor along with me. I believe her. “How am I supposed to get there?” I gasp.
“That’s not my problem.” She glances along the length of the Transvect, then strides toward me. My hesitation at her approach is just long enough for her to reach down and rip the arrow from Ulciscor’s thigh.
I recoil, expecting blood to bubble from the wound, but there’s oddly little. Maybe something to do with his self-imbuing? Sedotia flicks crimson from what appears to be a stone arrowhead, then spins and stalks into the forest.
“One month, Diago,” she calls as she disappears.
I redouble my efforts, cursing at the pain in my side, growling insults at the unconscious man about his eating habits, and coercing my body to keep plodding through the thick mud. Only mounting apprehension overcomes my aching, woozy exhaustion; the shouts have drawn close enough to pick out individual voices, almost to hear the words themselves.
I finally reach the front cabin, throwing open the door in the Transvect’s pointed nose and dragging Ulciscor inside. It’s small, barely more than six feet high, and less than twice that in length. There’s a single, narrow window in the door. A bench sits opposite a stone panel that’s clearly the focus of the space.
I abandon Ulciscor to the seat and inspect the panel, but it’s an effort just to move now, and the dizziness that’s been tugging at me for the past few minutes is getting worse. There are four levers, colour-coded. No writing.
Wonderful.
Urgent calls come from outside as someone spots the bodies on the ground. I shut the door as quietly as I can and then frown at the controls, doing my best to peer through the fog of my fatigue to any logic behind their arrangement. Three are up, and one—the red lever, right-most in the group—is down. That could be the emergency stop, I suppose.
I shrug to myself. Throw the red lever.
There’s an alarming shudder and I stumble, sagging back against the cold stone wall. The shouting outside has turned furious and panicked.
The Transvect begins to rise.
I sway to my feet again. Go from feeling inordinately pleased with myself to anxious as the ground falls away, realising that I truly have no idea what I’m doing. But the Transvect would have been built with limitations on how much damage a single person could do from in here. Wouldn’t it?
I run my hands over the other three levers. Blue, yellow, white.
I throw the blue lever, mainly because it’s next to the red one.
There’s nothing but a strange clunk, and I wonder if anything’s happened at all. Then a horrendous crashing sound draws me to the sole window; I stare downward in bewilderment before realising I’m watching most of the Transvect rolling, crashing, and crumpling its way through the forest far below.
“Not the right one,” I mutter hazily, shaking my head admonishingly to myself. Then I brighten as I remember it was the Hierarchy’s. “Not the wrong one, either.” My words are coming out slurred. Hopefully I didn’t kill anyone down there. I snicker to myself as I realise how strange I’d look to anyone watching. Some part of my mind is wittering at me, warning me that I’m losing to the wound and the shock of everything’s that happened. That I need to get us moving forward.
Two levers left. Yellow’s next.
We stop rising and start moving forward.
I crumple to the stone floor; there’s nowhere else to sit. Ulciscor is splayed on the only seat. Still unconscious, still breathing. I glare at him.
“You had better appreciate this,” I mutter drowsily.
The Transvect’s picking up speed. I’m not sure whether the final lever should be used to limit it, or whether throwing it will drop us from the sky. I’m too tired to figure it out. Blood, I note absently, is still pulsing from underneath my tunic. Dragging Ulciscor in here did nothing to improve my injury.
Perhaps, I tell myself fuzzily, sleep will help.
