Crownhaven. The Royal Academy. The morning after the trial.
The list hung in the colonnade.
Ren could see it from the steps. A long board of dark wood, man-high, on the wall between two pillars, and in front of it a crowd standing so close that you could hardly make out the board itself. Applicants. Servants sent to look for their masters. A few masters pretending to be there by chance. And right at the front, noses almost touching the wood, those who could not bear it any longer.
Milo stopped on the bottom step.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“No, really. I can’t.” He had taken off his hat and held it in both hands in front of his chest, like a shield. “You go. Have a look. And if I’m not on it, don’t tell me. Just lie. Say I’m on it, and then I’ll travel home, and on the way I’ll work it out by myself.”
“That’s the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s a good plan. It spares my feelings.”
Nora came across the court from the other side, hands in the pockets of her brown dress, and looked Milo up and down. Then Ren. Then Milo again.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Nerves.”
“Ah.” She nodded as if he had said Milo had a cold. Then she took Milo by the sleeve and pulled him along behind her, right into the crowd, and Milo stumbled after her, protesting, his hat still held to his chest. Ren followed them.
It was easier than he had thought. People made way for Nora. Perhaps because of her shoulders, perhaps because of the look on her face, perhaps because word had got round of what she had done yesterday to the blond nobleman’s son and his knees. After a few breaths they were standing in front of the board.
Sixty-four names. In two columns, in clean, even clerk’s writing. Above them, in larger letters: Admitted to the first year.
Sixty-four out of more than three hundred.
“From the bottom,” Milo whispered. He had squeezed his eyes shut. “Start from the bottom. Then it’s not so bad if I’m not right at the bottom. And if I am right at the bottom, then at least I’ve –”
“Fifty-one,” said Nora.
Milo opened one eye.
“Fifty-one. Fairweather, Milo. Harlby, Eastreach. Wind.” She tapped the wood with her finger. “There. Admitted.”
Milo opened the other eye. He stared at the spot her finger was pointing to. His mouth moved without a sound coming out. Then he put his hat on, took it off again, put it on again, and then he hugged Nora.
Nora stood there like a fence post, arms at her sides, and let it happen.
“Fairweather.”
“Yes?”
“Let go.”
“In a moment.”
“Now.”
He let go. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and then he laughed, loudly and unashamedly, so that the people around turned to look at him, and then he hugged Ren, and Ren let it happen too, because he knew resistance was useless with Milo.
“Wes won’t believe it,” Milo said into his shoulder. “And my mother will cry. And my father will say he always knew, even though he said I’d do better counting sheep.”
“You earned it.”
“I know!” Milo stepped back and beamed. “I know I earned it! That’s what’s so incredible!”
Nora was further up.
Ren found her while Milo was still busy telling everyone near him that he was fifty-first. Seventh. Callan, Nora. Crownhaven, Lower Town. Earth. A few nobles in front of the board had found the place too. They stood together talking quietly, and Ren did not need to hear what they said to know it.
Nora heard it too. Her jaw tensed. But she did not look.
“Seventh,” Ren observed.
“Hm.”
“That’s good.”
“I saw.” She shrugged. But the corners of her mouth twitched, just a little. “My father will say he still needs someone at the grindstone. And that I should mind the fine folk don’t make my fingers soft.”
“Will they?”
Nora looked at her hands. At the calluses, the little scars, the soot that had worked its way into the skin and never quite came out.
“No.”
A little above stood Ninth. Quinn, Beatrix. Saltmarsh, West Coast. Fire. And before Ren had even finished reading the name, someone pushed in between him and Nora, small and quick, with short red curls sticking out in every direction as if she had slept with her head in a storm.
“Ninth!” Beatrix Quinn beamed at the board as if the board had just proposed to her. “I bet on twelfth. With myself. I won. Or lost, depending on how you look at it.” She turned to Ren, and all her freckles seemed to move at once. “You’re Harlow. The one with the Valemont boy.”
“Ren.”
“Bea. Nobody calls me Beatrix except my grandmother, and only when I’ve set something on fire.” She held out her hand, the way she had to Milo yesterday, without asking. Her grip was firm and warm. Very warm. “Where’s the wind boy? Fairweather? Did he get through?”
Ren nodded over at Milo, who was just telling a bewildered servant in livery the story of the flag.
“Good.” Bea put her hands on her hips. “Otherwise I’d have had to write Mabry a letter. A long one. With insults.”
“You’ve known him since yesterday.”
“So?” She looked at him as if he had said something very stupid. “He blew sand in my eyes. Three times. Nobody’s ever blown sand in my eyes. That’s the beginning of a wonderful friendship, or a feud, and I haven’t decided which yet.”
Nora snorted. It sounded almost like a laugh.
Ren looked at the board again.
He had known he would be further up. He had known it since last night, when he sat on the lowest steps of the tiers and counted what he had shown and what he had not. A stone three-quarters full. A fire that had only grazed the dummies. A duel he had won without looking as if he had tried. That did not add up to a simple sum. But it added up to a high one.
All the same his breath caught when he read it.
Fifth. Harlow, Ren. Fernwick, Eastreach. Fire.
Above him only four names. A count’s son from the south he had never heard of. Julian Thorne. Rosalind of Arvendal.
And right at the top, in the same calm letters as all the others, as if it were nothing special:
First. Winterhall, Emilia. Ravenhold, Eastreach. Water, ice.
Ravenhold.
Ren stared at the word. He had known she lived there. Silas had written it, Agnes had said it. But it was something else to see it written there, in ink, on a list the whole Academy would read. The name of his house, behind her name, as if it belonged to her.
It does belong to her, he thought. The king gave it to her.
He felt the fire in his chest stir. And beneath it, deeper, the crackle.
He breathed out. Slowly. The way Owen had taught him, in the winters on the training ground behind the hut.
“Fifth,” said Milo, who was suddenly beside him again, peering over his shoulder at the board. He had stopped talking. He sounded almost awed. “Ren. You’re fifth. Ahead of all the count’s sons and baron’s daughters and … ahead of Valemont!”
He was right.
Ren found the name further down. Not right at the bottom. But far enough.
Fourteenth. Valemont, Cedric. Valemont, Westmark. Fire. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
And beside it, in a different hand, coarser, with a quill pressed down too hard:
Combat: not scored. G.
Behind him it went quiet.
He did not need to turn round. He felt it in his back, the way he had felt the looks at the Touchstone. The crowd in front of the board parted, not quickly, but thoroughly, and through the gap came Cedric Valemont.
He wore black and red again. He had combed his hair, and his face was pale and smooth and utterly expressionless. Behind him walked two others, a fat boy with a crest on his doublet and the blond nobleman’s son whose knees had been stuck in the mud yesterday. They did not look as if they were there of their own free will.
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Cedric stopped in front of the board. He read. Ren watched his gaze travel down the list, from top to bottom, until he found his own name. And the three words beside it.
He read them twice.
Then his gaze travelled back up. Slowly. Past Nora, past Bea. Until it caught on the fifth line.
He turned his head. Not all the way. Only far enough to see Ren out of the corner of his eye.
“Enjoy it,” he whispered. So quietly that only Ren heard it. Perhaps Milo too. “It’s only a list. Lists change.”
“Valemont.”
The voice came from behind, rough, like a boot on gravel. Cedric flinched. He tried to hide it, but Ren saw it: the small jerk in his shoulders, like a dog that knows the hand that beats it.
Weapons Master Greaves was coming along the colonnade. He wore the same worn leather jerkin as yesterday and had a steaming cup in his hand. He did not walk fast. He had no need to.
“You’ve found your line, I see.”
“Weapons Master.” Cedric bowed, curtly and stiffly. “I believe there is some mistake. I did not lose my fight, because …”
“You did. You lost it.” Greaves took a sip from the cup. “And afterwards you started a second one, after I’d said enough. With fire. In my circle. Against an opponent who had just let you keep your life.” He looked at Cedric over the rim of the cup. “You’re lucky you’re still on this board at all. The Rector would have sent you home. I told him to keep you.”
Cedric stared at him. “Why?”
“Because I want to teach you.” Greaves smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “Every morning, for a month, an hour before sunrise. You’ll rake the sand on the training yard. Alone. No servants. And when you’ve finished, and not before, I’ll show you how to hold a sword.”
One of Cedric’s companions laughed. He stopped at once when Cedric looked at him.
“My father …”
“Your father is welcome to write to me.” Greaves drained the cup. “He wrote to me once before, twenty years ago, when I broke his nose on this very yard. I still have the letter. It was very long.”
This time no one laughed. But it was a different kind of silence.
Cedric bowed once more. Then he turned and left, and his companions stumbled after him. He did not look at Ren again.
Greaves watched him go. Then he turned to the board, let his gaze slide over the names, and stopped at the fifth line, as Cedric had done.
“Harlow.”
“Weapons Master.”
“Your uncle.” Greaves turned the empty cup in his hand. “Is he still alive?”
Ren felt Milo’s gaze from the side. And Nora’s.
“Yes.”
“Good.” Greaves nodded, as if something had been confirmed. “Then tell him an old man in Crownhaven remembers his turn. Whoever he is.”
He left before Ren could answer. At the end of the colonnade, by the stairs to the masters’ rooms, stood Master Dunmore with a stack of books under his arm. Greaves did not stop. He walked past him without turning his head and said something in passing that Ren did not catch.
Dunmore dropped one of his books.
He bent hastily to pick it up. When he straightened again, his round face was very red, and he looked around as if searching for someone in the crowd. Then he went quickly up the stairs.
Crownhaven is a city full of eyes, Ren thought.
Some of them are afraid.
“What did he mean?” Milo whispered, although Greaves was long gone. “Does he know your uncle? How does he know your uncle?”
“My uncle used to be a soldier,” said Ren. “Lots of soldiers have fought each other somewhere at some point. He’s mixing him up with someone.”
It was the weakest lie he had told since Fernwick. He knew it. Milo probably knew it too.
But Milo only nodded slowly and said: “That makes sense.” And then, after a pause in which he looked at his boots: “Soldiers are odd.”
Nora said nothing at all. She only looked at Ren, with that appraising look she gave blades. Then she turned back to the board, and that was all.
Bea had not been listening at all. She stood on tiptoe reading the names in the upper half, one after another, frowning.
“Wait a moment,” she murmured. “Wait. How do they split it up now? The classes. I thought the top twenty …”
A bell struck.
Not loudly. A single clear note that came from somewhere across the court and echoed off the pillars. The crowd in front of the board fell silent. On the steps of the main building stood Mistress Mabry, hands folded in front of her, waiting until even the last servant had stopped whispering.
“Those admitted,” she said in her parchment voice, “will be divided into two classes.”
She did not need to speak loudly. Behind her, in the shadow of the portal, stood the Rector, Ambrose Calloway, and Ren saw the hem of his robe stirring softly although there was no wind. He was carrying her voice. Into the furthest corner.
“The upper class comprises twenty places. The common class forty-four. Instruction in history, law and the theory of the elements takes place separately. Combat instruction with Weapons Master Greaves is for both classes together.” Mabry unfolded a sheet of paper. “The places in the upper class are allotted in the first year by rank of birth. From the second year, by standing in the Rankings. So it has been since the founding of this Academy, and so it will be this year.”
A murmur went through the court. Not loud. The commoners had learned not to grumble loudly.
“By birth?” Bea was not quiet. “That means the seventh sits with the peasants and the fourteenth sits …”
Nora stepped on her foot.
“Ow.”
Mabry did not look in their direction. But Ren was fairly sure she had heard. She read out the names of the upper class, one after another, and every one of them had an of or a Lord or a Lady in front of it. Winterhall. Arvendal. Thorne. The count’s son from the south. Valemont, right at the end, with a little pause before it in which Mabry pursed her lips.
Then she folded the paper up again.
“All the rest are assigned to the common class. You will move into your rooms today. Lessons begin tomorrow at sunrise. Welcome to the Royal Academy.”
She turned and climbed the stairs. Calloway followed her. The hem of his robe stopped moving, and with it vanished a strange resonance Ren only noticed once it was gone.
The crowd began to talk again.
“That’s unfair,” said Bea. She did not sound angry. She sounded as if she had expected nothing else and was mainly annoyed at having been right. “My father said it would be like this. I didn’t believe him.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Milo. He had put his hat back on, and the blue feather bobbed. “We’re in. And we’re together. And in combat lessons we’re all on the same yard anyway. So you’ll just show them there.”
Bea studied him. Then she grinned.
“Fairweather, you’re sometimes surprisingly sensible for someone who wears a bird on his head.”
“It’s a feather.”
“Hm.”
He had expected it. Silas had mentioned it in one of his letters, months ago, in passing, as if it were not important. In the first year they’ll put you with the commoners. Be grateful for it. Ren had not understood it then.
Now he understood.
Twenty places. Twenty nobles, day after day in the same rooms, at the same tables. Among them Emilia Winterhall. Rosalind of Arvendal with her little book. Cedric Valemont with his thirst for revenge. And their fathers, who wrote letters, and servants who carried letters, and masters who dropped books when you looked at them.
And against that: forty-four commoners whom nobody watched.
Whoever isn’t seen, sees more.
He was glad. He really was glad. And he did not quite know why it disappointed him, just a little.
“Fifth.”
The voice came from the side, from a pillar against which someone was leaning, perfectly relaxed, arms folded. A slim young man with dark hair that fell over his forehead in a way that was either chance or had cost an hour in front of the mirror. His doublet was dark green, simply cut and probably more expensive than the whole inn Ren had slept in the last few nights.
Julian Thorne.
“Third,” Ren replied.
Julian smiled. It was a bored, handsome smile that never quite reached his eyes. “You can read. That’s more than most in the upper class can claim. Between ourselves.” He pushed himself off the pillar and came closer, with the lazy ease of someone who had never had to run in his whole life. “I wanted to meet you. The man who made Valemont kneel in the dust without hurting him. I spent half the night wondering why anyone would do such a thing.”
“And?”
“I reached no conclusion.” Julian tilted his head. “That rarely happens to me. It’s a rather unpleasant feeling.”
Milo had stopped arguing about feathers. He stood beside Ren staring at Julian as if a peacock had landed in the middle of the court. Bea was studying him with undisguised suspicion. Nora had folded her arms.
Julian paid them no attention. Or pretended not to.
“A piece of advice.” He lowered his voice, not much, only enough to sound confidential. “Between equals, so to speak. Fifth and third. Cedric Valemont forgets nothing. He isn’t clever enough to forgive, and not stupid enough to try it openly. He’ll find someone to do it for him.”
“And you’re telling me this because …?”
“Because I’m bored, Harlow.” Julian raised his hands, a languid, elegant gesture. “I’ve been bored my whole life. And yesterday, for about the length of a duel, I wasn’t. I’d like it to stay that way a little longer.”
He turned away. After two steps he stopped once more and looked back over his shoulder.
“Oh. And Lady Winterhall asked after you. This morning at breakfast. Not after you personally, of course. After the vagabond.” His smile widened a shade. “I thought you’d like to know.”
Then he was gone, among the pillars, and only the green of his doublet flashed once more between the people.
Bea snorted. “I don’t like him.”
“Why not?” asked Milo. “He was nice.”
“Exactly.”
The common-class residence lay in the old west wing, behind the training yard, where the walls were thicker and the windows smaller and the stairs so worn that a shallow hollow had formed in the middle of every step. Hundreds of years of feet. Farmers’ sons, craftsmen’s daughters, fishermen’s boys. All up these stairs, with everything they owned in a bundle over their shoulders.
Warden Gilby led them up. He was a small old man with a stiff leg that he dragged after him on every step with a quiet groan, and a bunch of keys on his belt so big that he could probably have killed an orc with it.
“Boys upstairs, girls downstairs,” he announced on the first landing, without turning round. “There’s a door in between. The door is locked. I have the key. I’m a very light sleeper and I have a very good memory.”
Bea and Nora were given a room on the first floor. Bea was inside before Gilby had fully unlocked the door, and Ren heard her call out that she was taking the bed by the window, and Nora answer that she was taking the bed by the window, and then a short, determined silence that boded no good.
“Those two are going to kill each other,” Milo remarked on the stairs.
“Or become friends.”
“Same thing with girls, my sister says.”
Right at the top, under the roof, Gilby unlocked a narrow door and stepped aside.
The room was small. Two narrow beds, two chests, a table under a window set so deep into the wall that you could sit in it. The ceiling beams hung so low that Milo had to duck his head. It smelled of old wood and lime and a little of mice.
“Fairweather. Harlow.” Gilby nodded into the room, as if introducing them to it. “Breakfast at the bell. Sleep through the bell, sleep through breakfast. You get candles from me, two a week, and if you need more you buy them yourselves. Making fire in your room is forbidden. The other kind of fire too.” He looked at Ren. His eyes were small and watery and astonishingly alert. “Especially the other kind.”
“Understood.”
“They all say that.” Gilby limped back to the stairs. “Last year one of them set the ceiling alight. In his sleep. Dreamed he was cold.”
His footsteps receded, groaning, step by step.
Milo stood in the middle of the room and turned slowly round once, head ducked and mouth open, as if he were standing in a king’s hall.
“Ren.”
“Hm?”
“We live at the Academy.”
He sat down on the bed by the wall, let himself fall backwards and laughed so loudly that the dust trickled from the beams.
Ren took the bed by the window. Milo had offered it to him without his asking. You’re always looking out anyway, he had said. Like a watchdog. Nora said so.
In the evening, while Milo sat at the table writing his letter to Wes with his tongue between his teeth, Dear Wes, you won’t believe it, Ren sat in the window seat and looked out.
From up here you could see across the whole training yard. The sand Cedric would rake tomorrow morning, alone, an hour before sunrise. The tiers on which Edmund had clapped yesterday. And beyond, on the other side of the court, the upper-class residence, tall and bright, with large windows behind which candles burned. Many candles. No one over there got two a week.
On the top floor two windows were lit side by side.
He did not know whose windows they were. He could not have known. Still he looked, for longer than he needed to.
Behind the left one a shadow moved. Back and forth. To the window, back. To the window.
Behind the right one nothing moved. Someone sat there, perfectly still, close to the glass. As if looking out.
Ren drew back a little further into the window seat, into the shadow.
Whoever isn’t seen, sees more.
He laid his hand on his chest, where the signet ring hung on a cord under his shirt. He felt the edges of the raven through the cloth. Fifth. Fernwick, Eastreach. Fire. Three lies on a board in the colonnade, and the whole Academy had read them and believed them.
Almost the whole Academy.
He thought of Greaves, who wanted to know whether his uncle was still alive. Of Dunmore, who dropped books. Of Julian Thorne, who was bored and told things no one had asked about. Of Silas, who had not spoken a single word to him since the trial and did not even look at him when they passed in the corridor.
And of a question that had been asked somewhere over there, behind a bright window, this morning at breakfast.
After the vagabond.
“Ren?” Milo looked up from his letter. “Is extraordinary one word or two?”
“One.”
“Thanks.” Milo crossed something out. “I’m writing to Wes that you’re fifth. Is that all right?”
Ren looked a moment longer at the bright window behind which the shadow was pacing back and forth.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s all right.”
Then he drew the curtain.