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  A man strode toward them, bald pate shining in the torchlight, a single, thin plait of dark hair swinging with every step. He shouldered his way through the circle of novitiates, and planted himself in front of Cresten and the older boy.

  “I asked a question, Mister Tache,” the man said. A burr shaded his words. “What are you up to?” Before the boy could answer, the man – one of the palace masters, no doubt – turned to Cresten. “You’re new,” he said. “And not having a grand time of it, are you?”

  He extended a hand. Cresten gripped it and allowed the man to pull him up.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Cresten Padkar, sir.”

  “You arrive today?”

  “Yes, sir. A bell or two past midday.”

  “I see. How’d you come to be bloodied so?”

  Tache eyed him, wary and tense.

  The next several years of Cresten’s life would be determined by how he answered. He could make himself an outcast. Or he could make himself a perpetual victim. In the end, he chose a third path. His father would have chided him for giving in to his emotions, his temper, his need for vengeance. But four days ago his father had walked him to the dock in Qesle and put him on a merchant ship with a change of clothes, a few pieces of silver, and a token from the village warden that marked him as a candidate for entry to the palace.

  “If you are found wanting, you will find work making gaaz,” his father had said. “It will not be a bad life either way. And someday perhaps, if the Two see fit, they will send you back to us.” That was all.

  His father could rot for all he cared.

  “I’ve missed a lot,” Cresten said, “coming so late to the palace. Mister Tache was teaching me some combat moves. I guess I’m a slow learner.”

  The master narrowed his eyes, slanted a look at Tache. “A slow learner,” he repeated.

  “Yes, sir.”

  A faint smile touched his lips. “Very well. It’s time the rest of you were off to the keeps. It’s late to be… training. Welcome, Mister Padkar. I’m the weapons master, Grenley Albon. I suppose I’ll see you in the morning and we can get to work speeding up your reflexes, if not your capacity for learning.”

  Cresten’s cheeks flushed hot. “Yes, sir.”

  Albon nodded to the others and walked off, leaving Cresten with Tache and his friends.

  Tache watched the master walk away before facing Cresten, grudging respect in his expression.

  “That was–”

  Cresten had already coiled himself to strike, and didn’t let him say more. He threw the punch as hard as he could, his fist cracking Tache in the jaw. The boy went down in a heap.

  Others gaped at him. Tache scrambled to his feet and raised his fists, murder in his eyes. Blood seeped from a cut at the corner of his mouth.

  “You’re a corpse!”

  “That’s enough.”

  Tache faltered and glanced in the direction from which the voice had come.

  Another novitiate stepped into the circle: a girl, older than Tache, plain-looking. She had straight bronze hair and a wide mouth. She was no taller than Tache, but she was solid, like an Aiyanthan warship, and there was a wildness in her pale eyes that reminded Cresten of the feral cats that prowled Qesle’s waterfront.

  Tache had gone still, but his fisted hand remained poised. He eyed the girl, appearing unnerved by her arrival.

  “Did you see what he did to me?” he asked. “I should kill him.”

  “I saw,” the girl said. “Saw what you did to him, too. It’s over. You’re even.”

  “That’s not–”

  “It’s over,” she said again, enunciating the words. “He didn’t spill to Albon. Ask me, and I’d say you owe him.”

  The obvious response hung in the air, waiting to be given voice. No one had asked her. Cresten took it as a measure of how much Tache feared the girl – how much they all did – that the words remained unspoken. The girl smirked.

  “Get going,” she said. “All of you. Children shouldn’t be out of bed so late.”

  Tache and the others stared at her. None of them argued, but neither did they flee. The girl returned Tache’s gaze and raised an eyebrow, no more.

  “Fine,” he said, sounding disgusted. “We’re done here.” He regarded the girl again, flicked a look in Cresten’s direction, and stalked away. His friends followed, whispering among themselves. Several glanced back at the girl, but as many spared a peek at Cresten as well. One way or another, they’d be talking about him.

  He meant to thank the girl once they were alone, but before he could, she said, “You need a special escort? Someone to tuck you in?”

  Cresten rounded on her. She had already started away.

  He hurried after her. “Wait! Who are you?”

  She didn’t slow. “Someone who’s too busy to wetnurse slackwitted fingerlings.”

  The words stung, slowing him.

  “At least tell me your name,” he said, resuming his pursuit.

  She whirled. Cresten startled to a halt.

  “Why would you hit him? You’d won already. You didn’t dob him out to Albon. They were ready to accept you. And then you ruined it all. You haven’t the brains of a stick.”

  She walked on.

  “If I hadn’t hit him,” he called after her, “someone else would have figured out they could stomp on me any time they wanted, and they wouldn’t even get in trouble.”

  The girl halted again, her back to him.

  “It wasn’t enough to get away,” he went on. “I had to make a point.”

  She wheeled, considered him with her head canted, and crossed back to where he waited.

  “That’s not the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” She eyed him a moment longer. “Wink.”

  Cresten frowned, but tried to blink his right eye.

  The girl laughed. “You really are a fool, aren’t you? That wasn’t a command. It’s my name. Wink. Short for Wenikai.”

  Cresten blushed, but smiled. “I’m not sure how I was supposed to know that.”

  She shrugged, the smile still on her lips. When she grinned, she was pretty. He was smart enough not to say so.

  “Is Wenikai your family name or your given name?”

  “It’s hard to tell, isn’t it?”

  After a brief silence, he realized this was the only answer she intended to give. She turned to head back to the middle keeps, gesturing for him to follow.

  “What’s yours?”

  “Cresten Padkar.”

  They walked in silence for a few strides.

  “You know where the boy’s keep is, right?”

  He pointed.

  “Good. You’re not to follow me around like a puppy. I don’t need friends and I’m not interested in mindless followers, like those idiots with Tache. I helped you, and you’re grateful. You admire me, think I might be the answer to all the doubts and fears that have been niggling since you crossed through the gates. I’m not. I’m the best Spanner in the palace, and also the best at combat – fists, blades, and pistols. You, on the other hand, are lint. You’re dust. You’re the stuff I scrape off my boot before stepping inside. Got it?”

  Harsh as the words were, Wink’s tone remained mild.

  “I understand.”

  “Say it back to me. ‘I’m lint.’”

  “No.”

  She halted, and grabbed his shoulder, stopping him, too.

  “You’re skin and bones, and about the height of a shit-beetle. I could crush you with my toe.” She leaned in, looming over him. “Plus, I saved you from a beating. And you’re telling me no?”

  Cresten still ached from his fight with Tache, and he was certain Wink could do worse. He didn’t care. His mother and father had given him precious little in his few years, but they had instilled in him a sense of pride. Not with praise, the Two knew, nor with kindness. Like Herjean pox, their own had been infectious. He couldn’t help but contract it as well.

  “You’re too busy to be my fr
iend,” he said. “I get that. But I’m not lint. If you want to hit me for saying so, go ahead. That won’t change my mind.”

  Wink straightened, appraised him anew. “You come from money?”

  Cresten dropped his gaze.

  “Right, I thought so.”

  “We weren’t rich,” he said. “Just…”

  “Just not poor, like the rest of us.”

  “Don’t tell anyone. Please.”

  “You keep acting like a rich man’s son, I won’t have to. They’ll beat you to a bloody mess so fast, you won’t be able to leave this palace soon enough.”

  He scowled to hide his fear. Pride again. “What am I supposed to do? Call myself lint and let everyone pound on me?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  Tears welled. He swiped at his eyes with a vicious hand.

  “Why are you here, anyway?” she asked, acting like she hadn’t noticed. He almost thanked her. “Your parents shouldn’t need the gold.”

  There are other kinds of poverty. “There are a lot of us,” he said, keeping the other thought to himself. “I have five brothers and a sister, all older. I was… They didn’t need me.” They didn’t want me. “And they couldn’t afford to keep me. Even with their money.”

  “Well, then you’re not that different from the rest of us, are you?”

  They shared wan smiles.

  “Just… don’t be so damn sure of yourself all the time.”

  “You won’t tell?”

  “And let them know I took time out of my busy evening to talk to you? ’Course not.” She cushioned this with another grin. “Go on. Tache bothers you again, tell him I’m watching. Not for you, but as payback. He’ll understand.”

  Payback for what, he wanted to know. He thought better of asking. He lifted his hand in a small gesture, something between acknowledgment and a wave, and started toward the boy’s dormitory.

  “Hey, shit-beetle.”

  He gave an inward groan, knowing that name would stick. Still, he faced her again.

  “That was a good punch. Few more like that, and it might not matter who your father is.”

  CHAPTER 2

  13th day of Sipar’s Ascent, Year 615

  Palace stewards had set his bed just inside the door of the chamber shared by the younger boys. It was covered by the thinnest blanket, the dingiest linens, the flattest pillow. He assumed the other boys had picked over his bedding like vultures. He didn’t care.

  None of the boys said a word to him, and he made no effort to speak with them. He undressed, slipped into bed, and curled into a tight ball, his face to the wall.

  He shed his tears silently, holding himself still against sobs that should have wracked his body. Eventually he fell into a dreamless slumber that carried him to morning.

  Cresten woke to the pealing of bells in the tower overhead. The boys rose, straightened their bedding, donned dark trousers and pale tunics, and hustled from the dormitory to the refectory. Cresten followed their every example. His side hurt from Tache’s kick, but he kept that to himself.

  He spotted the older boy in the courtyard, sporting a dark bruise on his swollen jaw. Cresten probably looked worse. The skin on his cheek was tender and tight. Still, he took some satisfaction in the wound he had dealt. Tache made a show of ignoring him, which pleased him that much more. Remembering Wink’s warning, he masked his enjoyment.

  Their breakfast was ample, if simple. After, his group of novitiates began their lessons with history. Cresten sat in the back of the room, absorbing every word. The class was studying Oaqamaran history, and Cresten had missed all that came before the Resurgence, the subject of this day’s lecture. He was fascinated nevertheless. Other boys and girls asked questions, phrasing them with a precocious eloquence that seemed common here. Cresten had questions as well, but held his tongue. He suspected Wink would approve.

  Protocol, finance, and science proved no less stimulating than history. Only when he reached Master Albon’s training grounds, though, did he truly begin to understand the gift his parents had given him. Inadvertently or not, they had sent him to the place where he most belonged.

  Albon had them work with wooden blades. He paired Cresten with a boy named Vahn Marcoji. Vahn was only nine, like Cresten, but he had been in the palace for several years, training with the others. It showed. He was better than Cresten at everything. He was faster, his footwork more precise, his strokes stronger.

  They didn’t speak much as they sparred. Beyond exchanging names and a smattering of details they had little to say. Vahn was from Onyi, the oldest of three boys, born of parents who made gaaz, like everyone else in their village. That was the extent of what they shared. Albon hovered nearby, assessing Cresten’s skills, occasionally offering words of advice.

  “Keep your knees bent; as soon as you lock them, you’ve lost.”

  “You’re lunging. Center your weight over your feet. Always fight from a solid foundation.”

  “Less wrist; more arm. When you graduate to steel, you’ll need the power.”

  With each interruption, Vahn waited for the master to make his point, and then resumed his attacks. He betrayed no impatience with Cresten’s mistakes.

  Too soon, the bell tolled, bringing an end to their training. Cresten could have gone on for another bell. Following the others, he set his sword on the rack, his tunic damp with sweat despite the cold wind. He hoped the master would say something about his work, perhaps praise his progress. When he racked his weapon, though, Albon didn’t nod or offer a word of encouragement.

  Vahn did. “That was good for your first time,” he said, falling in step beside him. He was shorter than Cresten, better proportioned. His skin was the color of strong tea, his features soft and delicate.

  “So I wasn’t that bad?” he said.

  “Oh, you were awful. But considering you’d never sparred before, it could have been worse.”

  Cresten deflated. “Oh. All right.”

  “You’ll be fine. We can practice in our free time. That’s the only good part of fighting with wood instead of steel. We don’t need permission to train.”

  “Thanks.”

  They walked some distance without speaking. Cresten gathered they were headed back to the refectory. Good thing: he was famished.

  “You’re the one who bloodied Jaer, aren’t you?”

  “Jaer?”

  “Tache.”

  “Oh. Yes, that was me. Is he a friend?”

  Vahn laughed, high-pitched and abrupt. “Not at all. No, I was going to thank you.” He studied Cresten’s bruise. “He give you that?”

  “And more.”

  “Good thing you hit him, then.”

  Cresten grinned, winced at the soreness in his jaw.

  “Heard Wink took an interest in you. All in your first day?”

  “I didn’t ask for any of it.”

  “I wouldn’t think so. Still, that could have been worse, too. People are talking about the fingerling who bloodied Tache, and with Wink telling everyone she doesn’t want you touched, you don’t have to worry about him coming back at you.”

  Cresten stopped. “She’s telling people that?”

  “You didn’t know?” Vahn asked, halting as well.

  “I swear I didn’t.”

  The boy whistled through a gap in his teeth. “Well, that makes things difficult. You don’t want Tache thinking he can take his revenge whenever he wants, any more than you want Wink thinking you’re ungrateful. Either would be really bad.”

  “Why is everybody afraid of her?” Cresten asked.

  They resumed walking. Already he could smell food. Stew? Roasted meat? Whatever, it made his stomach rumble.

  “Well, she’s mad, isn’t she? She’ll say anything, do anything, fight anyone. She’s not afraid, ever, even when she should be. Most say she’ll get herself killed before long. Until then, you don’t want to cross her.”

  “Have you seen her fight?”

  “Me?” Vahn sa
id, eyes widening. “No. I mean, only on the training grounds. She’s very good. Probably the best we’ve got. I’ve never seen her in a real fight.”

  “Have any of your friends?”

  “Not that I remember. I’m sure someone has, but…”

  Cresten nodded, trying to suppress a grin.

  It didn’t work.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing.” At a skeptical look from his new friend, he said, “She’s managed to make a reputation for herself, and yet none of you has ever seen her do anything that you could actually call unhinged. Whatever else she might be, she’s smart.”

  Vahn sent another glance his way. “I have a feeling she’s not the only one.”

  As Cresten finished his midday meal, he was approached by a woman wearing a satin robe of blue and gold. She introduced herself as a herald of the palace, and told him he was to follow her to the chambers of the chancellor. The children around him oohed and ahhed at this, as if Cresten had been summoned to a dungeon. Vahn assured him that the chancellor spoke to all new novitiates. He followed the woman from the refectory, feeling small and vulnerable under the scrutiny of so many.

  They crossed the middle courtyard to the north keep, and ascended two stairways to a corridor, which ended at a ponderous oaken door. After a brief wait, Cresten was admitted to the chamber.

  Portraits of somber men and women adorned the walls. The stone floor was covered by a plush rug woven in shades of brown and gold and blue, and a cage filled with cooing messenger pigeons rested by the shuttered window.

  The herald exited, leaving Cresten alone with a slight man who sat at a cluttered desk. Thick white hair framed a tapered face that was the same color as Cresten’s. The man’s eyes were green, as was his silk robe.

  “Mister Padkar, I believe,” he said, in a voice higher and softer than Cresten had expected. “I am Banss Samorij, chancellor of Windhome Palace.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Lord Chancellor.”

  “You are settling in to your new home?” the chancellor asked. “Yes, thank you.”

  The man looked him over, the smile crumbling. “Is that a bruise?”

  Cresten dabbed at his wound with careful fingers. “Yes, I was… I mean, there was… an accident. Clumsy of me.”