After their footsteps had faded down the corridor, Athol cleared his throat and gave Othello an apprehensive look.
‘Right, there is one more item of business to discuss, Othello. Atilla has a new tattoo, to cover the scar on his leg. I know you hate doing this, but I’ve brought the tattooing kit in case you want the same. After the failed attack, the Pinkertons are more aggressive than ever.’
Othello groaned as Athol pulled out several thick needles and a pot of black ink from his pack.
‘No! Not this time. I have come to realise that taking the blame for Atilla has only served to make him live a life without consequences. If anything, his near-death experience probably taught him more life lessons in one night than he has had in his entire fifteen years of existence. Is that not so, Atilla?’ Othello observed, nodding pointedly at Fletcher.
‘I was wrong about humans,’ Atilla mumbled, looking at his feet. ‘But that does not change the many atrocities we have suffered at their hands. I have realised it is not their race that I hate, but the system that we live in.’
‘And if we are to change that system, we must do so from within.’ Othello gripped Atilla by the shoulder. ‘Will you enlist in Vocans next year? I cannot do this alone, brother.’
Atilla looked up, his eyes burning with determination.
‘I will.’
Othello laughed with joy and slapped Atilla on the back.
‘Excellent! Let me show you my room. Can your leg manage the stairs?’
The twins left arm in arm, Othello helping Atilla limp up past the steps and out of the arena. Their cheerful voices echoed down the corridor, leaving Fletcher alone with Athol.
‘How things change,’ Fletcher murmured.
‘Aye. It does my heart good to see them back as friends,’ Athol said, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘They were inseparable as youngsters, always getting into mischief.’
‘Atilla’s heart is in the right place,’ Fletcher said, thinking of his own hate for the Forsyths. ‘I do not know if I would be so forgiving.’
‘It is not in a dwarf’s nature to forgive,’ Athol sighed, sitting down and lifting one of the tattooing needles to the light. ‘We can be as stubborn as mules, myself included. Not Othello, though. I remember back when Othello volunteered to be tested by the Inquisition, and I told him that he was joining the enemy. Do you know what he replied?’
‘No, what did he say?’ Fletcher asked.
‘He said that a warrior’s greatest enemy can also be his greatest teacher. That young dwarf has wisdom beyond his years.’
Fletcher contemplated those words, once again feeling a deep admiration for Othello. Dame Fairhaven had said something similar: know thy enemy. But what could he learn from the Forsyths, or Didric? Perhaps if he had access to James Baker’s book, he could learn something from the orcs. Annoyingly, it was yet to return from the printers, who were having trouble carving wooden presses for the intricate diagrams that adorned each page. Though it mostly concerned the anatomy of demons that lived in the orc side of the ether, it was impossible to know what other useful observations Baker had inscribed in those pages.
‘You don’t want a tattoo, do you? I did Othello and Atilla’s, so I know what I’m doing,’ Athol half joked.
‘No, it’s not my style,’ Fletcher said, laughing. ‘No offence, but I think they look quite brutish. I’ve even seen an orc . . .’
He froze. In his mind’s eye, he saw the albino orc raising his hand, the pentacle flashing violet on his palm. Could it really be that simple?
‘You saw an orc with tattoos?’ Athol said slowly, confused by Fletcher’s abrupt silence.
‘It was a dream . . .’ Fletcher murmured, tracing his finger over the palm of his left hand.
Fletcher drew his khopesh and began to sketch the outline of a hand in the arena’s sand. His heart beat madly in his chest at the thought of what he was about to do.
‘I hope you’re as good as you say you are, Athol,’ Fletcher voiced. ‘I need this tattoo to be perfect.’
48
It was blazing hot in the arena, made more so by the dozens of torches that Sir Caulder had ensconced in the walls. The sand the noviciates stood on seemed to stir and shift in the flickering light.
‘Are there really only twenty-four of us? I thought there would be more,’ Seraph whispered in Fletcher’s ear.
‘No, that’s it. Twelve first years and twelve second years, with an equal number of commoners and nobles,’ Fletcher replied, in a terse voice.
He did not feel like talking. Each beat of his heart made his left hand throb with pain. It had not been a pleasant experience with Athol the night before, and he had not been able to test his theory yet. The dwarf had told him to let his hand heal as much as possible before he tried anything.