Our time recorders hum. Session has ended. We pick up our aquagraphic tablets and exit as Croack fumes behind us.
Righteous? I think. He’s mistaken. His perfection will not save him. The leviathan in my dream was right—everyone dies in the end.
CHAPTER 7
MAESTRO
I stand on the floor of the Julii practice arena stripped to the waist. Sigurd, Perdiccus, and Hanschen are next to me. Around us, other boys, the rest of the Julii Academy, practice with weapons. They’re lowborn, the ones I’ve seen from the bay windows of the hallways above. They drill and march. They practice martial arts against large mechanical automatons with spiked limbs and swiveling torsos.
I feel their eyes on me. I’m the only one in the room with hair duller than gold. They cast furtive glances and sometimes stare outright.
Yes, I am a stinking Daysider! I want to shout.
The only other boy I’ve seen who isn’t blond is Phaestion, but he’s not here now.
“What are those?” I whisper to Hanschen and point at the automatons.
“Training tools. They aren’t conscious, of course, but they can observe patterns and increase difficulty to challenge our abilities.”
I’ve heard of computers that can think. Most planets abhor them. The Great Song outlawed advanced machines when he arrived with his colonists on Tao. He proclaimed that machine consciousness had degraded human societies. Some historians argue that advanced machines were why the Miralian Empire crumbled. I stare at the mechanical dummies with fascination. Their clockwork gears seem deadly.
“Hanschen!” a gruff voice calls. “Sigurd, Perdiccus, choose your weapons.”
Alberich lumbers forward, now dressed in the black uniform of a Julii teacher. I’m glad to see a familiar face, but I tighten my lips, remembering that he isn’t my friend. He’s merely a trainer and still serves my father.
Hanschen picks up a pair of short swords. Sigurd hefts a giant mace, while Perdiccus leans on a silver trident taken from a rack of weapons.
I reach out and grasp the smooth ivory handle of a katana sword. I’ve learned the single sword is my best weapon since it’s really the only one I can use with any accuracy at all.
“Since my departure at the end of the previous cycle, I trust you’ve all kept up your training.” Alberich nods at each of us. “Today, you welcome a new companion, Edmon Leontes. He will be observing.”
“Lowborn,” Perdiccus says, coughing.
“Quiet!” Alberich reprimands. “Sequential sparring. No shock vests. Mano a mano, then duo a mano.”
Sharp weapons. No shock vests? This is not a child’s game.
We touch our fists to our palms and bow with the sign of martial deference.
“Don’t worry,” Hanschen whispers to Sigurd. “A fight’s a fight, no matter what the teacher says.” Perdiccus grins.
“What about trio a mano?” asks Hanschen innocently. “There are four of us now that Edmon’s joined. Mano a mano. Duo, then trio, right, Master?”
“I’ve said Edmon will not be participating.” The seneschal shakes his head. “He will observe and work on forms.”
They all sigh with indignation.
“Master Alberich,” Hanschen pleads, “Edmon has to participate. He’s one of us now. He can’t be a companion without training with us. How do you expect him to command others without the respect that comes from fighting back-to-back?”
My eyes narrow with suspicion. I’m not one of them.
“I understand. That doesn’t change my decision.” Alberich knows he’s being baited.
The whole arena watches. There’s no mistaking their glances. I feel their contempt, their amused satisfaction. I haven’t felt this scrutiny since my audience with Old Wusong. I’m exactly what they expected—a Daysider, weak, not fit. Alberich has confirmed it by not letting me participate.
Hanschen’s right, I realize. They will never respect me if I don’t fight.
“I’ll fight.” The words leap from my mouth before I’ve even formed the thought.
“No,” Alberich says flatly. “Sigurd, first position.”
The thuggish boy scowls and steps forward.
“I said, I’ll go first,” I repeat.
I step in front of Sigurd. He growls. “I could school you so easily if I wanted to.”
“Then do it, bully,” I return coldly.
“Quiet!” Alberich booms.
He strides toward me, his voice tight. “Edmon, I know you want to prove yourself—”
“I don’t want to,” I plead. “I have to.”
“These boys have trained their whole lives—”
I take a deep breath. “They’re all watching . . .”
It’s true. The drills have stopped. All of them are slowly gathering around, like sharks smelling blood. Someone releases a camglobe in the arena. It floats through the hall capturing images, broadcasting them somewhere, for someone, I don’t know who.
“They think I’m weak,” I confide. “Do you think they’ll ever accept me if I don’t even try?”
“Edmon, you are weak,” Alberich states flatly.
His words slam me like freezing water.
“I’ve done my best to teach you, but you aren’t ready. If you think letting them watch you bleed like a stuck seal will convince them, you’re wrong. No one respects a dead man. And if they do, you’ll be dead anyway.”
Death may not care, but they all do. My father does. I do.
I know what I must do—say something so harsh, he won’t want to protect me.
“Is that why you called for mercy when my father took your hand, instead of facing your death like a real man?” I ask.
His face pales, then his expression hardens. He walks out of the match circle inscribed on the floor.
I ready my sword. Boys circle the ring, watching. “Mano a mano,” Alberich calls out.
Sigurd steps forward, but Hanschen raises a hand. “Save the best for last,” he says.
Sigurd scowls but lets Hanschen take position opposite me in the circle.
Hanschen twirls his dual short swords with aplomb.
My katana has greater reach, but Hanschen’s blades have a speed advantage. He surprises me. He bats my sword aside quickly with one and slashes with the other. I twist at the last instant. It saves me from certain death, but the edge still grazes my shoulder. I dive-roll, then pop up into a crouch. I whip the katana behind me wildly in hopes I might catch my opponent. Hanschen’s too clever for that, though. He stays well outside of the arc of my swing.
I guess we’ve started, I think.
Hanschen cleans the red of my blood from his blade with a finger. “Daysiders bleed easily, don’t they, snail guppy?”
He leaps into the air, raising both of his swords. I’m reminded of my days on the beach drilling, over and over, the lessons with Phaestion, his voice in my ear— Watch the movement of the elbows, the knees, the shoulders, the hips. Don’t be there when they strike. Take the outside angle . . .
I sidestep, raising my blade. I could end this now with a killing blow. Instead, I drag the katana across Hanschen’s upper thigh, and his leg opens. He smashes to the floor, howling in rage.
“Submit?” I ask.
He lashes out with his blade, catching my face. Blood fills my vision. I scream, more from shock than pain.