Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

Leaving Fisker to his cups and curses, Renee and Seaborn went outside. The fresh air was welcome, despite the icy drizzle, and helped clear Renee’s head. Lord Palan had gone through some trouble to ensure the insight was both delivered and believed. Why? What was his angle? Was Renee to believe that, given their blood ties, Palan’s desire to help Savoy was genuine? She pulled her coat tighter. Perhaps it was, but the head of the Family surely had more than one motive. Renee spared a moment to consider what kind of leverage the lord had exerted on Fisker to force his tongue and, to her shame, discovered that she did not much care. “Did you know any of this?” she asked Seaborn.

He leaned against the side of the building, tilting his head up against the stone. “Not before this meeting. I am likewise confident of Korish’s ignorance.”

Renee nodded. How much did blood matter? To Fisker, who condemned Savoy for his lineage, it mattered beyond all reason. It mattered to Palan, who patronized his estranged nephews and looked after Tanil, as useless as he was. To Verin, who let Savoy earn a Servant’s uniform despite his father’s crimes, bloodlines appeared irrelevant. And to Renee herself? How much blame did she bear for her father’s Family dealings?

Her shoulders sagged and she pressed her hand against the wall for support. Could she blame Fisker for what he did to Savoy when the guardsman’s motives, like Verin’s, stemmed from a sense of duty? Yes. Yes she could. A wrong done in the name of right may be understandable—but it wasn’t acceptable. “I despise the Family, sir, as Fisker does,” she said finally. “Them, and the Vipers, and the rest of the criminals haunting Tildor. But Savoy isn’t a Family man, no matter who his father and uncle are. He is my friend and that will not change for all the bastards combined.”

Seaborn nodded and relaxed against the wall next to her. “It isn’t supposed to.”

They stood silent while the rain picked up, the droplets bouncing in the forming puddles. After several moments, Renee pressed her lips together and tilted her face up toward Seaborn. “I received no word from you.”

“I was beginning to fear that when nothing returned from you.” He sighed. “Several of the couriers carrying palace messages have faced trouble. No matter now. Verin—”

“Refused aid, I know.” She sketched the details of their conversation. “Not bowing to Palan counted for more than Savoy’s life. What of the Seventh?”

“Stationed a few days’ ride away. I’ve found a way of getting a message to them, but without a code word to authenticate it, they won’t believe it.” He shook his head. “They’re too well trained to abandon their mission for what could be a poison pen message. At best, they’d contact Verin.”

Renee jerked away from the wall and faced him. “Verin can’t be the only one with the code. Savoy must have it too.” She hurried to update him on developments in Catar, leaving out only Savoy’s reaction to the boy mage.

Seaborn leaned forward, nodding at her words. He listened to her like he did to Savoy, Renee realized. She was not his cadet anymore. Renee cleared her throat. “I will talk Jasper into arranging another meeting with Savoy. If I succeed, how do I ensure my message reaches the Seventh?”

Seaborn recited a set of instructions, which Renee repeated several times until they both were confident of her memory. Then good humor faded from Seaborn’s face. “You know of the royal kidnapping?” He waited for her nod and dropped his voice. “King Lysian will come to Catar in ten days’ time.”

“To attack?”

“To rule.” Seaborn spread his hands. “The presence of the Crown with his guards and magistrates does not eliminate illegitimate activities, but it does increase costs and headaches.”

“You think the Madam will back down if only to make him go away?”

Seaborn put his hands into his pockets. “No. But the next step spills blood.”

Savoy pushed open the salle door to attend what the others thought to be another penalty workout and found Den leaning against the wall, a book in his hands.

“Forgive my unpreparedness,” said Den, looking up. “The reading absorbed me.” He twisted the book to reveal its cover. Battlefields of the Seventh .

Savoy moved his feet to gain better purchase on the sand. His heart quickened

“Please,” Den said quietly. “I suggest nothing.” He locked the door and remained with his back turned to Savoy. “Nine years ago, the Madam ordered me to antagonize a guardsman at the Academy of Tildor against a cadet who attended school there. The boy was a runt with blond hair and green eyes, but he wielded a sword like he was born to it. Even my untrained eye saw that much.”

Savoy’s brow rose with an ease he didn’t feel. “The Madam?”

“Yes.” Den paused, his next words coming with care. “She . . . The Madam takes interest in certain youngsters. She has her reasons.”

Savoy stood motionless. The Madam and Lord Palan both. “Was your mission successful?”

“No.” Den turned, shaking his head. “I found the guard, a nine-fingered man who disliked the boy to begin with, and I fueled his dislike until it turned to hate. Nonetheless, the lad still graduated to become a Servant of the Crown and thwart many Viper projects.” He held up the book. “It is unfortunate the book has no pictures. I wonder what the man looks like grown. Is it not curious that many people may know of a man’s deeds without ever learning his appearance?”

A breath escaped Savoy’s lips. If Den had meant to capitalize on his discovery, he would have done so before now. Even so, Savoy’s life lay in the other’s hands.

“No one leaves the Vipers.” Den tossed the book to the sand.

“So you said.”

Pursing his lips, Den drew the amulet from his pocket.

Savoy spread his wrists to show that no resistance would be offered.

Den hesitated. “You know why the men pretend the Freedom Fight is real?”

“Hope.”

Den nodded. “I read the book. If anyone can get out . . .” Licking his lips, he threw the amulet into Savoy’s hands and spoke quickly, motioning to the wristbands. “It can’t disable your binds, nor unlock most of the doors. But it will open those on the path to the arena. And from the arena to the street. I’ll discover it stolen in ten minutes’ time. Go through the bathing room, down the corridor to the Pit.” He paused. “If you can climb the bars . . . ”

Savoy looked Den in the eye, and knew the courage the man’s decision had taken. “Should you leave Catar, you’ll find welcome at the Academy of Tildor in Atham. If I’m not there, a man named Connor Seaborn will care for you.”

“Thank you.” Den held out his hand. “Don’t get caught.”

Savoy paused before undoing the lock on the door. “What did you tell Guardsman Fisker about me?”

“It would be better you not know. Gods’ speed, Commander.”

“Gods’ luck, Den.”

Savoy slid into the corridor, his bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. He hesitated at the barracks, listening to Pretty’s boasting voice escape through the closed door, and continued to the bathing room. Ten minutes. His heartbeat kept the time.

True to promise, the door obeyed the amulet, unlocking at the touch of the blue stream of light. Savoy paused to listen, heard nothing, and entered. Rows of bathtubs and towels greeted him. The air hung heavy with moisture and soap, and the never-quite-dry floor was slippery, even to bare feet. He looked at the two doors on the opposite wall and, recalling his previous trip to the arena, approached the rightmost.

“Is the laundry finished?” asked a voice outside.