Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

“A waste of my time and theirs.”

“Give them a chance. Speaking of which, the girl’s forearm is blue, and double its size. What was her crime?”

“Attempted suicide.” There was a pause and a rustle of equipment before Savoy spoke again. He sounded annoyed. “Stop scowling, Connor. It works.”

“Yes, I remember Verin doing it to you. Made you a golden child.”

“Made me a living child,” said Savoy, then raised his voice. “De Winter! Either don’t eavesdrop or hide better.”

Swallowing, she sprinted away.

Academic Quarter. Palace Court. Mage District. Southwest.

Of the four sections in Tildor’s capital city, only one was unworthy of a real name.

Alec blended into southwest Atham, where narrow streets of torn-up cobblestone rarely saw parades of uniformed guard. Here, pickpockets, workmen, children, all went about their business not with the forbidding glamour of the Mage District, or the philosophical wonderings of the Academic Quarter, but with the sharp eyes and skeptical ears of the slums.

He rounded a corner and walked down Orchard Street, a dirt field on the left and a mesh of shops and drab dwellings on the right. It was evening, but still light, and a gang of barefoot boys chased a ball around the field, sending up clouds of earth and cheer. There were fewer children than usual, but enthusiasm balanced the numbers. One boy leaped into the air flipping head over heels. When he landed on his feet and proclaimed himself the master of a jumping-tumble-of-doom, Alec clapped along with the others.

Southwest lacked money, not life—just like the small cottage his grandmother raised him in. He doubted his mother ever saw that. When he became a Servant, he’d find her and ask.

A few yards ahead, a boy stepped out of a shop whose sign proclaimed it a meat market. “Greg says to tell you he’s got fresh pies,” he informed Alec. “You want pies?”

Alec sighed. Greg must have changed his boys again. “I want corn.”

The boy shoved his hands into his pockets. “Pies be better. You want pies.”

Shaking his head, Alec ignored the boy’s dirty look and went inside. Here, several trays of ground meat slop lay on a shelf beyond the customers’ reach. A potbellied butcher in a smeared white apron stood behind the counter. He scrutinized Alec as if they’d never met. Carelessness killed people around here. “Yes?”

Alec pulled a gold crown from his pocket, twisted it in his fingers, and let the coin disappear. “Need to talk, Greg.”

Nodding, he let Alec behind the counter and guided him through a side door, whose oiled hinges slid in silence. They entered a crossbreed of a bedroom, storeroom, and office, so common for this part of town. A narrow bed tucked into the corner, and shelves, burdened with clothing, foodstuffs, and other items, crowded the space. The reek of garlic made Alec’s eyes water, but he did his best to ignore it and took one of the two wooden chairs guarding a bare table. Greg settled into the other.

“Don’t have much corn, lad—an ear, maybe two, of anything decent. Expand your horizons. Try the pies.” Greg drummed his fingers against the tabletop.

“Why the deficit?” Alec hid his concern behind a mask of professional curiosity.

“Spent the summer away, cadet?” Greg snorted, not bothering to conceal his contempt. “The babe we’ve got on the throne threw a tantrum and nabbed the wrong Vipers. Now the Madam is taking a personal interest, and it’s trouble for everyone.” He shook his head. “Two of my lads vanished last month. I’ll wager you a gold crown the Madam’s got them in some Predator lair, being fattened to fight in the arena for the Vipers’ gambling pleasure. We’ll have trouble with the mages next. You heed my words, boy, Vipers always stir up the mages, registered and dark ones both. It’s a dangerous thing, overactive mages.”

Alec slumped back in his chair and turned his coin between his fingers. Mages trying to avoid registration had to hide somewhere, and Vipers offered a place to go and paid good coin for mage skills too. “Doesn’t answer my question.”

“Think I’m cheating you?” Greg licked his tooth. “Wish I was. Our Viper guests took a Family’s veesi shipment down just recently—a major one. Killed the merchant, and killed my supply. Most leaf on the street now will make you sick. Wouldn’t sell that to you. Greg saves the good bit for you, boy, you remember that.”

Alec nodded his thanks—the Academy Healer would notice veesi poisoning in a moment—although he doubted the dealer’s concern came from anything but self-preservation.

The news worried him, though. The Vipers did not belong in the capital. Their clashes with the Crown and the Family would spill on to bystanders. Already had, if Greg spoke the truth about lads disappearing. Accepting an ear of corn, Alec edged back the leaves and twisted at the tip. It snapped off, revealing crumbled orange leaves packed into the hollowed stem. The fashion of concealing veesi in corn was gaining popularity. He sniffed the goods, feeling a familiar nausea grip at his throat.

After paying for the leaf and ignoring Greg’s attempts to saddle him with other wares, Alec headed back toward the Academy. One would think that after four years of buying nothing but veesi the man would get the point, but no one was immune to coin.

He was almost back to the Academic Quarter, two ears of corn secured between the lining and outer fabric of his jacket—evenings chilly enough to get away with wearing it were precious few in the summer—when shouts turned his head back toward lower Atham. He gasped despite himself. Rising above the rooftops, a tower of black smoke spiraled to soil the dimming sky. Bodies, small as ants from so far away, scurried from the flame. A barefoot boy with the savvy look of a street rat and soot around his ears trotted past. Alec called to him and tossed a copper. “What burns?”

The boy caught the coin with one hand and crammed it into his pocket. “The registration post in the Mage District.”

Alec sighed. It seemed Greg had been right.

The boy cocked his head. “You be needing a message ran?”

“No.” Alec waved the boy away. The message was quite clear. Only the Madam would dare burn a mage registration post in the capital city itself. The desecration was the Vipers’ calling card to Atham. We are here, it said. And we have demands.

Renee awoke to a thud. She had stayed up strength-training well past the midnight bell the previous night, and now opened her eyes to see the chalkboard a few paces away. Seaborn stood by her desk, which vibrated from a large book that had just landed on it. Her cheeks heated.

“See me after class,” he said quietly and then pitched his voice over the classroom of fighter cadets. “Three centuries ago, before the rebellion wars, we were slaves to mages. What’s stopping a repeat performance? Alec?”

Despite a liking for history, Alec looked at the floor. He always did when required to speak in class. “The mages used to be stronger,” he said finally. “In addition to higher Control ability ratings, they also knew more, and, being the ruling class, they already had a government infrastructure in place.”

“For example?” Seaborn prompted when Alec fell silent.

“For example”—Alec’s words forced themselves out in a semi-mumble—“mages imposed a vitalis tax, forcing non-mages to submit to a draining of a measure of their life energy. The mages then used non-mages’ energy for their own projects and power.”

“Very good.” Seaborn rubbed his arms, then straightened, folding them across his chest. “There is little to dispute here: Centuries ago, mages did bad things. So bad, it took a war to put an end to their domination. After the bloodshed, the new Crown destroyed many mage instructional texts to prevent a repeat of history. Even much of Keraldi’s own work was burned. Later, mandatory mage registration was established as both a safety measure and as a means of reconciliation and coexistence.” He lifted his brows. “In short, today’s laws address a three-hundred-year-old problem. Are they still relevant?”