P. Hodgell - The Sea of Time

She also remembered the nightmare about her brother being tortured by the Caineron Genjar. What had happened next? Perhaps a future dream would tell her. Genjar, after all, was said to have suffered a “strange” death.

The Jaran, on the other hand, tended toward intellectual tests, the Edirr toward jokes such as ten-commands jogging naked through camp, painted blue.

No word came out of the Randir, but it was generally supposed that they were using this opportunity to test the loyalty of their cadets. Jame wondered if Ran Awl and Shade had made any progress in their investigation into the disappearances there and if any of the reported deaths had had anything to do with the third-years’ challenges. If so, would anyone tell Shade, given her peculiar background, or Awl, with her war-leader’s status?

For that matter, Jame had heard very little from within her own house. The third-years’ demands must have been moderate so far or surely she would have heard more, unless her people were keeping things from her again. As with certain demanding duties back at Tentir—latrine patrol or trock eradication, for example—it hurt their pride to see their lordan so demeaned, whatever her wishes.

“The whole thing is so stupid,” she said, pulling on her boots with brusque impatience. “What does it prove, to answer a riddle, to run a gauntlet, or to go on an unnecessary patrol? For example, you and the rest of my ten-command have proven yourselves over and over, even if most of you didn’t fight at the Cataracts.”

“You did,” said Rue, with a stubborn tilt to her shoulders.

“I slashed my way across a battlefield—Ancestors know how clumsily—to bring my brother an accursed sword that he didn’t know how to wield. Niall was there too, and Brier, after worse than either of us experienced. If the rest of you missed it, well, what about our adventures up and down the Riverland, all the way to the Southern Wastes and back? Sweet Trinity, you helped me to raid Restormir itself to free Graykin! You have nothing to prove either to me or to the Highlord who, incidentally, has forbidden all such hazing. I don’t want to see any randon cadet subjected to it. Do the regular Kendar have to put up with this nonsense?”

“They have their own rites of passage, I suppose.”

“More practical ones than ours, I bet. God’s claws, isn’t the average Kencyr’s life hard enough as it is?”

To her surprise, Rue didn’t agree.

“Of course I don’t want to be beaten or humiliated or whatever the third-years have in mind,” said the towheaded cadet, turning stubbornly to face her. “But what other way is there? In a normal year, we would have gone through this at the randon college, but the second- and third-year cadets were all here by then. Now, how else are we supposed to prove that we belong with the Southern Host?”

“Aaiiee.” Jame threw up her gloved hands in disgust. “Tradition!”

At the south gate to the Knorth compound, she encountered Brier talking to a tall young woman with the dark tan of a native born Kothifiran Kendar and cropped hair the color of wild honey. When the latter saw the Highborn, she smiled and said something to Brier that made the latter stiffen, flushing. Then, with a flipped salute, the stranger walked off.

“Who was that?” Jame asked, coming up.

“Amberley. A regular Caineron. Before I left to become a Knorth randon cadet we were . . . close.”

“Oh,” said Jame, listening as much to the other’s flat, carefully neutral tone as to her words, knowing by now how to read most nuances in the other’s manner. “How did she feel about your leaving?”

“Angry. We fought.”

It couldn’t have been easy for Brier to turn her back on all her former colleagues by changing houses, Jame thought, watching the Southron stalk back into the Knorth barracks. She had thought so before. It just hadn’t occurred to her that there might have been someone special.

The north gate of the Ardeth faced her across the road. She saw Timmon enter his compound’s courtyard wearing what appeared to be a dirty apron and carrying a bucket of steaming slops.

“What in Perimal’s name . . . ?”

He gave her a rueful smile. “I got a note. It seems that all the scullery duty I slipped out of at Tentir has finally caught up with me.”

“And you’ve consented to do it now?”

He shrugged. “You advised me to stop avoiding responsibility.”

“I’m not sure this is what I meant.”

“Should I let them humble me, d’you mean? I don’t know. It’s easier than hunting up some way of my own to prove myself, assuming that’s what I’m doing. Anyway, it could be worse. Did you hear about Gorbel’s challenge? What it told him to do was anatomically impossible. He read it out loud to his house at dinner, then tore it up.”

Jame laughed. “That’s Gorbel. He can get away with it, too, despite his fickle father. It must be nice to be so self-assured.”

“And you aren’t?”

“Sweet Trinity, no.”

Yet she was more so than she had been before her graduation from Tentir, or more specifically before she and her brother had fought to establish her competence. She had surprised Tori there, just as he had surprised her by resorting to Kothifiran street fighting techniques. She needed more lessons from Brier.

When would a note arrive for her, she wondered as she bid Timmon farewell, and what would she do about it? Ah, there was no telling until she learned what was being asked of her. Like Rue, she didn’t care to be humiliated, nor was she sure that was the way for a lordan to gain acceptance. Challenges. Huh.

The open lift cage took her smoothly up to the top of the Escarpment where she was greeted by Kothifir’s usual, lively street scene. Her way from there led outward into less respectable streets on the edge of the deserted towers. There she entered what on the outside appeared to be a narrow structure but on the inside opened out into a dingy tavern. A slatternly maid brought her a mug of thin, sour ale. Sipping it, she let her eyes roam around the edges of the room until a glimmer of white caught them. Graykin emerged from the shadows as if given birth by them.

Jame signaled for another mug.

“You’re getting very good at that,” she said as her servant slid into the opposite chair.

“Being Master Intelligencer has some advantages. Now everyone tells me their secrets, whether they intend to or not . . . well, almost everyone,” he added, with a sidelong look at her.

Knowledge was his coin of power, one that she hadn’t always been willing or able to pay him. Perhaps that hesitation wasn’t fair. She knew that he would keep her secrets to the point of death as he had at Restormir while in Lord Caineron’s power. Still, some secrets were hers alone.

“So,” she said. “What news of the city?”

He shrugged. “There’s not much to report. Prince Ton and his mother are still scheming against King Krothen, not that they have any chance while he retains his godhood.”

“Which is to say as long as our temple remains stable. What?”

Graykin’s eyes had flickered. “Maybe nothing, but there’s word that the temple has shrunk slightly. That often happens before a Change. It’s been known to dwindle down to the size of a clenched fist. The priests try not to be inside when that happens.”

“I should think not.”

Jame remembered the miniature temple at Karkinaroth and the priests trapped, starving, inside of it. Somehow, the inner and outer sizes of any Builders’ work never quite matched.

“What about the guilds?” she asked.

“They go on much as always, depending in part on their guild masters. Some of the masters are generous with their skills, like your friend Gaudaric, and their members thrive—small thanks to his fellow armorer Lord Artifice who only thinks about his own projects, to the detriment of all the other craft guilds. He should watch out, though. His work is brilliant now, but from what I hear, thanks to his selfishness his talent may burn out when—or rather if—he loses his position. Gaudaric, on the other hand, is more likely to keep his. That’s partly why Ruso is so desperate to remain Lord Artifice. He wants to be like Professionate and Merchandy, who have retained their power practically forever.”